Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Molly heard the knock at the door but ignored it. A vision of the devastated Sherlock she had turned away from John’s door, not more than an hour ago flashed in her mind, making her a bit teary again.

Putting aside pangs of guilt, she focused on the task at hand. Molly, kneeling in front of the bath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, reached down and picked up the smiling little girl who lay on the bath mat. Gently she lowered Rosie into the bath seat, surrounded by various brightly coloured toys already floating in the water.

After three tries to summon someone from within to the door, the knocking stopped. Whoever was at the door will simply try again later, Molly told herself, as she pushed a yellow duck in Rosie’s direction. A squeal of delight, followed by a small hand splashing in the water trying to reach the duck brought a smile to her face.

Molly was scooping up the warm water with a cup and pouring it over Rosie’s shoulders when the sanctity of bath time was interrupted by a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

“Miss Hooper?”

The shock loosened all the angst Molly had been holding in-- replaced by annoyance. 

“Mycroft Holmes! What on Earth do you think you're playing at?"

She shouted through the door. "If I'd been holding a slippery, wriggling baby, I could have dropped her. Or worse yet I could have fainted and hit my head on the edge of the bath! Then what would have happened to Rosie?"

A sob caught in her throat.

"What then? How dare you do this to me?!”

Molly’s tirade was met with silence.

“Mycroft? Are you still there?” She called hesitantly through the door while wiping away tears.

It took a few seconds before she heard the reply.

“I am. Are you finished?”

“Yea. Sorry— Sorry. Come in.”

Slowly the door opened, and the man himself hesitantly stepped inside the bathroom. She saw his unease as his eyes darted around the room.

“What are you doing here?” Molly had composed herself as best she could and turned her attention back to Rosie who was now chewing on a soft, plastic fish.

“Sherlock,” he said succinctly.

“I should have figured as much,” she muttered under her breath.

“After you sent him away, he asked me to come over,” he paused. “He said help from anyone other than him would be acceptable.”

“Yes, but that’s not exactly—” She looked up at Mycroft while she swirled the water around the baby.

 His eyes gave him away. It was clear he didn’t want to be interfering, but his brother had begged him to come over. Now here he was, getting yelled at by a weepy woman while standing far too close to a very wet baby.

“Okay, okay. Fine. You can help,” Molly saw a wisp of fear cross Mycroft’s face and tried to smother a smile. “Um. I could use a cup of tea - when I finish.”

Mycroft's shoulders relaxed perceptibly. There would be no danger of a soggy baby being thrust into his arms.

“Affirmative,” he called over his shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen.

Rolling her eyes, Molly turned her full attention back to Rosie to finish her bath.

//

Ten minutes later, Rosie was gurgling happily on her changing mat while Molly did up the last three snaps on the tiny onesie. Suddenly the baby’s head twisted around towards the door. Molly followed Rosie's gaze and found Mycroft hovering silently in the doorway.

“She is her mother’s daughter,” he said quietly with a hint of a smirk. He carried a laundry basket with small piles of neatly folded baby clothes - already sorted, Molly noticed- and a baby bottle.

“Wow,” muttered Molly. “You didn’t need to—”

“I have also put another load in.”

“I had no idea—”

Mycroft gave her a withering look. “Of course I know how to fold clothes— even small ones." He handed her the bottle.

“It’s warm!”

“Of course it is. I can read the schedule on the kitchen table as easily as anyone else. ‘Bath, bottle, bed,'” he recited.

 She watched Mycroft balance the basket on his hip while he opened a drawer of the white dresser, putting a small pile of clothes from the basket into the correct place. Molly watched in amazement as he repeated this process until all the clothes were put away. And the man's waistcoat was still buttoned, she noted.

“Your tea will be ready when you are finished.” Mycroft retreated with the empty laundry basket closing the nursery door behind him.

//

When Molly appeared in the kitchen 35 minutes later, Mycroft good as his word, handed her a fresh cup of tea.

“Oh that is good,” she contentedly sighed taking a sip of the hot milky liquid, equally thrilled and shocked it had been made to her usual odd specifications: loads of milk, a teaspoon of sugar and a slice of lemon.

“Aren’t you having a cuppa? Looks like you deserve one,” asked Molly while looking around. While she had been with Rosie, Mycroft had emptied and refilled the dishwasher, tidied up the living room and swept the kitchen.

“No. I have other matters to attend to this evening.” He leaned back against the sink, his hands gripping the counter top.

