Five Ways It Didn’t Happen (And One Way It Might’ve)
Title: Five Ways It Didn’t Happen (And One Way It Might’ve)
Words: 1,298
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
A/N: So I have this pet theory that Anthea is actually Irene Adler (and actually in mutual heart-eyed adoration with Mycroft), however improbable that may be, but hey, this is an update and who knows how else they're going to update things? Anyway, this is another of icanbreakthesky's ideas, five ways Mycroft didn't discover his assistant's real name.
1. “Her name is Irene Adler, she is from New Jersey, her accent is fake,” Sherlock crows triumphantly. “Irene Adler. New Jersey.”
Mycroft is vaguely confused, verging on the edge of completely lost, not that he’ll ever show that in front of Sherlock, thank you very much, but the fact remains. Usually he’s got more time to prepare after he’s been informed that Sherlock is heading their way, but today he’d been in the middle of thinking through a really tricky issue just minutes before.
“We saw her on the telly,” Sherlock goes on, pacing his office and rambling and apparently unaware that Mycroft is only half-listening, half-attempting to keep up with the Siberia problem he’d been working on prior to Sherlock barging in. “She was on a rerun of some American singing show Mrs. Hudson’s got John hooked on, they interviewed her and it was right there at the bottom of the screen-Irene Adler, twenty-two, New Jersey-New Jersey, Mycroft, her accent is faker than your dedication to your diet, and you never once caught it!”
Sherlock conveniently leaves out the part where he’d apparently never once noticed her accent misappropriations as well, Mycroft notes, whoever she may be. He’s just about to ask, mainly out of boredom, when Sherlock spins around to face him, leaning three-quarters of the way over Mycroft’s desk.
“Anthea,” Sherlock says, very slowly, very carefully, and very quietly, grinning all the while. “Is a fraud.”
The gears, the background noise, Siberia, the errant thoughts, all of it, very suddenly, grinds to a halt.
---
2. Sir-
I’m sorry to leave you in such a state, but this note will have to serve as my letter of resignation. A bit informal, but it’s pretty good under the circumstances, I think.
Please tell Sherlock he was wrong; I was not concealing my identity from you for some malicious intent or purpose, but from others, for reasons of safety and security. That is to say, I was not hiding myself from the government, but in it. As I’ve been uncovered it’s no longer safe for me here, even at your side. Please also know that whatever I said to you outside of the confines of work was, for better or worse, the absolute truth.
If you ever find yourself on my side of the Atlantic, feel free to look me up. I have no doubt you’ll be able to track me down; whether you find me, of course, is entirely up to you.
Love and regards,
Irene (AKA Anthea)
The note crumples in his fist as his insides do as well. When he finally manages to look up, Sherlock is looking at him with what’s likely the closest to an expression of pity as he’s ever managed. Anger wells up in Mycroft’s chest over that, taking the place of whatever was there before.
“I’m…” Sherlock just looks confused; Mycroft’s sure his face is a wash of emotions Sherlock doesn’t know how to interpret or react to. “I’m-I’m sorry, Mycroft.”
“Please,” Mycroft mutters nastily, rearranging his face into something more neutral. “Don’t be.”
---
3. Mycroft chuckles, leaning over to nudge the cup of tea closer to Sherlock, who’s still staring at him from across the desk.
“Really,” Mycroft says. “Took you long enough.”
“You knew?”
“I’m somewhat disappointed you didn’t know I knew.”
“But why-“ Sherlock frowns.
“Little brother,” Mycroft says, settling back in the chair with his own cup: black, two sugars, just the way he likes it. “When you are in a position such as mine, you recognize the value of someone who can keep you on your toes, whatever the circumstances.”
---
4. “Ida.”
“No.”
“Ignacia.”
“No.”
“Ilissa.”
“You’re going to be keeping this up forever at this rate, sir.”
“Thank you for the reminder…Imogen.”
She chuckles at that, their shoulders bumping companionably as they make the turn onto Marylebone. “No, thank goodness.”
“Indiana.”
“Didn’t they name the dog Indiana?”
“Inez, Ingrid, Iolani-“
“Globetrotting, I see. You’re still no closer, though. We’re nearly there.”
“Ira?”
“Not quite.”
Mycroft sighs, about ready to give up for the day. He flips open the file in his lap, figuring he should have at least some idea of what meeting he’s heading into, and mutters, “Irene.”
He’s not generally one to be caught off-guard, but when he feels her hand on his cheek, he starts slightly. He looks up to ask what she’s doing, but before he can, her lips press against his, tongue parting them ever so slightly. A part of his mind worries because while they’ve done this, they’ve never done this so publicly-and another part feels annoyed that he cannot consider the back seat of his own car private, in so much-but all his worries seem to melt away as he opens his eyes to find her smiling.
“Finally,” she says, before leaning in again.
