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Chapter Text

Anthea sat at her desk early Monday morning, scrolling through the emails that had come in overnight. She had just taken a sip of coffee from her mug (Only Left-Handed People Are In Their Right Mind) when her Blackberry beeped. It was Warren, Mycroft’s driver.

HIMSELF IS NOT AT HOME. IS HE THERE ALREADY?

NO. DIOGENES?

WILDER SAYS NOT.

I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT.

Anthea set down her coffee cup, still holding her Blackberry in her right hand. Interesting. Yesterday was Bonfire Night, which Sherlock’s friends had taken to using as an excuse to celebrate the anniversary of his return from the dead. Anthea had opened the invitation from Mary Watson three weeks ago and sent Mycroft’s regrets without consulting him. Maybe he had indulged his soft spot for his little brother and attended anyway.

And what, stayed for a fraternal sleepover?

Anthea shook her head, dismissing the ridiculous idea. Think. What are the logical explanations for Mycroft’s absence?

He could be in danger, of course … but it was highly unlikely. She had heard from her boss regularly over the weekend (including a few hours here in the office yesterday working on the upcoming visit of an Arab League delegation), and this was the first sign of anything amiss. There were no national or international crises requiring his personal intervention, and if there had been an emergency with Sherlock or his parents requiring Mycroft to leave town, he would have called her. 

Think, Anthea commanded herself again, taking another fortifying drink of coffee. Why are people late to work on a Monday morn—

Her coffee cup hit the desk with a clatter, and it was only her previous gulp that prevented the contents from sloshing onto the immaculate surface. No. Not Mycroft Holmes.

But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The facts: Mycroft rarely left the triangle encompassed by his office, home, and club. He was in none of those locations. It was well past the six-forty pickup that ensured he arrived in the office promptly at seven-oh-five. He had notified neither his personal assistant nor his driver of his location. Anthea did not need to consult his diary to know there were no out-of-office meetings the morning of November sixth. (Mycroft’s schedule was her schedule.) Conclusion?

Mycroft Holmes was either dead, incapacitated, or deliberately hiding. 

Anthea fingered her Blackberry, considering her options. She could text Sherlock, see if he knew where his brother was or what he was up to. (Mycroft would kill her.) She could check with his security team, but by definition Mycroft must have dismissed them before he went wherever he was or Warren would know where to pick him up. She could violate the Official Secrets Act by looking up his microchip….

Or she could simply check the CCTV footage outside Molly Hooper’s flat.

Less than ten minutes later, Anthea found what she was looking for—a tall, Caucasian male in a dark overcoat who managed to approach and enter Dr. Hooper’s building without once giving the three separate cameras a clear image of his face. 

The black wood-handled umbrella, however, was instantly recognizable.

()()()()

It was past nine o’clock when a black taxi approaching one of the back entrances of Vauxhall Cross appeared on the security feed Anthea was monitoring live. She clicked something on the second monitor, minimized the email to the Prime Minister’s personal secretary, grabbed her freshly-refilled coffee cup, and sat back to watch the show.

From this angle she could only see the rear and driver’s side of the taxi, looking down from above. The passenger door opened and the umbrella tip appeared first, followed by two shiny black brogues. They stayed fixed in place for a moment, as it apparently took some effort for Mycroft to heave himself out of the backseat. He stood up in stages, as if he were decades older than he actually was … or, Anthea thought with a smirk, as if he’d wrenched his back. Another pause, then he stepped to the side, closed the car door, and turned to face the camera. Anthea nearly spit a mouthful of coffee over her keyboard, and the effort not to do so resulted in an inelegant snort, followed by a bout of coughing.

Mycroft Holmes was wearing sunglasses! In public! In an underground car park!

Anthea blinked quickly, not wanting her watering eyes to blur any of the entertaining details. She watched as Mycroft crossed to the lift and scanned his ID, changing camera views when the lift doors opened.

It wasn’t too bad, she reflected upon seeing the closer image of the lift camera. His hair (what there was of it) was neatly combed and his overcoat properly buttoned. He was also well aware he was on camera, standing straight and rigid with his usual expressionless expression, looking—or at least facing—dead ahead. What with the sunglasses (Anthea snorted again at the incongruous accessory), she couldn’t be sure. But rather than hooking the umbrella over his arm as usual, he was carrying it by his side, and—Anthea tilted her head—yes, actually leaning on it. It was slight, and you would have to know Mycroft well to realize it was an atypical pose, but he definitely had a wrenched back.

Not for the first time, Anthea admired her boss’s nerve. A family emergency or even a personal illness would have been less conspicuous and simpler to explain. His tardiness and covert entrance, previously known only to her and Warren (she had deflected phone calls over the last two hours, including three from the head of security, with an expert “he’s not to be disturbed”), were about to be exposed.

With perfect timing that reassured her Mycroft was still at least somewhat himself, he removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his coat pocket just as the lift doors opened onto the lobby. 

It was a masterful performance. Mycroft strode across the hall with his usual elegance, umbrella taps echoing on the marble floor, ignoring the gawping and double-takes as the Secret Intelligence Service realized one of its most prominent members, known for his punctuality and work ethic, was just now entering the building, and by the most public route possible. He eschewed the lifts in favor of the broad staircase at the far end of the lobby, hooked the umbrella over his arm, and climbed steadily, then turned a corner on the first floor. 

Anthea scrambled for her mouse to find the right camera. Mycroft had chosen an interior hallway, apparently heading for the service lift in the center of the building, where it was darkest (no doubt missing his sunglasses). His expression had morphed from “expressionless” to “thunderous,” and had Anthea not known his bad mood had an entirely personal cause, she would have been worried, both for her own sake and that of the Commonwealth at large. 

