Work Text:
The call comes at 2:05 pm, on a cold grey day threatening rain.
Mycroft has just finished a set of briefing papers, this one on the mess the Chancellor of the Exchequer seems bent on making with the current crisis in taxation, when his phone buzzes. He picks it up, looks at the number – Anthea's assistant Tres – and answers it absently. “Yes?”
“Mr Holmes,” the young woman says in a quaver, which he immediately identifies as bad news. “Ms Matheson. She's been... hurt.”
He cuts in, “Hurt in what way, and where is she now?”
“Gunshot. Not life-threatening, we don't think. And University College Hospital, sir. A&E. She --”
“Where did it happen?”
The young woman says, “In St Pancras Station. Just by the Eurostar Platform.”
“I'll review the CCTV tapes. And I'll be at hospital immediately.”
He puts the phone down, then buzzes his own assistant. He instructs Andrew to have his car brought round and send the CCTV footage to his tablet. Then he takes ten precious seconds to put his face in his hands and whisper her name.
Coat. Scarf. Umbrella. Hat, the one she purchased for him last year: “You need to keep that brain of yours warm, darling,” she'd said, and dragged him protestingly into a hatters' shop in St James, and forced onto him an understated trilby for everyday wear. Briefcase, the one with a Walther PPK concealed in an inner compartment. Phone. Tablet.
Then he's out the door. He manages to tell Andrew three crucial flaws in the Chancellor's plans and the necessary adjustments to be made, then tells him to cancel all appointments for the day, before propelling himself through the grey into the backseat of his car. He tells the driver to make all speed for UCH. “Break laws if you need,” Mycroft finishes, and then shuts the glass barrier.
With shaking fingers – uncontrollable reaction to the potential for loss, he notes in some detached part of his brain – he powers up his tablet. No footage yet.
Focus.
He sits back. He tries to breathe. He remembers.
…...........................................
His life changed on a single Friday three years ago – another grey day threatening rain in London.
Anthea had just finished a tricky job in Rome. Her text had been simple: Weekend in Provence, darling? I've a villa for us outside Avignon. Tonight? A.
Mycroft had actually freed enough of his schedule to make a flying visit to Rome to see her, which she of course knew. But Provence.... she was up to something. After three and a half years as work colleagues and five years as lovers, he still couldn't deduce all the turns and twists of her clever mind.
He texted back, Of course. I can be there by 7. Send me the direction. MH. Then he sat there, hands folded, staring into the near distance for some three minutes, before he bent his head to his work again.
The employment memo in the second folder gave him a better idea of what might be happening, but there were two potential outcomes of the action she'd taken, two potential scenarios for this Provence trip. He tapped his finger on the memo once, considering, trying not to game out catastrophes.
Then he checked the forecast for Avignon and environs before calling his housekeeper Anni to put together a weekend bag. “Casual summer clothes,” he said, and Anni choked once – probably laughter; he didn't think he wanted to enquire – before agreeing to drop the bag off by three.
He only just finished his own work before time to leave. Involuntary catastrophising played merry hell with his concentration.
On the plane, however, he managed to put together a tangible response in case it wasn't the catastrophe, the heartbreaking horrible catastrophe that the loss of her would be. He watched clouds out the window the rest of the way, his hand clutching a tumbler of Scotch he didn't want and didn't touch.
It was gorgeous late spring in Provence. He drove himself from the Avignon airport to the place she'd directed him, his window open to catch the drift of orangeblossom on the breeze. The villa she'd hired was at the top of a hill; he followed the curve of the road up and up into blue and the beginnings of twilight.
Dressed in white shirt and trousers, she was lounging on a bench outside the villa when he arrived. As soon as he was out of the car, she came to him. “No tie, darling?” she laughed, “this is a holiday,” and even as a knot of fear released in his belly, she dived her hands under his open jacket and pulled him to her. The kiss, deep and soft, reassured him even more.
She had a chilled bottle of a tolerable local Clairette Blanche blend and some local bread and fruit waiting for him on the still sun-warmed terrace out back. After she set him with some formality on one side of a small wrought-iron table, she chose a seat next to him, lit the candle-lantern in the centre of the table, and then took his hand.
Time for negotiations, then.
