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He found the first one in with his important mail.
Mycroft received tons of mail – some banal, some important, some very important. All of his mail was scanned four times. Once for biological threats – anthrax, small pox, virus bombs; a second time for threats of any kind, up to and including blackmail, third for compromising and/or sensitive information to be redacted, and then again for “eyes-only” communiqués, which only he and his personal assistant were allowed to open.
He had few rules for his office, as it was his opinion that servants of the civil sort worked better when the expectations of the job and the consequences of failure were clearly outlined. Of course, the outlining usually took place in a warehouse in a sketchy part of town late at night, so there was no mistaking the gravity of what was expected by being in his employ. With this in mind, those who worked in his office were of the most efficient and conscientious in the government.
The most important rule in his office: nothing is put on his desk without going through the four scans. There were no exceptions to this rule. If such a thing were to happen, heads would roll, and persons who once thought that their jobs were secure would find themselves in countries where backbreaking labour was the norm.
Mycroft eyed the small white envelope with a mixture of anger (someone broke THE rule) trepidation, curiosity, (after all, he was a Holmes), and distaste. No postmark, no postage, no return address. Just “To Mycroft” in carefully written block letters with an inexpensive pen. He ran through a series of logical scenarios by which the envelope could have appeared with his important mail. After narrowing the list down from thirty-two, he whittled that list down to four likely scenarios. After a moment’s thought, he discarded them as improbable, unlikely, ridiculous, and highly absurd. After all, no one in his office would dare play a joke on him.
So, he settled on the obvious explanation. The envelope was on his desk for nefarious purposes.
With grim determination, he snapped on a pair of gloves, and took out his long-handled tweezers. He slid the envelope under the innocuous looking lamp on his desk, and turned it on. The infrared light and scanner showed no discernible traces of anything harmful.
Well, he thought. Nothing left but to open it. With the caution born of one accident (fool me once was quite enough), he took up his silver letter opener (which was actually a stiletto knife, confiscated from a would-be assassin in Egypt), slit the top of the envelope open, and stepped back.
Nothing. No anthrax cloud, no harmful mists, or poisoned darts flew his way, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He peered inside, and saw a small card. Too large to be a calling card, too small to be an invitation. Again, various scenarios ran through his mind, but none seemed applicable. Frowning at his overactive thought processes, he slid the card from the envelope onto the desk.
The card showed two anthropomorphic matches in a matchbook, holding hands. (As much as matches have hands…) Behind them was an anthropomorphic heart with the words “Let’s Strike Up a Match, Valentine” embossed on it.
He re-read the card. Then again. On the fifth re-read, he sat down to contemplate the hidden meaning.
Matches? Something to do with fire? He discarded that notion, since anthropomorphic creatures were generally perceived to be benevolent.
Strike? Could be warning of an attack… but on whom? He ran through a list of dignitaries and persons of import under his purview, but could think of no one on whom an attack would be prudent. At least not right now.
A discreet tap on the door interrupted his thought process. “Come.”
Anthea glided into the room, her hands full with folders and envelopes. “The information you requested. Surveillance from Baker Street, and…” She frowned, and eyed the card on his desk with surprise. “You’ve a valentine, sir?" She blinked, then said, "Apologies.”
He waved away her apology. “Oh, that’s… what is it?”
“A valentine’s card.”
“And what does it do?”
“It doesn’t really do anything, sir. It just means that someone fancies you.”
“Fancies me?” The words sounded foreign to his own ears. “Well, I’ve never gotten such a thing before.”
“Never, sir?”
He fixed her with a stern look (which didn’t work on her), and gestured toward the door. “If you’re quite done…?”
Fortunately, she’d been working for him long enough (and saved his life a time or two) for that look or tone to never actually work when they were alone. “You used the infrared on a valentine?”
“It’s on my desk without your stamp.” He pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the bin. “My response was overly cautious, but precautions save you in the long run.”
“You could have asked.”
“It was a puzzle. I could hardly go against my nature. Besides, what else was I to think?”
“That it’s a valentine from someone who fancies you?”
“St. Valentine’s Day, 1929, America. Terrible business.”
She began tapping on her Blackberry. “You can buy these at any market in boxes of twelve. Given to classmates on the day. To not get one is an indication that you are a loser.”
“To my credit, I have done rather well for myself.”
"That definitely came out wrong."
He brushed it aside. “You must have received such things? Certainly…Donald-“
“Arnold,” she corrected. They never lasted long enough for him to remember their names anyway. “And yes.” She looked at him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It is my understanding that such things are of no concern to you.”
“You understand correctly,” he said briskly. “However, here it is. On my desk. Against THE rule.”
“No one in this office would break that rule. Ever.”
“Your logic is faulty, as someone did.”
“Shall I contact your brother to take the case?”
“He mocks me enough as it is. Shall we move on to the notes for my meeting?”
“You are distracted if you need notes. Sir,” she added hastily. “Would you like me to find out who would like you as a valentine? I can think of three dozen people at level two who would enjoy being the object of your affections.”
He ran through a list of candidates on level two and frowned. “Thank you, but no.”
“Perhaps your brother has decided to up the ante.”
“I considered that possibility, but there is no evidence. And yes, I discarded you as the culprit immediately, as I know you would not break the rule in this manner.” He sighed, pushed the card to the side, and took up the red folder. “It is of no consequence. My dinner meeting is in an hour. Shall we?”
She sat in the chair and began their briefing.