“Just admit I’m right.”
“Just admit you’re wrong.”
“It’s your fault we’re in this mess.”
“Stop pinning this on me! You started it!”
“You are being ridiculous!”
“Just shut up already.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”
“How dare--” One was warned of many things, when one entered the employ of a member of the British government. At the very top of the list was to never, ever let your superior get close enough to kiss you.
No one had issued any warnings about said superior’s younger siblings, however.
Oh, Sherlock had always been a handful, since day one of her employ as Mycroft’s personal assistant. But she hadn’t minded her secondary job as his personal handler. It was an interesting job, to say the least. It wasn’t that she idolized him, but he was fascinating in his own way, a way that his older brother wasn't. And the chance to observe him had left quite a lot of time to puzzle out the mystery of the great Sherlock Holmes.
Of course, he had to play his games with her. He texted her damn near all the time, mostly to use her to spy on his brother. There were times she would leak him information, but always for a price. She was careful not to make it too valuable; there were some things Mycroft would allow, in the vein of keeping Sherlock out of trouble, but other things were too important for petty games. Sometimes he wanted to extract information from her, for whatever reasons wandered into that rather handsome head of his. Never anything of importance really. A memory. Her shoe size. Favorite colour. Little things of non-importance. She was willing to oblige for bits of information about him, usually of more import: location, sobriety level, where he hid the Jammie Dodgers in Mycroft’s home so she could clear them out before Mycroft retired for the day.
It was a system that had worked well between then for years.
She should have known better than the change it for his request to be his pretend date for this £900 a plate charity fundraiser. Mycroft had waved her off with a “by your leave,” and she had gone home to find an emerald green dress to her exact measurements with matching shoes, nicer than most of what she wore to galas and whatnot with Mycroft. She took a moment to revel in the luxury of being seen instead of the shadow, being on the arm with a handsome man instead of in the background…
...and then it all went to hell.
But here, now, they were alone with masks on, in a room of masked people in various states of undress, and he’d pushed her against the wall and kissed her, lowering the strap of her dress as she eagerly kissed him back. It was all a game, to be sure; she never closed her eyes for a kiss, not even one as good as this, and she could see the men who had chased them this way did not really want to be in this room. Prudes, obviously. They weren’t leaving yet so she arched her back slightly and dug her nails into Sherlock and…
Well, now wasn’t that an interesting reaction. He tore his lips away from her, moving them to her neck and there was going to be quite the visible reaction in his trousers should he not will it away.
“You aren’t playing fair,” Sherlock murmured.
“They aren’t leaving,” she said as she felt his teeth at her neck and she drew in a breath. “Bastard.”
“Turnabout is fair play.”
“Is it?” she asked archly. Then, seeing their would be captors turning around and making another sweep towards them, she tilted her head back as Sherlock teased her neck. “Leave marks and I’ll deck you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. Oh, she was going to kill him as soon as they were free and clear. Once they were back in the limo she was either going to beat the shite out of him and deliver him to John Watson bloodied and bruised or she was taking him straight to her flat and...well, it remained to be seen.
When the men pursuing them left the room, Anthea pushed at him and he pulled himself away. She adjusted the strap of her dress and began to make herself presentable, trying to catch her breath. “Can we leave now?” she asked. Sherlock nodded, then pointed to a wall that no one was near. They moved towards it, and Sherlock pressed a hidden panel. “Will it go out to street level?”
“Yes,” he said. “No one in that room wants to go back the way they’ve come.’
“Pun intended?” Anthea asked archly.
“Of course.” They moved through sparsely lit tunnels, coming out into an alleyway a few blocks away from where the limos were parked. Sherlock tossed away his domino mask and Anthea followed suit. “I appreciate your help, Andrea.”
She shrugged. “My pleasure, I suppose.” She took two steps away from him, but he reached over for her wrist before pulling her closer. “Sherlock?”
“For some reason, I’m attracted to you,” he said. “Not to spite my brother, but...”
She grinned, and then headed towards the limos. “Nightcap?”
After a moment, he grinned back. “I suppose that would be best.”