A/N: Wow, I can't believe it's been more than a year since I first posted this story! I suppose we're more than overdue for an update.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Blackie-Noir, who has been kind enough to do translations of several of my works including "Anthea". Her enthusiasm for this story, as well as the positive response I've gotten from the other reviewers here, helped inspire me to work on this continuation. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: Sentiment

Mycroft and Anthea have been together now for several short, wonderful months.

In many ways, during their work hours, nothing has changed. They are both as busy as ever, working side by side, putting out fires, resolving crises, starting new ones.

There are small changes, of course, that only the most astute observer would see.

Extended eye contact, a smile that is only for them, a hand on his arm as they look over notes from a meeting, a little bit less distance as they sit side by side at the conference table.

And then, when the office is empty, when it is just the two of them, sometimes they retire to the office sitting room, a cozy set up complete with fireplace, sofa, arm chairs, and a vast selection of tea and biscuits.

Often they'll start in their own places, Mycroft in his favorite chair, Anthea on the sofa, with her legs tucked up under her.

And then, over time, Mycroft might come join her on the sofa, at first with the pretense of discussing a particular document, but sooner or later, the papers will be set aside, and all work will be forgotten.

Or, on other nights, when Anthea senses Mycroft is too overworked for his own good, she'll get up from her seat, walk over, take the papers right out of his hand, and toss them on a nearby table so that she can take up the space in his lap where the papers once were.

Sometimes he pretends to object, but she knows better than to believe him, and his objections disappear as soon as she's in his arms again.

For a man like Mycroft Holmes, being in a relationship—and dare he say it, being 'in love'—is an entirely new experience, one that is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

It is thrilling in its newness, in its excitement, in the pleasure of being so free, so uninhibited, so at peace with another person. He has never allowed himself to become so close to any one—other than Sherlock, that is.

But his relationship with his brother is, of course, something else entirely. It's a relationship built on love, naturally, of brotherly duty and loyalty, but it is also a relationship with sharp edges, with many acrimonious moments, a relationship of machinations and reservations, although it is no less meaningful for all of their petty fights and minor disagreements.

Still, what he has with Anthea, it's incomparable to the love he might feel for his brother, or their parents. The passion she inspires in him eclipses anything else he's ever known.

And yet, there is a part of him that can't help but be ill at ease, and that in and of itself is yet another kind of newness that he has had to grapple with.

Mycroft has never been anything other than sure of himself. He has always known what he's wanted and how to get it, and nothing could stop him from getting his way.

Until now, that is.

Being in love—yes, he can admit that's what this is, in the privacy of his own thoughts, at least—it has made him more open, more emotional, more human than he ever believed he could be.

He never thought he wanted something like this, and yet now he can't imagine a life without love or a future without Anthea.

And that alone is terrifying.

He would like to say that he has handled himself with grace and dignity throughout these early days, but truth be told, that has not always been the case.

It was only two weeks after their first date that he made his first attempt to end things.

They had both had a particularly late night, a night that went even later once Anthea joined him back at his home, and they stayed up together, at first in the living area, and then in the bedroom, until close to dawn, only just slipping off to sleep in each other's arms as the sun began to rise.

Neither of them remembered to set an alarm—Mycroft usually woke up by sheer force of habit, and the gentle ping of a text on Anthea's blackberry was all the alarm she needed most days.

But her blackberry lay forgotten in the kitchen that morning, and they were both so soundly asleep that they did not wake until well after nine.

And that is how they came to be arriving to work at the embarrassingly late hour of 10 am. Or rather, Mycroft arrived at 10 am, and Anthea at 10:30 am, because they both silently agreed that they could not risk showing up together.

At the end of the day, when Anthea comes to his office and asks if they will be dining out or dining in, Mycroft starts to stammer about how—

maybe this isn't prudent

think of what it could do to our careers

what might happen if the relationship ends acrimoniously

And Anthea stares at him as he stumbles over his words, and she waits for him to finish, before saying, "This means more to me than any job ever could. I can't say what might happen a year or even a month from now, but I do know that today I don't want to be anywhere other than here with you."

She pauses, refusing to look away, keeping her voice even, as she adds, "If you don't feel the same, then we can end our personal connection, and return to a strictly working relationship."

Mycroft opens his mouth to respond, but Anthea interrupts again, "But don't try to convince yourself that you're doing this for me. I know what I want, and what I want is you. This is where I choose to be."

And when she finally stops speaking, Mycroft stares at her with an inscrutable expression.

She waits as he gathers his thoughts. Finally he says, "There is nowhere else I would rather be than here with you."

Hearing those words, she smiles at him. "Good, because I've made reservations for dinner, and I've already set our alarms for 6 am tomorrow, so that we won't be late for our 8 am meeting."

