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Mycroft Holmes was tired. Very tired. The day, like so many days recently, had felt exceptionally long. Although the usual meetings and discussions were now virtual, the contents were far more severe than anyone had ever faced before. His mind was so filled with case numbers and models all he wanted was a quiet evening before it all began again tomorrow.
The small TV in the corner showed three men behind podiums; the daily Downing Street briefing. The sound was turned down low, almost muted. Mycroft knew what they were saying but it had become a daily ritual — stand here in his kitchen and watch the press conference, then think about what to do for dinner.
The bleep of the house alarm system caused Mycroft’s eyes to flick up momentarily from the telly to his back door just as Sherlock entered. With only a shrug for greeting, Sherlock opened Mycroft’s fridge and began filling a canvas bag.
“Your food box was delivered this morning to Baker Street. As was the one for Mrs Hudson. There is no need to raid my fridge.” Mycroft’s attention was now alternating between his phone and the press conference.
“It’s Molly.”
His heart began to thump a bit harder when Mycroft heard her name. The scrolling on his phone stopped immediately and Mycroft levelled his gaze on his little brother.
“What about Molly?”
“She’s come down with it and needs some food.”
“How bad is she?”
Sherlock, putting half a bottle of orange juice into the bag and then picking up a package of cheddar cheese to study it answered absentmindedly.
“Fever going up and quite a bad cough. Not a lot of shortness of breath but some.”
The cheese was put into the waiting bag.
Slipping his phone into his trouser pocket Mycroft put his hands on his hips to stop Sherlock from seeing them shaking.
“Go back to Baker Street. I’ll take care of it.”
Frowning Sherlock stuck his head around the fridge door to stare at his brother.
“I’m sure you are too busy, doing whatever it is that you do.”
“No. I’m not. Go back to Baker Street.”
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before he shrugged and pulled out his keychain, twisting a key off and placing it on the kitchen counter.
Laying one finger on the key, Mycroft slid it back towards Sherlock.
“This is unnecessary.”
Picking up the key Sherlock worked at replacing it on his keyring.
“Don’t pick the lock. She hates it.”
“Goodbye Sherlock. Leave the bag.” With a roll of his eyes Sherlock left the bag on the counter.
As soon as the door closed behind Sherlock Mycroft opened the drawer beneath the TV set and pulled out a key that matched the one Sherlock had just laid on the counter.
//
Molly was lying in her bed with the world spinning. She didn’t need to take her temp to know she had a fever. She knew at some point soon she should get up and get more water or something to eat, but the thought of moving made her want to go back to sleep.
Her eyes snapped open. There had been an unfamiliar noise. Had there been a noise? Molly wasn’t sure anymore.
Her cement filled eyelids slid closed once more.
The gentle knock on the bedroom door startled Molly, setting off a coughing fit and making her gasp as she tried to catch her breath.
Over the past 24 hours she had been hallucinating. The rational side of Molly’s brain knew with utmost certainty there was no six-foot-tall pink cat sitting on her couch or koi carp in her toilet.
But now there was a Mycroft Holmes standing next to her bed. He had on a tie and waistcoat (but no suit jacket) and one of her cooking aprons. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, rubber gloves covered his hands and although she hadn’t seen it for months, she recognised the judgemental look coming from behind the surgical mask. Seeing him made her mouth go dry. Or was it the fever? She really should go up and get some water.
“Why didn’t you ring me?”
It took a moment to sink in that “real” Mycroft was speaking to her.
Because I was afraid you wouldn’t come floated through her mind.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than take care of me,” answered Molly weakly before a coughing fit took hold causing her to curl in on herself and shooting Mycroft out of the room at speed.
Moments later real-Mycroft was back, his gloved hands helping her sit up and holding a bottle of cold water to her lips. Her world began to spin again.
“Let me decide my priorities Molly.”
Swiftly Mycroft rearranged the pillows on Molly’s bed into a wedge and helped her get resettled while Molly tried again to catch her breath.
Seeing the piece of paper, thermometer and oximeter appear out of her apron pocket caused relief to wash over Molly.
“Thank you” she whispered with a small exhausted smile.
“If your fever lasts for more than seven days or your oxygen goes below 95 I am taking you to the hospital. Try to get some rest. I’ll check on you in a hour.”
Before she fell asleep Molly heard her vacuum running and smelled the astringent scent of Dettol.
//
Molly’s eyes fluttered open after hearing her name to find Mycroft standing next to her bed. Glancing at the clock she found exactly an hour had passed since Mycroft had left her.