---
5. “Lestrade,” Mycroft nods as the door to his office opens. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this interruption?”
“Er, ah, well,” he hears the hesitance in Lestrade’s voice, clear as the noon bells. “I brought those files you wanted.”
When the files are produced but not placed upon his desk, Mycroft finally deigns to look up from the paper he’d been working on. Lestrade is nervous, that much is clear; he’s either done something wrong or something he shouldn’t have with the paperwork, Mycroft would wager, judging by the way he fidgets with the folders in his hands.
“Is there something bothering you, detective inspector?”
“Well…” wherever his nerve was before, Lestrade seems to have finally found it again, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “Well, yes.”
Mycroft leans back in his chair, waving at the seats across from him. Instead, Lestrade steps forward and stands next to the chairs, placing one of his two files on the desk.
“You wanted a list of cases within the last ten years, involving both arson and burglary, for the Ormstein case, right?”
“Thank you for confirming with me what I told you, detective inspector,” he picks up the file, keeping his eyes on the one still in Lestrade’s arm. He nods toward it. “And that is?”
“Oh. Well…” Lestrade pauses once more, and it’s all Mycroft can do to keep from rolling his eyes. “I know you didn’t quite ask for it, but…I think this case might be of interest as well. There was an attempted arson and an attempted burglary, over at Briony Lodge, on Serpentine a few years back, and it seems to sort of fit the pattern you-“
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Mycroft cuts in, gesturing for the folder. “Perhaps I’ll look it over in my next attempt at spare time.”
The sarcasm isn’t lost; Lestrade’s back stiffens, and he leaves the office without another word. With a sigh, Mycroft flips to the first page of the report. Victim Irene Adler, smoke bomb, evacuation, damage to the wall, nothing reported missing-
Boring. Boring, and completely unrelated to the task at hand. He sets it aside, in one of the drawers he’s mentally labeled ‘eventually,’ and returns to the list of actual crimes.
It’s two years before he makes it to the second page, where the victim’s photograph is attached by paperclip.
---
1. “It was my father’s mother’s name,” she whispers conversationally into the darkness one night. “Marie Anthea Adler. He wanted someone to carry it on, but my mother hated it. She thought it sounded too science-fiction-y, so they went with her mother. Irina. Irene.”
“Irina,” Mycroft muses, resting his chin in the smooth juncture of neck and shoulder. “Russian?”
“Ukranian.”
He presses his lips softly against the side of her jaw. “Full of surprises.”
“Mmm,” she murmurs in agreement, rolling over to face him. “The only way to live.”
Words: 1,298
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
A/N: So I have this pet theory that Anthea is actually Irene Adler (and actually in mutual heart-eyed adoration with Mycroft), however improbable that may be, but hey, this is an update and who knows how else they're going to update things? Anyway, this is another of icanbreakthesky's ideas, five ways Mycroft didn't discover his assistant's real name.
1. “Her name is Irene Adler, she is from New Jersey, her accent is fake,” Sherlock crows triumphantly. “Irene Adler. New Jersey.”
Mycroft is vaguely confused, verging on the edge of completely lost, not that he’ll ever show that in front of Sherlock, thank you very much, but the fact remains. Usually he’s got more time to prepare after he’s been informed that Sherlock is heading their way, but today he’d been in the middle of thinking through a really tricky issue just minutes before.
“We saw her on the telly,” Sherlock goes on, pacing his office and rambling and apparently unaware that Mycroft is only half-listening, half-attempting to keep up with the Siberia problem he’d been working on prior to Sherlock barging in. “She was on a rerun of some American singing show Mrs. Hudson’s got John hooked on, they interviewed her and it was right there at the bottom of the screen-Irene Adler, twenty-two, New Jersey-New Jersey, Mycroft, her accent is faker than your dedication to your diet, and you never once caught it!”
Sherlock conveniently leaves out the part where he’d apparently never once noticed her accent misappropriations as well, Mycroft notes, whoever she may be. He’s just about to ask, mainly out of boredom, when Sherlock spins around to face him, leaning three-quarters of the way over Mycroft’s desk.
“Anthea,” Sherlock says, very slowly, very carefully, and very quietly, grinning all the while. “Is a fraud.”
The gears, the background noise, Siberia, the errant thoughts, all of it, very suddenly, grinds to a halt.
---
2. Sir-
I’m sorry to leave you in such a state, but this note will have to serve as my letter of resignation. A bit informal, but it’s pretty good under the circumstances, I think.
Please tell Sherlock he was wrong; I was not concealing my identity from you for some malicious intent or purpose, but from others, for reasons of safety and security. That is to say, I was not hiding myself from the government, but in it. As I’ve been uncovered it’s no longer safe for me here, even at your side. Please also know that whatever I said to you outside of the confines of work was, for better or worse, the absolute truth.
If you ever find yourself on my side of the Atlantic, feel free to look me up. I have no doubt you’ll be able to track me down; whether you find me, of course, is entirely up to you.