He smiles back at her, and when she reaches out her hand to him, he accepts her invitation, lacing their fingers together, as they walk side by side out of the office and into a waiting car.

That is neither the first nor the last crisis of conscience that Mycroft has, of course.

A few weeks later, a private 'meeting' in the cramped file room is interrupted by a maintenance man opening the door—or attempting to, since they had prudently locked the door before convening their liaison.

Hearing the rattling of the door handle, they instantly break their embrace, and Mycroft straightens his tie as Anthea tucks in her blouse, and as soon as they finish making themselves presentable, they quickly make their exit.

The incident, however, is enough to give Mycroft pause, but he cannot put his feelings to words, so instead of broaching the topic, he simply makes his excuses when Anthea invites him to join her in the sitting room that evening, and so she goes back to her flat by herself, and Mycroft remains in the office until long after midnight, when he finally returns to his home, alone, and spends the night staring at the ceiling, too conscience of the empty space beside him in bed to ever drift off to sleep.

One afternoon, several months into their courtship, Anthea is at her desk, attempting to focus on her work, although her mind is constantly drawn back to the man in the neighboring office.

Most days it seems like things between them are perfect. She is happier than she has ever been, and often the same seems to be true of Mycroft.

And yet, she knows him so well—maybe even better than he knows himself—and she cannot help but notice that something is missing. She can sense his apprehension. She can't ignore the ways in which he sometimes seems to close himself off from her.

Many times she has attempted to broach the subject, only to find that words fail her.

Still, she can't help but try to read the meaning behind his silence, and she can't help but worry that his reticence signals the beginning of the end of their happy courtship.

She is so lost in these musings that she barely notices when the younger Holmes brother walks into the office and seats himself in the chair opposite her desk.

"Good afternoon, Anthea."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock. After all, you are practically family."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Trouble in paradise?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"No? So how are things going with my older brother, then?"

"Fine, I suppose."

In response to her tepid answer, Sherlock says, "I know that Mycroft can be quite tiresome—"

Quickly, she responds, "No, it's not that at all. I care about him as much as I ever did—more if that's possible."

"Ah, so the problem is him, then."

She shrugs, and says, "I don't expect much. He's not demonstrative by nature, and I don't need nor do I want him to change that, but sometimes I wonder if he really cares for me at all. I know we've only been together for a short time, but I would happily spend the rest of my life by his side, and I have no idea if he feels the same. "

"Let me talk to him."

"I really don't think—"

Completely deaf to her objections, Sherlock says, "Don't worry! I'll sort things out."

And then he's gone before she can get out another word.

While Anthea is out of the office the next day—Sherlock had surreptitiously checked her calendar during his previous visit—Sherlock walks into Mycroft's office and sits down without waiting for an invitation.

Mycroft doesn't bother looking up from his papers as he greets his younger brother with, "To what do I owe this intrusion?"

"Your paramour seems less than pleased with your current state of affairs."

That is enough to make Mycroft look up from his work. "I have no idea what you're implying, but I am entirely certain this is none of your concern."

"Your welfare is always my concern, brother mine."

"Oh, really?"

"You have been much more bearable to be around since you commenced your relationship with Anthea."

Genuinely curious, Mycroft asks, "Have I?"

"Certainly—at least in a relative sense. I dare say she's the best thing that could ever happen to you. After all, my business has been booming, and I can't be here at all hours keeping you company."

"Really, Sherlock—"

Abruptly switching tactics, Sherlock says, "She's a remarkable woman, isn't she?"

Mycroft is thrown off by this sudden change in course, so he simply responds with, "Yes, of course."

"And you care about her, don't you?"

"More than I ever thought possible."

"Have you told her?"

"Not in so many words, but surely—"

"Come now, Mycroft. Poor Anthea practically had to throw herself at you before you realized the perfect woman was sitting ten feet from your desk. The least you could do is make it clear to her that her affection is reciprocated."

"I suppose—"

"Unless you'd rather she go out and find someone else to spend her time with. I'm sure there are plenty of men who would be happy to take up the position if you—"

Mycroft is shocked by the sudden feeling of jealousy that wells up in him, and he stumbles over his words as he says, "How could—I would never—absolutely not."

"Ah, so maybe there is someone else you've set your sights on?"

"There is no one but her for me."

"I see."

Mycroft can't help but be drawn in by Sherlock's enigmatic response. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"You're afraid."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. I recognize the signs. You're afraid to give in to sentiment. You're afraid to open yourself up to a happy life with a beautiful woman by your side."

"Not at all."

"Well, if you're not afraid, then I don't see what is stopping you from making your intentions clear. After all, you're not a young man, and Anthea is clearly a woman who knows her own mind. You would be foolish to risk losing her because you can't bring yourself to admit the depth of your affection."

