Know when you are beaten
Summary:
The worst phone call 'Anthea' ever had to make.
Or:
The story of who Irene had photos of and the explanation of why 'Anthea' isn't in series 2.
Notes: This fic has not been in my WIP folder since series 2. Not. At. All.
-x-
She walked around the bedroom that she’d never quite managed to make her own. It was something with the… something that didn’t feel like a real home. Like people actually lived her. Slept here. Made love here. Existed here. Maybe that was unfair, it wasn’t really the room’s fault, was it? It didn’t help, though, that come the revolution, everything in the room would be the first things thrown on the fire. She wouldn’t miss a single embroidered pillowcases.
She chewed on her thumbnail. It was a nervous habit she had killed after university, but which had resurfaced this last year. It was not very lady-like they told her, again and again. Even the papers had commented on the state of her fingernails - because let’s focus on what’s really important in the world right now.
In her other hand she held a phone in a tight grip. Her old phone. Her work phone. Not the one they had given her when she married, and which her paranoid self was sure they tapped. It had taken ages to find the charger for the BlackBerry, but now the battery was fully charged and she was just… stalling. After another three laps of the room she sat down on her husband’s side of the bed.
She took a deep breath before finally dialling the secret, but to her so very familiar number. It took four beeps before her former employer picked up.
“Mycroft Holmes.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Your Highness?”
She could picture him straightening up, his tone more surprised than anything else. They hadn’t spoken in eight months, not since her wedding when she’d married into the Royal family and left his service. She had tried to convince herself that it was because they were both busy people - him pretending to run the world, and her… whatever - but deep down she knew it was more to it. Broken trusts. Broken promises. Broken friendships.
“What can I do for you, Your Highness?”
“Not calling me that, to start with.”
“I’m fairly sure it’s not appropriate to address the wife of a Royal prince as ‘Mrs Windsor’, and definitely not as ‘Ms Somers’.”
She huffed a short laugh. “No. No, perhaps not. I’m sorry I’m calling out of the blue like this…”
“It’s all right,” he said, and she believed him. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s not?” she said before she could stop herself. She sighed. “I’ve made a mess of things.”
“Do the papers know yet?”
“No, that’s the point. I’m being blackmailed. Or… sort of.”
“Magnussen?”
She took a deep breath, her eyes closed. “Irene Adler.”
Mr Holmes was quiet, the weight of the dominatrix’s name hanging between them. She wondered briefly if he knew who Ms Adler was, but of course he did - Ms Adler had brought down at least two politicians already this year - which meant she had just admitted to more than just reckless stupidity. It was the stupidity that was difficult to own up to, though. Even if they had never discussed it, she was pretty sure Mr Holmes already knew her sexual preferences.
Mr Holmes finally cleared his throat. “Are we talking pictures, videos, payments…?”
“Just pictures, as far as I know. I’ve paid cash.”
“Does anyone at court know?”
“No.”
There was another long paus. She wondered which office he was in. Or if he was at the office at all. She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, it was late enough for him to possibly be home.
“You’ll need the full force of the Royal PR team to deal with this, if it breaks. Don’t let them be blind sighted with this. They are bad enough when they know about scandals in advance.”
“I know.” She sighed, rubbing her eye. She had spent a fair amount of time cleaning up that very team’s messes when she was still working. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “I know.”
“Is there anyone you can tell?”
“There’s no one I want to tell.”
“Your Highness.”
“Oh, bugger off.”
“There must be someone.”
“They don’t really care that much for me here. Never have.” She almost said “I’m not exactly ‘royal material’ as you kept pointing out.” but didn’t.
“Talk to Harry Taube. We went to Eton together. It won’t take too much subtle suggestions to get me officially involved.”
“I don’t want anyone ‘officially involved’,” she muttered, but added when she heard Mr Holmes starting to speak, “I know. I should have thought of that earlier.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“I should have, though.”
“Perhaps. Can I… can I ask why you went to Ms Adler?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Why does anyone go to her, sir?”
“A number of reasons, I would assume.”
“One of them, then.”
“Do we need to plan an exit?”
It took her a moment to understand what he was asking. When she did, she stared blankly into space for a long time. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Not really. It wasn’t done in this family - except when it was. Like everything else.
And ‘we’? After feeling lonely for months, that tiny word, that pronoun, almost broke her.
“I’m not saying that I do,” she started, slowly, “but if I did… would it be better or worse if it happened before Ms Adler goes to the press?”
“Ms Adler won’t go to the press. That factor is irrelevant.”
“You know it’s not, sir.”
“The press will try to tear the Royal family to shreds either way, but they have survived sexual scandal and divorce before,” said Mr Holmes, leaving out the bit about what the press would do to her.
“And he’s not the Prince of Wales.”
“No, he’s not. Talk to Harry. Call me back when you have.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You do need an answer to the need for an exit plan when you talk to him, though.”
“That might not be entirely my decision.”
“No, but you still need the answer.”
She sighed deeply. “One more thing?”
“Of course.”
“When I call you back, use my first name.”
“Only if you would start using mine.”
“I will.” She remembered being unable to not frown when she’d heard his name the first time. It was such an odd name. She had used it before, a few times, but always jokingly. She’d never made a habit of it.
Now she smiled at the invitation to call her old boss by his first name.
“We’ll figure this out.”
She exhaled through her nose. “I almost believe you.”
“I’m right more often than I’m wrong.”
“That you are,” she said, laughing. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll talk to Harry.”
“Good, and then call me.”
“I promise.”
“Take care… Andrea.”
She smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
After they ended the call she sat there for a long time. On her husband’s side of the bed, in a bedroom where she didn’t feel she belonged. Her old phone in her hand. Still smiling.
