(see part one for notes)

The call's been in progress for over an hour when she taps on his door; entering quietly, she crosses the office to where he sits. Slumped over the desk with his head supported by a hand, he's missing his suit coat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar of his shirt gaping under the loosened loop of his tie. He doesn't look up when she sets the tea beside him, the saucer ringed with the biscuits he likes and another round of paracetamol. Over the speaker, a voice drones in an unbroken monotone.

The air's stuffy, acrid. Dimly lit only by the scant rays that crawl in through the window. When it becomes apparent that he's not going to acknowledge her, she turns to go. She's almost to the door when he moves, his free hand sliding across the desk to press a button on the phone. "Gentlemen, I've yet to hear any discussion regarding the Turkey situation." His voice is hoarse; he doesn't lift his head from his hand. "In light of current circumstance, I'm sure you'll agree that that would be a much better use of our limmm… of our limited time..."

Muting the speaker, he nearly knocks into the teacup as he twists in his chair to hunch over the bin. The multitude of voices on the phone tumble over one another, over the sound of his unproductive retching. Anthea cringes, frozen in place though she thinks he'd prefer her to go; it's difficult to simply walk away when he looks so miserable. And she's already formulating possible excuses should she need to step in on the call.

"Imbeciles," Mycroft groans, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. The shine of his vest stretches grey over the arc of his back as he clings to the edge of the desk with a pale hand.

"Can I do anything?"

"Replace the Treasury." He gradually reorients his position, elbows resting on the blotter. The handkerchief still crumpled in his hand. "You have information for me," he says.

She doesn't bother to try and suss out what had given him this impression. "I've begun a file on one of your two RMPs. Mitchell. Not a lot yet, but I could bring you what I have if you'd like."

Ordinarily he'd be working on at least two other things while on a call, easy for him to split his focus. But there's a tiny shake of his bowed head. "Unfortunately, it will have to wait. I'm afraid I'm unable to read much of anything at the moment." His attention shifts abruptly to the phone, a frown compressing his lips as he presses the speaker button. "Yes, and why don't we hand them the entire sector while we're at it?" he barks in response to something she hadn't heard. There's another babbling rush of too many people speaking at once; Mycroft winces and hits the button again, dropping his head back into his hand. "Utterly pointless," he mumbles, tugging the knot in his tie further awry.

"If you don't need me, I was thinking about popping out for something to eat. I don't suppose there's anything…?"

A dismissive wave from the hand not propping up his head; the deep crimson of the handkerchief flashes like blood between the white of his fingers.

She's not surprised by the answer, though she was hoping for a different one. "You might at least try to drink some of the tea, sir. You're likely dehydrated."

"Yes, thank you." His tone warns that she's creeping too far over the line. She nods despite him not being able to see it, exits. Closes the door behind herself as he rejoins the call. "Oh, brilliant. And then we can watch as the entire bloody thing collapses ten minutes later…"

Lunch is brief but busy, and between rushed bites of her sandwich she manages to reschedule two more of the afternoon's calls. The only thing left now is a planning meeting, too many people involved to easily postpone. Feeling accomplished, she grabs a container of soup to go and returns to the office.

Putting her handbag away in her desk she glances toward the phone, able to tell by the lack of lights that the call has ended. She wonders if Mycroft had simply hung up on them in frustration. It's doubtful his mood's much improved, but she wants to let him know that she's returned should he need anything. Doubtful also that he's going to want any of the soup, so she heads for his closed door without it.

When she enters he's slouched in the desk chair, staring at nothing as he rolls a prescription bottle absently between his thumb and fingers. In the meager light his face has a ghostly pallor, its angles all too sharp. "I begin to think these blasted things an inevitability if I hope to get through the rest of this interminable day," he observes softly, not breaking the distant gaze.

He's not soliciting her opinion, but she offers it anyway. "I think that's an excellent idea, sir."

"Hmm…" After a moment he blinks, shifts just enough to pull out his pocket watch. Every movement feels a conscious effort to alter his position as little as possible. He squints at the clock face, scowls.

"Twenty past two," she supplies, when the scowl turns expectantly her way.

Mycroft sighs, rubs at his left eyebrow with his fingertips. "And we are expecting Lord Ellingwood when?"

"Lord Ellingwood has requested to meet with you on Friday instead, sir. In fact most of your afternoon is now free, the only outstanding obligation being the planning meeting at four." He frowns, and she wonders if she'll be admonished for overreaching her authority. "Nothing vital or time-sensitive," she assures him. "A very organic rearrangement."

