A/N: OK, so I have decided to make this a multi-chapter. Thanks so much to my reviewers, and especially patemalah21, who has been most encouraging and gave me idea for the surveillance on 221B. This chapter is a mixture of fluff and some angstiness, because I've decided to include mentions of Anthea's past. In analyzing her sarcastic, aloof manner, I've come to believe that she probably has had bad experiences in being close to people. I hope that it isn't OOC or anything!
Also—Macassar ebony is a VERY expensive wood flooring, and it seemed appropriate for the Diogenes Club. ;)
Click, click, click.
There had always been something about the sound of her £500 heels tick-tacking against the Macassar ebony floor of the hallway of the Diogenes Club that empowered her. Click, click. Feminine mystery coupled with professional edge.
Anthea slid her black demi-cape half over her shoulders and pushed a wayward lock of smooth brown hair out of her face.
Monday morning, time to clear the air.
After all, even those confidently clicking heels were a gift from Mycroft. Stewing in annoyance over his latest…Holmesian diversions…was not good for her job. Or her wardrobe.
God, he's just such a git sometimes, she thought, even as she favored one of the younger members of the Club with a sweet, enigmatic smirk. He gaped after her, and she found herself almost giggling, her irritation with her boss nearly—but not quite—forgotten.
Her charm, and her ability to be unruffled and inscrutable whatever the situation, had always made her valuable. Works on everyone…
"Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not calling a taxi for you."
She was discomfited by the memory. OK, maybe not everybody.
Hold on, I could talk my way out of an international incident. I have. Twice. So why couldn't I talk my way out of a coffee with a guy whose middle name sounds like some obscure breed of sheepdog?
He does have nice eyes, though…and there's something about the way he holds his jaw when he wants his way…
The firm click of her heels faltered. What? Good Lord, what was that about? Are you finally going bonkers?
Think about that later. For now, stop letting your thoughts bounce around like this. If he can observe a trace of anything, he'll deduce you to hell.
Squaring her slim shoulders, she pushed the ornate door that opened into Mycroft Holme's office.
He was the standing before the fireplace, his portly yet poised figure silhouetted against the flames. She heard his refined, buttery voice saying, "Good morning, Anthea." He hadn't even turned.
"Good morning." She kept her tone cold.
He waved one of his long, large, graceful hands. "I suppose I owe you an…apology. My penchant for surveillance may have overstepped its bounds. I was bored—and you know what boredom does to a Holmes." He turned, tilting a smile at her. "Forgiven and forgotten?"
"Perhaps. But I would prefer, Mr. Holmes, if you never hacked my personal cellphone again. Having access to my texts was not part of the job description."
"Mr. Holmes—still not on first name terms. Threatening!" His eyebrows twitched amusedly.
Infuriating as he could be, and was, she'd never been able to stay angry with Mycroft Holmes for long. Very probably that was why she'd kept her job so long. He wasn't so impenetrable as that. She knew that, though he had the edge on his little brother in terms of diplomacy, he still wasn't the easiest person to get along with. The fact that she put up with him good-humoredly—most of the time—meant a lot to him.
"Alright. Mycroft. It's just that I don't appreciate having my privacy invaded." She fixed him with her most ingratiating smile. "The government can have no need to know what I said to my ex-boyfriend."
"Enchantingly sweet, that you kept his old texts," said Mycroft, making her blush. He waxed deferential once more. "Yet as I said, apologies. I won't experiment in such a way again."
"Thanks."
"Sherry?" he offered, twiddling a cut glass in his agile fingers.
"You know I'm not a drinker."
"Ah yes, in reaction to your late father's alcoholism," he mused. It might have offended another, but she was over being mad at him—and she knew that he wasn't trying to needle her. He was just noticing and knowing, as he did. The mention of her father still hurt, but she had long practice in concealing that.
She shrugged in answer, waiting for him to give her instructions for the day. Instead he said, unexpectedly. "Interestingly, that particular trait of yours reminds me of another object of my surveillance—though a more legitimate one, my dear. Dr. Watson. Very aggressively anti-alcohol, because of his sister's indiscretions. Odd, that you two should have anything in common. Or that I should even think to make a comparison." He poured himself a glass of amber-coloured liquid and sipped it meditatively.
"Very odd," she agreed smoothly, but she could feel her pulse racing. Please God Mycroft couldn't see the throbbing, in the pale hollow of her throat.
Why should I be agitated? This is ridiculous.
She folded her arms gracefully. "What's on my agenda today?"
Mycroft's deepset eyes flickered up at her, as though he had forgotten her and then remembered her again. "Oh yes, of course. I'm afraid it's not terribly interesting—but I'm putting you on surveillance—" he said the word significantly, and she wondered if it had bothered him that she'd been upset—"over my little brother. He's…he's rather fretful today. There's a case in which I have forbidden his interference—for his (and my) security—and I know that he is most eager to disregard my wishes. As usual." He sighed. "Anyway, I need a pair of eyes on 221B, where he's likely to be plotting. I would bear the tedium myself, but—" he glanced at his watch.
"Not a problem," Anthea heard herself say hastily. "I'd be delight—that would be fine."
Mycroft's gaze pierced through her for a moment, and she felt herself shaking in the same shoes which had been boldly clicking mere moments before. She waited for some devastatingly observant statement, but all he said was—with one of his pursed-lip smiles—"Excellent."
