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"It was your left kidney, wasn't it?" the younger Mr. Holmes asks her out of nowhere.
Anthea is too well trained even now to react, but she slowly swivels her head to look at the man. He stares back at her, those gray eyes of his cool and unconcerned.
"The right, actually," she lies, just to watch him grimace. And if he knows or finds out the better, well, there's no particular harm in Sherlock thinking her a liar.
Sherlock opens his mouth again, no doubt intending to devastate her with the sordid details of her past, but just then there's the tread of heavy footfalls on the landing outside and Dr. Watson calls, "Sherlock, I'm home!" through the door.
For the first time since she stepped out of the sleek black car outside, Anthea is surprised (in spite of Sherlock). She would have expected "back", not "home". Two years with Mycroft have taught her to appreciate the subtleties.
Then she glances up and is surprised a second time.
Sherlock is staring at the door, his experiment completely forgotten in front of him. There's the oddest look on his face, a kind of frustrated eagerness like he can't stand waiting those few seconds before Dr. Watson walks in the door. Anthea finds herself holding her breath, staring at the out of place tension on Sherlock's face.
The door swings open and Dr. Watson steps into the flat. He looks tired - well, he always looks a bit tired from what Anthea has seen; Dr. Watson has one of those traditional weather-beaten English faces that are more attractive than they ought to be - and the corners of his mouth are pinched with some sort of old pain that Anthea doesn't know his history well enough to identify. His leg, maybe; Anthea remembers that cane. Not so much from that first kidnapping/lift, but from the day after, when Mr. Holmes called her into his office and bragged for a quarter of an hour about Sherlock's "new friend" and how Sherlock had apparently cured John of his limp, which both he and the younger Holmes had diagnosed as psychosomatic though not associated with PTSD, because they were brothers, they really did think alike, didn't they?
Anthea had hidden a smile, nodded solemnly, and proclaimed it all marvelous. That was the happiest she had ever seen Mr. Holmes up to that point, which was both a little sad and a little sweet, she thought.
Her attention snaps back to the present as the two men look at each other. And yes, perhaps she can see why this had struck Mr. Holmes, who always sees things so clearly.
Because they aren't just looking at each other, exactly. They've stopped dead - John paused in the doorway and Sherlock with his arm raised above his experiment - and are gazing into each other's eyes. It looks like they're communicating telepathically, and while perhaps it isn't impossible, employee loyalty dictates that Anthea believe that if it were possible, Mr. Holmes would have figured it out first.
She coughs delicately.
Dr. Watson snaps his head around and his eyes widen at the sight of Anthea in the chair. "Oh!" he exclaims, sounding somewhere between embarrassed and apprehensive. "I didn't realize that, er..."
"Anthea is still fine, Dr. Watson," she says, getting to her feet and shaking his hand.
"Then so is John," he says, words as firm as his handshake.
They exchange brief friendly smiles before Sherlock makes an aggravated noise and flings himself down on the sofa. Anthea is amused to see that she doesn't captivate John's attention nearly as much as she used to; he immediately looks around at Sherlock and his expression wavers like he's amused but doesn't want to encourage the dramatics.
"I take it Mycroft wants something," John says drily, walking a few steps away to perch on the coffee table near Sherlock's head. Anthea is vastly amused to notice Sherlock's immediate and overwhelming interest in John's bum. The Holmes brothers are so very lucky she prides herself on being discreet.
"In a manner of speaking," Anthea demurs. "Mr. Holmes wished for me to inform you of the upcoming family gathering at the Holmes estate."
"Estate, eh?" John glances down at Sherlock, who tears his gaze away from its current location hurriedly and tries to manage a scowl.
"It's a stupid, ghastly place in the country," Sherlock says, his lip curling. He gives an extravagant roll of those razor-sharp eyes; it's a wonder he doesn't cut himself. "And it's full of my family. Mycroft is off his head if he thinks I'm putting myself through that kind of misery for some ridiculous so-called holiday."
John shoots Anthea an automatic apologetic smile. "I'd like to have seen it," he says, almost wistfully. Sherlock cuts a glance toward him and that's when Anthea realizes that Sherlock is going to end up coming home this year.
