I hope you don't mind a bit of a switch in focus for this chapter. We turn now to Mycroft: and anyone who can guess what he's up to might receive a virtual pat on the back. ;)
Dear Sherlock,
No need to tell me about the result of the cricket. Tell John well done from me. And congratulations on your fencing medal. I believe Mummy has cut your picture out of the newspaper and stuck it on the wall, so you might want to get her to take it down if you go home at half-term.
Haven't a good deal of time to write. Cannot tell you anything about my occupations at present, only that I am for the moment, like the rest of the country, somewhat idle.
Your brother,
Mycroft Holmes
'Are you writing to your brother?'
Mycroft started. He hadn't realised that anyone had entered the room just then; nor had he ever before been addressed by the young woman who now crossed to his desk and deposited a stack of paper beside him.
'Yes,' he said at length.
'Terribly sweet of you.'
'I only write so he knows I'm alive.'
'Mr Holmes, you care for your brother, there is no shame in admitting that.'
Mycroft coughed falsely and turned back to the letter, which he slid in an envelope and postmarked Oxford. Then, changing the subject: 'Take this to Alan.' He handed her a slip of paper, and she left the room at a brisk pace with a slight smile coming to her lips. It occurred to him, bizarrely, that he didn't know her name. He didn't even know if she was actually a secretary, though as far as he was concerned she performed that function.
Within a few minutes, however, he had all but forgotten her, and, after putting the letter with a stack of other missives, turned to his paperwork and in this way separated himself entirely from the outside world.
It was only the second letter that had arrived from Mycroft in as many months. Sherlock had asked him to write often; evidently that was his brother's idea of often. And he was increasingly suspecting that Mycroft seemed to have been employed not by the standard army, but by the secret service or special forces or something like that. Mycroft had intended for him to work that out. That much was evident. But it meant that he would be able to get little, if any, information out of his brother about anything.
He looked over the letter again, memorised its contents, and was about to toss the missive into the fire when he heard a voice behind him.
'Isn't that your brother's letter?' said John.
Sherlock started. He hadn't realised that John had been watching him.
'Yes,' he said shortly.
'Why are you burning it?'
'I... don't need it anymore.'
'I keep all of Harry's letters. I couldn't get rid of them like that.' John studied Sherlock in something akin to aghast for a moment, before saying with a slight smile: 'I suppose I'm sentimental. I'm sorry; it's terribly impolite of me to interrupt you like this.'
He turned round then, and went to talk to someone else in the common-room; Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. Then he tore off the section that read Your brother, Mycroft Holmes, slipped it into his blazer pocket, and cast the rest of the letter into the fire.
Dear Mycroft,
I don't really know what to write but I shall write anyway. John had chastised me for not writing so often, and for burning all of your letters. I guessed however that their contents were sensitive enough material to merit destruction before any other eyes but mine saw them. I am, I have to admit, honoured that you should trust me with as much as you do. I have of course guessed roughly what it is you are doing, and I am, I can tell you, damned glad that you are not in the "Army Proper". Please don't fight, Mycroft. Not unless it becomes ABSOLUTELY necessary.
I told John that I thought he would be a doctor. He laughed in such a way that I knew I was right. He's rather good at biology. I am still better at him at chemistry though.
We are going home for half-term, I think. Do you ever get holidays? Will you be home for Christmas?
Sherlock
Mycroft chuckled a little before putting the letter aside. His brother really was too damned clever for his own good sometimes. Perhaps he was a little proud of him. But he couldn't deny that there was a particular sentence in the letter that bothered him – that about him burning all of his correspondence. He couldn't place quite why it twinged a little at his heart. He wasn't good at matters of the heart. But it most definitely bothered him, and he had to make himself a cup of tea to reduce the feeling.
The secretary was in the kitchen when he got there. She was just about to put the kettle on the stove, but Mycroft stopped her and asked if he might add some water. Therefore two cups of water were brought to the boil, with Mycroft standing awkwardly beside this mysterious woman.
'Was that letter from your brother?' she asked.
Mycroft recalled, vaguely, that it had been her who had brought him the envelope. 'Yes.'
'He's got interesting handwriting,' the woman commented. 'Neat enough for him to be a perfectionist. Irregular enough for him not to be a very good one. Patient enough to use a dip pen. Impatient enough not to care about the amount of ink he's loading it with. He seems a bit like you.'
Mycroft could not say that he wasn't surprised by her deductions. They were simple, it must be said, and lacked precision and flair, but he hadn't perhaps imagined a secretary to be so observant. He was starting to think that she might not be a secretary. He was about to address her with something to that effect when the water started to bubble, and so was interrupted as he poured it out and made two cups of tea: both of them black, one with sugar and one without.
The woman took her cup and made to leave the kitchen. Mycroft stopped her with a glance.
'I'm sorry, madam, but I don't believe I know your name.' He paused. 'I don't know if I'm allowed to know your name.'
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 'You may call me Anthea.' And with that she left.
Mycroft was left sipping his tea, thoroughly confused by her response. It wasn't often he couldn't guess if someone was lying or not. She knew his name. That suggested that he ought to be allowed to know hers. But her wording had been curious and a little falsified... He shrugged, gave up, and went back to his office, and once again forgot about this strange acquaintance for the moment as he returned to the work before him, which furthermore was of the utmost importance, to him, to the country, indeed to the entire political situation at that time.