"I see." The pill bottle is set upright on the blotter; he watches it as if it might speak.

"Can I refresh your tea, sir? I brought back some soup from Luran's if you'd –"

He waves the rest of the sentence away. "Tea will be quite sufficient, thank you."

She does as she's bid without comment, returns to her own work. It's almost four when she sees him again. Letting herself into his office she finds him stretched out on the sofa in near darkness, an arm slung up over his eyes. His shoes lined up neatly on the floor, his feet in their socks crossed at the ankles and propped up on one of the armrests. There's no reaction to her entrance. She stands watching him for a few minutes, trying to decide if he's sleeping. Trying to decide if she should wake him up.

"Sir?"

The response is dramatic, floundering; instantly he's in motion, intent upon getting off the sofa. Eyes clouded with confusion as he fights to get his bearings. Attempting to stand before he's found his balance, his heel comes down on the side of a shoe and he stumbles. Missing the sofa, he crashes to the floor onto one knee.

"My brother…" he's mumbling as she crouches beside him. His hair's unusually mussed, and there's a red line across his nose where a crinkle of his sleeve has temporarily creased his skin. "I must… my…" Bleary eyes flit about without landing. He tries unsuccessfully to use the sofa to haul himself up.

"Your brother is as we left him a few hours ago, Or at least I've had no reports to the contrary." Without meaning to, she finds she's slipped into the tone she remembers using with their neighbor's horses when she was a child. "Everything's all right. It's just the medication, making it difficult to think."

She watches as this sinks in with an unbearable sluggishness. "Yes… yes of course…"

Small wonder that he avoids taking these pills. Despite her reassurances, his acknowledgement, he still looks unsettled. There's a flash of resentment toward Sherlock and his sidekick, the way they expect him to appear when they need him and fade away again when they're done. Like a genie to be summoned and then forgotten once he's back in the bottle.

Groping for the cushion he attempts to pull himself up off the floor again; she lends her assistance and he makes it up onto the sofa. He's freezing under her hands. Sitting beside him she looks around for some sort of blanket, though she doesn't recall ever having seen one in here. Mycroft rubs his eyes, sagging into the cushions. "Forgive me… I'm afraid I…" Now he struggles to sit up, fumbling for the chain of his watch. "The call… What time is it?"

"Just four now, sir."

He looks at her sharply, gets a couple of centimeters up off the sofa before collapsing back down with a faint moan and a hand to his head. "I suppose you've taken it upon yourself to cancel that as well?" he exhales after a moment.

Weak as it is, the inferred reprimand still carries a sting. "No, sir. But…"

"Yes?" he hisses against the leather cushion when she doesn't continue.

She looks at the exhausted, crumpled, shivering personification of the British Government in front of her. Takes a deep breath and pushes on. "I only wonder, sir, if your presence is really vital to this meeting. Mightn't you just read the minutes tomorrow?"

"… expected…" he murmurs, colourless lips brushing the leather as the cushion takes more of his weight.

"Yes, sir. But is it necessary?" Mycroft hums thoughtfully behind closed eyes, the drugs clearly working to reclaim their hold. "Is it your honest opinion that the country might fall if you miss this particular meeting?"

There's a long silence, and she thinks for a second that he might've dozed off. "I suppose you've made your point," he finally sighs. His eyes blink languidly open, roll a bit before they find her. Lips part as if he might say something else, but his fractured attention drifts instead to the room behind her. "… s'very dark in here…"

"Yes, sir." The more sedated, unaware he seems, the more anxious she feels. Her fingertips tingle with the emotion she's filtering from her voice. "Shall I turn on some of the lights?"

"Please don't." His head, his eyelids droop; it looks an effort to raise them again. "What of… what of, ah…"

She has no idea what it is he's referring to, but there's a compulsive need to try and assuage the aphasic frustration in his expression. "It'll keep until tomorrow," she promises blindly. She can't think of anything that won't, and she'll have her mobile should something come up. "May I ask Edwin to bring the car around?"

"Mmm…" is his nonresponse. Eventually he wriggles to prop himself up on his shoulder, begins clumsily unrolling a shirt sleeve. "Very well." She watches the cloth reveal itself by wrinkled centimeters. "It would… would seem I've few other…" The sentence dangles like the sleeve.

