Mycroft pressed a button on his phone and faced his brother. "This is ridiculous, Sherlock. Even for you,"

Holmes Minor rolled his eyes. "You don't understand, Mycroft. If Molly stays angry with me, it will be a serious impediment to my work!"

"What exactly did you do?"

That morning

Sherlock burst into the Barts mortuary like an invading army. "MOLLY!" he bellowed at the room's sole occupant.

Molly was wearing earphones so she didn't hear what Sherlock was saying. She was sat at her computer typing what appeared to be an article.

Sherlock, ever impatient, tapped the pathologist on the shoulder. She took off her earphones and offered him a bright smile. "Oh, sorry Sherlock! I didn't see you come in. I'm a little busy today, so please just help yourself to the equipment, okay?"

"Molly, this is a nine. The pathology journal can wait. This case will actually help someone,"

Molly narrowed her eyes dangerously. "As opposed to a thorough article on the early detection of eye cancer,"

That stopped Sherlock dead. "Er…"

"You can belittle my intelligence. You can make fun of my appearance. You can even run off my boyfriends and fiances, but NEVER. EVER. TRIVIALIZE MY WORK! Now get out and stay out until you get some papers authorizing you to be here!"

Sherlock was out the door before one could say "Molly Hooper".

o-o-o

Sherlock tried flowers at first. He sent a dozen roses (blush pink ones), but a hives-ridden Molly tracked him down to John's flat and hit him on the head with the (rather big) bouquet before huffing and stomping off.

o-o-o

Next he tried to give her an Irish Setter pup. How could he have known that the hairs on her lapel are from a demonic old tabby (who'd been in pet hospital when he used her home as a bolthole)? Why did he always miss something? (He's keeping the puppy, but that's beside the point. He still wasn't forgiven.)

o-o-o

Next came the billboard. "I'm sorry Molly Hooper of St Bartholomew Hospital. Please stop ignorning my texts. — Sherlock Holmes" All that did was make the press rehash "SEVEN TIMES A NIGHT IN BAKER STREET"-type headlines, with headshots of Molly splashed all over the papers. Now not only Molly, but her big, rugby-playing Welsh cousins also hated him. The black and blue marks all over his face plus the cracked rib he got from them certainly said so.

o-o-o

Which brings us to the present. Mycroft was looking at Sherlock with one eyebrow raised. "You think that whisking her off to Paris on the TQHF will earn her forgiveness?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look smug. "It worked when you commented on Anthea's weight."

"She's pregnant!"

"… and your wife of five years. Was I invited to the wedding? NO! I'm not angry though because unlike SOME people I know, I am rational!"

"You're borrowing the Queen's helicopter to appease a no-name pathologist from Nowhere, Northhamptonshire,"

Sherlock felt himself shake with barely suppressed rage. "I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT MY MOLLY IS THE SOLE REASON I AM ALIVE TODAY. SHE IS WHY I AM ABLE TO SOLVE MOST OF MY CASES! HER WORK IS WHAT KEEPS MY CONSULTANCY IN BUSINESS!" he yelled.

"… And… sent." Mycroft said smugly.

"Wha-?"

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I just sent a voice message to Miss Hooper. Do keep up, Sherlock."

"…"

Mycroft gave his brother a condescending smile. "Well, if there is nothing else, I have a wife to get home to. Really, Sherlock. What would you do without me?"

"…"