"Shall I confirm your meeting with Mr. Sayer, sir?"

Mycroft nodded. "We'll want to intensify surveillance on his daughter, as well—see if we can't rein in those indiscretions before they become problematic."

"Yes, sir," Anthea said. "Can I get you anything else? Some tea? Paracetamol?"

He looked up at her, only then realizing the tension in his face. John had cleared him as fit for some light work this morning, but he was suffering a nagging headache that did not want to go away.

He felt much more like himself today. Perhaps it was working in his still-familiar office, doing reassuringly familiar tasks that was boosting his confidence, or perhaps it was simply the fact that he felt more like himself today. He wasn't nearly as fatigued or disoriented. He was still missing five years' of memories, but he appeared to be adapting to the new reality.

If he was honest with himself, while this made doing his already-difficult job yet more challenging, there was a thrill to accomplishing it without letting on. Nobody could know about his affliction, and the challenge of accomplishing his tasks with such a formidable handicap was … invigorating. (He did also realize that his viewing this as a particularly delightful challenge rather than an inconvenience that bordered on personal catastrophe was probably something a psychiatrist would have issues with—but that was fine. He had issues with most psychiatrists, and none to date had been able to properly understand anyone with Holmes DNA, anyway.)

No, he had been here for three hours now and felt he had done an admirable job—not only of performing his duties, but of concealing his infirmity. He had managed to conceal his ignorance of names and current issues with aplomb, thanks to Anthea. She might believe he had only lost a few hours and was merely suffering from the after-effects of the concussion, but no-one else in the office suspected even that much. He had several people ask how he was feeling, but that had had the feel of a routine, polite inquiry, not anything more serious—or suspicious.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he told her, thinking that yes, the warm, soothing beverage was just what he needed because, yes, his head was aching rather more than usual.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and took a rare moment to look out the window, enjoying the familiar view. He'd been glad to discover his office was the same as he remembered—he had worked hard to get this one. Large enough to show that he had some power, but not so intimidating that it would be out of place for a man who held just a "minor" position.

Anthea returned, moving with the unhurried grace he'd always appreciated—it looked as if she was moving lazily, and yet her actions were always utterly efficient. She set down a cup of tea and two shortbread biscuits, along with two pills. He looked up at her with raised brows, but she stood her ground. "You've been fighting a headache for more than an hour, and you were out all day yesterday with a concussion. You're not to do anything else until you've taken a break … sir."

He just blinked at her for a moment and then smiled gently. "If you insist, as long as you break for tea as well?"

She just smiled back at him and reached back for the tray, lifting a second cup. "That's what you always say."

They sat in silence for a few moments, and Mycroft felt an odd combination of contentment as well as frustration. He was so busy focusing on doing his job properly, he had not made any headway toward discovering what had been in his pocket when he was attacked. He and Anthea had made a point of checking his notes from the day of the attack but—despite his habit of meticulous note-taking—hadn't found any hints as to what he might have been carrying.

And why, he wondered, had he had anything in his pocket at all? Except for his phone and Moleskine notebook, he rarely carried anything in his pockets. Wasn't that what a briefcase was for, after all? He enjoyed a mystery as much as his brother did, but found it was not nearly as entertaining when his own life was the subject of it. Or, at least, more frustrating.

Tea finished, Anthea excused herself to do her own work, and Mycroft stayed where he was for a few minutes, staring at nothing as his brain decided to extend the break. This won't do, he told himself. It was entirely unacceptable to succumb to weakness, very unlike a Holmes.

He heard some bantering just outside his door, and then Porter poked his head in. "Sir? I hope I'm not bothering you. How are you feeling?"

Mycroft nodded, resigned to the time-consuming, social necessity of asking after one's health. "Still a bit of a headache, but well enough. What do you need?"

The man all but ground his toe into the carpet. "I wondered if you'd had a chance to consider what we discussed the other day?" he asked, voice hopeful.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft told him. "What with the accident, I'm afraid I haven't."

"Oh. I mean, of course, I entirely understand. It's just that … I hate to waste any more time…"

The man's voice trailed off and Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He remembered Porter. He had started working for him straight out of Uni at Christmas, 2005 and Mycroft was frankly amazed he was still here. He wasn't incompetent, quite, but he had never had the gumption appropriate for the post, either. Mycroft had only hired him in the first place as a favour to the lad's father.

"Did you write up your proposal, Porter?"

