Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes sat at the head of the rounded conference table, his fingers neatly entwined on the dark, polished surface as he outlined the latest intelligence concerning a potential security breach.

"The intercepted communications suggest a coordinated effort to access our diplomatic channels in Southeast Asia," he explained, "The pattern bears similarities to the Prague incident of 2008." He glanced around the table.

The room was filled with the usual suspects - Sir Edwin from MI6 tapping his pen against his notepad, the Home Secretary stifling a yawn behind her hand, and a Japanese ambassador nodding politely. Various other political figures sat around the table, their expressions ranging from genuine concern to well-practiced neutrality and boredom.

Mycroft drew a deep breath. "And furthermore, the intelligence suggests that we should anticipate-"

He paused mid-sentence. Something wasn’t right.

A single bead of sweat had broken free from his hairline and was journeying over the rise of his cheekbone, leaving a damp trail in its wake.

With a slight frown, he raised his hand and dabbed at the droplet with his fingertips.

Sweat?

He hadn't broken a sweat during a meeting since 1999 - that ghastly Kosovo situation, when the air conditioning had failed during a heatwave. This room was a perfect 19.5°C. As it always was.

Mycroft glanced down at his notes to continue where he had left off, but his neat handwriting now appeared as meaningless squiggles. He looked up to see that the faces of the politicians around the table appeared to all be swimming in their seats.

“Mr.Holmes?” The Home Secretary’s seemed to be calling from underwater. “You were speaking about the anticipated response?”

He turned his head to meet her questioning gaze, but his head felt unusually heavy. As he attempted direct his view he found found that all of the waiting politicians had blurred to be no more than colorful blobs in blue, grey, and black. Mycroft tried to blink away the distortion, but the clarity he sought didn't come. Instead, the left side of his vision had gone dark, as though someone had drawn a curtain across half his world. His right hand began to tingle, pin and needles spreading from his fingertips up to his elbows.

His pulse quickened, the thumping becoming erratic and deafening in his ears - drowning out the murmurs of concern now spreading around the table.

"Mr. Holmes, are you quite all right?" The Japanese ambassador's voice muffled through the fog.

Mycroft attempted to straighten in his seat and speak, but his tongue seemed to have doubled in size, making it difficult to lift his voice.

"Oh, that’s no good," he slurred, his voice distant and echoing even to himself.

The cool mahogany of the conference table rushed to meet his cheek. He was only dimly aware of the chairs scraping against the floor and voices raised in alarm.

His last coherent thought, as blotchy darkness enveloped him completely, was of the report he'd need to reschedule. The Japanese would be most displeased by the delay.

Beeping. Incessant, high-pitched beeping.

It was the first thing Mycroft became aware of in the hazy darkness of his sleep.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. As though they’d been weighed down with lead. With considerable effort, he managed to crack them open, only to immediately regret it as harsh fluorescent lights assaulted his retinas. He groaned as his consciousness reemerged slowly, his vision spreading like watercolor paints into a droplet of water until the sterile white ceiling and decades old wallpaper of St. Barts hospital fully came to view.

He attempted to swallow, but winced at the dryness in his throat - his mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton balls.

"Mr. Holmes? Can you hear me?"

It was a woman's voice. Mid-forties, slight Essex accent poorly disguised by years of professional elocution lessons. Consultant, not registrar.

Mycroft turned his head jaggedly to confirm his deduction - A fresh wave of throbbing pain making its way to his temples with the movement. He squinted into the fluorescent with a wince. And the woman reached over his bedside table to lower the lighting of the room.

She was just as expected. Salt and Pepper hair scraped back into a sensible bun, aged wire rimmed glasses and a name badge that identified her as a Cardiologist.

“Water,” he croaked.

She poured a small cup from the plastic pitcher and held it up to his lips. Unwilling to give into the indignity of being fed like an infant, Mycroft lightly took the paper cup from her hand. His hand shook as he attempted to sip from the cup, and though he had managed to soothe his parched throat, much of the water dribbled down his chin. Mycroft wasn’t sure if it would have been more or less humiliating if he might have let her help.

"You experienced what we call a vasovagal syncope, Mr. Holmes," the doctor explained, consulting Mycroft’s chart with a professional sort of calm. "Essentially, your body shut down in response to extreme stress. Your blood work shows elevated cortisol levels consistent with chronic stress, and your blood pressure was dangerously high when you were brought in."

Mycroft's hand instinctively moved to straighten the knot his tie for comfort, only to find the damp starchy texture of his hospital gown. He hadn’t felt this exposed since primary school.

"What time is it?" he asked, noting the darkness beyond the window.

"Just after nine in the evening," Dr. Winters replied. "You've been unconscious for approximately six hours."

Six hours of meetings missed, decisions unmade, and intelligence ungathered. The heart monitor beside his bed increased, betraying his distress.

"When can I return to work?" he asked, his voice raspier than he would have liked. Looking out at the darkened window, he thought he must have been out for hours.

The doctor's smile tightened, flattening into a bland thing that attested to years of delivering unwanted news to patients. "That's not for me to decide, but my recommendation would be a minimum of four weeks out from a stressful environment."

Mycroft scoffed. "Impossible. I have meetings scheduled for tomorrow morning that cannot be-"

"I believe those meetings have already been reassigned," came a smooth familiar voice from the doorway.

Lady Smallwood stood framed in the doorway of his hospital room. Behind her loomed two security personnel, and between them was Anthea, typing on her ever-present mobile.

"Elizabeth," Mycroft acknowledged, attempting to sit up straighter against the pillows. The shifting made his head swim, but he fought to maintain his dignity. The shame of it all. "This is a minor incident that has been greatly exaggerated."

Lady Smallwood approached the bed, her heels clicking authoritatively against the linoleum floor. "You collapsed in the middle of a Level Five security briefing, Mycroft. The Japanese ambassador was present. It was hardly 'minor.'" Her eyebrow arched.

"A passing dereliction," he insisted, smoothing the thin cotton blanket across his lap. “Certainly, nothing that warrants interruption to my schedule.”

"Your body disagrees." She placed a manila folder on his bedside table. His lip twitched in displeasure as he recognized the plain folder that was used for personnel decisions. "The committee has convened. You're to take immediate leave."

Mycroft clenched his jaw before releasing slow breath through his nose. His fingers itched to snatch the folder from its resting place and search for any loophole that might allow him to continue his work. "For how long?"

"The summer, at minimum. We'll reassess in September." She paused, tilting her head towards him and continuing in a quieter tone, "You're of no use to Queen and country dead, Mycroft."

"And my ongoing operations?" he asked, hating the hint of desperation that had crept into his voice.

"Will be managed appropriately." Lady Smallwood nodded to Anthea, who stepped forward and placed Mycroft's personal mobile phone beside the folder.

"This has been cleared of all work-related applications and contacts," Anthea explained, as professional as ever. "Your security clearance has been temporarily downgraded to Level Two. Your email will auto-respond with appropriate delegation instructions."

Mycroft stared at the phone as though it were a severed limb. Level Two clearance? That was barely above what they gave to senior secretaries. He wouldn't even have access to the daily threat assessments, let alone the power to influence responses to them.

He blinked back up at Lady Smallwood, "This is absurd. I've managed far more stressful situations than-"

"It's done," Lady Smallwood interrupted crisply, "Consider it an order from the highest authority."

With that, she promptly turned on her heel and left, her entourage following. Anthea lingered momentarily at the door, before she gave him a curt nod, and she too disappeared out the door.

The beeping of his machines seemed suddenly loud and grating in the empty room. The doctor had tactfully withdrawn after the arrival of his visitors, leaving him alone.

He reached for the folder with fingers that still felt clumsy and flipped it open. The contents were exactly as Lady Smallwood had stated - a mandatory leave of absence effective immediately and continuing until at least September 1st.

Mycroft Holmes had essentially been working since he was fourteen years old, when Uncle Rudi had first recognized his potential and secured him a summer of shadowing his uncle’s intelligence position. In the decades since, he'd never taken a sick day or requested vacation or even considered what he might do with unstructured time.

He glared at the blank wall opposite his bed, tracing the faded wallpaper that lined the ceiling of the room with his eyes - midcentury style trees in various shades of blue and green. It seemed a touch mocking in the scheme of things to come.

Three months. Ninety-two days, give or take. Two thousand two hundred and eight hours of . . . what, exactly?

The heart monitor beside him beeped a touch faster, and Mycroft closed his eyes as he tried to regulate his breathing. Panic wasn’t productive if he ever want to return to Whitehall.

He rested back into his thin hospital pillow with an exasperated exhale.

For the first time in decades, Mycroft Holmes had absolutely nothing to do.

Chapter Text

The hospital discharged him the following morning with a plastic bag containing his suit - apparently cut with surgical scissors upon his arrival - one blister-pack of beta blockers, and a pamphlet that cheerfully suggested yoga as a tool for stress reduction. The nurse had tucked it atop his folded trousers with a polite smile, before handing the bag over to him.

Mycroft stepped into the hospital corridor, his legs still feeling a touch uncoordinated from yesterday’s ordeal. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with an grating hum that seemed determined to penetrate his frontal lobe and worsen his lingering headache. He squinted down the hallway, momentarily wishing they had simply tossed him from the hospital window and been done with it.

The scrubs they'd given him to replace his ruined suit were offensive in every possible way. The fabric - some unholy synthetic blend - scratched against his skin with each movement. The top portion hung awkwardly on his tall frame, making him look like a shabby scarecrow that had escaped his post. While the bottoms were simultaneously so short that they were exposing inches of his leg to the hospital air-conditioning, the waistband stretched several inches too wide - requiring him to occasionally hitch it up with as much dignity as he could muster. Which currently, wasn’t much. Worst of all was the thought that these had likely been worn by countless others before him.

He dearly missed Anthea’s uncanny ability to produce precisely what he needed before he even knew he needed it. But her resourcefulness would be out of his reach for the months to come.

As he approached an intersection in the corridor, a door swung open without warning. His medication-dulled reflexes failed him entirely as a small figure barreled into his side with surprising force, followed immediately by the sound of paper scattering across linoleum.

"Oh, crumbs!" yelped a startled feminine voice.

Mycroft looked down to find Molly Hooper - the pathologist from his brother's peculiar social circle - kneeling on the linoleum. She was frantically gathering and stacking the scattered documents. Her hair was loose in its ponytail, several strands of brown hair falling across her face, and her cheeks were flushed pink with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, fumbling with the manila folders. "I wasn't looking where- I mean, I should have been more careful with the door." Her eyes remained fixed on the mess, as if the scattered papers were infinitely more manageable than meeting a his gaze.

Mycroft remained frozen, his brain attempting to process this unexpected social interaction when it was already overtaxed. He spotted a wayward file that had skidded several feet down the corridor and moved to retrieve it, wincing as his head protested the movement.

"I believe this is yours," he said, extending the file toward her growing stack.

Molly glanced up, her eyes finally meeting his. He watched as recognition dawned on her face, before it turned over to a curious look with the furrow of her brow. Her gaze flicked from his to the adhesive residue still visible on the back of his hand where the IV had been, then back to his face.

He resisted the urge to tuck his hand in his pocket.

"Are you . . . a patient?" she asked curiously, rising to her feet with the clutch of files pressed against her chest.

"Was," Mycroft corrected, straightening his posture despite the feeling of his bottoms rising another inch up his ankle. "Apparently, one's cardiovascular system objects rather strenuously when subjected to eighteen-hour workdays for years on end.” He paused, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "My physician has recommended-" his lip curled slightly, "-a leave of absence."

"For how long?" Molly asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand. His eyes tracked the movement, noting the colorful alternating polish on her fingernails.

"The remainder of the summer, at minimum." He briefly wondered why he was being so forthcoming with her, but decided it hardly mattered now. He certainly had nothing better to do.

Molly's eyebrows rose slightly. "So what are you going to do?"

He stared at her blankly. "I have no earthly idea," he admitted.

Something shifted in Molly’s expression as she looked over him once more. Her eyes briefly scanning the full image of him - the cheap awkward fit of his scrubs, his unstyled hair slightly flattened on one side, and pallor to his skin that was only worsened in this artificial lighting.

"If you ever want to waste an afternoon, I'm usually pretty good at doing nothing," She said, the words tumbling out as if they'd surprised her as much as him.

Mycroft blinked, taken aback by the offer. He watched as Molly’s face slowly shifted into an awkward grimace at her own suggestion in the quiet between them.

"Why would I wish to waste time?" The question wasn't meant to be dismissive, he was genuinely perplexed at the concept.

"Well, that's sort of the point," Molly said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her fingers fidgeted with the corner of a file, creasing and un-creasing the edge."Sometimes doing nothing is er - You know . . . something. If that makes sense?" She shook her head slightly, the loose strand of hair falling free again. "Sorry, that sounded better in my head."

Mycroft studied the sincerity in her open face. It was an unfamiliar expression to see directed at him - people typically regarded him with fear, respect, mild irritation, or occasionally a false charm designed to curry favor. Rarely with this sort of earnest kindness.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Dr. Hooper, but-"

"Molly," she corrected, then immediately looked as though she regretted the interruption. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip.

"Molly," he repeated, shifting in the scratchy scrubs. The fabric made a swishing sound against his skin that brought just how far he had fallen sharply to his awareness. "I'm sure you have better uses for your time than entertaining an invalid government official."

"Not really," she said with a small, self-deprecating smile. "My cat's pretty self-sufficient, and I've seen every documentary on Netflix worth watching." She paused, then added, "Besides, you're not an invalid. You're just . . . on pause for a bit."

Mycroft's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but the closest approximation he’d managed in weeks.

"Well, then," he said slowly, as if testing the waters of a new territory. "Perhaps I shall consider it."

Molly's expression brightened. "Great! Here's my number," she said, quickly scrawling on her hospital business card against the back of the folders and handing it to him. "Just - um - give me a ring if you fancy company."

He took the card, noting her loopy handwriting and the ink smudge that blurred the last digit as she tried to juggle the folders and write simultaneously.

"Very well," Mycroft said, tucking it into the shallow pocket of his scrub bottoms.

"Okay. . . Well, I guess I'll see you around," Molly said, backing away with a little wave before she hurried down the corridor.

He watched as the next set of hospital hall doors closed behind her, then resumed his walk towards the hospital exit.

Outside, the city was already waking. A low fog clung to the streets, and the overcast sky promised rain later. Mycroft shivered as the morning air brushed his exposed arms and ankles, raising goosebumps across his skin. He sighed as he realized there would be no lingering black car to whisk him home - another luxury of his position temporarily suspended.

He raised his hand to hail a taxi.

A black cab pulled to the curb, and he slid into the back seat. His upper lip curled in disgust when his hand brushed something slightly sticky on the vinyl seating near the door. He discreetly wiped his palm against the scrubs, adding another reason to incinerate them at the earliest opportunity.

"Where to?" the cab driver asked, eyeing Mycroft's attire with a curious glance in the rearview mirror.

Mycroft gave the cabbie the address to his Kensington home, then leaned back against the seat as the cab merged into traffic. The cab smelled of artificial pine and the previous passenger's overpowering cologne that burned his nostrils. He stared out the window at the smudge of pedestrians passing by, their lives both mundane and extraordinary as they moved through the motions of their morning.

People who, somehow, knew how to "waste an afternoon."

Chapter Text

Mycroft stared out the window of his Kensington townhome, tracking the occasional neighbor passing by on their leisurely walk in the morning sun.

Four days had passed since he was delivered his verdict of isolation. Within those four days he’d reorganized his bookshelves twice - First, Alphabetically, then reverting back to subject matter when that proved displeasing. He watched his favorite classic films, completed three books he’d previously abandoned, and even attempted a crossword puzzle from The Times that morning.

At this point, he was only moments away from polishing every piece of silverware in the home.

His fingers drummed on his biceps as he stood framed in the window - Taking note of the specks of dust floating in the morning light as he continued peering through the window.

Mrs. Holloway was walking past Mr. Pryce's home again. It was her third time this week. Her small terrier - a french bulldog with a healing skin condition- strained at its leash, but the woman's attention remained fixed on Pryce's front door.

"Tedious," Mycroft muttered, watching the predictable scenario unfold. "Would you both just get on with it already?"

He noted the way Mrs. Holloway's hand flew to her hair when the door opened, the slight adjustment of her posture. Amateur theatrics. The woman's son bore no resemblance whatsoever to her late husband, but rather a striking similarity to Mr. Pryce himself. A fact that would be obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight and a rudimentary understanding of genetics. How no one had sorted that fact out in the forty-odd years was the true mystery to Mycroft.

Mr. Pryce's face flushed an alarming shade of crimson as he invited Mrs. Holloway inside. Mycroft rolled his eyes as the door shut behind them.

“Is this what ordinary people did with their time?” He thought,"Watch neighbors engage in painfully obvious affairs and pretend to be surprised by the inevitable fallout?"

If so, these next three months were destined to be a horror show. He turned from the window and began pacing the length of his sitting room. Ten long strides there, pivot on his heel, ten long strides back. The Persian carpet muffled his footsteps, denying him even the small satisfaction of hearing his own movement through the silent house.

After a few rounds of this, he glanced at his mobile sitting at the side table next to his favored leather armchair.

There was always Sherlock, he supposed. His brother would certainly provide mental stimulation, if nothing else. But the thought of Sherlock's smug satisfaction upon seeing him in this state made Mycroft's jaw clench. The last time he'd accepted Sherlock's idea of "entertainment," he'd returned home to find his kitchen transformed into a makeshift laboratory, complete with what appeared to be human tissue samples decomposing in his best serving dishes.

"Absolutely not," he thought, imagining the nightmare that would follow any invitation extended to his younger brother. The corpse he would inevitably have to dispose of if Sher-

Corpse.

The word made him pause mid-stride. His thoughts drifted to his brothers pathologist. Dr.Hooper - Molly. She'd been surprisingly . . . tolerable about the whole medical incident. No fussing or unnecessary commentary.

Just that odd little offer.

At the time, he'd dismissed it as perfunctory politeness. The sort of thing people say with no expectation of being taken up on the offer.

But now, with the walls of his home seeming to inch closer with each passing hour, perhaps it warranted reconsideration.

Mycroft walked to the side table, pilling his hands at this sides before reaching for his phone.

He swiped through to his contacts, finding her name where he'd reluctantly added it upon returning home from the hospital. "Dr. Molly Hooper," the screen displayed, the cursor blinking expectantly. He stared at it with a furrowed brow.

How did ordinary people manage this sort of thing so effortlessly? His professional communications were models of clarity and brevity, but personal correspondence was an entirely different beast he rarely entertained.

He began typing, then paused. Deleted a word, added a different one, then erased it entirely as he considered calling instead.

He finally settled on -

Is now an appropriate time to 'waste'?

As he went to tuck the phone into his pocket, it vibrated in his hand with a reply.

"Hi Mycroft! How about a walk in Regent's Park? Or tea, if you’d prefer?"

He read the message twice, then a third time for certainty. His thumb moved to respond, hesitating briefly before committing.

Regent's Park. 2 PM?

It was only a matter of seconds before the return message buzzed in his hand once more.

See you there!

Mycroft sucked his lower lip through his teeth slowly. He tucked his phone into his pocket and wondered why on Earth he would ever agree to a walk.

The afternoon found Mycroft standing at the park entrance, his shoulder stiff beneath his freshly pressed suit that marked him as entirely too overdressed amongst the Sunday casual wear of weekend joggers and families milling about.

He checked his watch - 2:05 PM.

A sheen of sweat was beginning to form at the back of his neck. The early Summer heat was more oppressive than he'd anticipated, and the sun beat down with surprising intensity for a London afternoon. He resisted the urge to tug at his collar.

"Hi! Sorry if I kept you waiting," came Molly's voice from his left.

He turned to find her slightly flushed and breathing a touch faster than normal, having apparently hurried the final stretch to meet him. She was dressed in a loose-fitting floral sundress that fluttered around her knees, a worn canvas bag rested on her shoulder and a cardigan was slung over the same arm. Her hair was down, catching the wind and light in ways that seemed to have momentarily distracted him from the rest of his surroundings.

"Not at all," Mycroft replied smoothly, though he had arrived nearly fifteen minutes early.

Molly shifted the cardigan to her other arm, her eyes traveling from his polished oxfords to his neatly knotted tie. "I didn’t take you for a park sort of person," she admitted, a touch of uncertainty in her voice.

"I am not, generally," Mycroft said, the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. "But I suppose I should attempt to broaden my repertoire."

A faint smile crossed her lips. "Well, you couldn’t have picked a better day. It's so nice out!"

"Indeed," Mycroft replied, his gaze tracing the sunlit leaves overhead.

They fell into step together, gravel crunching softly beneath his oxfords and her - he glanced down - strappy sandals. The path curved gently ahead of them, lined with centuries old oaks and manicured flower beds. The scent of roses mingled with freshly cut grass, and somewhere in the distance, water splashed in one of the ornamental fountains.

After a moment, Mycroft glanced sideways at her. "You come here often?"

"Whenever I can," Molly said, her fingers idly adjusting the strap of her bag. "I guess it’s a good place to clear my head."

"A curious habit," he replied, one hand slipping into his pocket. "I must admit, I’ve never found aimless wandering particularly productive."

"It's not-" Molly started, then paused, seeming to consider her words. "I mean . . . sometimes it's just . . . nice. You know? Giving your mind a break."

His brow furrowed slightly at the concept. A break? From thinking? The notion seemed as foreign as suggesting one take a break from breathing. But he didn't comment, instead following her gaze to the breezing leaves above them as they continued their stroll.

Their pace was unhurried as they meandered along the tree-lined paths. The sounds of the traffic city life gradually faded behind rustling leaves and the distant laughter of children. To anyone observing them, they might appear to be friends enjoying a pleasant afternoon, but Mycroft felt oddly like an actor who'd wandered onto the wrong stage - aware of his lines but uncertain of the context.

A group of teenagers on bicycles sped toward them, weaving recklessly through distant pedestrians ahead. Mycroft and Molly paused simultaneously, stepping closer to the edge of the path to avoid collision. His hand hovered instinctively near her elbow, though he didn't quite touch her.

"So," she said brightly once the cyclists had passed, "how's life on pause treating you?"

Mycroft considered the question, his mind sifting through potential responses before settling on honesty. "Tedious. Disorienting. Largely unrewarding." He paused, noticing the way Molly's lips pressed together, as though suppressing amusement.

"Ah," she said, her voice warm with understanding though her eyes sparkled with something like mischief. "Not much has changed, then?"

He felt the odd sensation of being teased. "Indeed," he replied, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn upward in what might have been a smile.

They continued in companionable silence for a moment, only the chirping of the birds and crunch of gravel underfoot marking their progress. Molly seemed perfectly content with the lack of conversation, her gaze drifting between the scattered wildflowers along the path's edge and the brilliant blue sky overhead.

Mycroft cleared his throat, feeling the need to fill the space with something more substantive. "And your work? I imagine it keeps you sufficiently occupied?"

"Oh, you know," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A bit grim sometimes, I suppose but someone’s got to do it, right? Lately, I’ve been-"

She stopped mid-sentence with a small gasp, stumbling forward as her foot caught on something in their path. Mycroft reacted without thinking, his hand shooting out to grasp her elbow before she could fall.

Molly straightened, laughing lightly at herself. "Thanks," she said, giving him a bashful smile. It was only then that Mycroft realized his hand still rested on her elbow. He released it quickly, a small flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

She bent down to retrieve the culprit - a small green toy truck, abandoned by some child. She turned it over in her hands as they resumed walking, her thumb absently spinning one of the tiny wheels.

“You were saying?” Mycroft prompted, his gaze moving from the toy car to her face. Her eyes shot up to meet his, wide and possibly a little surprised that he’d been paying attention.

“Oh, I just-” She glanced down at the car again, slipping it into her tote bag. “I’ve been trying to take on less overtime shifts at the hospital. You know, regain some semblance of a life outside work?” She glanced sideways, gauging his reaction.

“How is that experiment progressing?” He asked.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” She grinned, gesturing vaguely around them. “Not doing tissue samples on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a start!”

He hummed in agreement.

They veered onto a quieter path, one less traveled by the weekend crowds. Dappled sunlight filtered through the dense tree canopy above, creating shifting patterns of light on the ground before them. Mycroft noticed Molly's pace slowing as she took in their surroundings, and he found himself matching her without conscious thought.

