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Each practiced scrape of the straight razor sang across Sherlock's nerves. The skin of the human throat was so fragile -- vital arteries lay so close to the surface. Sherlock's heart raced. In his mind's eye his hand flashed up and closed around the barber's wrist, forcing his fingers open so the razor clattered to the floor.
Mycroft glanced over from his position behind a massive wooden desk -- overcompensate much, brother dear? Sherlock affected a bored stare and willed himself to stillness.
The office door opened slowly and fluorescent light intruded from the corridor. Sherlock closed his eyes against the brightness. A woman's footsteps approached with a purposeful, low-heeled stride: likely Anthea. Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes to check.
The footsteps broke into a run. The unflappable barber stopped his work and stepped back from Sherlock's chair. Mycroft's heavy chair scraped backward and Sherlock opened his eyes.
Molly Hooper clambered into Mycroft's lap. Sherlock stared dumbly from the barber's chair. A strip of lather clung to his cheek.
"Mike! You're safe. I was so worried."
Mycroft circled her waist and pulled her close. He pressed his lips to hers. "My darling."
Good God, his brother was tangling tongues with Molly Hooper right under the martial portrait gaze of Her Majesty. Mycroft's hands wandered down from the doctor's waist to her firm derrière.
Molly sat back in Mycroft's lap and slapped him. Sherlock could only gawp at the sight; his mouth hung open like that of an asthmatic French bulldog.
"Molly, love," faltered Mycroft, rubbing at his reddened cheek.
Molly sucked in a frustrated breath and shook her stinging palm. "How stupid do you think I am? 'I'll be away for six weeks, love. A trade delegation to western China... There'll be a poor cell signal.' And then your texts, when I received anything at all, were obviously from Anthea. I don't even want to know what she thought when she read the one about how I wanted to push you flat on the floor and unbutton your... Good Lord!"
Not for the first time since his extraction, Sherlock was convinced he had in fact died in the Serbian prison. Everything since had to be a fantasy borne of dying neurons soaked in adrenaline and deprived of oxygen. (The other viable explanation -- Sherlock couldn't rule it out completely -- was a psychotic break.)
Molly slid down from Mycroft's lap, leaving him rubbing at a cheek so reddened as to clash horribly with what remained of his hair. She tottered a bit as she navigated the office.
"Sherlock, thank God you're home and safe." The little pathologist leaned over and kissed his forehead. Sherlock made a bewildered smacking sound in the direction of her cheek. Clearly the dynamics in their little family had changed while he was away. Time to investigate further.
Sherlock turned wide eyes toward her. "In Serbia, Mycroft just sat there in a stupid fur hat and watched me get thrashed. With a chain, Molly."
Mycroft humphed. "Yes, and then I extracted you and brought you back here to intensive care."
Sherlock sat up and tugged the tails of his white dress shirt up past the middle of his back. Tiger-striped scars shone in the strong lighting. "You didn't even shoot the arseholes who did this to me!"
"For the love of God, Sherlock, my fiancée is not our new nanny. Playing us off one another is not going to get you anywhere."
"You're getting married?"
Molly came back to squeeze Sherlock's big hand in both of hers. "Isn't it wonderful? Mummy is having her dress made over."
"Mycroft!?"
"They adore her, brother. Just a few months ago we all went on holiday to Branson, Missouri."
"All right, John, that's enough. You can come out now. Joke's over." Sherlock winked, clicked his tongue, and threw a thumbs-up sign at the nearest mirror. Surely John had to be back there pulling the strings of the best prank of all time.
"Sherlock dear, we're not fooling you." Molly giggled and pulled out her mobile phone, flicking through photos with her thumb. "Here's Mummy and me getting our nails done. I loved that shade of pink. Oh, here's Mike at Medieval Times. You should have seen him eating turkey legs with no fork and knife. Funniest thing I've ever seen! Here's your Dad riding the mechanical bull."
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"Sherlock, I love him. He loves me." Molly stroked Sherlock's damp curls away from his forehead. "And I adore your Mum and Dad. God, Sherlock, they've missed you."
"Where's John?"
Molly looked sadly at Mycroft who nodded once as if giving permission. "He's moved on with his life... he's been seeing a nice lady these past few months. Mary's her name."
Sherlock swatted Molly's hands away and sat up, growling at the healing wounds pulling all over his back. "He can't have 'moved on with his life.' What life would he have without me?"
"She's a nurse at his clinic." Molly's small fingers moved gently up Sherlock's forehead and brushed away the damp black hair. "She's been such a blessing, Sherlock."
Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. "It'll be fine. I'll surprise him. Perhaps I'll jump out of a cake!"
Molly took his free hand and looked urgently toward Mycroft for support.
His brother spoke. "Sherlock, do go easy on Dr. Watson. It's been two years."
"Mike?" Sherlock blurted, and then cringed. He hasn't spoken the childhood nickname in years.
Mycroft rose from his desk and perched uncomfortably on the sharp corner of a marble table. "Move with extreme caution, brother mine."
"Just talk to him, Sherlock. It'll be all right." Molly leaned over, pressing her lips to his cold brow. She took Mycroft's hand and the two of them left the room. Sherlock was left alone with shaving lather melting from his cheek.