Rapid chimes began emitting from her computer as her email blew up with messages from every office worker in Mycroft's path, notifying her of his unusual behavior.

He took an illogical and circuitous route, making him difficult to follow and forcing Anthea to switch cameras every few seconds, as was no doubt his intent. He was stopped—or at least it was attempted—three separate times, and in each case dismissed the intruder with a mere look. One of those intruders was the records clerk. Anthea glanced at her Blackberry screen when she saw the woman pull out her mobile as soon as Mycroft passed.

Oh, my god, Anthea, I never thought I’d say this, but … Mycroft Holmes and the Walk of Shame! Pleeeease tell me you had something to do with this!!!

But Anthea had no time to reply to her friend because Mycroft had disappeared again.

“Dammit, Mycroft,” Anthea muttered under her breath when a frantic switching of screens came up empty. The higher the floor, the fewer cameras, the more places to hide … and of course Mycroft would know them all. Then she remembered there were cameras at every lift and stairwell, and considering he was still two floors below…. 

“Gotcha,” she said, smiling at the image of her disgruntled boss exiting the northeast stairwell, one hand on his lower back as he pulled the heavy steel door open, a full-fledged grimace on his face when it closed behind him with an echoing clang. He had unbuttoned his coat as he climbed, giving her the first look at what he was wearing—or rather, not wearing. 

Anthea actually dropped her Blackberry.

Mycroft wasn’t wearing a waistcoat. Crumpled suit, far-from-crisp shirt, hastily-tied tie, yes. Waistcoat, no. Anthea had worked for Mycroft Holmes for eight years and had never seen him without a waistcoat. Unbuttoned jacket, yes, especially when working late. Loosened tie occasionally, when stakes were measured in thousands of lives. She had been summoned to Mycroft’s home in the pre-dawn of an autumn Saturday once and actually found him fully dressed behind the desk in his study, looking for all the world as if—well, as if it were nine o’clock on Monday morning. Or at least, how Mycroft Holmes normally looked at nine o’clock on Monday morning.

Anthea was so distracted she almost missed a critical detail. The number on the lift Mycroft was passing was nine, not eight—he was on this floor! She abandoned her post to turn on all the lights in their offices (including the overhead fluorescent lights they never used unless she’d lost an earring), then in a final stroke of genius, rushed back to his desk to crank up the brightness on his monitor.

By the time the outer door opened, Anthea sat calmly at her desk, finishing the email to the Minister’s secretary. Mycroft physically recoiled at the assault to his senses, then gathered himself and stepped over the threshold.

“Good morning, sir!” Anthea said, more brightly and loudly than necessary, once again rewarded with a visible wince. “Did you enjoy your evening?”

Mycroft took in the glow radiating from his open office door, Anthea’s blank second monitor, the still-recurring chime of incoming email, and the bland smile of his very capable PA. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his sunglasses.

“Bugger off,” he said pleasantly. “And find me a clean shirt, please.”

Pleasant Mycroft was a dangerous Mycroft, but Anthea hadn’t joined MI-6 because she was looking for a nice, quiet life. She opened the door that had been slammed in her face.

“Sir,” she said, pitching her voice to an appropriately professional level of concern with some difficulty, “isn’t that the same suit you wore yesterday? Is everything all right?”

“It is the same everything I wore yesterday, which is why I asked for a clean shirt,” he said, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice. “And some paracetamol. And clear my schedule for the remainder of the morning.”

“Already done, sir,” Anthea said cheerfully, pulling a starched ivory dress shirt from the cupboard and exchanging it for his overcoat. “You have nothing in your diary until lunch with Lady Smallwood at one. She suggested seafood, and I said you’d be delighted.”

“Get. Out.”

Anthea complied, grinning broadly as soon as she turned her back. She reentered the room ten minutes later to find all the lights off except for the lamp in the far corner. Mycroft had changed his shirt, tied his tie properly, and draped his wilted suit jacket over the back of his chair. The sunglasses were nowhere in sight. Anthea set down a bottle of Evian, a glass, and two round white pills. 

Mycroft cracked one eye open, then reached for the pills and drank the water straight from the bottle. This unusual break in etiquette stirred her sympathy as nothing else had. 

“Finish the bottle and I’ll bring you some tea,” she said.

He grunted an acknowledgement, and Anthea returned almost immediately with tea and toast, then left for a third time, soundlessly closing the office door behind her.

She had a lot of emails to answer.

Chapter Text

It was all Sherlock’s fault.

Mycroft Holmes contemplated this reality as he gradually acclimated to his presence in the backseat of an Uber (an Uber!). He had still been insisting Molly call a black taxi when the—no, he would not dignify him as a driver when the man was clearly merely moonlighting on the side—the immigrant pulled his blue SUV to the curb in front of her flat. Molly had shoved an electric razor into his hand, waved cheerily at the man now sitting in front of him, and closed her front door.

Mycroft stared down at the purple atrocity on his lap in misery. He needed to shave, he knew that. Not only had he not done so since yesterday morning, he was currently heading towards his office. Given that he was over two hours late already (he slammed the file drawer in his Mind Office on the reason—reasons—why), stopping at the Diogenes to conduct his personal hygiene in private, with familiar implements, was out of the question. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he picked up the apparatus with one hand and gingerly poked the only switch present. The little device buzzed to life.

“Late morning with the missus?” the driver (well, he was driving now) said.

Mycroft glared, but the man kept his eyes on the road and missed the expression of his passenger in the rearview mirror. 

