A/N: I don't own Sherlock. The previous chapter was short, so I decided to put another short chapter up tonight. The following chapters won't be this short, but I was just so excited about the story that I wanted to post a little bit of it tonight.

"Your drink, Mister Holmes," she teased in a lilting tone, her lips smirking as she leaned over her boss's shoulder to place the drink on the heavy table he was sitting at.

Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you, Miss Daniels," he replied gruffly with a slightly strained voice, "that will be all."

Chelsea moved around the table to stand opposite him, demanding his attention once more. He really should have been focusing on the current political scandal that had popped up in Morocco overnight, but she had other plans for him.

"I want to go back into the field," Chelsea demanded resolutely, placing a hand on her hip for emphasis… or distraction— whichever one got her what she wanted.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised. "Oh?" he challenged, "and why should I let you go against your father's express wishes. He was explicit about not wanting you in the field again."

Chelsea rolled her eyes and flicked her hair over her shoulder, drawing attention to her soft neck and her exposed collarbone; she thought she observed Mycroft's gaze shift from her eyes for the briefest of seconds. "I was so close to destroying Duncan Price's drug ring."

"Ah, yes, well that was before he went and blew himself up, and yourself, in the process," Mycroft drawled, swirling the amber liquid around in the crystal glass.

"I'm the best sleeper agent this country has seen in the past twenty years, and you know it."

"Your father would create havoc for my people in the Ministry of Defense," he explained, staring at the glass before taking a long drink. "I do not want to have to deal with his petty drama, especially this month."

Sighing, Chelsea crossed the room to stand next to her boss once more. He looked up at her. "Please, Mycroft," she implored him, "I've been with you for five years and it's been six years since the accident. I haven't asked you for anything have I?"

"No, you haven't," he conceded begrudgingly, pushing his leather chair from the table so he could face his assistant.

"Then please, just one mission, I don't care how small it is," Chelsea said, more quietly this time, hoping he would give in to her. In the past year, Chelsea had noticed his behavior towards her was more friendly, if that was possible— this was Mycroft Holmes. He didn't exactly do friendly.

Mycroft stared at her silently, thinking it over. After a long pause, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Don't make me regret this, Chelsea."

Chelsea's face lit up with excitement as she threw her arms around Mycroft's shoulders, pulling him into an unwilling embrace. "Thank you, Mycroft," she whispered in his ear, making his shoulders stiffen as he gently pushed her away.

She smirked as he got off the chair, turning away from her to hide his face; she bet he didn't know that the back of his neck reddened as well.

Mycroft turned back around to her and pointed a finger in her direction. "Do not inform your father or mother under any circumstances."

Chelsea nodded. "Understood."

"Also," he added, walking over to the door to pick up his navy blue umbrella from the overly-ornate umbrella stand by the door, "do not think that I am pleased about having to reassign my best assistant."

Chelsea moved his side, his papers and laptop in her arms. "I will still work for you, Mycroft," she reminded him, amused.

"Yes… but the prospect of someone else making me coffee is just ghastly," he complained, much like a child would, making Chelsea laugh at his behavior as they exited the office for the night.