The visit from DI Lestrade came at exactly the right moment. Another moment in that infernal place, and Mycroft would have made a break for it.
Fortunately, he convinced Lestrade that the most helpful thing he could do for him was get him release. The doctors were ready to release him in condition that he would have someone keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't relapse. Other than an erratic pulse, high blood pressure and dehydration, he had been physically fine. Darn the one who had tattle to the medical staff about his "emotional trauma."
Anthea and the rest of his staff were put to working on rehauling the Sherrinford security, and securing all the inmates in the meantime. He stubbornly insisted that he didn't need a babysitter, and was relieved that his staff didn't send anyone over. He couldn't bear the thought of someone working under him seeing him in this condition. His reputation as the Iceman would be forever ruined.
The DI informed Mycroft that his team was charged with one more task, and he was heading over to their location to supervise. He asked the British Government if he wanted to be taken home first, or would like to come along. Mycroft considered the question, and inquired where the site was located.
"It's in central London. You know, Dr. Hooper's flat."
"Oh. Well, I think I'll come along, perhaps give you a hand if you need it."
"I'm responsible to make sure you're resting. Your brother asked me to take care of you, you know, and I don't want to let him down," the DI answered sharply.
"My brother. Right. So now he's sending his fan club to take care of me... Just when I thought he had exhausted all methods of revenge." Realizing that the detective might interpret his remarks as personally insulting, he hastily amended, "I really do appreciate your intervention, Lestrade, the hospital atmosphere was really getting to me. I merely find it somewhat amusing that my brother was concerned that much about me."
"Your brother is a good man," Lestrade said thoughtfully.
"I suppose, after all, that's what he is," Mycroft agreed, and they rode the rest of the way silently.
Molly was standing outside her house, next to an awkward looking Sergeant Donavan. The two women had met several times before, and while they didn't dislike each other, they hadn't hit it off particularly well either. Mycroft noticed the tightness in her featured, her clenched fists, and the way she nibbled at her lips.
When Mycroft had met her for the first time, one Christmas in the morgue, he had been patronizingly dismissive of her. Her crush on Sherlock had been patently obvious, as was her anxious jealousy of The Woman. The British Government had a low opinion of people like that, pining after love that they were unlikely to relieve, ruining their lives by letting petty sentiments rule them. He nevertheless felt some sort of pity for those misguided creatures, and had kindly thanked her for her efforts.
As he saw her now, looking distraught, helpless and lost, he felt a wave of sympathy pass over him, and realized that he actually identified with her in some way. For that was exactly what he felt like now, even if he had managed to replace his Ice Mask.
"Miss Hooper," he addressed her, stepping out of the car. No, that sounded wrong. This fragile woman in front of him was also the woman of extraordinary bravery, who had confronted his brother, while herself in emotional turmoil, and refused to state her feelings unless he stated his finstead. She wasn't a little girl anymore.
"Dr. Hooper," he corrected himself.
"Mr. Holmes," she returned.
"Perhaps you can assist me. I could use a hot drink right now. Could you direct me to a cafe in the area that's still open?"
"Oh, um, of course. I would make you tea, but my flat is not, well, you would know all about it, you came along with them..." She trailed off, flustered.
"Of course, as you aren't allowed back in for a while, may I have the pleasure of your company while we get some refreshments? Everything's on me, of course."
She consented, blushing, and he gently took her arm as they made their way. He made small talk, discussing the weather, her job, and every topic he could think of that didn't relate to the disastrous day.
He was glad to notice her relaxing somewhat. He didn't understand the wave of protectiveness that passed over him as he looked at her. It could be something about her exposed vulnerabilities during the experiment. Or the way Sherlock had reacted to it. Right now, that didn't matter much. All he knew was that he some how identified with her now.
They ordered hot drinks and a bite to eat. Surprisingly, Molly was the one who brought up the sensitive matters. Mycroft shouldn't have underestimated her, once again.
"The team at my flat, they gave me a basic report of what happened. They wanted to check my flat for explosives, just in case. I understood that you were... there? Are you alright?"
This wasn't the blushing young girl Mycroft had accompanied to the cafe. This was the woman that had seen through Sherlock before he jumped, and was now seeing through Mycroft in a similar way. Her eyes weren't shrewd and calculating, however. Instead, they were gently knowing, and wisely understanding.
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking."
"That's what Sherlock tried to tell me, and it didn't work. You don't have to talk about it, I just thought, you know, if you do, I'm here. I mean, we're not friends or anything, but I'm here, so I might do as well as anyone else, only if you want to, I mean."
Mycroft should have found her awkward manner irritating, but he somehow found it soothing. Perhaps because she was the first person to ask him about his welfare after his harrowing experiences without any ulterior motive. His coworkers were concerned, but they needed the info. DI Lestrade was decent, but he had inquired as a favor to his brother. This young woman in front of him asked him only because she cared, in her straightforward, uncomplicated manner.