She looked towards him as they walked."Have you been up to anything? Since, er . . . being off?"

Mycroft considered his time spent meandering from one futile activity to the next. "Reading," he said finally. "Mostly."

“Anything good?”

"A monograph on Cold War encryption systems." His tone was precise, almost reflexive - the sort of answer he might give in a briefing. But something in her expression - a polite smile, faint but patient - made him feel unexpectedly self-conscious.

“Though . . . that’s hardly light reading," he added, a bit sheepish. "I suppose I’ve tried to occupy the time with other things as well."

Molly’s interest didn’t waver. "Like what?"

Mycroft’s lips twisted into a small grimace, as if he regretted opening this particular door. “I’ve been watching films,” he paused, glancing away from her to the winding path ahead. “Older ones . . . To pass the time.”

Molly visibly perked up, “I like old movies, too,” she turned to him with a smile that brightened her entire face, “what’s your favorite?”

He turned to meet her eyes, finding himself returning her smile with a small one of his own. Mycroft thought of The Third Man, with its haunting zither music and brilliant cinematography, but before he could answer, Molly spoke again.

"North by Northwest, I'm guessing," she said, her eyes twinkling with teasing certainty. "Oh, definitely North by Northwest."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you possessed such deductive abilities.”

“Not quite at your level,” she conceded playfully. “But I think I’m right on this one.”

He gave a thoughtful nod, feigning serious consideration. “It does have its merits,” he admitted, and watched as her face lit up in triumph. “Although-” The comical fall of her triumphant grin nearly made him chuckle before he began his comparison.

They continued their walk, the conversation flowing as they debated Hitchcock versus Welles, the merits of color versus black and white, and which leading man had the most suspiciously sculpted hair. Mycroft found himself making arguments he hadn't realized he cared to hold opinions on, drawn into the simple pleasure of debate without political stakes or national security implications.

When they eventually checked the time, the afternoon had somehow transformed into early evening - The blue sky beginning to shade into violet and orange in the distance. Mycroft blinked in surprise, unable to account for the passage of nearly three hours.

They reached a small pond near one of the park exits, its surface rippling gently as a pair of ducks paddled past, quacking amicably at each other as they made their way to shore. Molly stopped, watching their progress with a soft expression Mycroft could only describe as wistful.

"It's funny," she said, still looking at the ducks. "I used to think having my days spent in the lab was all I wanted. But now, I don't know . . . I kind of like the idea of leaving some blanks to fill in."

She paused, glancing at him quickly before returning her gaze to the ducks. A loose strand of hair fell across her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear with a slightly nervous gesture.

"Want to do this again sometime?" Molly asked, clearly trying to keep her tone casual but carrying a hint of hopefulness that had Mycroft responding before he could analyze why.

“Yes,” He answered almost too quickly. She smiled, releasing her lower lip that she had been worrying between her teeth. Mycroft cleared his throat before continuing, "I believe I rather would."

Molly’s grin widened, spreading a curious warmth through Mycroft’s chest. "Perfect! Just- whenever you’d like! I mean- er - as long as I’m not on shift, but I’m usually free in the afternoons." Her words tumbled out faster than she seemed to intend, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. She swallowed and gave a short awkward wave. "Okay! Well- see you soon, then!"

Mycroft opened his mouth, but she had already turned, her steps quickening as though trying to outpace her own embarrassment. The light breeze caught the hem of her dress, sending it waving against her legs as she walked away.

He stood there, watching her until she disappeared through the wrought iron gate, a strange new quiet lingering in the space she’d left behind. His gaze drifted to the leaves rustling overhead, then down to his hands - one of which had slipped instinctively back into his pocket, brushing against the edge of his phone.

A brief, impulsive thought crossed his mind - to text her immediately and solidify the next meeting. But he caught himself, pulling his hand free from his pocket and continuing down the path toward the park exit.

The next morning found him once again staring at the blinking cursor on his phone.

Would you like to waste another afternoon?

Chapter Text

Molly pressed the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she rummaged through her kitchen drawer for a working pen.

“I don’t know, Mol. Isn’t this the brother of the guy who . . .”

“Yes, well, that’s different,” Molly interjected, her voice slightly defensive.

“How different?” Meena’s skepticism was practically palpable even through the phone.

Molly hesitated as a series of memories crossed her mind.

Sherlock's eccentric ramblings and wild unpredictability stood in bold contrast to Mycroft's measured reserve and meticulous order. While 221B was a chaos of clutter and dust, Mycroft's home was a pristine fortress, guarded by armored knights and reflecting an orderly world she scarcely understood.

Still, beneath Mycroft's rigid exterior lay a man exhausted by the heavy mantle of responsibility, regardless of his saying otherwise. Both brothers, despite their brilliance, lacked true social finesse, finding solace in their respective addictions - Sherlock to drugs and Mycroft to work. Perhaps it was this constant craving for mental stimulation that drove them, but there was an undeniable, unspoken sadness about the both of them, a hint of loneliness that she saw lingering when they thought no one would notice.

Though, Molly wasn’t quite sure how she could distill these thoughts down plainly.

“I’m . . . not sure yet, actually,” she admitted, fingers finally finding a pen.

Meena groaned audibly. “Molly.”

“Don’t be like that! It’s nothing serious,” Molly insisted, doodling absentmindedly on an old grocery list. “We’re just friends. I mean, acquaintances, really. Just . . . having a bit of fun over the summer. What’s there to moan about?”

“All I’m saying is, that he sounds like your type, and your type is . . . well . . .”

Molly paused, her pen freezing mid-doodle. She didn’t have a defense for that one.

Meena’s voice softened. “Mol, I just worry, you know? You have this . . . talent for finding men who see you as convenient instead of . . . I don’t know, important.”

Molly’s gaze dropped to the countertop, her thumb idly bending the edge of her paper. “I know. But this isn’t . . . it’s not like that.”

“If you say so.” There was a gentle rustle from Meena’s end, like she was shifting her phone. “Just try not to get too attached.”

“I’m not-” Molly’s phone vibrated in her hand, the screen flashing a familiar name. “Oh!” she straightened. “He’s calling now.”

“Speak of the devil.” Meena’s tone turned dry, more exasperated than unkind. “Go on then. Don’t let Lord High and Mighty wait.”

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” Molly asked, already moving to switch the call.

“Yeah, yeah. You can tell me all about the wedding you’ll be planning.”

“Meena!” But her friend’s teasing laugh was already cut off.

Molly tapped the screen, answering Mycroft’s call with a small rush of breath she hoped didn’t sound too eager. “Hello!” Her voice came out a touch too bright, and she cleared her throat, “Er- Hi, Mycroft.”

“Good afternoon, Molly.” His voice was as smooth as ever, “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Oh, no! Just chatting with a friend,” she replied, twirling her pen in her hand. “Everything alright?”

“Certainly,” he assured her. “I was calling to see if you might be available this evening.”

Molly accidentally tore the edge of the scrap paper she had been fiddling with. “Tonight?”

“If it’s inconvenient, I completely understand. I was simply considering another attempt at expanding my repertoire.”

“Your repertoire?” she echoed, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Yes. Specifically, in the realm of cinema tonight.” His tone shifted, a touch dry. “I know you rather enjoyed older films. There’s a showing of Rear Window at the BFI Southbank this evening. I thought perhaps you might-”

“Oh!” Her glee slipped out before she could restrain it, and she bit her lip, “I mean, yes, I’d love that. Rear Window is one of my favorites.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” There was a subtle note of satisfaction in his voice. “Would seven o’clock be convenient?”

“Perfect,” Molly said, glancing down at her faded blue cardigan with a pilling front, suddenly feeling the need to change into something a bit nicer.

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up around half past six.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I insist.”

“Alright then,” she conceded, crumbling her doodled paper and tossing it into the bin. “I’ll see you at seven.”

“Until then.”

Molly ended the call, catching the faint reflection of her own giddy smile staring back at her. She shook her head, tucking her lips and releasing with a pop as if that would erase the evidence.

“Not serious,” she mumbled to herself, tugging open the closet door. “Just a bit of fun.”

Mycroft’s car was a sleek, dark blue model that she was unfamiliar with - refined without being flashy. Molly stood on the curb, clutching her small handbag as he pulled up exactly at half past six.

Her stomach did a little flip when she spotted him through the windshield, his profile illuminated dimly by the dashboard lights.

Before she could take a step forward, he was already out of the car, moving around the bonnet to open the passenger door for her.

“Good evening, Molly,” he greeted, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Just walked out actually,” she replied, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the pink dress she'd changed into three times before deciding it was appropriate. Not too fancy, not too casual. She slipped into the passenger seat. It smelled of his cologne, polished leather, and something subtly expensive that she couldn't quite place - maybe a cleaning solution? "This is . . . quite the car."

Her fingers discreetly traced the edge of the leather seat.

"An indulgence, I suppose," Mycroft admitted as he settled back into the driver's seat. He closed his door with a solid, satisfying thunk that spoke of German engineering and eye-watering price tags. "Though I rarely find time to make proper use of it."

“Until now?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Precisely.”

The drive to the BFI Southbank was comfortably quiet, a soft classical station playing at low volume as they navigated through the evening traffic. It was always busier around this time of the year as tourists flocked to the area, filling up the streets and pavements to capture the perfect summer vacation photo.

Molly couldn’t help stealing glances at Mycroft’s profile, taking in his straight nose and the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated on the road. She wondered what he might be thinking.

“Have you always liked older films?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, almost thoughtful as he navigated around a taxi. “I find they possess a certain charm - a clarity of storytelling that has become something of a rarity of late.”

“I get that,” she said, relaxing in her seat. “I think I love how they can be so . . . I don’t know, snazzy and dramatic without feeling forced.”

A cyclist cut in front of them, and Mycroft braked smoothly, no surprise crossing his features - just a slight adjustment, like he'd anticipated the move before it happened.

“I agree,” he said with a sidelong glance.

The lobby buzzed with a friday evening crowd - film students with messenger bags, couples on dates, solitary cinephiles clutching program notes. Posters of Hitchcock classics lined the walls, and the scent of fresh buttered popcorn mingled with the cloying smell of various stocked sweets.

Molly breathed it all in, feeling a little thrill at being here with Mycroft, who looked both perfectly at home and slightly out of place in his tailored suit among the more casually dressed patrons.

As they made their way to the theater, Molly felt a mental cog clunk into place.

They found their seats, perfectly centered, and Molly settled in, placing her water in the cup holder. The seats were close enough that when Mycroft sat beside her, his arm brushed against hers as he positioned the popcorn between them.

Around them, the theater continued to fill. A couple took seats directly behind them, the woman laughing softly at something her companion whispered. An older man with wire-rimmed glasses settled into the aisle seat to Molly's left, nodding politely before opening his program.

Molly leaned toward Mycroft. "Have you seen this one before?" she whispered.

"Once, many years ago," he admitted. "Though I suspect I missed many of the nuances."

"You'll love it," she assured him with bubbling enthusiasm. "The way Hitchcock uses the camera . . . it's brilliant! And Grace Kelly is just magnificent in it."

Mycroft's lips curved into a small smile. "I look forward to experiencing it through your perspective."

The lights gradually dimmed, quieting the murmur of conversations around them. Molly felt a giddy excitement as the darkness enveloped them and the screen brightened with the opening credits.

It felt deeply personal to sit there in the dark with someone, sharing the same experience while lost in her own thoughts.

As the protagonist began setting up his camera, Molly became lost in the film, occasionally whispering a comment that made Mycroft's lips twitch with amusement. At one point, a particularly tense scene made her grip the armrest.

Mycroft leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Not too frightening, I hope?" he whispered.

The feel of his breath against her skin sent a shiver down her neck. She turned her head towards him, finding his face unexpectedly close to hers

"Oh, hush," she murmured back, wrinkling her nose at him in mock admonishment.

The blue of his eyes caught the light from the screen, making them appear almost luminous as they traced her face. Molly became intensely aware of how close they were, the heat and cologne emanating from him in their closeness.

She looked away quickly, tucking herself back into her seat as warmth crept up her neck to her cheeks.

On screen, Grace Kelly was sneaking into the suspected murderer's apartment, but Molly's focus had divided between the film and the man beside her.

Their hands rested mere centimeters apart on the shared armrest. Molly wondered what would happen if she moved just a tad. If her pinky finger accidentally brushed against his. Would he pull away? Would he pretend not to notice? Maybe he would entwine their fingers together.

Her heart stuttered at the thought, and she forced her attention back to the screen, where Raymond Burr's character was returning to his apartment, unaware of the intruder inside.

Just friends, having a bit of fun over the summer, that’s all, she reminded herself firmly.

As the credits began to roll, the theater lights brightened, washing away the intimate darkness that had enveloped them. Molly blinked, adjusting to the new white lighting meant to help clean rather than provide comfort.

She turned to find Mycroft already watching her. His eyes held a curious softness that made her arm hair stand on end.

"Did it live up to your memory?" he asked, low enough that only she could hear it among the rustling of the departing audience.

"It did," she replied. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her handbag she had rested in her lap. "Better, actually. Something about seeing it on the big screen makes all the difference. Thank you for bringing me."

"The pleasure was mine," he replied, and for once, the phrase didn't sound like a mere politeness. He rose from his seat in one and extended his hand to her. "Shall we?"

Molly hesitated for just a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. The brief contact sent a small tingle up her arm that she tried very hard to ignore.

They made their way out of the row, joining the slow moving current of people filing toward the exit. Mycroft's hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. It felt both protective and proprietary in a way that made her cheeks warm.

They stepped out into the cool evening air, the city lights reflecting off the Thames. Molly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, glancing toward the general direction of the carpark - feeling very much like she didn’t want the night to end.

"Are you hungry?" Mycroft asked suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. When she looked up at him, his expression was neutral, but she caught something almost timid in his eyes. “There’s a rather excellent bistro still open nearby.”

"I could use a snack," she replied, "I'm actually starving. I was too nervous-" She cut herself off, biting her lip.

"Too nervous?" he prompted, one eyebrow arched slightly.

"Er- about the film," she said quickly, fiddling with the program still in her hand ". . . Hitchcock always makes me tense."

His eyes tightened at the corners before they softened with the tipping of his chin. "Of course."

Mycroft offered another rare smile, and they began to walk together along the riverside.

The bistro was tucked away on a side street, it’s exterior modest and unassuming. Inside, the warm glow of low-handing lights cast a cozy ambiance over the small tables and mismatched chairs, and at this late hour, it was nearly empty.

Molly slipped off her cardigan as they settled into a small booth. The waiter breezed by and they ordered a light snack - a shared plate of bruschetta and a pot of chamomile tea.

"Not quite the Ritz," Mycroft commented, pulling out a paper napkin and neatly refolding it to leave at his elbow.

Molly grinned, leaning towards him over the table. "I like it. Feels like a place you'd find in a movie."

Conversation came easily after this, lingering on the film they had just watched, Molly’s eyes bright with eagerness as she recounted her favorite scenes.

Time had slipped by unnoticed until the bistro manager approached, apologetic but firm. "I'm sorry, but we're closing now. I've just flipped the sign." He gave a kind of weary point of his thumb over his shoulder.

Molly glanced around, startled to find they were the last customers remaining. "Oh! I'm so sorry, we lost track of time."

"Not at all," the manager gave a tired smile, possibly pleased that they weren’t the type of customer to kick up a fuss at being told to leave. "It's nice to see people enjoying themselves."

Mycroft reached for his wallet. "My apologies for keeping you." He extracted several notes, considerably more than their modest meal required, and handed them to the manager. "For the inconvenience."

"That's very generous, sir," the manager replied, clearly surprised. "Thank you."

Molly slipped her thin cardigan back on as they stood to leave, mouthing another silent "sorry" to their waiter, who waved good-naturedly.

As they reached her flat, Molly shifted in her seat to say goodbye, but found his seat empty and her door already opening - Mycroft had stepped around the car to let her out, his hand offered to her.

She placed her palm against his, allowing him to assist her onto the pavement. His hand was warm and dry, engulfing hers completely. When she was standing, he didn't immediately step back, remaining close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up at him.

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’m not,” Molly began, watching his eyebrows droop mildly in disappointment. She quickly added, “But I’m open all morning? My shift doesn’t start until two.”

The streetlight above them cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, emphasizing the line of his jaw and moles at the height of his cheek.

“Would you like to get a coffee tomorrow morning instead?” she ventured. “There’s a great café nearby that sells lovely pastries.”

His usual neutral mask slipped just enough for Molly to glimpse something underneath. A flash of eagerness quickly contained, like a child restraining themselves from reaching for a desired treat too quickly lest their hand be seized.

“Shall I meet you here? Or there?” he asked neutrally.

“Erm- here? Nine?” she suggested, the words tumbling out faster than intended.

“Splendid, I will see you then.” He inclined his head, a subtle smile in the corner of his mouth, and as he stepped back, she realized with sudden embarrassment that she was still holding his hand.

Her face warmed, and she quickly let go. “Yeah, thanks again. See you tomorrow.”

She gave him one last bashful smile before darting toward her building, catching one last glance at him standing beneath the glow of the streetlamp before the door closed behind her.

Mycroft was already waiting outside when Molly stepped out of her flat.

He straightened when he spotted her.

“You can come upstairs to wait next time, if you’d like, you know?” she offered, trying to stifle a yawn. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. "Sorry. Still waking up."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly with a faint smile. “Noted,” he replied, falling into step beside her as they began walking toward the café. His long strides shortened to match her smaller steps. “Did you sleep well?”

Molly gave him a sidelong glance, a wry smile playing at her lips. “You know I didn’t. My neighbors’ new dog is driving my cat wild at night. I spent half the night fending Toby off my head.” She demonstrated by waving her hands above her hair.

“I hope he was not gravely wounded in the struggle,” Mycroft murmured, amusement flickering across his features.

She laughed. “Only his pride, when I had to shut him out.”

The café was modest but charming, with chalkboard menus, the smell of fresh croissants, and quiet morning chatter from the frequents. They settled into a window-side table, the morning light spilling in golden and soft. Molly sat facing towards the rays to soak up what sun she could before her long shift in the hospital.

As they sipped their drinks, the conversation naturally wandered back to films, which seemed to be their easy common ground. Mycroft mentioned a restored print of The Third Man he’d recently watched, and Molly responded likewise with interest.

He leaned back, long fingers wrapped around his cup, his eyes narrowing at her like he was primed to ask a dire question. “Do you have a favorite genre?” Oh.

Molly took a bite of a flaky almond croissant, considering before answering.

“I’d like to say horror, but honestly, I’m probably more of a gothic romance sort of person,” she admitted, a touch sheepish. “There’s just something about the tragic, windswept stories . . . secret corridors, lost letters, doomed love,” She gestured vaguely with her croissant still in hand. “You know, all the stuff that never happens in real life.”

“I might have guessed as much,” Mycroft mused, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Wuthering Heights, Dracula and the like?”

“Exactly!” she beamed, before she turned to the window with a glimmer of wistfulness in her eyes as she traced the familiar buildings of London. “I haven’t been out of London in ages. Sometimes I half-wish I’d get swept off to some crumbling castle by a brooding figure.” She laughed at herself, turning her eyes from her window to her coffee.

Mycroft was quiet, his thumb tracing over the handle of his coffee cup before he spoke. “Have you ever been to Whitby?”

Her brow furrowed as she searched her memory. “Whitby? No, but I know of it. Where Stoker got his inspiration?”

“Precisely,” Something like anticipation crossed his face, "A quaint coastal town with its own abbey ruins. Not quite a castle, but it has its own charms.”

“It sounds lovely,” Molly said, taking another sip of her coffee.

Mycroft set his cup down on the saucer with a soft clink. “Perhaps we could visit. Make a day of it, if you would like?”

Molly nearly choked on her coffee. She set her cup down carefully, certain she’d misheard. “Sorry, what?”

“A day trip to Whitby,” he clarified, his face giving nothing away, “Unless the idea isn’t appealing.”

“No! I mean- yes! It’s appealing,”she stammered, patting at her lips with a paper napkin. This wasn't just coffee or a film - this was hours in a car together, a whole day away from London. With Mycroft Holmes, no less. “I just . . . didn’t expect you to suggest something like that.”

“I’m quite serious,” He folded his hands in his lap/ “Unless you have reservations?”

"No reservations! That sounds. . ." She searched for a word that wouldn't betray how ridiculously excited she felt. " . . .wonderful, actually." She grinned. "When were you thinking?"

“This weekend, perhaps?” He brushed an invisible crumb from his sleeve. “I could pick you up in the early morning? It’s approximately a four hour drive.”

She nodded, her grip on the handle of her cup tightened slightly. Her mind was already racing ahead - what to wear, where to go, how early she'd need to wake up. "I promise I won't get too carried away with the spooky stories."

"I should hope not," Mycroft deadpanned, though his eyes betrayed his delight. “I would hate to have to leave you behind when you provoke the ghosts to come out.”

Their quiet laughter felt like a small secret shared between them, something darling and new.

Chapter Text

Molly adjusted the strap of her bag as she stood outside of her flat. A bit earlier than entirely necessarily. The sky was still tinted blue-grey alongside the dawning early morning yellow in the horizon. She yawned, patting at her hair, and spotted Mycroft’s car pulling up to the curb.

He stepped out, “Good morning,” he greeted as she approached.

“Barely,” Molly laughed, stifling another yawn.

Mycroft opened the passenger door for her. “I thought you might appreciate coffee,” he said, gesturing to the cup holders where two steaming paper cups sat.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, sliding into the seat and wrapping her hands around the warm cup. The scent was rich and inviting and most definitely more expensive than her standard brew. She took a grateful sip as he climbed back into the car.

They drove through the city, the streets gradually filling with early commuters and joggers. Molly watched as familiar landmarks passed by, until they gave way to the motorway and the blur of fields and hedgerows.

She turned to Mycroft, who seemed focused, yet relaxed, his hands steady on the wheel.

“This is a bit different from your usual routine,” she noted, her voice teasing. “A whole day of nothing. Are you sure you’ll survive?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I believe I shall manage. Particularly with the promise of atmospheric architecture and folklore to occupy us.”

“Right,” Molly grinned, leaning back in her seat. “You’ll be a gothic romance expert by the end of the day.”

The miles slipped by as they continued north, their conversation meandering through topics as varied as Molly’s favorite authors and Mycroft’s thoughts on the historical significance of passing towns. The rumble of the road and the warmth of the rising sun through the car window soon lulled Molly into comfort.

Despite her fight to keep her eyes open, she drifted off, her head resting against the window.

A light touch on her shoulder woke her, gentle and hesitant. She blinked, disoriented, to find Mycroft looking at her.

“We’ve arrived,” he said, his voice low enough not to startle her in her sleepy haze. “Though I’m tempted to detour to Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”

Molly straightened, rubbing her eyes. “Oh God, sorry. I didn’t mean to conk out on you.”

“Not at all. You seemed to need it,” he replied, pulling into a small car park overlooking the town. The sea stretched beyond, a vast expanse of grey-blue, and the silhouette of the Abbey loomed high in the distance.

“Oh! It’s heavenly,” Molly said, taking it all in. The quaint rooftops of the town spread below them, and the morning light cast a soft glow over everything.

“Shall we find some brunch?” Mycroft suggested, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Lets, I’m in dire need of more coffee,” she smiled sleepily, stepping out of the car and shivering slightly in the cooler air.

They found a small seaside café overlooking the harbor, the salty breeze brushing over them as they settled at a table outside. Molly ordered eggs and toast, while Mycroft chose tea and wholemeal toast.

As they waited for their food, Molly couldn’t help but glance at the surrounding buildings - many of them old, with chipped paint and slightly sagging roofs, but charming in their own way.

“So, have you ever been here before?” she asked, sipping her tea.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Though I am familiar with its history.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile. “Dracula?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Whitby’s literary claim to fame, yes. Bram Stoker’s visit in 1890 inspired several passages. Though the town itself has capitalized on the association rather mercilessly.”

She laughed, and for a moment, he almost seemed to relax. “Do you know the story?”

“Yes. A man arrives in Whitby as cargo - a shipwrecked corpse, essentially - and terrorizes the populace under the guise of a foreign aristocrat. An allegory for the invasive fear of the unknown.”

“Or a creepy vampire tale,” Molly countered, grinning.

His lips quirked upward. “If you prefer.”