He linked their fingers. “Anthea dear, shall I begin by saying that I did see the memo?”
Her beautiful smile was surprisingly hesitant. “I wondered if you would.”
“Yes. Your acceptance of an advisory position at 5. Permanent assignment to London.” With his thumb he teased at the pulse beating against the lovely skin of her inner wrist, then bent his head to kiss the same spot. His mouth still tasting her, he murmured, “I wondered if this would be my summary dismissal.”
“Really?” She turned his face to her inspection. “That would be irrational, and thus unlike you.”
“No, it would be the logical end to one line of thought – that since you didn't inform me before taking your new position, you'd brought me here to, as they say, let me down easily. London would be too fraught for such an encounter, you'd reckon.” Even as he shared the conclusion he'd already discarded, his voice wasn't as dispassionate as he'd hoped.
“Yes, but it's an illogical premise from which to start.” She kissed his cheek, and he now discerned a faint tremor in her fingers. “My career is my own business, darling. But if I return to London, it might change our relationship – which, after all, has always involved me being elsewhere.”
“That was the other line of thought I pursued, yes.” He let her go then, in order to collect his tablet from his briefcase. A moment to power it back up, and – “Here, my dear, is my response.”
The floor-plan of his St James flat flickered into life. He opened a separate page, to show her a list of architects and decorators. “You'll want to put your own stamp on the place, I assume, once you move in--”
“Mycroft. Darling.” And she came into his lap at that, kissing him beyond breath, as the sky darkened above and the candleflame beat madly against the glass which protected it. He fell into the moment, and wished he could stay forever.
…...................................
“Mr Holmes, we're here,” the driver says, but Mycroft is already opening the car door himself.
The first person he sees, standing outside the entrance to the A&E department, is John Watson. He's surprised for a moment, and then remembers the latest surveillance notes – “John. You're a locum here.”
“Right, in Casualty, just for another month or so.” John hesitates, then puts his hand on Mycroft's back. “I was just leaving when Anthea was brought in, and I reckoned you'd want information as soon as you arrived. Being a Holmes and all.”
On these words they're inside, doors closing behind them, and Mycroft has to take a breath, the smell of hospital is overwhelming. He hasn't been inside one since... well, since the night he went through a backdoor at Barts and saw his bloodied 'dead' brother waiting to share the plans already made.
He hasn't seen John or Sherlock in some months. After the fall, after the return, those two had adjustments to make, but they are still flatmates and...whatever else they are: it's indefinable, and so Mycroft has stopped trying to define it. But the events Moriarty put into train had an inevitable effect on fraternal or friendly closeness, regardless of Mycroft's efforts at repairing that which could not be repaired. He's even lowered surveillance down to Level 2, in order to show good faith – to himself, if not to Sherlock.
“It was one bullet, very high on the shoulder – no danger to arteries, heart, anything like that. She's in surgery right now.”
“God,” Mycroft says, he can't help it.
“Don't faint on me, for God's sake,” John says, “this is a high-traffic area.” But he puts his other hand on Mycroft, and steers him through the corridors, through noise and bustle, to a private waiting room.
The room is cold, impersonal, but Mycroft can see only Anthea's assistant, white-faced, hands wringing themselves. He suppresses a wave of irrational hatred: he shouldn't blame the child without adequate data. “Thank you, John,” he says instead, and then, “Tres? What can you tell me?”
“It was a poison dead drop, sir. An informant has been feeding Section B bad intel, and Ms Matheson thought it worthwhile to change the contents of the drop. He must have guessed.”
Mycroft decides his hatred is perfectly rational, which colours the next thing he says: “And so why didn't she send you? She's a spymaster, not a menial, and you--”
“Right, that's it,” John interrupts, and turns Mycroft around before he can see more than the first blush of pain on the young woman's cheeks. “Let's get you another place to rest, before you say something unforgivable.”
Mycroft closes his mouth on the curses he wishes to let loose, and allows himself to be ushered to a smaller, dingier waiting room – blessedly empty.
“Bit beneath your dignity, but you'll have to make do.” Hands gentle, John deposits him on a cold plastic chair, then hovers for a moment. “I'm going to go check on her. Don't... be such a fucking Holmes.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft says, and closes his eyes.
