Chapter Text
January 16, 2000
She’d heard of him, of course.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true—or, at least, not the whole truth. Everyone in MI6 had heard of him: The Boy Wonder, The Enfant Terrible, or, most often, TLS (an appellation Anthea had heard first during an acrimonious debriefing session in her first week—one in which the debriefee ended up with copious amounts of figurative egg on her face, which she, after the session, laid at the door of said “TLS”. Anthea found out later than the letters were shorthand in certain circles for “That Little Shit”).
So having heard of him wasn’t saying much. But Anthea, unlike most people of her acquaintance, had actually listened—not just in official settings, and just as much to what wasn’t said, as what was. And what wasn’t said, in this case, was a single, solitary thing that told her who Sherlock Holmes, “Lock” Holmes, as he called himself, really was.
So she found herself heading into her first official mission briefing, in which she would be working on Mycroft Holmes’ team along with TLS--Lock, with a fair amount of anticipation.
Mycroft was one of ten current team leaders handling European assignments. Very tall, thin, patrician and cool. Anthea liked him, based on their so-far-limited interactions: reserved, certainly, but startlingly intelligent and often wickedly, aridly funny. She had provided last-minute backup for one of his teams twice, handling the typical “baby agent” tasks—remote surveillance, report writing, and the like, though she also once found herself making an unexpected drop-off when another team member was involved in a car smash en route. Mycroft had been quietly pleased with both her efforts and her initiative at picking up the package and taking off, without waiting for either orders or permission. She suspected that this current briefing might well be preparatory to a formal offer to join his group—fairly heady stuff, for an intern who’d only been at MI6 for three months.
She arrived at the meeting room a standard fifteen minutes early—not early enough to seem like she was wasting time she could have spent doing other things, but early enough to sometimes meet the other participants informally before the session kicked off. It made the actual briefings much more effective when she had a clearer picture of the nature of the team. She expected to see Mycroft Holmes there as well—he had once raised an ironic eyebrow when they walked into a meeting room at precisely the same time three sessions in a row.
The room, surprisingly, was empty. She checked her calendar printout; checked the room number; wandered outside and looked down the empty hallway. She had just decided to return to her cubicle and call the meeting organizer when the door from the stairwell opened, and a man—boy—came out.
“No, you’re in the right place,” the boy drawled, in a startlingly deep voice for someone so young. He walked lazily up to her, in skin-tight black designer jeans, dark blue, very expensive long-sleeved jumper and heavy black boots. He dropped his chin and looked at her over the top of his dark, reflective-surfaced sunglasses. (“Sunglasses indoors,” sniffed Anthea’s inner Aunt Margaret. “Insufferable.”) “I jiggered your calendar. The actual meeting doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes.” He looked very pleased with himself.
“Good for you,” she said crisply, spun on her heel and stalked back up the hallway. She was just to the corner when she heard an offended “Hey!” from behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw him standing at the doorway still, an astounded look on his face. She twiddled her fingers at him and kept going.
Thirty minutes later to the second, Anthea was back. This time Mycroft Holmes came out of the stairwell just as she exited the lift, and she gave him a professional smile as he opened the door to the meeting room for her. They were both startled when that deep voice came from the far end of the room.
“She’s rude,” the boy said. Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft beat her to it.
“She’s intelligent,” he said, “and resourceful. Rather like you, but with at least a nodding acquaintance with social decorum,” he said.
The boy scowled and walked over to stand in front of Anthea, giving her a slow up-and-down from behind those ridiculous sunglasses. “I’ll have to be convinced,” he said, addressing himself to his brother—because, of course, Anthea had long since realized that this was the elusive Lock Holmes. TLS.
He was tall—not as tall as his brother, but only just, and the height must have been quite recent, since his muscles still seemed a little startled by it all—just a hair awkward in his movements, though he tried to make up for it by interjecting drama. Dark, curly hair, just long enough to brush his collar, swept back from his brow by an aggressive use of gel of some kind, but left to run rogue in the back. Thin, in the weedy way of boys who had grown quickly and weren’t quite done yet, with huge hands but delicate, fine-boned wrists. He was more pretty than handsome, in part because of his youth.
That prettiness, however, was marred by the thunderous frown that seemed to be his default expression.
Anthea gave him a cheerful, polite smile. “You may wish to unbutton those brows,” she said sweetly. “Causes premature wrinkles, and it would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face.” She heard Mycroft made a choked sound behind her but didn’t turn to look.
