Title: Whatever Love Means

Rating: G

Disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

Ship: Mycroft/'Anthea'

Summary: It's 'Anthea's last day working for Mycroft. That's the official story, anyway.

She is standing in front of her hall mirror when the call comes. She takes her soft green scarf and wraps it once, twice around her neck. It catches her hair and she sweeps the dark locks free.

The call is part of their morning routine. It's seven-thirty and today she pauses before answering to sweep the pad of her thumb over the name on the screen.

"Good morning sir," she says huskily. Her fiancé couldn't stay over last night and she enjoys the fact that Mycroft is the first person she has spoken to today.

"Good morning - ?"

There's a pause allowing her to butt in with her freshly picked name.

"Diana," she says simply.

There is a wonderfully pleased pause from the other side. "Ah. How appropriate."

"I thought so," says Diana.

"Could I trouble you to pick me up a coffee on your way in? You know how I like it."

It's eight-thirty at night and though the rest of the building has left for home (government employees hate working past five as a rule) Diana is in no rush to leave. Her mouse hovers over the shut-down button of her computer and she sighs. Once the humming computer becomes silent she will no longer be Diana, nor Anthea, Nora, or Esme. She will be herself again, and it makes her feel naked and powerless.

She leans back in her leather chair and sighs. She gives in to the childish impulse to pick-her feet up and swivel the chair around. She has wanted to do that for six years.

Her desk is clear. All that remains is the empty mug she kept pens and lip-gloss in. It's one of those 'I love my job' gifts that you come across in service stations. Her fiance thought it was funny – he was always understanding about her desire for a career. Up until recently anyway.

She runs her fingers over the faded letters; Personal Assistants Secretly Run the World!

Diana remembers the way Mycroft smiled when he saw it.

Still, there's no use dragging it out further. She clicks to shut-down the computer and slides the mug into her handbag. She'll never drink out of it again, but she likes the idea of it sitting in a trunk where she can occasionally take it out and look at it.

"Come!"

She steps into Mycroft's office. It has always reminded her of an expensive hotel, all it needs is a soft bed to collapse into. She looks fondly over at the cushions she picked out and the vase she bought him after being forced to smash the last one when she found an electronic bug in it.

She enters and walks over to his desk (her heels sink into the thick carpet). Mycroft puts down his fountain pen and steeples his fingers.

"I've finished for the day," she says. It's half a sigh.

"Thank you Diana," he replies gently.

She shakes her head. "Not Diana anymore."

"Ah." He blinks. "Catherine, then."

"Kate."

He nods. He hasn't called her that in fourteen years.

"I'll never forget," he says absently, "receiving your application for MI5. Not many sixteen year olds apply and certainly not ones who have given it so much thought."

She'd wanted to be a spy since she was ten. She'd learnt karate, weaponry skills, seven languages (Russian, French, Spanish, Chinese, German, Italian and Welsh), and taken acting and elocution lessons. All without telling her family.

Mycroft had arranged to meet her two days after she'd applied. He wasn't looking for a spy, he told her, but he was looking for an office junior.

She'd chucked her coffee at him. He'd been delighted at the response.

Over the next two years, she worked for Mycroft as an assistant, learning how government really worked. It was much more interesting than spying. She'd been happy, until Mycroft had dropped a bomb on her eighteenth birthday.

"Look through these documents and tell me what you think."

She'd done so. "They appear to be relating to a place at St. Andrews University."

"Correct. You start in September. Your fees and accommodation have already been paid for. Your family are delighted."

Ada (she'd been reading an Ada Lovelace biography) felt her heart hammer. "But I want to work for you!"

"And you still will," purred Mycroft. "While St. Andrews offers excellent opportunities for you, that's not why I'm sending you there."

He'd explained exactly what he wanted from her. If she'd been two years younger it would have been exactly the exciting task she'd have craved. But now all she wanted to do was scream that she wanted to be by Mycroft's side every day. She was his assistant. He needed her.

But she was powerless. Even she knew that the relative anonymity of being a PA wouldn't last forever – soon people would start to recognise her.

"That biscuit is two-hundred calories you know!" she snapped and flounced out.

He'd been good as his word. As soon as she'd graduated he'd welcomed her back. The task he'd sent her to St. Andrews for was still ongoing, and much of her time was spent away from his side working on it.

Eventually the side job would become the entire job. There would be no more afternoons in Mycroft's company. She'd tried to put it out of her mind.

She never expected the day to come so soon.

"I have a present for you," smiles Mycroft. He reaches over to his desk drawer and she looks on grimly.

"There's no need sir. I'm not leaving your employ. Not really."

"I know," he says. He hands her the box. "But we won't be seeing as much of each other. Call it a parting gift."

It is wrapped professionally; she rips it open like a child.

It's a new Blackberry. Normally she would have jumped up to throw her arms around him, but today it makes her even sadder. Her old, faithful one will have to be returned and she'll have one less thing to remind her of him.

"It has some very advanced features," he offers. "I'll be contacting you everyday, though I won't be ordering coffee anymore."

She gives a sniff that is more to control her tears than respond.

He stands and moves around the desk to stroke her hair affectionately. "As you are no longer officially in my employ this is traditionally the moment when you can tell me exactly what you think of me."

Kate stares resolutely at the floor. "I love you."

She raises her eyes to his shyly and he takes her in his arms for a warm embrace.

"I know. But you love him too."

She shakes her head. "It's my job to love him. Whatever love means."

Mycroft dials his assistant's internal phone and waits for her to pick up.

"Miss. Smith? Coffee if you'd be so kind."

He puts the phone down and sighs. Miss. Smith is not as imaginative with names as Kate. She insists on sticking to the one bland one. Also she keeps giving him whole milk instead of skimmed.

He promised himself he wouldn't phone – not today – but it's hard to resist. He picks up his private mobile and dials. It's answered in a heartbeat.

"Hello?" she knows who it is. He can tell from her breathless, excited voice.

"Good afternoon - ?"

There is a huff of delighted laughter. She is pleased he is keeping the old game going.

"Wendy, possibly."

"Wendy, I was wondering if you'd glance over a few reports for me? Miss. Smith is rather… terrifying and without a sense of humour. If I didn't know better I'd suggest you chose her on purpose."

"I'd be delighted," she replies. "There's only so much attention I can devote to my hair."

"Excellent. Oh! And congratulations on the happy news. The whole country is a-flutter."

"A-twitter, more-like," says Wendy drily. "I'm trending in every country right now. It's thrilling."

Mycroft ends the call as Miss. Smith arrives with the full-fat coffee. While he sips it he opens up the BBC News website to see the predicted headline.

Royal Wedding: Prince William to Marry Kate Middleton

The End

A/N: Insane right? This came from a comment my mum made when re-watching the pilot 'Oooh doesn't she look like Kate Middleton?' Now I can't help thinking that Mycroft and 'Anthea' might have babies so that Mycroft will be able to control royalty and government at the same time by having his lovechild be heir to the throne…

Comments are love xx