Camera A112.
Anthea tried not to notice that her fingers were trembling as she tapped in the activation code. The picture on the screen was blurry at first, but soon it sharpened into focus. She could see the familiar chaos of the younger Holmes' apartment—a suspicious vat boiling on the stove; a gruesomely realistic reproduction of blood spatter patterns tacked up on the wall; and case files haphazardly stacked on the end table.
The perpetrator of this cluttered atmosphere was striding about animatedly, his dressing gown flapping behind him. John, looking as mild and patient as ever, was reading a newspaper—and occasionally seemed to be attempting to mollify his irate flatmate.
Oddly enough, Anthea found her eyes drawn away from the dynamic detective—whose erratic gestures should have been more interesting—to the composed figure of the army doctor. Curiously and a little guiltily (but wasn't she supposed to be surveying them? What if Sherlock was saying something Mycroft needed to know?), she turned on the volume.
"It's ludicrous," Sherlock was saying.
"Yeah, well, that's Mycroft." John shrugged. "What's so interesting about the case anyway, Sherlock? It's not international smuggling, or pirates—" Anthea smiled against her will—"It's just a diplomatic feud. He doesn't want you involved because it's delicate and potentially dangerous for his job."
Sherlock stopped short in his pacing and turned to look at John with what Anthea could see (despite the grainy camera image) was a look of utter disgust. "I don't care about the case John. I've already solved it."
She saw John's eyebrows go up—and felt her pulse go up with them. Stop it. "Then what is the bloody problem?"
"Mycroft forbade me to have anything to do with it. The pettiness of my brother's controlling nature never ceases to astound me. As though his commands have any influence over my actions!"
Anthea watched as John folded his newspaper with a sigh. "So this is about pride. And sibling rivalry."
"It's not! It's a matter of principle!"
"You don't have principles, Sherlock."
Sherlock hadn't noticed that his friend was teasing. "They don't happen to be yours, John, but I do have them."
"I'm sorry, I just can't get worked up over a case that you're not allowed to be part of, when you don't even want it and have already solved it. Also, Sherlock—" John stabbed a finger warningly in his flatmate's direction—"Mycroft has cameras in this flat. He's probably listening in to this conversation right now."
"Of course he is. I know where the cameras are, John, I've just never bothered to remove them."
"Why the hell not? He knows when we're out of milk. That is pushing it too far."
Sherlock shrugged, searching underneath his skull for something…probably cigarettes, Anthea assumed. She'd known Sherlock long enough to tell when he wanted a fix…of nicotine or something stronger. "Oh, I let him play his little motherly game of watching me. It's better than more drastic measures, which he has employed in the past. My brother, always such a loving guardian." Sherlock fixed his eyes exactly on the hidden camera, and Althea drew back a little. It felt like he could see her.
Abruptly, his mood changed and he threw off his dressing gown, snatching his Belfast coat from the hook. "I'm going out."
"Knock yourself out," John murmured, picking up his newspaper again. He reconsidered after a moment. "Not literally, of course."
Sherlock ignored him and pounded down the stairs.
She watched John sigh and lean back deeper into the creases of his worn leather armchair. Part of her mind knew that she should be switching the camera feed and following the erratic movements of the exasperated Sherlock, but instead she rested her chin on her hand and stared at the single remaining occupant of 221B.
I wish this camera had a higher resolution…or a zoom feature…
What are you doing?
She watched John get up, run his hands through his short dark blond hair—despite his loose jumper and his constant assertions of battle injury, she could tell that he was in quite good shape—and flipped his laptop open.
He must be blogging. She watched his fingers move rapidly over the keyboard with undue fascination. It wasn't like she'd never seen anyone type before.
He paused to take a sip from a mug of tea, then ran the back of his hand over his mouth. He resumed typing.
She craned her neck, trying to see him more clearly.
Oh, God. If Mycroft could see me now—
She straightened up, tried to reassume her façade of detached allurement—almost in an attempt to reassure the empty room (or herself) that she wasn't in the least affected by the homespun charm of the Army doctor.
Then why can't you take your eyes off him?
She ignored the mental question and let her gaze follow his every move, observing as he reached up and traced the side of his jaw thoughtfully. She remembered, suddenly, that he had a scar there.
For some reason, that made her heart flutter. Perhaps there was something attractive about a scar to a woman who hid so many of them.
Or perhaps there's just something attractive about him…
She tried to stop herself from thinking that, but she was falling, slipping into the realization that it might be…
True.
She had never liked to fall. Falling had been her father's demise—a drunken plunge off a pier. In her dreams—the nightmares she carefully concealed behind a mysterious smile and the click of high heels—she, too, plummeted downwards, soundlessly screaming.
Falling was dark. Dangerous. Deadly.
But now she was falling again, and it was none of those things. Because this time, she wasn't falling into nothing. She was falling for someone.
Someone who wore benevolent jumpers, who bore tribulations with saintly patience, someone with a scar on his cheek.
Someone who wouldn't call her a taxi.
Someone who had wanted to know her real name.
A/N: If you read, please review! Since this was originally a two-shot, turning it into a multi-chapter has made me a bit nervous...so I'd REALLY like feedback! :) Please? Constructive criticism is welcome!