"What? No, sir. That doesn't seem at all appropriate," he said, looking shocked, and Mycroft found himself curious as to what he had asked, but was unsure how to go about asking him to repeat himself. From the way the young man was practically wringing his hands, it didn't seem as if it were a work-related request, but they certainly didn't know each other well enough to be friends. (Or, he seemed quite sure they were not—and judging by the man's insecure mannerisms, he saw no evidence of any relationship outside the office. He certainly hoped there wasn't.)

"Yes, well … I'll consider it and get back to you," Mycroft said, wondering what he was agreeing to. The man didn't seem overly complex, it shouldn't be too hard, right?

"Excuse me." Anthea was standing at the door, a polite smile on her face. "Your 10:30 phone call is on the line, sir."

Phone call? He didn't remember seeing one on his schedule … but, of course. She was helping to get rid of Porter, like a good assistant. "Yes, of course. If you'll excuse me, Porter?"

"Of course, sir," the man said, practically darting for the door, where he tried to get past Anthea without knocking her over, laughing nervously. "So sorry, my fault, silly of me…"

"It's no trouble," she told him. "It could happen to anyone." Only Mycroft saw the slight eyeroll at the absurdity of a grown man unable to walk through a doorway without embarrassing himself.

"He seems nervous," Mycroft commented.

"Not that that's unusual," she said, "Interpersonal skills have never been his strong point. I beg your pardon, though. I seem to have misplaced that call. Perhaps you'd like to spend your time on these files instead?"

She really was the perfect assistant, Mycroft thought. He was so lucky not to have frightened her off—he could remember a string of PAs before her that had not worked out and here it was, almost six years later and she was still here. Amazing.

And, despite his headache, he had a smile on his face as he bent to his work.

#

"Dr Watson?"

"Yes?" John asked, fumbling his phone as he tried to swipe his card at the chip-and-pin machine. If he never saw one of these again he would be pleased indeed, he thought. No wonder Sherlock refuses to do the shopping. "Who's this?"

"Anthea," came the smooth voice. "I'm a little worried about Mr Holmes."

Suddenly groceries weren't important. "What? Why? What's wrong?"

"He's been very quiet since lunch and keeps rubbing his head. And…"

"And what?"

"He seems … distracted. As if he can't quite gather his thoughts."

Christ, thought John. For Mycroft Holmes, that was almost as ominous as lying in a pool of blood. "I'll be right there," he told her, as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He stared at his shopping, considering, and then abandoned it with a short "Sorry!" tossed over his shoulder as he hurried out of the shop. For once, he was grateful that he had so much trouble with that damned machine—at least he hadn't actually paid for his abandoned food.

#

"Mycroft?"

John stepped through the door, Anthea hovering just behind him. He could see why she was concerned. Mycroft was just sitting, staring out of the window as he absently rubbed at his temple. He looked nothing like the alert, dapper businessman who had left for the office earlier. Instead, he looked almost lost.

"Mycroft? How are you feeling?" John asked, approaching the man slowly, concerned.

"What? Oh, John…" Mycroft sounded like he hadn't even heard him come in.

John observed the pale skin and slightly dazed look and gave a brief nod. "Right. You're done for the day. Doctor's orders."

"No, I can't leave yet," Mycroft said, gaze sharpening. "I haven't learned anything yet."

"You've been here six hours, your colour is bad, and you look exhausted. It can wait another day, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, you don't understand. It's not that I haven't found anything—it's that there's nothing to find. Everything I work on is sensitive, of course, to some degree or other, but there is nothing in my notes, on my schedule, in the files that would warrant an attack—and certainly nothing which I would have carried with me on a flash drive. That is an enormous security risk."

"Like the Bruce-Partington plans, I know," John said with a nod. "But if what you say is true, that's all the more reason for you to go home. You shouldn't push yourself too far on your first day. The mystery will still be here tomorrow."

Mycroft levelled a look in his direction, but John didn't flinch. After the army, Moriarty, and living with Sherlock, one Holmes stare was much like another. "Indeed, and getting colder all the time. I'm not ready to leave, John."

John looked at the man, measuring his determination against the physical signs of stress. He didn't quite look like he was going to keel over in the next few minutes, but he was near the edge—though that edge seemed more emotional than physical. He tilted his head, considering what he knew of amnesia. What he knew of the process of recovery of lost memories was more anecdotal than scientific, but it looked like Mycroft was right on the cusp of recovering … something, he was practically straining with it, fighting to pull it forward, even if he wasn't consciously aware of it.

"Okay," he said finally, "I'll give you an hour, and then I'm taking you home. Sherlock will never forgive me if I let you work yourself into exhaustion."

Mycroft was already looking back at the window. "I doubt he would care that much."

