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Over the course of my five years as the personal assistant of Mycroft Holmes, I have been privy to some situations that have would have caused major palpitations in a lesser person. However, as Mr. Holmes himself has often told me, he chose me from a list of dozens for my uncanny ability to not be surprised by anything.
However; the events of this morning may have broken me.
It started with an early morning call. Not unusual in and of itself, since he is rather prickly about what constitutes sleeping; but there was something in Mr. Holmes’ tone that had me on high alert.
I answered my mobile as crisply and clearly as one can at half four on a Monday morning. “Good morning, sir.”
“Sorry to disturb you, my dear, but I am in need of a ride. If you would be so kind as to fetch me, I would be extremely grateful.”
“Sir?” I sit up, and push away the bed coverings. Sending a car is not unheard of, but he usually doesn’t contact me to do so. One touch of a button on his own mobile would have a car to wherever he wishes within ten minutes. Asking that I personally drive the car means he’s involved in something highly unorthodox, or that the matter required a high degree of discretion. “Is there… an issue?” I do so hate to question him, but again, it’s half four, and I will admit to being a bit confused. I don’t know if I should arm myself, or start going through CCTV footage for evidence to erase.
“No,” he says, “no trouble. It seems that Detective Inspector Lestrade and I may have stayed up a bit late discussing the current Sherlock situation, and it wouldn’t do for him to have to drive me out to Knightsbridge when he has to be at the Yard in the next two hours.”
Detective Inspector Lestrade. Of course. The silver-haired fox that Mr. Holmes has been hunting for the past two years, and the bane of my existence. It wouldn’t be so bad if he would simply admit that he fancied my boss, so they could just shag already, or if my boss would stop pretending their interactions were about Sherlock, and get on with it.
But this – another late night meeting, which will undoubtedly end with our regular post-Lestrade-visit trip to Savile Row for ties or waistcoats, or whatever will cheer him after again being disappointed that Lestrade isn’t ready to move on from his failed marriage.
“I’ll be there straightaway, sir.” I ring off, and sigh. One morning, I’ll sleep to a decent hour.
***
Ten minutes later, I pull up to the front of Lestrade’s flat, and turn off the car. I’ve already picked up his traditional “post-Lestrade” hot beverage, a café miel (a shot of espresso, steamed milk, cinnamon, and honey – to each his own). The alternate choice is melted vanilla ice cream with shortbread crumbles and hot caramel; hopefully, the espresso will suffice.
I exit the car, wishing for the millionth time that Mr. Holmes would schedule these meetings at his home. Lestrade’s flat is in a somewhat sketchy area, and while I am sure no harm would come to my boss whilst visiting, I would feel much more at ease if I could fill my duties in the safety of Knightsbridge instead.
The front door to the building opens, and Mr. Holmes steps out with a quick glance at his surroundings. Lestrade is right behind him in a dressing gown and slippers, holding out Mr. Holmes’ overcoat and brolly, smiling. I frown, and look more closely. If I’m not mistaken, there is nothing under Lestrade’s dressing gown. No… that’s... can’t be right. Why would Mr. Holmes be in the company of DI Lestrade whilst he’s…?
Oh.
OH.
Dear god… he’s naked under his dressing gown. I blink a few times, but I’m not mistaken. He’s naked and smiling, and my boss is standing on his doorstep at near five in the morning, smiling back.
Before I can process what I’m seeing, Mr. Holmes leans in, and whispers something in Lestrade’s ear. Whatever he’s said makes the usually sour-faced detective smile broadly. He gives Mr. Holmes’ shoulder a squeeze, hands him his overcoat, and nudges him toward the walkway. Mr. Holmes takes the coat, and his brolly, and walks away, grinning.
Grinning.
But that’s not the kicker.
As he walks toward me, I realise that Mycroft Holmes, the impeccable darling of more than one tailor on Savile Row, is…disheveled.
His hair, usually smoothed to perfection, is mashed on the sides, and sticking up in the back.
His watch has been stuffed in his waistcoat pocket, and the chain is hanging out in a haphazard fashion. The waistcoat is unevenly buttoned – in fact the bottom button is missing.
His seven hundred pound, hand-tooled leather shoes with the special laces are untied, and I think he may be walking on the back of the left one. His unknotted tie is looped around his neck, and, as he comes closer, I can tell that his shirt has lost most of the buttons.
“Good morning, Anthea,” he says, sounding drowsy and contented. “Apologies for getting you up so early.”