The food arrived, and they ate in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on the seagulls that lingered too close or the oddly shaped clouds drifting by - Molly named some that looked like organs in various states of distress, and Mycroft didn’t seem to mind much, following her with clouds that looked like countries Molly wasn’t quite sure she would ever be able to pick out on a map.

Back on the cobbled streets, they wandered past shops selling trinkets and souvenirs. It wasn’t until they were near half down the street that Molly spotted the Dracula scare house - a faded, tacky-looking attraction with plastic bats hanging from the windows. Beneath the bats read a sign that promised thrills and chills

Her eyes lit up immediately. “Let’s go in!”

Mycroft gave it a skeptical look. “I suspect it may not live up to its own advertising.”

“Oh, come on,” Molly urged, grasping his hand and tugging him toward the entrance. “It’ll be fun! When’s the last time you let yourself be scared?”

“Never,” he replied, though he allowed himself to be pulled inside.

The interior was dimly lit, a bit musty, and filled with an assortment of dusty mannequins, mechanical bats, and creaky floorboards. Molly stifled a laugh at how stereotypical it all was - though she doubted it would be heard over the cheesy sound effects of howling wolves and distant screams.

A loud clattering sound made her jump, and instinctively, she grabbed Mycroft’s arm. He didn’t flinch, merely glanced at the dangling skeleton with a raised brow.

As they moved deeper into the house, a plastic bat swooped down on a string, and Molly squealed, clutching him tighter. Mycroft’s expression was bemused, his lips twitching with restrained amusement.

When they finally emerged into the daylight, she was still half-laughing, half-embarrassed. Mycroft looked down at her, one eyebrow raised.

“You open bodies for a living, but a bat tied to a string is what frightens you?” he teased as they began down the street.

Molly huffed, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know! It’s the anticipation, I think.”

He laughed, genuinely. Molly’s eyebrows shot up and a smile slowly spread across her face until she was laughing too.

The made their way toward the Abbey ruins. The smells of ocean water, sunscreen, and dwindling food vendors was strong as they wound through the cobbled roads. Molly stopped at a man with an ice cream pushcart and bought them both a cone. "Repayment for brunch,” she grinned, handing him his. Mycroft glanced at the vanilla soft serve, holding it awkwardly for a moment before taking a tentative lick.

The noon sun began to beat down relentlessly as they neared the cathedral ruins, its rays bouncing off the weathered stone. Mycroft's light suit seemed to absorb the light, making him squint slightly against the glare.

“Quite the summer day,” Molly remarked, wiping a trickle of melting ice cream from her wrist. “Are you holding up alright?”

“Perfectly,” Mycroft assured her, though a thin sheen of sweat had appeared at his hairline.

They stopped to walk through the ancient cemetery before the Abbey, the headstones clustered haphazardly and softened by decades - possibly centuries - of wind and rain.

A cloud drifted over the sun, providing brief but welcome shade.

Molly paused to examine a particularly old headstone, its delicate inscription barely legible. “A lot of these date back before the mid-eighteen hundreds,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “Most of the bodies were probably buried without coffins.”

“Rather unceremonious.” Mycroft noted, his gaze following the row of markers.

“It was efficient, though. Mass graves weren’t necessarily uncommon,” she continued, then caught herself. “Sorry, sorry - you probably don’t want to hear all that.”

Mycroft looked at her curiously. His ice cream dripped slightly down his cone, but he didn't seem to notice or pay much mind. "I must admit," he said, his tone mildly conspiratorial, "I have an interest in the maritime history of the region. The shipwrecks, in particular."

Molly looked at him through her lashes,"Really?"

"Indeed," Mycroft replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Though most people find it a decidedly grim topic."

She laughed lightly. "I guess we both have a taste for the morbid then."

They made their way towards the ruins, the wind picking up slightly as they climbed higher up the hill. Mycroft’s pace slowed as they approached the abbey, his eyes trailing over the sprawling stonework.

Molly watched him, with a knowing smirk “Go on then,” she said.

“Hmm?” Mycroft looked at her, feigning ignorance.

She laughed, tilting her head in encouragement. “I know you’re dying to tell me everything about it.”

He allowed himself a small, pleased smile. “The abbey was founded in 657 AD by St. Hilda,” he began, slipping effortlessly into lecture mode. “It’s been rebuilt several times, most notably after the Norman invasion. By the fourteenth century, it was among the wealthiest in England.”

Molly nodded along, clearly entertained by his enthusiasm. “Then Henry VIII did his thing, I suppose?”

“Hm, quite. The dissolution of the monasteries. It fell into ruin shortly after, but retained its prominence as a landmark.” He looked towards her. “It does possess a certain gothic quality you might appreciate.”

They walked through the arches of the ruins, the stone cool beneath their fingers. Mycroft's voice was animated, his usual reserve softened by Molly's interest.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t collapsed entirely by now,” she said.

“It has been expertly preserved by English Heritage. Unlike some of the more commercialized attractions here,” he added wryly.

Molly laughed. “I think it’s lovely. I can see why it inspired Stoker.”

They wandered through the exposed nave, the ocean stretching out behind the open arches. Molly paused to absorb the moment, the salty wind in her hair and the sun warm on her face, remnants of pecan ice cream.

Mycroft stood beside her, the breeze ruffling his usually immaculate hair. “It’s quite something,” he agreed.

They lingered in the shadow of the abbey, neither in a hurry to move on. Molly’s eyes traced the intricate stonework.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, turning to look up at him. There was a sparkle in her eye that she hadn’t meant to reveal so openly.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

They spent the next hour exploring the ruins, Molly’s laughter and Mycroft’s commentary echoing off the ancient walls, until it was approaching time to head back to London.

Chapter Text

“Big brother, is that a . . . tan line?”

Mycroft closed his eyes in exasperation, a knife poised over a wedge of smoked gouda on his cutting board. Where he had previously been enjoying the monotony of artfully putting together an arrangement of fruits, cheeses, and smoked meats, now, the small charcuterie board felt like a confession of sorts.

He drew in a quiet breath and set the knife carefully down to the side before turning around to face his brother. He really should file a complaint with his security alarm company - or at the very least, provide them a list of Sherlock’s tells to avoid in the future.

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” He sighed, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel that had been slung over his shoulder.

“A tan line and a date?” Sherlock began circling him, like a shark having discovered a droplet of blood in the water. His eyes darting over Mycroft’s form for his deductions. “How very curious, for -” He stopped abruptly and glanced up to catch his brothers eyes. "It’s Molly?”

The sound of her name in his brother's mouth made the knot Mycroft's chest pull tighter. “It isn’t a date,” He said crisply, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, “And you really must be going.”

Sherlock didn’t move. Instead, he leaned against the counter, his expression more intrigued than ever. “This is unexpected,” he mused, tapping his chin. “The pathologist and the politician.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Mycroft replied, his patience thinning. “We are simply enjoying each other's company. As I have said, it isn’t a date.” If it were a date there would be much more than a selection of cheeses, I assure you. He rolled his eyes at his own thoughts. Oh, damn.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s lips curled into an infuriating smile that had annoyed Mycroft since childhood. “Not yet.” He pushed away from the counter, pacing a short length before the kitchen island. “Coffee? The cinema? Walk in the park? You’re clearly quickly exhausting your options.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbled, with a warning sort of tone that would have sent junior government officials scurrying away.

“A ‘movie night’” Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't heard him. “Dim the lights, share the sofa, a bit of wine?” He gestured toward the open bottle of cabernet breathing on the counter. “Quite the romantic.”

Mycroft pressed his lip together tightly and returned his attention to the charcuterie board, attempting to ignore the heat rising to the tips of his ears. A silence stretched between them as the knife in his hand clicked quietly against the wooden board.

The sound of Sherlock’s footsteps could no longer be heard pacing and Mycroft glanced over to find his brother standing still, tracing his lower lip repetitively with the tip of his ring finger.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Does she know?” He pressed, his tone lacking it’s previous mockery.

Mycroft sliced into the cheese with more force than necessary, causing the knife to clack loudly. “Know what?”

“That you must be rather taken with her.” Sherlock’s eyes tracked over him, “A month ago, you could barely make it through a meeting without collapsing, and now look at you. Suntanned and-” he paused to twitch an eyebrow, “What? Two pounds?”

The knife paused mid-slice through a strawberry, before slowly completing its task. Mycroft felt a momentary flare of indignation - two and a half pounds, actually - before setting the knife back down deliberately. He turned to face Sherlock’s dissecting gaze with a mask of cool indifference.

“Not all of us succumb to emotional chaos, dear brother.”

Sherlock’s raised eyebrow climbed impossibly higher. “You’re showing more than you realize.”

Mycroft felt something close to self-consciousness creep up his spine and cause him to straighten. He stared at his brother with a furrowed brow, Sherlocks words echoing of the confines of his mind like an alarm. His fingers twitches at his sides, seeking the comfort of a pen to twist or cufflinks to adjust while he scrambled for an appropriate reply.

But before he could devise a response, the doorbell chimed.

Both brothers remained frozen for a moment, the echoes of the bell twinkling quietly through the kitchen. Mycroft gave him a long, hard look.

“Behave,” he commanded, though it came out more like a plea.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, head tilting in a twitch as if seeing something new in his older brother’s face.

With a resigned sigh, Mycroft slid the kitchen towel from his shoulder and moved to answer the door.

Molly stood on the other side, chewing on her inner lip and glancing over her shoulder at the neighboring townhouses. Her hair was in a loose braid over her shoulder, wisps of brown hair escaping to frame her face. In her hands, she held a small glass container that appeared to be filled with a sorted variety of homemade biscuits.

“Hi!” she said, a little breathless. Her eyes darted to meet his, then away, then back again. “I wasn’t sure if these were too much. I mean - biscuits.” She laughed nervously, thrusting the container toward him.

“Not at all,” Mycroft assured her, taking the container and feeling the warmth of it against his fingers - she must have baked them recently. “Thank you.” He stepped aside to let her in.

Molly entered, glancing around at the polished wooden floors and richly colored walls. Her eyes widened when she saw Sherlock lounging in a leather chair in the adjacent sitting room - one leg crossed over the other. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stopping short. Her fingers immediately went to her braid, tugging at the ends absently.

“Hello, Molly,” Sherlock said, feigning innocence “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hi, Sherlock,” Molly replied. She shot a questioning look at Mycroft, who gave a subtle shake of his head as his fingers more firmly clutched the glass container.

Sherlock watched their silent exchange with interest. His eyes moving between them like he was following an invisible tennis match. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything . . . intimate.”

Mycroft felt heat creeping up his neck in ways he hadn’t experienced in many years. Beside him, Molly’s cheeks flushed a deep pink and her eyes turned downcast.

“We’re just-” she began.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft insisted in a pointed tone.

“Well, this has been fun,” Sherlock rose from the chair. “Don’t let me keep you from your ‘movie night,’” he said on his way to the door. He paused near Molly, leaning in as though sharing a secret. “Text - don’t call - if you need rescuing.”

“Oh, I-” Molly stuttered, her hands still fiddling with her braid, unsure how to respond to the whirlwind of Sherlock’s presence.

With a swift turn, Sherlock was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Mycroft stood at the entryway, fingers drumming on the biscuit container. The silence between them felt oddly weighted.

“I apologize,” he offered, meeting her eyes with a touch of embarrassment. “My brother is . . .”

“Sherlock,” Molly finished, a smile breaking through her initial surprise. “I’m used to him, remember? He’s hammered my cadavers toes with no notice.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured as his shoulders relaxed - some of his usual composure returning. At least he was spared the need to explain or excuse his brother’s behavior in the future. “I suppose you are.”

He cleared his throat, then gestured through to the family room with his free hand. “ Shall we?”

She followed him into the family room, which was much less formal than the rest of the house. It felt intimate, with bookshelves lining the walls and a large sofa positioned in front of a flat-screen television that had been hidden in a large wooden cabinet that now had its doors opened wide. A throw blanket was draped over the back of the couch - he had placed it there earlier, wondering if she might find the room too cool - and the lighting was warm and soft, comfortable. He’d spent more time than he cared to admit trying different light bulb temperatures to provide the perfect atmosphere.

Mycroft placed the biscuits on the coffee table while Molly settled onto the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her with the same casualness that he sometimes found himself envying about her. He thought on this as he hurried to fetch the wine and charcuterie board - he couldn’t imagine having that sense of ease in a home outside of his own.

"This is cozy," she said as he arrived back into the room, shrugging off her cardigan and placing it over the arm of the sofa - revealing her bare arms.

"A recent addition," Mycroft admitted, setting the charcuterie board beside the biscuits on the coffee table. He didn’t quite want to mention his more elaborate film room yet - with its theater style seating, vintage projector, and professional sound system. "I thought it might be useful, given my current state of exile."

Molly laughed, settling further into the sofa. “Exile makes it sound so harrowing,” she smiled up at him from her seat. “It’s just a bit of a break.”

"Perhaps,” he conceded, “Thought it feels rather punitive when one is accustomed to constant occupation.”

She nodded, reaching for a sliced berry. “I understand. I once took two weeks off and nearly lost my mind by day three,” She took small bite, a bit of juice collecting on her lower lip. She brushed it away with her thumb, it was unconscious and brief but strangely captivating to him.

Mycroft joined her on the sofa, closer than he had planned when spent the morning calculating an optimum distance. He decided it no longer mattered, and picked up the remote to navigate to the documentary.

"I must warn you," he said, glancing at her with a hint of self-awareness, "It's a rather niche subject. Not quite Rear Window in its excitement."

"Shipwrecks, yeah?" Molly asked, shifting so that she was leaning closer to him and retucking her feet. Her colorful socks didn’t match - one was striped, and the other dotted. "I'm looking forward to it!" Her eyes were bright with sincerity, and Mycroft found himself oddly pleased by her enthusiasm, manufactured though it might be.

He handed her a glass of wine, and they shared a sip before he started the film.

The documentary was predictably dry, filled with archival footage and interviews with maritime historians who spoke in a monotone lecture manner about hull integrity and wool dipping. Mycroft found it fascinating, but he was acutely aware that most would not. Molly, to her credit, attempted to remain engaged, occasionally whispering a question or a comment.

"Why did so many of them sink?" she murmured at one point, her breath carrying the faint scent of wine.

“Poor construction, but more frequently lack of maintenance,” Mycroft replied, softly. “And sometimes, navigational errors. The early captains relied heavily on celestial navigation, which could be compromised by something as simple as frequent cloud cover."

“Hmm.” Molly nodded, her eyes fixed on the screen. Her hand rested near his on the sofa. He felt a strange impulse to cover it with his own, to trace the delicate bones of her knuckles with his thumb. The thought was so unexpected that he nearly missed the narrator's explanation of a particularly significant wreck.

They fell back into silence, the only light in the room coming from the flickering screen and a single warm lamp behind them. As the film progressed, Molly's head began to dip, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to stay awake. The warmth of the throw blanket and the wine had begun to take their toll and Mycroft noticed her breathing deepening.

After another half hour, her head gently tipped against his shoulder. Mycroft glanced down, feeling a fondness creep over him as he watched her drift in and out of sleep. She'd made a valiant effort to show interest in his interests, and he couldn't help but admire her for it. Most people in his life didn't bother with such courtesies - Not that he had allowed many to know them at all.

“You’re nodding off,” he murmured, trying to sound teasing rather than indulgent.

“No I’m not,” she protested, blinking rapidly as she sat up straighter. Her hair was slightly mussed, and she looked at him with a sheepish smile. “Well, maybe a little.”

“We can switch to something else,” Mycroft suggested, reaching for the remote.

“No, no,” Molly insisted, stifling another yawn. “I want to see what happens.” She rolled her shoulders causing the soft throw to slide from the shoulder it was slung over into her lap. "Did they ever find the gold that was supposed to be on that one ship? The, um . . ."

"The Merchant Royal," Mycroft supplied. "No, it remains one of the most valuable shipwrecks yet to be recovered. Approximately one billion pounds in today's currency."

"Wow," she murmured, her eyes widening slightly. "Were there survivors?"

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded, "Over 40 survivors, including the captain. They were picked up by a nearby sister ship." 

He watched her fight to keep her eyes open, her determination both endearing and slightly amusing. She reached for a biscuit, taking a bite as if the sugar might help her stay awake.

The screen continued its quiet recount of historic losses at sea, and Mycroft allowed himself a small, private smile, leaning back against the sofa. The warmth of her body next to his created a pleasant pocket of heat between them, something he unconsciously leaned toward. The documentary droned on about the technical specifications of a 17th-century galleon, and he noticed her head beginning to dip again.

"Perhaps we should pause," he suggested softly, his voice barely rising above the narrator's dull description of barnacle formations.

Molly's head jerked up. "No, no- I'm watching," she insisted, blinking rapidly. A crumb from her biscuit had fallen onto her collarbone, and she absently brushed it away. Her cheeks flushed pink, visible even in the dim light. "I was just resting my eyes. For a moment. . .”

"Of course," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

She huffed a laugh then. "Fine, you caught me. It's not that it isn't interesting-"

"Molly," he interrupted gently, "even I recognize that 'The Forgotten Merchant Ships of the Early Colonial Period' is not standard entertainment fare."

She turned to face him more directly. The movement caused her knee to press lightly against his thigh. Her eyes, now fully alert, searched his face with that direct gaze she sometimes employed - the one that made him feel as though she could see past his facades.

"But you like it."

"I do," he admitted. "Though I confess I selected it partly because . . ." He paused, uncertain how to articulate the thought without sounding manipulative.

"Because you thought I'd fall asleep?" She raised an eyebrow, but her expression remained playful rather than accusatory.

Mycroft shifted his attentions to fabric of the sofa, running the tip of his fingers against the soft canvas type feel. "Not precisely. I thought perhaps if the entertainment was . . . undemanding, it might facilitate conversation." He cleared his throat. "Though I seem to have miscalculated the soporific effect."

Molly's laugh bubbled up again, this time accompanied by a light touch to his forearm. Her fingers were warm through his shirt, and the fleeting contact that persisted even after she withdrew her hand.

"That's a very complicated way of saying you wanted to chat," she teased, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement drew his attention to the small dimple in her right cheek.

"I suppose it is," he conceded, reaching for his wine glass. He took a sip. "I find that I . . . enjoy our conversations."

Something in his tone must have shifted, because Molly's expression softened. She pulled the throw blanket higher over her lap, creating a small nest around herself. "Me too," she said simply. Then, with a playful glint in her eye, "Even when they're about barnacles.

"Especially then," Mycroft replied dryly. "Nothing quite compares to discussing marine crustaceans with a pathologist."

She snorted, an inelegant sound that he found inexplicably charming. "I know more about dead people than dead ships, I'm afraid." She reached for her wine glass, taking a sip before continuing. "Though I did once assist with a body that had been underwater for three weeks. The adipocere formation was fascinating-" She stopped abruptly. "And that's probably not appropriate night time conversation, is it?"

"I assure you, I've discussed far more disturbing matters over state dinners." He shifted slightly, allowing his posture to relax further into the cushions.

Molly tilted her head, studying him with curious eyes as a moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the flat narration from the television. Mycroft became aware of a peculiar sensation in his chest - not really unpleasant, but certainly unfamiliar.

"We truly could watch something else," he offered, gesturing toward the screen where grainy footage of a diver examining a coral-encrusted anchor played. "I have access to a large selection of films you might prefer."

Molly tucked her feet more securely beneath her, the movement causing her to shift incrementally closer to him. "Actually, I was thinking . . ."

"Yes?" he prompted when she hesitated.

"Could you- Just . . . tell me about it instead?" She gestured toward the documentary. "I'd rather hear it from you than from Professor Monotone over there."

The request caught him off guard. People rarely asked for his personal perspective on matters outside his professional expertise. "You want me to explain maritime history?"

"Mmm-hmm." She nodded, watching her fingers pull at the tassels at the edge of the throw. "I like how you explain things. You make everything sound important."

Mycroft reached for the remote and lowered the volume."Very well. Where would you like me to begin?"

"The gold," she said immediately, her eyes brightening. "Tell me about the treasure ships. An-and not just the facts! I want to know why you find it fascinating."

He considered this for a moment, organizing his thoughts. "The allure isn't merely in the gold itself," he began, "It's what the ships represent. The convergence of political ambition, technological limitation, and human hubris."

Molly nodded encouragingly, her full attention on him now. The documentary continued to play in the background, but it had become merely ambient noise to their conversation.

"Take the San José," he continued, warming to the subject. "A Spanish galleon that sank in 1708 carrying gold, silver, and emeralds valued at approximately seventeen billion pounds in today's currency."

"Seventeen billion?" Molly's eyes widened. "That's-"

"More than the annual GDP of several small nations," Mycroft finished. "And yet, it was lost due to a simple miscalculation. The Spanish captain underestimated the British naval presence in the area." He paused, swirling the wine in his glass thoughtfully. "One moment of overconfidence, and centuries of wealth vanished beneath the waves."

"And it's still down there, waiting to be found?"

"In all likelihood," he answered. "Though the political implications of a discovery that size would be considerable."

Molly listened intently as Mycroft continued with the stories of the lost ships. He spoke with an enthusiasm that would have surprised anyone who knew him only through government corridors and security briefings, but with Molly, it felt natural to let some of his reserve slip away.

Chapter Text

"Do infants need quite this many varieties of pureed vegetables?" Mycroft asked, examining a jar of green mush with a skeptical look. The label proclaimed it to be "Garden Pea Medley," though he suspected no garden had ever produced anything quite this unnaturally green.

Molly shifted her weight, adjusting Rosie in the baby carrier strapped to her chest. Mycroft imagined that the infant's warm weight in the Summer heat must be hellish - like a living hot water bottle attached to you and determined to yank at your hair as it spittles over you.

"Not really," she admitted, plucking the jar from his hand and placing it back on the shelf. "But they get bored eating the same thing every day. Just like adults."

"I once ate the same breakfast for fifteen years," Mycroft countered mildy, his eyebrow arching slightly as he placed the jar back in its place. He had found comfort in his morning ritual of Earl Grey tea and two precisely cut slices of wholewheat toast with a quarter-inch layer of marmalade following his years at university. The very thought of deviating from the pattern would have made him feel slightly unsettled, at the time.

"And you're clearly the model of adventurous living?" Molly smiled, glancing up at him in the narrow aisle of the small grocery.

He gave her a wry smile with a one shoulder shrug.

Rosie gurgled in agreement, a trail of drool making its way down her chin. Molly wiped it away with the handkerchief that had been tucked in the front pocket of the baby carrier.

"Sweet potato and mango?" Mycroft held up another jar, this one filled with an alarming shade of orange that reminded him of certain hazardous chemical compounds he'd once encountered in a classified research facility. "That can't possibly be appealing."

"It's her favorite, actually," Molly said, taking it from him and adding it to the small basket hanging from Mycroft's arm. The weight increased incrementally, pulling slightly at his bicep. "Babies have different taste receptors than adults."

Mycroft nodded, filing away this information in the rapidly expanding mental folder labeled "Infant Development." A subject he'd never anticipated needing to master past age ten, yet here he was, absorbing data on pureed food preferences with questionable ingredients.

"And at what age do they develop proper disgust responses?" he asked as they continued down the aisle. "Surely evolution would select for an aversion to potentially harmful substances."

"Around two, generally," Molly said, passing by him toward the checkout with a light touch to his elbow. She had been doing that more often of late, these light touches that sent an arrow of affection through him."Though Rosie's already showing signs of pickiness. She absolutely refuses anything with peas.”

"A discerning palate, indeed" Mycroft murmured, his lips twitching as he thought of the frozen peas his mother would supply as a Summer treat.

The cashier rang up their purchases - baby food, a packet of teething biscuits, and a pint of milk, and various other items to make Molly’s babysitting venture easier - while giving curious glances between Molly and Mycroft, clearly trying to determine their relationship. Partner? Brother? Friend? The ambiguity of their connection had become a familiar source of confusion to observers as they took in her soft quirky wear next to the crisp lines of his expensive suits.

Outside, the early July heat hit him like a brick wall. Mycroft took the shopping bag without comment, leaving Molly free to adjust Rosie's sun hat. The baby squirmed, making small whining sounds of protest.

"I know, I know," Molly soothed, her voice dropping into that peculiar sing-song cadence some adults seemed programmed to adopt with infants. "It's hot and uncomfortable, but we need to keep you protected from those nasty UV rays, don't we?"