“Ah, well, it happens to the best of us,” he continued cheerily. “Personally, I prefer morning sex myself. Bit of a rush, in more ways than one, right?” He laughed at his own pun.

Mycroft actually reached to close the glass separating the seats before remembering none existed. To his dismay, the movement caught the man’s attention and he turned. 

“Aw, cheer up, man! You look like the boss type, I’m sure it’ll be fine. No reprimands for you.”

It wasn’t reprimands Mycroft was concerned about; it was the assumptions. The gossip, the smirks, the snide comments just out of hearing … the tedium of it all.

In what was to become a recurring theme of the day, his mind returned to the subject of blame: his little brother, as per usual.

He never should have sent that bottle of wine.

If Mycroft had not sent the wine as an acknowledgement of the anniversary of his brother’s return from the dead, and if Sherlock had not texted him to complain about Molly absconding (Sherlock’s word, not his) with the remainder, Mycroft never would have gone unannounced to Molly’s flat. He wouldn’t have had a second glass in addition to his nightly spirits, he wouldn’t have experienced Molly pleasantly tipsy (and incredibly flirtatious), he wouldn’t have ignored the Mind Office post-it advising him to go home now, and most especially, he would not have attempted a physical challenge he wasn’t confident he had been capable of twenty years ago. 

As if it were a reincarnation of Sherlock himself, the pain in his back stabbed gleefully. Mycroft shifted position, only then remembering he still held a buzzing razor. With a deep sigh of regret (that also stabbed him in the back, dammit) he applied razor to face. 

At that moment the car turned, bringing the full force of the morning sun directly in the window beside Mycroft, and he swore without thinking.

“No shades, huh?” the driver asked, craning round as traffic had them stopped in a gap precisely between two buildings that of course faced due east.

Mycroft had never seen a car with sunshades on its windows, but at the moment it sounded like a spectacular idea. Then he registered the black glasses on the man’s face.

“Colonials,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Obviously not,” Mycroft said more loudly. He had never owned a pair of sunglasses in his life, thank you. What for? He was an Englishman.

He could lean forward and get the worst of the sunlight out of his eyes, but it only made his back ache more. They weren’t even within sight of River House and already he wanted this day over.

“No problem, man, there’s a pharmacy on the next block. Hang on a sec.”

“What?”

But before Mycroft could sort out the American’s intentions, he sat alone in an illegally parked car idling at the curb. In central London. During rush hour. On the right. 

Mycroft abandoned his eyesight in favor of breathing and fell back against the seat with a groan, ignoring the horns blaring all around him and mentally reviewing socially acceptable reasons for grown men to cry in public.

He couldn’t think of any.

Before this drug-induced maudlin state could entrap him further, the hero—er, driver—returned with a small bag he passed over the front seat.

“Compliments of the ride,” he said with a smile. “Man, you really do look wasted. I didn’t get a good look at her, but she must be some babe.”

Judging from the man’s reaction, the look that earned him the nickname Ice Man was not impeded by tinted lenses.

()()()()

After a prolonged and utterly ineffectual argument about the correct entrance to MI6 (the colonial was irrationally dependent on his GPS, which for unknown (soon to be nonexistent) reasons identified the building’s address as the entrance to the (supposedly) secure underground car park), Mycroft found himself alone in a lift. In what was likely to be his final seconds of peace all day, he closed his eyes and indulged in memories of the bliss and simplicity of life as an only child before Sherlock and Eurus arrived to ruin … well, everything. Then, just as the lift doors opened, Mycroft Holmes slipped his brand-new sunglasses into his coat pocket and steeled himself to run the gauntlet that was the British Secret Service. 

No point attempting to hide; despite being a building inhabited by people who had no desire to be seen, Vauxhall Cross was ultimately a building of people who wanted to see. There was no way to access any of the higher floors without passing through the ground-floor hall, designed with clear sight lines in all directions. Besides, the guilty were often caught precisely because they acted guilty. Fortitude and apathy were what the situation called for, so Mycroft strode straight through the expansive hall, using the loud click of the point of his umbrella on the marble floor to call attention to himself as a cover for its true purpose: partially supporting his weight to reduce the stress on his—what had she called it?—oh, yes, quadratus lumborum. 

Suffice it to say Molly Hooper was heavier than she looked.

Distracted by the memory of acquiring said injury, Mycroft bypassed the bank of lifts, leaving him no choice but to climb the main staircase with its Oriental red runner. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain, he hooked his umbrella over his forearm as per usual and began the climb, forcing himself not to limp as the dull ache of strain morphed into the sharp stab of spasm. 

But it was the sense memory that nearly tripped him.

 Smooth, cool hands, surprisingly strong and unnervingly accurate, the pressure-pain of a tight muscle dissolving into release, his instinctive hum of pleasure followed by the vibration of her laugh….

The welt of his shoe caught the edge of the riser. In his first bit of luck since that blasted text from Sherlock yesterday, he was both standing on his good leg and it was the last step, enabling him to bring his umbrella down with a smooth flick of the wrist in what appeared (at least he hoped) a perfectly practiced maneuver. Safely on level ground once more, Mycroft called up his photographic memory of the building’s floor plans, complete with security camera placements. 

Anthea would be watching for him, but that didn’t mean he had to be found.

()()()()

It was quite some time after the tea and toast before Mycroft summoned her. He looked immensely better—the color had returned to his face, and he could sit up without wincing. He’d even turned the desk lamp on, and it was this that enabled Anthea to see what she had missed before.

Mycroft had obviously not looked in a mirror this morning.

