CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Anthea silently pushed the box of paper hankies across her desk towards the distraught Junior Minister who grabbed a handful and wiped her face, smearing her mascara.

"That bloody man!" she hissed. Anthea sighed. This was the third one this week. Her boss had suddenly developed great delight in terrorising half the Cabinet and reducing the rest to tears.

"His code name shouldn't be Antarctica any more, he's not the iceman."

"Satan isn't one they use, apparently," said Anthea. The other woman snorted with laughter.

"What's wrong with him?"

Anthea shrugged but she knew only too well. Mycroft Holmes just hadn't been the same since his brother had returned supposedly from the dead. It had been sensational news. Anthea thought Sherlock and John had coped admirably with the increased press scrutiny. The news hadn't done anything for her boss's temper and, frankly, she was sick of it. Another clue had been the standing down of all surveillance on Detective Inspector Lestrade. Her boss was nothing if not discreet but she had been able to put two and two together. It had obviously been painful for him but it didn't give Mycroft Holmes the right to ride roughshod over everyone else's feelings.

The Minister took her soggy leave and not a minute too soon as Mycroft came storming out of his office and demanded to know where the Prime Minister was.

Anthea thought her boss looked awful. The diet of tea and cigarettes that he seemed to exist on now had made all his suits hang on him and the ridiculous hours he kept had put black circles under his eyes and red veins in them.

"I don't know, sir. He must have been held up. Perhaps Question Time overran?" Mycroft snorted, unamused.

"Send him in directly."

"Of course."

Mycroft slammed his way back into his office and within seconds, the Prime Minister arrived, looking both shifty and nervous.

Privately Anthea thought the man was an utter buffoon but there was no arguing with democracy.

"Go straight in, Prime Minister. He's waiting for you."

He licked his lips nervously and straightened his tie as he went through the door, giving her an absent nod for her courtesy which made her hope that her boss would make this one cry as well.

She had just fired up her laptop again when the Prime Minister came flying out of Mycroft's office. He was chalk white and terrified.

"Something's wrong," he gasped. "Get an ambulance!"

Anthea was already halfway in and was appalled at the sight that greeted her.

Mycroft Holmes slumped in his chair, his complexion grey with sweat pouring down his face as he clutched at the left side of his chest. For a second, his tortured breathing was the only sound in the room.

As the stuttering Prime Minister made the 999 call Anthea loosened Mycroft's tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. Her fingers found his pulse which was thready and erratic and she felt sick.

"Hold on, sir," she said, clasping his hand. "The ambulance will be here soon." She didn't know if he could hear her, just one name escaped his lips as the sound of clattering feet announced the arrival of the paramedics. She stood back to let them do their job.

One performed an ECG. He squinted at the printout and shook his head at his partner.

"Inconclusive," he muttered as he placed the oxygen mask over Mycroft's face. "Mr Holmes, I think you might have had a heart attack. I'm going to give you something for the pain and we're taking you to hospital," He placed a blue cannula in the back of Mycroft's hand and injected the morphine.

"Harley Street," said the Prime Minister, wringing his hands. "The Clinic there will be waiting for him."

"I'm coming with him, "announced Anthea. The paramedic merely nodded as they loaded Mycroft onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the waiting ambulance.

Blue lights and sirens made short work of the London traffic and Mycroft was unloaded into the care of a large number of anxious-looking people at the hospital. Anthea stayed until she knew exactly what was wrong with her boss and that his brother was on his way before she left Harley Street and returned to the office.

She made two further visits to different departments in MI6, made a telephone call to the Prime Minister who was out of his mind with worry then left the office. She flagged down a cab and settled into the back.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie.

"Baker Street, please."

Anthea rang the doorbell of 221B and waited. It was eventually answered by a short, motherly woman who ushered Anthea inside. This was Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had nothing but praise for her for putting up with his irritating little brother.

"I'm afraid Sherlock isn't here, dear. He's had to dash off."

"I'm actually here to see Doctor Watson," replied Anthea. Mrs Hudson looked surprised.

"He's upstairs, I'll show you up."

She knocked on the door and ushered Anthea in.

"John, a lady to see you."

Anthea had met John Watson only once, the night Mycroft had, in his Machiavellian way, decided to find out exactly what this ex-soldier wanted from his brother. She remembered how he had tried to chat her up on the way back to Baker Street and smiled. He looked very different now, he had let his hair grow out of its military crop and he was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He had an air of deep contentment about him, something you only get when you are truly, deeply happy. Anthea knew that he and Sherlock were now living together in every sense of the word and was pleased for them.

"Hello, it's Anthea, isn't it?"

"Hello, John."

"Sherlock's at the hospital. His brother…"

"I know. I was there when it happened. It's really you I came to see."

"Oh, right. Tea?"

"Please"

When she was sat with a mugful of strong tea in Sherlock's chair, she started to talk.

"Mycroft is going to be okay, eventually. It wasn't a heart attack. It was stress cardiomyopathy. He'll be out in a couple of days."

John looked worried.

"Fucking hell. But that means… Why would Mycroft have Broken Heart Syndrome?"

"I know I've got no right to ask this, but I'd like you to go and speak to Inspector Lestrade. I know that you two are friends and he will listen to you where he wouldn't listen to anyone else."

"Greg? Why on earth would I talk to him about Mycroft?"

Anthea smiled at John's consternation.

"Oh, he's good. He's a real loss to the Service, Greg Lestrade. You really had no idea, did you?"

"About what?"

"That he and my boss have been lovers for ages."

John's eyes were like saucers.

"Christ, you think you know someone…"

Carefully Anthea put her cup down.

"My boss has been miserable ever since Sherlock came home. They must have broken up at the same time. You know why Sherlock did what he did, you need to go and convince the Inspector to at least hear Mycroft out. "

John frowned. "You're very involved in all this for a PA."

"I owe Mycroft Holmes everything," she said solemnly. John watched mesmerised as she unfastened her silk blouse, pulling the tails of it out of her waistband and opening it. He gasped at the sight of rugged scar tissue crisscrossing her abdomen and he touched his left shoulder in unconscious sympathy.

"I was a field agent for MI6 once upon a time, "she told him as she refastened her blouse. "That was the result of betrayal. I lost six feet of intestine, two ribs and a vertebra. Mycroft Holmes took me on as his assistant, looked after me and made sure I got the very best medical attention there is. Without him, I don't know where I would be. Please, John. I can't bear to see him so distraught. It wasn't my name he said when he thought he was dying,"

"It was Greg's" said John, completing her sentence. "I'll go now. I owe Greg my life, you know. Let's see if I can't knock some sense into him."

On the doorstep of 221B they shook hands.

"Good luck, John. And thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet, "muttered John. "The hard part is still to come."

TBC