I apologize for the delay. I was supposed to get this done faster, but I had trouble writing this. I wrote this chapter three times before I was finally satisfied with the way things went. It's a little bit slower, but I hope you enjoy it. I want to thank my lovely reviewers again, whom, without them, I could never be able to keep going. I want to thank you all for being so kind with your suggestions, and per request of a reviewer I've stuck with one tense this chapter. I tended to bounce back and forth before.
Typos and americanissms are mineee
M for angst angst angst
The plane ride home was dull and uneventful. Anthea and Mycroft played three games of chess, (upon which Anthea accused him of letting her win, which he most certainly did not) a game or two of cards, a game of cribbage and finally gin rummy. Halfway through the flight Anthea fell asleep in her chair across from Mycroft, her head nestled underneath her arm as she dozed. He watched her sleep, and for the first time he could see the innocence on her face. She looked young, so very young. Her shoes rested at the foot of her seat, small feet tucked up underneath her. Her body rose and fell softly. She was built athletically, strong and graceful-seductive. Mycroft sighed heavily. He shouldn't even be having thoughts of the young woman resting across from him, but he can't help it. Half his age, she's the perfect counterpart to the political storm he is, the balance that he seemed to lack. She passed him no judgements, no comments, nothing quite snarky enough to annoy him. She was the perfect mystery. And the calamity they were calmed him.
When the plane landed, Mycroft shared a car with her to her flat, staring silently out the window as she typed away on her blackberry. She seemed completely content with the silence between them. Sure, it'd been just a little awkward between them that morning (or yesterday's morning) when she'd found him casually lounging around with his one night stand, but she figured it was just something he did. She'd get used to it. In fact, she already was. She was already typing away his schedule on her phone when she felt the car lurch to a stop and she looked up to see they'd arrived. And it looked like the flat was intact this time around.
Jim was just getting back, from it looked like the mart, wearing a ball cap and a blue button up shirt with dark jeans. When she stepped out of the car, instantly he gave her a smile (which she knew was for show) and she wrapped her arms around him for a hug. He'd grown a beard in her absence, and it appeared that he too had been away in travel. He smelled like sand and sun and when he let her go, he grinned deviously to her.
"Need help with your things, sis?" he said casually, loud enough for the now near-Mycroft to hear.
"Would you?" she asked, "Your hands are full it looks like."
He smiled fakely at her and then to the man standing behind her. He was taller than Jim had thought he'd be, and he stood regally. His eyes were sharp and most delicious, and Jim instantly had the urge to gouge them out and save them in a jar for later. But, thinking it probably wasn't the best idea at the moment, he straightened up.
"Um," he said, "I'm Jim, Jim Hannan," he said, "Nice to meet you-?"
"Holmes," he said, "Mycroft Holmes. And the same to you."
Mycroft tilted his head up to acknowledge him. Anthea had since moved around to grab her bags. Mycroft and Jim stared at each other. Jim fought the urge to lick his lips. The man standing in front him looked delectable, like candy and wine, red red wine that he would bathe in. He could smell his pulse from where he stood, and all he wanted to do was to rip the red from his body, take him apart vein by vein and crawl into his skin to wear it. He was a delectable man, a perfect trophy, and Moriarty wanted every second of him to himself.
"Thank you sir," Anthea said as she dropped her stuff at her brother's feet, bringing him out of his mouth watering dream. Jim looked down at the bags and grabbed them, grinning at the man.
"It's been a pleasure," Mycroft said easily before nodding at his assistant and stepping back into the car. She watched him drive off before turning back to Jim and frowning, shoving her bags into his arms.
"You bloody git," she snapped before unlocking the flat's door and going inside. Her brother followed behind, nearly running into her when she stopped in the doorway. The living room had been over run with boxes of plastic explosives, stack high, other boxes held guns and other weapons. There were bomb-making parts spread across the couch and a few assembled on the kitchen table. Jim slid by Anthea with her bags, dropping them in the bedroom before coming back out.