For there, just below his left ear, was a small round bruise, proof positive that there was more to Mycroft’s disheveled appearance than just a hangover. Anthea hid her glee, merely sat in her chair and updated Mycroft on the morning’s emails and security briefs. She took some dictation, made notes about appointments he wanted scheduled later in the week, and returned to her desk when dismissed. She handled the urgent items, then notified Mycroft through the intercom that she was stepping away and he could let any phone calls roll to voicemail. 

A razor, shaving cream, and a towel were some of the more mundane items Anthea had procured in her job, and she returned short minutes later with the things Mycroft would need to make himself presentable for lunch. She paused in the outer office to grab something from her handbag, then knocked twice on the inner office door and entered when bade.

Mycroft stared at the items she laid out on his desk. “What’s this for?” He picked up the compact.

Anthea was pleased he didn’t accuse her of making a mistake—he knew her better than that—and waited for the penny to drop. 

It didn’t.

“Shall I have flowers sent to Dr. Hooper, sir? Red roses, as a thank you?”

He jerked and dropped the compact as if burned.

“No, I—no, that’s—” He cleared his throat, and the tips of his ears turned red. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, Anthea. Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied with her morning’s work, Anthea returned to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a new flash drive. She opened the package, inserted the drive into her computer, and transferred the video file she’d recorded this morning. She tucked the flash drive in her bra, fed the packaging through the shredder, and sent a one-line email directly to Lady Smallwood.

Her name is Molly Hooper.

Chapter Text

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood sat at her usual table overlooking the courtyard, but it wasn’t the blooming lavender, peonies, or roses that held her attention. Instead she was studying the website of the St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Pathology service, or more specifically, the professional photograph of one Dr. Margaret E. Hooper.

Rather a plain young woman, but—Elizabeth saw her graduation date and calculated her age—obviously intelligent and hard-working to have made the specialist register so young. It would take more than looks to attract, much less hold, Mycroft’s attention; Elizabeth knew of only two other women who had even come close in all the decades she had known him. She skimmed the bio, realizing as she did so that this must be Sherlock’s medical/scientist contact. Well, that explained how they met; Elizabeth still remembered Mycroft’s indignation and confusion at the “slip of a girl” who had refused to spy on his brother years ago. It did not explain how their relationship had become personal, but if Mycroft was seeing someone who could knock him out of his deeply ingrained routine, it went without saying she was no ordinary woman.

Elizabeth waved away the offer of tea while she waited and ordered raw oysters as a starter. She had not needed an email from Mycroft’s assistant to inform her of his unusual behavior this morning, but without Anthea’s tip, she never would have guessed the cause. Mycroft Holmes was not the only person who could intimidate people into telling all; Elizabeth happened to know he’d had an excellent teacher.

()()()()

Mycroft joined Lady Smallwood at the corner table near the window just as the starter arrived, but his initial satisfaction at perfect timing faded at the sight of oysters on the half shell. Never a fan of the delicacy at the best of times, the thought of putting the pale, slightly grayish, shiny, wet-looking substance into his mouth was positively nauseating. He glared at Elizabeth. She smiled blandly. He narrowed his eyes. Her smile widened.

Fine.

Mycroft pulled out his chair and tried not to watch as Elizabeth raised one shell to her mouth and slid the contents inside, but he couldn’t suppress the shudder that snaked down his spine. He took refuge behind a leather-covered menu.

“I trust all your family is well?” Elizabeth said, reaching for a second invertebrate. “I hope it wasn’t an emergency that delayed you this morning.”

She knew damn well what had delayed him this morning—she was too good a spy not to know what was happening in her own department—but Mycroft knew how to play the game.

“Mummy and Father are well, thank you for asking,” he said politely. “Busy with the spring garden, so I should be safe from any parental visits for a few weeks. Sherlock is at home, no doubt burying himself in an experiment to recover from the tedium of yesterday’s socializing.”

It wasn’t until Elizabeth’s eyes lit up that he realized what he’d said. Damn, damn, and damn some more.

He was never drinking again.

“Oh? Was there an event?”

“Little matter of treason and murder?” he said lightly. “Perhaps you remember? Kegs of gunpowder, Houses of Parliament … some four hundred years ago, but surely?” He let his voice trail off, suggesting her presence at the event.

Elizabeth’s demeanor changed at once, her expression hardening to one that would freeze lava. Mycroft was wise enough to hide his smirk, but he did take a celebratory sip of water. He could see the retort forming in her mind, no doubt something about capital crimes and Sherlock, as well as her frustration at the discretion required by their public location.

Their waiter appeared, took their orders, and collected their menus. Without breaking eye contact, Elizabeth slowly, deliberately, picked up an oyster, shook it gently for much longer than required to ascertain it was properly shucked, turned her head slightly to ensure Mycroft had an unobstructed view, and tipped the fleshy mass between her lips. His stomach rolled, saliva pooled in his mouth, and cold sweat broke out on his neck and forehead.

“Sherlock’s working on a new experiment, eh?” Elizabeth said, pausing to squeeze lemon juice over the fourth, and final, mollusk. “Who is it that he works with at Barts Hospital? A woman doctor, isn’t it?” Lemon returned to the plate, her hand rested oh-so-casually on the shell.

Mycroft felt the sweat running down his temples, between his shoulder blades, pooling under his arms. Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know….

He gave a slight shrug. “I believe so. Whoever it is, I had them vetted back when he started working with Scotland Yard.” He desperately wanted a drink of water but was afraid his hands were trembling enough to spill it.