Mycroft watched this exchange, feeling beads of sweat beginning to form beneath his collar. Despite the discomfort, he found something compelling about the way Molly interacted with Rosie. Her natural, unselfconscious affection was so different from the Molly he knew to often second guess herself outside of her work.

They fell into step together, walking the short distance back to Molly's flat. The pavement radiated heat through the soles of his handmade oxfords, a sensation he found distinctly unpleasant. The slight breeze passing over would have been alleviating, if it had not carried with it the residual heat of the city pavement. Mycroft blinked up to the high blazing sun, it would be a while yet for any relief.

As they waited at a pedestrian crossing, Mycroft used his free hand to lightly tug Rosie’s sun hat back into place from where she had once again wriggle it to lay crooked on her head - carefully avoiding the droolly, chewed ends of the ties. Her batting hands and disgruntled huffs reminded him of Sherlock’s first family beach trip. His infant brother had spent most of the time attempting to eat anything found in the sand and Mycroft had been in a veritable tizzy the entire day as his mother chatted to a distant cousin.

Molly glanced up at him, her eyes squinting slightly against the bright sunlight. "You're becoming quite the infant expert," she observed.

Mycroft stiffened imperceptibly as he pulled from the memory, his spine straightening as though someone had yanked an invisible string. "I thought it prudent to fill the gaps in my knowledge, given that Rosie seems to be an ongoing third party to our - ah - meetings."

The words came out a bit more stiffly than he'd intended.

Molly's steps faltered slightly as they crossed, her expression shifting to uncertainty. "O-oh," she said, "I'm sorry about that. John's been so busy at the clinic, and Mrs. Hudson with her hip-"

"No, no," Mycroft interrupted hastily, "I didn't mean to imply any dissatisfaction. I merely . . ." He paused, stiffening his back and searching for the right words, "I find her presence educational. And, admittedly . . . occasionally entertaining."

Molly nodded slowly, before turning towards him as they walked. “You’re not just saying that to be polite?”

“You know very well I am constitutionally incapable of politeness for its own sake,” he said dryly.

She let out a soft laugh and they turned onto Molly's street, the shade from the row of plane trees offering momentary relief from the sun. Mycroft exhaled slowly, feeling sweat trickling down his back beneath his shirt. Rosie had grown heavy against Molly's chest, her earlier squirming replaced by the boneless weight of a drowsy baby.

"She does like you, you know," Molly said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "She doesn't usually let strangers hold her without screaming the place down."

Mycroft didn’t turn to meet her eyes. "We've established a mutual understanding," he replied.

"Ahh, a diplomatic solution?"

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, allowing himself a small smile as he gave her a sidelong glance. "Though . . . I suspect her demands will become more complex as she develops her verbal skills."

They reached her building, and Mycroft held the door while Molly hefted through the entrance with Rosie. The stairwell was stuffy, the heat of the day having trapped itself in the narrow space. By the time they reached Molly's floor, he debated heavily on returning to his air-conditioned home.

Inside the flat, the whirring fan created a gentle cross-breeze that stirred her light curtains. The relief from the heat was immediate, though not nearly as comforting as the industrial conditioning in the grocers. Mycroft watched as Molly carefully released Rosie from the carrier, the baby blinking sleepily as she was transferred to the mat spread across the living room floor.

"Would you mind watching her for a moment while I put these away?" Molly asked, taking the shopping bag from him.

He nodded dumbly, settling into the armchair as he pulled a handkerchief out to dab at his hairline. Rosie stared up at him with tired eyes from her blanket, her face beginning to twist in irritation at being put down.

"I should inform you," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, leaning slightly forward in his chair, "that I've been researching your condition extensively."

Rosie huffed away her irritation, mouth formed into a small 'o' of apparent interest with a quiet coo. A tiny bubble formed at the corner of her lips.

"It appears," he continued, "that you are currently operating with several significant structural deficiencies."

The baby's eyes remained fixed on him, tiny fingers flexing against the soft blanket beneath her.

"Specifically," he elaborated, "your current tooth-to-gum ratio is alarmingly low. My research indicates this is temporary, though the process of correction involves considerable discomfort - I do apologize, unfortunately nothing can be done."

Rosie made a small gurgling sound, her legs kicking in what Mycroft chose to interpret as intellectual engagement rather than random motor activity. Unaware, he smiled.

"Your linguistic capabilities are similarly underdeveloped," he informed her as she extracted her dampened fist to reach toward her own foot. "Though I understand this is also standard for your developmental stage."

From the kitchen came the soft sounds of Molly putting away groceries - glass jars being arranged on shelves, the fridge door opening and closing with a gentle thud.

Rosie responded to his anatomical lecture by shoving her fist into her mouth, drool coating her knuckles in a manner that, previously, would have repulsed him.

"Your knees, additionally," he continued, "are composed entirely of cartilage at this stage. A rather precarious design flaw, though, I suppose it serves some evolutionary purpose related to your current locomotion requirements."

He was aware, in a distant sort of way, that his behavior would appear peculiar to most observers. The Mycroft Holmes from months ago would have been appalled at the spectacle he now presented. Sitting in Molly Hooper's mismatched armchair, conducting serious discourse with an infant while surrounded by colorful plastic toys that occasionally emitted electronic squawks when inadvertently activated.

Surprisingly, he found that he didn't particularly mind. And in some ways it was almost comforting, somewhat reminding him of when he was a boy.

The old floorboards creaked softly as Molly approached from the kitchen. He glanced up to find her watching them, her head tilted slightly, an expression on her face that made something in his chest constrict in a not entirely unpleasant manner. She had a way of looking at him sometimes that suggested she was seeing something he was sure no one else did, or could. Not the Ice Man, or the British Government, but simply Mycroft. The sensation was both irksome and strangely gratifying in a way he could scarcely find the words for.

"It's true," she said, dropping to her knees beside Rosie with a fluidity that spoke of her comfort with the infant - and a way Mycroft was quite sure would have made his knees crack noisily. She addressed the baby with mock gravity that mirrored his own tone.

"You've got no kneecaps,” She sighed, "Just cartilage." She wiggled her fingers over Rosie's bare legs. "Wibbly wobbly cartilage."

Rosie gurgled, a string of saliva connecting her chin to her fist waving above her. Molly gasped in mock outrage, placing her hands on her hips from where she sat on her heels. "Is that so? Well, I'll have you know I'm a doctor!"

Mycroft observed this exchange from the armchair. Leaning back when Molly turned toward him with mock exasperation. "I don't think she's taking me seriously," she sighed, scooping Rosie from the floor.

"Most unprofessional of her," he replied, crossing his right ankle over his knee. "One expects more decorum from an infant."

"Very much so," Molly said smiling, and before he could prepare himself, she was depositing Rosie into his arms.

Mycroft stiffened as if handed a living bomb. Rosie seemed utterly unconcerned by the transfer, immediately reaching for his collar with fingers that were alarmingly ‘slimey’.

The baby's warmth seeped through his shirt, and she smelled of that peculiar blend of talcum powder and something intrinsically infant - milky and sweet. Her small hand patted his cheek with a surprising force, leaving a residue of drool that made him cringe in horror.

Mycroft found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he had arrived at this juncture. 

He caught Molly watching him once more, their eyes seemed to interlock for entirely too long. She quickly looked away, busying herself with gathering scattered toys.

The loud doorbell's sudden ring shattered the peace of the moment, causing Rosie to startle. Her face crumpled in momentary confusion before she let out a wail that seemed entirely disproportionate to the offense.

"Oops," Molly said, quickly crossing the room to take the baby into her arms. "It's alright, pickle. I've got you."

Mycroft watched as Molly bounced her gently, making soothing noises that gradually calmed the infant's protests. He rose from the chair, following a few steps behind as Molly moved toward the door. The wooden floor was cool against his socked feet - he had removed his shoes when they arrived, a concession to the summer heat and Molly’s babysitting sanitary practices that had felt too intimate with another encroaching their bubble.

"That'll be John," Molly said over her shoulder, her voice lifting to be heard over Rosie's diminishing protests. “A bit earlier than usual.”

Mycroft nodded, folding his hands behind him as Molly opened the door. John Watson stood in the hallway, looking slightly disheveled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his smile appeared genuine as he reached for his daughter.

"Hello, sweetheart," John murmured, as Rosie immediately stretched toward him. "Were you good for Molly?"

"An absolute angel," Molly assured him, transferring the baby into Johns arms. "Only had one meltdown, and that was entirely my fault for suggesting peas."

John chuckled, adjusting Rosie on his hip. "Yeah, that would do it." His gaze shifted past Molly, landing on Mycroft. His eyebrows lifted then furrowed as he narrowed his eyes. "Mycroft. Didn't realize you'd be here."

"John," Mycroft replied with a polite nod, maintaining a carefully neutral expression. "A last-minute arrangement."

It wasn't precisely a lie, though it wasn't entirely accurate either. Every morning he woke up with the intent to do something entirely independent from Molly to better ease their separation when it came due. However, by 10:00 AM he would still reach for his phone to check her availability. Today, she happened to be free, sans lab coat, and so he arrived to her flat by 10:45 AM - Which, by any reasonable measure, counted as short notice.

"He brought that documentary I was telling you about," Molly added, leaning against the doorframe. "The one about deep-sea creatures."

John's mouth quirked into a knowing smile that Mycroft found mildly irritating. "Right. "Glow-in-the-dark squid thing.”

"Bioluminescent cephalopods," Mycroft corrected.

"That's the one." John bounced Rosie gently as she began to fuss. "Surprised you made it past the opening credits with this one."

"We managed the first twenty minutes," Molly said, reaching out to stroke Rosie's cheek. "Before someone decided the remote was much more interesting than glowing squid . . .Then we took a short walk."

"Sounds right," John chuckled, shifting Rosie higher on his hip as she began to grab for his ear. He glanced between them, his expression suggesting he was drawing conclusions.

"She's a delight," Mycroft said politely, interrupting John’s spinning wheels. "Though I maintain she displays a concerning enthusiasm for attempting to insert small objects into electrical outlets."

“Ach, I’ve noticed," John winced. "I've got child locks on order." He checked his watch with a sniff. "I should get her home. Bath time awaits.”

He leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Molly's cheek. “Seriously, Molly, thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I owe you one."

"You owe me about seventeen at this point," Molly corrected with a grin, then winced awkwardly. "But - er - who's counting?"

John adjusted the diaper bag on his shoulder and gave Mycroft a nod that was almost friendly. "See you next time, I suppose."

Mycroft responded with a noncommittal "hm" and a slight incline of his head, unwilling to either confirm or deny the assumption that there would be a "next time.”

Molly stayed in the doorway, waving as John and Rosie made their way down the hall.

"That was less awkward than last time," she said, closing the door to turn back to him. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, catching the dust motes that danced lazily in the air between them.

Mycroft watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The flat had fallen into a strange, expectant silence without Rosie's babbling white noise. Every small sound seemed to be briefly magnified to him. The tick-tick-tick of her silly cat-shaped wall clock, the distant scratching of Toby in what he presumed was the guest bedroom, the soft whir of the oscillating fan that did little more than circulate the warm air.

Outside, the sounds of London in summer leaked in through the open windows - cars passing with windows down and music spilling out, pedestrians chatting as they strolled by, the occasional burst of laughter from a group gathered at the pub down the street. The city simply refused to slow despite the heat, if anything, it seemed to only be accelerating into the evening.

Mycroft cleared his throat, trying to fill the space that had opened between them. His hands unconsciously moved to tug at the ends of his waistcoat. "I should, ah . . ." he began, then paused in his reluctance to complete the sentence. ‘I should leave.’ Return to his immaculate, silent home where everything was precisely as he left it, and no one disrupted his order with laughter or slimey fingers or impromptu discussions about cephalopods and the odd tissue cells of a Tuesday autopsy.

Molly’s eyes met his with a question already forming in them. She seemed to understand his hesitation before he could fully wrap himself around it.

"Are you hungry?" Molly asked, saving him from his own uncertainty. "Only, I was thinking of ordering something."

The thought of returning to his empty house, though fitted with air conditioning, suddenly held all of the appeal of a diplomatic function in North Korea. “What do you propose?”

"Curry?" Molly suggested, already plopping into a corner of the sofa and reaching for her phone. "There's a place around the corner that does the best butter chicken."

Mycroft nodded in agreement, moving to settle onto the other side of her sofa. Molly scrolled through her contacts, sucking in her bottom lip before finding the number and releasing it.

She dialed the restaurant, falling into a conversation with a woman who answered. "Yes, hello! It's Molly Hooper again . . . That's right, the usual address." She glanced at Mycroft with an sheepish half smile, before turning slightly away.

“I’m well, thanks for asking! Er- well, no she didn’t tell me that,” Molly shifted in her seat, tucking one leg under her as she seemed to be settling in for appeared to be a familiar battle of social probing. "Oh, did he? That’s very sweet, but-”

Mycroft turned his gaze to the room around him. Molly’s flat was cluttered in a way his own home never was. She kept books stacked precariously on end tables, her favorite reading cardigan was almost always draped over the back of the overstuffed chair, and currently a half-empty cup of tea from before their walk rested on the windowsill. It was clean and comfortable, but certainly not tidy.

"We'll have the butter chicken, yes, and . . . " He felt a light hand on his shoulder.

"The lamb rogan josh, if they have it.”

"And a lamb rogan," Molly continued. "Oh, and some of those little onion things? The bhajis? Brilliant. And naan, of course." She paused, listening. "No, two orders of naan, actually. My friend loves it."

Friend. The word registered with a small tilt of his head. Was that what they were now? The label seemed entirely inadequate, though he couldn’t help but to also find it overwhelming.

"Twenty minutes? Perfect. Thanks, Priya." Molly ended the call and set her phone on the coffee table. "Food's sorted. Apparently, they're quite busy tonight. Something about a football match."

"I'm not particularly concerned about the wait," Mycroft said, glancing to her from the window where another rowdy crowd could be heard passing by. A chorus of off-key singing withered as the group continued on their way. Time, something that was once a precious commodity to be strategically divided between political powers, now seemed to contort according to entirely new and carefree constraints when spent in Molly’s company. In fact, Mycroft thought, he would not mind spending a great deal more of his time with her.

Molly stretched beside him, her arms reaching above her head as she released a small, satisfied groan that caught his attention. "God, between the lab last night and Rosie . . ." She collapsed back into the sofa cushions, tilting her head to rest against the back. "I don't know how John does it."

"Single parenthood does appear to be a rather Herculean endeavor," Mycroft agreed, his gaze tracing the gentle swoop of her nose as she stared at the ceiling in thought. The late afternoon light coming from the window to the side of him caught the soft edges of her features. She hastily swiped the loose hairs framing her face back, illuminating a small freckle near her temple that he had never noticed before - not far from her right ear.

"Do you want something to drink while we wait?" Molly asked, already pushing herself up from the sofa with a slight wobble. "I've got well . . . water, obviously. Some sort of fruit juice that's possibly past its best. Oh, wine? I definitely have a wine."

"I could do with a glass of wine," Mycroft replied, rising to follow her into the kitchen. The space was small but functional, with cheerful yellow curtains framing the window above the sink. A pair of lobster claw-shaped oven mitts hung from a hook just to the side of them. Below was a magnetic strip holding an assortment of knives and quirky magnetized kitchen utensils.

Molly opened a cabinet above the fridge, reaching up on tiptoes to retrieve two stemmed wine glasses. The movement caused her t-shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that Mycroft found himself averting his eyes from. Instead, taking a sudden great interest in the veining pattern of her stone countertops.

"I only have red, I'm afraid,” she said, turning with the glasses in hand. “It’s a Malbec that Mike gave everyone for Christmas.” She squinted at the label. “I’m not much of a dry wine person, really, but he assured me it was decent.”

“I’m certain it will be perfectly adequate,” he said, accepting the bottle to open it while Molly rummaged through a drawer of kitchen utensils for a corkscrew.

They returned to the living room, Molly carrying both the bottle and her own glass while Mycroft followed closely behind her. The fan continued its futile battle against the summer heat, stirring the air without truly cooling it. Molly curled back into her corner of the sofa while Mycroft hesitated briefly, before settling back onto the sofa rather than retreating to the armchair.

Molly took a sip of the wine, her nose wrinkling slightly at the dryness before she set the glass on the coffee table.

“This is nice,” she said, turning towards him, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa and her head in her hand. “No babies trying to squeeze a teether into the power socket.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, sipping the wine. It was better than he'd expected, rich and full-bodied with notes of blackberry and spice.

Molly’s gaze drifted towards the television where the american travel guide was smiling mechanically off the coast of what appeared to be Scotland. Behind him, appeared to be an idyllic village of cobblestone and white cottages clustered in the hills.

“You mentioned once that your family had a place in the country, yeah?” She turned back to him with curious eyes, “Sussex?”

Mycroft's eyebrow lifted slightly. He had, in fact, mentioned it in passing during their trip to Whitby, when she'd commented on his vast knowledge of coastal erosion patterns. Just a brief reference to childhood summers spent examining the chalk cliffs near their family property.

"You have an impressive memory, Dr. Hooper," he said, setting his glass down next to hers.

"Comes with the medical training,” she smiled with a shrug. “You said something about your brother digging up fossils and your mother being furious about the garden beds?"

"Ah, yes." Remembering a mud coated Sherlock, "Mummy was particularly protective of her roses."

"So," Molly said, shifting slightly to face him more directly, "tell me more about this cottage in Sussex. Is it very grand and Holmes-ish?"

Mycroft considered the question, lightly swirling the wine in his glass. "Not particularly. It belonged to my mother's family originally. A small stone cottage with rather questionable plumbing and an unfortunate tendency toward dampness in the west-facing rooms. Though, the moist soil does allow the climbing hydrangea to bloom in a rather picturesque fashion."

"Sounds lovely.”

"It has its moments," he admitted. "The library is quite well-stocked, if somewhat dusty. And the gardens . . ." He paused, memories surfacing of summer afternoons spent reading beneath the old oak tree while bees buzzed in the lavender and his mother calling distantly for Sherlock to stop digging up her flower beds. "The gardens are lovely when the weather cooperates."

"I'd love to see it, one day.”

Mycroft looked at her over the rim of his glass. Her expression was open, genuinely interested in a way people rarely were in the few moments he had chosen to speak of personal matters.

"Perhaps you shall," he said, the words escaping before he could properly consider them. "It's been rather neglected these past few years, but with some attention . . ." He found himself imagining Molly wandering through the overgrown paths, perhaps sitting in the window bench with one of the old dusty novels from the shelves, slotting perfectly into the spaces he’d long considered private.

A small voice in the back of his mind -one that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock at his most sardonic - pointed out that he was being overly sentimental. Mycroft washed it away with another sip of wine.

"I bet it's gorgeous in the summer," Molly continued, oblivious to his internal dialogue. "All those country gardens with wildflowers and butterflies. Does it have one of those little stone walls covered in moss? A proper moss-covered wall feels so Tolkien."

The earnestness of her interest made his lips quirk upward. "Several, in fact. And a rather precarious path that leads down to a creek at the edge of the property."

"A creek?" Her eyes widened with delight. "With actual fish and things? Or is it more of a-” she fluttered her free hand,”-decorative water feature?"

"Nothing so refined as a water feature," Mycroft replied, amused by her enthusiasm. "It's quite natural, rather shallow in most places, but deep enough for the occasional trout and swim. Sherlock spent countless hours there attempting to catalog every species of aquatic insect."

"Of course he did," Molly laughed, reaching for her wine glass again. "I can just picture little Sherlock covered in muck, terrorizing the local wildlife."

"He was particularly fixated on water beetles," Mycroft confirmed, finding himself drawn into the recollection. "Mother once found specimens in filled jars under his bed. The smell was memorable to say the least. . . He moved on to honey bees shortly after that particular venture."

Molly laughed into her hand, leaning towards him. "Your poor mother. Between you and Sherlock, she must have had her hands full." She tutted.

"I was a model of decorum compared to my brother," Mycroft protested mildly.

"I bet you were," Molly hummed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "All pressed shorts and color-coded notes on cloud formations for your nautical studies?"

The accuracy of her assessment was nearly suspicious. "I may have maintained a meteorological journal," he admitted.

"Of course.”

Their eyes met over their wine glasses, and Mycroft felt a peculiar lightness in his chest.

"I was wondering if you might like to see it- the cottage, that is.” he said.

Molly's eyes widened slightly. "Are you suggesting . . . ?"

"A brief sojourn," Mycroft clarified, suddenly aware of how the invitation might be interpreted. "The weekend of the 24th, perhaps, if your schedule permits. The countryside can be quite pleasant this time of year, despite the heat."

Her face brightened, a slow smile spreading across her features. "Really? You'd want to go there? With me?"

"I can think of no one whose company I would rather prefer.”

Molly flushed, sitting up straighter. "I'd love to," she said, glancing at the small calendar propped on the bookshelves lining the wall behind them. "I'll need to check my rotation schedule, but I think I'm clear that weekend. And if not, I can probably swap with someone."

She paused. "Are you- I mean, not that I don’t-" A small nervous laugh escaped her. "Are you going to keep whisking me away to places? First Whitby, now Sussex . . . Next thing I know we'll be in Monte Carlo or something."

The question caught him off guard, though perhaps it shouldn't have. Their day trip to Whitby earlier in the summer had been impulsive by his standards - a sudden suggestion over coffee that had resulted in them exploring the abbey ruins, laughing through a lazy Dracula-themed haunted house, and eating ice cream on the pier as the sun set.

Mycroft stared at her for a long moment, taking in the slight blush across her cheeks and the way her eyes darted away and then back to his face. "I could," he said finally.

Molly's eyes widened slightly with a curious twitch to her brow, for a moment neither of them spoke. Then she grinned, wide enough for the faint dimple in right cheek to appear.

"Well," she said, her voice slightly breathless, "I suppose I should keep my passport updated, then."

Mycroft felt a rush of elation. "Excellent," he said, striving for a casual tone that didn't quite mask his satisfaction. "For Sussex, however, we could leave Friday evening, return Sunday afternoon. Nothing elaborate, a change of scenery."

“Should I bring anything?" Molly asked, her eyes bright with excitement. "Besides the obvious, I mean. Clothes and such."

"Perhaps a swimsuit," Mycroft suggested, surprising himself with the recommendation. "As mentioned, the creek, while not particularly deep, can be pleasant."

The image of Molly in the dappled sunlight by the creek, her laughter echoing through the trees, came to him and he found himself coveting it rather than attempting to batter it into the steel trap at the back of his mind.

"I'll pack one," she promised, her smile turning slightly mischievous. "Though I have to say, I never imagined Mycroft Holmes suggesting a paddling expedition."

"I contain multitudes," he replied dryly, though his eyes shimmered over his wine glass.

Molly laughed.

Chapter Text

The next week and half passed in waves of anticipation. Molly tried to focus on her shifts at the hospital, but her thoughts kept drifting to Mycroft, and the question of exactly could happen between them in the seclusion of his family cottage.

She found herself daydreaming at odd moments. Occasionally while peering through microscopes, during post-mortems, or even mid-conversation with colleagues at the lunch table. Twice she'd caught herself smiling at nothing in particular while standing over a cadaver. Which was hardly professional and perhaps a touch disturbing . . . Molly wasn’t quite sure the intern was ever going to look at her the same after that.

At night, she’d lie awake on her side trying to sleep as she imagined walking through meadows with Mycroft or sitting beside him on a worn country-style sofa, their shoulders touching, the crackle of a fireplace in the background as he looked over to her and leaned in to - Well, anyway it was ridiculous how much space he’d taken up in her head.

Molly was scrawling her signature on a clipboard from when Meena sidled up to her, curiosity written all over her face. Her heavily scented perfume, that fit Meena perfectly, cloaking over Molly.

"Alright, then, why’ve you been wafting around like a lovesick ghost," Meena observed, peering over her shoulder with squinting suspicious eyes. "What's got you all starry-eyed?"

Molly's pen paused mid-signature, hovering above the paper after accidentally flubbing her last name. Was she really that obvious?

"I'm going away this weekend," she admitted, keeping her tone as casual as possible while resuming her signatures. The clipboard suddenly felt very interesting to look at. She traced the edge of it with her thumb, focusing on the smooth plastic rather than Meena’s penetrating dark stare.

