Author's Note: Hi guys! I hope you all survived episode one in one piece. I'm happy that we have a few months of in-story-time to play with Mythea stuff before I even have to consider the events of season 4 proper. Thanks for the feedback from the chapter, I'm glad it was received as well as it was for just leading up to TAB and S4. Here's the next chapter how I was planning to have it. I didn't have to change my plot idea at all. Although I WISH I could find a way to work in #ohwhatabeautifulmorning. Anyway, I really hope you like this! Please read, review, and enjoy!
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own Sherlock. The show is the baby of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, while Sherlock Holmes itself is the creation of Arthur Conan Doyle.
The First Time He Explained The Lists
Mycroft came home with the most haunted expression Anthea had seen on his face since Sherlock was shot. He looked like he'd been awake for an eternity and has seen vast horrors in the brief time since she'd seen him. Worst of all, it looked like he couldn't handle these horrors anymore. Anthea watched from her position on the couch as Mycroft put his briefcase and umbrella down in the kitchen. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead, eyes clothes. He was acting as if he was alone. If it weren't for his impeccable perception Anthea might have thought he hadn't noticed her sitting on the couch. The genius placed his palms on the kitchen counter and leaned on it. It was as if the kitchen counter was keeping him upright, as if without it he'd just collapse into nothingness. It was when he sighed again, a shake in his breath, that Anthea closed the book open on her lap and put it down on the coffee table.
"Did something go wrong?" She asked, only thinking of the mission. She wondered if maybe Sherlock had been sent away anyway. She wondered if maybe Mycroft had gotten in trouble when he presented his idea to the others. Mycroft, tight lipped, shook his head once. He was looking at his hands on the table.
"We quickly doctored the Appledore footage. Sherlock is back at Baker Street." Mycroft answered Anthea. He didn't sound pleased with himself, he didn't sound relieved, and he certainly didn't sound like his walls were protecting him. Mycroft's words sounded raw and painful as if it were hard for him to speak. It was good news, wasn't it? That Sherlock was staying in London. That Mycroft would not be losing his brother and Sherlock wouldn't be losing his life one way or another. Anthea licked and then bit her bottom lip as she tried to comprehend the aura of complete sadness that emanated from the elder Holmes right now. This was not a man who had just achieved a minor victory.
"Then…" She spoke slowly. "What's the matter?" Mycroft looked up from his hands on the counter to meet Anthea's gaze. His haunted eyes searched her eyes, then search her face. He pursed his lips as if he was about to speak and then didn't. He just turned his head slightly and glanced behind her, looking at nothing at all. He was either reflecting on recent events or searching for something else. Searching for a lie to tell her, maybe, or searching for a way he could express himself without losing any of his reputation. Anthea waited, body language neutral and face calm, for what might come. If he was this haunted then there was a good chance he didn't want her to bother him. The last time he had looked like this he wouldn't let go of her, but the time before he lashed out and pushed her away. It was better for both of them if she waited. Mycroft inhaled sharply. He stood up and stretched his shoulders, a few soft clicks and cracks heard in the silence of the large house. Then he silently left the kitchen and made his way for the hallway. Anthea did not move from the couch.
"Do you want me to follow?" She called out. Mycroft, at the door to the entrance hall, glanced briefly over his shoulder.
"Please do." He replied. It was something to Anthea. A tiny bright spark. A sign that he didn't want her to go away was always a good sign when it came to judging how well Mycroft might be handling something. Though Mycroft had turned around again and couldn't see it, Anthea nodded before she stood up and straightened her clothes. As she followed Mycroft she realised they were heading for his study.
They entered one of the most lived in rooms in the house. Instead of sitting down at the desk, Mycroft knelt on his knees. Confused at first, Anthea watched as he opened the bottom drawer. Then she caught on, he was opening the false bottom. Carefully he placed the false bottom to his side. He then took his little black notebook out of his breast pocket and opened it. Looking down into it, he clenched his jaw and another wave of infernal sadness washed over him. Steel eyes looked up at the personal assistant and with a simple nod Mycroft gestured for Anthea to come join him on the floor. She was hesitant at first, remembering when she had let herself into this drawer and how mad Mycroft had been at her invasion of his privacy. But he was welcoming her, beckoning her, so she sat on the floor next to him.
