Author's Note: Thank you all very much for the lovely feedback last chapter. It seems that James², as I've nicknamed them, is well received, and that orchid was even more so. I'm glad you enjoyed that fun and fluffy chapter. Now for this chapter… You may know what it's about if you noticed my hint on my personal Tumblr. If not, well, you might not be surprised anyway if you've been paying attention to the background plot. I'm a bit nervous about this one, this was always going to be a difficult one for me to get correct and I hope I've done it justice in your minds. Alright, have fun! Read, review, and most of all, 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 She Saw Through the Mask

The mission had been very successful. The client had selected the option, and Mycroft had confirmed it. James had then set the operation into place with a group of hand selected agents and retired or ex-agents. Anthea was now to meet the client at the airstrip to see them off safely on a private jet with a very trusted piolet that she had picked out herself.

The wind on the airstrip was causing both brunette's curls to brush against their faces. Anthea tried to pull her hair out of her face so she could take in the client's face at least one last time and he could see the professional smile on her face. She wishes she could give him an earnest smile – the likes of which he'd never seen on her face over the years – but the moment was far too bittersweet.

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes." She breathed. "Moriarty has been confirmed as neutralised." The man with the sky blue eyes did not smile back at her.

"And now we move forward, onto untangling Moriarty's web of criminals." Anthea fought to keep her smile from faltering as she nodded.

"That is stage two." Her faint snark earned her a crack as Sherlock's mouth threatened very briefly to pull up at the edges. Anthea cleared her throat as she looked down to her phone in order to look at her confidential email full of details. She began to read whatever she deemed important enough to be noted. "You will be taken to the location of the first known contact, though it is recommended that you lay low for a month or two before commencing your investigation." She paused to watch from above her phone screen as Sherlock looked down at his feet before looking off into the distance past Anthea's shoulder. "On the plane you will find all the documentation and untraceable currency that you will need in order to get started. There is also a prepaid mobile but I am to recommend that you save it for an emergency and dispose of it after one call." Anthea locked her phone and pushed it into the side pocket of her black coat. She looked back up at Sherlock with her carefully placed smile. His fierce eyes landed on her face but she was not intimidated by a Holmes' fierce eyes – she saw past it to whatever he was trying not to feel behind them. "Any questions?" She asked with a light shrug, pulling her coat closer to her body. Sherlock's eyes narrowed with thought and Anthea predicted his questions before the first word had even escaped the detective's mouth."

"John." He stated simply in that low baritone voice. Anthea held a hand up in a stop signal and shook her head.

"Mycroft will keep an eye on John." She assured the younger Holmes. "He'll make sure they're all safe. He'll see to it that John doesn't shoot any more cabbies, that Mrs. Hudson doesn't get mixed up in another drug ring, that Molly doesn't date another criminal mastermind, and the Detective Lestrade… well, manages to keep his job without you around to solve all his cases." Anthea received a lovely deep chuckle for all her efforts and it made her smile turn into something more natural. But Sherlock's face grew serious again as he began to search Anthea's eyes.

"And who will keep an eye on Mycroft?" Anthea couldn't help herself, these brothers always managed to break her professional act. She clicked her tongue and with a single hand she reached out to stroke the mop of dark curls out of the consulting detective's face. Anthea took a deep breath and tilted her head as she took in the face of the younger Holmes.

"I've got Mycroft." Her voice was sweet. She never used a sweet tone when talking to Sherlock. "I already do everything else for him, I can take over for you for a while too." A profound silence passed by. Anthea had to push her hair out of her face once more. "I've been practicing, see;" She dropped her face into a neutral mask and gave Sherlock a deadpan stare. When she spoke it was as snarky as she could manage. "How's the diet?" Sherlock scoffed as the both of them broke into natural smiles. "See?" She laughed.

The pair fell back into serious expressions as time passed. The wind blowing felt like it was getting colder with every passing second.

"I'll see you when you're done."

"Goodbye, Not-Anthea."

"Don't take too long."

"I won't."

Anthea drove straight from the airstrip to the Diogenes Club. She didn't even need to check with the mute receptionist to see where her boss may be. As soon as Anthea saw that he was not in that weird room with all the old, posh men in chairs facing the walls for a false sense of solitude she went straight upstairs to check in Mycroft's private suite.

When Mycroft opened the door to his suite and greeted her, Anthea was a little taken aback. Nothing looked out of the ordinary or out of place but there was just something about Mycroft, something about his general aura that felt off to her. She frowned as her eyes scanned him for a closer inspection and ended up focusing on his face. Mycroft's neutral mask was in place but it was not quite the same as usual – it seemed more drawn down, more forced that usual. It seemed harder for him to hold in place over his features.

"Sir?" Anthea asked, tilting her head to the side. Mycroft looked her up and down before gesturing inside and stepping aside for his assistant to enter.

"Come in, my dear." He spoke in that bored tone but it just sounded raw to her. Anthea entered and Mycroft closed the door behind her.