Elizabeth gave him a “wrong answer” look and picked up the oyster, tilting it this way and that so it sloshed in its own juices.

Dear god, where was the whiskey?

It was horrible, revolting, but Mycroft couldn’t look away, like pedestrians gathered at the scene of a gruesome accident. Left, then right … forward, then back … twice he thought the slimy mass would escape its shallow confines and splat onto the pristine white tablecloth, but she caught the drops with a graceful swipe of her finger.

Mycroft’s abdomen gave an involuntary heave, and the motion broke his stare.

“Name?” Elizabeth said pleasantly.

She’s interrogating me! We’re sitting in the very center of sophisticated civilization, and she’s torturing me for information like a terrorist in the backwaters of Pakistan! This realization was quickly accompanied by a grudging admiration; it wasn’t an accident he’d worked with Elizabeth Smallwood for decades.

She raised the oyster and inhaled appreciatively. Mycroft swallowed still more of the prodigious saliva. His stomach squirmed in protest, Anthea’s tea and toast threatening to make a reappearance.

“Mycroft?”

“Molly,” he blurted, gasping with relief when Elizabeth set down the shell. “Her name is Molly Hooper.”

()()()()

“There now,” Elizabeth said, drying her hands on the linen serviette in her lap. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Mycroft gave her his patented Iceman stare, but being far from her first exposure, she ignored it.

“What’s she like?” She was careful to keep her demeanor gentle, as one not wishing to spook a baby animal in the wild.

His gaze broke hers to rest on the last oyster still well within her reach, his voice silent. Elizabeth pushed the plate away as a gesture of truce.

His eyes met hers briefly before flickering away, over her shoulder to the courtyard and gardens outside.

“She is … extraordinary,” Mycroft said softly. “Intelligent, amusing, genuine in a way one rarely sees.”

His entire face had softened at the thought of her, and Elizabeth felt hers doing the same as she observed the signs of emotion in her old friend: the far-off gaze, the gentle smile, the pink flush rising above his snuggly buttoned collar. To her surprise, he continued.

“She is highly emotionally intelligent and yet utterly unconventional,” he said, obviously fascinated by this contradiction. “In short,” his gaze returned to Elizabeth, “she’s completely unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

Elizabeth was unable to restrain the smile she felt stretching across her face.

“What?” Mycroft’s unconscious relaxation as he spoke of his lover rapidly disappeared as tension returned to his neck and shoulders.

“You fancy her,” she said, not bothering to contain her delight.

He made a moue of disgust and huffed. “Really, Elizabeth, this isn’t grammar school.”

She raised her eyebrows, leaning away from the table as the waiter delivered her entree. “Did you have a girlfriend in grammar school?”

Elizabeth wondered what the record was for receiving the most Iceman glares in a single luncheon. She had a feeling she was going to exceed it.

“My year six crush was a boy named Ernest Wuthers,” she said, resting her chin in her hand and sighing for effect. “He had blond hair with this one curl that—”

“Can we please change the subject?”

“Like to how we spent Guy Fawkes Night?”

Yes, she was definitely a contender for The Most Iceman Glares In a Single Luncheon award.

Chapter Text

Molly hummed as she worked Mr. Khan's liver free from his rib cage. Despite the abundance of bonfires and fireworks last night (she bit her lip at the memory of her own private fireworks), there had been no burn victims awaiting her in the morgue today. Just Mr. Khan with his five children, fourteen grandchildren, and twenty-seven great-grandchildren, an apparently delightful gentleman (judging by the nurses' notes in his chart) who had donated his body to science before succumbing to the inevitability of old age. Molly had a collection of organs and soft tissue lined up on the lab bench behind her. Sherlock found her there some time later, slicing sections for slides.

"Hello, Sherlock! No hedgehogs in bonfires or members of Parliament in Tube lines this year, eh?"

He gave her a look, then surveyed the abundance of specimen jars, beakers of solution, and bits of human surrounding her.

"Boring day for you as well," he observed. "Death by natural causes."

"Not at all," Molly answered cheerily. "Science, see?" She waved her hand over the work in progress.

"You prefer autopsies with pieces that don't fit. Mysteries, a puzzle."

She shrugged one shoulder. Nothing was going to spoil her mood today, not after last night. Or rather, not after this morning.

"You look different too."

Molly jerked; in her moment of daydreaming Sherlock had come unnaturally close and was studying her like one of his specimens. Despite herself, she blushed.

He leaned back with a sigh. "It's a man, isn't it? How dreadfully dull and predictable of you, Molly."

"Hardly," she muttered, turning back to her work. She'd been dating his brother for six months, and he'd just now cottoned on that she was seeing someone?

"Hmm?"

"Nothing! What can I do for you today, Sherlock? I moved your samples to cold storage first thing, just like you asked."

"You've done it already." With a swish of his coat, he was gone.

()()()()

Sherlock let himself into Molly's flat and turned on the lights.

"Yes, yes, hello." He stooped to greet the meowing Toby, rubbing the tabby between his ears. "No, no tuna today," he said when the cat stretched upwards, pawing at his coat pocket. "I didn't plan to stop by."

Toby followed him a few feet, but when it became obvious Sherlock was not heading for his food bowl he strode off down the hall, presumably to resume napping on Molly's bed. Sherlock considered starting his search there but decided to work methodically, from the outside in. If Molly's relationship was advanced enough for traces of her boyfriend to be in her bedroom, there would be evidence of him in the more public areas of her flat as well.

