"Mr. Holmes?" Molly waited for a response, hesitant to draw any closer to the sleek black car idling at the curb and the motionless man sitting within the angle of its open back door, his elegantly shod feet resting on the pavement. She followed his gaze and abruptly realized where he was staring. "Mr. Holmes?" Again, no response. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft heard the voice calling his name and closed his eyes, only to be confronted by an even clearer image of Sherlock's body lying bloody and seemingly lifeless on the pavement outside Barts. Despite the years that had passed since that successfully staged bit of street theatre, Mycroft found it impossible to erase the memory of a scene that could so easily have been real.

Molly stepped closer and bit her lip when she got a good look at Sherlock's older brother. She had only the most passing of acquaintances with the man and doubted he would go so far as to count her as that, but she thought his normally pale features had a deathlike pallor in the fading light. "Mr. Holmes," she tried again, "are you unwell?" After a moment, Mycroft slowly blinked … once, twice … then licked his lips before turning his head toward her. Molly had to suppress a shiver at his mask of cold impassivity and the blank expression in his eyes.

"Miss Hooper?" He lifted a hand toward his forehead then dropped it to his lap before shifting forward on the seat and rising to his feet. "Good evening."

Molly moved closer until she was standing at arm's length. "Are you unwell, Mr. Holmes?"

His shoulders relaxed as he focused those steely blue eyes on her. "Not at all, Miss Hooper."

"Is it Sherlock?" A pained expression flickered across his features before his face fell into its usual neutral lines. Genuinely alarmed now, Molly leaned toward him and wrapped her hand around his forearm. "What is it, Mycroft? What's happened? Is Moriarty truly alive?"

"My brother –" Mycroft stared through Molly for a moment, then blinked again and met her gaze as the corners of his lips lifted into a smile that froze her in place. "Don't fret, Miss Hooper. I'm sure you'll hear from Sherlock again soon."

When Molly continued to stare at him silently, Mycroft dropped his gaze to her hand, then raised his brows. Molly tightened her fingers in response. "What can I do?"

A deep crease appeared between Mycroft's brows as he lifted his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry?"

"How can I help you, Mr. Holmes?" At Molly's question, some brief emotion darkened his expression and sent an unsettling quiver through her, but then a veil of condescension fell over his face.

"I assure you there's nothing you can do for me, Miss Hooper."

Molly couldn't be sure whether or not there'd been a slight emphasis on the second "you." She held his gaze a few moments longer, then dropped her hand from his arm. "Excuse my presumption, Mister Holmes." She looked away as she hitched the straps of her handbag and rucksack higher on her shoulder and turned to go. "Good evening." She'd taken two steps when Mycroft cleared his throat.

"May I offer you a lift home, Miss Hooper?"

Molly opened her mouth to refuse, then hesitated, still concerned despite herself by the pallor of his skin. She slowly turned around. "You don't need to do that. I can take the tube."

"Please, Miss Hooper." He stepped backward on the pavement and flicked his hand at the open car door. "Allow me."

Molly climbed into the car and slid to the far side of the seat, studying the driver as unobtrusively as possible. He'd as yet to look her way, even in the rearview mirror. When Mycroft settled into the opposite corner, she glanced at him then quickly away. "My flat is at –"

Mycroft broke in rather impatiently, "I'm aware of your address, Miss Hooper," as his driver easily merged into the early evening traffic. "Considering the part you played in the planning and aftermath of Sherlock's supposed suicide, the very least I could do was to provide for your security during his long absence."

Mycroft turned toward the window, as he continued almost absent-mindedly, "Yes, my brother's been remarkably successful at gathering such an eclectic flock of followers, each of them so eager to do his bidding, so willing to ignore his ingratitude, so blind to what's really been going on in front of them."

Molly unbuckled her belt and scooted forward. "Excuse me ... driver? Would you pull over here?" The man's eyes met hers in the mirror, then just as obviously shifted toward Mycroft.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said evenly, "there's no need for that."

"It's not for you to decide."

"You're being unreasonable, my dear," he said, in what Molly felt was an overly patronizing tone.