"Is everything alright, sir?" She asked, tiptoeing very carefully – avoiding saying something stupid like 'are you feeling okay?' Mycroft hummed, raising his eyebrows at her as if she had just dragged him out from some deep thought. As he regained his focus, Mycroft forced a very small smile and lightly shook his head a single time.

"Everything is in order, Miss James. I was merely enjoying a fine glass of scotch in my own company. I am one of the few people I can stand to be around, after all." They both pretended to be amused by his joke, Anthea matching that small smile. Mycroft walked over to his desk and leaned on the front of it like he often did. He folded his arms across his chest. His eyes fell to the floor as he shifted his weight before he looked back up at his assistant. "I trust it is all over then?" Anthea nodded. "As smoothly as we planned it?"

"It went off without a hitch, sir. Apparently even John's actions and behaviour fell into plan without much interference from our men."

A pause. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"So the Lazarus project was a complete success."

"Yes, sir."

Silence once again. Mycroft looked past Anthea to the painting on the wall behind her. It was very reminiscent of how Sherlock had looked past her earlier that day while thinking. Which parent had they inherited that from? The silence continued until Anthea became very aware of how loud her own breathing was in the completely silent building.

"So that's it, then." Mycroft breathed, finally breaking the silence. Not that he had been as painfully aware of it as Anthea was, if he had been aware of it at all. He blinked his eyes and took a steadying breath. That was worrisome. "My little brother, the one I put so much effort into protecting," Mycroft swallowed and pursed his lips. Anthea froze as she watched carefully. "He is official considered dead because of my actions." Anthea felt like her heart was in a vice. She took a single step forward.

"Mycroft –"

"Don't, Alice." Mycroft stopped her with the warning tone in his voice alone. He blinked again and shook his head. "I'm only stating facts." Anthea nodded, listening. "Most of the world will think that my brother was nothing more than a hack and the very few who knew us will think that my business focused mind and lack of empathy was the cause of it. In a way, I was. I proposed the idea to him, knowing how badly he wanted to beat Moriarty." Mycroft looked up to the ceiling. Anthea could see that her boss was trying to hold back whatever emotions he didn't want to seep through but were threatening to fall out. It hurt her to watch, hurt her so deeply. Still, she just watched and listened, wanting nothing more than to reach out and stroke his face. But that wasn't professional and he'd been very wary of their closeness recently. "The whole world thinks I failed my little brother." His voice was shaky. That was it. Anthea felt her heart break into tiny little pieces. She had to stop Mycroft spiralling, because that's what he does when he can't handle deep emotions. Last time Mycroft was truly upset and couldn't deal with his emotions he got drunk right in this very roomed and wallowed in his own misery. Anthea wouldn't let Mycroft Holmes do that again. But what could she do? How do you comfort someone who refuses to acknowledge any emotions that they might be feeling? What do you say to help?

Anthea strode across the room. She took the upturned empty crystal glass and the over-the-top crystal decanter and began pouring herself a double of scotch. Mycroft watched her with the beginnings of a frown hanging over his brow.

"Anthea?" He asked. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I've finished my workload for the day, sir." She answered, putting down the decanter. "I thought I'd join you in enjoying a fine bottle of scotch. As it turns out, I don't hate your company either." She kicked off her heels and sat down on the plush couch against the wall, under that painting. Mycroft was watching her, looking vaguely amused by her moxie. Anthea smiled warmly at the tall brunette. She patted the spot on the couch next to her, inviting her boss to join her. After some hesitation and probably weighing up the pros and cons in his head, Mycroft's slender fingers picked up his own glass of scotch around the rim and he casually made his way over to the couch and sat down quietly next to his assistant. Well, he accepted the comfort of her company. That was a start.

They stayed there, on that couch for house in complete silence, only moving to fill up their glasses. At one point, an hour or so in, Anthea heard the distinct sound of a sniff next to her and she stiffened ever so slightly. She didn't turn to look, she didn't want to make a big deal about it, she just gently stroked Mycroft's arm the way she had when he was injured.

Somewhere along the lines Anthea must have fallen asleep. Anthea blinked her eyes to get the sleep out of them as she found herself slowly coming back to the land of the living. She was aware of how stiff her neck felt. As she opened her eyes, Anthea was more than a little surprised. She woke up, still sitting on that couch in the Diogenes club, with her head resting heavily on Mycroft's shoulder. What was very surprising to her was the fact that Mycroft Holmes, a man who hated physical contact almost as much as he hated idiocy, had not tried to move her off of his shoulder and instead had chosen to let her sleep. His arm had probably gone numb ages ago.

Anthea rubbed her eyes, not caring if she smudged any remaining eye makeup. She sat up, legs crossed on the couch. Anthea stretched out her ribcage and moved her head from side to side in order to crack her neck. Once she heard the elusive crack and felt the relief she blinked a couple more times to regain her senses a bit more. Anthea looked over at Mycroft. The man was staring into his empty glass, deep in thought, still. That was not a good sign. What was a good sign was that he appeared to still be sober. Half of her mission had been accomplished at the very least. What was the time anyway? Pursing her lips before biting her lower lip, Anthea looked around the room, searching for a clock on the wall. Unless of course the ticking was too loud for this stupid club.

