Inspired by the film 'Sabrina' (either adaptation tbh). Naturally, changes have been made to fit characters, and it isn't a replica of the story, but many elements are inspired for this fic. Enjoy!

Once upon a time, on the south shore of England, some fifty or so miles from London, there lived a small girl on a large estate. The estate was very large indeed and had many servants. There were gardeners to take care of the gardens, and a tree surgeon on a retainer. There was a boatman to take care of the boats: to put them in the water in the spring, and scrape their bottoms in the winter. There were specialists to take care of the grounds: the outdoor tennis court and the indoor tennis court, the outdoor swimming pool and the indoor swimming pool. And there was a man of no particular title who took care of a small pool in the garden for a goldfish named Toby. Also on the estate living above the garage was a chauffeur by the name of Barsetti, who had been imported from Italy, years ago, together with a new Fornasari. Barsetti was a fine chauffeur of considerable polish, like the eight cars in his care, and he had a daughter by the name of Anthea. It was the eve of the annual six meter yacht races, and as had been tradition of Brighton for the past 30 years, the Holmes were giving a party. It never rained on the night of the Holmes party, the Holmes wouldn't have stood for it. There were four Holmes in all: father, mother and two sons. Mycroft Holmes, the elder son, graduated from Cambridge, where his classmates voted him the man Most Likely to Become Prime Minister. His brother, Sherlock, went through several of the best eastern colleges for short periods of time, and through several stays in rehabilitation for even shorter periods of time. He is now a successful consulting detective, a job he made up, and is listed on Mycroft's tax return as a £4000 deduction. Life was pleasant among the Holmes, for this was as close to heaven as one could get in Brighton.

As she often did, Anthea sat perched on the sturdy limb of a tree overlooking the terrace that was currently filled with swaying couples. Through the open French doors, Mycroft was surrounded by important looking men, clearly annoyed at the conversation. Or perhaps he was simply annoyed with the men in general. It was hard to tell; he was always so serious. Sherlock, on the other hand, milled around the edges of the party, sourly deducing each guest until they either threw a drink in his face or burst into tears. He'd gotten rather good at avoiding thrown drinks. His mother forced him to attend the yearly party, and parties were not Sherlock's forte. Anthea watched with some amusement (and a little pity) as his next target stepped up, attempting to get him to dance by way of flirtation. The women at the party were all a dime-a-dozen, looking for a rich husband to make a good match and secure their expensive style of living. Either of the Holmes brothers would make an excellent match, as far as finances went. However Mycroft was far too busy working (at whatever it was he did) and Sherlock was a happily settled bachelor in London, looking for a flat mate to help share rent and utilities, and quite comfortably living on whatever salary a Consulting Detective makes. Clearly a good enough salary for him to scrape by in Central London.

"'Thea?"

She turned at the sound of her father calling her. "Here," she called.

"Just where I expected you to be," he smiled up at her. "Come on, you'd better come down and pack, you've got an early flight."

"Yes I know, I just wanted to see –"

"You know how these things always go, come on now, I need help washing the Rolls."

With a sigh, she slid down, looking over her shoulder just once more.

Up the walkway suddenly stormed Mycroft.

"Good evening, Mycroft," she stepped out of the shadow of the tree as he came to a stop, hearing his voice.

He glanced at her, giving her a curt nod. "Good evening Anthea. You leave tomorrow, do you not?"

"Yes, I do, I-"

"Well have a safe flight, good night," any civility was washed from his expression and he turned quickly, making for his wing of the manor. Clearly, the party was over for him.

With a small sigh, she watched as he retreated across the lawn and disappeared into the house. In a little while, a helicopter rose on the other side, heading for London. She could see Mycroft in the passenger seat, briefcase on his lap.

Slowly, she made her way across the paved driveway to the garage where her father was busy soaping up the antique Rolls-Royce.

"Grab a sponge, dear," he said and she obeyed, watching the lights of the helicopter blinking in the distance.

Her father, being the wise man that he was, decided it was time for her to get out into the world, and away from Mycroft Holmes. It wasn't her fault she had to have a crush on the sternest member of the Holmes family. She supposed it was because he was so quiet. She wanted dearly to make him laugh. She was being sent to Paris, to the École Normale Superieure to study. Anthea knew it was for the best, especially since she didn't feel she had a chance with Mycroft. Not that she would ever hope such a thing, but one does love to wallow in pity, especially in a one-sided love affair.

Yes, Barsetti was wise indeed. He knew the distance between his daughter and Mycroft, for an extended period of time, would make all the difference. She would have a chance to grow into her own mind, and to flourish too. Yes, Paris was a good idea.