“Molly. My brother means no harm. He just—” Mycroft took a deep breath. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

“I know, I know,” She shook her head willing the tears not to start.

“How long does Dr. Watson expect you to do this?”

“What?”

“Take care of his baby.”

“I don’t know,” Molly took a sip of tea and shook her head.

“I’m her godmother, and I made Mary and John a promise to help look after her. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense to you— but—” Tears began to roll down Molly's cheeks slowly.

“You can’t be expected to look after a child that is not yours in every spare minute you have. John is taking advantage of your kindness,” he said sternly.

“But, she’s lost her mum,” Molly could feel Mycroft’s heavy gaze upon her as she took a deep breath to stop the sniffling, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

“Rosie needs a nanny. Not you.”

The noise of a key in the front door startled them both.

“Hi Molly I’m—”

John froze in the doorway of the kitchen as soon as he saw Mycroft.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Helping,” answered Mycroft crisply.

“Molly, what is going on here?” His eyes repeatedly flicked between the two, looking for answers.

“Earlier Sherlock came over offering to help,” Molly paused to take a breath. “I sent him away just like you told me. Apparently, he then asked Mycroft to come over— you said, anyone but Sherlock.”

“Christ,” John shook his head in disbelief.

“Dr. Watson, I am in the position to offer you a long-term solution.” Mycroft looked steadily at John, his shoulders squared, and his usual air of superiority filled the room.

“What are you talking about?” John was frowning hard and looking very confused.

“While Miss Hooper must be commended for taking her duties as godmother to heart, it is inappropriate to expect her to continue caring for Rosie indefinitely.”

John’s gaze flicked to Molly who had a worried look on her face and gave a small shrug of her shoulders.

“I love her John, but he’s right,” Molly whispered.

“What? What are you saying?”

“I can put you in touch with a discreet nanny service whose employees are fully vetted and trained for such duties.”

“I can find my own babysitters thanks.”

“I don’t think I need to remind you that your daughter’s mother was a world-class assassin, who, over the course of her career, made a number of enemies. And while I have no reason to suspect your daughter is in any danger at the moment—,” Here, Mycroft paused to draw a deep breath. “I am not naive enough to believe this will always be the case.”

John let out an anguished sigh. He swallowed hard and looked up at Mycroft with gritted teeth, as the resignation of an uncomfortable truth sunk in.

“Tomorrow I will have Anthea drop off the agency’s details.” A thoughtful look had appeared on Mycroft’s face before he added, “Should you elect to employ a nanny from this service, I will take care of all fees.”

“Why?” John asked through barely parted lips as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Given the circumstances, it is understandable you wish all ties to Sherlock severed. However, my brother is Rosie’s godfather. It is my duty - on behalf of her godfather - to ensure your daughter’s continued safety.”

John swallowed hard and blinked back the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“I wish you both a good evening.” Mycroft gave the nod in Molly’s direction and let himself out of the flat.

Chapter Text

Mycroft looked at his watch and wondered why he was feeling so restless. Two large coffees and a piece of cake sat on the small table in front of him.

"She is merely running late. Stop fretting," he told himself while absentmindedly taking out the small card from his pocket. Idly flipping the business card over in his hand, he stared at it. “Lady Alicia Smallwood” was written in simple block letters. Running his fingertip along the text, he could feel the indentations of the letters. He traced the edge of the card with his fingertips—

“Hi, Mycroft.”

Startled, he blinked twice as his brain slowly reengaged. He watched silently as Molly, with an understanding gained from years of dealing with the Holmes brothers, slipped off her coat and sat behind the nearest coffee. There was a whiff of hospital-grade antiseptic still clinging to her frumpy clothes. She smiled at him from behind her mug, took a sip and waited for Mycroft to become present.

He remembered the first time they met for coffee.

It had been the day after Sherlock committed suicide. He had taken Molly to the Diogenes Club— the idea was to review her safety plan — but the sight of a tearful woman had caused the doorman such distress the pair retreated swiftly to Mycroft’s car. After driving around London aimlessly for 45 minutes, it was decided to try the least offensive of the High Street coffee shops where two large lattes and a cake to share were ordered.

While Sherlock was gone, their coffees were sporadic. Mycroft received regular updates on Molly’s well-being from his people on the ground which made them meeting in person somewhat necessary. Although if Molly rang and requested to see him, for whatever reason, she was swiftly accommodated into his schedule.

