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She's heard about Mycroft, when Sherlock complains about him. She's been told that he's nosy, that he's dangerous, that he's lazy and afraid of any dog too big to fit on a lap.
She's told about how he can't hang onto a diet, how he used to alternately invite Sherlock into his room to play and shut him out, which was annoying. She's been told he was overprotective of Sherlock since Sherlock can remember, and that it's a stupid way to be and that Mycroft gets caught up in sentiment.
The way Sherlock talks about him, he sounds rather interesting, actually.
She thinks she might have found someone who'll actually tell her things, when he's there about Irene. But he won't spill Sherlock's secret, if he knows it, despite what Sherlock thinks.
Perhaps, actually, he'd never known exactly what Irene meant to Sherlock. Molly wonders if Mycroft ever x-rays his girlfriends' phones, if he ever has time for girlfriends in the first place. But if Sherlock has time for not-her-face girlfriends, surely Mycroft has some time.
After she helps Sherlock with the fall, Sherlock stays at hers. Toby, her cat, avoids him. He's always ignoring the food she makes. He makes fun of what she watches on the telly. But he talks to her a lot, and that's what she likes. She likes to hear his mind at work.
Mycroft visits very often in the week Sherlock lies low at Molly's, updating him. The very air about him makes Molly scramble to get tea ready, makes her shove over Sherlock's stack of newspapers to clear space at the coffee table.
He makes her want to impress. Sherlock makes her want to impress, but that's cause she knows him. She wants to impress Mycroft without knowing him at all.
Mycroft notices her fumbling around for him, but he just watches patiently. Sherlock, however, speaks up. "For God's sake, Molly. It's just Mycroft." He nudges Mycroft's slacks-covered thigh with a sock-covered foot. "He's ruining the comfortable thing you've got going on here, with his suits and his license to kill."
"Sorry, what?" says Molly.
Sherlock reaches over to pat her hand sympathetically, and she sighs. "Well, even if I don't have to," she says finally, "even if it's silly, that's alright. I'll just put some tea on, shall I?"
"'Shall I?'" Sherlock mocks as she goes for the kettle.
"It's a very nice home," Mycroft calls after her. "Despite the presence of my little brother. I think he'll miss this place."
Sherlock heaves a put-open sigh. "Dull."
"What news would you like to hear about?" As Molly is in the kitchen, Mycroft straightens the table up just a bit more. It's not about the mess itself; it's about his guilt over what his brother is about to do and over Molly having to become involved at all.
Molly blushes a bit as she fixes the tea and heads out with it. Mycroft approves of her home aloud, which she thinks might almost feel better than Sherlock secretly approving of it.
"I suppose you're used to fancier," she says, setting the tray down with a certain clumsiness that Mycroft clearly takes in and wonders at.
"Yes," he says. "But is fancier always better?"
Molly giggles. Sherlock gives her a bit of a push toward her chair. "Thank you, Molly," he says, turning back to Mycroft. "You were saying?"
Mycroft pauses, deciding not to comment on his brother's treatment of Molly. They're friends, and it's not his place. "Did you make these?" Mycroft sits forward, reaching for one of the sweet-looking scones.
"Molly, rule one: Do not feed the Mycroft."
"They're rather good!" Mycroft says in surprise, around a bite.
"Dull!" Sherlock says, leaning back, looking up at the ceiling with the hopelessness of Bored Sherlock.
He wipes at his mouth with a chuckle. "Forgive my manners," he says, glancing away from Molly.
Molly stares at him, smiling. "Really, you think it's that good? I like to bake."
"I really do," he says earnestly, meeting her eyes again.
"Oh, DULL!" Sherlock says, storming up to Molly's guestroom.
Molly only looks startled for a moment. She's becoming used to the way the brothers interact. It often leads to one of them storming off for a bit. She moves to pour some tea. "I'll be mother," she says, trying to keep her hand steady.
He takes the cup from her. "This is a very pretty cup," he comments.
"The set belonged to my father," she says softly. "He's dead now. Er...sorry."
"Quite alright," he says, and seems to mean it. He eyes the spot on the couch Sherlock abandoned. She takes it as an invitation, settling next to him. It is, after all, her couch.
"Tell me about yourself, Molly," he says kindly, and she nearly splatters tea from her own cup down her front in surprise. Sherlock was right: Mycroft is not like Sherlock.
She'd thought maybe Sherlock had just been exaggerating their differences, but there really are a lot of them. Oh, they're both geniuses, both haunted by things in their past that make them bicker on as they do, and they both clearly have their demons. But Sherlock hates her scones. And Mycroft, well.
"May I...?" he trails off, eyeing the scones, looking like a little boy scared to ask for such a treat.
"Diet off this week?" she asks, then hates herself for it. "Oh no. No, I didn't mean to be rude, I...."
He smiles ruefully. "Well, yes, I suppose it is." He leans forward and takes a second scone. "I blame you," he says with a quirk of his brow. "I can't help myself."
A bit of tea sloshes over the rim of her cup and onto her blouse. She's forgotten the saucers.
He hands her a handkerchief with a smile.
"I'm not much like my brother. Or, as is proper to say, he's not much like me," Mycroft confirms, closing his eyes in pleasure at the first bite of the second scone. Then, he continues. "He did mention me, didn't he?"
"He complains about you all the time," Molly says brightly.
"Does he?" He leans a fraction of an inch closer to Molly.
"Yeah, he's horrible. Says you're the world's most dangerous man."
"What do you think?" Mycroft asks lightly, but suddenly things seem rather serious.
Molly glances down, noticing that Toby is sitting right at Mycroft's feet. "I think Toby likes you," she says.
Mycroft looks puzzled, but also pleased. "Is that an answer?" he asks.
Molly smiles mysteriously and sips at the remaining tea.