John met his eyes in the reflection. "I think we both know better than that, don't we? More people care about you than you realize, Mycroft. One hour."

He gave one more nod and then walked back to where Anthea lingered, worried, by the door. "He insists he's not ready to leave yet, and he has the same look Sherlock gets when he's right on the edge of figuring something out, so I gave him an hour."

Her eyes flickered, but he wasn't sure with what, and then she said, "I'll get you some tea for while you wait."

He thanked her and pulled out his phone.

—Thought you should know Anthea called me. I'm bringing your brother home soon. JW

—Did he learn anything? SH

—Says not, insists on another hour, but he looks exhausted. Not good to push on his first day. JW

—Not good to leave his attacker free, either. SH

—No, but your brother collapsing won't help anyone. How's it going on your end? JW

—Frustratingly vague. Apparently no-one saw a thing. The police report is useless. SH

—That's what you always say. JW

—Oh, by the way, I had to abandon the shopping to come get Mycroft. We need milk. JW

—Don't we always? SH

#

"More people care about you than you realize, Mycroft."

For some reason, John's statement echoed in Mycroft's ears, but he wasn't sure why. He stared out the window, watching a double-decker bus pass in the distance. Hadn't they just established this last night? That, contrary to all expectations, his brother did care about him (no matter how well he had always hidden it)?

Or perhaps John meant that he cared, too? He supposed that was possible. Friends did show an interest in family members, didn't they? If only in so much as they affected the friend's well-being?

Still, he had seen honest concern in John's eyes—and while the man might be a doctor, Mycroft knew the difference between professional interest and personal concern. For that matter, Anthea had seemed legitimately concerned, as well.

Which only made sense, he thought. They had worked together for six years now—even if he could only remember one of them. He liked to think he was a considerate boss. He was demanding as to accuracy and efficiency, but he had always been willing to allow a certain leeway as regards hours and responsibilities when the situation required—never demanding more than he required of himself.

Still, there was something about the concern in Anthea's eyes that … affected him. He told himself not to be ridiculous, that it was just the regard of a long-time co-worker for a boss who had been injured. Nothing more. Porter had expressed concern, too, even if he had been more focused on his own issue.

And Mycroft wondered what that could have been. Had it been work-related, he would have put it in writing, wouldn't he? Or been willing to resubmit his case to his harried boss instead of looking too embarrassed to restate it? But would a young man like Porter come to him for personal advice? It seemed unlikely in the extreme. Yet another mystery to add to his plate.

He blinked as a yellow car passed in the distance, something about a game called Yellow Car, tickling at his memory.

Was it a memory? Yes, he thought, recalling Anthea's amused voice explaining, "You're always playing Yellow Car," and then felt frustrated. Why could he remember that piece of utter frivolity, but not the cause of his attack? Not anything important?

He was still rubbing his temple, he realized, and forced his hand down to the rest on the arm of the chair. Why wouldn't this headache leave him alone? He understood the physiological ramifications of a severe blow to the head, but it had been two days now. Surely that was enough time for the healing to have begun?

The door opened quietly behind him. "Sir?" Anthea's voice was gentle as she walked quietly into the room, bringing a whiff of her fragrance with her. (Chanel Number 5, he remembered. He had always appreciated that she preferred the classic perfume rather than something newer or trendier.) "You look tired, sir."

He blinked up at her, feeling overwhelmed by his headache. "I am. Perhaps you are right. I'm not accomplishing anything here."

A relieved smile crossed her face. "I'll tell Dr Watson. Shall I check on you later?"

He noted the way her voice tensed at the end and gave her a careful nod. "Of course," was all he said, but he couldn't help the feeling of warmth at her words. It wasn't just because it was her job that she asked, he thought. It was because she cared.

Mycroft looked at his desk, trying to decide if he needed to bring any of this home with him as John Watson walked in. "No," the man said. "If you need any of that, Anthea can bring it over later. Right now, though, you're going home to rest. Paperwork will just get in the way."

"But, I…"

"No, Mycroft. You look like hell, and you need some sleep. Come on. Anthea called your car."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but let it fall closed without saying anything. It was true. He felt like hell, and all he wanted to do at this moment was close his eyes and let the questions, the mysteries, fade into the background for a time—at least long enough for the pounding in his head to go away. Perhaps he had tried to do too much today?

He took his coat and umbrella from Anthea and walked down the hall toward the lift, passing Porter's desk on the way. He paused. "I'll consider your request, Porter, and let you know," he said as John pressed the call button up ahead. He turned back to look at Anthea, watching with a look of concern on her face. He really did have good people, he thought as Porter told him to feel better as he continued down the hall.