When Sherlock, - and eventually his drug habit, – returned, the least offensive coffee shop quickly became a regular haunt for the pair. It was now rare if more than two weeks passed without seeing her.

“Apologies. I was lost in thought.” Mycroft quickly slipped the card into his pocket.

“Understandable. Worried about Sherlock?”

“Among other things, yes,” he sighed before taking a drink of his coffee.

“Oh. You probably can’t say,” Molly shrugged her shoulders and gave Mycroft a small smile before taking another sip of coffee. “But I’m all ears if you need to talk.”

He tried a different tack. “How is Rosie?”

“The new nanny is working out brilliantly. Thanks for that. It really, really has helped.”

“Good,” nodded Mycroft drinking his coffee.

As various scenarios played out in his head, he reminded himself what he was about to do was neither cruel nor morally wrong. He used this technique multiple times a day, using a fragment of information to gauge the interest of another party in a specific situation or outcome— although it had been a long time since he did this for personal gain.

The pair sat in a comfortable silence until Mycroft quietly cleared his throat.

“Today a colleague gave me her business card with her private number.” His voice was quiet, his gaze fixed on Molly.

“Okay,” Molly frowned while taking a sip of coffee. “And?”

“She told me to ring her if I wanted to have a drink.”

“Drink of what?” The question was blurted out.

“She said I could choose.”

There it was. Molly doubled-blinked - a clear indication she had to reassess Mycroft Holmes; indeed, there was something. After a deep breath, she became more composed, obviously resigned to the possible reality of this new information.

“So are you going to call her?”

Mycroft’s answer was a shrug. He was now in uncharted waters. In his pocket was the number of a woman who wanted to get to know him better. And Molly was now trying to ascertain his intentions.

“Have you known her a long time?”

“Decades.”

“Do you like her?”

Mycroft flicked an eyebrow at Molly. The directness of her questions was new but could be considered justified at this point.

“She is quite competent at her job, but I don’t see why that is relevant.”

Molly drank the last of her coffee while looking at Mycroft under her eyebrows and finally stood up to go.

“Didn’t her husband die recently?” She asked as Mycroft held up her coat for her.

“Yes. Lord Smallwood committed suicide almost a year ago. What is that look?” Pulling on his coat, Mycroft followed a smirking Molly out to his car.

“It’s obvious isn’t it?”

“No.”

Sighing Molly looked out of the car window at London passing before turning back to Mycroft.

“You really don’t get it do you?”

“Get what?”

“Mycroft, she is lonely. And she wants—”
The path of this discussion was causing low-grade terror to fill Mycroft. Trying to determine if Molly had more than a casual interest in him was one thing. Having her suggest he and Lady Smallwood should – well, that was completely unacceptable and he was regretting ever starting down this path.

Thankfully Molly stopped dead in her tracks. “I’m sure she just wants to be friends. That’s probably all it is,” she said quietly.

The rest of the short journey, Mycroft gazed out his window silently regrouping his thoughts and deciding the best way forward.

After seeing Molly to her door, Mycroft made no move to leave. “I would like to finish our conversation inside if I may.”

“Sure,” Molly opened the door and stepped inside with Mycroft close on her heels.

“I don’t have friends.” Molly hadn't even managed to turn around before he blurted this statement out.

“Yes I know, but she might not know that.”

“Do you find her attractive?”

“She is not unpleasant.”

“Okay. Is she nice?

“Not particularly.”

“Is she funny?”

“I should think not.”

“Well. I don’t know, Mycroft,” Molly held up her hands in defeat. “Just ask her out for coffee. See what happens.”

“But I don’t want to.”

Standing in Molly’s hall with his coat still on suddenly the British Government felt very vulnerable.

“Why not?” Molly asked innocently.

She wasn't making this easy on him, but he had gone too far to retreat. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft slowly took a step towards Molly.

“I feel taking Lady Smallwood up on her kind offer would complicate matters unnecessarily.”

“Really?” frowned Molly. “Why?”

He slowly took another uncertain step forward. Molly’s eyes widened in surprise as what he was saying sunk in.

“Only after thinking about having a drink with her did I realise how much I enjoy having coffee with you.”

The sound of her small gasp gave him all the incentive he needed to carry on.

Taking Molly’s hand, Mycroft watched his thumb stroke the side of hers. He could feel her trembling under his touch.

