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It wasn't that Molly hated Christmas.
No, indeed. She rather liked it. She liked it, but she dreaded it as well. Christmas meant going home to her mum, her brother, her Auntie Kate.
It meant no dad.
She poured her tea and sat to read her book. The tree was small this year, but she thought that it looked nice by her window. It made her flat appear to be brighter.
And anything which accomplished that was fine by her.
She didn’t want to go to Kent this year. She had no desire to partake in the tired old drivel that the Hooper’s were apt to do. Perhaps she could make her regrets and not go this year. Wouldn't that send her mother into a tizzy?
And she giggled.
Molly got up and readied herself for the morgue. She always worked as much as possible around the holiday’s. It meant little time at home, by herself, and it meant that she couldn't stay long (occasionally, if at all), with her family.
She decided to walk to Bart’s. It wasn't that far and she thought the exercise would do her good.
So she did…
…and she breathed the air in deeply. Now, ordinarily, Molly took the shortcut, but today, she decided not to. Today, Molly was going to walk to work, enjoy the air, since the morgue was situated in the dreary, stale, dark…
Stop it, Molly.
She sighed, and looked around her. She was near the butcher’s shop, and there, in the window, were three Christmas hens perched on display. Rather like Dickens’s goose, she thought. Molly examined them, and thought that it would be rude in the extreme to not go to her mum’s house. She shouldn't disappoint her family. There was no call for that. She smiled to herself and shoved her hands in her pockets…she turned and made her way to work once more.
And in a posh black car, just across the way, sat Mycroft Holmes. He had been waiting for a signal from his man that a package had been dropped, and was scrolling through his mobile to distract him. That was when he spotted that pathologist from Bart’s, eyeing some poultry in Wallace’s window.
Wallace was the butcher Mycroft would use himself, when the occasion presented. However, he noticed that the pathologist was a bit maudlin. Her stature was slack, her eyes, when he spied them, mournful.
Mycroft thought a moment.
“Think I’ll get out, then, Henry. I’ll call when I’ve completed my errand,” and he opened the door and got out.
Mycroft Holmes waltzed over to the butcher and opened the door dramatically.
Molly’s shift was nearly done, and she began to clean up the place. She was considerate of the next shift, while she was not often given that consideration.
She put the last of the things away and went to her office.
Coat on, hat secured, Molly left and walked out into London’s cold air. Her breath materialized, then disappeared, in front of her. She felt her cheeks burn a touch.
“There is nothing like it, you know.”
She turned around with a start to find a tallish gentleman looking at her. She had seen him before, she was certain.
Molly squinted a bit…”I know you, don't I?”
“Mm…perhaps,” his voice was silken, and he walked toward her. “Though I make it my habit to meld with surroundings. Anonymity, in my business, is most desirable.”
“Your business…?” she smirked.
“Is confidential and highly dangerous, naturally.”
“Naturally,” and she squinted her nose. “And you said that there is nothing like it. What did you mean?”
The man smiled. “Solitude on a snowy evening.”
“But then, you are defeating the purpose,” she returned.
“No. I am opening your eyes to it,” and he winked at her, and left.
Molly watched him go as he disappeared around the corner. She couldn't account for it, but began her walk home once more.
She was absolutely certain that she had seen him before…on a night, much like this…
She froze. Sherlock’s brother. Molly turned once more and looked down the street.
Of course! But why would he be bothering with her? It made no sense. She shook her head and continued to walk to her flat, confused and amused in equal measure.
The following day, Molly received a text from an unknown number:
I have a parcel for you.
She looked at it confusedly.
Who is this, please?
Send.
A concerned party.
Molly crinkled her nose.
I think that you have the wrong person.
Send.
Is this Molly Hooper?
She stared, And with a bit of hesitation…
It is
Send.
Excellent. Right person, then.
Molly was positively torn. She was intrigued, but a bit nervous. She didn’t recognize the number at all.
So…parcel, then?
Send.
Yes indeed. You’ll find it just outside your flat.
Molly clicked the mobile off. She went to her door and opened it slowly.
There, on the floor, was an envelope. She picked it up and opened it. Inside was an invitation.