As indeed there were. An empty wine bottle—his empty wine bottle—and two glasses sat on the coffee table. The throw normally folded neatly over the back of the sofa drooped half-crumpled on the floor. There were no signs that might help him determine the length or seriousness of the relationship; no couple pictures, no athletic gear or masculine items hanging in the entryway, no extra phone charger or unfamiliar books on the end table. Huffing in annoyance (what, was she actually trying to hide the man's identity? From him, Sherlock Holmes?), he straightened her framed medical degree on his way to the kitchen to investigate the contents of the refrigerator.

That's when he saw it: two coffee mugs turned upside down in the dish drainer.

It wasn't the presence of a second mug; it wasn't the creepy mouthless cat with her perky red bow or the tacky souvenir picturing black umbrellas raining into the River Thames in front of Tower Bridge. It was the handles—both handles were precisely in line with each other, positioned at exactly twelve o'clock. No one set cups to drain like that …no one except Mycroft.

Sherlock didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the evidence of his brother's relationship with his pathologist, but by the time he looked round, the sun had shifted and shadows edged the corners of Molly's chef's kitchen.

He blinked and shook his head, but no—the cups were still there, still aligned, still mocking him with their obviousness. I always miss something. Now that he knew the answer, he tore back into the living room looking for confirmation. The wine—he picked up the bottle. Rosé, Molly's favorite, although a much more expensive quality than she normally bought. Mycroft must have been with her when he chose it. Or (Sherlock shuddered at the thought) at least thinking of her, however subconsciously. Knowing how frequently Sherlock visited Molly's flat, Mycroft would not be sloppy enough to leave behind any of his belongings, but Molly—Molly would not be so careful. Not because she didn't care about keeping the secret (although Sherlock knew without asking it was Mycroft who wanted their relationship to be incognito) but simply because there wasn't an ounce of deception in her. He headed for the bathroom.

Nothing so obvious as a second toothbrush or a men's razor (in fact, where was that purple atrocity she had insisted he use after finding him shaving with one of her disposables?), but—yes, a brand-new toothbrush wrapper in the bin. So, not just an overnight stay; an unexpected overnight stay. A quick scan of her bedroom showed nothing amiss, but the signs were there if you knew what to look for. The bed was neatly made, but perhaps the corners were a little more square. Molly's purple phone charger dangled over the edge of the night table, as usual … but on the wrong side of the bed. She was still reading the same book she had been last week, its bookmark hardly moved despite the holiday weekend, indicating her time had been spent doing something else.

This deduction conjured up disturbing images of his brother in flagrante, prompting Sherlock's immediate departure from not only the bedroom, but the flat itself. But as he locked the door behind himself, he couldn't help noticing … the knocker was perfectly straight.

()()()()

As Warren (his real driver) turned into the circular drive in front of the house hours after sunset, Mycroft pressed the security button on his remote.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, more firmly this time. Still nothing.

Sighing, he unclipped the device from the fob in his open briefcase, pointed it directly at the front door receiver, and squeezed.

Nil.

"Dead battery, sir?" Warren asked.

"Apparently." Closing the file he'd been reading and adding it to the stack, Mycroft snapped the briefcase closed and exited the car to manually enter the combination into the keypad. He was three numbers into the eight-digit code when he noticed the bronze ring through the lion's mouth was looped over its head.

The resulting curse was one that had not passed his lips since somewhere in Serbia.

Why? Why today, of all days, was the universe out to destroy him so utterly? Now certain there was nothing wrong with the remote, its battery, or the security system at large, Mycroft cancelled his entry and began running through the list of eight-digit numbers significant to Sherlock. Birthday. University graduation. Sobriety date. The Fall. Sherrinford. His NHS number—

National Health Service. Why today? Because this wasn't about Sherlock at all. Mycroft keyed in Molly's birthday, and the lock clicked open.

Damn.

He briefly considered texting Anthea and begging her to invent—hell, to create—a national emergency, then decided he'd given her enough blackmail material for one day. Flipping on the light and heading for his study, he didn't have to wait long.

"So, it's true."

Mycroft was much too tired, and the secret was much too public, to play the game. "Took you long enough."

The shadow behind the door shifted, then narrowed as the light from the hall outlined his brother's lean form.

"She's my pathologist."

"And my lover," Mycroft said calmly, laying his briefcase on the blotter and circling the desk before turning on the lamp.

"You decided to get one after all. A goldfish."

The outrage was banked as soon as it flared, but no matter; his brother was not the smart one, but he was damned observant … and he'd planned that attack.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, easing into his chair with no pretense at dignity. "It's been a long day, I'm tired, and quite probably, still drunk. Just say what you want and leave."

"I want the contents of your case."

"I beg your pardon?" His hand rested on the Italian leather before he'd chosen to move it.

"And another bottle of wine. You and Molly drank mine."

This was uttered in the same tone as decades-old complaints Mycroft's biscuit was bigger. He surrendered with a wave. "Fine. Go down to the cellar and pick whatever you like. One bottle," he emphasized, giving Sherlock the gimlet eye before closing them and resting his head on the back of the scrolled chair. Anthea's paracetamol had worn off hours ago. "As for my case, you know perfectly well that will never happen."

"I don't want the files," Sherlock said impatiently, stepping onto the club chair between himself and his target and prompting a childish, if effective, tug of war. "I want to know what's not the property of Her Majesty's government … like that purple egg excuse of a razor."

Mycroft's eyes opened at the accuracy of that deduction to see a full-blown smirk on his little brother's face.

"I take it she has foisted the atrocity on you at some point, as well."

"Mmm, something about blades and blood and disease," Sherlock said, now concentrating on the case lock. "Here, give me a hand."

