Sherlock: Corridors of Power

[papernpen]

Title: Corridors of Power
Author: papernpen
Pairing: Implied Mycroft/Anthea
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, merely toying with them. Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC are welcome to all the glory.
Summary: Mycroft is a busy man, but he really does worry about his little brother constantly. A moment with Mycroft during The Great Game.

The Korean election was proving tiresome. Mycroft put down the memo he’d been reading and picked up his tea cup and saucer – cranberry today, to cheer himself up – and took a tentative sip. Just right, as always. He could rely on Anthea. Just as he could rely on Susan, Julia and, occasionally, Carmella. He smiled mildly at the recollection. He had enjoyed that particular assignment.
            There was a quiet but decisive knock on the door.

‘Come in!’

Anthea, Susan, Julia and Carmella entered. She stood in front of the desk, holding a file in both hands.

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, sir. The Ambassador is being very difficult.’

‘Damn and blast the man. Does he have no consideration for the public purse? I will have to fly over there myself, at this rate, and that would be both expensive and most inconvenient. The plans for our new missile defence system are loose in the criminal underworld, the Prime Minister has been caught with his trousers down, again, and on top of all this my little brother is almost certainly trying to get himself killed.’

‘It is a tight situation, sir’ responded his assistant, prosaically.

‘Ah, we will cope, my dear, we will cope. I dare say that, if there continues to be tea of this perfection provided, I will soldier on.’

Anthea smiled and placed the file on the regimentally ordered desk.

‘Don’t forget your meeting at two o’clock with the Home Secretary, sir.’

‘Of course, yes. I‘d had such high hopes for him, too. Still, I’m sure he’ll find his way into some cosy directorship: ex-politicians always do. Have you drafted his resignation speech?’

‘All in the file, sir.’

‘Excellent. He’s sure to make a fuss over it but I feel we will get him to sign it eventually.’

‘Certainly, sir. I put a selection of the photos seized in the file, too, sir, and I took the liberty of asking Mr Hawks and a couple of his men to be in readiness as well, as a further precaution.’

‘Very forward-thinking of you, as always.’

‘Just as you say, sir.’

Mycroft took another sip of tea and sat back in his chair. Looking out of the anonymous window of his highly-classified office in a corner of grand, impersonal Whitehall, Mycroft could see private cars and taxis crawling past on the road below. Somewhere out there, Sherlock was hurling himself into traffic, scrambling over walls and generally getting himself dirtied in the pursuit of the morally unsound – Mycroft paused, reconsidered the schedule for his day – the criminally morally unsound. John, bless his loyal little heart, had been terribly evasive. He’d had to get Anthea to contact Lestrade instead and then, when he failed to respond satisfactorily, contact him again in less equivocal terms about who he was being contacted by.

            He had found the puzzles very disturbing. Far cleverer than the usual problems Sherlock seemed to enjoy solving and apparently crafted especially for him. His little brother had got himself a reputation. Always a dangerous thing to be carrying about with you, a reputation. Mycroft very deliberately had absolutely no reputation for anything at all: Anthea had at least four. But Sherlock had a ‘fan’. Who killed people to give him something to play with. Really, these people shouldn’t encourage him. Mycroft inhaled deeply, the scent of cranberry mingling with the smell of leather and paper in his office. Most distressing, the whole situation. It was going to end badly, unless steps were taken. Mycroft let out his breath in a sigh.

‘Are you alright, sir?’

‘Oh quite alright, yes, but I fear dear Sherlock and the good Dr Watson may not be in the very near future.’

‘Your brother and who, sir?’

She looked at him quizzically.

‘The gentleman who lives with him in Baker Street. I think we would do well to keep a close eye on anything forthcoming on ‘the science of deduction’. Do let me know of any developments. Which reminds me, send my congratulations to Mr Monkford and his good lady wife on their move to Columbia and tell them they are expected in court in two months on a particularly serious charge of fraud.’

‘Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?’

‘Yes. Do try and ensure that St Barts has an ample supply of A+ in its stores, will you? I think they may prove in high demand before the week is out.’

‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’

Anthea, Susan, Julia and Carmella left the room, shutting the door behind her. Mycroft finished his tea with a furrowed brow and then set the empty cup and saucer back down on the desk. He looked pensively at the wall opposite for a few moments, before reaching into his pocket and producing a small key. He placed it in the lock at the top of the left-hand stack of drawers under his desk, and turned it firmly to the right, producing a gentle click. Pulling the top drawer out no further than five centimetres, he reached a hand down the inner side and flicked a small catch, disabling the tear-gas canister secreted in the top of the drawer and disarming the miniature bear trap Anthea had given him as a Christmas present, which resided in the bottom drawer. Having done so, he pulled the top draw open fully and reached in. He drew out a photograph, contained in an ornate wooden frame. He held it front of himself and looked at it, a sad smile playing about his features. The same sad smile looked back at him, from his own face two years ago. Beside it was another face, paler, angled and delineated by cheekbones and with an irritated, frowning expression on its features.

He worried about him. Constantly.