AN: popped into my head watching the end of 2x01.

The One that Matters

Summary: Each Holmes brother has found a woman –one woman –who really matters. For Sherlock, it's Irene Adler. For Mycroft, it's Anthea.

While Mycroft could rebuke Sherlock for allowing Irene Adler to get under his skin, he didn't push it after his brother discovered the password to enter her phone. He could understand what Sherlock was feeling: chagrin, anger …and respect. To Sherlock, Irene Adler was The Woman, with capitals. It took a great deal to earn that kind of respect from a Holmes man. Mycroft knew that full well.

He watched her as she went about her business in his outer office –typing on her desktop, on her mobile, tapping her foot slowly to some invisible beat in her head. She was a beautiful woman, but there was a quality about her –she had the ability to blend in, become indistinguishable from the crowd. She even kept that vague attitude about her at all times –sometimes seeming fuzzy headed or forgetful. It took a sharp, perceiving mind to see past her exterior.

Mycroft Holmes had such a mind.

He remembered the first time he laid eyes on that woman –he had been in a meeting with several ambassadors all morning, and had a quick lunch before returning to his office. He was in the elevator, preparing to exit; she was entering.

It took all of four seconds' perusal to keep him in the elevator as the other occupants left.

The doors shut quietly and with a hum, the elevator began to descend once again down to the first floor.

In one glance, Mycroft had taken in her appearance –the perfect secretary or typist. Innocuous. Ordinary. No different from the hundred others that worked in this building. But she was a bit too ordinary. Her makeup was done in such a way as to make her seem appropriate, but unremarkable. No real style seemed to be apparent in her brown hair. There were no crease lines on her jacket where her arms would have rested at a keyboard, and likewise there were no creases in her skirt from sitting for a long period of time. The secretaries in this building usually traveled in packs when they were on break– this one definitely wasn't in a pack, and she wasn't on an assignment –she had no papers, folders, or briefcase, just a boring purse in both hands. She's protecting it, he thought.

And then, there was the added fact that he knew all of the people on his floor, and everyone else who had business to ever go to his floor, and she wasn't one of them. And he had heard of no other departments hiring recently.

So. Nefarious purposes then. The fact that she was carefully not looking at him, and the added fact that he was the most important man on his floor (the only one, actually; the rest were his typists and his PA), meant that it had to do with him, and unless she planted something (i.e., bugs, explosives, etc; doubtful, the building's security was very good), she probably had whatever she wanted on her person. In the purse, probably. It was too small to be papers –most likely a camera or a flash drive.

And all that before they had gone more than five floors down. He still had fifteen to go –he'd make the most of them.

"Hmm," he said.

Her eyes flickered –brown and intelligent, and very aware.

"What is your name?" he asked, turning fully to her.

"Oh –ah, Sarah," she said, giving him what was probably her best forgettable smile.

A bland name to go with a bland façade. And no last name. "That's not your real name," Mycroft said.

She blinked at him, twice. And then she just vaguely smiled. "No."

"And I don't suppose you'll tell me your real one."

She shook her head.

"Well, Sarah, would you mind telling me just what it is you've taken from my office and have got inside your purse?" Mycroft asked her, smiling.

"Information," she said, turning her gaze to the floor numbers passing by –fifteen, fourteen, twelve…

"Ah." He said. Most of the files on his computer were very well protected, and while he wouldn't assume that she couldn't have opened the files and copied them, the likelihood was slim. So she didn't have anything on her that was critical to life and death; perhaps only injurious security wise. "Would you mind giving it back to me?"

"Yes," she said.

He blinked.

"I would mind. Yes."

"Nevertheless, I think you understand that I cannot let any unauthorized information leave this building."

"Yes." For clarity's sake, she added, "I understand."

Seven –six –five…

"But I'm still going to," this mysterious woman said, with quiet confidence.