And she truly wanted to listen. So he spoke. He started off with the grenade, (no need to go into his brother's methods in getting him there) and continued from there. She made no hysterical exclamations, nor did she ask any questions. Instead, she remarked in her simple manner, "That sounds horrific," or "you must have all been frightened to death." Her tone was sympathetic, but composed.
Mycroft had to give her credit. She listened in a way that let him tell the tale in his own way, while still showing that she followed along, not only in mind, but in heart. He ended his monologue at the point where he was hospitalized, and fell silent.
She smiled at him, and honest, shy little smile. "I'must glad you're all alright," she said.
"John and Sherlock might take a few days off, but they are luckily safe and sound," he murmured in agreement.
"And you?" she turned to him, staring gently into his eyes.
"I was given a clean bill of health, obviously," he replied stiffly.
"Yet you don't think you matter. I keep on asking about you, and you tell me about your brother and his friend," she said softly.
"Yes, of course, they are your friends after all."
"Did Sherlock call you?" she pressed.
"He sent DI Lestrade to check up on me, which I must admit was pretty out of character. I suppose he does feel some kind of familial sentiment, after all," he drawled, a tinge of rueful irony coloring his voice.
"And did you call him?" she asked, while she obviously knew the answer.
"Sherlock is busy taking care of John, and he might also have some, ah, frustration with my behaviour and my part in this affair. I thought it best not to antagonize him. You know my brother," he added.
She smirked a little. Suddenly, she looked like nothing more than a mischievous schoolgirl. "I know him, and I know how he is. I want him to treat you nicely now, or I'll be having some more words with him."
Comprehension dawned in Mycroft's eyes. "You didn't?" he asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders modestly. "I did. I was very upset that time, by how he was destroying himyself and all the people that care about him. He told me he was grateful for my lack of a wedding ring."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I think I should be the one having words with him," he said protectively.
Molly gave a little laugh. "I'm used to it, you know. He once told me I counted, but I'm not sure quite how he meant it. I mean, I know he doesn't return my romantic feelings for him, but I could have learned to live with that."
She paused to sip her almost cold tea, looking thoughtful. "He trusted me. He knew I would do anything I asked of him, and I was flattered by that. It's just that, sometimes, I wished he would be a little more, I don't know, considerate. Not even of my feelings, only of the fact that I exist, as a human being, separate from the fact that I help him... you know what I'm saying?" she asked self-consciously.
"I know exactly what you're saying," Mycroft surprised himself with his passionate response.
She looked at him appraisingly. "You would, wouldn't you? It seems that you only count in certain ways, too." She blushed. "I'm sorry if that was offensive..."
"That was simply the truth, one that I have accepted long ago," he smiled ironically. This little woman had described his relationship with his brother aptly, in so few words.
He regarded her with a fresh pair of eyes. This woman, who had not only pined after, but truly loved his little brother, had sacrificed so much of herself to keep him alive and safe. She had spent two years lying to her friends for him, and wasn't met with much appreciation when he came back.
As if reading his mind, she remarked, "He tried to thank me, when he returned after his faked death, by taking me along on cases. All that time, he called me 'John.' " She gave a sad little smile, but there was no bitterness there.
"There is only one person in the world who has manged to make himself fully count in my brother's eyes," Mycroft said soberly. "And I am grateful to him for that. Because, at least now, he knows that others count at all."
"And yet, we will still do anything for him," Molly mused.
"Because we know he is a good person, deep down inside. And even when we know we're being used, we know his using is done with good intentions, and it will benefit someone, even if it isn't us." Mycroft rubbed his eyes wearily.
"You do understand, Dr. Hooper's, that it is his difficult history that has made him like that. And yet he has overcome so many of his difficulties. He is like a newborn who has recently begun to see colors, and can't yet make sense of them or name them. When he destroyed that abominable coffin, it was as if he suddenly connected a string of colors, and was horrified by what he saw.
"He never wanted to hurt you, Dr. Hooper," he added with conviction.
"I'm aware. And I think he doesn't really want to hurt you either, yet he doesn't know how to have a relationship with you without all the resentment and blame that has marked your interactions until now."
"One can hope that it is so. It is good to know that my brother has such a strong ally on his side, Dr. Hooper. I will make sure he learns to appreciate that."
"And I will make sure he learns to appreciate what his brother has sacrificed for him," she answered, eyes flashing.
Mycroft grinned, and then gallantly offered her his arm. "Shall we go, Dr. Hooper?"
They walked back to the flat in comfortable companionship, with the realization that a strange new friendship had been formed, and that it counted.