***
"I've just received the most interesting call from my brother. Excellent work, my dear," Mr. Holmes praises as he shuts his mobile with a soft click. Ignoring the papers scattered in front of him he leans his elbows on the desk and laces his fingers together.
He's always called her dear and while it likely should annoy her, it doesn't. Mr. Holmes isn't capable of anything so gauche as an accompanying leer. He's not condescending either, or at least no more so than he is to the rest of the world, just by virtue of being Mycroft Holmes. It's more paternal than anything. And while Anthea doesn't need a father, she might need a friend, and she thinks that Mr. Holmes isn't quite sure of how to be one of those. So she takes the endearment graciously, the way it's meant, and ignores the small part of her that can't believe she used to hunt terrorists and jump out of helicopters.
"While I appreciate the acknowledgement, I'm afraid this is much more a result of Dr. Watson's interference than mine," Anthea says wryly.
Mr. Holmes slants a grin at her, a rare open expression that's gone in an instant. "I do not ask you to play with a fair deck, my dear," he tells her. "I only ask you to win."
***
Anthea does what she can to discourage it, but Mr. Holmes will insist on pestering his brother. It strikes her as very much the relationship of a younger sibling clamoring for the attention of an older one, but with the added responsibility of attempting to ensure the protection of someone as hell-bent on disaster as Sherlock. Mr. Holmes doesn't have the time to cultivate relationships, so he is left with a brother and whatever tentative unspoken thing it is that he shares with Anthea herself. Both men are brilliant and alone in the world; they should understand each other.
Except that Mr. Holmes would like to be a little less alone, Anthea thinks, only he doesn't know how to try and can't let down his guard. And now Sherlock, who never seemed to mind the solitude the way his brother did, has found the kind of intense bond that isn't based on circumstance, but is based on solely a deep, mindless appreciation for each other's existence.
It doesn't seem fair. It makes Anthea want to try harder; want to be more to Mr. Holmes. To find someone else who can be if she can't.
Mr. Holmes throws down the phone and makes an irritated tsk.
Anthea glances up just long enough to ensure there are no immediate threats to his person and then back down at her Blackberry. "Trouble, sir?"
"Only the usual kind," Mr. Holmes says in the deep rumble that is as close to annoyed as he gets.
"That would be the Sherlock kind, I presume," Anthea says, chancing the familiarity.
Mr. Holmes looks more relieved than taken aback. "Is there any other?" he groans, leaning his elbows onto the polished wood of his desk and delicately massaging his temples.
Personally Anthea's a little more worried about the Koreans, but she sees his point. "Anything I can help with?" she offers, turning her attention back to her screen.
She's halfway through an email to the other Russian ambassador when she finally notices the ominous silence above her.
Anthea cautiously lifts her head to see Mr. Holmes staring at her with a hopeful - no, a pleading expression in his eyes.
She is very much going to regret this, Anthea thinks with a sinking feeling.
***
"You're coming with us for Christmas?" John asks, looking surprised. "Don't you have family to see?"
He's been over-exposed to Sherlock's forthrightness, Anthea thinks with some amusement, as she watches a belated look of horror cross John's open face. "That is - I mean - I'm sorry, that's none of my business," he stutters.
Anthea watches John bite his lip and wince for a moment longer before putting him out of his misery.
"I don't," she tells him with a slight smile. There's nothing in her contract - not even the innumerable unwritten ones that keep things working smoothly between her and Mr. Holmes - that specifies she has to accept personal questions or make polite small talk, but although she was wholly uninterested in him during those first few meetings in black cars, over time Anthea has perhaps become interested in the short, battered doctor. Maybe even fond.
John frowns a little and she sees him weigh his next question. He asks it, of course. That's one of those things that he and Sherlock have in common: if they see a cliff, they have to jump off it.
"No... no boyfriend? Girlfriend? Friends? Cordial bartender?" The corner of his mouth lifts. "Seriously, if there's somewhere you'd rather be, you don't need to do this. I'll keep Sherlock in hand - well, I'll keep him in hand as well as I could with you helping anyway, to be honest."
Anthea shakes her head. Perhaps she should feel insulted, but she doesn't. She left those things behind a long while ago, along with all her free time. Sometimes she thinks wistfully of date nights and warm beds - and sex, God, sex - but she doesn't regret her choices. Both she and John Watson were born to be useful to somebody. She's just useful to a much bigger somebody.