Lock’s mouth dropped open in outrage. It took a moment before he could get a sound out. “You, you can’t—why did you—” he trailed off in confusion.
Anthea took pity on the boy, as his brother snickered in the background while fiddling with the audiovisual equipment. “You were just about to make some sort of slighting remark based on my appearance and age. I just beat you to it. So now we’re done, yes?”
To his credit, Lock didn’t stay flustered for long. He pulled himself stiffly to his full height, moving out of his previous languid slouch. Then he looked her carefully up and down, before opening his mouth.
“Intern,” he said crisply. “Scheduled for a six-month berth, but already making moves to accept permanent status prematurely—successfully, judging by my brother’s attentions. Single, lives alone, no pets but unhappy about it, raised by a single mother of vehemently feminist persuasion.” He looked over her clothing one more time before nodding dismissively. “A Sloane Ranger with delusions of competency.” He crossed his arms and waited for her to detonate, while his brother watched with rapt attention from behind the conference table.
Anthea was torn between fury and laughter. He was so determined to be unlikeable.
“Not too bad,” she said, nodding. “I am indeed on a six-month track, but am planning to curtail that if I can—I wouldn’t have taken the internship if I didn’t already know I wanted to stay. I’ll defer to your brother, but I hope you’re not implying anything other than his professional attention.” Mycroft made a soft choking noise but didn’t speak. “I am single and pet-less, unless a flat full of rather large spiders counts.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “But I’m afraid you’re quite off-track on the rest.”
The outrage was back. “How?” Lock barked. “What did I miss? The attire is clearly—”
“They’re mostly my mother’s,” Anthea said, just slightly condescendingly, “and she was, is, definitely a bit Sloanie—well-heeled, obsessively well-groomed and not terribly deep. But the clothes are good quality and I like them, so I wear them. But I’ve never lived with her—I was raised by my Aunt Margaret, who is, to be fair, pretty bolshie about feminism. So I guess I’ll give you that.” She paused for effect. “She’s a diplomat.”
They all knew that word was code for something that was sometimes rather more. Siger Holmes, father of these two extraordinary young men, was also a “diplomat”.
It was clear Lock couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or offended. Anthea didn’t give him the chance to choose before continuing.
“It’s my turn now, I think,” she said, looking him up and down. “Let’s see: youngest child, somewhat spoilt but talented enough that it’s overlooked, at least officially. Successful in last nine missions, each of increasing complexity and responsibility. Enjoy fine clothes, but wear them for effect more than a true concern with fashion. Currently wearing a flick knife concealed in your right boot top, and a lockpick set in your left side pocket. The shape is quite distinctive, and those jeans are very tight.” She looked once more, before bringing her gaze back up to look directly into those mirrored lenses. “And you dress to the left.”
Those sunglasses stared at her momentarily, glinting above Lock’s flinty expression, before that expression suddenly broke into a goofy, slanted grin that transformed his face. He emitted a deep, rumbling laugh that Anthea willingly joined. “Well-played,” he chuckled.
She was struck again by that face, that currently looked twelve at the outside. “How old are you, anyway?” she asked, still grinning.
He sobered instantly. “Twenty-two,” he said stiffly.
“No, you’re not,” Anthea found herself saying in unison with Mycroft, who gave a chuckle of his own.
“Well, I’m almost 20,” Lock said defensively, with a bit of resentment at being caught out.
“In a bit over 11 months,” Mycroft muttered under his breath. Lock turned that lethal scowl on his brother, who ignored him.
“Ooh, then I’m older than you,” Anthea said gleefully. “My birthday was in November.”
“Physically, perhaps,” Sherlock sniffed. “I am considerably more mature, however.”
Mycroft gave an outright bark of laughter, earning him another scowl.
“Moving on,” Anthea said briskly. “Were you an intern as well? I know you’ve been here at least six months, anyway.”
“No, it’s my ‘gap year’, of a sort,” Lock said, waving his hand airily in punctuation. “My brother thought that a taste of espionage before returning to academia might appeal. It would also give my professors a break from me—some of them have no sense of adventure, nor humour.”
“Wait—you mean you’ve already started university?” Anthea asked. “Why did you wait for your gap until after you’d completed your first year?”
The boy shook that shaggy head. “No, I’ve finished. Started uni at 16, so I got a bit of a head start,” he said smugly. “Completed my undergraduate degree this past May. I’ll likely head back for my PhD once I’m done with this lark. But I’m in no particular hurry.”
Anthea was quite sure she had never heard MI6 described as a “lark” before.
She settled next on the most annoying part of this conversation.