“Hey.” She tried to smile but broke into a coughing fit.
“I have disinfected everywhere.”
Molly noticed her nightstand had been cleaned off and now contained only a box of tissues, a small sack for rubbish and a water bottle.
Without delay Mycroft’s gloved hands took her vitals and noted them on the piece of paper which had now been placed on a clipboard.
“And?” Molly asked before taking a drink of water.
“I think you know,” Mycroft’s tone from behind the mask was serious.
“I’m not getting better.”
“Not yet.”
Molly coughed again. “You don’t need to stay. Go home. I’ll be fine.”
“The fever has clearly made you delirious. Go back to sleep.”
Mycroft got up and left without another word.
//
A lovely spring breeze and morning rays of sunshine were coming into Molly’s bedroom from the open window. Her eyes fluttered open to find Mycroft waiting at her bedside, with the thermometer in his hand.
The thin glass instrument was placed under Molly’s tongue and the oximeter on her finger.
There was no conversation while her temperature was being taken. Molly watched as Mycroft studied the thermometer then noted down the results on the chart.
“You look angry,” Molly said weakly.
“I am.”
“It’s going to take time. You can’t control this virus. I can’t get better any faster.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Mycroft,” Molly drew his name out in frustration. “After all this time what was I meant to say, ‘I know I messed up but I need help’.”
“Yes.” There were a pair of unblinking ice blue eyes staring at her above a surgical mask.
“But. I didn’t think—“ Molly shrugged her shoulders. “You haven’t acted like you had any interest in patching things up.”
“You can’t blame me for licking my wounds.”
Suddenly a coughing fit left Molly gasping for breath.
“I can’t— I can’t talk about this now—“
Even hidden behind the thin fabric of the mask Molly could tell Mycroft’s jaw was clinched as he nodded his head, leaving the room without another word.
//
Her spare set of sheets and fresh pyjamas were sitting on the nightstand when Molly opened her eyes two hours later.
“We need to change the sheets. And when did you last have a bath?”
Mycroft, once again wearing an apron, was standing with his hands on his hips looking like a housewife about to drag a lazy teenager out of bed.
“What day is it?” asked Molly.
“Tuesday.” Mycroft opened up a small white bin bag and placed it on the floor next to the bed.
“Probably two days ago.”
“Come on then.”
Feeling the familiar hands, even covered in gloves, caused Molly’s heart to beat faster. They slipped around Molly’s arms helping her to sit. With difficulty she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Mycroft held up a large bath towel in front of him and then turned his face to the side.
“Put your clothes in the plastic bag.”
Grasping at the hem of her top Molly pulled it off, her skin breaking out in goosebumps feeling the cool air. Her top made a soft rustle as it landed in the plastic bag. Before her teeth could start to chatter Molly pushed her knickers and sleep trousers down to her ankles. She kicked them into the bag with her foot. Pushing herself off the bed Molly mostly fell against Mycroft, landing with a thud against his chest.
The towel and his arms were wrapped around her and Molly wondered if the lightheadedness was due to the embrace or her standing fully upright for the first time in days.
Mycroft slowly walked Molly into the bathroom and he opened the towel in front of the bath so she could get in.
“This feels so good.” Molly closed her eyes as her body slid under the bubble filled water.
“I’m leaving the door open while I change the sheets. Let me know if there is a problem.”
“I will.”
Molly could hear Mycroft stripping the bed.
“I’m putting a load in the washer. Are you still okay?” Mycroft called from the bedroom.
“Yes.”
The bath water was just beginning to cool when Mycroft appeared in the bathroom doorway.
“Can you stand?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft, eyes still averted, picked up the towel, folded it over a few times then approached the bath.
“Hold up your arms.”
Molly weakly raised her arms and Mycroft bent down and swiftly pulled her up and out of the bath with a grunt. The towel perfectly unfurled protecting her modesty. Water was streaming off her and making a small puddle on the bath mat but at least she was out of the tub.
Unceremoniously and vigorously Mycroft rubbed Molly all over to get her as dry as he could before he wrapped her robe around her letting the soaking towel drop to the floor. It was then her teeth began to chatter. In one smooth motion Mycroft swept Moly up into his arms and carried her the short distance to her bed.
“We have to get your pyjamas back on.” Mycroft said as he placed Molly gently on the bed.
Molly nodded weakly. “I can’t. Just be quick.”
The mask indented as Mycroft took a deep breath and Molly closed her eyes.