Inside his notebook was a piece of paper that had been torn into smaller pieces. Torn, rather than cut, by the edges and the tears in the different layers of the paper. Gingerly, Mycroft scooped the pieces into his hand, picking them up between his thumb and his index and middle finger. He held them out in front of Anthea. She waited a moment, to make sure for certain he wanted her to take them. When he jutted them a little more towards her she took it to mean he was sure. So Anthea took the pieces. She could see writing on them. She lay them out on the carpet in front of her and assembled them like assembling a puzzle. Soon the words came together. It was another one of those lists. A lists full of legal and illegal drugs. Anthea's brows furrowed as she leaned in and read the sloppy handwriting of a clearly high person.
"Another one of those lists?" Anthea asked, referring to all the others she had found under the false bottom. She didn't need to look at Mycroft to feel his tension and grief. Then it hit her and she understood why all this emotion surrounded this drawer and why Mycroft had it so securely guarded and grew angry when it was discovered. Mycroft had seen his in ex-addict brother today in a horrible situation and he returned with another of these lists. These lists had to do with Sherlock's drug habits – all of them cocktails for overdoses. She had known it had to do with Sherlock but she'd let herself not think the worst when she couldn't confirm it. Anthea felt her throat grow tight and her stomach churn. "Don't tell me he was high." Anthea's voice came out filled with disappointment and fear. Sherlock. The boy had been so good, as far as they knew, for so long now. This was more than a simple disappointment. This was enough to break hearts. Mycroft was staring at the list on the floor. He clicked his tongue and looked down into the drawer where the rest of the lists were.
"The first time I found him," He stopped and pulled a face. "The first time I could help him," He corrected himself "I didn't quite know what to do. I made him write out a list. I wanted to see what I was dealing with. It was as if writing it out would help him realise what he'd done and would help me be able to formulate some way of helping even if it were only to save his life from that current concoction." Anthea felt something crawl down her neck, giving her tingles, as her eyes felt heavy. Mycroft looked like he was reliving a torturous memory but of course he was. This had always been one of the greatest struggles in his life. His need to help his brother against self-destructive behaviours. It was always such a losing battle for both sides. "Ever since then… There has always been a list." Anthea blinked her eyes to keep them dry as she too stared down at the draw full of lists. Some were in Mycroft's handwriting, no doubt dictated by a high Sherlock, some were written on receipts and random pieces of paper, some had blood and other liquids dried on them. One of them looked like it was written on the back of an assignment grading sheet. She wondered if it was Mycroft or Sherlock's. Anthea wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around Mycroft, burying his head in her chest, and tell him it was okay. She restrained herself.
"Mycroft…" Anthea breathed. She didn't know what she wanted to say. Did she want to thank him for finally sharing? Tell him it wasn't healthy for him to keep them? Express disappointment that Sherlock had turned to drugs in an hour of need? She didn't know. She really wanted to tell him she loved him. "All these lists… I." She exhaled and shook her head. Mycroft swallowed and looked down at his knees.
"Today he tore the list up in my face." Mycroft wasn't looking at anything, he wasn't seeing anything in this room. He was probably replaying the memory in his head. Anthea's heart stopped. Or broke more like it. Shattered at the distant look in Mycroft's eyes and how he struggled to speak. "He tore up the list and pushed past me." Anthea could see the venerability all over Mycroft. The look on his face, the slump of his shoulders, his bad posture. Sherlock's words never meant anything to Mycroft, not in the long run, but actions spoke far louder than words. This wasn't just about another list. This was about destroying the list. He felt like something had been broken today. No wonder he looked more like he was grieving now than when he left home this morning. His brother had pushed him away in a cruelly harsh way.
Anthea did it. She wrapped her arms around Mycroft sideways so she rested her chin on his shoulder and her arms linked on his opposite arm. She kissed his shoulder then leaned her forehead against it.
"He was high, Mycroft." Anthea whispered as she pulled him tighter. "He was lashing out. I know at least two of the things on that list leads to a violent disposition." She was trying to find anything to comfort the broken big brother. She was trying to speak to his logic – the part he understood the most.