"I'm quite all right," she assures him. John nods and lets it go. Maybe he understands and maybe he doesn't.
It isn't like it matters.
***
"Perhaps casual wear would be appropriate for this assignment?" Anthea suggests hopefully, remembering the days when all she used to wear was stretchy black fabric, and she could step outside with her hair scraped back and not a lick of makeup on her face.
"It is important for all of us to look our best," Mr. Holmes chides gently, shrugging into an impeccably tailored suit jacket. Anthea grits her teeth and shifts her weight in her high heels. But it's only important for us women to be beautiful, she adds silently.
Mr. Holmes shoots her a half-amused, half-pitying look, like he knows precisely what she's thinking. Perhaps he does.
She nods her head respectfully. "I'll just go fetch them, sir." Anthea turns and walks away, her sensitive ears just barely catching a quiet, "Thank you, dear," spoken after her.
***
When Anthea arrives at NSY the party has been going on for approximately an hour and a half. It should be perfect timing - she'll only have to spend an hour or so chaperoning the two men before Sherlock will inevitably grow (more) bored and demand to leave. John, of course, will give in, and then the three of them will be on their way to the countryside.
She flashes her badge discreetly at the doorman (who ended up with this choice job by being unfortunate enough to be the most rookie cop on the force) and smoothly ignores his stammering. She isn't entirely sure if he's impressed by her position or her looks. Either way, it doesn't matter.
There are a few brave couples out in the middle of the "dance floor" - a large patch of carpeting laid over the center of the conference hall - but the majority of the police officers in the room are clinging to the walls and the food tables. Chairs are at a premium.
Anthea wanders around the room casually, instinctively mapping its layout in her mind. There's no chance of anything untoward happening tonight, but a lifetime - or what feels like a lifetime - of reinforcement is hard to shake, even two years after the fact. Her mobile beeps in her pocket and Anthea draws it out, sighing a little. She used to carry Berettas, not BlackBerrys.
She circulates through the party, eyes only on her mobile, with the ease of long practice. Her footsteps carry her to a quiet corner where she can get a chance to type without her elbow being jostled.
Someone else is standing in the corner. Anthea pays no mind at first, but then the man trips over a bump in the carpeting, and she has to dart out of the way to avoid being trod on.
“Oh Lord, I’m so sorry about that, ma’am,” the policeman says in an oddly familiar voice.
The man is tall and graying, with a strong jaw and surprisingly captivating eyes. He sounds genuinely apologetic and is checking to make sure that he didn’t spill any beer on Anthea rather than trying to brush droplets off his own clothes. “Do you need me to get you, er, a napkin or something? Honestly, I’ve got no idea how that happened. I usually spend all my time supporting the wall at these things, you’d think I’d have known about the carpet.”
It's that D.I., she realizes. The one that makes Mr. Holmes smile from the other end of the phone.
"It’s not a problem. I’m Anthea," she says. She smiles and extends a hand.
"Greg Lestrade," he returns, giving her a firm handshake. He's handsome, with a devastating smile that he doesn't know how to use to full effect. The silver hair looks distinguished rather than aging. Anthea approves.
"You know my employer," she says with a bright but entirely non-flirtatious smile. "I've heard the two of you talking. Between you and me, I think he rather looks forward to your calls," she confides, lowering her voice. Lestrade leans forward - excellent. "He talks to the best and brightest and the most powerful across the country day in and out, but there must be something about you, Inspector."
Lestrade rocks back on his heels and smiles shyly. "That right?" he says, his voice more skeptical than his face. Sherlock can do a number on a man's esteem.
Time to see if Mr. Holmes can do another number on it, Anthea thinks.
"You know, I don't believe he's busy tonight," Anthea chances. "If you wanted to call, I'm sure he'd appreciate the invitation."
Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up. Oh, right, detective. And not an entirely dull one, apparently. He slides a hand in his pocket and shuffles his feet.
"I - I don't know about that," Lestrade wavers. "Um. Surely he's got something better to do?"
"Mr. Holmes is more like you than you'd think," Anthea says, which both answers the question and doesn't. But the Inspector is bright enough to get it.