When there's nothing more forthcoming, she rests a hand on the leather beside his knee. His eyes jump from the cuff to her fingers, up to her face. He blinks, nods and begins lethargically to put on his shoes. Her mobile buzzes with the arrival of six new emails to be dealt with. She texts Edwin, tells him they'll soon be needing him out front.

Though, with as slowly as her boss is moving, she suspects soon might be a relative term. Mycroft smoothes down his hair, starts to work on the buttons at his collar. Not realizing, apparently, that the other sleeve is still rolled to his elbow. Anthea spots his suit coat draped over the back of the desk chair, rises from the sofa to go get it. As she picks it up, the mobile in the inside pocket vibrates with an incoming call.

Far fewer people have this number, and as much as she'd like to ignore it she can't. She's relieved at least to see that it isn't Sherlock. Mycroft holds out a weary hand for the mobile and she carries it over to him; he peers at it for a second, answers in English before switching to Japanese. Anthea turns on the desk lamp, catching the occasional stray word as she shuts down his computer, tidies things up.

The conversation ends quickly; he exhales audibly, pinches the bridge of his nose. After a moment he rouses himself, tugs at the truncated sleeve. "Problem?" she asks, moving a thick stack of files to a drawer with the intention of locking them up.

"I certainly hope not." He notices what she's doing and gestures for her to stop. "I'll take those. Perhaps I'll be able to look at them later."

"Yes, sir," she agrees dubiously, as he stands unsteadily and begins to put on his jacket. His motions all feel overcautious, performed with an exaggerated concentration. His lashes flutter as he fixes his tie.

She turns off the lamp and gathers his things as he moves slowly toward the door. When he crosses the threshold he immediately raises a hand against the brightness of the outer office, staggers back into the room. "Oh good Lord," he chokes, slumping against the dark wall.

Her frown is sympathetic, useless, as she approaches. "… m'all right… quite…" he mumbles before she can say anything. His suit whispers up the wall as he straightens, hooded eyes halfheartedly searching the shadows. "Where's that bloody…"

She hands him his hat; he smiles in grim gratitude and puts it on, pulling it down as low as he can over his eyes. He takes his umbrella, his case from her, and she heads for her desk to get her own bag. Fingertips pressed to his forehead, he lingers in the doorway as she collects what she needs to work from home.

It's late in the day, but there are still plenty of people about. As they walk down the corridor her focus flicks between her mobile and the surrounding offices, preparing to run interference if necessary. She can't help but steal the occasional glance at her boss, at those narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, his expression a mask of empty determination as he deliberately puts one foot ahead of the other. Her mobile vibrates, reclaiming her attention. Another email.

By the time they near the lifts the steps beside her are closer to a somnolent shuffling, the umbrella acting more as walking stick than accessory. It seems as if he might continue past without stopping; she leans in with the mobile as if discussing something on the screen. "The lift, sir," she says under her breath, subtlely trying to steer him that way. Mycroft blinks like a man coming out of a dream. He nods, turns obediently toward the bank of doors.

Once inside he all but collapses against the back wall, fingers gripping the rail like it's the only thing holding him up. The briefcase trembles where it hangs from his other hand. As Anthea reaches for the button for ground level, she sees Eliza, one of the newer secretaries on the floor, rushing to catch the lift. She pushes the button anyway.

"So sorry," she calls out as the doors begin to close between them. "Confidential discussion. You understand." The other woman's pout thins to a sliver, disappears.

The car settles into their stop with a jarring rattle, and Mycroft stumbles to find his balance. The lobby seems composed entirely of reflective surfaces at this hour, the sun slanting in through the windows to bounce back from endless bits of glass and chrome. He hesitates as they step out, squares his shoulders and presses on. Anthea follows, even knowing what she knows still caught up in the performance. It isn't until he rustles through one of the lobby's potted plants with an elbow that she realizes he's probably crossing the space virtually blind.

The outside afternoon is no better, clouds burned away to reveal a startlingly blue sky. Everything sparkles with light, noise. Mycroft's shoulders stiffen further, but he doesn't pause. The metal tip of the umbrella taps out their path down the wide stone stairs.

"Holmes!" comes a shout from behind them. "Holmes, wait!"

Mycroft freezes, his chin dropping to his chest as he takes a slow measured breath. Anthea looks back to see Martin Hemsley, a weasly little man from the Foreign Office, hurrying toward them down the stairs. She takes a step that way, preparing to intercept him, but her employer lifts his head with a stretched smile.

"I didn't think I'd catch you," the man huffs as he reaches them.

"How very fortunate for us that you underestimated," Mycroft answers dryly.