"I'd rather he hit me." Mycroft mumbled to himself. As she felt a pang in her chest Anthea pulled herself closer to the man so she may embrace him properly. This time she kissed the side of his head as she held him tight.
"It's all the same, though. It's not really him. He'll turn up to the office unannounced in a week or two like he didn't do that." She whispered into his ear, her own voice a little shaky at this point. She'd managed to keep her eyes dry, though. "If he didn't love you or appreciate you he wouldn't even bother trying to hurt you." Mycroft melted into her embrace. He placed his head down on her shoulder and exhaled.
"You can easily love someone and simultaneously despise them." He said. Anthea rubbed his back in a ginger circular motion. She leaned back and looked the genius dead in the eyes.
"Who could despise you?" She smirked playfully, crinkling her nose. "Everything about you is so loveable." Mycroft rolled his eyes but he couldn't hide the smile that crossed his lips. Anthea giggled.
"Mr. Congeniality." Mycroft mused.
"You make friends wherever you go." She laughed, earning herself a fake sneer. It was something. It broke the darkness and allowed him to pull away from the black hole he was dragging himself into, even just for a moment. Mycroft nodded to the desk with a hint of weariness.
"Get the tape." He said. Anthea got to her feet and found the sticky tape dispenser. She sat back down and placed it in front of Mycroft. Roughly and quickly, Mycroft taped the list together so it was in one piece. Little gaps in the paper were visible everywhere and in some places the white torn paper covered and disfigured the writing, but it was once more a complete list. Into the drawer it went, to join to rest of the lists in the box of what Mycroft viewed as failings. They weren't failings. They were all the times Mycroft intervened and stopped his brother dying. They were successes to her, even if they weren't to him. Even then, though, it held such a deep sadness. She wouldn't have kept them like this, she wouldn't be able to live knowing they were in the house if she were him. Better here than the office, though. Or the club.
Mycroft placed the false bottom back on the drawer and closed it. He locked away the pain and the grief with a quiet moment of mourning. Once they had stood back up Anthea took Mycroft's right hand and clasped it between both her hands.
"Thank you for sharing this with me." She comforted Mycroft and encouraged him for opening up to her. For letting her in instead of pulling away. For finally showing her this after she had broken his trust with it.
"I'm done running away from you, Alice." Mycroft avowed, looking at the roof and shaking his head. He then looked her dead in the eyes. "I already told you that this is it. We're in this together." Anthea let go of Mycroft's hand immediately. She placed her right hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek. He watched her hand approach carefully and he did not lean into the touch, but he didn't flinch or pull away. She expected some resistance after the day he had that she was pleased at the lack of flinching. Anthea leaned in and kissed Mycroft on the right cheek, her lips lingering on his skin for a second longer than usual.
"Of course we are." She said into his ear. After all, like Sherlock had said only earlier, they were a 'we' long before they were even friends.
Anthea played with the rim of her coffee mug – running her finger over the rim the way Mycroft often did. She was trying to think of a way to broach the subject she had in mind. She stood behind the kitchen counter with her coffee in front of her. Mycroft sat at the other side with a plate of toast, a coffee, and already answering emails on his phone. He looked calmer today and far more balanced. Anthea doubted the list and Sherlock were far from his mind though. He hadn't slept well last night and that was his first troubled sleep in some time. Anthea even got up and played a few rounds of blackjack with him between three and four in the morning. She often wondered what it was like during the worst of the drug habit. She wondered if Mycroft even knew what sleep was during that time.
"Mycroft," She intoned, trying to stop herself from wincing in apprehension. Mycroft looked up from his phone to look at her as his sign that he was listening. "I was thinking about those lists all night…" Anthea trailed off, once again finding the rim of her coffee highly interesting. Mycroft cleared his throat. He looked down and locked his phone.
"And clearly you have some opinions to share." Anyone else might have been offended by his sing-song sarcasm and pompous attitude. Anthea knew him well enough to know it was a mixture of his usual personality and a defence mechanism.
"If I may." Anthea gave him a lopsided smile. Mycroft paused and for a moment Anthea was certain he was going to say no.
"Go on." The genius gave her permission to speak although he sounded apprehensive. Was it trust or respect that allowed him to listen to her?