"You know what? Fuck you, Mycroft Holmes. Pardon me for thinking you looked ill and could possibly use a 'friend'." She barked a bitter-sounding laugh, then turned to face him. "You poor man … having to live in a world of goldfish," she scoffed, then arched a brow, smirking, at the startled expression that briefly animated his features. "It's been made clear to me for years now that I mean nothing to your brother except when I can be useful … when he needs something from me. And you … you won't allow me to help when I'm here and could possibly be of assistance." She stared accusingly at him for a moment, then turned away. "Tell the driver to pull over. Please." She stared fixedly out the window, trying to ignore the charged silence behind her.

Mycroft sighed tiredly after a few moments. "Miss Hooper – Molly … your concern about my health is misplaced, but it should have been acknowledged more graciously," he said, lifting his umbrella from where it stood by his leg, then intently studying its handle. "Would you please let me see you home." When Molly didn't respond, Mycroft turned to look at the back of her head.

Molly finally released a long breath. "All right."

They traveled the rest of the way in uneasy silence. Molly could see out of the corner of her eye that Mycroft continued to turn the handle of his umbrella between his fingers. When the driver finally pulled to a stop directly outside Molly's block of flats, she settled the straps of her bags over her shoulder, then shifted her weight on the seat before looking at Mycroft. "Thanks for the lift," she said, then continued more uncertainly. "Would you like to, um, come up for a cup of tea?"

"Miss Hooper –" He broke off and Molly saw that his hand had whitened at the knuckles where he grasped the umbrella.

"Sorry – I shouldn't have asked, but the offer of tea is genuine," she said, her own knuckles whitening as she gripped her hands together. Molly hesitated a couple of moments, then leaned toward Mycroft and stared up at him intently. "I know you find my stubborn infatuation with your brother silly and think I'm oblivious to his complete lack of interest. But I know he doesn't care for me, the same way I know he does love you - and likely resents you in equal measure." Molly stopped to take a breath, then sighed. "And now Moriarty is inexplicably all over the telly and the powers-that-be must be suffering a case of mass hysteria while waiting for you to go pat their heads and tell them all will be well …, and I assume Sherlock has also done something awful that requires you to deal with the fallout from that at the same time." She smiled when a look of surprise flickered across his face. "Your brother talks about you more than you'd think, or he might realize, when I'm helping him in the lab or if he wants something else from me."

Molly finally turned to stare out the window. "I simply thought you could use a few minutes' quiet time, somewhere people wouldn't think to look for you, where no one wants anything from you. But I can see that I've been foolish yet again." She shoved the car door open without first checking for traffic and then scrambled out onto the street before bending to look at him. "Best of luck with saving the world, Mr. Holmes." She pushed the door shut and walked away without looking back.

#####

Molly let herself into the flat, tossed her keys into a dish on the table in the entry, then took off her coat and scarf and hung them on a hook by the door. She bent to scratch Toby's ear when he showed up, then headed for the kitchen. She started to reach for the kettle, but instead braced her hands on the edge of the counter and dropped her head between her shoulders. Will I never learn?

Molly's head jerked up at a faint tapping sound. She tilted her head, listening intently, then heard three quick raps on the flat's door. She hurried to the entry and swung the door open, only to fall back, still gripping the knob, shocked at finding Mycroft standing on the threshold, looking at her impassively but with the corners of his lips turned up. "Is tea still on offer?"

Molly opened the door wider and moved aside without comment. She silently watched as he hung his umbrella on a free hook, tugged off his gloves and slipped them into a coat pocket, then shrugged out of his coat and unwound his scarf. Molly's throat tightened and her heart rate unexpectedly increased as she focused on the surprising grace and beauty of his hands as he removed each outer garment. She continued to watch when Mycroft ran his palm over the crown of his head to smooth his hair. As she lowered her gaze, her eyes inadvertently met his and she felt the impact of those steely blue eyes all the way to her core.

Molly quickly turned, hoping Mycroft hadn't seen her start to flush, and led the way to the kitchen. As she passed the table, she flicked a hand toward a chair, then continued to the sink and filled the kettle. She drew a deep breath through her nose as she plugged it in and flipped the switch, then turned around to lean against the counter. Mycroft was sitting on the far side of the table, watching her with apparent disinterest, and Molly crossed her arms protectively as she met his gaze. "What made you change your mind?"