John was quiet on the ride down the lift, and did not try to fill the time in the car with idle chatter. Mycroft found his staunch silence a comfort as he sat exuding strength and competence without intruding on his really quite bad headache. "You must be a good doctor," he said at one point.

"Because I know not to talk to a Holmes with a headache? That really just speaks to my survival instincts, Mycroft, but thank you. You'll be relieved to know that I am, in fact, a very good doctor, even if neurology isn't my specialty."

"I'd imagine you saw a number of brain injuries in Afghanistan, though," Mycroft said.

"Too many," said John, "Compared to many of those, though, you're doing just fine, you know. I'm a bit concerned that the headache is still this bad, but it's too early to really worry."

Mycroft pressed his head back against the headrest, trying to ease or shift the pressure inside his skull. "Not as comforting as it might be."

"No, I'd imagine it's not. You're almost home, though, and a nap will do you good."

"I feel like I'm sleeping my life away," Mycroft said, protesting.

"Sleeping away the pain," John corrected him. "Your life will still be here waiting for you when you wake up."

Mycroft gave a small laugh. "I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing.," he said, wincing at the bitterness in his voice.

He heard the rustle of fabric as John turned his head, but Mycroft refused to look at him, but instead just sat back and let the world slide away under the tires.

#

"Anthea. Where's my brother?"

"I sent him home early with John. He had been fighting a headache all morning, and it's almost impossible to make him stop, so I called in reinforcements."

"Yes, John texted that he was here. You say they left already?"

"About half an hour ago, why?"

"John's not answering his phone."

"But why … that's odd."

"What is?"

"Porter's not at his desk."

"Samuel Porter?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just … I don't think I realized he still worked for Mycroft."

"He's been here almost as long as I have. In fact, he was the one who…"

"…Who spotted my overdose five years ago?"

"Yes. I always suspected that was why My… er … Mr Holmes kept him on his team."

"Sentiment. There had to be more than that."

"If you're trying to imply that he's been blackmailing Mr Holmes…"

"No, nothing as strong as that. From what I remember, he's a fairly ineffectual little man, though presumably competent enough at his job, as he's still there?"

"Yes, just barely enough…. He was working late the other night, too."

"Was he? See if you can reach either him or Mycroft. I'm on my way to the house."

"Are you kidding? I'll meet you there."

#

Back at Mycroft's, John walked the man to the kitchen and handed him two pills and waited while he took them before heading to the counter to make tea. "Some tea to relax you, and then I want you to go lie down and give the meds a chance against that headache."

"Like you said, it's most likely that I did too much this morning," Mycroft said, sitting gratefully at the table while John assembled tea things.

"Very possible," said the doctor, "Or it could be a sign of something more serious—though I'm not that worried yet. Hopefully some rest will do you good. You don't even have to sleep, but lying with your eyes closed should do wonders. And the tea, of course."

He watched Mycroft force a smile. "Sherlock said you like your tea."

"I'm British," said John, pouring the water. "It's in my DNA."

Fifteen minutes later, he sent Mycroft to his study to lie down and then settled himself in the living room with the book he'd been reading the other night. Mycroft's house was more formal than he liked, but he had to give the man credit for picking truly comfortable chairs, he thought, as he sipped at his own tea.

He had just started a new chapter when the doorbell rang. He peered at the security display and, recognizing one of the people from Mycroft's office, answered the door.

"It's Samuel Porter. I brought some things for Mr Holmes," the man said, gesturing at his briefcase.

"That was fast," John said, stepping back. "Anthea said she'd send some things along later, but we thought it was best for him to rest a while."

"Oh. Well, this will just take a minute. He was supposed to be working on a problem for me, and I didn't feel right asking him about it at the office."

John kept his face neutral, but the hair at the back of his neck was prickling. Something about this young man didn't feel right. "I know how that is," he said, keeping his voice light. "I can't count the number of conversations I wish I'd been able to have in private with his brother."

He wondered if he could stall Porter long enough to get to Mycroft … because there was something that wasn't sitting right about him. He looked nervous—more than being in his boss's house would account for—and the hands holding the briefcase were damp, fidgeting, continually adjusting their grip. John kept the genial, friendly look on his face, though, as he gestured toward the living room. "I know he was going to take a nap, but I don't think he's gotten that far yet. Why don't you wait in the living room while I go see?"

"I don't think so."

John looked back, startled at the sudden decision in his voice, and then froze as he stared at the visitor.

Because Porter had not been holding that gun a moment ago.

#