I open my mouth to refute, but I can’t form the words. It could be the beard burn on his face and neck, showing vividly, even in the dim light of the dawn, but mostly, it’s his swollen lips, and tiny love bite in the hollow of his throat that have made me mute. I hold out the coffee in lieu of speaking.
He accepts the cup with a grateful smile and takes a sip. “Thank you, dear. You are a godsend. I wish I had remembered to request that you bring a cup for Gregory…ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade as well. Make a note to send a few carafes over to the Yard, won’t you? Perhaps some pastries also. Oh… Gre…Lestrade has a fondness for doughnuts, so those as well. He has a grueling day ahead; perhaps lunch,too.”
Still unable to reply, I stare at him, open mouthed.
He frowns. “Is something amiss?”
“Well… if I may speak freely?”
“When have you not had that freedom, Annie?”
His use of my real name has me flinching a bit, but I forge ahead. “It’s just…” I look over his shoulder at Lestrade, who is still in the doorway, smiling, waiting for us to leave. “Lestrade isn’t wearing anything under his dressing gown, and you’re… disheveled.”
“Am I?” He looks down at himself, and I resist the urge to chuckle at the look of dawning horror on his face that comes and goes so fast it’s almost as though I’ve imagined it. “Well,” he says in a tone that only a Holmes can pull off, “so I am.” It’s the ‘nothing to see here, move along tone’ that they adopt when they’ve been caught out. Most people simply move along; however, I’m not one of those people.
“You rang me, and then subjected me to your walk of shame.”
“My what?”
“This,” I say, motioning at him, and at Lestrade. “You skulking away at first light after a night of…snogging…or what-have-you… is called the walk of shame. I’m… I don’t know what to say, or think. Or where to look.”
He blushes, and turns to Lestrade. “I’m disheveled,” he says, raising his voice slightly. “You were supposed to fix me back the way you found me.”
“I’m not a magician or a seamstress,” Lestrade returns rather loudly, then looks around self-consciously. He takes off a slipper and uses it to prop open the front door, then walks over to the car. “It’s a good look on you. Morning, Anthea. Good of you to come.”
“Er…” I look at the scratches on his chest, the lips that are more swollen than Mr. Holmes’, and feel my face heat up. I chance a look down, and yes... naked. And obviously so, if I'm not mistaken. I can't fault my boss for wanting him, if that's his idle state. Oh, bugger... I'm checking out Detective Inspector Lestrade's... "Yes, well." I clear my throat, and pull my eyes up and straight forward. “I’ll… the car is where I’ll be.” I’ll never be able to look at the two of them in the eye ever again. I get in the car and hastily shut the door.
Hoping to drown out any conversation that references the events of the previous evening, I start the car. Unfortunately, Audi has honed the art of the quiet engine, so I turn on the radio, but not before I hear whispers of “sexy”, “stay” and the unmistakable sound of lips meeting.
After a few minutes, Mr. Holmes slides into the passenger’s seat, and folds his hands primly in his lap, waiting. I watch Lestrade, who is basically skipping up the walk, and it hits me. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, and count to five. “Home, sir?” I manage to croak out.
“Yes,” he says, ignoring my tone in favour of leaning back against the headrest.
I take a deep breath, and a whiff of cheap soap, Lestrade’s cologne, and… sex hits me, and it’s all I can do not to snicker.
“Anthea…” he warns.
“I’m…heh… I’m sorry, sir. It’s just…heh-heh-heh… I never imagined you doing the walk…and with your head held high, like you’ve just been having a bit of a meeting… god, priceless!” And that’s it. I let out the laugh I’d been trying desperately to hold in.
He shakes his head, and looks at his mobile, ignoring me. After a few moments, he sighs. “If you wouldn’t mind getting me home. I could use a shower, and…” then he starts laughing, and we sit there, me and my prim and proper boss, laughing our arses off for a good five minutes.
He clears his throat. “I do appreciate your discretion in this matter, Anthea. It would not do for this to become broad knowledge.”
“Without saying, sir,” I say, manoeuvring away from the kerb. “I would never… I am happy that it’s finally come to pass.” I glance at him. “Are you… happy?”
“Yes.” He smiles, and closes his eyes. “Wake me when we’re home, dear. While my aversion to legwork obviously does not extend to ah, extracurricular activities, I am rather taxed. Perhaps we can manage to push my early meetings to late morning, and cancel my afternoon altogether. Let Richard know that I won’t need new ties, but will need some, ah… mending done. And don’t forget to have food delivered to the Yard.”
“Of course, sir.” I shake my head, and smile as he drifts into a light doze.
Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, doing the walk of shame in a sketchy neighborhood is something I won’t forget for a while.
FIN