“Molly, previous liaisons have accused me of being distant and inept when it comes to the finer points of relationships.”

He lifted his eyes to her. “Please, Miss Hooper, if you will permit me,” he whispered.

She nodded, and he observed how her gaze moved to his lips. His hands instinctively moved up to encircle her, drawing her closer still.
Time moved in slow motion until their lips touched, lingering for a moment.

Pulling back gently, Mycroft slowly blinked his eyes open. He swayed slightly, not in any hurry to return to reality.

“Oh,” gasped Molly breathlessly. “Are you okay?”

“Never better. Simply enjoying the oxytocin and dopamine,” replied Mycroft softly.

“Mycroft, are you sure about this?” She looked genuinely worried.

“As long as you are,” His hand gently touched her cheek.

“What about Sherlock?”

“My brother has never been keen on my female companions,” replied Mycroft. “He feels threatened. Although perhaps you do have an advantage in that he does already care for you in his own special way.”

Reaching up and running her fingers along the back of Mycroft’s neck brought his lips to hers for a second time, this time more urgently.

“If I’m bad at this sort of thing, he is abysmal.” Mycroft was breathless. “He needs to dissect things to understand how they work.”

“And there are certain things that can’t be over thought,” whispered Molly. “Like this.”

“Like this.” Mycroft let a smile settle on his face. “He will devise some way to have it all make sense to him; to assure himself of what you feel for him. What form that takes, only time will tell. Are you still willing to continue?”

“Yes. Yes of course I am— just a bit shocked is all. But honestly, couldn’t you have waited until my day off?” teased Molly. “Your timing couldn’t be worse. I need to get ready for work— now,” squeaked Molly looking at her watch.

“I’ll pick you up after your shift,” called Mycroft on his way out the door, “—my dear.”

Chapter Text

Pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand, Greg closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, the devastation of 221B would be miraculously gone. Blinking away the sting of smoke from the still-smoldering remains, he let out a deep sigh finding his wish hadn’t come true.

After the call had come through, he had immediately raced to the hospital expecting to find the consulting detective and his blogger hanging on for dear life in A&E. Instead, outside an empty private room in the Critical Care Ward, he found Anthea being comforted by Mycroft’s usual security guard as she quietly sobbed.

Over the years, thanks to Sherlock, he had witnessed baffling situations, but this was by far the most extreme — and most worrisome. Greg helplessly watched as the bomb squad, clad in hazmat suits meticulously moved through the charred lounge, their eyes searching for any minute clue as to what had happened here only a few hours before.

The buzzing of his phone in his pocket startled Greg out of his contemplative state. Seeing the caller ID, he rolled his eyes as he muttered Thank Christ before hitting the call button.

“Mycroft. What the hell is going on? 221B has been destroyed. Sherlock’s nowhere to be found and your PA is giving one hell of a performance outside an empty hospital room.”

“Greg –Molly’s flat. Get her — now!” Mycroft begged between gasps as if he was trying to catch his breath.

The desperation and fear in the other man's voice sent a chill down Greg’s spine.

Without pause, he barked orders down the stairs, ignoring the fact the phone was still very near his mouth. Seconds later, sounds of police sirens filled the air before the squad car quickly sped off.

Satisfied Mycroft’s request had been fulfilled, Greg turned his attention back to his phone.

“Okay mate. My best team will be at Molly’s in under five minutes. Take a deep breath and tell me what the hell is going on.”

//

The unmarked police car travelled swiftly through the nearly empty London streets. At this time of day, the only other vehicles on the roads were street cleaners and minicabs. Pulling up outside an unremarkable house, in a very normal street, its passenger closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying a tinge of relief. At least I made it this far.           

Mycroft slowly exited the car, trudging up the path with heavy feet. Before he had even mustered up the strength to raise a knuckle to the door, Greg was there – glasses on, flannel trousers, T-shirt, and robe. Of course, the driver had radioed ahead, but he hadn't noticed.

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have dissected his recent past to understand what had caused this oversight to ensure it didn’t happen again. But tonight, after all he had been through, he allowed this uncharacteristic behaviour to wash over him. He couldn’t bear to think about other vital things he must have missed on his journey from Sherrinford.  

He watched a look of relief slowly register on the copper's face accompanied with a strong, comforting clap on his back. Greg’s hand lingered. This gesture was far more intimacy than the pair had ever shared during the years of their acquaintance. Not a hug — but enough –before being ushered inside.             