“I can’t tell if you’re lying without seeing your eyes,” she said, and reached out to snatch the sunglasses off Lock’s nose, evading his belated grab for them with ease. She nearly dropped them, though, when she looked up and saw what they’d been hiding.
Ice-pale eyes blinked, looking warily over towards his brother, who now strode around the table for a closer view. Around those eyes, the skin was swollen, with colours ranging from almost black, through purple, pale blue and green-yellow. The right eye was mostly closed, the white a deep red at its inner edge.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft breathed, gripping his brother’s chin and angling his head for examination.
The portions of the boy’s face that weren’t blue and purple flushed a deep rose. “Stop,” he muttered. “I’m fine, and gave as good as I got. Well, nearly.”
“Who?” gritted Mycroft.
“You don’t need to—” Lock began.
“Who?” his brother demanded again.
“Cavendish,” Lock said. “He doesn’t like me, and made himself a nuisance yesterday evening after I pointed out a significant misstatement in his report on the Bulgarian mission in the debriefing session with Atherton. But you can’t go after him. You can’t. And anyway, I managed to break three of his fingers, so we’re even. He won’t try it again.” He paused, and lowered his eyes. “Please, Myc,” he said, very softly.
There was a long, rather fraught silence, before Mycroft huffed a sigh. “All right,” he said, “on one condition. If this happens again, you come to me, instantly. Cavendish will no longer be sent on assignments with you. And if I hear of any more problems, he will be off my team, permanently, and I will make sure his future superiors know why.”
Anthea was familiar with Cavendish—large, muscular, and aggressive. She was impressed that Lock, slight as he was, had managed to inflict damage on the man, though it made her wonder what other damage might be lurking under the boy’s jeans and dark jumper.
Mycroft was evidently of the same mind. “Is there anything of note, other than the eyes? Do you need to see Medical? The truth, brother mine.”
“Ribs are sore,” Lock said grudgingly. Mycroft’s hand roughly shoved up the edge of the jumper, eluding Lock’s flailing hands, to expose a dark, blue-green boot print on pale skin. As his brother stared, Lock forced the hand away and jerked the fabric back down.
Anthea realized suddenly that she was nearly as angry as Mycroft. Cavendish was a big man—taller than Mycroft, a bit, and likely three stone heavier. He made two of Lock, and had years of field experience and fight training to boot. It was contemptible.
“I amend my earlier statement,” Mycroft said. “Cavendish is gone, effective today.” He looked at his brother’s dismayed face. “But not for the reason you think—or, at least, not entirely. This,” and he waved his hand to encompass his brother’s damaged form, ”indicates a tendency towards aggression of an inappropriate nature. I have little patience for bullies, and refuse to put my operations at risk from an agent who may react based on testosterone, rather than logic or necessity.” His expression softened slightly. “If you wish, I can base his departure on the Bulgarian mishap. His reaction in the debriefing was quite public enough that it’s common knowledge, evidently.”
Lock gave a jerky nod, his mouth still in an unhappy line.
Just at that point, they heard noises out in the hallway, indicating the remainder of the meeting participants were arriving. Lock quickly slipped his sunglasses back on, and went to stand in the far corner, slouching against a wooden chest by the wall. Anthea, after a moment’s thought, went and stood silently beside him. She caught him looking at her (well, his head turned in her direction, at least) but he quickly turned away again and gave his attention to his brother.
It wasn’t until they were halfway through the briefing that Anthea noticed that Lock’s attention had, at some point in the proceedings, migrated from Mycroft’s presentation to the other members of the current team (one of three that Mycroft was directing, composed almost entirely of people that Anthea barely knew).
She edged carefully closer to the boy, avoiding any noise that might disrupt Mycroft’s flow. As she got close enough, she realized Lock was muttering continuously under his breath, very quietly—older sister, two cats, wants to leave her husband but hasn’t the nerve to say so, significant debt load which may ultimately pose a security risk, remember to tell Mycroft, poor driver, can’t be on transport so that’ll have to change, possible eating disorder, slight tremor in fingers from hangover—
Anthea nudged his shoulder gently and the sound stopped like a tap being turned off, as those sunglasses turned to look at her, eyebrows arching above them in inquiry.
“What?” she mouthed. She was fairly sure he could lip-read; Mycroft certainly could.
“Evaluations,” he said, in a breath of a voice. That lopsided grin showed up again. “It passes the time, and annoys my brother. How can I resist?”
“Try,” Anthea said repressively, and turned her attention back to her (hopefully) employer-to-be.