And sure enough, Lestrade gives her a sharp look before his expression softens and his eyes turn faraway. Perhaps she's been working for Mr. Holmes for too long, but she can almost see the thoughts play out on his face: divorce, overwork, burdens too large for their shoulders. She slips away as Lestrade pulls the mobile out of his pocket.
***
The next morning, Anthea isn't exactly sure what happened. She met up with Sherlock and John; that she remembers. The two of them were hovering side by side against the wall, flatmates and colleagues and friends and still can't get enough of each other in the middle of a party. John had given her a bright smile, Sherlock had scowled the way he did at anyone who earned John's smiles, and there had been a beer.
Lestrade and a few other officers had joined them, bouncing good-natured insults off John while Sherlock glowered at them like he resented the pull on John's attention. Probably he did. There were a couple more beers; maybe a shot that a dark-haired woman with a guarded expression passed her in a show of solidarity. It would have been churlish not to drink it at that point.
Then there was a bloody miracle and Mr. Holmes had actually shown up. Sherlock had looked like he was about to pitch a fit but John had intervened. And no, wait, there was a different miracle because Lestrade had intervened too; telling Sherlock to shut the hell up because he'd invited the man before seeming to remember they were brothers and looking conflicted.
Sherlock looked shell-shocked; Mr. Holmes slightly less so, but only because he's better at hiding his emotions. John looked vastly entertained.
There had been laughing and bickering and drinking for several hours following, Anthea's pretty sure. She squeezes her eyes shut against the last fading remnants of the feeling and the inevitable incoming headache.
When she gives up and opens her eyes, she sees a comfy armchair and some fairly hideous wallpaper. She blinks and sits up.
"Oh, so you're up," two people say at once. Anthea freezes.
She swivels her head. John had said the words cheerily, with an undercurrent of amusement at her no doubt bedraggled state. Sherlock had said them with about the usual amount of disdain he has for things not-John.
"Why am I in your flat?" she asks carefully, praying this isn't going to be a repeat of that morning of '95.
Sherlock makes a truly unattractive face and John snickers.
***
And so that's how she winds up at 221B on a crisp evening in early December; how she ends up attending the Christmas party at NSY; why she gets out of the car on December 24th and peers past her wind-whipped hair as her heels threaten to crack through the cold layer of soil beneath her feet.
"Ah, we have arrived," Mr. Holmes announces from behind Anthea as he maneuvers himself out of the car.
"Home sweet wretched boredom," Sherlock grumbles from the other side of the car, which is the reason Anthea was first out. She doesn't have Mr. Holmes's years of experience dealing with his younger brother, or John's frankly worrying psychosis that allows him to deal with Sherlock day in and day out and not stab his flatmate with a letter opener.
The doctor gets out of the car last and stares around. His eyes are wide and Anthea watches his shoulders slide into parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.
"It's beautiful," John says, frankly admiring and more uncomfortable than he wants to admit. Of the four of them, Anthea's background is the closest to John's, and she can't help but shake her head at the man when he isn't looking. He taunts and tests two of the best minds of their generation without flinching, but he feels out of place among the rich and powerful.
Of course, if John was gifted with overly much insight or foresight, Anthea supposes that he wouldn't be the sort of man who could tolerate Sherlock Holmes.
"Thank you, John," Mr. Holmes says with a gracious but slightly self-deprecating tilt of the head. Anthea suppresses a smile. Oh, he's good.
"Yes, wonderful, the estate is old and expensive to maintain and everyone inside has more money than sense. Can we please get indoors and get this over with?" Sherlock huffs. The casual disregard of his own privilege sets Anthea's teeth on edge, but John's shoulders relax slightly and he half-smiles at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes back. The two of them set off toward the house, and Anthea trades glances with Mr. Holmes behind their backs.
She opens her mouth to say - something, she's not exactly sure what, but something sympathetic or comforting maybe. Before she can even get a word out, Mr. Holmes shakes his head.
"It doesn't really matter who's correct. In the end, what matters is who is the most efficient, my dear," he says in an undertone that he need hardly have bothered with. Up ahead Sherlock is loudly decrying the supposed benefits of - oh hell, of something or other that's probably irrelevant and definitely insane. And John is laughing.
