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Molly noticed that Mycroft had a lot of books lying around his flat when she first came to it. He was off getting drinks for them, and she went over to investigate. It was a bunch of children’s books. Taking a Bath With the Dog , On Monday When It Rained , and I Am Happy were the first 3 titles she saw. Mycroft came out with the drinks and winced when she saw him looking. “Ah, you saw those,” he said quietly as he passed her a glass.
“Mycroft...what are these for? Do you...have a kid?”
Mycroft choked on his drink. “What?! No! No, these are...well, they’re for me.”
Molly frowned. “For you? I don’t understand. Why would you need children’s books? I didn’t take you for someone who was illiterate.”
“No, Molly, I can read. I can, these are all…” he waved a hand vaguely in their direction. “They’re...it’s hard to explain.”
Molly looked at him patiently. “Take all the time you need. I want to know.”
Mycroft put down his glass and started pacing. “These books...they’re my baselines. About different emotions. I want to know what’s normal to feel, and what’s not. What happiness feels like, if it’s not mania, and sadness if not depression. And then there’s emotions I haven’t felt in years, like jealousy, and frustration, and relief, and I’m rediscovering all these things in my head that have been buried for years, but it’s like starting at square one. So...this is my research. My baseline.” He expected berating if the way he flinched at the end of his explanation was anything to go by.
But Molly just found the whole thing oddly adorable. “Aw! Mycroft, that’s so precious! You know you could just ask someone, though?”
“But, people don’t explain it most of the time. They expect you to know. These books explain . Explain what they are, explain how to deal with them, how to recognize them. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I need these explanations. It’s been so long since I’ve properly felt ...it’s been about as long since Sherlock stopped needing a night light, for reference,” he elaborated. Then froze. “Oh. Sherlock. He was copying me when we grew up, tried to learn everything he knew from me. And I’m defective.”
Molly frowned. “You are not defective.”
Mycroft looked at her. “Whether you agree or not isn’t the point right now. The point is that Sherlock got in all that trouble, got all those poor coping skills because I couldn’t handle my own problems,” he curled his hands into fists, and then released them. Molly watched him, intrigued. “Punching something won’t make me feel better,” he muttered to himself. “I know that. I know that.”
“Myc?” Molly offered. “Are you all right?”
Mycroft turned to her and shook his head, reaching for his glass. “Not really.”
Molly bit her lip. “Well, you’re not punching anything,” she giggled.
“It’s my fault,” he muttered. “It’s my fault Sherlock is the way he is.”
“No it’s not!” Molly insisted. “Sherlock could have picked up mannerisms from any number of places, and had the choice to change them. His entire life, he’s had the opportunity to change, and he won’t. Even though he feels things against what he believes, he continues to push himself in that box. That’s not your fault, that’s his, for forcing himself into something that’s not healthy for him. He may have picked it up from you, but you’re not the reason why he won’t let it go. He’s too stubborn to have picked that up from you.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I suppose your argument has merit, my dear,” he conceded. “Though I still feel guilty for giving him the traits in the first place.”
Molly took a sip of her drink and rolled her eyes. “You’re his older brother. It’s your job to worry. But trust me when I say that you’re fine.”
“How can you know, though?” Mycroft asked.
Molly smiled. “I know, because I know your brother. And for all his faults he is a good man. Immature, sure. Rude, definitely. Dismissive, yeah. But he tries to stop the Moriartys of the world, which can’t be said to most of Scotland Yard, let alone the general population. He solves crimes and gives answers to people that others refuse to listen to. He genuinely tries to be a good person, and so do you. So when your brother is trying to be you, he’s trying to be the same thing you’re trying to be: a good person. That, Mycroft Holmes, is how I can know. I know him, and I know you.”
Mycroft smiled. “That’s how, is it?”
“It’s that simple,” Molly assured. “The fact that you even recognize your faults is a sign that you are a good person.”
Mycroft leaned towards her ever so slightly. “I guess you’re right…” he sighed. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, I guess. At least I’m not as bad as I could be. I’m still defective, though.”
Molly huffed. “We’ll talk about that another time. Have you found a therapist?”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow, yeah.”
“Try telling him that and gauge his reaction. It’ll tell you how wrong you are when you say that.”
Mycroft looked at Molly. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”
Molly nodded and they switched topics. “Out of curiosity, what’s your favorite color?” Molly asked.
“Blue. What’s yours?”
“Orange,” Molly smiled. “You know, the soft kind in a sun rise.”
Mycroft nodded. “Nice. Have you ever heard of this group called Aviators…?”
From then on Molly would periodically add to Mycroft’s collection of books on emotions. They were almost always designed for kids, but a few were made for adults on how to teach kids emotions, which Mycroft used just as much if not more. She even went so far as to find the movie Inside Out . He loved it so much that the next time she came over she saw most of the books covering his table were related to the movie. It was adorable, really, the way he tried so hard to understand emotions.
Eventually, though, the books started to dwindle and disappear somewhere that Molly couldn’t identify. Inside Out stayed, it always stayed no matter which books were out.
Molly wondered desperately where all the books had gone, until one day when she went into Mycroft’s bedroom to help look for a tie he was trying to find, and stumbled across the chest at the foot of his bed. She opened it and smiled. All the books, from the very first one to the ones she had gotten him, were neatly stacked inside with a little note in Mycroft’s messy cursive: For reference.