"I've acquired a new warehouse in Istanbul," Jim said, "This is only temporary."
"It better be," she snapped, "They know about you, you know," she said, stepping off her high shoes, she swung a heel around and pointed it at him, "They know about your little bombs, what they're called, they know you blew up our last place-" she said, "But they don't know you."
"Clever, isn't it?" he said, smiling at her.
"You're putting me in the firing line," she said angrily.
"This job's temporary," he said fleetingly, and he was about to comment again when he saw her face. He stopped and laughed, cackling when he realized the look on her face. She didn't actually think he'd keep her around as a PA forever did she?
"Anthea," he said standing, "Darling. He's not going to keep you."
"He thinks I'm good at my job," she said flatly, heading into the kitchen to get something to drink.
"He thinks you're a pretty face," Jim cackled happily, "And with the likes of his work, he needs a face the public will love."
Anthea whirls around with a knife in her hands. She's had a rough few days and is not in the mood for his games.
"You don't know a thing about my job, or my boss."
She returned to her plate, the apple placed in front of it as she cut it open. She thought idly maybe she would make something to eat other than snacks here or there, but her brother's voice, close to her ear caught her attention.
"He doesn't care for you that way," he said gently (well as gentle as he could) "And you don't care for him at all. We can't care for people sister."
"I ca-" but she stopped. She realized as much as she needed her brother to keep her secret, she didn't care for him. All her life she hadn't had anyone she cared for. Her brother was just there for her, someone to keep her company. And she was the same to him. She fulfilled things for him that he fulfilled for her. But nothing else. No connection.
"See," he said "You can't care for him sister, we're incapable of caring. Don't fool yourself."
Anthea's brow furrowed. "I think I care for him."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I think I might," she thought it over slowly, "Might want him."
"No you don't," Jim said, grasping her arms tightly. The knife in her hand clattered away, and she eyed it carefully. His grasp was tight, vicing off the blood in her arms. She knew there would be bruises. "You don't want him," Jim hissed in her ear, biting her neck dominantly, "You don't want anyone. I'm all you need," he hissed, one hand gripping her throat. He pressed it hard against her windpipe and she whimpered, almost inaudibly.
"I can want who ever I want," she snapped at him, fingers inching towards the knife. She could stab him in the eye, covering herself with the warm sticky liquid. She chuckled at the thought. But he too, could read her mind and he grasped the knife, throwing it away from her grasp.
"I'm all you'll ever need," he said, "We've only ever had each other, and that's all we'll ever need. I can take care of you sister," he said bitterly, choking her more. Anthea's vision began to fray and she clawed at his bruising grip on her arms, on hand holding her wrist that went for the knife, the other wrapped around her neck.
"N-n-n-no," she chocked out before gasping and letting the darkness take over. As she went limp in his arms she could hear him trying to soothe her and she could hear him murmuring sweetness in her ear.
"It's because I love you sister," he said, "I only do this because I love you."
To say Anthea was mildly intimidated by his presence was an understatement. It'd been about a week since she'd come back from America and Mycroft had promised her lessons on shooting, ones which he'd be giving her. And while she certainly hadn't expected him to back out of his offer, she was sure something would come up that Friday and they wouldn't be able to work on her shooting. But on that Friday, lunch rolled around and there was nothing pressing, nothing catching their attention right then and there. For once in her life, all the governments seemed to want to work. So, packing up her bag she stepped into the bathroom to change before trudging out to the car where Mycroft sat, waiting for her.
"Excellent dear," he said when she'd climbed into the car and shut the door behind her. She placed the bag at her feet and smiled lightly at him. "There's not need to be nervous dear, just a little bit of shooting practice."
"Nothing is ever "just a little bit" with you," she said, "What range are we going to?"
He chuckled and turned his umbrella around in his hands, "My private one."
