Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

CHAPTER ONE: THE NEW ANTHEA

She walks into his office looking exactly as might be expected.

Tailored skirt-suit, low-hanging ponytail. Artfully natural-looking makeup and the sort of ramrod straight posture (she is a product of St Mary', after all) which women of their class are expected to maintain. Mycroft notes the tiny touches of individuality (short nails, the lack of hair dye) but for the most part she would manage to pass unnoticed amongst her fellows in the Ministry. Overlooked. Underestimated.

Well, he thinks. That sets her ahead immediately.

She clears her throat in the silence, the tone of it clearly peremptory, and despite himself, he smiles.

So, she knows when and how to prompt him. Excellent.

"Shall we get on?" he says and she nods her head once, sharply.

"I certainly hope so," she says, only to flash him a quick smile when he opens his mouth to correct her. "Forgive me, Sir," she says, belatedly attempting politeness. "My father, General Stanley, told me that Winnie Holmes' son would probably appreciate a sense of humour."

The smile widens slightly.

"He also told me that having one would be essential, were I to work for you."

The smile widens even more.

Mycroft cocks an eye at her: A pleasant way in remind him of her connections, that- And an excellent way to build rapport, were he the sort of man who falls for things like bonhomie and flirtation.

He finds he likes her more and more, God help him.

"I dare say he's right," he tells her. He shoots her a sharp look. "I also dare say that he was surprised when you asked about this post: my assistant is a role for which General John Stanley doubtless feels his daughter overly-qualified."

"Oh massively, Sir." To his surprise, her smile widens again. "Been in touch, has he?" she asks wryly, when he doesn't answer. She shakes her head.

"Bunty- my brother, Ben- made him promise he would leave it alone," she tells him with a shrug. "He doesn't approve of my joining the secret service: If Daddy had his way, I'd be married in Cheltenham by now." A slightly more wicked smile. "I am not, alas, the marrying sort, however."

"Indeed you are not." Mycroft gestures to her file, which notes an excellent education, a thorough grounding in modern languages and diplomacy, as well as excellent results in all her firearms tests.

It also notes that all but two of her former relationships have been with other women, one of them up-and-coming troublemaker du jour, Irene Adler.

That's the sort of thing which gets a new recruit noticed- And not necessarily in a positive light.

She inclines her head slightly, understanding the implication without his having to be explicit.

"My tastes are my own," she says evenly. "I don't let them get in the way of the work, and I don't let my hormones drive my decision-making." She inclines her head again. "That, I believe, is something we have in common, Sir."

A beat.

Mycroft says nothing.

She sighs. "Is it a problem?" she asks and he blinks, that rarest of things: surprised. There are few who would have the gumption to ask him straight out and again, he thinks he likes her.

It's an rare thing. to find bluntness and diplomacy in one woman.

"Why no, it's not a problem" he says, rather more animatedly than he intended. Instantly he halts himself. "I merely wished to make you aware- Other departments might have a problem with it." He clears his throat. "But not this one."

"Because of your brother?"

She's getting cheeky now.

"Because it makes no sense to have a problem with it," he counters testily. "For the department, or my brother." Now it's his turn to shrug.

"Aside from the morality of it," he says more smoothly, "forcing operatives to keep their preferences a secret merely makes our enemies' jobs easier."

She nods, not needing him to elaborate: Every major incident with infiltration in MI6′s history had been founded on blackmailing those afraid to have the agency discover that their interests lay in the own sex. To Mycroft's way of thinking, continuing with such a policy would be madness. Unfortunately for him however- and those others, like the woman before him, on whom such a policy impacts- the higher ups have yet to see the wisdom in his attitude.

Even the wise, he muses, can be so very stupid sometimes.

Yet another reason why the sooner I'm in charge, the better.

Another beat of silence stretches out.

This one, though, is more comfortable. The woman opposite him allows it to stretch out, not as a dare but as an invitation: If silence is a prerequisite for the job then silence, she seems to be saying, is what he shall have.

He finds he rather likes that.

She meets his eyes evenly. The sound of his clock ticks quietly in the background and Mycroft knows that he has seen enough to make his decision.

He hopes it is the right one: None of the others have lasted longer than a month.

"The posting begins as soon as I require it," he tells her stiffly. "That means you'll be leaving GCHQ this evening- I expect you to start with me on Monday, is that clear?"

She nods, showing no surprise, though she smiles a little.

It makes her face look rather lovely.

"I'll be here, bright eyed and possibly even bushy-tailed," she tells him. "Sir."

Mycroft elects to treat that statement with the scepticism it deserves.

"You are more than qualified for the job," he tells her, standing. "But then, every other person who has taken this post has been more than qualified too.

"What will see you kept on is how we work together, and how much or little I need to watch over you." He gestures to his office. "This is my house, my kingdom: I only accept those within it whom I wish to have here, do you understand?"

She nods. "So you're the job," she says. "The post is immaterial."

He shoots her a look. "That's not how I would have put it, but yes."

She stands, extending her hand. "Then, until Monday," she says. "Thank you, Sir, for the opportunity." A beat. "And thank you for being honest," she says.

Mycroft's not sure what to make of that.

He shakes her hand though, feels the strength of its grip. Again, he thinks that he feels rather comfortable around this person and before he starts working with her, it would behove him to understand why. He does not, however, say this.

He merely stands, walks her to the door. "Millicent," he tells the office secretary, "Update this candidate's security status: We've found ourselves a new Anthea."

He watches the young woman walk out of his office, heads turning as she goes, and he can't help but feel that something... important just happened here.