I sometimes wonder about my sanity, and then I realize if I still had any sanity left, it was long gone after the first year of my current job.

So sorry I went away for so long without a word. Nature of the game, you know.

Any questions for me?

sniper-with-a-smoke:

He takes the bag and digs through it greedily, exceedingly happy at the fact that she actually brought lunch. He takes out and unwraps the sandwich with his name on it, taking a large bite. Nodding, he considers her words and then almost chokes. “Hold up,” he says after he manages to swallow everything. “How would you propose I set up an asphixiaphilia mishap? I’m not about to whore myself out for some sod you want dead… I don’t even like blokes. Oh wait…” he takes a second to think it through with another bite of his sandwich then grimaces. “I could always pass it off as that… though I’d have to get rather closer than comfortable.. Does it need to look like an accident?”

Settling down next to him, Anthea takes her own sandwich out of the bag and takes a bite, sighing in content. She can’t stop the smile that is firmly on her face—listening to Moran ramble off options is…surreal at best.

“That would be preferable, but if you can’t do it in that particular way, I understand. He does have a penchant for being ordered about as well, so the rumors go.”

“He only allows consulate vouched for persons into his personal suite. However, he has a fondness for…dangerous vices. I can add you to the list of personell, or you can get creative.” Anthea smirks when she notices him eyeing the bag, and wordlessly hands it over.

“Personally, I think a tragic mishap from a bout of asphixiophilia is in order…” 

governmentumbrella:

thewomanbehindtheman:

governmentumbrella:

thewomanbehindtheman:

governmentumbrella:

thewomanbehindtheman:

governmentumbrella:

thewomanbehindtheman:

Anthea had never been more grateful to see the familiar visage of Orchard Court before in her life. It had been a long and grueling day, and—well, technically it had run into the wee hours of the morning.

Thankfully, she and Mycroft had been given leave to work from their flat the following day,…

Mycroft leaned back against the seat with a very small sigh and adjusted the cuff of one sleeve. It wasn’t that the cuff needed to be adjusted at all; Mycroft’s clothes, of course, were alway the height of pristine. There had just been so much work and so much thinking, lately, and then Sherlock had to text and pester him at the worst possible moment and make everything a hundred times worse, that for once it was very nice to do something for no purpose, just because he could and could pretend to be normal for about three seconds long enough to adjust his sleeve cuff.

“That sounds lovely,” Mycroft agreed, giving his assistant a small, tight smile. “Good lord knows we need it.”

Anthea nods, already planning several different meals in her head. She isn’t quite sure they have all the ingredients necessary for each one, but she has always been good at improvisation, both in and out of the kitchen. It makes her an ideal companion for a Holmes, she feels.

“Fantastic. Good lord, I thought that little floozy they kept calling a secretary was going to fairly launch herself at the tea boy. Honestly, is it that hard to maintain a little decorum these days?”

Anthea knows she sounds tetchy, but honestly, a good PA would never do such a thing, or even hint at it while on the job. Granted, if the poor young woman was anything like her, then the job didn’t just followed you home, it lived there.

As the car slows to a stop, she composes herself. She may only be walking into the building, but CCTV is everywhere, and while she’s certain the only eyes watching are their own, best not to look as exhausted as one feels, until one is in ones own home. Or at the very least the lobby of said dwelling.

When the chauffeur opens the door for her, she gives Mycroft another smile, this one a bit firmer, not at all as tired as she feels, and steps out in a fluid motion, all brisk and professional. Confident that Mycroft is following, she nods to the doorman. As soon as Anthea is inside the familiar lobby, her shoulders lose their strict posture, and she wearily leans against a pillar while they wait for the elevator.

“I’m thinking something light and simple tonight, we’ll leave the heavy to dessert, hm? Any suggestions?” she says, tapping absently on her phone. Even off duty, her job is never done.

((you are not outclassed at all xD you’re amazing~))

A constant problem Mycroft has is that he constantly cares too much about things he shouldn’t. He claims not to feel anything for anyone, for example, so he shouldn’t care so much about the safety and well-being of his little brother. He also claims to be on a diet, so he shouldn’t get quite so excited at the mention of heavy desserts.

Of course, Mycroft’s problem is made easier by the fact that he’s become very good at pretending things. The excitement shows not at all in his calm facade, but surfaces only in a tiny twinkle in his eye. He stands beside her as they wait for the elevator, hands folded neatly over his umbrella, held a few inches out in front of him. “Yes, thank you, Anthea. That sounds like a lovely idea.”

The elevator makes its little ding and the lit button fades back to dull white as the doors slide smoothly open. Mycroft steps inside.

Anthea follows, pressing the number for their floor. “Excellent. Lemon Chicken Saltimbocca? Nice and light. Or I could just do a pesto. In a light pasta mood tonight, to be honest.”

The ride is quick and smooth and with a ding the doors open.  She steps out into the hallway and walks briskly to the door of their flat, opening it with the ease born of long practice.

As soon as Anthea steps inside the entry hall, she wastes no time. Keys and purse deposited in their customary place on the simple but elegant stand just to the right of the door, jacket on a peg of the coat stand.

The one thing she still has in her hand is her phone. Turning, Anthea holds a hand out expectantly for Mycroft’s planner. Sometime tomorrow she’ll go through and make sure that their schedules still sync up. You can never know with Mycroft Holmes. She’d learned that lesson very early on. The memory makes her grin.