Mycroft opens his mouth, but before he can respond, Sherlock has walked out the door, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts.

One week later, Mycroft is sitting in his arm chair, a pile of papers in his lap, although he hasn't turned a page or read a single word in several hours.

As much as he hates to admit it—and even though he would never confess this out loud—there is some wisdom in the words of his younger brother.

He knows in his heart of hearts that it is time for him to make his intentions known. It's not fair to them—either of them—to continue on in this state of uncertainty.

With that conviction in mind, he sets the papers aside, and calls out, "Anthea, would you join me for a moment."

He hears the sound of her chair as she pushes back from the desk, and then the beats of her heels on the wood floor.

When she enters the room, she stands in the doorway, as he says, "There is something that I would like to discuss with you."

She takes in his expression. "Is it serious?"

"It is quite important, yes."

She continues to stand, uncertain, until he says, "Please, have a seat," and so she sits on the sofa and looks to him, waiting for him to speak.

"Anthea, it has come to my attention that I may not have made my intentions clear to you in these early days of our courtship. I fear that maybe I have given you a false impression of my feelings, and I thought it of the utmost importance that I correct this error."

As he pauses, gathering his thoughts, she interjects, in a quiet tone, "You're ending this, aren't you?"

For a moment, Mycroft is caught so off-guard that he freezes, with his mouth half open, no words coming out.

But he's stirred out of his speechlessness a moment later when he catches the hurt and sadness buried underneath Anthea's carefully neutral expression.

Without thinking, he stands up, goes to sit beside her, and reaches out, taking her left hand in both of his.

With deep sincerity, he says, "Never."

Then smiling ruefully, he adds, "I suppose emotional declarations never have been my strong suit."

With fondness, she responds, "Of all your many talents—no, not really."

"Does that trouble you?"

There are hints of concern, maybe even insecurity, in Mycroft's voice.

She shakes her head once, emphatically, and then places her right hand on top of both of his, before adding, "I would never wish for you to be anything other than what you are."

"Nor would I wish that from you."

"Good, because I would say we're both pretty set in our ways."

"That we are," he says, and then he leans down, and places a gentle kiss on top of her hand, which is still clasped in his.

He looks up, and for a moment, he almost loses himself in the expression on her face, the warmth in her eyes, and in his utter shock that a woman like her could be so devoted to a man like him.

As if sensing his thoughts, she says, "I could never love anyone the way I love you."

"And I have never loved anyone as I do you."

She smiles, even more broadly, and a faint blush appears on her face, before she asks, "So if you weren't trying to break up with me, what was all of this about?"

"Ah, I just had a question, a proposition, that I wanted to make, for your consideration."

Shifting into her work mode, she asks, "Is this about our covert operations plan for the India affair? Because—"

"No, no, nothing of the sort."

"Then what—"

Before she can finish her sentence he says, "In the time since we began our courtship, I have known happiness that I never thought possible. I have experienced wants and desires that I never before considered. You have made me happier and more human than I ever expected to be. I never thought this would be what I wanted for myself, and yet now, I can't imagine a future without you in it."

Mycroft stops, takes a deep breath, and says, "And so, what I wanted to ask you was—"

He pauses again, untangles his hand from hers, and then reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a small box, opens it up, and asks, "Anthea, will you marry me?"

As soon as he gets the words out of his mouth, he looks to her, watches as her expression freezes in surprise, and he feels a sudden jolt of uneasiness, wondering if he's made an error in judgment, if maybe he's gone too far—

But then she breaks out into the most radiant smile—so brilliant that it eclipses the sparkling stone on the ring which he continues to hold in his right hand—and the barest hint of tears springs to her eyes.

Unable to find any words, she simply nods—once, twice, three times—and she holds out her hand to him, he slips the ring onto her finger, and then she flings her arms around his neck, and he pulls her in close to him.

Holding her tightly to his chest, he can feel the warmth of her breath on his neck as she whispers, "Yes, of course."

And hearing those words, he vows to himself, come what may, he will never let her go.

A/N: I hope this didn't get too sappy, but what can I say, this is just sort of the place that the story took me to. I hope all of you enjoyed it!

At this point, I think it's quite likely that I'll add another chapter to this story, because I've become very fond of this little Mythea universe, but I'm juggling several other WIPs at the moment, so I can't really predict when a continuation might get posted. Then again, I only started toying with this particular chapter a few weeks ago, and I wrote the majority of it (about 2,500 words) last Sunday, so if I have some free time and creative energy, I might get around to posting sooner rather than later.

Please take a few moments to leave a comment if you're so inclined. I would really love to hear what you thought of this third installment!