"It's twenty past twelve." Mycroft stated, sounding very far away. Anthea looked over, steel locking onto chocolate.

"We have work tom… today."

"You don't say." No malice, just a little sarcastic joke at her expense. It lacked his pompous grin with the sparkling eyes, though, his face was as flat as it was in the afternoon. Anthea smiled at the comment and rolled her eyes. She took a moment to stretch once again, this time focusing on her arms. With a sigh she relaxed, finally feeling her head clear of the sleepy haze.

"I drove to the club." Anthea yawned. "Let me drive you home."

"It's only fair, I suppose." Mycroft sighed. "After all, you are the reason I can no longer feel my arm." And she got a half smile. No sparkling eyes that made her breath hitch, but that was the best half a smile that Anthea had ever seen. It meant improvement.

Anthea put her car into park and yanked up her handbrake just outside of Mycroft's front door. Anthea stared at the so very familiar house. She could see no lights on which was no surprise – it was completely void of any inhabitancy right now. She often noted how empty and cold most of that house was. Anthea heard a soft click as Mycroft pulled on the handle of her passenger side door.

"Sir." She quickly spat out, stopping her boss from leaving before she could say what she felt he needed to hear. Mycroft let go of the door, placing his hand back into his lap. With one last look at the large empty house, Anthea turned to her boss. His mask was cracking more – she could see all the sorrow and guilt seeping through his incredibly intelligent eyes. "I don't know how much of this you remember," Anthea gave a breathy laugh as she ran a hand through her messy hair. "Do you remember that time in the club we talked about ambiguity and shades of grey?" She tilted her head. Mycroft faintly winced at the thought.

"Unfortunately I recall that entire conversation. It was not my finest hour if I do say so myself." Anthea gave her boss a lopsided grin at his reaction and her memory.

"Well, remember when I said that I'd always view you as a good guy? In the lighter shades of grey? I still mean that, sir." Mycroft sniffed what could be a scoff in disagreement and stared out of her windshield, not quite seeing anything in particular.

"Somewhere down the road, my dear, someone gave you a very wrong impression of me."

"No, sir." She commanded his attention as he looked back once more. "I can see this story like it's written on the pages of a book." Anthea held her hands out as if she were cradling a book in her lap. "Jim Moriarty was the antagonist, not you." She shook her head. "You're the hero's confidant. Someone he knew he could always trust to get him out of trouble." Anthea tucked her curls behind her ear. "One day, when John or whoever, writes this out the way it happened, everyone will see that." Mycroft searched Anthea's face – looking for a sign, any sign that she was lying in any shape or form. He wouldn't find one, she was as honest and as open as her metaphorical book. The fact that he was looking for a lie, it made her need to blink her eyes to keep them dry and focused. Mycroft tried to hold back a smile as he looked down at his hands in his lap. Anthea was relieved that she had got to say that. She wanted him to know that he wasn't the villain, not to her, not to Sherlock, despite how he might view it.

"Miss James," Mycroft turned to his assistant once more. "It's very late. It would be very irresponsible of me to allow you to drive home by yourself." A hesitation as he chose his next words. "Would you like to stay for the evening? You do have a room." It was the first time Mycroft had invited Anthea to stay since he'd lost it over the gift she'd bought him for no reason and tried to insist on more professional behaviour. She'd only been over for a few hours to work and then immediately headed home when it was complete. The fact that he was asking now meant that he really didn't want to be alone.

Only if you need me to stay…

"Only if you insist, sir." Mycroft nodded.

"Absolutely."

"Alright." Anthea turned her engine off and pulled out her car keys. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Anthea knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mycroft knew she could see through the cracks in his mask and his polite behaviour, and yet they both kept up the charade. Both pretending as if it were too late to drive home when Anthea had driven at a far later time before, acting like it was Mycroft doing Anthea the favour. Why? Because he could never admit to feeling alone and grieving the loss for his still living brother who was dead to the world. Because Anthea knew this, Anthea was one of the very few people who knew this, and because right now Mycroft Holmes needed her. He needed to know that she was downstairs in what was once a spare bedroom, needed to know that he was not alone, and that not everyone saw him as a villain.

Because she had promised Sherlock, and the most important thing in the world to Mycroft Holmes was Sherlock.

Author's Note: *Lets out a shaky breath*. There we have it, a major plot point from the actual series. What did you think? I've been pondering this chapter for a long time now and I just hope, hope you guys were happy with it. Let me know what you think! Guest reviewer thanking time since I can't thank all these lovely people the way I thank people with an account. Thanks to the following: Guest, Wink, Corrine, Wheezzy8, and ovejalucifer. Every review makes me smile like an idiot and every reader is an inspiration for me. Thanks a lot!

Don't worry, I didn't hurt myself writing out the chapter – I had my arm bandaged so I couldn't move my elbow and then I barely used it to type because it was too uncomfortable to hold it above the keyboard like that. Yay, I behaved for once.