It was her father who convinced her to come home for Christmas. She wouldn't have done it for her mother. She came home the morning of Christmas eve resolving to stay in her room when she was informed that her mother had a huge party planned. She had decided to dress as plainly as possible to thwart her mother's plans, but her own pride wouldn't let her. When she finally came down from her room, she was dressed to the nines in a floor length red satin dress with garnets in her hair. It was the smallest form of rebellion possible to wear garnets instead of rubies as they were only semi-precious stones, but they had sentimental value. They had been a gift from a handsome old diplomat from Madagascar who was quite taken with her ability to stop the flight on which his son was being kidnapped with a word and a few taps on her phone. She stood on the top of the steps and tried to ignore her mother's self-satisfied smile.

It was only a quarter into the night before she realized that the guests at the party included the most eligible bachelors that were currently in London, and some of the most vacuous and plain women around. She was considering going back to her room when Helen arrived. She ran across the room to grab Anthea's arms smiling as though they were still schoolgirls. She showed off her ring and chided her for not coming to the wedding. She apologized profusely, not telling her that she had busy preventing an attack on a cruise ship by an Irish separatist organization at the time.

Her husband, David came forward then, looking at her with appreciative eyes before kissing her hand.

"So glad to see you again after all of this time, Patricia."

"It's Anthea now."

"Is it? The invitation clearly said Patricia Sutton."

Anthea turned to glare at her mother, but she was occupied talking with Mrs Waters whose daughter had married a Belgian accountant of no worth whatsoever. Anthea knew that he was quite well thought of in the international finance world. Strange to see things from this new perspective. So often people who were excluded or looked down on because of their birth were so much different in power when considered solely on skill and merit. Look at James Moriarty, for example. He was a nobody from nowhere, but he had become a power in his own right so big that he rivaled governments.

She excused herself and went into the study to look at her mother's desk in order to get a glimpse of the invitations that had gone out, but while she was alone in the room, lit only by the lamp on her mother's desk, David entered shutting the door behind him.

"Anthea, I've been dying to talk to you ever since I saw the invitation."

"Do you happen to have the invitation with you tonight?" she asked.

"Yes, it's right here," he said reaching into his pocket and pulling out a card that he held close to his chest. She walked toward him wondering at the glossy nature of the paper which seemed so unlike her mother only to find, when she finally did slip her hand over his to take it from him, that the card was an advertisement for a pub. She looked up into David's face only to find his lips pressed against her own as he pulled her body against him.

"You were always the smartest woman in the room as well as most beautiful woman. I have wanted to kiss you since the moment that I saw you, a vision of Aphrodite born into flesh."

He put his hand behind her neck, careful not to muss her hair as he kissed her again. She pulled away. "David, what is this about?"

"This is about me wanting you."

"No, I don't think so. I knew you at University, and although you did find me pretty, you were never attracted to me in that way."

"You underestimate your charms. Besides, you are so much more attractive now than you were then." He touched her lips with his once more and then started in on her neck. The care that he took to not rumple her dress or her hair made her feel sure that he had done this sort of thing before. She stepped back prying his hands off of her waist.

"David. Will you stop this? You are my best friend's husband, and besides, I know that you don't like to take risks unless you have something to gain. Why are you doing this?"

He stepped back and smiled, pushing his perfect hair back on his head as he smiled, "I said that you were the smartest woman in the room. I should just amend that to be the smartest person. You always see what others don't."

Anthea frowned at him and asked again pointedly, "What do you want?"

"That was a rum thing you did running off with Mycroft Holmes at the party. I wanted to talk to him about some plans I have. I know that he's the one who knows the real secrets about the government. I hear that up at number 10, they say his name in hushed tones. Some say he's the real power behind the throne. You're his PA aren't you? Tell me what does he really do? I've asked, but all they'll say is that he's an advisor. 'An advisor for what?' I ask, but no one will tell me. So be a sport and give me a heads up. What do you do all day in that office of yours? It must be exciting."

Anthea crossed his arms. "I'm sorry, but it is unethical for an assistant at my level to talk about her employer."

"Come now, Patty, I'm not some foreign spy trying to pry secrets out of you. I'm an old school chum who needs a leg up. So be a sport and help me."

"Excuse me, but I'm needed back at the party."

She started toward the door but he grabbed her from behind moaning out, "Please..." just as the door opened to reveal Helen. Anthea pulled away and walked out past her as Helen glared at her husband. Apparently this wasn't the first time that he had been caught alone with a woman. They left the party soon afterward, and Anthea excused herself to her room with a headache disappointing her mother's plans to introduce her to a duke.

Christmas day she showed her anger by not talking to Anthea at all, which suited her mood as well. She was just trying to figure out how to talk her way out of staying for supper when an urgent text came. It was their highest level code. She grabbed her bag and tossed it in the car, and with only a word she was speeding back to the office. A text came requesting that she meet him at the airport and she increased her speed planning to talk her way into a police escort if anyone tried to stop her.

It was already after dark by the time that she arrived, parking beside the runway and flashing her card to get in. A helicopter landed and Mycroft Holmes climbed out. A black car pulled up and they both got in speeding away.

"What is it? What's happened?" she asked.

"My brother. He shot Charles Augustus Magnussen."

