Chapter Text
Molly’s hands trembled as she closed the door to her flat. She fumbled with the locks—newly installed, along with the doorknob—an added precaution after everything with Jim Moriarty. After the events of today, three locks felt like overkill. But despite what Sherlock had told her, she didn’t count. No one really noticed her, which wasn’t surprising. Plain, quiet, mousy Molly.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked toward the kitchen and busied herself with making tea.
Enough with the self-pity. Tomorrow, she would wake up, write her autopsy report on Sherlock, and move on.
She would be okay.
She went to the funeral in a simple black dress that reached her knees. It felt like a sham—black attire for a black lie. Whoever they had buried wasn’t Sherlock. The weight of deception sat heavy in her chest, and she cried, not just for herself, but for those mourning a man who wasn’t in that grave. She cried when she caught sight of John and Mrs. Hudson, feeling even more wretched for playing her part in the lie.
As the funeral concluded, drizzle began to fall. Mycroft stepped up beside her, offering his umbrella. His presence solidified the illusion, adding weight to the deception they had orchestrated. She hesitated before accepting both the umbrella and his offer to drive her home.
Later, they shared a cup of tea in silence in her flat.
His presence soothed her.
Somehow, when Sherlock ‘jumped’ to his death, the world tilted on its axis. She found herself in Mycroft’s company more often than not. He would drop by after her shift, always bringing some update about his ‘brother dear.’
Perhaps it was a promise he had made to Sherlock. When she asked him why he visited so frequently, he only responded with a cryptic smile before helping himself to another mini blueberry tart she had made earlier.
Sherlock had always insisted that the universe was rarely so lazy, so she could only conclude that Mycroft’s visits served two purposes: delivering messages from his brother and indulging in whatever she had cooked that evening. Because, if nothing else, Mycroft’s timing was impeccable—he always arrived just as she had finished preparing a meal or dessert.
Anything beyond that was too exhausting to consider, especially after a long workday.
“More tea, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, please, Dr. Hooper.”
Along the way, Mr. Holmes became Mycroft, and Dr. Hooper became Molly dear. That terrified her more than she cared to admit.
“Are you a high-functioning sociopath too? Like Sherlock?” she asked one evening as she busied herself in the kitchen, while he set the table.
Eight months in, they had fallen into a routine. She had stopped cooking for one after the third time he appeared unannounced at dinner. Grocery shopping became unnecessary once she discovered that someone—undoubtedly on Mycroft’s orders—kept her pantry stocked while she was at work. Over time, she even learned to predict what he would want for dinner simply by checking what had been stocked. Tonight, it was spaghetti Bolognese, and since she wasn’t too exhausted from work, she treated herself to homemade meatballs.
“Is that what he calls himself?” Mycroft asked, amused, as he served their plates. He looked almost dashing, the corners of his eyes crinkling in good humor.
Later, as they sat on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, sipping tea while watching telly, she found herself wondering—what did this mean?
“She had the audacity to tell me that since I’m single, I should cover her double shift—again! I wouldn’t have minded, but this is the fifth time she’s done this, and I’ve already postponed my dentist appointment three times!”
Flushed with indignation and embarrassment, she fell silent, realizing too late who she was ranting to. She quickly turned her attention back to the oven, pretending to check on the chocolate cake.
Mycroft, either oblivious or feigning ignorance, moved around the kitchen preparing tea. “Ah yes, I’m quite familiar with this type of personnel. Before Anthea, my PA was—at best—woefully incompetent. Honestly, I was relieved to be rid of her. Would you like me to do the same with this Ms. Wayne? I could arrange for her transfer.”
Unsure if he was serious, she quickly declined. Yet, a warmth spread in her chest, one that had nothing to do with her earlier frustration. A small smile curved her lips.
Before he left that night, she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you, Mycroft. Truly.”
That night, she fell asleep with a smile on her lips, her skin tingling where she had kissed him.
It was raining when he told her he was leaving to retrieve Sherlock.
Though his words were dismissive—something about ‘fetching an errant puppy who had played too long in the sun’—she understood the gravity behind them.
A cold, irrational fear gripped her.
For whom, she wasn’t sure.
Before he left, she kissed him, hoping and praying to whatever higher power existed that he would return safely. And when he kissed her back, she found herself trembling with unshed tears.
Because, somehow, she had fallen for a different Holmes.
Waiting for news was a different kind of torture. Every time she heard a generic ringtone similar to Mycroft’s, she turned, hoping—wishing—it was him. She longed to see him in her kitchen again, sleeves rolled up, orchestrating plans between bites of cake or sips of tea.
When he finally appeared at her door that night, she felt the tension unravel from her chest. But his eyes were cold as he spoke in a clipped tone.
“Hello, Molly dear. I’m just dropping by to inform you that Sherlock is back. You must be glad.”
Feeling defensive, she curled in on herself—an old habit she thought she had long since abandoned. “Oh. I guess you won’t be coming here anymore, then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you don’t need to see me anymore, right?” Her tone was unfamiliar, brittle in a way she hadn’t expected. Even at Sherlock’s cruelest, she had never spoken like this before.
The silence stretched between them, and before she could stop herself, words spilled from her lips. “Was that the only reason you visited? To update me on Sherlock? To make sure I didn’t slip up about his ‘death’? It’s not like you actually care about me. And that kiss—before you left—was that just pity? Because I looked pitiful?”
Because that was all she ever was. Someone only remembered when useful. A foolish woman who had gone from loving one Holmes to another, only to be left heartbroken again.
She inhaled shakily. “I’m not like you, Mycroft. I can’t deduce your feelings from a glance or the way you—” Her voice wavered. “If only I could see inside your mind, maybe then I’d know if you—if you might love me, the way I love you.”
Tears blurred her vision. She let them fall. She had been strong for so long. Perhaps it was time to be kind to herself and allow this moment of weakness.
Softly, Mycroft exhaled. “Oh, Molly.”
Gently, he cupped her face, his warm hands steadying her. And then he kissed her.
It was careful, reverent, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. When he pulled away, his breath ghosted over her cheek, his lips brushing hers as he whispered:
“Of course, I love you, Molly Hooper.”
Cradled in his warmth, her lips curved into a smile.
Perhaps he had been waiting all along for her to say it first.
Because even the brilliant Holmes men were afraid to show their hearts.