Meena's eyes narrowed with interest and her lips curved into a catlike smile. "With him? The one who loiters around lunch but swans out the moment I show up?"

Molly tucked her pen into the clipboard minder. "Yes," Molly replied, biting back the urge to elaborate. “After this shift actually . . .”

Meena’s jaw dropped dramatically and she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow seemed louder than her normal speaking voice. "That sounds suspiciously like a proper getaway." Her eyebrows waggled suggestively.

Molly flushed, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. The lab tech across the room was thankfully absorbed in his centrifuge, headphones firmly in place. "It's not serious," she insisted, though her words felt less convincing than they had in the past. "It’s just- I like him."

Meena gave a triumphant toothy grin. "I knew it!" she crowed, snapping her fingers. The intern on the other side of the lab turned his head from the microscope towards them.

"Shhhh! Would you?" Molly hissed, pressing her clipboard against her chest like a shield. She felt her blush deepen, spreading down her chest. "The whole world will know."

Meena rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her scrubs. "Please. You’ve never been subtle a day in your life! Remember Dr Greenwich? You basically became his personal barista."

"That was different," Molly muttered, setting the clipboard down with perhaps more force than necessary. The plastic clattered against the metal countertop and it seemed abnormally loud in her irritation.

She shrugged off her lab coat. The lab’s air conditioning raised goosebumps on her arms as she hung the coat on the rack near the handwashing station. Turning on the tap, the water ran warm over her fingers, and she began scrubbing her hands, trying to ignore Meena's knowing look boring into her back.

The soap smelled strongly of artificial lemons as she worked it over her hands, watching the bubbles form and disappear under the water and down the drain.

Meena followed closely behind, her reflection appearing in the small metal mirror above the sink when Molly risked a glance. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, but a few rebellious strands had escaped around her face.

"So," she said, lowering her voice but not her interest, "when are you going to say something to him?"

Molly didn’t answer, pretending that she didn’t hear her or perhaps didn’t know exactly what Meena had meant. She risked another glance to her friend in the mirror and Meena gave her a look that said she wasn’t fooling anyone.

Molly flushed a dark pink, drying her hands on a paper towel and tossing it in the trash. She kept her back turned as if that could shield her from questioning.

"Are you ever?" Meena pressed, putting a hand on her hip. "Or are -"

"Meeeena," Molly cut in, her voice more pleading than firm. She finally turned to face her friend, the cool edge of the sink pressing into her lower back. "Just drop it, will you?"

Meena's expression shifted, her teasing smile fading. "Right . . . right . . . I get it- It’s just you always say it’s nothing until you get your heart broken, and I have to mop you off the floor," she replied, a hint of pity creeping into her voice. She fidgeted with her ID badge, flipping the plastic card between her fingers. "All I’m saying is, if it’s heading for heartbreak, better to bin it early, yeah?"

Molly furrowed her brows and took a deep breath, chewing on her bottom lip as she looked at Meena. It wasn’t exactly as though Meena didn’t have reason to question her tastes, but it didn’t make it any less irritating. She wanted to explain that things with Mycroft weren't so easily categorized, that what had started as casual outings had evolved into something she couldn't quite pin down with a name.

Her calls and texts with Mycroft were frequent, often several times a day until he inevitably called. After the first film night, they had spent nearly every day together. She was seeing more of Mycroft than some of her coworkers at the hospital, and certainly more than she would see a conventional boyfriend at this stage. . .

Mycroft had never explicitly stated his intentions, just asked if she was free for an afternoon, or a morning, or entire days . . . now a weekend. And Molly, like clockwork, had said yes to everything. Rearranging shifts and canceling plans without a second thought.

Perhaps she should have felt foolish for stoking something that wouldn’t stick beyond August, but the way he'd leaned in to whisper commentary about a film's historical inaccuracies, his breath warm against her ear, and how she would sometimes catch him watching her rather than watching the screen left her feeling hopeful and unable to stop cradling this small flame.

They stood locked in silent argument, the kind they'd perfected over years of friendship since uni. Meena's eyebrow twitched in a challenge, Molly's chin tilted stubbornly upward. Only the sound of clicking lab equipment and Meena’s flipping badge between them.

The soft click of the lab door interrupted their wordless debate. Molly’s heart skipped a beat and she cringed as the familiar sound of measured footsteps. Mycroft stepped through, his tall frame filling the doorway, looking distinctly out of place among the microscopes and specimen jars in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit. The charcoal gray contrasting sharply with the sterile white of the lab. He couldn’t have possibly have been more of a target for Meena to spot.

Meena was the first to break, glancing from Mycroft to Molly with dawning realization.

"Hello," she said, her professionalism not quite hiding her curiosity. "Can we help you?"

Molly's eyes widened in alarm, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. Before Meena could firmly dig in her claws for interrogation, Molly briskly stepped forward, closing the distance to Mycroft in quick strides. Her fingers boldly found the edge of his sleeve, and she tugged him toward her adjacent office.

"Just a moment," she called over her shoulder to Meena, whose eyebrows had nearly disappeared into her hairline.

She only risked the shortest of glances to Mycroft's face to see that his face had been left momentarily unguarded in shock at her forwardness. The slight heat of his hand near hers sent a flutter through her stomach that she firmly ignored as she pushed open her office door.

"Sorry," she said offhandedly once they were inside, releasing his sleeve to reach for her weekender bag behind her desk. "Meena's my best friend but she's also-"

"Inquisitive?" Mycroft supplied. He stood very still, like a statue that had somehow wandered indoors, his gaze taking in the organized chaos of her workspace. Landing on the framed photo of her father and mother that seemed to give him pause.

"Nosy and relentless," Molly corrected under her breath. She fumbled with the zipper of her bag, checking its contents one last time. “She’s like a dog with a bone when she thinks she’s onto something.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, before he snapped from whatever thought he was having to step forward. He offered his hand out to take the overnight bag from her. "Allow me.”

“Oh, thank you,” she managed, her voice coming out slightly higher than normal.

She glanced around her office, wondering if she'd forgotten anything. The plant on her windowsill had been watered, her reports filed, her neighbor had a key to feed Toby. Everything was in order.

They quickly navigated back through the lab, Molly feeling Meena's eyes tracking their every move. Her friend stood with arms crossed, wearing an expression that scolded, ‘You will be hearing from me later.’

"Bye, Meena! Have a good weekend!" Molly called out, grimacing slightly as she followed Mycroft toward the exit.

"Oh, I daresay yours will be far more eventful," Meena replied sweetly, making Molly duck her head in embarrassment. The knowing lilt in her voice carried across the lab, drawing curious glances from the intern and a lab technician from their stations.

Chapter Text

Molly's passenger window was down, her chestnut hair whipping in the warm breeze. Now and then, a stray wisp would tickle at the side of his face as the wind caught it. He glanced over and saw the delight in her eyes as they neared their destination.

The cottage appeared ahead, its whitewashed stone standing bright against the overgrown hedges lining the unpaved track. Pink hydrangea blooms stretched up over the sturdy wooden door, winding between the small, ancient windows. Near the front of the cottage, the old garden had gone wild after years untamed. What was once the pride of Mummy’s garden parties with its neat and winding plots, now held a wilder beauty. Though some flowers hadn’t survived under the lack of care, many of Mummy’s planted seeds had spread and grown tall outside of their original locations. Reaching for the sun and bending softly in the breeze as if they were always meant to be there.

"Oh, I love it already," Molly sighed, leaning toward her window to catch the distant babble of the creek.

They pulled to the parking wrapped to the side of the house, gravel crunching beneath the tires. As they climbed out, Molly stretched her arms skyward. Mycroft hesitated, watching her before moving to retrieve their luggage from the trunk.

The heavy door opened with a groan. He clicked on a lamp out of habit, though the room was already filled with the rich, honeyed light of summer spilling through the windows. There was a light layer of dust settled over some of the furniture while other larger pieces were covered with large white dust sheets, and Mycroft glanced towards Molly.

“Apologies for the mess,” he murmured, and placed their bags by the door. Molly didn’t seem bothered, her eyes bright with curiosity as she peeked into nearest doorway. "Shall I give you a tour?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she said, following him.

He led her through to the main sitting room, which was a rich muddle of old family things. Some charming, others merely . . . odd. Oil portraits of ancestors with long noses and sharp eyes peered at them from the walls in their small gilded or heavy wooden frames. The air smelled of lavender polish, old paper, and the subtle dampness that clung to places with centuries of English weather in their bones.

Molly bee-lined for the mantle of the high stone fireplace, where a clutter of picture frames were haphazardly lined up, each containing a Holmes frozen in time. A much younger Mummy with a self-pleased sort of smile holding out her prized shortcake at a nearby garden party, Sherlock as a boy coated in mud with a cockeyed tricorn hat, Mycroft himself a sullen teen in an oversized blazer at some debating competition with a ribbon pinned to his lapel. She paused, brow furrowing, in front of a wooden frame that was brushed white with a faded pink gingham lining. There was nothing held in it, just the pale, sun-faded rectangle where a photograph had once rested.

“Oh, is this- did the picture fall out?” She stood on her tiptoes, glancing between the other frames

He gave her a brittle smile, weighing how much to say. “Mummy’s doing. She’s rather particular about her photo selection.”

Molly hummed curiously, but continued on through the line of photos.

He nodded, though the real story was knottier. There’d been a year, some time after Eurus arrived, when the family had stopped coming here at all. The old farming equipment - chains and blades, like rusted jagged teeth - were locked in the barn at the very edge of the property, but never quite locked enough. It wasn’t long before the creek was deemed a lethal hazard. . . At least this cottage hadn’t suffered the same fate as Musgrave Hall, he supposed as he stood looking at the empty frame.

“Aw, look at this.” She tapped a finger at the glass of a group shot from the early eighties. “Your hair is so ginger here!” She smiled up at him from over her shoulder. He returned it with just the faintest twitch of his lips.

“From our grandfather,” he said, pointing to an elderly man with a stern face in the photo, “Fortunately, it faded before sixth form." Mycroft’s gaze lingered on the photo as the memory floated to the surface. His too-tight shorts digging in at the waist, a nearly two year old Sherlock gleefully prodding at his sides the entire day, and their heavily pregnant mother’s exasperated face shifting through a throng of relatives.

He smoothed a hand down his front and cleared his throat, then gestured toward the narrow staircase barely visible in the hall from where they stood. “Come, I’ll show you the upstairs.”

The staircase was steep and timeworn, creaking with every step. The top landing opened onto a small foyer and cramped hallway with walls lined with more painted portraits and the occasional taxidermied creature mounted on wooden plaques: an owl, a squirrel, what might have once been a pine marten but now resembled a small, flattened cat.

Molly reached out toward the odd flat cat, but stopped, distracted as Mycroft opened the first door on the right. The bathroom. It still had retained many of it’s original antique fixtures, but there had been some clear changes. He pointed out a few of the cottage’s discreet modern updates, noting a small fixed from the last round of renovations

Molly listened with rapt attention, her fingers brushing along the mid wall trim as they moved along.

“The guest room is here,” he said, opening a door at end of the hall. The room was bright and warm, with two twin beds pushed together beneath a window that overlooked the hydrangea and, beyond it, the wild garden. “And across from this, your room.”

He held her door open and Molly stepped inside, eyebrow lifting in surprise. The bed was enormous, topped with a summer quilt patterned in white with pastel squares and quite a few ruffled pillows in various patterns. There was a reading nook by the window, a shelf lined with battered woodcrafting and gardening books, as well as Penguin classics. Covering the old wooden floor was a faded rug that must have handled thousands of steps over the years.

Molly circled the room in a slow, approving turn as Mycroft placed her weekender bag at the foot of the bed. “I could stay here for weeks,” she said reverently, peering out the window. “Is that it, down there? The creek?”

He came p beside her, shoulder nearly brushing hers. “Yes. It winds along the property, then through the woods.”

“Noted,” she said, glancing sideways at him. “Did you and Sherlock used to go exploring down there?”

He didn’t answer straight away, gaze fixed on the distant water as it flashed between overgrown greenery. "Occasionally," he said finally. "Sherlock preferred finding trouble to observing it."

She laughed lightly, for a moment she flickered her eyes over him, as if trying to reconcile the image of the man before her with the memory of the ginger-haired boy in the garden photos.

Below, in the thick tangle of garden roses, a bird startled into flight and Molly’s gaze turned to follow its path. The light outside was golden and full, and it washed over her face delicately and he watched the light bounce off of her lashes as she blinked.

Catching him staring, she turned a half step to look up at him. “Shall we?”

Mycroft blinked, nodding dumbly and leading the way out of the room where they made their way back down the narrow staircase

They finished the tour with the small study that had once belonged to his grandfather, and was now a capsule of nautical maps and antique compasses left untouched by his mother’s updates. She leaned on the edge of the desk and asked, “Do you want to get something to eat? Or shall we try scrounging up what’s been left?”

“There’s an inn in Arundel,” he replied. “They serve a decent roast, if memory serves.”

“An inn sounds nice. I wouldn’t mind a proper meal after the drive.” Molly pushed off from the desk, “I’ll just grab my bag,” She gave him a half-smile and left the room.

Mycroft lingered in the study as he heard Molly trotting up the stairs. He pulled a leather-bound ledger from the bookcase behind the heavy wooden desk and flipped it open. Inside was a list of weather observations updated in neat, slanted script through 1979. The book still held his grandfather’s faint scent of pipe tobacco and Mycroft found himself staring at the cantankerous notes cramped in the margins.

“Mycroft?” Molly’s muffled voice called from the small entry foyer. With a quiet “thwump,” he closed the book and slid it back into its place.

“Just coming,” He called.

The pub was a short drive from the cottage. It sat at the crook of an ancient lane where a collection of colorful houses leaned tightly together. Its faded sign showed two doves mirrored in flight, and the windows glowed gold against the shadow of a large nearby tree. As Mycroft pushed open the heavy oak door, standing to the side and holding it for Molly, he was near assaulted by nostalgia. The room seemed significantly more cramped than he had last remembered it at age nine, the low ceiling with its thick beams now gave him little head room to spare and made the other patrons seem more numerous than they were. Meanwhile, the air was just as he remembered it, heavy with the smell of dried spilled hops and roasting meat.

They had only taken three steps when the proprietor emerged from behind the bar. The man, whose face was unmistakable despite the additional lines and grayer hair, now had a substantial paunch that suggested decades of sampling his own ales in excess. His eyes, large and dark beneath bushy brows, widened in recognition.

“Evening, sir, madam- oh, ho!” His face split into a wide, toothy grin as he recognized Mycroft. “Well, if it isn’t young Mister Holmes! Been an age, hasn’t it?”

Mycroft braced himself automatically, trying not to wince. He had almost forgotten about this particular hazard of small villages, but managed a polite nod as Molly glanced curiously between the two of them.

“It has. I see the dove is still standing.”

“Barely,” the man laughed, wiping his hands on a towel. Then, turning to Molly with enthusiasm, “And you must be the new Lady Holmes! Your mother-in-law never said-”

Mycroft felt heat crawl up his neck with mortifying speed. Before he could correct the man, Molly let out a startled laugh.

“No, no- just a friend. I’m Molly. Hi.” She stuck out her hand, and the man shook it with a still delighted vigor.

“Well, Miss Molly, you’re most welcome. And if you ask me-” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “-the old boy never did have much luck with women, but you look like you’ve got sense.”

Mycroft felt his ears burning with a heat that likely made them visible from a space satellite. He stared fixedly at a point just above the man's left shoulder, unwilling to meet Molly's eyes and see whatever expression might be there.

The proprietor led them to a booth in the corner. Its dark wood was scarred by generations of bored schoolchildren and starcrossed regulars, after years of recoating with varnish it almost felt gummy to the touch.

"What'll it be? Kitchen's still open- we’ve a venison pie tonight, or haddock. And a proper trifle," He added.

Molly glanced at Mycroft across the table, supplying a small smile. “We’ll have the pie, please. And two pints of whatever’s local.”

The man left them with a promise for a free desert, and Molly crinkled her nose in amusement, her eyes dancing in the dim light. “Lady Holmes?”

Mycroft fought the urge to hang his head, instead settling for unfolding his napkin. “Small towns,” he muttered darkly. “One blink in the wrong direction and they marry you off for life.”

“Shame,” Molly said. “Though I approve. I’ve never been a lady before. Should I practice my curtsey?”

“Please don’t.”

She snickered into her hand, glancing around at the low ceiling and plastered walls. A pair of hunting prints above their booth showed spaniels that looked wonky and oddly constipated. Next to them was an old display case of piped clay tavern pipes, some broken, all yellowing to the same nicotine patina as the walls.

Molly leaned into the battered bench and rested her arms on the table, looking around the pub's interior as if drinking it in. "It's so different from London. Do you miss it, sometimes?"

He considered, watching as she absently traced the somewhat lumpy varnish of the wood with her fingers. "No," he said, then, "Not precisely. It always felt rather isolating, even when we were all here." He realized, as the words left him, that he hadn’t meant them to sound so bleak. ”Disconnected from the rest of the world,” he adjusted.

Molly just nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think I’d like that. To be away from everything for a while, I mean."

"It can be restful," Mycroft agreed, softening. "But after a few days, you begin to crave the noise again." He glanced around at the half dozen other customers. There was an elderly couple hunched over battered menus, three middle-aged men clustered at the bar, and the proprietor reading a racing form by the till. His eyebrows twitched together briefly. "Or perhaps you just become attuned to different patterns."

"Do you ever come here ?"

He looked back to her. "No, not since- Well, I had always meant to return, but-" He stopped, waving his hand vaguely. "Time gets away."

The pints arrived, the man sliding them on the table with a little nod. "Pie’ll be out soon. You just settle in." He gave a jolly smile, then hustled on to the next table.

Molly slid hers over, nearly knocking the glass over on a particularly lumpy bit before lifting her glass. "To your break," she said, and when she caught his indecisive expression, she amended, "Or, uh, to new patterns?"

With the faintest of smiles, he raised his glass in reply. "To new patterns."

Their food arrived soon after, the pies where steaming, cratered and flaky, the gravy pooling out as the barkeep’s son - surely the same boy from all those years ago, now grown and sporting a highly regrettable mustache - set two plates before them.

Conversation burbled around them in the pub. There was the slap of cards on a table accompanying the cackle of the old men sat at a round table near the bar, the occasional rise and fall of eager voices swapping gossip. Mycroft found it oddly pleasant, a sort of gentle white noise behind their conversation as Molly tried to subtly deduce the people surrounding them. She speculated a lot - usually absurdly, possibly on purpose to prod at him - but with a perception that always landed just off true. It was endearing.

When the trifle came - on the house, “for the new Lady Holmes,” the proprietor winked - it arrived in a bowl large enough to serve a family of four. Molly laughed helplessly at it, then insisted they eat at least half or risk offending the hospitality.

As she scraped up the last of her share, she leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “Do you think he’s still watching us?”

Mycroft flicked a glance sideways. The man behind the bar was indeed still peering over, his mouth rounding the shape of a joke for the boys at the counter. “Almost certainly,” he replied dryly, and was rewarded by Molly’s open laugh. She always laughed with her whole face, never just her mouth like his plastic political counterparts, and the urge to take her hand across the knotty tabletop nearly overrode his better instincts.

Her hands slipped into her lap, taking away the chance.

“Are you ready?” he asked, moving his gaze from the spot where her hands were to her eyes. She nodded.

They stood, and Mycroft left far more cash than necessary on the table. As they stepped out into the pavement, the air was a touch cooler now. The lane was quiet except for the distant trill of birds as they flittered in the hedges and the hum of a single car winding past.

"Is there a shop nearby?" Molly asked, looking down the road. "I forgot to grab breakfast things for the morning. After last nights autopsy, I wouldn’t recommend scavenging for mushrooms."

He pulled his watch from his pocket. "The grocer is just around the corner. It should be open for another hour."

She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear, and without quite meaning to, they fell into step along the narrow walk. The blue had deepened in the sky, leaving the world drenched in that sleepy almost-nighttime blue of the summer, where the colors somehow seemed both brighter and hazier than other seasons.

They arrived back to the cottage as the last of the sunlight dipped behind the trees. Settling their few bags of treats and essentials on the wooden kitchen island, Molly stifled a yawn. Covering her mouth as her eyes crinkled closed.

“Would you mind putting these away while I have a quick shower?” She asked. “I feel like I’ve been marinated in NHS air for a week.”

He nodded, already unpacking and sorting the cold items. Molly headed upstairs, and soon the old pipes rattled as the shower sputtered on then settled.

Mycroft placed the eggs in their ceramic tray, lined up the jars of preserves, and reached for the honey. A sudden vivid image of Molly in the shower, her hair slicked back and her skin fresh and pink from the heat, flashed to mind. The jar slipped from his hand, landing with a soft clatter on the countertop. He frowned, blinking multiple times, then hurried to finish unpacking.

Latched onto the next necessary task, he moved to the living room and stripped the dust sheets from the chairs and sofa. Neatly folding them and stacking them in the utility closet. As he opened the fireplace grate he realized how much he wanted to see her at ease here - Like it would wash away the reek of his final memories here.

He arranged the logs in the hearth and coaxed a flame from the kindling. Quickly, the room filled with the scent of burning pine and dust being burnt off hot stone. Standing back, he admired his fire and how welcoming it had made the room.

Mycroft had just set the fire iron back when he heard Molly’s footsteps on the stairs. He straightened as she appeared. Padding in wearing an oversized blue t-shirt and bright yellow running shorts that just barely peeked out. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, the ends leaving wet blotches on her shirt.

She paused at the threshold, a small smile spreading as she took in the fire, the uncovered armchairs, and newly placed throw blankets. “This looks wonderful,” she said, looking at him with an odd warmth that made him shift on his feet. “You didn’t have to do all this alone.”

A faint pleased smile touched his lips, “I thought it might help it to feel more welcoming than when we had arrived.”

Molly’s shoulder dropped in a playful surrender and she sank into one of the chairs, tucking her feet beneath her. She picked up the battered remote from the side table and flipped through a few channels before setting it aside with a shrug. “It feels a bit wrong to ruin the quiet with telly, don’t you think?”

Mycroft hummed in agreement, settling into the chair opposite her.

After a moment, Molly’s gaze wandered to the bookshelves stretching the wall. She stood and drifted over to it. She trailed her fingers along the spines. “There’s so many maths texts. And- oh, are those the annotated Bletchley Park reports?”

He watched as she browsed, occasionally pulling one out and flipping it open briefly before putting the book back. “My mother was a mathematician,” he explained. “She occasionally preferred the company of numbers to people.”

Molly looked back at him over her shoulder. “Do you have a favorite? Or something you’d recommend to someone who - er - isn’t very good with numbers?”

He stood, crossing the room, and reached above her to slide a slim volume from the shelf. Their bodies were close. Close enough for him to catch the scent of her hair, not her usual soap but something light, floral, a cheap peony shampoo she must have grabbed from the grocers. He handed her a copy of Sense and Sensibility, its spine cracked from years of use.

She took it with both hands, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “Didn’t take you for an Austen man,” she said.

“I’m not. But my mother was, and she insisted I read every volume on that shelf before I was allowed to touch any of the cryptography texts.”

She puffed a small laugh and for a moment he felt as if he might reach out, cup the back of her neck and remove the inches between them. Looking away from her, he turned slightly, gesturing towards the window with the tilt of his head. “If the weather holds, perhaps tomorrow we can walk down to the creek . . . I recall you mentioning it earlier.”

She looked down at the book in her hands, lightly fanning the unread pages between her nails. “I’d really like that.”

They returned to the fire, Molly curling up in the corner of the sofa with her book, Mycroft retreating to the armchair. He flipped open his cryptology book he had long ago memorized, occasionally flicking his eyes over to watch Molly as she read.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Mycroft woke in a tangle of sheets damp with sweat. Blistering sunlight already stabbing through the lace curtains half pulled across the window.

He rolled to his side, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and grasped his pocket watch from the bedside table.

8:12 AM and the temperature was already turning the room into a veritable sauna. With a groan, he pulled himself from bed and headed for perfunctory cold shower before dressing in the lightest garments he had packed - linen trousers and crisp white button-up.

Mycroft found Molly in the kitchen, her hair falling past her shoulders in a wave of brown. She was attempting to make tea with the ancient stove, a look of concentration on her face as she fiddled with the knobs.

"Good morning," he said, rolling up his sleeves in the threshold of the kitchen.