Anthea opened her mouth and then shut it. The man was vile, everyone knew that, but he was useful. He could be persuaded, if his interests coincided with theirs, to publish articles that influenced certain people. He was not averse to spreading misinformation when necessary as well, but he was too proud of his power, and he always saw the worst in everyone. He disgusted her, but despite that, she would never have killed him. But Sherlock Holmes, despite his abrasive manner, was not the kind of person who would even notice his subtle jibes and insults. Mycroft had surely said worse things to him than Magnussen would have.

She turned to see Mycroft actually biting his nails. "Why?" she said.

"Do you need to ask? There is only one person that Sherlock would kill for."

Anthea doubted that. If he had to, she knew that Sherlock would kill to save his mother, or his father or Mycroft. He might doubt it, but she never doubted the love that everyone in that family held for each other despite, or maybe even because they never chose to express it in words. Even so, it was quite a problem. Magnussen was too big of a name to simply sweep under the rug. There would be inquiries and hearings and after all the scrutiny that Sherlock had been under before, it could easily become a media circus. A trial of the century to top that of James Moriarty's.

The information had to be contained. She texted the prime minister's secretary to find out where they were.

In the end, only the top level ministers, and security committee member knew the truth. Sherlock sat in a cell under heavy guard while Mycroft tried desperately to find a way to save his life and keep him free.

The public was told that Magnussen was shot during a robbery and the assailant was not found. Those with the power to demand that a proper investigation be launched had no desire to do so. No one liked him enough to care. Even so, Sherlock remained in limbo. He hadn't been acting in an official capacity, and disliking someone was not enough reason to absolve a person of murder. He was going to be allowed to stand trial until Mycroft made a deal.

Ever since Sherlock had dismantled Moriarty's organization almost single handedly, MI6 had their eye on him. There was a mission. It was very, very dangerous, but it would gain them some valuable information most likely at the cost of the life of whoever took it. Mycroft had talked Sherlock out of taking it before, but he knew that if he could get MI6 on his side, then they would make sure that the identity of Magnussen's killer would never come to light. He made the deal, and Sherlock Holmes became an agent working for the crown.

He went alone into the cell to tell Sherlock. Even outside the doors she could hear the screams.

"I'm doing what I think is best."

"Of course it's what's best, Brother Dear! I should have known that your concern lasted only so long. What is my life compared to your plans for conquest?"

"If you had thought before you pulled that stupid stunt, then we might have found another way to solve the situation."

"I did think. I did nothing but think about it, and it was the only way!"

"When will you realize that what you want in your personal life is never going to happen?"

"Leave now, before I commit another murder."

He walked out of the cage, and Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Mycroft's fury slowly bled away transforming into despair. He visibly shrank.

"Handle things. I'll be at the club," he said and left her behind.

At times like this, he went to the club to drink. One could get horribly drunk there, and sleep it off in the rooms upstairs or so she had been told. She had never set foot inside. She stood for a while wondering what the death of Sherlock Holmes would mean to his brother. Realizing how paralyzed he would be. How broken.

We like to think of the state as a machine. A device that does things for the good of all. But it isn't a machine. It is made of people, with mothers and lovers and brothers all of whom influence them in positive and negative ways. A Mycroft Holmes without his brother was not the confident man who had swept her away from a party in his smart suit and teal tie. He was not the clever man who fought those who threatened the country and won. He was not even the quiet man who thanked her with a playful smile before going to her brother's bedside. Mycroft without Sherlock was a broken man. A man unable to protect the one that he loved. Such a failure would seed doubt in his mind. It would make holes in his confidence that would weaken his ability to protect the state. Did no one else see this? Sherlock Holmes couldn't be harmed. He needed to be protected for the sake of the man who held the nation in his hands!

A thought came to her then and she left for the office, hardly noticing the world around her until she slid into that large black chair. She opened an editor and began to code a program. This would be subtle, the best and most devious program that she had ever written. No one would be able to detect it, and it could go everywhere through the vast cables beneath her feet.

The program was designed to broadcast itself on command and to cause a number of nonfatal outages that would make the nation call for action. She needed a name for the program, and suddenly it came to her. She searched the secret surveillance records until she found the right clip. She matched a separately recorded voice track to the image before enclosing it into the program which she released onto the net as a worm. The program would spread from device to device embedding itself in communications equipment, phones, video games, whatever it could reach, waiting for the code that would set it off. Afterwards she went home and had a warm bath.

She sat at his side as he drove to the airport to say goodbye to his brother. Mycroft was distant, relaying commands to her in a dead voice as if conveying to her the plans for a funeral. He was dressed well though. She had never seen that blue scarf with the diamonds before. She left the car at the gate not wanting to intrude on their privacy and allowed them to drive to the plane alone with only the driver, who was also Sherlock's guard. John Watson and his wife were on their way and she didn't want to be in the middle of a scene that was certain to become emotional.

She stepped into the building and made her way to one of the public areas searching until she found what she was looking for. A row of chairs next to a television screen. She pulled out her phone then, and typed in a single word.

MORIARTY

The signal left her phone and bounced, starting a wave of reactions. It was absorbed, and resent by device after device initiating the program which took command repeating the message that she had crafted for this very occasion. It was barely ten minutes before the broadcast on screen was interrupted by the image of a dark haired man with a bobbing lip as the sound rang out.

"Did you miss me?"

Anthea was dedicated to keeping the nation working at its best, and if she had to save Sherlock Holmes in order to keep his brother working at peak efficiency, then that was what she would do. Because a good planner doesn't wait for things to fail. She acts. And Anthea plans to make sure that Mycroft Holmes is whole and working for a long, long time.