THE PLAN (or as I like to call it: Operation Mystrade)

6

A low moan escapes his open mouth. "Oh, god." He blinks slowly before his eyes focus on me. "Anthea."

I stare at him, my brows furrowed. "Sir? What is it?" I ask. What could it be, did he see something? Someone? Are we in danger? I glance around, but can barely see anything but the rain around us. I turn back to him.

          "Sherlock." He chokes out, and the knuckles of his right hand are so white as he clenches his fist that I just know were he holding his beloved umbrella, the handle would be in danger of snapping.

I nod, trying to get him to continue. "Yes. Sherlock, your brother." He just looks at me, and I sigh. "What about him, exactly? I need you to be more specific, sir, if you expect me to follow." I put my hand on my hip and wait patiently. I know what you're thinking; Mycroft Holmes, being vague?Mycroft Holmes being -what, somewhat irrational, standing still in the pouring rain? Mycroft Holmes, the Mycroft Holmes, not making any sense? No, never! But you'd be wrong. It actually happens more often then you'd think. I've learned through my years as his PA that the only thing to do is wait it out. It might take him a while, but eventually he'll get around to explaining.

He takes a few deep breaths, the shocked and slightly distressed look still on his face before he says, "Anthea. We are going to Baker Street. Where Sherlock is. My brother." Mycroft glances down at himself and shudders. "He will see me. Like this." He stares at me, his eyes wide.

Oh. Oh! I take a small step back and glance over him completely, taking in the completely sopping suit and the messed up hair. I nod. "Yes, well, you certainly aren't your best right now, but I'm sure it'll be fine." I say, trying to be soothing. I'm afraid I rather fail though, since I can feel a smile making my lips twitch.

          "Oh, god. This is a disaster of the largest proportions." Mycroft hurries forwards suddenly, quicker than he was before, no longer caring about his shoes (or my guess is he most likely forgot about them). I have to rush to keep up, his legs much longer than mine, and me wearing heels to boot.

Ha, to boot. Heels to boot. I am in fact, wearing heeled boots. The pun is strong with this one.

No? Fine. I suppose you are one of those people who think puns to be the lowest form of wit. Well, let me tell you something; you're wrong.

Anyways, back to the narrative-

          "Sir, slow down!" I raise my voice, but it doesn't stop him in the slightest. I can't help but sigh as I run through the wet streets after him; moving this fast is causing puddles to splash muddy water up over my legs. Ew, gross. I make a face and continue on, but I can feel the water running down my legs and seeping into the tops of my boots now, and it's disgusting. Ugh.

When I finally catch up with him, he is standing outside of 221b Baker Street, just staring at the door. I roll my eyes. Honestly, I'm surrounded by drama queens.