"A nice cup of tea, they say, is a remedy to cure all ills," he said lightly. "And as I recall from a brief visit here with Sherlock a couple of years ago, you know how to make it properly."

Molly snorted, then pushed away from the worktop and went to sit at the end of the table, at a right angle to Mycroft. "If only such a cure-all did exist," she said, suppressing a sigh, and they sat quietly until she got up again to prepare the tea.

"Miss Hooper …," Mycroft broke the silence in an even tone that made Molly turn to stare at him with a sudden feeling of dread, "you were correct about Sherlock. He has indeed done something … awful, to use your description. I can say no more now, but I hope you will continue to encourage his better instincts, to be a friend to him, no matter what you may hear."

"Sherlock doesn't listen to me. He doesn't care -"

"Sherlock values your good opinion more than you know," Mycroft insisted. "Just don't give up on him now. He's going to need people around him whom he can trust."

"But you –"

"Not I," he said evenly. "Sherlock doesn't need – doesn't want me to look after him."

Molly turned away from him, extremely curious to know what had gone on between the brothers, but realizing she had no right to question Mycroft further about it. His voice had sounded strained to her even though he'd obviously tried to speak in his usual unruffled manner. She sighed silently, then focused on the task at hand.

They'd been sipping their tea for several minutes, in some semblance of friendly companionship, when Mycroft flinched and leaned sideways to look under the table. "I don't think your cat likes me," he said after a moment, then gave her what looked like a genuine smile. "Obviously a creature of discernment."

Molly made a face and quickly pushed her chair back and ducked her head under the table. She reappeared after a few moments, slightly red-faced and cradling the cat against her chest. "Did Toby dig his claws into your ankle?"

"A pre-emptive attack, I'd say," he replied, with unexpected whimsy. "A warning not to get too comfortable." He pushed his chair back, then picked up his cup and saucer and carried them to the sink. "Thank you for the tea, Miss Hooper. You do indeed make a nice cuppa."

Molly dropped Toby under the table, then rose to her feet just as Mycroft returned to stand by his chair, which left him looming over her. Molly started to step back, but hesitated at seeing the odd expression that briefly altered his usual impassiveness. For a moment he'd looked … sad? Lost? Surely not, she thought, but couldn't stop herself from moving closer and resting her hand on his arm. Molly's breath caught when a tingle ran through her, and they both froze, staring at her hand. She glanced up at Mycroft, then quickly lowered her gaze, wondering if his arrested expression meant he'd felt a sudden frisson of excitement as well.

Molly slowly flexed her fingers against the fine wool of his jacket, then slid her hand along his forearm to the edge of the sleeve, pausing to finger the crisp linen cuff of his shirt, then brushed her fingers over his bare wrist before cupping her hand around the back of his. He did nothing to stop her … and the atmosphere in the room became tense.

Molly lifted and turned his hand in hers and after another quick glance up at him used her other hand to spread his fingers open. When she slowly traced the lines of his palm with her forefinger, he drew a deep breath, then twisted his hand around and gripped hers.

"I am not a kind man," Mycroft observed, apropos of nothing.

Molly suddenly felt light-headed. "I know."

"It wouldn't mean anything," he said evenly.

"I know."

"I don't have much time … none, really –"

"Mycroft," Molly broke in, staring at him intently as she softly, shockingly, added, "come to bed with me … if you want."

In the charged silence that followed, Mycroft's eyes held Molly's unwaveringly as he let go of her hand and shrugged out of his jacket. He dropped his gaze to watch as he carefully draped the jacket over the back of his chair and smoothed a wrinkle from the shoulder – as if such commonplace action required his full concentration - and then he finally looked at her.

When Molly offered Mycroft her hand, he took it.

