"You wanted to see me, sir?"

A pretty woman walked confidently into the room, eyes fixated on the screen of her Blackberry. Her manicured fingernails tapped incessantly on the keypad, red nail varnish matching her expensive Chanel suit. The sound of her four-inch Christian Louboutins echoed rather loudly around the dimly-lit room, and she looked up to meet her employer's gaze.

The other occupant of the room intensely stared right back at the woman through his glasses, but she didn't even blink. The light emanating from a laptop on his desk highlighted his features: pristinely-combed brunette hair, a sharp nose, slight stubble around the man's thin lips and a chiselled jaw – this was a man no one would (and should) ever mess with. "It has come to my attention that a certain website has somehow accumulated incriminating evidence against me, Anthea."

Anthea's countenance faltered for a split second, showing a hint of surprise before it showed no emotion yet again. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

Mycroft Holmes leant back against his roller chair and started moving side to side slowly. The deft fingers on his right hand started nursing a tumbler filled with a good amount of scotch, their counterparts drumming absent-mindedly against the armrest. Mycroft's gaze on his personal assistant was yet to be wavered.

"Certain parties have gathered information on my comings and goings, Anthea. Most of them are, luckily, preposterous and false, but yet some of them are remarkably true. These are the ones I'm worried about. Any information on me cannot possibly be known to anyone, not when we're so close to having the Colombian president impeached." Mycroft brushed off an imaginary speck of dirt before leaning slightly forward on his desk. "Has anything been off lately, Anthea? You seem… worried."

Anthea barely restrained the urge to flinch. She had thought she was controlling her anxiety pretty well, but then realized that it was foolish of her to even think that she could possibly deceive the man. Mycroft Holmes wasn't the British Government for nothing.

"We were aware of this site, sir," the assistant started saying before hesitating.

"Yes?" Mycroft prodded on slowly, a paradox at its best. His voice was gentle but as forceful as a raging typhoon.

"We were aware of it, sir, but we didn't expect it to be dangerous. It was harmless; it seemed harmless." Anthea corrected himself. "But now I see that we have made a mistake. I apologize, sir."

Mycroft stared at his assistant a little while longer before he finally stopped looking at her intently. He peered at his laptop through his horn-rimmed glasses. "It's quite alright, Anthea, it does look rather innocuous. I wouldn't have expected you to suspect anything."

Anthea's breath hitched. This was the closest thing she'd get to a scolding from her boss. "We can still delete the website, sir."

"Hold on just a second, there, Anthea. We're in no rush. Now that we're aware of what is going on, we can use this to our full advantage," Mycroft replied, waving off her suggestion perfunctorily. He started typing gently on his keyboard, a few gentle clicks of the mousepad accompanying it. Mycroft stopped what he was doing. "Oh, my. It seems that they have information on my brother and John Watson as well. They're in possible danger. Tell Merchant he can stop monitoring Spike and transfer to Baker Street. Upgrade surveillance: Grade One active."

"By Spike, sir, you mean – ?"

"Prince Harry, dear. I'm sure he'll be alright." Mycroft drawled, rolling his eyes as he did so. Windsors.

"On it, sir." Anthea started typing hurriedly on her Blackberry.

Meanwhile, the British Government studied the page in front of him more closely. How these people managed to procure some of the world's most heavily-guarded secrets (and by that, he meant his schedule) was beyond him. They were dangerous; that Mycroft was certain of.

Deleting the site will not be enough. They needed to be terminated.

"Merchant's moving, sir," Anthea reported.

"And Prince Harry?"

"Blacklisted, sir. Not a flight carrier to Las Vegas anywhere."

"Good." Mycroft nodded, satisfied. "Tell Coleman and Norton to start searching the IP addresses of everyone involved in this site as quick as they can. We haven't got much time." Mycroft spared a glance at his pocket-watch. "Prepare a dozen interrogation rooms, Anthea. I'm sure twelve will be sufficient. As for the others," Mycroft gave his assistant a dangerous smile, his next words practically dripping with acid. "Well. You know what to do."

"Yes, sir," Anthea replied quietly, furiously tapping yet again on her Blackberry. The sound of her heels clacked against the solid marble floor of Mycroft Holmes' office at the Diogenes Club as she turned around to leave the room. Seconds later, the door latched silently at her departure.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and stared at the screen opposite him.

"No one knows information about me without being dead, ladies and gentlemen. Discretion is the game in which I am the master of playing, among others. Don't think for one second I shall allow this to continue on," Mycroft whispered dangerously at the computer.

The British Government started thinking of suitable consequences for every party involved, every single thought getting more sinister than the last. He started maliciously cackling, looking at the rim of his tumbler before taking a healthy gulp.

His phone beeped.

All ready, sir.
– A

Mycroft Holmes smiled not-so-innocently at his phone before looking at the computer screen once more.

"Goodbye, fanfiction . net."

sorry i'm not sorry

A/N: Sherlock is not mine, duh.
(c) Arthur Conan Doyle, Moftiss