She was certainly not what she appeared to be. No, she was far, far more than that. But he wasn't going to let her win this. All he had to do was alert security. He wouldn't be involved in any unnecessary physical struggle himself.

It seemed an ill-fitting end for this clever woman.

"You are worth so much more than this trivial espionage and mundane thievery," Mycroft told her suddenly, meaning it. "Why are you doing this?"

Her eyes actually connected with his for the first time, and the brown irises flared to life at his compliment. He could see her –see what she was capable of –see just how far down her exterior went before revealing her clever self.

"I need a job," she said, finally.

"A very boring job for someone of your talents," Mycroft observed.

"Yes," she agreed as the elevator came to a stop and the doors quietly slid open.

"Do you think," Mycroft said, following her out of the elevator, "that you're just going to walk out of this building?"

She turned back around with her vague look back in place, waiting a moment. For what, he didn't know. "Yes. That's the plan," she said, and glanced to her right, out the windows.

Ah, the betrayal of human nature. Out of mere happenstance, mere habit, his eyes followed hers to try to perceive whatever she seemed to be gazing at. It took no more than four seconds. But during that time period, office employees arrived back from their lunch break just in the nick of time, anxious to get through security, causing noise and commotion.

And she simply disappeared.

He would examine the CCTV and the security cameras later, trying every angle to get a glimpse of the direction she had gone, but to no avail. She had simply vanished among the crowd and found her way out of the building, disappearing from view. The simplest escape in history.

Now, he exhaled slowly, cursing himself, calling himself all kinds of fool. And then, finally, surrendering to the admiration he felt in the face of an ability like hers.

Brava, he thought to himself.

One week later exactly, he opened his office door to find the exact same woman sitting demurely on his desk.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," Mycroft said.

It was. She was wearing dark slacks and a dark blouse, and had on low heels. Her hair was down and brushed out, surrounding her face. And her eyes were sharp –like a hawk, or a cat's. None of the vagueness is present at all.

"Might I ask what you are doing here?" he asked.

She blinked, regarding him for a long moment. Then, "I would like a job."

He smiled. "Ah." He walked around to his desk as she slid off of it and set his briefcase and umbrella down. "Doubtless you heard about my open PA position." He had utterly fired his last personal assistant. He needed someone who would know better than to let anyone into his office. Not that she had done, but she certainly wasn't observant enough to notice this woman sneaking in.

"Yes," she replied quietly.

"You're hired," Mycroft Holmes said. "When would you like to start?"

She stared. He thought that she might have been caught by surprise for the first time. "You're very trusting," she said.

"No, not really, but I know who you are." He said. As her eyes grew slightly wider, he explained. "A picture is very easy to work with. I already had a shot of you in my office, and in the elevator as well. An ordinary person can get a name, address, and more with a picture, Miss Delacroix." He smiled mildly. "And I'm much more than that."

"Then you probably know that I also wanted to return this," she said, taking a small flash drive out of her pocket and setting it on the desk.

Mycroft made no move to take it. "Are you quite sure? Mr. Moriarty might not be very happy if he assured a client you could obtain classified information and was then proven wrong."

"Mr. Moriarty," she said, "shall have to get used to not having things his own way."

"As you say," Mycroft agreed, smiling. "When would you like to start?"

"Whenever is convenient."

"How about now?"

She blinked. "That is… um. Yes. Yes, please."

"Very good. Your desk is right outside the door. Please take some time to familiarize yourself with the office, and then I shall need your help on a few things, Miss Delacroix."

She coughed lightly. "Mr. Holmes… about my name…"

He looked up at her attentively.

"I don't like it," she said.

"Call yourself whatever you would like," he said.

"That's the problem. I keep changing it because I can't think of anything," she said.

He thought about this. "If I might make a suggestion?"

"Please."

"I have always been partial to the name Anthea."

She mulled it over, tasting the name on her tongue. "Anthea. I like it."

"Good."

Let me know how it was ;D