#####

Mycroft's eyes held Molly's as he unhooked his watch chain and set the pocket watch on the bedside table before reaching for the top button of his waistcoat. She watched him loosen his tie, then swallowed audibly and toed off her shoes. Once his waistcoat and tie were hanging loose, he carefully removed his cufflinks and set them on the table, then unbuckled his belt and pulled his shirttail free. As he started unbuttoning his shirt, he arched a brow at Molly's lack of progress, then a corner of his lips quirked when Molly flushed and quickly pulled her jumper over her head before working the top button of her shirt through its hole.

Mycroft glanced around the room, then walked to an armchair and arranged his clothes over it. He toed off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, suppressing a smile at the muffled sound Molly made when he stooped to pull off his socks. When he was down to his pants, Mycroft moved back to the side of the bed and stood facing Molly across its width. Molly reached around to unclip her bra, then let it drop to the floor. She flushed when Mycroft's gaze followed her hands to her hips as she gripped the sides of her knickers and paused for a moment before pushing them down to join the rest of her clothes on the floor.

They stared at each other silently for several moments, then Mycroft grasped the edge of the thick duvet and slowly dragged it to the end of the bed, leaving the sheets bare. Molly blushed at the likely intention behind that and quickly reached to flip off the lamp. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark, then gasped loudly when fingers trailed down her left arm to her wrist just as the light came back on.

Mycroft moved his hand from the lamp switch and lightly encircled Molly's right wrist before slowly sliding both hands up her arms. After a moment, he cupped her shoulders as he nudged her hair aside with his chin and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. "Not in the dark," he murmured next to her ear, sending a quiver down her spine, and the fine hairs on her body reacted as if electrified when his lips feathered along the side of her neck. "Eyes fully open."

Molly stifled a moan as she agreed. "Eyes open."

Mycroft's hands turned Molly to face him, then he waited until her head tilted back and their eyes met. "I'm not Sherlock." Molly flinched and tried to twist away. "Hold still a moment, Molly." He waited until she looked at him again. "Your yearning for my brother has gone unrequited for years. Is this sudden attraction to me a coincidence?"

She quickly countered. "Is this a pity fuck?"

"You tell me," he said evenly.

Molly stopped straining away from Mycroft and instead stepped closer and brought her body flush against his. She shivered when she felt his erection press against her stomach and shifted to slip her hand between them, suppressing a smile when he grunted at her fingering his hard length through the thin material of his pants. "I don't know what it is," she said breathlessly, "but I want you, Mycroft Holmes … most desperately as it turns out."

Mycroft's breath caught when Molly carefully released him before pushing the pants down his legs. He breathed deeply through his nose, nostrils flared, when she gripped his cock in her fist and gave him a few firm pumps before rubbing the pad of her thumb over its moist tip. "I don't know if I can be gentle enough for you," he rasped, as his breathing quickened.

"I don't need you to be gentle," Molly responded breathily, then met his eyes as she lifted her dampened thumb to her mouth and slowly pushed it between her lips. Her view of the room abruptly tilted when Mycroft bore her down to the bed. Molly gave a low moan of pleasure as their naked bodies came together, but retained enough sense to lift an arm and point to the bedside table. "Condom."

Mycroft shifted until he could pull the drawer open, then lifted himself back over Molly, supporting most of his weight on his elbows. He slid his hands under her head, studying her expression as he carefully worked his knee between hers. She had a fleeting thought that this was Mycroft Holmes she was clutching to her so greedily, whose chest hair was rubbing so deliciously against her breasts, whose muscled thigh was pressing hers wider, whose fully engorged cock was caught between their bellies … Dear god.

Molly felt flushed and feverish as she wrapped her legs around Mycroft, clutching him more closely to her, and then the heat spread throughout her body, tightening her nipples, when he dragged his mouth down her throat toward her breasts. Her mouth opened wide in a loud gasp and her back arched when he sucked her left breast into his mouth, teeth gently scraping her areola and tongue flicking her nipple, and palmed her right breast, catching its nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Molly writhed beneath him, still wanting more. "Mycroft …," she groaned, tilting her hips higher, seeking full contact.