Molly turned, breaking into a smile. "Morning! I think I’ve just figured it out. This stove must be older than both of us."

"Combined," Mycroft replied with amusement, moving to join her. “Did you sleep well?”

Molly poured boiling water over the waiting bags in a pair of mugs, sending up a steam cloud.

"I did, actually. That bed is so soft I nearly vanished into it . . . Thank you for putting me in the cooler room, by the way. I hadn’t realized there’d be such a weather shift." She moved the enamel kettle back to the burner. "How about you? Manage to sleep with all this quiet?"

"Not at first," Mycroft admitted. "I’ve acclimated to the sirens and traffic."

Molly nodded in the way people do when they’re not quite sure what to say but understand nonetheless. She gave a cursory glance around the kitchen and in that time Mycroft produced a shallow pan from the deep drawer he had been inadvertently blocking.

Reaching around her, he placed it on a back burner and slid the ceramic container of eggs closer to the stove.

Molly gave a delighted, “ooh, spooky,” and cracked three eggs into the pan.

They prepared a simple breakfast, eating at the small wooden table by the window. The breeze that occasionally drifted through was tepid at best and his stomach rolled a bit from the heat, giving him a reasonable excuse to watch her rather than focus on his food. She seemed unbothered by the heat, no sweat or sluggish movements, not even the slightest flush to her cheeks.

Her foot brushed against his under the table, and she didn’t seem inclined to move it.

“Ready for the creek?” she asked, finishing her tea and setting the cup down with a clink and an excitement in her eyes.

A trickle of sweat made its way down his temple, and he dabbed it with his napkin. "Whenever you are."

They set off across the overgrown field, following a well worn walking path that was already baking in the mid-morning sun. The tufts of grass occasionally poking through the center of the path were dry and crackled slightly underfoot. He glanced at Molly, who seems to glide through the heat, her pink summer dress fluttering around her knees. Over her arm, she carried two small bags, one with towels and the other with their packed lunch.

“How are you possibly not melting?” he asked, his breath coming a touch shorter than he would have liked it to.

She turned to him with an added pep in her step as they walked, “I’m defrosting from the morgue. Plus, I know where we’re going,” She nodded ahead to where the brush and taller grass bowed down and gave way to silted dirt and a few trees craning over the dip in the landscape.

When the water came to view it was relatively clear and inviting, sparkling beneath the sun in waves of green and yellow as it moved along. They stopped just at the bank, under the large dappling shadow of a tree and Molly placed the bags at the trunk, then slipped off her sandals.

He froze as she pulled off her dress to reveal a floral two-piece swimsuit and pale skin that was rarely exposed to sunlight. Aside from her shoulders and arms, which had bronzened and freckled from a summer of string top dresses and tanks, the rest of her was remarkably pale, with a mole or two he could spot.

Without a pause, she waded into the water - about mid-creek - until it reached up to her chest. The stream was higher than Mycroft had remembered it reaching decades ago.

“Oh God, this is heaven,” she sighed in relief. Her back was to him and she ducked her head under, surfacing quickly and wiping the water from her eyes.

Looking around Molly must have noticed that he hadn’t followed, she turned to face him. Her hair was slicked back, dark and silky against her skin with tendrils pooling around her. On her face was an impish sort of smile, intent on coaxing him in.

"I'm fine right here," he said before she could start, his voice carrying a hint of stubbornness that sounded a bit childish to even his ears.

Her arms flicked through the water as she paddled backwards lazily, floating on her back. "It must be at least fifteen degrees cooler in here."

Shifting on his feet, he glanced down at his shirt, knowing it was clinging to him in a thoroughly undignified manner. Dark patches of sweat had formed under his arms and a bit down his chest. He pinched at the shirt at the center of his waist to resituate the fabric. She moved back towards him, almost ethereal looking wading through the water, like one of the sirens from his more supernatural shipwreck stories he’d read as a child.

She reached the shallows and nudged his shoulder, her touch light and teasing. Another damp print was left on his shirt as her fingers skimmed down his arm. “Come on,” Molly smiled gently, "It’s perfect, Mycroft.”

"I didn’t bring swim trunks," he protested, feeling utterly defeated by the heat.

She shrugged, holding his gaze with a playful insistence. "Wear your pants," she shrugged as if it were the simplest solution to come to, then turned and swam away, leaving him with no further excuse.

Mycroft watched her, floating effortlessly with her arms spread wide, her eyes closed as she tilted her toward a sunny break in the trees. Another bead of sweat made its way down his spine and decided, ‘Bugger it all.’ He stripped down to his boxer briefs, contemplating the propriety of leaving his undershirt on, then discarding the notion as it clung to him like a second skin. He folded his clothes neatly beside her pile. Turning back to the water he saw Molly still floating peacefully under the dappled Sun. As quietly as possible entered the creek, wincing as the initial shock of cool water against his overheated skin and the silt squelching between his toes.

He reached her side before she had noticed and in a spur of the moment lightly grasped her ankle in a way he had seen one of his distant cousins do to girlfriend decades ago at a family gathering. Something that had seemed so odd and foreign to his nature then.

She yelped, her eyes flying open to find his. “Cheeky,” she said, giggling and splashing at him. He blinked, automatically ducking away from the worst of the spray, though by then the water had plastered his hair to his forehead. He wiped a hand over his face, grumbling under his breath.

"You look about twelve right now," Molly said, her laughter bouncing across the water. She kicked away from him, sending tiny tidal waves that rippled around him.

"I assure you I never looked so undignified at that age," he said primly, watching her move away under the shifting shadows of leaves. There was a sudden flush of pink in her cheeks.

He chased after her without thinking, flowing along with the current as he fell under the spell of a childlike freedom that he could not for the life of him remember having. They had both fallen into this play as if he had always known how to do it. Molly turned suddenly at a shallow bend, splashing a wave into his eyes. For a moment he was blind of anything but a blur of green creek water and the sound of Molly’s breathless peal of delight. He caught her by the wrist as she tried to dodge past. She squeaked and stilled, with eyes wide from the surprise of capture. Her wrist felt fragile in his hand, her skin as delicate as the wings of the moths that had battered themselves against the lantern posted outside the cottage.

Her eyes searched his face, looking for his next move, but he was suddenly at war with the idea of ever letting her go. It was a silly, boyish impulse, yet all the same his fingers briefly tightened, and she did not pull away. So they stood, waist deep in cool, moving water. The birds in the canopy overhead picked up their chatter, and the air between them was thick with the smell of mud, green things, Molly’s new peony shampoo, and the mineral tang that came up from the silt.

Though it must have only been moments, time stretched endless under her gaze. She cocked her head, blinking up at him from under wet, spiked lashes. “I guess you win,” she breathed at last. He wasn’t exactly sure what she had meant by this. Their play had felt natural and instinctive, but it did not take away the fact he had not planned or been aware of a resolution.

He squeezed her wrist, then slowly let her go.

They spent the next hour swimming and drifting in the gentle current, the sun climbing ever higher until it was harsh and white above the trees. Molly gathered handfuls of smooth stones from the creek bed, examining each one before sending them skimming across the water. Mycroft watched her from nearby, remembering days when his family would walk along the beach collecting rocks and sea glass, occasionally skipping them into the water if they weren’t interesting enough. He preferred to linger behind and watch then, just as he did now.

Eventually, Molly waded to the shore, squeezing water from her hair and reaching for a towel from her bag. She perched at the tree on the riverbank, looking over to him trailing behind her .

"Did you swim a lot here when you were a kid?"

He felt the ease of the morning shift away from him as his face went blank. "Not as much as one might imagine," he replied after a pause.

She straightened slightly, giving him the subtly curious look she gave when she managed to clue into something he would have much preferred she hadn’t.

"Sherlock was quite taken with the mud and sand on the riverbank," Mycroft continued, "He preferred conducting his experiments there. I often found myself stationed nearby." He thought of Eurus, how her erratic nature had kept them all at bay, especially near water. "We did visit frequently when I was quite young, but by the time I had turned eight, things had grown rather busy."

Molly seemed to consider this, her expression softening. "Eight," she repeated, a understanding lilt in her voice. "I suppose that was when Sherlock was born?"

He nodded. "And you? I imagine you spent your summers in more adventurous pursuits."

She swirled her feet in the water idly, thinking. "My dad sometimes fancied himself an explorer,” she said, watching her feet churn the water. “ He worked a lot, so we didn’t get out much but every now and then we’d manage camping trip or hiking, “ She pulled her towel around her shoulders, ”I loved those days.”

“I can see that,” Mycroft said quietly, watching the water flow around her calves. “You seem at ease in nature.” He sat next to her, comparing their legs dangling next to each other.

Molly reached behind them and pulled out his packed towel, which he accepted. He ran it over his own hair briskly and matched her by draping the towel over his shoulders.

For awhile they sat together, waving between enjoying the quiet and chatting about nothing of great importance, before Mycroft’s stomach gave a low, traitorous growl. The sound, quite impossible to pass off as anything else, made Molly glance over.

"Should we- let’s eat. I’m starved." She was already getting up and grasping her second bag. He winced as her back was turned, fully taking in his state of undress and deciding it would be best to pull on at least his trousers and undershirt as quickly as possible.

The water streamed off her legs as she moved to a particularly lush patch of grass half shaded under the same tree. She dug through the tote, producing a faded, flowered quilt and a small thermal lunch sack. The quilt, once bright, was now a mess of sun-softened colors and frayed edges, and she flapped it out to spread across the grass.

Mycroft joined her, settling onto the edge of the quilt as Molly began to unpack the contents of their lunch. She set out sandwiches in waxed paper, sliced apples gone brown at the edges but still crisp, two water bottles, and oat biscuits they had grabbed the night prior.

Mycroft was in the midst of explaining some of the stranger stories in naval history when a cool droplet had hit his hand. Quickly followed by another, then another until fat drops of rain were pattering against the quilt.

He looked up to find dark clouds were beginning to roll over them in great tufts of grey and the leaves on the trees were waving in a pick up of wind.

“Ooh,” Molly exclaimed, standing from where she had sat cross legged next to him. “Now it’s a proper English holiday, yeah?” She glanced up him with a smile, stuffing the remains of their picnic into one of her bags.

Mycroft scrambled to stand, leaving his shoes on the quilt as he bundled it under one arm. The sky was managing an odd mix of yellowing summer sun and dark clouds, giving Mycroft the feeling that he was shifting through a memory in haze of greenery as they half-ran the ten minute stroll back to the cottage.

By the time they had reached the cottage, they were both soaked to the skin - Mycroft’s undershirt plastered to his chest and Molly’s hair sticking to her face with dark ropes plastered to her shoulders and her bathing suit losing any of the dry they had managed while chatting.

Upon entering the foyer Mycroft immediately sloughed the now heavy with rain quilt from his arm, leaving a small growing puddle of water on the floor. Before he could fully turn to Molly, he caught himself in the round mirror his mother insisted on keeping by the door. He looked like a wet rat that had crawled its way into a bundle of linen with the thin strands of his hair clinging to his brow and droplets of water still streaking down his flushed face.

He watched dryly as Molly came to view in his reflection, her eyes surveying him over his shoulder. Mycroft turned slightly looking down at her and she gave him a small comforting smile.

“You can shower first if you’d like?” She tilted her head in question, then looked down to the wet bundle on the floor. “I’ll take care of this.”

Before he could begin the polite politics of rejecting her offer, she had already swooped down to grab the bags and wet quilt, moving swiftly towards the mudroom.

Mycroft stood there for a moment, watching the strings of her bathing suit swing across her back as left him. He retreated to the bathroom, cleaning himself of the muck and rainwater fastidiously before returning to his usual armor colored in a mossy green.

When he returned to the kitchen, Molly was already there, barefoot and wearing another thin oversized T-shirt, her hair hanging in a loose ponytail over her shoulder.

"Tea?" she asked, holding up the kettle.

“Yes, thank you,” and left into the sitting room, settling into the armchair and letting the quiet of the cottage wrap around him. Through the window, the rain lashed the hydrangea, bending the blooms nearly to the grass. The rest of the world outside was blurred and soft in swathed of greens and greys .

She brought him a mug, then sat on the couch opposite, pulling the blanket from behind her and drawing it high around her shoulders. The air between them felt charged, somehow, though neither seemed inclined to break the spell.

"Did you have plans?" Molly asked suddenly, peering at him over the rim of her mug. "For the rest of the summer, I mean? It ending quickly."

He shook his head, surprised at the question. "No," he said. "Not beyond this. I imagine I would return to the city, wait out the next two weeks and resume my work." The prospect, articulated aloud, had never felt less appealing.

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the steaming surface of her tea. "Me either. Work, I guess.”

Looking over at her he watched her brows draw together and lips purse to one side. His head cocked to the side as he tried to decipher her apparent disappointment.

Thunder crashed loudly over them and lights went out with a reluctant sputter and whir, plunging the kitchen into a sudden dimness broken only by the gray light filtering through the windows and the occasional flash of lightning.

"Guess we're roughing it for a bit.” She placed her mug on the side table.

Mycroft felt strangely comforted by the dimness, relieved of the self-conscious awareness that had marked the afternoon. The darkness provided a curious sort of privacy, even as they stood mere feet apart.

"There's a torch in the drawer to the direct right of the stove. I'll fetch candles."

He moved with confidence through the darkened cottage, muscle memory guiding him to the utility closet where his mother had always stored emergency supplies. His fingers found the familiar box of assorted candles and a collection of mismatched holders: some ornate brass or pewter that had likely been in the family for generations, others simple ceramic dishes his mother had made and painted in his early years.

Molly appeared at his side. "Found it," she announced, the torch beam bouncing across the walls as she waved it lightly. "Though it's flickering a bit."

"Ancient batteries, no doubt," Mycroft replied, distributing candles between them. "We'll place these throughout the main rooms once the sun sets."

They passed the grey afternoon reading by the windows and listening to the rain. As the sun slipped below a stormy horizon and the cottage grew dark, they moved through the rooms, lighting candles and settling in for the evening. Mycroft lit a fire in the sitting room and after a moment of watching the flames he was drawn to the kitchen by a gentle clatter. Molly was arranging three candles on the kitchen windowsill. The rain streamed down the glass behind her, distorting the view of the fields.

His eyes fell on the cabinet above the refrigerator, and a thought occurred to him. "I believe," he said, reaching up to open it, "that my father kept a modest collection here."

The cabinet revealed several dusty bottles of wine, laid on their sides and forgotten. He extracted one, examining the label with a critical eye. "Not exceptional, but certainly drinkable."

Molly's face lit up in the candlelight. "Perfect storm provisions," she said, hunting through drawers until she found a corkscrew. "Do you know what we should do?"

"I'm certain you're about to tell me."

"Twenty questions," she suggested, handing him the corkscrew. "I haven't played since uni, but it seems fitting for a power outage, doesn't it?"

Mycroft worked the cork free with a satisfying pop. "I suppose there are worse ways to pass the time," he conceded, searching for glasses.

Molly fetched two wine glasses from a cabinet, holding them out to him. "I'll start easy on you," she promised as he poured.

They settled in the sitting room on either sides of the cream sofa, where the candles and fire cast flickering shadows across the walls. The rain drummed steadily on the roof, occasionally accompanied by a clash of thunder.

"Alright, favorite color?" Molly began, curling into her corner of the sofa.

Mycroft paused, brown drawn as if she’d asked a profound question. "Navy blue, I suppose."

“Knew it! Very nautical,” she grinned. He returned it.

The game went on, their questions drifting from childhood pets and music to stranger lands as wine level in the bottle dropped.

"Why pathology?" he asked, his attention fixed on her.

Her smile faded a bit. "People expect it to be grim, but- well, it is a bit . . . considering . . . but the dead are quiet with puzzles and stories to solve. I like giving them their stories.” She turned her glass between her hands, then narrowed her eyes curiously at him. "My turn. “Why do always fiddle with your shirts?”

He glanced down at himself, slightly abashed caught in the act of tugging at the fabric still tucked into his trousers. “Do I?”

“Yeah, that - er - pinching, kind of pulling . . . with your shirts?” Molly answered, waving a finger loosely towards him. “You do it with your waistcoats too. Tug at them- the bottoms.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Mycroft blinked, uncertain. “Habit, perhaps?"”

“Oh, well, I could- how about we drink to it anyway and I try again?” Molly said, raising her glass with a awkward titter.

Their glasses clinked together gently and Molly tucked herself deeper under the blanket, stealing a glance at the photos on the mantle. “Were you always . . . so orderly? The perfection thing?”

He followed her gaze to the miserable photo of himself, silent for a moment.

“I would not go as far to think myself perfect, but I have had an affinity with order, yes,” he said at last, voice lower than before. “If things are in place, less can go wrong.”

Molly considered this, lips twisting. “Sometimes it’s fun when things go wrong. Er- Not terribly wrong,” she amended, “just enough to make a memory.” She gestured at the dark cottage.

He thought of the day, the creek, his own awkwardness on the bank, the ongoing storm and the new unsettling fuzziness that it had brought. He found himself almost hoping that it would not end.

“Not quite as fun when your brother’s idea of entertainment is setting things on fire to test your response time,” he muttered, taking another sip.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the bay window. Thunder rolled in, rattling lightly at the glass. Mycroft studied her face in the shifting light. “Do you not like knowing what comes next?” he asked, genuinely.

“Sometimes,” she replied, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Other times it’s terrifying. I mean, you must know . . . well, anyway, depends on who you’re with, I suppose.” She fizzled off.

The next silence was longer. Mycroft nodded, but didn’t understand this whatsoever.

"What would you do if not government work?"

Mycroft wobbled his head side to side as he looked toward the wide bookcase. "I once harbored notions of academia. Age of Sail, ancient languages perhaps, or medieval history." He looked up, "Though I suspect I would have found the politics equally tiresome, simply with lowered stakes."

The second bottle dwindled as the storm continued to roll over them. When the thunder was at its loudest, they had moved closer together on the sofa, almost unconsciously, Molly with her legs tucked under her and Mycroft with one arm casual draped over the sofa back towards her in an unusually open posture, one ankle crossed lazily over the other. At some point, the game dissolved into a rambling conversation.

Somewhere between the last glass of wine and the diminishing of the thunder, Mycroft watched Molly’s head tip back as she laughed, the soft line of her throat golden and milky in the firelight. He was more than a little drunk - an experience he generally avoided - and the sensation tilted him with a kind of giddy, adolescent vertigo. He was in the middle of nowhere in the company of a friend, with no one to interrupt or view them, and the edges of the world had grown more vague and forgiving. He let himself drift in it, watching her animate the air between them with her hands as she was baffled by his constant ability to maintain his perfect wardrobe.

“You’ve never,” she was saying, “I mean, in your entire life, you’ve never once accidentally put on two different ones?”

“Never,” he replied, exaggerating the word because it felt good in the mouth and he enjoyed the way her eyes sparkled at his dramatics.

Molly pursed her lips, feigning disapproval. “It’s a tragic waste of whimsy, you know. Do you realize how much joy you’re missing out on? The possibilities are endless!”

He almost told her that he found plenty of joy in her alone, just as she was, softer and warmer than any pair of socks her could find, but the words crowded up into his throat, feeling silly and juvenile. Instead, he watched her tuck herself deeper into the blanket, leaning briefly towards him. In the generous haze of good old wine, it felt like a seismic event. Molly yawned into her blanket covered hand with a slight frown.

"We should find a game," he suggested, the wine making the idea seem brilliant. He stood up from the sofa with a slight waver. "Something with rules."

Molly giggled around the yawn. "What did you have in mind?"

"Operation," he declared with absolute certainty. "I would excel at Operation. Steady hands, you see." He demonstrated by holding out his hand, which trembled slightly with the effects of the wine. Molly rolled her eyes as if to say, ‘I do autopsies for a living, you really think you’ll win?’

"Where would we find that?"

"My room," he said confidently. "Sherlock and I- there was a cupboard. Games and such."

They made their way down the hallway and toward the stairs, Molly leading the way with the flickering torch bobbing along the stairway. Near halfway up to the second floor landing her socks slipped on the wooden stair and she yelped, pitching sideways into the wall.

One arm was around her waist and the other bracing the wall before the torch had landed, his chest braced against her back. It clattered down two steps and wobbled to a stop, its beam shining a spotlight through the balusters there.

“Sorry,” Molly mumbled, holding still against him. His hand instinctively tightened against the thin t-shirt at the curve just below her ribs and stayed there. The crook of her neck still smelled of peonies, but was now accompanied by firewood and wine.

‘If I could just pull her closer, this once.’

Mycroft, suddenly all too aware of the heat radiating from her back into his chest, and the fog in his head, released his hold as quickly as he’d clamped it. He steadied her with a hand at her shoulder, then bent to retrieve the torch.

"Steep stairs," he said awkwardly, voice rougher than he intended.

"Very," Molly agreed, her own voice a little breathless. She glanced at him, meeting his eyes then quickly glancing away. He offered the torch back with the unconscious clearing of his throat and she accepted it with a sheepish mix of a wince and a smile, “Onward?”

He nodded, giving her a closed reassuring smile and they continued on.

Mycroft's room was cooler than the rest of the cottage tonight, a single window still open to the night air. Rain spattered occasionally against the sill, carried by the gusting wind, and the room had gained a significant amount of white hued moon light despite the storm.

He pulled open the closet door with a flourish, only to find it empty save for a few wire hangers. "Curious," he muttered, rubbing his finger on his lower lip. "I was certain . . ."

Molly collapsed onto his bed with a laugh, bouncing slightly on the old mattress. "Maybe it was the other room?"

"Perhaps," he conceded, turning to face her.

The sight of Molly Hooper sprawled across his bed stopped him mid-thought. Moonlight filtered through the lace curtains, staining delicate patterns on her face. Half her face was bathed in the cool glow, while the other half was shadowed. Her hair fanned out across his pillow in a chestnut halo. She rolled onto her side, and her eyes met his with an sleepy comfort that made his chest tighten and his palms sweat.

Mycroft swallowed. The storm outside sent another drafty breeze through the window and across his heated skin. He stood there, paralyzed, in this most private of spaces. This room where he had once hidden from the world with his books and secrets as a boy.

"Your bed's more comfortable than mine," she declared, patting the space beside her in a playful, wine-loosened manner.

Mycroft hesitated, but only for a moment as he was drawn to her by some unknown gravitational pull. A new moon to a thriving planet. He lowered himself to his back at the edge of the mattress, making it to dip beneath his weight and causing Molly to lean slightly toward him.

She giggled, the sound ghosting over his ear, intimate in a way that made him blink rapidly. "I think," she said, her voice was a breathy whisper, "we've had far too much wine for Operation anyway. That poor patient would suffer terribly."

"A valid concern," he agreed, rolling on his side beside her, watching the light continue to reflect in her lighted eye.

The room held the familiar contours of countless nights, yet felt entirely new with Molly beside him in bed, lying in clothes rumpled from a day of unusual activities.

Molly tucked a hand beneath her head, cheeks pleasantly flushed from the wine and heat. Her gaze wandered from his, following her own hand as she idly traced the faded floral pattern on the quilt between them with her finger.

Mycroft let out a short breath of air to steady himself, which drew her attention back to him, catching his eyes.

She studied his face with drowsy sort of intrigue, her gaze traveling over his features with an slow appreciation. Her eyes were half-lidded and affectionate. He should have felt uncomfortable, possibly inclined to turn away, but instead he held himself perfectly still - as if he were sitting for a portrait.

"Do you know what I just realized?" she asked with wonder. Her breath smelled of the wine and something sweeter - perhaps the strawberry jam she had smeared on crackers as they drank.

Mycroft let his eyes travel over the slope of her pixie nose, her high cheekbones, the slightest dimple in her right cheek that appeared as she smiled sleepily, and her pink lips that sometimes pursed into small rose he found himself enraptured with.

With no deductions to be made he finally replied, "I do not."

"Really?" She ducked her head closer to him in a pleased astonishment, that momentarily brought them disastrously close to each others faces. Her hand hovered inches from his face in the short space between them, “I love your moles,” she murmured, trailing a finger along his cheek where the two marks resided. Her touch was gentle, barely there, and it made him feel equally light. A feather caught in the wind, destined to land wherever the flow took him.