Love and regards,
Irene (AKA Anthea)
The note crumples in his fist as his insides do as well. When he finally manages to look up, Sherlock is looking at him with what’s likely the closest to an expression of pity as he’s ever managed. Anger wells up in Mycroft’s chest over that, taking the place of whatever was there before.
“I’m…” Sherlock just looks confused; Mycroft’s sure his face is a wash of emotions Sherlock doesn’t know how to interpret or react to. “I’m-I’m sorry, Mycroft.”
“Please,” Mycroft mutters nastily, rearranging his face into something more neutral. “Don’t be.”
---
3. Mycroft chuckles, leaning over to nudge the cup of tea closer to Sherlock, who’s still staring at him from across the desk.
“Really,” Mycroft says. “Took you long enough.”
“You knew?”
“I’m somewhat disappointed you didn’t know I knew.”
“But why-“ Sherlock frowns.
“Little brother,” Mycroft says, settling back in the chair with his own cup: black, two sugars, just the way he likes it. “When you are in a position such as mine, you recognize the value of someone who can keep you on your toes, whatever the circumstances.”
---
4. “Ida.”
“No.”
“Ignacia.”
“No.”
“Ilissa.”
“You’re going to be keeping this up forever at this rate, sir.”
“Thank you for the reminder…Imogen.”
She chuckles at that, their shoulders bumping companionably as they make the turn onto Marylebone. “No, thank goodness.”
“Indiana.”
“Didn’t they name the dog Indiana?”
“Inez, Ingrid, Iolani-“
“Globetrotting, I see. You’re still no closer, though. We’re nearly there.”
“Ira?”
“Not quite.”
Mycroft sighs, about ready to give up for the day. He flips open the file in his lap, figuring he should have at least some idea of what meeting he’s heading into, and mutters, “Irene.”
He’s not generally one to be caught off-guard, but when he feels her hand on his cheek, he starts slightly. He looks up to ask what she’s doing, but before he can, her lips press against his, tongue parting them ever so slightly. A part of his mind worries because while they’ve done this, they’ve never done this so publicly-and another part feels annoyed that he cannot consider the back seat of his own car private, in so much-but all his worries seem to melt away as he opens his eyes to find her smiling.
“Finally,” she says, before leaning in again.
---
5. “Lestrade,” Mycroft nods as the door to his office opens. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this interruption?”
“Er, ah, well,” he hears the hesitance in Lestrade’s voice, clear as the noon bells. “I brought those files you wanted.”
When the files are produced but not placed upon his desk, Mycroft finally deigns to look up from the paper he’d been working on. Lestrade is nervous, that much is clear; he’s either done something wrong or something he shouldn’t have with the paperwork, Mycroft would wager, judging by the way he fidgets with the folders in his hands.
“Is there something bothering you, detective inspector?”
“Well…” wherever his nerve was before, Lestrade seems to have finally found it again, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “Well, yes.”
Mycroft leans back in his chair, waving at the seats across from him. Instead, Lestrade steps forward and stands next to the chairs, placing one of his two files on the desk.
“You wanted a list of cases within the last ten years, involving both arson and burglary, for the Ormstein case, right?”
“Thank you for confirming with me what I told you, detective inspector,” he picks up the file, keeping his eyes on the one still in Lestrade’s arm. He nods toward it. “And that is?”
“Oh. Well…” Lestrade pauses once more, and it’s all Mycroft can do to keep from rolling his eyes. “I know you didn’t quite ask for it, but…I think this case might be of interest as well. There was an attempted arson and an attempted burglary, over at Briony Lodge, on Serpentine a few years back, and it seems to sort of fit the pattern you-“
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Mycroft cuts in, gesturing for the folder. “Perhaps I’ll look it over in my next attempt at spare time.”
The sarcasm isn’t lost; Lestrade’s back stiffens, and he leaves the office without another word. With a sigh, Mycroft flips to the first page of the report. Victim Irene Adler, smoke bomb, evacuation, damage to the wall, nothing reported missing-
Boring. Boring, and completely unrelated to the task at hand. He sets it aside, in one of the drawers he’s mentally labeled ‘eventually,’ and returns to the list of actual crimes.
It’s two years before he makes it to the second page, where the victim’s photograph is attached by paperclip.
---
1. “It was my father’s mother’s name,” she whispers conversationally into the darkness one night. “Marie Anthea Adler. He wanted someone to carry it on, but my mother hated it. She thought it sounded too science-fiction-y, so they went with her mother. Irina. Irene.”
“Irina,” Mycroft muses, resting his chin in the smooth juncture of neck and shoulder. “Russian?”
“Ukranian.”
He presses his lips softly against the side of her jaw. “Full of surprises.”
“Mmm,” she murmurs in agreement, rolling over to face him. “The only way to live.”