To Miss Molly Hooper,
You are invited to a dinner which you may accept as an alternative to the depressing one you always attend on Christmas Eve, that is, tomorrow. You will find that attending this dinner may or may not ready yourself for the day following at your Mother’s, but it shall give you some reprieve, at any rate.
You’ll find the particulars attached…
No signature.
Molly found said particulars with the address and such, and thought that she may very well get killed as a result of this mystery.
She bundled up for the commute to work and headed there. And it then dawned on her that the mystery person might just be Mycroft. She laughed. Doubted…
But it wasn't impossible, since she had only just seen him the night previous, quite out of the blue.
And how did he know that she was going to her Mum’s? That was rather freakish. It made her wonder just how much he knew about her…
Molly entered Bart’s and got ready. She supposed that she would, in fact, accept the invitation. Her curiosity was piqued beyond measure.
…but she might bring some sort of protection, just to be on the safe side.
The night arrived, and Molly was standing in front of her mirror, examining her outfit. She was keenly aware that she had made much of her outfit a few Christmas’s ago, and she desperately didn’t want to make that same error.
She slipped the pepper spray into her bag, and walked out of her building.
Molly hailed a cab, and sped off to the address.
It was a small, private, conservatory. And it was lit with small lights all around.
“I had meant for there to be another guest, Miss Hooper. Unfortunately, he was detained,” and a glass appeared in front of her. Molly turned, after receiving the glass, and saw Mycroft Holmes sipping white wine. He swallowed, examined it, and crinkled his nose. “I wonder if it is any good. I never touch the stuff, ordinarily.”
“You never drink?” she asked, sipping. It was rather good.
“I never drink white wine,” and Mycroft sat at a table, luxuriously decorated. “Brandy is more to my taste. Port occasionally. And even whiskey, when the mood strikes.”
“An old fashioned pallet, then?” and Molly sat, smiling at her companion.
“I beg your pardon. It is refined,” and he smiled, pouring her more drink. “I had invited my brother, but…as you know, he is not terribly reliable,” and he sat back as a server placed soup in front of them.
“No,” she blushed and sipped her soup.
“I am sorry for his absence, but perhaps you might find solace in the company of his elder brother. Though I cannot vouch for his conversation, he is certainly not nearly as ill tempered,” and salads were brought.
“I’m sure he is more than an adequate dinner companion,” Molly replied. “But why…?”
“Why did I arrange this?”
“Well, yes.” He smiled at her. “Because I knew that you did not like your family’s holiday, and I saw these fine morsels,” the main course was placed in front of them. “…and thought,” he raised the cover, revealing the hen. “This would suit for a Christmas Eve meal. Especially since Miss Hooper has avoided her family every holiday since her father passed on.”
Molly blanched and her eyes fell. “You know a lot, Mycroft.”
He smiled at his name. “It is my business to know.”
“But it was presumptuous to assume I’d come.”
“Not at all. You like spending time with Sherlock. A mystery would entice you, I was sure,” and he took a bite.
Molly tried her hen and smiled, herself. “It is very good,” she said, looking at him. “But Sherlock, it seems, does not return the sentiment.”
Mycroft held her gaze. “His loss, my dear.”
And Molly blushed deeply.
The dinner passed thus, and Molly was thoroughly entertained. Mycroft was a much more enthralling companion than she would have guessed at the outset.
“I am so pleased that Sherlock wasn't able to make it,” she said, as he helped her with her coat. “And such a lovely place. It’s rather like a dream,” she whispered…
…she turned to look at him, the lights, soft, the scents, intoxicating, the temperature, warm…
“Mycroft?”
He was staring at her… And he leaned over, her breath hitched, and just as his lips nearly touched her own, he moved his face away, and kissed her cheek delicately. “Good night, Molly Hooper. Happy Christmas to you,” he turned away, and left through another door, presumably to speak with the cook or something.
Molly, slightly overcome, swallowed, and opened the door to the conservatory.
…snow was dancing softly through the air, her breath misting before her…and she pulled her coat closer, ignored the black car waiting for her.
She walked home the long way.