Mycroft allowed his hand to be moved so his forefinger covered the fingerprint sensor. It had been a token protest and they both knew it; Sherlock's security clearance was nearly as high as his, and despite his brattiness, he could keep a secret.

Even when he remembered it.

He made to lob Molly's razor into the nearby bin.

"No, don't—she'll want it back."

"Buy her a new one," Sherlock said over the clang of the heavy device against the metal. "I suggest one that works."

Mycroft snorted in amused agreement (while it had done the job of erasing most of a day's growth to all but the closest observer, it was hardly up to their usual standards). He let his hand lay where Sherlock dropped it, considering the pros and cons of showering.

Pro: shower. Con: moving. Pro: hot water. Con: stairs. Pro—

"So, when are you going to ask her over?"

Mycroft opened one eye and shifted the topic of study to shoving his little brother off the desk. Pro: brother on arse. Con: moving. Pro: one-up. Con: moving fast. He sighed, closed the eye, and reverted to his best weapon: his brain.

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"No tampons in the loo."

"I beg your pardon?" Given the sudden heat round his collar, he had a horrible feeling he was blushing and hoped it wasn't visible in the dim lighting.

"If Molly were spending the night here with even casual regularity, she would stash a few supplies. Women do."

Now that was an affront that could not be ignored. "And you would know this how, baby brother?"

True to past experience, Sherlock scowled at the adjective and threw something—Mycroft's phone charger, tied with one of Molly's hairbands. "If you ever bothered to go out in the world, talk to people, have a relationship before you're too old to walk under your own steam, you might find out for yourself. Then again," Sherlock pretended to be thinking, "there weren't any rubbers in the loo, either…."

"Brother on arse" was definitely worth the effort of moving. Before he could attempt it, Sherlock stepped over the open briefcase lid and down onto the padded rug. "I'm starving. What's in?"

"No hemlock, unfortunately," Mycroft muttered, leaning back against the chair. God, his head was booming; maybe he triggered the concussion he'd had after the Baker Street explosion. Could concussions be triggered without repeat trauma? He'd have to ask Molly.

"Wait—" Sherlock paused in the doorway. "That's why I kept seeing your men near her flat. They weren't watching me, they were watching her!"

Mycroft didn't bother to reply.

"But … that's been ages," Sherlock protested. "Months, before summer—the first bank holiday weekend..."

Mycroft resisted the urge to squirm in his seat, not least of which because his back was barely able to sustain upright alignment, much less twisting. (All thoughts of Molly twisting, squirming, or otherwise moving, in any plane, were firmly suppressed. For the time being. Hmm, perhaps he should add that to the shower "pro" list….)

Sherlock was giving him the kind of assessing look only possible after life-long acquaintance. "You actually care about her. Mykkie—"

"How did you find out?" Mycroft stood abruptly, sidestepping when his back spasmed, forcing him to shift his weight. "I know you don't pay attention to the gossip." He busied himself picking up the miscellanea Sherlock had unearthed from his case. The silence stretched, but Mycroft kept his posture stiff and his face averted, returning each item to its place with exacting precision, and finally Sherlock took the hint.

"The coffee cups," he said, coming closer and swiping a file out of alignment. "You really need to work on your OCD before you go undercover again."

Chapter Text

"Finally!" Molly exclaimed when Mycroft walked into his master suite later that night. "I thought he'd never leave."

Molly's arrival at his home had been announced by Anthea's four-beat text alert, followed by a notification from the security alarm application that the portico door had been accessed, opened, and re-secured. Mycroft eyed his—girlfriend? No, too juvenile. Partner? No, that implied a shared investment in each other's lives not yet negotiated. He thought of Sherlock's words. "She's my pathologist." "And my lover," Mycroft had claimed. Perhaps not a complete description of Molly's role in his life, but certainly an accurate one. So, Mycroft eyed his lover with some apprehension.

Her hair was down, loose in the kind of waves that told him she'd worn it braided today. Her feet were bare beneath the hem of his paisley dressing gown (draped over the knotted sash to compensate for her shorter height), and if she wore anything under the dark silk, it was nothing more than knickers. Add to that her position on his bed as well as the fire crackling in the grate, and Mycroft was afraid he was doomed to disappoint.

"Ah, Molly, I don't think … it's been quite the trying day. Perhaps some other time, we could…."

"Oh, don't look like that." She waved him off and rose from the bed, adjusting the dressing gown when its wide collar slipped off her shoulder.

Definitely naked.

"I came here to check on you, not seduce you," she said, crossing to the bath. "Besides…."

She smirked, an unnecessary reminder that he'd made a similar protest early this morning, only to be proven (rather spectacularly) wrong.

"So, the waiting in my bed naked under my dressing gown was…."

"Just for kicks," she said, returning with a glass of water and holding out an assortment of pills. "After the second hour my self-restraint collapsed. I was going to just cuddle with it, but that seemed sort of creepy, so," she shrugged. "In for a penny…." She extended the handful of pills again but he ignored them, unbuttoning his shirt on his way to the wardrobe.

"How's your back?"

"Fine."

"Mmm." Her voice was skeptical but she made no outward protest. "What color is your urine?"

"I beg your pardon?" He gaped at her in horror, braces hanging against his thighs and shirttails untucked.

Molly was unfazed, following him into the walk-in and leaning against the dresser. "I thought about bringing a banana bag, but then reckoned I'd probably have to sedate you to get a line in. Your liver hardly needs the additional insult, so I settled for a p.o. mix. Here."