"He's efficient with no one else," Anthea mutters, unwilling to let Sherlock... what, win? No. That's stupid. This is stupid. This whole damn family is stupid and how did she end up here again?
Mr. Holmes gives her one of his rare small smiles, but it just feels like failure.
***
Anthea likes failure even less than Sherlock, who doesn't actually mind all that much as long as failure isn't boring.
So she fires off a quick text just before the door opens.
"Hello there, dears!" a tall, handsome woman with exquisitely dyed dark hair cries. Even if it weren't for the word choice, inflection, and curve of her chin, it would be clear that this is Mr. Holmes's mother. She has that same indefinable air of dignity that Mr. Holmes and Sherlock both are characterized by. The woman bestows a fond look upon Mr. Holmes and then turns a tremulous smile on Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock, I haven't seen you in - well, never mind. I'm so happy you're home!"
Sherlock stares at his feet, the corners of his mouth pulling and twisting. He tosses his head up and then looks right back down. You'd have to be watching carefully to see it, but after a couple seconds of this, John discreetly kicks Sherlock in the ankle.
"It's good to see you, Mummy," Sherlock mumbles. By the way his mother's eyes widen and how she lifts her hand like she doesn't quite dare ask for a hug, Anthea guesses this is more than she's gotten from Sherlock in a long time.
***
It’s all about knowing where their blind spots are. After all, who would ever try to fool a Holmes, especially about something as silly as a lover’s phone call?
So when D.I. Lestrade calls Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes spends an hour and a half on the phone before rejoining the party, looking slightly dazed and shockingly happy, Anthea allows herself a good five minutes of smugness before running interference between Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes.
***
"You should be nicer to your mother," Anthea hears John reprimanding Sherlock as she passes by the library on her way to goad the cook into baking more of those sugar cookies Mr. Holmes pretends he doesn't like. "She clearly loves you to pieces."
There's a dull thud like a wall being kicked, and then the squeal of springs.
"You don't understand," Sherlock almost shouts. Anthea pauses in the shadowy hallway and peers inside the library. She can see Sherlock's ill-tempered expression and the side of John's patient face as he rolls his eyes and leans against the fireplace.
"Course I do," John says easily, tipping his head to slide a glance over at Sherlock's face. "You don't like being reminded that you're human, that's all. You want to live in a movie, where everything is all - colors, and lights, and, and, y'know, big stuff happening all the time." He smiles at Sherlock in spite of the horrified, offended expression twisting Sherlock's face. "But your Mum remembers when you ran into a glass door and burned your hand on the oven. You can't pretend to be the hero around her."
Sherlock snarls at the fireplace. "Why on earth would she tell you about those things?"
John blinks with that expression Anthea has seen a time or two before, like he can't believe someone this smart can be quite this dumb. "She didn't - that's not - oh, hell, whatever. Sure. You know, I did those things too."
Sherlock's face goes blank and he cranes his neck around to look at John. "You did?" he asks with completely unwarrented surprise, and suddenly Anthea realizes that maybe it's not John who has the problem with hero-worship.
Oblivious, John laughs and rolls his eyes. "Course I did. Who hasn't? I think I was five. I wanted to get to the cookies before Harry could eat all of them, for once."
Sherlock doesn't laugh, of course, but a testy smile wavers at the edges of his lips and something settles in his expression. He ducks his head and then stares up under his eyelashes at John like John has all the answers in the world.
John swipes an old copy of Dickens off the mantle and thumbs through it with idle curiosity, the conversation already half-forgotten.
Sherlock opens his mouth and then closes it again. He bites his lip and looks away. Anthea turns and hurries down the hallway, wishing she didn't feel so damn sorry for Sherlock fucking Holmes.
***
"Sherlock, you are going to go talk to your mother," John hisses between his teeth. The two of them are huddled by the drinks table close to the wall Anthea's currently supporting. Luckily, she's both unnecessary and subtle enough to get away with a tactical retreat (okay, hiding). The same can't be said for the men in front of her.
"I don't have anything to say!" Sherlock snaps, louder and angrier. "She's talking to her friends. You know I have nothing to add. Why ruin her night?"
"Because you don't have to ruin it!" John says in a normal tone that sounds like a shout. The straightening of Sherlock's back looks like a wince from here.