“Christ, the pair of you,” John mutters. Then there's the sound of retreating footsteps, and then there's too much quiet. Mycroft can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
With an effort he controls his heart rate and his hands, before he puts his umbrella on the floor and takes his tablet out of the pocket of his overcoat.
The CCTV footage has loaded.
Making himself detach, he views the two-minute sequence: Anthea, lovely in the winter-white dress he'd seen her choose that morning, coatless despite the cold, walking purposely in front of the old brick facade surrounded by modernity. She looks up at the clock, nods, and then seems to drop a newspaper: the real matter will be concealed inside the broadsheet, likely The Independent. (It's her usual little joke, she's told him.) She glances behind her at a figure – very tall, wearing a hooded anorak just a fraction too short, a hand in its shoulderbag. Even at a distance, her realisation of danger is clear. She turns at the last second, then falls, a red stain spreading on immaculate fabric. The hooded figure takes its – no, his, clearly – hand out of the bag, collects the broadsheet, and is gone. No immediate reaction from passersby, so, silencer.
Mycroft watches the sequence twice more, growing colder each time. If she hadn't turned, she'd be dead.
When he's sure his hands are steady, he texts Andrew to liaise with Tres – Mycroft really can't trust himself to speak calmly at the moment – learn the identity of the informant, and pull all relevant data in order to find the man.
Then, motionless, he stares at the floor – faded beige vinyl tiles, twelve inches by twelve, black grout – and struggles to breathe.
Find your Zen, darling, he hears her say in memory.
…................................................
The first three months they lived together were... somewhat fraught.
Not the actual night-times, however. He loved sleeping with her (in all senses), loved waking in the middle of the night to her soft breathing and the flutter of the curtains in the breeze from an open window. (She had a mania for fresh air even on chilly nights, he'd no idea.) Daytimes and evenings, on the other hand....
He'd lived alone since he was twenty-two, so even a much-loved companion occasionally could be a bit much for him. If one added those adjustments to the disarray caused by builders (so loud, so intransigent when he knew better what he wanted) and the flutter of decorators bearing wholly unsuitable swatches and designs, well, it was perhaps to be expected that he spent an inordinate amount of time outside work at the Diogenes Club.
Anthea had pressed her frowning lips together and allowed his craven retreats for a while; she was busy herself, after all, getting stuck into a nascent counter-terrorism offensive within a week of her taking up arms at 5. On Day 96 (another Friday), however, she texted him at the end of the business day. I expect to see you home within the hour. A. No endearment, not a request.
“Oh, dear,” he said in the solitude of his office, and briefly contemplated concocting an emergency flight to... New Zealand, possibly? No. She was far too intelligent to be fooled by a purported crisis with the Five Power Defense Arrangement, or anything like that. Perhaps a Greenpeace issue... No.
It was with the tread of a doomed man that he entered the St James building. The lift whisked him upstairs, just as it did on any day –
And he emerged into quiet. Delightful, familiar quiet, with only the ticking of the long-case clock from the reception room to his right. The air smelled not of sawdust or paint and builders' sweat but of roses and leather.
“Anthea dear?”
Carrying two glasses of claret, she emerged from the general direction of the kitchen. She'd been home for a while, he realised, she'd changed into her lounging attire – men's pyjama trousers (his, actually, rolled up) and a thin N. Peal cashmere jumper, no shoes. “Hi, darling.”
He hung his overcoat in the hall wardrobe, dropped his umbrella in the stand, put his briefcase in the requisite storage place, put his phone on the console table – and then took a glass of wine and her mouth, in that order. When he lifted his head, he said, “Work's done?”
“All work is done, yes.” She went to her toes in order to bite his bottom lip, then released him. “Your surprise is done, too.”
“Ah.” He took a drink of his claret before venturing, “I'm not exactly one for surprises.”
“Really?” She could have cut a stray passerby with the blade of her sarcasm. Then, more gently, “You'll like this one, I promise.”
After setting their wine aside, she led him down the corridor toward their studies (hers a new space on the north side, cobbled out of a guest bedroom), but she didn't stop. Instead she took him past those doors to an area hitherto covered by builders' plastic. Here, rather shockingly, was a new door. She opened it –
To reveal a tiny new room, lit by a single dim lamp, with one wall of north-facing glass now darkening in the dusk. In the centre of the room, facing those windows, was a leather armchair exactly like the one he had in his study.