Mycroft raised his head, breathing heavily as their eyes met. He shifted his weight onto one elbow and flattened his hand on her belly before sliding his fingers lower to curve between her thighs. Molly's blush deepened, but her eyes remained fixed on the dark intensity of his gaze, allowing him to see the pleasure he gave her as his fingers worked their way through her wet folds and his middle finger probed more deeply. A second finger joined the first, thrusting gently, coaxing more of a response from her, and slowly … at last … Mycroft's head lowered to Molly's and their lips met for the first time.

Molly's hands released his shoulders and cupped the back of his head, holding him to her as their mouths moved slowly, carefully exploring, breaths intermingling, tentatively learning the other's shape and contours and taste. Their lips separated and they studied each other, both breathing heavily, then Mycroft's eyes lost focus and a crease appeared between his brows as he tilted his head to better concentrate on what his fingers were doing. Molly moaned when a third finger was added to his careful probing and then shifted her feet on his back to angle her hips more comfortably. With that done, she tightened her fingers and tugged him into another kiss, her lips moving over his more eagerly, then rubbed the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips and slid her tongue into his mouth as his lips parted. When Mycroft's fingers began to caress her more methodically, Molly gasped into his mouth and began mimicking his fingers' thrusting motions with her tongue … and then, without any warning, her body convulsed and she arched away from him, chest heaving as she cried out and pressed her head hard against her pillow. Mycroft removed two of his fingers from her but continued with gentle caresses as her body pulsed around his remaining finger until Molly finally lowered a hand to grasp his wrist. "Stop for a minute," she said, panting as she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it. "Just give me a minute," she said again, pressing his hand between her breasts.

Molly could feel Mycroft studying her face as she lay beneath him, eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. She smiled after a couple of minutes and opened her eyes. "You're incredibly patient, Mr. Holmes." Molly's gaze held his as she worked her hand between their bodies and carefully wrapped her fingers around his erection, which hardened further when she gave him a couple of slow pumps with her fist. "How would you like to do this?" She suppressed a smile when he looked confused for a moment. "It's your turn, Mycroft. Would you like me to change position?"

Mycroft's expression darkened. "Nothing wrong with this one, is there?"

Molly huffed a laugh. "Nothing at all," she said, then released him and slid both hands up his chest, pausing to rub her thumbs over his nipples, then moved on to encircle his neck. "Feel free to do your worst. I won't break."

Mycroft took Molly at her word, shifting onto his knees and hitching her legs higher, then carefully positioned himself and entered her with one hard thrust. She gasped at the first moment of penetration and closed her eyes as her body stretched to accommodate him. He froze in place, concerned that he'd been too forceful. "Molly –"

"No, it's good, Mycroft," she murmured, opening her eyes while her fingers played with the hair at his nape, "so good."

Mycroft continued to stare at Molly as he flexed his hips, pulling back and thrusting forward, settling into an easy rhythm until she changed the angle by hitching one leg higher around him and sliding her other foot over his bottom and then lower to the back of his thigh. Mycroft's breathing quickened and his eyelids dropped when Molly rocked more vigorously, lifting herself higher against him. He shifted his weight forward, straightening his arms, and ground himself more firmly against her on each downward thrust. Molly grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, fingers digging in, breath quickening until they both were loudly panting as they rushed headlong toward an explosive finish. Molly fell off the edge first, gasping for breath as another orgasm ripped through her. Mycroft grunted through several more thrusts, groaning when her body tightened around his cock, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, and so continuing until he pressed deep and sighed raggedly, muscles trembling as he collapsed on top of Molly and pressed his face against the side of her throat. After a couple of moments, he muttered an apology and shifted to roll off of her, but Molly wrapped her arms and legs more tightly around him.

Lying there pressed together, listening to the heavy rasp of each other's breathing, feeling the rapid thrumming of the other's heart, may have been more intimate than the act itself, Molly thought.

Mycroft's chest heaved as he raised his head and pressed his lips to her ear. "Are you all right, my dear?" At Molly's nod, he slipped out of her and rolled onto his back, both arms flung overhead as his breathing and heart rate gradually returned to normal. He finally turned his head toward hers on the pillow. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said, then continued more slowly. "This was … unexpected."