She realised that, yes, she would need to start thinking about an exit plan…
The worst phone call 'Anthea' ever had to make.
Or:
The story of who Irene had photos of and the explanation of why 'Anthea' isn't in series 2.
Notes: This fic has not been in my WIP folder since series 2. Not. At. All.
-x-
She walked around the bedroom that she’d never quite managed to make her own. It was something with the… something that didn’t feel like a real home. Like people actually lived her. Slept here. Made love here. Existed here. Maybe that was unfair, it wasn’t really the room’s fault, was it? It didn’t help, though, that come the revolution, everything in the room would be the first things thrown on the fire. She wouldn’t miss a single embroidered pillowcases.
She chewed on her thumbnail. It was a nervous habit she had killed after university, but which had resurfaced this last year. It was not very lady-like they told her, again and again. Even the papers had commented on the state of her fingernails - because let’s focus on what’s really important in the world right now.
In her other hand she held a phone in a tight grip. Her old phone. Her work phone. Not the one they had given her when she married, and which her paranoid self was sure they tapped. It had taken ages to find the charger for the BlackBerry, but now the battery was fully charged and she was just… stalling. After another three laps of the room she sat down on her husband’s side of the bed.
She took a deep breath before finally dialling the secret, but to her so very familiar number. It took four beeps before her former employer picked up.
“Mycroft Holmes.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Your Highness?”
She could picture him straightening up, his tone more surprised than anything else. They hadn’t spoken in eight months, not since her wedding when she’d married into the Royal family and left his service. She had tried to convince herself that it was because they were both busy people - him pretending to run the world, and her… whatever - but deep down she knew it was more to it. Broken trusts. Broken promises. Broken friendships.
“What can I do for you, Your Highness?”
“Not calling me that, to start with.”
“I’m fairly sure it’s not appropriate to address the wife of a Royal prince as ‘Mrs Windsor’, and definitely not as ‘Ms Somers’.”
She huffed a short laugh. “No. No, perhaps not. I’m sorry I’m calling out of the blue like this…”
“It’s all right,” he said, and she believed him. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s not?” she said before she could stop herself. She sighed. “I’ve made a mess of things.”
“Do the papers know yet?”
“No, that’s the point. I’m being blackmailed. Or… sort of.”
“Magnussen?”
She took a deep breath, her eyes closed. “Irene Adler.”
Mr Holmes was quiet, the weight of the dominatrix’s name hanging between them. She wondered briefly if he knew who Ms Adler was, but of course he did - Ms Adler had brought down at least two politicians already this year - which meant she had just admitted to more than just reckless stupidity. It was the stupidity that was difficult to own up to, though. Even if they had never discussed it, she was pretty sure Mr Holmes already knew her sexual preferences.
Mr Holmes finally cleared his throat. “Are we talking pictures, videos, payments…?”
“Just pictures, as far as I know. I’ve paid cash.”
“Does anyone at court know?”
“No.”
There was another long paus. She wondered which office he was in. Or if he was at the office at all. She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, it was late enough for him to possibly be home.
“You’ll need the full force of the Royal PR team to deal with this, if it breaks. Don’t let them be blind sighted with this. They are bad enough when they know about scandals in advance.”
“I know.” She sighed, rubbing her eye. She had spent a fair amount of time cleaning up that very team’s messes when she was still working. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “I know.”
“Is there anyone you can tell?”
“There’s no one I want to tell.”
“Your Highness.”
“Oh, bugger off.”
“There must be someone.”
“They don’t really care that much for me here. Never have.” She almost said “I’m not exactly ‘royal material’ as you kept pointing out.” but didn’t.
“Talk to Harry Taube. We went to Eton together. It won’t take too much subtle suggestions to get me officially involved.”
“I don’t want anyone ‘officially involved’,” she muttered, but added when she heard Mr Holmes starting to speak, “I know. I should have thought of that earlier.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“I should have, though.”
“Perhaps. Can I… can I ask why you went to Ms Adler?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Why does anyone go to her, sir?”
“A number of reasons, I would assume.”
“One of them, then.”
“Do we need to plan an exit?”
It took her a moment to understand what he was asking. When she did, she stared blankly into space for a long time. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Not really. It wasn’t done in this family - except when it was. Like everything else.
And ‘we’? After feeling lonely for months, that tiny word, that pronoun, almost broke her.
“I’m not saying that I do,” she started, slowly, “but if I did… would it be better or worse if it happened before Ms Adler goes to the press?”
“Ms Adler won’t go to the press. That factor is irrelevant.”
“You know it’s not, sir.”
“The press will try to tear the Royal family to shreds either way, but they have survived sexual scandal and divorce before,” said Mr Holmes, leaving out the bit about what the press would do to her.
“And he’s not the Prince of Wales.”
“No, he’s not. Talk to Harry. Call me back when you have.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You do need an answer to the need for an exit plan when you talk to him, though.”
“That might not be entirely my decision.”
“No, but you still need the answer.”
She sighed deeply. “One more thing?”
“Of course.”
“When I call you back, use my first name.”
“Only if you would start using mine.”
“I will.” She remembered being unable to not frown when she’d heard his name the first time. It was such an odd name. She had used it before, a few times, but always jokingly. She’d never made a habit of it.
Now she smiled at the invitation to call her old boss by his first name.
“We’ll figure this out.”
She exhaled through her nose. “I almost believe you.”
“I’m right more often than I’m wrong.”
“That you are,” she said, laughing. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll talk to Harry.”
“Good, and then call me.”
“I promise.”
“Take care… Andrea.”
She smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
After they ended the call she sat there for a long time. On her husband’s side of the bed, in a bedroom where she didn’t feel she belonged. Her old phone in her hand. Still smiling.
She realised that, yes, she would need to start thinking about an exit plan…