"If I follow your wishes and go speak to her, I will only make her frustrated and unhappy," Sherlock states flatly. John glares with a white-knuckled grip on his drink. John looks like he wants to hit him.
"Why can't you just go over there and pretend to be normal for thirty seconds to make your mother happy?" John says, his eyes narrowed and his voice iced over. Anthea thinks that even John must have seen Sherlock's wince this time.
"I'm sorry I can't ascribe to the same vapid, meaningless social norms as the rest of you normal people," Sherlock says, turning away. John snatches at his jacket sleeve and Sherlock stops, though he doesn't turn back to look at John. His hand curls into a fist and Anthea wonders which of them wants to lash out more.
"You could if you wanted to," John insists, more frustrated than angry by now. His short fingers are curled into Sherlock's sleeve like half of a prayer. "Nobody likes this stuff, at least not all the time. We all pretend. Why can't you pretend too, just for a few minutes?"
Sherlock tucks his chin toward his chest and grits his teeth.
"Because it's never just a few minutes," he says, and then tears away from John's grip. He storms across the room like a stormcloud in Armani, and nobody looks very surprised to see him go. Not even John, who stands there with his drink still in one hand and pity warring with mind-blowing frustration on his face. Anthea wonders if Sherlock ran away from the expectations or the pity.
It's hard for both of them, she supposes. John is far enough left of normal to chafe at social mores and obligations, but not quite far enough to forget them entirely. And just because Sherlock can do something doesn't mean he wants to. Doesn't even mean he should.
So they snipe and snap and hurt each other because it's really the world they can't stand, the both of them. Only the world owes them nothing, and the two of them will cling for dear life to their clasped hands while they lash out with the other.
Anthea thinks that they would be more careful with each other, if only they could figure out how.
***
“Your young man is just wonderful,” Mrs. Holmes tells Sherlock an hour later. Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. He ducks his head and scuffs his feet.
“Ta,” he mutters, and Anthea almost wants to laugh at Sherlock’s unwillingness to contradict his mother’s assumptions.
She watches Sherlock turn his head to scan the room and catch John’s eye. John looks stern at first, but then he notices Mrs. Holmes standing there looking tremulous and ridiculously grateful next to Sherlock, and his expression softens into a smile.
They want to keep each other, but that doesn't mean they know how to do it. Anthea isn't sure either of them is capable of dropping their pride long enough to have a functioning relationship. It isn't about hurting, not with them. Both of these men can take a beating. But it is about pride, and if they could just trust that they won’t tear each other apart, maybe they could really start something.
John is probably pretty trustworthy in that regard, Anthea thinks. Sherlock she's not so sure about. No, scratch that, she's sure. Just not in a good way.
***
It isn't that she dislikes Sherlock - well, no, actually, it's exactly that. But it isn't only that.
Sherlock is contemptuous, abrasive, and condescending. Those things are annoying, but they're tolerable.
The problem is that Sherlock isn't anything else. John is a good man, if a bit trigger-happy. Mr. Holmes does more to keep the Commonwealth turning properly on its axis than gravity itself. But Sherlock? Sherlock is a genius who chooses to do drugs and solve petty crimes.
Sherlock is selfish, in a way that neither John nor Mr. Holmes are capable of. His brute-force intelligence and flash-in-the-pan charisma will never be enough to make Anthea forgive him for that.
But that night when all of Mrs. Holmes’s guests have gone home, John starts telling some only mildly amusing Christmas story about his childhood, and Sherlock listens to him with a frown creasing his forehead because he's concentrating so hard while Mr. Holmes chuckles vaguely and types on his phone under the table. And Anthea wonders if loving one man could make up for disregarding the entire rest of the world, if you loved that man enough.
***
The holidays are obviously turning her into a sentimental fool. Which must be why she stops John on his way out of the kitchen at 11:54PM on Christmas Eve.
“Oh, hello, Happy Christmas,” John grins, his usual hard edges softened by wine and a slight drag in his step. Even Sherlock Holmes can’t take away pain like that entirely; life is never so easy.