Molly turned her head and met his eyes. After a few moments, she asked, "And unwelcome?"

A brief shake of his head. "Unexpected." Mycroft held her eyes a few more moments, then he turned away and reached for his phone on the table. "I have to go," he said more briskly and without looking at her.

Molly watched him leave the bed, biting her bottom lip until she heard the shower start a few minutes later. She suddenly froze, then slowly ran her tongue over her lips, tasting Mycroft and experiencing a moment of disbelief even though she knew he was naked in the next room at that very moment. She drew her tongue back into her mouth and smiled to herself, then reached her arms overhead and pointed her toes in a full-body stretch. She released a long breath as she relaxed her muscles and settled deeper into the bed. She should move, she thought … clean herself up and put on pajamas, but she couldn't. Not while he was still there.

So Molly waited, taking stock, ultimately focusing on the tenderness between her legs. She'd been thoroughly fucked, deliciously so … and by Mycroft Holmes of all people. To think that much passion had been simmering under the surface, like a dormant volcano preparing to erupt, all so carefully disguised by his cold eyes and impassive face, the old-fashioned mannerisms and formal speech, those three-piece suits with a bloody pocket watch, for god's sake … The mind reeled.

Molly willed herself not to blush when the door of the ensuite opened and Mycroft stopped on the threshold to look at her. Her eyes lowered to his chest and followed the pattern of chest hair downward to the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips. She quickly lifted her gaze and couldn't hide the resulting flush when she saw the quirk of his lips.

Molly watched him cross the room and suppressed a gasp when he removed the towel and draped it over the chair before bending to put on his pants and trousers. He reached for his shirt, and Molly felt the heat rise from her core at the flex of muscles in his arms and chest, the movement of skin over his ribs. He glanced her way as he started buttoning his shirt, beginning at the tail and working his way up, and held her eyes as he lifted his chin to get at the top button before reaching for his tie.

It seemed strange to Molly that Mycroft would dress so silently while seeming determined to acknowledge her interest. Was it strange? Why was it strange? Was anything Mycroft Holmes did unintentional? Molly said nothing, for once able to overcome her need to fill any tense silence with nervous chatter.

Mycroft tucked in his shirt, zipped his trousers and fastened his belt, then turned toward her mirror, bending his knees a bit as he quickly knotted his tie, then smoothed it over his chest. He moved back around the end of the bed and sat on the edge, stooping over to pull on his socks and shoes. Molly lay silently, wondering how much he regretted that he'd stayed. When he'd finished with one foot, he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. Whatever thoughts he had were hidden, and Molly just wished she had as effective a shield. She dropped her eyes and turned her head away, listening to the silence, feeling the stillness, a moment out of time ... then the bed shifted as he returned to his task.

Molly abruptly sat up and scooted on her bottom to lean against the headboard. Was Mycroft usually so forceful? No, she thought. With each hesitation, each attempt he'd made to slow down, Molly had goaded him on, but now she stared at his back and the disbelief from earlier returned. "Mycroft …" He turned to look at her as he rose to his feet, then bent to pick up his pocket watch from bedside table. "I'm through with romantic dreams," she said quietly, "but not with sex."

He held her eyes as he tucked his pocket watch away, then picked up his cufflinks and fastened each sleeve. He picked up his phone, then paused. "I'll call you."

No you won't, she thought. "Why? This didn't mean anything," she finally said aloud. "What more is there to say?"

I'll call you," he repeated evenly, then turned away and went through the bedroom door, closing it behind him after pausing to let the cat slip past him.

As Molly cuddled Toby and waited to hear the flat's door close, she could picture Mycroft retrieving his jacket from the kitchen chair, then moving to the entry to don his outer garments. A few minutes later, she heard the distant click of the latch. I'll call you. She shifted lower in the bed and, after fleetingly considering the need for pajamas, pulled the covers up. Had that been a promise? Simply Mycroft's attempt to exit a sticky situation? Either way, Molly didn't believe him.

Theirs had been a chance encounter - unplanned, unprecedented … to be forgotten and never repeated - between two people who'd been given an unexpected opportunity to set aside the rest of the world for a while. And had taken it.