When he went inside, he saw a small – perhaps two-foot by two – oak box filled with sand raked into a fascinating wave pattern. It was perfectly placed for viewing from the chair.
Her arms went around him from behind, pulling him into her scented embrace. He felt her lay her cheek against his back. “When I was your assistant, all those years ago,” she began, “I pegged you right away as an introvert, one of the most extreme ones I've ever encountered. You are bombarded with stimuli all the time, darling, and I do know you thrive on it, you move through the world easily, but.... you get tired. You're not superhuman.”
“I'm not?” he jested, through an oddly tense throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, you ass.” She gently nipped his shoulder blade through his suit jacket. “So, since I've invaded the rest of your space --”
“Not invaded, my dear.”
“No, I don't think I'll withdraw the term.” Her voice was dry. “Fine. Since your space is no longer solely your own, I wanted to give you a retreat. A place to, well, find your Zen.”
He turned in the circle of her arms, smiled down at her. “You are ridiculously good to me.”
“I am, I really am.” She went on tiptoe again, aiming for his mouth.
But he, overwhelmed by feelings he wasn't quite in control of, pushed her off-balance, followed her to the floor. It was the work of a moment to strip off her jumper and begin kissing her breasts, to untie the drawstring at her waist and then slip both hands below. The silk slid down her thighs and caught at her knees when three fingers went into her.
Not that she was idle, of course. His suit jacket was shoved off without regard for its exalted Savile Row provenance, his tie all but ripped open, and her mouth on his collarbone before he could take another breath. There was an awkward moment with his belt, a shared curse between them, and then he was free of encumbrances and inside her.
He didn't think of rug burn until they'd both seized around each other. She seemed relatively unscathed, however, smiling with reddened cheeks and soft lips. “Mycroft, you fool, this is not the way one celebrates a new Zen space.”
He rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him, and then pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Isn't it?” he said. “I don't recall ever being more in the moment.”
She'd laughed about that for days.
…............................................................
Faded beige tiles. Twelve inches by twelve. Black grout. Focus.
He's staring at the same bit of dirty floor when his phone buzzes. One touch, and he sees the text from Andrew. The name of the informant is–
“Tristan Beringer,” says Sherlock from the doorway.
Mycroft looks up. His brother is draped in manner excruciatingly nonchalant against the doorjamb. “Sherlock.”
“What you don't know, brother dear, is that Anthea and I chat all the time. Think of it as payback. You have a spy in your home, sharing all your secrets. Or at least the ones I can bear to hear.” Sherlock saunters in. “She texted me this morning that she was doing a bit of fieldwork with this particular criminal idiot. Her assistant and her section are useless, she said.”
“And Beringer's a bad 'un.” This comes from Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade – vindicated and thus promoted after Sherlock's return. Gregory is in fact almost a friend of Mycroft's and Anthea's; at least he's been to dinner at the flat several times. Terrible taste in women, however, it's almost shocking. “We've had some eyes on him. He's done a few nasty things, actually, aside from this spot of domestic terror. And we've now got a fair idea where he might be.”
“Ah,” Mycroft says, numbed. “You're the cavalry.”
“Don't be rude, Mycroft, fight your nature,” John says, pushing past the two of them. “And, before you ask, she's fine. Out of surgery, came through swimmingly, no real expected damage.”
“God,” Mycroft says on a harsh exhalation.
“But she'll be in recovery for a bit before they move her to her deluxe accommodations. I assume you'll stand the charges for a private room?”
“Of course.” Mycroft moistens lips gone dry with relief.
John touches Mycroft's shoulder fleetingly. “It's a joke, man. We know you will.”
“Actually, she can stand the charges herself, she's not poor--” Sherlock begins, but Gregory smacks his shoulder in a fraternal way Mycroft had never managed and he goes quiet.
“So, we'll just pop off then and collar the shooter, shall we?” Gregory says.
Mycroft fumbles for his umbrella, uses it to stand. “Not without me, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Gregory sighs. “Didn't even think to try it. But don't do something stupid, right.”
“Me? Stupid? I've never been so insulted.” Mycroft's reply is absent, his attention on a text he's sending to a colleague of Anthea's at 5, Harry Pearce. We've identified Anthea's shooter. He's mine. MH.