He paused as she laid her hand back between them, words forming and dissolving on his tongue rapidly. The wine made him brave but not entirely reckless. His hand rose, then hovered, waiting for her to withdraw or flinch from him before he went further. When she didn’t move, only followed his hand with rapt attention, he reached forward the last short distance, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow and tucking it gently behind her right ear. His knuckles grazed the smooth skin at her temple, ghosting down the side of her face until his fingers stopped just outside of her ear that he had noticed earlier- a tiny little thing, easily missed by the cover of her hair.

“You have one here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as his middle finger paused over the freckle. “I noticed it the other day. I meant to say, but . . .” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain how to continue.

Molly's eyes were looking heavier by the moment, but still she held his gaze and this didn’t help Mycroft as his heart pattered against his ribs with embarrassing force. He knew, distantly, that he ought to retreat - roll away, let the moment dissolve into sleep and forgetfulness by morning - but her eyes on his made the prospect of withdrawal unthinkable.

Moving his hand from the side of her face, he figured that would cue their separation, but she didn’t move away and thusly neither did he.

In fact, she scooted infinitesimally closer so that their knees grazed with any slight movement. It would have been so easy to close the gap. Lean in and find her mouth with his, do what every singular cell in his body was begging for.

Molly swayed forward, her forehead knocking lightly at his jaw. She gave a low, uncertain laugh, suddenly shy, and then carefully she burrowed her face into the chest, at the curve of his neck. The crown of her head pressed beneath his chin and her breath warm on his collarbone. "Is this okay?" she whispered.

He froze, every muscle strung tight. Then he exhaled, long and shaky, and allowed his hand to slide across her waist. "Quite," he managed.

Molly hummed, and rested her hand at his chest. Her breathing slowed almost instantly, as if the effort of the day and the comfort of being held here together, in the dark with the lull of the storm, had finally convinced her body to surrender. She was asleep in moments, her hair tickling his nose only just and the weight of her wholly relaxed.

For several minutes, Mycroft stared at the wall and watched the trees cast shadows along the wall, barely blinking. His mind, that cruelly engineered machine, ran through the last hour to hold onto every detail, no matter the significance. He stored away the faint scent of peonies in her hair and the gentle pressure of her hand against his ribs. How her breath stuttered once as she fell into deeper sleep. He wished he could bottle this moment.

Ever so lightly, he brushed the pads of his fingers against her upper back, mapping the bumps of her spine through the cotton of her t-shirt. She didn’t stir until he reached the small of her back and with a tired huff she tucked herself further into him, entirely tangling their legs now.

He exhaled, then closed his eyes and by degrees, allowed himself to sink into the unfamiliar waters of shared sleep.

Chapter Text

Molly woke to the soft tickle of Mycroft’s nose against her neck. The room was bright now. With the storm gone, morning sunlight streamed through the cracked window and filled the air with the smell of wet grass. She stayed still, feeling the weight of his arm and his breathing tickling at her back.

Her head throbbed and she was desperate to dig through her bag for a paracetamol, but she didn’t move. Mycroft shifted in his sleep, his grip tightening around her waist, and she bit down on her lip to stifle a smile.

For a moment, she let herself pretend this was normal.

A knock at the door startled her. She tensed, but Mycroft only mumbled- something like “goldfish?”- and pulled her closer in his sleep. The knock came again, sharper and louder than before.

This time, Mycroft woke, pulling away with a jerk. The loss of his warmth sent a shiver through her. He rubbed his face, then blinked at her with a ruddy flush creeping up his neck.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, swinging his legs out of bed and disappearing.

She strained to listen to the voices at the front door- A lively but concerned voice joined Mycroft's, something about the storm and poor powerlines this way.

Eventually, Mycroft’s footsteps creaked down the hall. He stopped at the door threshold, carrying a large paper bag. “The innkeeper’s wife sent pastries.”

Molly sat up, leaning on one hand. “That’s thoughtful,” she said, her voice still a little hoarse.

He gave a small, awkward smile, looking at anything but at her. “I should . . . make breakfast. If you would like to change . . .” The paper bag crinkled in his hands and he gave a curt nod at nothing before ducking out.

Molly sat there, staring at the empty threshold with a furrowed brow.

Breakfast was quiet, mostly patches of silverware clicking lightly at the plates between fizzled out conversation starters. Mycroft’s eggs were too runny and his toast was near burnt, but neither of them said anything about it.

He cleared his throat once, shifting in his seat, then again, but only asked if she would like more tea. Molly’s shoulders slumped a bit as she gave him a half smile and watched as he quickly fled the table with her cup.

By noon, all evidence that there was a storm had passed and they began packing the car for the trip back to London.

Molly stared out the window as green fields shifted by, forgettable classical music playing quietly from the radio. She tried to think of something to say that would break the tension, but it was like her mind had put up a blockade.

Glancing over to him, she found him just the same as before. His posture tight, with a blank face staring intently forward and his grip tight on the steering wheel. Molly looked away and drew in a slow breath, leaning her head against the window.

Around halfway back they stopped for petrol and a restroom break. She lingered around the snack aisle where the florescent light panel above her occasionally flickered between warm and cool light.

Her eye caught a bag. ‘Pickle and prawn? Who is actually eating that?’ Molly thought, turning over the bag of crisps before placing it back in its row. She sucked her bottom lip through her teeth as she picked up another bag just for something to do.

When she finally made her way outside, Mycroft was standing near the car with his arms folded over his chest, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I grabbed those ancient mints you like.” The bag crinkled in her hand as she gave him as timid smile.

He didn’t look at her. “I’m not hungry.”

Molly's lips pressed into a thin line and she gave a bobbing sort of nod. “For later, then,” she muttered as she climbed into the passenger side.

Mycroft parked just outside her flat building. Molly reached for the door handle, her fingers curling tight around the metal before she turned back to him.

"Come up for a bit?" She wasn’t quite sure why she would want to prolong this mute tension. Maybe just to see if things could settle between them in a familiar place.

He didn’t look at her, but his jaw tightened and he nodded curtly before pulling the keys from the ignition.

The flat was half-shadowed with the curtains hastily closed, and stuffy with heat. Inside, they found John sprawled on her couch, snoring quite loudly with Rosie asleep on his chest.

”Cat sitting,” Molly whispered, with sagging shoulders.

Mycroft glanced at the sleeping pair, then back at the door as he shifted his weight. "Perhaps I should leave," he whispered, tightly.

"Yeah.”

Mycroft set her bag by the threshold, his gaze brushing hers just long enough to remind her of last night and everything after.

"Goodbye."

She swallowed deeply. "See you," she replied, watching him slip out the door.

With her squeezed her eyes shut in frustration, she stood there for a moment before moving towards the couch where she gently pried the baby from John's chest. Careful not to disturb John more than a snort and a sleepy arm twitch.

Molly carried Rosie to the guest room and settled her into the pen stationed there.

She stood over her, watching her small chest rise and fall. ‘How simple it must be-’ Molly thought, ‘-to only worry about when you'd get your next teething biscuit or how many fingers you can gnaw on at once.’

Lightly patting at the mesh rail of the pen, she left the room to go find Toby and lavish him with cat treats in apology for her long absence.

It was nearing sunset when John bustled back into 221B with Rosie giggling in one arm, the other heavy with a groceries and a baby bag. He managed to get her into the baby pen near the couch and shuffled into the kitchen with the shopping.

Sherlock remained stationed in his chair. His fingers tented at his lips as his eyes were fixed on the tv.

John came back to the room with a happy squeal from Rosie. “What are you watching?”

“Trash Telly. Remote was out of reach,” Sherlock replied, utterly deadpan.

John frowned, spotting the remote a mere inch from Sherlock’s elbow on the chair arm. “It’s- never mind.” He snatched the remote, muting a particularly crude argument onscreen. “Molly’s back, by the way-“

“Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes, crossing his arms with the remote poking out. “Right. Of course., you knew. But she’s back, and-“

“She’s ‘a bit out of it’,” Sherlock said using air quotes in a faintly mimicking voice, before returning to his concentrated pose - undeterred by the silent TV.

John sighed. “Would you stop that?” Sherlock gave a half-shrug. “Alright, yes, she seemed a bit out of it.”

“My brother was there?”

“Er-ah, no actually,” John tossed the remote onto his overstuffed red chair. “Must’ve left before I was up.”

“Curious.”

“Why’s that curious? Why would he stick around for me and Rosie?"

Sherlock didn’t look up. “You’re asking why Mycroft wouldn’t care to imbue his great many concerns regarding a certain tiny, easily-influenced English Citizen?”

John rolled his eyes, “The socket covers are on backorder, if that’s what you’re implying,” he groaned,” And no, be serious now, what are you getting at?”

“It won’t be long now.”

John blinked. “What won’t?”

“She went with Mycroft, yes?” John nodded. “Then it won’t be long before he does his usual vanishing act.” Sherlock’s tongue snapped on the last letter and he pushed himself from the chair.

He strode towards the kitchen with John trailing on his heels.

"Hang on, they just got back from that ‘cottage retreat’! She told me he actually let her explain degloving at the dinner table once. In graphic detail, mind-” John did an exaggerated wobble of his head, “- and you think he’s going to do a runner?”

Sherlock pulled a new sleeve of hobnobs from the cupboard, tearing into them. “Exactly.”

“Why? He’s finally found someone who’ll listen to his lecturing and-” he swatted his hand flippantly at the air,”-squid talk without falling asleep- don’t eat all of those!”

Sherlock stuffed another biscuit in his mouth, as he reached for his suit jacket, shrugging it on. “You underestimate his inexhaustible talent for self-sabotage.”

John frowned, watching Sherlock head for the door. “Where are you-”

But Sherlock was already half gone, thudding down the stairs and onto the pavement with a slam of the door.

He lifted his phone to his ear, “Yeh?” said the gruff voice on the other end.

“I need a favor,” Sherlock replied.

Chapter Text

Molly poked at the limp lettuce in her salad at the hospital cafeteria, wishing she had just went with chips. She had just managed to stab a particularly slippery cherry tomato when Meena dropped into the seat next to her with a meal replacement shake.

“I’m demanding intel,” Meena insisted, twisting towards Molly.

Molly groaned as she snapped the plastic lid to her salad shut and leaned towards her friend. “We slept together.”

Meena’s jaw dropped widely. She immediately began tap-slapping rapidly at Molly’s leg.

Slumping in her seat, Molly rolled her head back with a sigh. “No, No- Not like that,” She caught Meena’s flailing hand. “We just . . . we drank too much and fell asleep in the same bed. That’s it.”

Meena’s let down was so cartoonishly exaggerated that Molly nearly snorted. Softly, she squeezed Molly’s hand then pulled it free, moving to tap her fingertips along the sides of her shake. “You’re joking?”

Molly shook her head, staring at her sad salad through the plastic. She could still feel the memory of Mycroft’s breath at her neck and how warm he was as he pulled her closer. “Not joking.”

“Was it awkward after?” Meena asked, her eyebrows raised.

She fiddled with her salad container and made a face. “A bit. But also, no? We made breakfast, then we went home. . . It was all very quiet.”

Meena sipped her shake, squinting sidelong at Molly. “That’s not like you. Or, actually it is . . . But usually there’s a bad joke in there somewhere. Not even that?”

Molly shrugged, pushing the salad away. “I dunno, I was-“ she waved her hands in the air in front of her vaguely. “Fuzzyheaded? He shuts down so quickly sometimes. It gives you whiplash. I almost texted him the next day, but- ”

“So text him.”

“He’s not a texting type person.” Molly rolls her eyes. “He’ll want to call and I know if we start talking, I’ll babble and say something stupid.”

Molly sucked air between her teeth, rubbing at her brow with her palm. “Honestly, I think I’m in love with him. That sounds mad, doesn’t it? It’s only been the Summer.”

Meena clicked her tongue, with a sound that was a mix of commiseration and judgement. Molly braced herself for what she imagined would be a long-winded speech on why she should move on to someone simple and less Holmesian - like Meena’s cousin with the nice smile, but criminal breath.

Her phone buzzed from her lap coat pocket, mercifully, and she fished it out with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

Meena pursed her lips, but looked to her own phone and took another sip of her shake.

‘Free Wednesday? Need your help.’ - SH

‘Hi! Can’t guarantee parts are available though? It’s been slow !’ - MH

‘No parts necessary‘ - SH

Molly frowned down at her screen.

‘Okay, but I’m not free until after 3 PM?' - MH

‘Perfect. Deetz l8tr’ - SH

Molly looked up and nearly knocked heads with Meena, who was peering at the text thread. “All those brains, and not a single functional social skill between them?”

“It’s sort of their thing,” Molly said, elbowing her playfully.

A few miles from the hospital, Mycroft had just settled into his favorite wingback with a heavy book when a loud “THWACK!” came from near the window.

He didn’t bother to look up. “Would it kill you to use a door,” he asked.

“Possibly,” Sherlock replied, straightening his suit jacket. “Or at the very least, it would kill my mood.” His gaze flicked to the book in Mycroft’s hands. “The Franklin Exposition? Feeling maudlin? Or killing time now that the family cottage is empty?”

Mycroft closed the book, folding his hands neatly over the cover as he looked up at Sherlock with a tight smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, brother mine?”

Sherlock drifted behind his large desk, feigning indifference as he began rifling through the drawers. “Let’s skip to the part where you lie and assure me you haven’t found the time, shall we?”

“I haven’t found the time,” Mycroft said flatly, though his eyes drew tight at the corners. “And you’re not genuinely here for Molly, are you?”

Sherlock paused, snapping the desk drawer shut. “No. I have a case.”

Mycroft arched a brow. “Last I checked, you’d prefer if I didn’t meddle in your affairs. Why not handle it yourself?”

“I need someone off the radar. Someone boring, invisible to the authorities if needs be.” Sherlock flashed a false smile. “You fit the bill.”

He rolled his eyes. “John’s your man for that,” he snorted.

"John’s occupied,” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, perusing the bookcases. “And you, for once, are not.”

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the book. He was in dire need of a distraction. . . “You want me to fetch and carry?”

Sherlock turned from his heel from the bookcase. “Nothing so dramatic. I need you to survey a location.”

Mycroft set his book aside, crossing his arms. “You’re not serious.”

“Deadly.” Sherlock pulled a folded slip of paper from his breast pocket. Holding it out to him. “In and out.”

Mycroft squinted at it, but didn’t take it. “And what do I get from this endeavor?”

Sherlock waved the note impatiently. “You get to be helpful - a novelty for you.” Mycroft glared up at him, drumming his fingers on his biceps. “I’ll owe you a case, naturally,” Sherlock huffed.

He snatched the paper from his brothers hand. Sherlock’s handwriting was just as short and scratchy as ever. The paper held an address for a garden flat not far from his own home below a time, date and copied key taped to the paper.

He flipped the note, as if expecting it to reveal more details. “And if I require assistance?”

Sherlock looked amused. “Try not to.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. But if this goes pear-shaped, you’re the one explaining it to Mummy.”

Sherlock snorted, already half out the window. He could vaguely hear the shrubbery crunch as his brother landed.

Chapter Text

It was so dark when Molly climbed through the garden flat window, she mistook the height and landed to the floor with a thump and groaned, "Ow," entirely unprepared for the drop. She remained where she'd fallen, catching her breath and considering the series of questionable decisions that led to her current predicament.

Rolling to the side with a groan, she propped herself up on her forearm as she took in the main room. It was expensive looking, large for a basement flat, and incredibly pristine.

The living room was laid out in that stiff magazine spread kind of way that Molly couldn’t decide if she liked or not. All angular grey furniture, with a long glass coffee table and collection of other furniture that looked expressly for looking at rather than comfort. Even the air seemed commercial, not a mote of dust floating around in the lamp light or lingering smell of food or cologne from the owner.

She pushed herself up, wincing as her knees smarted from her landing. Digging into her pockets, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. Sherlock’s directions had been, as per usual, less than illuminating, ‘Look for anything off - SH’

Moving across the shiny parquet flooring Molly made her way to the kitchen, but also found it spotless. From the cabinets, to the appliances and countertops, there was nothing out of order. She pressed her lips together and headed towards the narrow hallway, lined mostly with monotone abstract art and the odd family photo.

There was nothing that exactly screamed “Crime scene,” to her. At least not one she had expected, there was no blood, or overturned chairs, not a single sign of a struggle.

As she opened the half-open door to the hall bathroom, she began to wonder if Sherlock had been overestimating her abilities. This room was also pristine. All of the glossy white fixtures shining in the cool artificial light and not a speck of sud scum to be found even at the bottoms of the designer soaps.

The only thing puzzling to be found was below the sink, where she found a curious patch of mold in the back corner of the cabinet. Nothing of value she was sure, but still she swabbed it - unable to resist figuring out what could survive the nuclear level cleaning agents this flat clearly used.

Just as she was screwing on the cap to her sample tube, she heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

With wide eyes and fanning anxious hands, she gathered herself enough to quietly shut the cabinet door as she hastily looked around the room for escape. Her face screwed up when she realized there was no window.

Looking behind her, she quickly realized her only option was the tiny storage closet across the cabinet. She ducked inside, grasping a can of hairspray from the shelf and holding it primed for spraying with her finger held just above the depressor.

She stood crammed between the shelves of spare toiletries and the accordion door, breathing shallowly as the she heard the shuffle of feet moving into the living room, pausing, then heading her way. Shit shit shit!

Her heart thudded in her chest as the footsteps stopped just outside of the closet. She could see the figure standing there facing her, but couldn’t make them out other than their height. Molly cursed Sherlock.

There was a click, and then the accordion door slid open.

“Mol-?” A smooth voice started, but she was too keyed up and yelped. Automatically spraying the hairspray directly into the intruder’s face.

“AAAGH! Bloody-!” The man reeled back, hands flying to his eyes as he stumbled backward, crashing into the sink and knocking a bottle of hand soap to the floor. They stumbled toward the bathtub.

She stared, dumbfounded, at the figure doubled over now sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sputtering and blinking rapidly.

“Oh my God! Mycroft!” Molly turned, tossing the can to the floor of the closet as she grabbed a fresh hand towel and ran it under the sink. “I’m so sorry, I’m - here, let me - oh -” She held his chin gently as she blotted at his eyes.

She moved away to rinse and resoak the corner of the towel. Molly’s cheeks burned red as she watched him squeezing his eyes shut and open. “I’m sorry again, I didn’t mean to-”

“Assault me with Garnier Extra Hold?”

Molly couldn’t hold back a huffing laugh at the ridiculous of the situation. She stepped back between his knees, resuming back to dabbing his eyes. “I thought you were- Well, I hadn’t known you’d be here,” She pulled the towel from back from his face. “Why are you here?”

He opened his eyes to catch hers, they were a bit red and watery, but as blue as ever.

“I might ask you the same.”

“I was - er - sent. By Sherlock,” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching as Mycroft let out a deep, slow breath. She snapped off her gloves and tucked them into her pocket, tilting his head back in her hands and looking from one eye to the next. “I’m no optometrist, but you look good - your eyes, I mean. They’re fine, I think.” She released her gentle hold and took a generous step back.

Mycroft gave a wincing half smile, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing it at the corner of his eye before tucking it back.

“He’s taken extra precautions delegating his fieldwork,” he grumbled.

Molly tossed the towel to the narrow laundry basket near the bath.

“Maybe for the best,” said sheepishly, pulling the test tube from her pocket. “Sherlock said there’d be a fat clue right in my face, but the only thing I’ve found is a mold under this cabinet.”

He pinched the bridge of the his nose so tightly the skin there briefly turned white. “You’re closer than you realize,” he said, before releasing his nose. With a sigh, he reached into this inner pocket and pulled out a red hair pin. “This is yours?”

She touched the side of her head, where she had twisted a few shorter strands back. The pin was missing, leaving the twist a bit bulging rather than flat. “How’d you know?”

“I don’t know anyone else who wears brightly colored hair pins. It doesn’t fit the owner’s love for grey, don’t you think.” He handed it over to her. “I found it under the window,” he added with a small smile.

Molly scrunched her face in embarrassment. "Yeah, he didn’t give me a key,” she sighed, as she tucked it back over the twisted strand. She stood there for a moment, looking down at him and chewing the inside of her cheek - still uncertain about what to say next or how to return to their easy flow from before the night at the cottage.

Mycroft seemed equally at a loss, staring up at her from the edge of the tub with his eyes still occasionally blinking heavily against the chemical sting. Finally, he stood, tugging lightly at the bottom of his waistcoat, looming stiffly in the tight space between the sink and wall.

As they both stood awkwardly in the bathroom, a faint wail could be heard winding from outside.

Molly’s brow furrowed. “Do you hear that?”

Mycroft straightened, leaning over her with his head tilted. “Police sirens," he scoffed. “When-”

The building’s intercom buzzed, cutting him off, alongside a crackling, amplified voice from the street. “This is the police. Occupants of the flat, come to the door with your hands visible.”

They exchanged an exasperated look and groaned in unison. Mycroft moved to the threshold of the door, flicking off the bathroom light, and peering around the doorframe. Blue and red lights wheeled interchangeably down the hall from where they shined into the flat.

Molly kept close to his back, her hand resting there as she also peeked into the hall. "Can you call them off?”

“Not for another two weeks,” he winced, reaching blindly behind him with an open palm. “Follow me.” Molly took his hand.

They dashed through a side exit, half hidden by a manicured hedge, Mycroft’s hand gripping hers as they ran. Molly’s heart pounded with adrenaline - and something thrilling and wild she hadn’t realized she’d missed since her teen years. He led her through a maze of alleys, the footsteps following them fading slowly.

He pulled her into a narrow nook down the alleyway, barely wide enough for both of them. They stood chest to chest, panting and exhilarated.

Molly looked up, expecting to see him serious and irritated, but instead his eyes were wide and dark as they flickered over her face the same way they had in his room, before they’d both lost their nerve. He leaned down, capturing her mouth with a clash of teeth. She gasped, scrabbling to grab at his lapels and lose herself in the closeness she’d been craving since that morning in his arms.

His hands found her jaw, thumbs delicately grazing the hinge beneath her ear. He tasted like mint tea and, faintly, of the chemical bitterness of hairspray.

They broke apart only when the police clattered past, radios chattering and flashlights bobbing against the alleyway, oblivious to their hiding spot. Molly caught her breath with her face tucked into his chest. When she looked up, Mycroft’s expression was a mix of astonishment and self-satisfaction. He brushed a stray hair from her face and kissed her again, this time it was softer, barely a brush of the lips before taking her hand with a light squeeze.

He led her out of the alleyway, weaving through the shadowed streets of his neighborhood. Their pace slowed only once they had made it to his block.

They walked in near silence, with only their shaky breaths between them. Molly felt feverish from nerves and excitement, a perfect prickling heat climbing from her fingertips to her ears and back down. Sweat cooled on her back as they ducked into the dim entryway of Mycroft’s townhome.

The moment the door latched behind them, he pressed her against the wall, his mouth finding hers. She laughed against his lips, partly from joy and partly from adrenaline, and let him kiss her until her knees nearly buckled. Her hands fumbled at the buttons of his waistcoat, until he replaced her fingers with his own, quickly removing it and moving on to his button up.

She shrugged off her own jacket and shirt, slipping her hands under his gaping shirt to feel the angles of his collarbone, and the rise and fall of his speckled ribs. His mouth left hers only long enough to trail down her jaw and along her throat. His hands gripped her hips with a wildness she was sure would leave marks by the morning.

They stumbled up the stairs, half-dressed. Molly’s hair came loose in a wild tangle behind her, and Mycroft’s shirt untucked, mostly unbuttoned and hanging loosely off his shoulders. She giggled as he fumbled for the banister and nearly lost his balance.

When they had finally made it to his room, Molly felt as if she was floating, almost living in slow-motion as he turned back to her. She tried to memorize every detail of him in his rumpled suit, with his blue eyes just catching the moonlight shining in from the window. His long nose butted against hers and she felt his breath ghosting over her lips.

He ran a thumb along her jaw, his breath shaky. “Tell me if I’ve gone too far,” he whispered.

She reached up, threading her fingers through the short hairs at his neck. “You haven’t,” she whispered back, kissing him lightly.

Molly grinned, nudging him lightly in the chest until he tumbled backward onto the edge of the bed. She clambered on after, both of them shedding whatever remained in a flurry of limbs and gumption. Mycroft’s hands at her hips shifted between squeezing and caressing, as if he had to keep reminding himself that this was something that was really happening.