"You all right, old boy? You look dreadful. Not getting the flu that's going around the place, are you?"

"Mmm." If his smile stretches any further it may crack. "Was there something you wanted, Hemsley?"

"I won't keep you long. I just wanted to talk to you for a few moments about that report…"

Anthea's mobile vibrates in her fingers, and she steps away to take the call. It's from the American Embassy. She informs them that her boss is currently unavailable, that the meeting he's in could last indefinitely. Promises she'll have him contact them at the earliest opportunity. Hanging up, she walks back to the two men with the mobile in her hand. She waits at a respectable distance until Hemsley takes a breath.

"Sir? Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt…" She holds up the mobile. "That call you were expecting. It's come through."

Mycroft blinks at her, a few disconcerting seconds of incomprehension, before taking it out of her hand. "Yes, of course," he murmurs. "You'll excuse me, Hemsley."

Perspiration glitters on the back of his neck as he turns to descend the rest of the stairs; she sees Edwin waiting with the car at the kerb. She's about to follow when Hemsley stops her with a hand on her shoulder. It's heavy, warm.

His voice comes too close to her ear. "Look after the old boy, won't you? Plenty of fluids. Bed rest."

The last two words curl out a smoky insinuation. Anthea turns, imagining that her artificial smile is painted with sugar. Poison sugar that she can lick off and spit at him. She directs a pointed glance to the hand on her shoulder; he removes it. Meeting his eyes with her lethal smile, she vividly envisions kneeing him in the groin. He looks away first.

She leaves him on the stairs.

Edwin stands by the open car door, studiously stone-faced. His mask slips a little as she approaches, eyes darting toward the shadows of the back seat before quickly facing front again. She ignores him, steps in gracefully. She'd swear she can feel Hemsley's unctuous gaze still between her shoulderblades.

Mycroft's sunk into the corner by the far door, breathing shallowly with a hand covering his face. She grabs her mobile from the seat between them. "Thank you," he rasps once they've started moving. "That man is odious even under the best of circumstances."

Anthea has no argument. She's glad he hadn't witnessed that last exchange. "You're welcome." He shifts uncomfortably against the leather, and there's a flicker of a grimace behind the long fingers. "There was a call, from a Mr Armstrong at the American Embassy. I let him know that the meeting you're currently in could last quite a while. He'd like you to ring him when you have a chance."

A tic of a nod; she can't decide if this information had been anticipated. There's nothing else. It's a crawling ride through the city in late afternoon traffic, and she spends most of it reaching out to a few personal contacts through delicately worded emails. At some point she realizes that her boss has fallen asleep beside her. The hand over his face has slipped to expose his profile, the hat tipped askew; his brow furrows, lips twitching as if shaping words. In the dim light from the tinted windows, he suddenly looks merely a man.

She leaves him alone until they turn onto his street, debating the best way to rouse him without repeating the shock of earlier. In the end she doesn't have to; he wakes on his own with a jolt when the car comes to a stop. No less disoriented, his eyes ricochet around the interior, to the window.

"Home, sir," she supplies gently. It's difficult to watch his magnificent brain sputtering, struggling to pull together the pieces. "The flat."

"Ah. Yes." He drags a hand down the length of his face, cups the back of his bent neck to knead the muscles there. The fingers of his other hand creep toward his watch, falter. "The time?"

"Quarter past five. Nothing left for the day but to relax. Rest."

It sounds a feeble platitude as it leaves her mouth, an absurd thing to say to him of all people. His cough of a laugh seems to agree. "Would that that were true," he mumbles to the hat in his lap, head still hanging. "I may be having a conversation with the Japanese ambassador in a few hours."

"Anything I can do, sir?"

"No, I think you've done quite enough." It's barely more than an exhausted whisper, and for a second she's not certain how to interpret it. His hand finds hers on the seat between them, gives her fingers a faint squeeze in a rare moment of physical contact. "Thank you. You've been truly indispensable today."

Edwin opens the door, and the touch is immediately withdrawn. Mycroft clears his throat, straightens his tie. He replaces his hat and lifts his head, not appearing in much of a hurry to get out. She wonders if he's still dizzy.

"You'll ring me if you need me?" She shrugs off the memory of Hemsley's hand on her shoulder.

"I will see you in the morning," he says. "Enjoy your evening, my dear."

He climbs out of the car with a stilted imbalance, speaks briefly with Edwin. The door closes. She watches through the window as he walks up the front path alone.

end.