Anthea resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his answer before turning to look out the window as the car drove on. Mycroft seemed to be observing her from his seat (when he wasn't fiddling with his phone). She could feel his eyes looking over her and she shifted discreetly in her seat. Jim'a words echoed through her ears as she sat there. Dispensable. She was dispensable to him. She placed her hand over her wrist tentatively. Normally, the bruises he left never bothered her. She didn't care who saw. But it's changed now. She cared if he saw. She wore her hair down and long sleeves (or coats) and never let him see. Idly, she wondered what he would say if he did.
The car pulled up to an abandoned building and he climbed out his side, she followed. Straightened her jacket, she slung her bag over her shoulder and trotted off behind him as he entered the building. The building was clean, spotless and she found him removing his jacket and placing it on the coat hang, leaning his umbrella against the wall.
"Show me what you can do first," he said, "Then we'll work our way up."
He undid his sleeves and rolled them up, placing the diamond cufflinks in the drawer of the cabinet near by. Shutting the drawer, he opened the next one, pulling out a gun for her and one for him.
"You know how to load one?"
"Of course sir," she said, and he stuck out the gun and cartage for her. She took them and loaded it, snapping it into place and clicking the safety on. He handed her a set of ear muffs before taking his own.
"All right," he said, gesturing toward the glass. She moved around it into the shooting range. Setting the gun down on the table she waited for him to bring up the targets. It was warm and she took her coat off. There wasn't enough space between dividers for him to get close enough to see her bluish bruises. She'd worn a tank top that day, knowing she would be doing training.
"In 3, 2, 1," he said.
"Clear, firing round 1!" she shouted before letting the bullets fly. Once they'd stopped she put the gun down and took out the cartage. He pressed the red button to bring up her target. It was worse then she imagined. She'd clipped the target twice, and all the other bullets missed.
"Well," Mycroft said chuckling under his breath, "We can fix this."
"I'm much handier with a knife," she said, taking the cartage that he held out for her. She loaded it and he replaced the target sheet, sending it back out the range it had been at.
"When we're through," he said, much closer than he had been before, "You'll be an expert shooter. Now, take aim."
His breath was hot on her neck and she took aim, standing like she'd been taught, feet shoulder width apart, arms straight in front of her, but not locked. His front was pressed against her back and she could feel his lean lines through his shirt, his hot tall frame engulfing her ever curve.
"Now," he said, right by her ear, "You've got to lower your elbows just a bit." His hands touched her elbow, cradling them in his fingers. He pulled on them and dragged them down, breathing lightly on her neck. He felt like hot hot heat against her neck, brushing over her bruises. Shit, bruises.
But it was too late. His left hand slid up her arm gently, brushing against the bruises that her brother left and she flinched. He, of course, noticed, and instantly he froze behind her, pressing closer as he tilted his head to look at her left forearm. Fingerprints as clear as day were pressed against her flesh. Instantly she felt her right wrist flinch reflexively and he looked over to see those bruises, ringing around her skin as well. He turned her nose into her hair and brushed it aside, exposing the bruises on her neck.
"Anthea," he said lowly into her ear, "What happened to you dear?"
She spun, the gun being lost on the table behind her. There was no space to go anywhere, and he blocked her escape route. She stared up at him, eyes wide and clear.
"Nothing," she said, "Nothing happened to me."
"Who did this to you," he asked calmly, soothingly, his fingers holding onto her left wrist, his other hand resting on her other arm in the unbruised spots.
"We just got in a domestic, that's all," she murmured, "My brother and I. Nothing unusual. Now please, let me go."
She placed one hand on his chest and pressed into her fingers to push him back to discover her fingertips were shaking. He noticed this too, which was why he let her go. She gathered up her jacket and phone, sticking her arms back into them.
"I'll see you back at the office sir," she said formally.
And with that she left him standing there, silently fuming.
So, what do you think? Can Anthea find her heart? It looks like she is. Mycroft's not sure what he thinks. He doesn't like the idea of someone hurting a woman, regardless of flesh and blood. I think he cares for her. I know she wants him. Please let me know!