“And to you,” Anthea says with a nod. She sweeps a quick glance behind them and spies a lanky figure hovering by the doorway of the family room. It’s probably fanciful to believe that Sherlock is waiting, wistful or perhaps just maudlin, but…
“You know there’s mistletoe back there?” she asks John, gesturing back to the family room with her glass of champagne.
John looks confused, of course, because he’s an English man. Then he brightens a bit, and then he just looks confused.
“But I – you mean – I thought…”
Anthea just shakes her head and stares at him hard, willing understanding into his thick skull.
She knows that she can’t shove the two men’s heads together and force them past all of their respective misunderstandings and reluctances and pointless hang-ups. But Anthea feels, somewhere certain in the pit of her stomach, that sometimes people need a push; that sometimes they can’t get where they need to go without someone there to nudge them over the line.
Anthea’s spent her entire life being that person. And if this is what’s needed right now… well, she’s good at being needed. Even if it’s for something as insignificant as the happiness of two random men.
Perhaps when all’s said and done, this will be the most significant thing she’s ever truly done.
John stares back at her, his eyes widening as his mind catches up with Anthea’s. Yes, she thinks, not sure yet whether to be mournful or victorious. Now you get it.
“I’m not sure about that,” John says, though he can’t help an unconscious glance toward the quiet family room.
“If you’re asking me, I think you’re sure,” Anthea tells him, though she isn’t actually. But that’s okay. She’ll be uncertain for both of them.
For a long second John just stands there and the two of them hang silently in limbo. It’s 11:59PM on Christmas Eve and anything can happen, and Anthea isn’t sure if that’s magical or just damned infuriating.
Then John’s face sets into resolve and without a single look backward he turns on his heel like the soldier he still is and strides back toward the family room. Anthea hears Sherlock’s irritated voice demanding, “What is it no-mphhh,” and then silence.
She smiles once and leaves before the silence ends.
***
“What’s your real name?” John finally asks her at the end of that weekend, incautious and curious for once. Anthea looks at him and tilts her head. This man has given so much for so little, and she left this name behind long ago – it can’t harm her now.
“Mary,” she tells him. “Mary Morstan.”
“Oh,” John says, blinking and looking her over like he’s expecting to see someone new. It’s oddly endearing and Anthea has to fight down a smile.
“Is that a problem, John?”
“No, no.” John shakes his head. “It just… surprised me, I suppose. It sounds so normal and – I don’t know – I feel like I knew somebody with that name once. But I can’t remember now. It’s silly, really.”
Anthea smiles at little at him. Just then, off to the side, Sherlock shouts John’s name.
John swings around, his interest veering away in a second. Anthea watches it happen with almost fond acceptance. She has no real stake in these men’s fate, she knows, and yet… She finds herself caring, soft and irational in a way she thought once that she’d left behind with that name.
The warmth of a hand on her shoulder surprises her.
Anthea snaps her head around and looks up at Mr. Holmes, who is standing beside her gazing after his brother and his brother’s… flatmate. Friend. Partner.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, still not looking at her.
Anthea opens her mouth to say she’s only done her job, but before she can quite get out the words Mr. Holmes shakes his head and glances down at her. “No, I know it’s just not a job to you. That’s why I – why we – are so very lucky to have you.”
He turns and at the same time presses a small package into her hand and a kiss to her cheek.
“Happy Christmas, dear,” he says. Then, as Anthea is still frozen in surprise, feeling the warmth of a blush on her face, Mr. Holmes turns on his heel and strides away.
Fingers shaking slightly, Anthea looks down at the beautifully wrapped box in her hand. She tugs at the silky white ribbon until it pools into her palm and lifts the lid off gently.
Sitting in the center of the box is a brand new Blackberry, one Anthea recognizes as a prototype. She presses the center button and the screen blinks to life.
For the first time ever, there is a background picture on her phone. It is a picture of Anthea herself sitting on a stool in that pub, her head thrown back in laughter as Sherlock glowers and John clutches his sides. D.I. Lestrade is in the middle of shaking his head, hands on his hips, and a few other members of Scotland Yard looks torn between amusement and horror. Mr. Holmes himself is standing just at the very edge of the picture, watching all of them with almost unveiled affection in his eyes.
A drop of water lands on her wrist, and then her thumb. Anthea hurriedly stows the new mobile away in her pocket before she can get it wet.
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes,” she whispers.