“Good to see you mate.” Flickering images on the muted TV that was far too big for the room cast an eerie glow on the men. The look of shock in Greg’s eyes, although brief, couldn’t be missed. Self-consciously, Mycroft looked down at himself to find at some point he had been divested of his tie and waistcoat, his shoes were covered in deep scratches, and his trousers had a small rip in them at the right knee.

Fragments of this day drifted into his head: being drugged then dragged, just this side of unconscious, and unceremoniously dumped in his sister’s cell, the feeling of helplessness as he watched the events at Musgrave House unfolding on the video screen.  

Willing the images to stop, Mycroft held his breath and gave a weak nod.

“Well. At least you made it out of there in one piece. Hungry? Bet you could use a stiff drink? I got a bottle in the cupboard. The ex gave it to me last Christmas. Probably not up to your standards— but we could—”

Was the salad Anthea put on his desk yesterday the last thing he had eaten? His stomach tightened in confirmation, but Mycroft shook his head. And if food was unpalatable, drink was doubly so.

“Where is she?” The worry and distress he had been trying to keep in check had begun to unravel, causing his voice to be filled with distress despite its usual direct tone. “Is she— please tell me she is safe—”

“Don’t worry, mate, Molly’s upstairs. Confused and shaken up but she’ll be alright.”

Unconsciously Mycroft’s head dropped back as a gasp escaped followed by deep breaths as an enormous weight vanished. 

Greg sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Hold on. There’s something you need to know.”

With wide-eyes levelled at Greg, Mycroft swayed slightly, terrified this emotional roller coaster he had been riding on for the past 24 hours was about to plunge him into despair once again.

“After my guys picked Molly up, I had a sweep done of her flat. Three devices were found.”

Eyes closed, a soft groan escaped as Mycroft’s head dropped to his chest, his hands clasped themselves behind his neck.

“They were small, and it’s unlikely they could have done much more than scare her. Obviously planned to give you boys the shock of your lives. Had they gone off, it would have looked a lot worse than it actually was.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No. She has been through enough today. It turns out someone rang her just before lunch — I guess it was your sister— to let her know you were in critical condition due to some unspecified incident and unlikely to make it. After the phone call between her and Sherlock, your sister kept the line open. Molly heard all the stuff at the end— and you. You can imangine how thrilled she was. But then she heard Sherlock having to choose between you and John. She said the call ended after you requested no flowers. Your sister gave her one hell of a roller coaster ride. Molly spent the rest of the afternoon thinking you were dead. When my crew picked her up she was in a right old state.”

It became a battle to stop from retching.

Greg’s face was now filled with guilt and regret. “Mycroft, I didn’t know you two were a thing. If I had known, I would have gone to her sooner — as soon as I suspected something was up— I would have—”

“It’s not your fault,” Mycroft took a deep breath as he tried to understand all of the emotions bubbling below the surface. “It’s recent. Very recent.”

Greg nodded and looked at Mycroft sympathetically.

Walking over to the couch, Greg then picked up a small black bag and handed it to Mycroft.

“I spoke to Anthea. We agreed you shouldn’t be alone tonight. She’s packed a few things for you. I’ll kip here on the couch.” Greg motioned to the neatly folded blanket and pillow at one end of the sofa.

Taking the bag from Greg’s outstretched hand, Mycroft replied with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Go on. Head upstairs. You look like you are ready to drop.”

//

The feeling of relief on seeing Molly’s sleeping form caused Mycroft to pause in the doorway of Greg’s bedroom. Although he was not a religious man, he gave a small prayer of thanks that she was not physically hurt today.

The bed dipped as he sat down on the edge to remove his shoes.

“Mycroft?” He felt her hand tentatively touch his back.

He did not trust himself to reply or turn around. On auto-pilot his fingers quickly removed his shoes and socks; trousers were tugged off, falling to the floor; his shirt once off was dropped near his trousers.

 Wearing only his pants and undershirt, he finally turned towards Molly and slipped under and covers into Molly’s waiting embrace.

Holding her tightly he buried his head into her neck.

“Is Eurus really your sister?”

His tears were already making Molly’s top wet as he nodded yes.

“Oh my God.”

Mycroft could feel her take a deep breath as she stroked his neck and kissed the top of his head.

“It’s okay. I promise it will all be okay.”

And for the first time in a long time, Mycroft letting the sobs come believed it would be okay.