Tonight though, she’s locking both the phone and the planner in the safe until Mycroft has lost that pinched look. Its not noticeable to many, merely Mummy Holmes (so she’s been told), Sherlock and of course herself. It settles itself right in the center of his forehead. Its also a sure sign that he’s sticking a little too well to his diet. The ‘better’ he does, the worse he feels.

The twinkle in his eyes are a start for the better, but Anthea wants to see him putting on an open expression before the night is out. More wine is definitely in order.

“I’ll put these up while I change. I think lounge wear is definitely in order after today, don’t you? Go on, change before I start dinner, yeah?” She smiles, its a warm smile, even as she wiggles her fingers for the planner.

“Go change, relax. Maybe set the wine in the cooler?”

“That sounds excellent.” Mycroft nods slightly. They know each other so well by now — they would have to, of course — that they seem to be exactly in sync at times. Mycroft wouldn’t have it another way; he’d have fired anyone who wasn’t absolutely perfect for his purposes, whether they were hopelessly incompetent or they followed their job to the tee and he simply couldn’t stand their clothing choices. Mycroft can’t abide by imperfection. 

He hangs his coat as well, but keeps on his suit jacket, suit immaculate as always. And as per usual, he keeps a hold on his umbrella. It’s just habit, really. A comfort he likes to have around. He hands Anthea the planner with a smooth slide of the hand and a small, and indeed slightly pinched, as she’s said, smile.

He chuckles at her suggestion, but nods again in agreement and heads away to do so. Lounge wear so rarely makes an appearance in Mycroft Holmes’s life that he’s almost forgotten it exists. In any case his lounge wear is probably more formal than most people’s church clothes, though he does have an old pair of pajama pants somewhere he makes sure to keep locked in a place even Sherlock couldn’t locate them.

“Thank you. I will do all of those things. You change and get comfortable yourself. I’ll chill the wine.”

“Sounds good.”

Anthea quickly scrolls through a few things on her phone, and Mycroft’s as she makes her way to the office. The office is the one room she didn’t have a say in, and to be perfectly honest she’d been perfectly happy to let him have his way. The result was reminiscent of a smoking parlor of the early nineteen hundreds. Rich dark wood, a leather armchair tucked into the corner, surrounded by books.

The desk is a lovely mahogany affair, full of drawers and hidden compartments. Each of them have their purpose. She pulls open a drawer seemingly at random, and removes the false bottom, placing both of the devices inside.

That done, she goes about the business of changing, choosing a favorite pair of sweats. They’re soft and thin with age, a dark charcoal grey. The shirt is the same, long sleeved. Perfect for lounging around and cooking in.

Comfortable and relaxed, she makes her way to the kitchen, flipping on the light. The room is wide and open and has a decidedly homey feel. This is her domain, on the days she gets to use it.

It doesn’t take her long to assemble the ingredients; chicken, sage, prosciutto, a few lemons and butter, and of course the noodles. She puts on the apron that had been her grandmothers, and goes to work.

Anthea fills a pot with water and puts a dash of olive oil in it and sets it on the gas stove to boil. The chicken cutlets she rubs down with salt and pepper and olive oil, before adorning them with fresh sage leaves and wrapping them in paper thin slices of prosciutto. This is one of her favorite dishes, because it looks complicated and fancy, but really its one of the simplest things to make.

The water is boiling now, and she washes her hands to put the pasta in, wondering idly where Mycroft had got to.

“That smells truly delicious.” Mycroft appears leaning against the kitchen doorway, seemingly having appeared out of thin air, or so he’d think one would perceive him. After years of behaviors such as conducting sly government deals and trying to keep an eye on Sherlock without being seen, he feels he’s pretty good at being stealthy. 

He had gone up to his bedroom, a place comfortable, but more practical than ornate, and positively chuckled as he put on the old sweatpants and T-shirt. He felt like he hadn’t been out of a suit in weeks. He’d once heard John remark to Sherlock, so quietly that he thought for sure Mycroft couldn’t hear, that he thought Mycroft must sleep in his suits as well. 

Now he holds up the ice bucket with the wine inside it, displaying it with a triumphant ta-da sort of gesture. He places it next to the table carefully and strides over to Anthea. “You really are quite the chef.”

Through years of practice, Anthea very carefully does not react when she hears Mycroft behind her, only glances over her shoulder at him and smiles. “Glad you think so.” She laughs when he displays the wine triumphantly, and nods towards the little breakfast nook. “I think less formal tonight, don’t you?”

The pasta added, she gives it a quick stir, and goes to flip the chicken. Its a crisp golden color, absolutely perfect.

“Thank you. As I’ve said before, you can thank my grandmother for my cooking abilities.”

Eying the now-softer pasta, she deftly fishes out a strand and offers half to Mycroft. “Hmm, bit longer, don’t you think?”

thewomanbehindtheman:

sniper-with-a-smoke:

Sebastian sat waiting for Anthea on a secluded bench in the park she had specified. He could smell the bakery from where he was and his stomach grumbled loudly so he lit up another cigarette and hoped she would bring cupcakes like he’d asked.

See you in five.-AE

Anthea tucks her phone into her pocket and shifts the bag so its more comfortable. She winds her way through the park on the path until she reaches the duck pond in question. She scans the area, and grins a bit when she sees a man in his late thirties, early forties perhaps. He’s taller than she expected.

Catching his eye, she waves and makes her way towards him across the grass.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”