The fine-boned hand with its pale skin and slender fingers reappeared under his nose, multicolored tablets pooled in the well of its palm. Mycroft straightened to his full height and looked down his long nose at the impertinent appendage. The retort that came to mind, a personal inquiry regarding her own private parts, was crude indeed.

"Your urine, Mycroft," Molly repeated patiently. "What color is it? How much water have you drank today? How hydrated are you?"

Oh. She was in doctor-mode, not intrusive-girlfriend mode. He turned his back to her, undoing his cuffs before shrugging off the shirt. "Yellow, approximately 150 centiliters, adequately."

"That's not at all adequate after the alcohol you had last night," she scolded, circling to face him again. "Drink this."

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. "Molly…."

"Drink," she said firmly, pressing the glass of water against his bare chest, causing him to start at the chill.

His headache was still booming, and despite what he might normally think about being half-naked with Molly in his bedroom nude under his dressing gown, he wanted nothing more than to turn off all the lights, crawl into bed, and sleep until next week. A quick glance at her expression confirmed his best chances of executing those plans were to do as she said as quickly as possible, so he took the glass, chugged it, and handed it back … without taking the pills.

Molly gave him a dirty look but left to refill the glass without complaint. She waited until he had redressed in pajamas and tidied the wardrobe before extending the medicine again. "Anti-inflammatories, a muscle relaxant, and an assortment of B vitamins," she explained. "Nothing narcotic or addictive. Take them."

Mycroft complied, drinking the second glass of water in entirety but at a more moderate pace. "How is it we had the same experience last night and I'm dreadfully hungover while you're positively chipper?"

"Other than our ten-year age difference, you mean?"

Mycroft didn't deign to answer and took another long swallow of water, but Molly gave him a warm, intimate look, the kind of look that said she didn't care about his age and warmed parts of him best forgotten for a while.

"Med school," she said, exaggerating her natural cheerfulness as she took the empty-again glass and set it aside. "It's a unique learning situation for managing alcohol intake and the resultant effects." She pulled back the covers and waved him in.

"And the results of those years of research?"

"A carefully curated assortment of pharmaceuticals combined with the natural healing properties of water and sleep. Alcohol is terribly dehydrating. It's why you should never drink when you fly, you know, low humidity and—"

Molly's voice went on, but Mycroft was no longer listening. She had preheated the bed with what felt like a four-foot heating pad and the warmth against his spasming muscles might be better than sex. Her hands were repositioning him to her liking, shifting his hips into alignment and lifting his legs to place a pillow under his knees. The unrelenting pressure in his back eased immediately, a change startling enough to open his eyes.

"Better?" she asked, her smile saying she already knew the answer.

"Very much. Thank you."

The smile widened, her genuine pleasure in helping easy to see. Mycroft reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers between hers and tugging slightly. "Sleep with me."

He felt her posture tense immediately and didn't need to look at her face to know what he would find there. Dark brown eyes fixed on him, a tiny furrow between drawn-together brows, thin lips turned in and pressed together. They had used many euphemisms for sex over the last six months; some casual, some romantic, occasionally explicit, but he had never asked her to sleep with him, euphemistically or otherwise. Sherlock was obnoxious because he was right: Molly had never spent the night here. Or more specifically, not here, in his bed, not the entire night in his home. They had never slept together without sex first, had never engaged in that simple yet primitive ritual of trust and sharing lives. Mycroft kept his eyes closed and his expression blank.

"You … want me to stay?"

There was something in her voice, a vulnerability, a depth of meaning, that caused him to look at her.

"Yes," he said, then as the intensity of his answer registered, added quickly, "only if you want to, of course."

"I, um … I didn't pack a bag."

It's what he had said to her last night, after the first go-round, when she had protested his leaving. He parroted her response.

"I have an extra toothbrush."

"I have to work tomorrow." A warning, a not-so-subtle hint that there would not be a repeat of this morning's shenanigans.

"So did I," he said dryly. "I'll make sure you get there … eventually."

Her smile mirrored his own, genuine happiness lighting her eyes. "Really?" she whispered.

"I …" He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry despite the two glasses of water. "I found that once everyone knew I was … involved … with you, I didn't care they knew. More importantly, given the choice of ending our arrangement to make a plausible denial or continuing as we were, I didn't want to lose you. I don't want to lose you. Sleep with me," he repeated, caressing her hand with his thumb.

Molly needed no further urging, pulling the covers back further and carefully climbing over him before snuggling against his side with a contented sigh. Mycroft wrapped one arm around her, fingers tracing the line of her neck and shoulder, dipping inside the dressing gown to feel the warmth of her skin contrasted against the cool silk, barely a change in texture between them.

"Why my dressing gown?" He'd seen her slide into his shirt for a quick trip to the loo or throw his jacket over their legs while watching telly, but no evidence of a fetish that would have her removing perfectly comfortable clothing of her own just to wear something of his.

"Have you felt this thing?" Molly said incredulously, rubbing a fold of the sleeve between her fingers seemingly unconsciously. "It's divine, and the way it feels against my skin…." She made a sinuous movement, as if rubbing herself against the fabric from the inside, a gesture no less sensual for his inability to do anything about it at the moment.

"Would you like one of your own?"

The question popped out of his mouth without permission, another boundary crossed. They didn't do gifts; didn't acknowledge the financial gap between their incomes. Maintaining a discreet relationship meant no formal dates, no public appearances, no "who's paying" obligations.

Molly's hesitation was shorter this time, her quiet, "yes, please" a sealing of the change in their relationship. Mycroft was just getting fuzzy, his senses softening at the edges, his limbs heavy and weighted, when he felt Molly go limp with sleep and realized….

He really had to wee.