He paused, looking up from beneath her with a searching intensity. “We could slow down,” Mycroft began hoarsely. “If you-”

She shook her head, leaning down to kiss him again. She felt the last threads of all his exactness and reserve dissolving in the heat of the moment as he kissed her back with a hungry, but almost shy, ferocity.

After, she curled into him, drawing lazy circles through a tuft of ginger hair on his pale chest and tried to match her breathing to his until the residue of adrenaline faded and slipped into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

Mycroft woke with a mouthful of her hair and the feeling of her naked body draped heavily over his chest.

They were a mess of limbs, with Molly’s leg hooked over his and her hand spread over his chest. With anyone else, he might have found this suffocating, but this morning he would be content even if she suggested molding them together into one form.

He tried to let out a deep exhale without disturbing her, but she stirred anyway, tucking herself closer. Kissing the top of her head, he began trailing his fingers along her spine, much the same as he had done in the cottage over her shirt, as he thought. He was so unaccustomed to this sort of stark, ordinary intimacy of a morning after and it itched at him that he didn’t have a script to follow for this exact scenario.

Though, it didn’t stop him from liking it. He tucked his chin to get a better look at her sleeping face as he continued his tracing. The barest of touches gliding down the line of her spine, from her neck to her sacrum.

A shiver ran over her and he felt her stiffen, then relax as her eye lashes fluttered open. After a few tired blinks, she caught his eye and kissed him squarely on the mouth with a groggy, “g’morning.”

She pulled away, and he quickly met her lips again in reply.

Molly gave him a tired sleepy smile. “How’re your eyes?”

Mycroft wheeled his eyes over the ceiling before returning his gaze to hers. "Right as rain." he answered.

"Good- great," Molly yawned.

He watched her intensely as she stretched and pushed her hair from her face. Mycroft hadn’t been with a woman in years and never with one that he particularly cared for, his brain shorted as he searched for the right thing to say to allow more mornings like this.

She glanced at the clock at his bedside table, “Oh God,” She groaned, springing up from him. “I’m going to be late.”

Rolling away she kicked the sheets tangled from around her legs and climbed from the bed.

“I’m really, really sorry,” she said, pulling a t-shirt over her head and fumbling with the sleeves. “I switched shifts for Sherlock’s - whatever that was.”

Molly shimmied into her jeans, hopping twice on one foot before finally managing to zip them. She ran fingers through her hair, then, catching his gaze, padded over to the bed and perched beside him. She twisted her hair into a hasty bun and secured a few loose strands with the cherry red pin he’d returned to her last night.

She glanced at him with a hesitant smile. “I’ll call you later?” she said, trying for nonchalance and failing.

Mycroft sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He took her chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, guiding her into a slow, deliberate kiss. He drew back, just enough to look properly into her eyes, then met her with one last quick brush of the lips. “Please do.”

She beamed, her whole face creasing pleasantly and stood from the bed. On her way out of the room, she turned back to him, “See you,” she said, softly closing the door.

Mycroft leaned back into his pillow, propped on his elbow. Perhaps he would prepare for his day, then stop by her lab, he thought.

Molly checked the white wall clock hanging in the lab. It had been around two hours since she left Mycroft in bed and she was itching to be off shift and solidify their relationship status.

Meena walked into the lab from the autopsy side, "I'm never going to be able to eat chocolate again if I keep getting these tumor cases," she shivered.

Molly laughed, "Better than parasites, I’ll never eat udon again."

Meena nodded in agreement, sidling up to Molly and pointing at a sample container she hadn't noticed before. "What's this?” She squinted at the label.

Molly glanced towards her, then quickly returned to applying her activator to a slide. “Oh! That’s just some mold from last night.”

“Ahhhh, the case?” Molly nodded, and her cheeks flared red thinking about it. “How was it?”

“Boring for the most part . . .” She started, then couldn’t help but elaborate further as she glanced over. “Mycroft was there.”

Meena’s eyebrows rose, “A bit of a surprise after avoiding you a whole week?”

Molly gave a half shrug and pushed her slide in place, “I think Sherlock planned it out.”

“So, he didn’t actually want to see you?”

Molly’s head jerked forward in irritation without meaning to, and she twisted in her stool towards her friend. “Just stop it would you? What is wrong with you? Really? Because this is all becoming too much.”

Meena flinched at Molly’s snappish tone, then steadied herself, her eyes narrowing in pitying sort of way that infuriated Molly. “I just think you deserve someone who’s not so-” she pulled her lanyard, flipping her badge back and forth -“Holmes-ish. You always go for these impossible catches and it doesn’t help they’re odd.”

“We’re not much better,” Molly shot back. “I’m quite literally covered in dead people most days and my idea of a good time is crocheting body parts and watching crap telly with my cat.” She fished the mold sample from the tray.

“That’s not the same,” Meena retorted.

Molly’s jaw clinched as she forced the sample back into the specimen fridge with a heavier than usual slam to the door. “How, exactly, am I not the same? Because I’ll just listen to whatever you say, and you know they wouldn’t? Is that it?” The words felt a little too sharp in the quiet of the lab, but Molly couldn’t stop herself as she felt the bubbling of many things left unsaid tumble over her.

“That is not-”

Molly cut her off, her voice pitching up like a tea kettle. “Yes! Yes, it is! It’s been like this since uni, and even worse since you had the twins and think you can Mother everyone around you. Well, you can’t, and I don-”

“Excuse me for wanting you to be happy for once!” Meena snapped, real anger finally surfacing. “It’s not my fault you’ve consistently proven me right! You know the type you like and you get along just fine with Ravi-”

Molly lurched up from her stool, the legs shrieking against the linoleum. She peeled off her gloves, snapping them into the waste bin.

“Just give him a chance!”

“It was one - ONE - singular time! I don’t even like him and I only did because I felt bad for him!”

They might have kept at it, volleying back and forth in the privacy of the early hours lab, if not for the sudden crinkle coming from the doorway.

Mycroft stood just inside, holding a cup of coffee and a pastry bag clamped tightly in one hand. His face looked every bit shuttered, but Molly could see a deep betrayal in his eyes.

“I see.” He swallowed tightly and carefully placed the items on a nearby workspace, turning on his heel and striding from the lab.

Meena blinked, frozen mid-motion. A thick, mortified silence hung in the room nearly suffocating the distant squawk of a pager outside the lab doors.

"Shite," Meena breathed, her eyes wide with realization as she turned to Molly.

That single word yanked Molly back into herself. Her legs took over before a plan could form in her head. She shot past Meena, through the autopsy suite and out into the main hospital hallway.

He must have made good headway. Mycroft wasn't visible even at the far end when she rounded the first corner. She kept running, her breath catching with the embarrassment of the moment and the fear that she wouldn't catch him in time. She burst through the double doors to the main lobby, nearly colliding with an orderly pushing a gurney, and scanned for him.

There. His familiar crisp profile, already at the threshold of the hospital's automatic doors, his shoulders more rigid than usual.

"Mycroft!" she called. He didn't slow, his hand already pulling the car keys from his pocket.

"Mycroft, wait!"

He stopped, but didn't turn around, every muscle stiff. Molly rushed through the sliding doors after him. He didn’t turn even as she slowed to a stop behind him, only jabbed at the fob to unlock the door.

"Mycroft," she panted, her hands on her knees from the sprint. "Would you listen for a second? Please?"

He did not respond, save for the tightening of his jaw and a white-knuckled grip on the car door handle. Maybe he was counting the number of seconds he owed her, or reciting Morse code to stop himself from saying something particularly unkind.

Molly drew in a bracing breath. "It wasn’t what you think. Meena- we just-" She reached for his arm, but stopped herself, her hand hovering in the air.

Mycroft turned slowly and Molly almost wished he hadn’t. The blue-gray light of the morning only made made his eyes look that much more livid set in his stoic face. His eyes narrowed with a twitch to his lip. “You needn’t say any more. You were quite clear.”

“But-” He didn’t look back at her again, just climbed into the car in a smooth motion, and was gone.

Chapter Text

“I’ve really bungled this all up James,” Meena sighed, her fingers pinching and pulling at the edge of her blanket sitting in her lap as she watched her husband applying a nose strip from the threshold of the ensuite.

“Has Molly talked to you yet?” James asked with a congested sounding voice as he looked in the mirror at his nose hairs.

Meena’s face scrunched up. “No,” she said. “Outside of work orders, she’s been stonewalling me the last two weeks.”

“I did say to stop meddling . . .“

Meena glared. “That’s not the point. She was happy for the first time in, dunno, a decade? And now she’s gone all tense and haunted-looking and it’s my fault-” She smoothed the blanket over her legs. “I can’t just let it fester. I’m her person.”

James peeled the strip from his nose and winced. “Maybe she needs space.”

Meena considered this, then stifled a yawn into her arm. “No, that’s what she thinks she wants, but what she actually needs is someone to say it’s okay to want more than she’s got.” She flicked the edge of her blanket, the nervous energy returning. “It’s like she’s always apologizing for existing, and it’s exhausting to watch. Don’t you find it exhausting?”

James, now examining the plucked strip curiously, shrugged. “He didn’t seem to find it exhausting from all you said. If she was happy, who’s to say this fella wasn’t it for her to begin with.”

Meena bristled, ready with a retort, then stopped. She watched the way James blinked at her from the doorway. So calmly, never bluffing, never even trying to be clever about it. He always meant what he said, and that, more than any argument, gave her pause.

“Maybe I did overdo it,” she admitted, voice barely louder than the noise of the bathroom fan. There was a snort from James, but he didn’t make a face.

“Do you think I should reach out?”

“Well, do you actually want to apologize or do you want convince her that you’re right?” James asked without turning. He seemed more intent on the sick fascination of the nose strip.

She chewed her lip, staring at the wall across their bed. She’d been so intent on sparing Molly the inevitable heartbreak, she hadn’t stopped to consider whether it was kindness or just a way of keeping her friend stuck. If Molly was always needing to be rescued romantically, Meena always got to be the hero. It was uncomfortably close to the dynamic she had with her own mum, who’d call at midnight to complain about her back or her mortgage or the neighbor’s new yappy spaniel. Meena was both annoyed by - and addicted to - being the person someone called when their world fractured just a little bit.

She flopped onto her back, blanket over her face, and let out a groan. “She’s never going to forgive me, is she.”

James didn’t answer, but padded over, pulling the blanket off her head and smoothing her hair from her face.

“Molly? She will,” he said. “Might need military grade reinforcements after his flub, though.”

Meena squeezed her eyes shut before, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much it would take to bribe her auntie - who ran the shop nearby Molly’s flat - into giving her friend free meals for life. Wait- Military grade?

“James, can you walk the twins to class tomorrow?”

“Er- yeah, of course,” he replied, tucking himself into bed. Meena threw off the duvet, grasping her phone from the bedside table and heading towards the bathroom. “Where are you going?”

“I have an moppy twat to talk to.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

The morning was cooler than it had been in weeks, definitely months. The clouds moved low and quick over London, promising a bit of rain to come.

Mycroft was halfway up the steps to a more private Whitehall entrance, when he noticed a familiar tan woman peering at him with an annoyed look on her face.

She was waiting for him on the marble steps beside his usual security entrance. By the looks of the bags under her eyes and messy bun, she must have been waiting there for awhile. Her trainers squeaked against the stone as she hopped up, hands jammed into the pockets of her rain jacket.

“Mycroft Holmes?” she called, with a voice far too insistent for a Monday morning, let alone his first day back to work.

She jogged up, planting herself firmly in his path. He considered calling for security or possibly turning and leaving all together, not wanting to deal with any more residual foolishness from the Summer.

“Hi. Sorry to ambush, but you ignored my calls and I’m apparently not allowed to text your number anymore, so.”

Mycroft stared at her blankly. “Dr. Karim,” he said. “I’m afraid I have a meeting in-”

She pressed on, her entire body tightening up with urgency as she held her hands up in surrender. “I just need sixty seconds.”

His jaw shifted and clenched. “If you’ve come to explain her feelings on my behalf, I’m afraid I’m already fully apprised.”

“No,” Meena winced, shifting her weight. “You’re not.”

Meena inhaled deeply, as if preparing for a dive, and launched into her monologue.

“Molly wasn’t talking about you. That day. In the lab. I swear it. She was talking about my cousin Ravi, who she went on a date with last year - and who, I might add, is still not over it . . . It wasn’t about you. She’s- She told me after-” Meena squeezed her lips shut. “It wasn’t about you, trust me.”

He opened his mouth momentarily before closing it with a click as he felt an acidic twinge of regret.

“Why didn’t she just say so?” he asked, feeling petulant.

“She did try,” Meena countered, eyebrow arched. “You Holmeses are all so busy being clever, you forget you can’t know everything, all of the time.” She cringed saying this, as if she was all too familiar with the feeling.

He looked away, his eyes flicking from one window to the next for distraction from the conflicted feelings buzzing in his brain. In the long days that had passed since last seeing Molly, Mycroft had told himself that it didn’t matter and that she was nothing but a passing distraction, a circus goldfish meant only to last the summer.

Still, a prickly and prodding barb continued to pester him in the middle of every night. If she had not mattered, why had her supposed betrayal bothered him so thoroughly.

Meena stepped closer. “I told her - kept telling her, really - not to bother with you. That you’d ruin her. But she tried anyway, because she’s Molly bloody Hooper, and she was happier for it. All I managed was making you both worst off.” She shirked up one shoulder.

A group of aides passed, cluster-whispering, and Mycroft stared at the marble pavement, the motes of dust swirling in the wind. His spine ached from the effort of holding himself so rigid.

Meena’s dark eyes followed the aides as they began checking into the security. “So. Do with that what you will, but . . . sometimes you don’t get a second go. You know?” She flicked her eyes back to his face, just briefly as Mycroft stood there stiffly. “I’m sorry, really.”

She gave a sheepish nod, before passing him by and trotting down the street. He watched as she disappeared around the corner, then made his way through security.

His office was as neat and empty as the day he had left it, not a speck of dust to be found despite his long absence and only a new stack of debriefs from Summer to show that any time had passed. Mycroft couldn’t help comparing it to Molly’s office with her colorful mug and many photos of family, friends, and her cat cluttering the room. She had even pinned one of her and Mycroft to the cork board near her desk.

He had been wondering if she would have already taken that photo down when Anthea had appeared in the doorway. She stood tablet in hand, in usual tailored jacket and skirt. Her hair was pinned back severely today, but her face had a ‘not quite’ smile.

“Welcome back, sir,” She said, already thumbing through his schedule. "The Minister is waiting in his office at your leisure. I’ve slotted your security briefing for twelve, and there’s the matter of the trade delegation in the afternoon."

Her gaze flicked up, reading his face, but he stared at the folders, the orderly stacks seemingly mocking him in a way he’d never experienced before in work.

He met her eyes, "Reschedule the Minister."

Anthea did not so much as blink. "Shall I make your apologies, sir?" She tilted her head, awaiting the justification for this aberration from protocol on his very first day back.

"Personal matter. I’ll require a car immediately.” He looked past her, as if the act of not seeing her could erase the profound embarrassment and anxiety churning in his gut.

She nodded, her pen tapping against the tablet. "I'll reroute your meetings to the secure line. The car will be ready on the portico." She hesitated, her barely there smile widening only a touch, then said, “If you’ll need the full day, I will send the encrypted briefs.”

Mycroft nodded, and she was gone, heels clicking down the corridor.

Exhaling heavily through his nose, he collected his phone and umbrella, before the voice in his head could catch up to what his body was doing. The walk to the car was a blur, barely noting the driver who held the door open.

He spent the ride composing a message in his head. Anything he might say to Molly sounded moronic, or worse, disingenuous.

By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of her building, he still hadn't settled on a line of approach, but he had reapproach her. And he to do it on his own terms, and not some hairbrained scheme designed by his brother.

He stood on the pavement for several seconds, umbrella held tightly in his hand, before mounting the steps to her building door. Bracing himself, he pressed her buzzer and waited for the connection.

“Hello?” Her voice crackled from the other side.

Mycroft cleared his throat before holding down the button again, “It’s Mycroft.”

The door clicked open and he quickly grasped the handle.

When he made it to her door Molly already stood there. Framed by her favorite tattered housecoat, hair askew and eyes wide with confusion. She looked as if sleep had been a stranger to her, too.

"Mycroft?" Her hand hovered uncertainly at the edge of the door.

"I would like to come in," he said, still with no plan for what would come next. She stepped aside, and he entered,

Molly closed the door gently, pressing it slowly with her palm so that it made no noise other than a quiet snick. She feared that anything louder may currently sound like a bomb went off to her nerves. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Mycroft stood at the edge of her living-room rug, his fingers twitching at his side. Molly’s gaze skittered away from his face to the floor, to her feet. Beside her, Toby rubbed at her ankles.

“I can make tea,” she said, because her hands needed something to do. “Or coffee- I have both, but I know you prefer- would you like tea?”

“Tea will be fine.”

Molly quickly padded away and as she filled the electric kettle, she could hear Mycroft’s footsteps approaching. The water hissed, and she focused on watching the lines of bubbles gathering at the bottom of the glass as it heated. Every muscle in her neck and back felt tangled and her hands felt clumsy.

When she set the mugs on the kitchen island, she stared at him with furrowed brows, watching as he arranged his mug so its handle lined up at whatever exacting angle he had decided worked best for his hand - the way he always did.

“I should have explained better,” she managed, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer her right away. He was looking at down into his empty mug. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Molly.”

Molly wanted to touch his hand, to make him look at her in that searching way he sometimes did, but her hands hung at her sides. The kettle whistled and she poured water into the mugs. Scooped two sugars for him, one for her. She remembered to let the bag steep for at least the necessary amount of time because he was a man who cared about exactness, though she often preferred to take hers out in half the time.

She looked up from her mug and there was a moment when Molly thought she should have said something soft or clever or funny to end the tension, but she was afraid. She was afraid she’d say the wrong thing in the wrong way, or maybe even touch him and make him freeze and run away.

Her skin prickled.

“Dr. Karim paid me a visit this morning,” Mycroft said, a bit pinched.

“God, I’m sorry,” Molly winced, “I wasn’t- I was talking about Ravi, her cousin. I shouldn’t have let it all spin up like that in the lab.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never should’ve let her get in my head,” she mumbled, more to herself than to him, “I’m not an idiot, Mycroft, but I keep fumbling things around you, and I’ll probably keep doing it.”

He raised a hand, and she stopped, breathless and mortified. Gently, that same hand reached across the kitchen island to hold hers. She let herself look at it. Long-fingered and neat, the back of his hand sprinkled with freckles up to his knuckles. He wasn’t squeezing, just holding her there, steady as a paperweight. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

He moved around the island to stand before her, seeming much taller today than usual, or maybe it was just her nerves. The tips of his ears had gone very pink and he drew in a shallow breath.

“It does seem,” he said, carefully, “that I sometimes have a habit of reading too much into what little I am given.” He cleared his throat, and Molly’s hand trembled faintly in his grasp. “I owe you an apology.” The words sounded foreign as they landed in the air between them. “For storming out. For not—” he hissed out a breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried again. “For not giving you the benefit of the doubt. It’s easier to retreat than to resolve.”

He risked a glance up at her, and Molly’s eyes held his, the smallest smile forming on her mouth .

“Can we try again?” Molly said, squeezing his hand lightly.

Mycroft exhaled, and for the first time since he’d walked in, his shoulders sank a fraction. “I would very much like that.”

He let go of her hand, only to wrap his arms around her. She let her head rest against his chest, and didn’t crane her neck to look at him until she had felt the soft kiss he placed on her crown.

“I should warn you,” she said quietly, “If you’re looking for the sort of woman who’ll make you look good at parliamentary galas or whatever, I’m not . . . that.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy parliamentary galas,” he huffed. “Dread them, in fact.”

Molly laughed. “You liar,” She said, a bit more watery and wobbly than she had hoped for. “You love the tiny canapes.”

He blinked, caught off for a moment, before his mouth stretched into a smile. “Ah, yes, but I would much prefer them with you, at home.”

And he kissed her.

Chapter Text

Their youngest appeared to have developed a taste for inflicting pain overnight, specifically and exclusively upon Mycroft Holmes, whose left nostril was now the site of repeated, strategic yanking assaults. Vivien, eleven months with the grip strength of a prizefighter, yanked mercilessly at his nose with a shriek of delight.

"Ouch," Mycroft yelped, "That is attached."

Vivien cackled, a wet and lisping "eeeyyy," and lunged for a second go, her chubby hands slick with grape jelly. Mycroft dodged it.

Molly looked up from her book, propped at the far end of the picnic quilt, and snorted. "Careful, darling. If you pull any harder, Daddy’s head will come off."

From the garden path, their four-year-old Charlotte screeched, "Daddy, I made a something!" She galloped toward them, all knees and shrieking. Her curly auburn hair flying around her as she clutched a mason jar sloshing murky water over its sides as she ran.

Mycroft braced for impact, but Charlotte tripped and tumbled onto the grass just before the quilt. She didn’t seem much disturbed by the fall, managing to preserve the majority of the mix. She scrambled to him.

"See?" She thrust the jar at him and he peered in. It contained a mix of hydrangea petals, wild strawberry stems, and a wriggling black thing that appeared to have been a tadpole.

"Impressive," he said, examining the jar with a scholarly manner. "Shall we market it as a breakfast cordial or a bio-weapon?"

Charlotte considered, knuckles white around the jar in excitement. "Potion," she insisted, as if he should’ve been well aware.

Mycroft nodded, ”Ah, of course, well done.”

Charlotte smiled brightly, blabbering something about leaving it for him to try as she twisted it, as well as she could, into the grass behind him and ran off again. Mycroft looked down to Vivien who had discovered a torn patch of the weathered quilt and set about trying to pull it free from its backing, her brows furrowed with more intensity than an infant should really manage.

Molly, watching from over her book, looked as she always did in summer. Slightly windblown, her shoulders mostly bare and ankles crossed under a long flowing dress.

She had packed the picnic with her usual abundance for their family outings. Cream cheese finger sandwiches, sliced apples, carrot sticks, raisins, store-bought shortbread, and an bottle of orange squash which nobody but Charlotte liked - though she hadn’t yet realized Molly has been watering it down. For themselves, they shared a small plate of canapes that they had made in the morning, before the children woke.

He glanced around cottage garden, it was near unrecognizable from his childhood. Where once there had been a regimented array of roses and boxwood, alongside patches of wildflowers, now there was a bustling variety. With the hydrangeas tumbling over their borders, wild thyme in the cracks of the flagstones, pale blue cornflowers and shocking pink foxgloves crowding the beds.

Mycroft continued to go over the scene. His wife reading whatever murder mystery had recently intrigued as she occasionally tutted at the inaccuracies, his daughters creating their own chaos to themselves, the sound of the bees making a low, hums at the edge of the lawn in a clutch of flowers and the wind wisping past them as the clouds floated by.

Yes, this was all much different than he remembered in his youth.

"Mycroft?" Molly called, lowering her book to squint at him in the Sun. "You’re staring."

He blinked, rearranging his features to neutrality. "Just thinking."

"About?" She rested her book in her lap.

He could have said any number of things. He could have said he was calculating Charlotte’s odds of surviving to her thirteenth birthday, given her current extreme disregard for basic physics. Or how confusing it was that he now found it pleasant to break from the political turmoil that seemed to be constantly at a boiling point these days. Or he could have said how he was struggling to recall how he had existed before Molly and the life she had breathed into him.

"Nothing of consequence," he said, watching as Vivien began to gnaw on a toy green truck. "I was admiring the anarchy you’ve inflicted on my life."

Molly grinned. "I seem to recall a considerable amount of help.”

“None so thorough as yours,” he replied, but his mouth threatened a smile.

Molly put aside her book and scooted closer, stretching her legs so her feet nudged his thigh. He rested his hand on her ankle. “Do you mind it, sometimes?” she looked out to where Charlotte was collecting flower heads in her dress fashioned as a basket. “I know it’s all so different, from before.”

He followed her gaze. “No, not at all,” he said. “In fact, I am rather desperately fond of this life."

“I love you.” Molly said this the way she always had, with a smile on her lips and her heart in her eyes. As if loving him was the easiest thing to manage, the most undemanding route to take.

Giving her ankle a light squeeze, he looked over to her and memorized the lazy way her hair fell over her shoulder in a half knot and the way her brown hair reflected copper from the sun.

“I love you.”