Then he looks at them all, friends and one semi-arch-enemy or beloved brother – how unutterably strange his life has become, how far outside any informed prognostications he might once have made. “Thank you,” he says, generally and in specific. “Shall we go?”
With umbrella and briefcase, he's the first out the door.
Once they're in the police van – Mycroft and Sherlock shoulder to shoulder on one side, John and Gregory on the other – Mycroft does take out his Walther and make sure it's loaded. As he's checking it, John says, with the full weight of moral authority, “Mycroft, don't even think about killing him. Even though he deserves it.”
“I wouldn't so dishonour Anthea's work. It's important to bring him in alive so that she can interrogate him when she recovers,” Mycroft says. Both manual and automatic safeties are on; all right, then. “There might well be miscreants on the way in, however.”
While John and Gregory make mingled sounds of amusement and approval, Sherlock eyes Mycroft's hand – which admittedly is not as steady as it might be. “You appear to be a little shaken, brother dear. Might I remind you that in times like these, caring is not an advantage –?”
“Sherlock, no.” The admonition comes from both John and Gregory. Mycroft, meanwhile, is calculating at what target a sharp strike with the umbrella would be best. Possibly at the dental work which cost poor Mummy a small fortune....
“It's banter!” says Sherlock, somewhat indignantly. “I'm reliably informed that badinage, etcetera, is an effective release of tension in stressful situations.”
“Well then, brother, in that spirit,” Mycroft says, “let me say that you can fuck right off.”
John and Gregory's laughter has only just stopped when the police van pulls up in front of a seemingly abandoned storefront in Holborn. Gregory does some complicated muttering into a police comm device, and then tells them that Beringer has been spotted in the backroom. Only one companion, albeit armed.
Mycroft, this time with umbrella and gun, is the first out of the van. However, John is first through the door, and when the guard raises his own gun, it's Gregory who shoots the man neatly in the same place Anthea has been shot. There's no time to applaud the symmetry – Mycroft's through the second door, down the corridor, and into Beringer's lair before the echo of the shot has faded.
“No,” Beringer says, too small anorak slipping off, hand scrabbling for his pistol.
“No.” Mycroft's negative is more emphatic, punctuated by the point of his umbrella in Beringer's balls.
As the man collapses, Mycroft gets one more dig into the same place. He rather desperately wants to finish with a jab into the man's pharynx, but he can't risk damaging it – Anthea really will need to question him – so he contents himself with a blow to the cringing creature's temple. Beringer goes still.
That doesn't really dissolve the red mist in front of Mycroft's eyes, but it'll do for now.
“Is he already unconscious? How incredibly boring,” Sherlock says from behind Mycroft. The hand which comes to light briefly on Mycroft's shoulder, however, is reassuringly strong.
It's perhaps ironic, Mycroft thinks, that Sherlock's touch is the thing which almost breaks him. He stands there in that filthy room, eyes closed, telling himself silently, Find your Zen. Focus.
Truly, it's the most ludicrous idea imaginable. He'll explain that to Anthea when she's feeling better.
After the police to-and-fro is done and Mycroft's been conveyed back to hospital alone, however, after he's been escorted to her room, he finds himself saying it under his breath again.
She looks so pale, his dear Anthea, so worn down. The private room is all but dark, but he sees at last. There she is –his safe place, his refuge, his heart. What a horrible time and place to have that truth underscored.
“Mycroft?” Her voice is thready but distinct.
“Just a moment, my dear.” With all due ceremony he takes off his hat, overcoat, and suit jacket, and then unlaces and removes his John Lobbs. Thus unarmed, open, he very carefully climbs onto the bed and curves himself around her, tender of her wounds. The weight of her is familiar, comforting.
She turns just enough, and smiles against his shoulder. “Mycroft,” she says again.
“Of course, Anthea, always. We'll have a full debriefing tomorrow, but for now, sleep.” He kisses her forehead lingeringly. On not quite a laugh, he whispers, “All is well, my dear. Now find your Zen. I have you safe.”
It's 7:05 pm, the end of a cold grey day threatening rain, and, with his love in his arms, Mycroft Holmes is in the moment, wishing he could stay forever.