"Well," Anthea's eyebrows jumped up and down. "I don't think it's healthy for you to keep them all." Something flashed in Mycroft's grey eyes and he looked like he might have a few choice words to say. Probably something about her and healthy attitudes and behaviours. He didn't, though. The look passed, he quirked and eyebrow and looked down at his own coffee. It seems he really was serious about showing her he cared more these days. "If it were up to me I'd throw them all out." Mycroft scoffed and looked to the side of the room.
"Come now, Anthea." He reprimanded. Yes, it was definitely going to be something about her and healthy attitudes and behaviours. Probably something about her running away from serious relationships. Anthea held up her left hand, palm out, defensively in a surrender or stop like motion.
"But it's not up to me." She finished her thought, crinkling her nose a little, giving away that she had predicted his thoughts. Mycroft bit the inside of his bottom lip and refocused on Anthea. "I was thinking that maybe we can bring a folder home from work." She explained. "We can file them away nicely and keep them in that drawer, but we throw away anything older than five years." She could see a whole bunch of questions flaring up behind Mycroft's deep eyes. "Or ten." She shrugged. "Or seven." She shook her head. "The point is, once it's that old its ancient history and no reason to dwell on it. You can't change something so set in stone." His brow quirked and she knew he was going to question her logic. "It would be like me keeping news clippings of my parents' accident. What good would it do?" And immediately his question melted away, seeing her logic. Mycroft's steely eyes focused on his coffee. He twisted the mug so that the handle was perpendicular to his phone. Then he spent some time placing his cutlery in the right position on his plate to indicate, according to some antiquated etiquette rule, that he was finished eating.
"Seven years seems sufficient." He muttered to the centre of his plate. He looked up once more to add one last thing. "Except the first list." There was a seriousness and deadest stubbornness in his expression mixed with a hint of melancholy. Anthea, with her kindly expression, nodded vigorously.
"Of course. The first one makes sense to keep." Not really, not to her, anyway, but if it made him happy and helped her to get him to move on it could stay. Anything to help him get passed the mass of sadness he kept around in his house at all times. No wonder he struggled to sleep when he held his demons so close to his chest. "We can do it on the weekend." Anthea offered, trying to come across as airy and not so bogged down by concern as she really was. "We can get a bottle of expensive scotch, a good take-away dinner, and get all those horrible feelings out and in the open as we throw them away."
"Two bottles of scotch if you expect me to get anything close to emotional." Mycroft scoffed. Anthea nodded, happy to have him agree to such a step. And who was she to turn down such an offer?
"You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Holmes." She smiled. Mycroft's mouth pulled into his own naughty smirk as he looked over Anthea. He looked over her eyes, then face, then entire being. His eyes glittered as he took her in. This is what he'd been doing since she'd agreed to move back home. Every now and then when she said or did something he'd just stare at her and take her all in. He'd smile to himself and absorb her like she was doing something unique. He still claimed to be filling in the gaps in his mental images of her though she was starting to doubt that. He'd seen her like this a million and one times. "What are you doing?" She laughed.
"Appreciating you." Mycroft hummed, that smirk still on his lips. "And wondering how on Earth I ever let someone close enough to know me so well." Mycroft Holmes, the master of showing remorse for caring about someone. Anthea cocked her head to the side.
"Are you regretting hiring me, Mr. Holmes?" She teased.
"God, no." Mycroft scoffed. "Did you not hear me, my dear? I said I was appreciating you." Anthea leaned forward and placed her hand on top of Mycroft's, patting his hand gently.
"Careful, your heart is showing." She whispered gently. Anthea stood back up straight. She took a sip of her coffee, now almost cold, and put it back on the counter. "If you really wanted to show me your appreciation you'd let me pick the take-away."
"Over my dead body." Mycroft sneered. Anthea couldn't help but laugh at the overreaction.
Author's Note: How was that? I really hope you enjoyed it. This was a chapter I've been looking forward to since I introduced the lists into AFTFE. Let me know your thoughts. Thanks to our guest reviewers; PinkFriday28, B.R.100, Guestsx2, and B. Thanks to all my reviewers – you'll never know just how much I love you guys. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter!
Also… AFTFE is almost 2!? How did that happen!? And what are we gonna do for it?