Again the chill of the air hit Molly’s fevered skin when the robe was slipped off her shoulders. It felt like ice cubes were being rubbed against it. Soon Molly could feel the soft top being put over her head and then each arm helped through the short sleeves.
Without pause Molly could feel her knickers around her ankles followed by her sleep trousers. Mycroft pulled both up her legs.
“Hips up.”
Molly obliged. Her robe was removed and Mycroft gave a relief-filled sigh before he declared the job “Done.”
Almost instantly Molly’s teeth started to chatter, her whole body suddenly shaking with cold.
“J-j-jumper” Molly was able to stutter and point to her dresser. Quickly Mycroft returned with her oversized cardigan and wrapped Molly in it before tucking her tightly back into bed.
//
This was the routine for three more days.
//
On the evening of the fifth day Molly woke up to the eerie silence of empty London streets. No sirens, not traffic. Just the sound of people staying home. Her fever had finally broken.
After finishing her water bottle she went in search of some orange juice. Opening her bedroom door she found Mycroft slumped on the couch softly snoring in the glow of BBC News 24. The edge of her mouth twitched up into a smile as she remembered all the nights he had fallen asleep on her couch like this.
He woke with a start when she put her hand on his forehead. It was cool to the touch.
“I hope I haven’t given it to you. Have you been taking your temperature?”
“Yes, of course. I must have nodded off.” Mycroft blinked himself fully awake as he sat up straighter. “I’m sorry.”
“You are allowed to sleep. You have been taking such good care—“ Molly shook her head as she looked down at him.
“I’m sorry I left for Serbia without saying goodbye properly.” His blue eyes were staring at her, sucking the air out her lungs.
“Perhaps things would have turned out differently,” responded Mycroft softly.
“I- I don’t—-“ The world around Molly went soft and she felt herself falling. Before she hit the ground Molly felt Mycroft’s arms around her leading her back to her bed.
//
The fever had gone but the exhaustion and cough remained for another week.
//
The only reason Molly knew it was Thursday was by looking at her phone. Her curtains were still closed even though it was already 8:30 a.m. With a pang of panic Molly threw back her covers and tumbled out of bed. Heart pounding she opened her bedroom door hoping to see Mycroft enthralled in the morning news. Instead the empty sofa caused Molly’s heart to sink.
By the time she reached the kitchen Molly feared Mycroft had left her life for good.
But there he was, glasses still on and unshaven, eating a bowl of cereal while sitting at the tiny table in the corner as he scrolled through his phone. His face brightened when he saw her.
“Cobra meeting has been postponed until after lunch so I decided to have a lie in.”
Relief, guilt, confusion, hope, and fear zoomed around in Molly’s head making her hesitate, unsure of what to do next. She watched Mycroft’s expression harden and him take a deep breath.
“I see. You are on the mend. I should be going.” Mycroft picked up his half-eaten cereal and started to move towards the sink.
“I was hurt.” Molly blurted out stopping him in his tracks. “And after Sherlock faking his death and you being the Ice Man no matter how hard I tried, Tom and his promise of a normal life sounded pretty good.”
Slowly, still holding his cereal bowl, Mycroft turned to face Molly.
“I see. And how do you feel now?”
Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath a smile appeared on Molly’s face.
“I feel you need to be quarantined for at least seven days, possibly 14.”
“Really?” A rare smile appeared on Mycroft’s face.
“Yes. Just to be on the safe side.”
“I should self-isolate at home?”
“No. It’s best if you stay here, in case you need a doctor.” Molly smiled.
//
Mycroft was leaning up against the counter in Molly’s kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when his phone rang. He put it to his ear and before he was able to utter a greeting his little brother was talking to him.
“Molly says she’s better.”
“Yes Sherlock. She is.”
“Where are you? She recovered over a week ago.”
Catching a glimpse of Molly waiting for him on the couch Mycroft’s gaze started at her face then lazily traveled down her body. He noted a tingling in his stomach.
“Something which I lost a few years ago has reappeared in my life, so I’m becoming reacquainted.”
Sherlock tutted. “You are making little sense but losing things is a sure sign of your advanced age brother dear. And clearly you have even forgotten your way home.”
“Have a good evening Sherlock.” Mycroft hung up the phone against the continuing chiding of Sherlock.
With the two finished mugs of tea Mycroft headed to the sofa.
“For dinner tonight we have mince or chicken breasts—-“
Molly shushed him as she motioned to the telly. The picture was of three podiums with two Union Jack flags behind.
“It’s about to start. No discussions of dinner until after the press conference, your rule.”
Mycroft smiled to himself and settled into the sofa as Molly snuggled into him.