A/N: This idea came to me this morning and was written in one go, which almost never happens to me, so I might as well get it out there. This is a precursor to a longer fic I intend to write, which will be Molly-centric but also feature a Sherlolly courtship/relationship. However, Sherlock doesn't actually appear in person here.
Could be read as Molly/Mycroft if that's your thing but bear in mind that's not my intention. Mainly I ship Mycroft/cake, as you will see.
Thanks to Rhi, Twiggy and Lindsey for speedy beta services. I don't think I've ever posted something with such a low rating before. What has this ship done to me?
It was no mere coincidence that on the day Sherlock Holmes returned to the living, Molly Hooper was summoned to see Human Resources.
"There's to be an investigation," she was told. Enquiring minds wanted to know how he'd faked his death inside their walls, and her name was all over the paperwork. Words like "scandal", "national embarrassment" and "gross misconduct" were bandied about, though she wasn't given room to speak. Not yet. That was all for a meeting at an undisclosed point in the future, which she'd be notified about in writing. She could be accompanied by a union representative, and if she had any evidence to exonerate herself she needed to forward it on before the meeting. "Under no circumstances are you to set foot in this hospital until the investigation has been completed. If you find yourself in an ambulance requiring emergency treatment, I suggest you tell the paramedics to take you elsewhere."
That was that. Her career was over. She didn't have any evidence to help her wriggle out of this, and was completely incapable of lying to save her own skin. No, she decided, she was going to the tell the truth in that meeting. If they were going to strip her of her licence, at least she wouldn't act like a coward about the whole thing.
A kind of dizzy numbness settled inside her as she left the office. She'd seen this coming, of course. When she'd agreed to help Sherlock she hadn't thought ahead to the consequences, she'd just wanted him to live. It was only in the two years since she'd had time to brood over what it would mean for her when it all came to light. Something Sherlock would doubtless not have considered, but she'd agreed to help him, and she had no right to ask him to play dead for the rest of his life. It wasn't fair on the people still grieving for him. Still, it was difficult to prepare yourself for a thing like this. Maybe if it had been completely out of the blue she'd have been falling apart, but instead she calmly navigated the corridors to the exit.
She wanted to text Sherlock, but had no idea what his new number was, and besides what was he going to do about it? Was she expecting him to care? Oh, he would the first time he went to the mortuary and had to deal with someone less accommodating than her, but he'd find ways of getting his own way. Soon enough he'd have forgotten all about her.
Tom was at work, and this was something she'd be better explaining to his face. After all, she was about to have a lot of free time on her hands. This might be a good thing for the pair of them—if she was out from under Sherlock's orbit, then she could more easily smother that little flicker of want that had sprung to life when she'd seen him in the locker room. An old emotion she'd thought long dead, and after all it was little more than nostalgia. Affection for a man she'd once loved. But she'd moved on, and if she didn't have any further contact with Sherlock then it would be easier to keep that affection locked in a box of memories.
Stumbling out of Barts, she didn't go straight home, instead taking herself to a chain coffee place where she could people watch. She'd spent time before wondering what career she could take up when it all went belly up, found herself in shops and cafes and on the phone to call centres wondering if she could do those jobs and knowing she'd go bonkers within a week. She'd still have her doctorate, but suspected academia would be closed to her after the scandal of it all broke. Perhaps a change of pace would do her good. She'd spent the better part of her life surrounded by death and decay. A little fresh air, a little sunlight would do her good. She could back to uni, retrain. Maybe midwifery, or becoming a vet, or a librarian. This wasn't a closure. This was an opportunity.
The sun had set when she got back to her flat, everything shrouded in shadows, but she knew immediately she wasn't alone. "Sherlock?" She directed the question at the figure on her sofa, flipping the lightswitch.
"Not quite, Doctor Hooper." Mycroft Holmes gave her an unnerving smile.
"Oh. It's you." She should have asked how he got in without a key, but anything Sherlock could do, Mycroft could do with the resources of the government at his beck and call.
"I hope you don't mind that I helped myself to tea and one or two of your delightful scones. Your chemistry skills transfer exquisitely to baking."
"Why are you here, Mycroft?" For reasons unknown even to her, Mycroft didn't turn her into a stuttering mess the way his brother did, despite the fact he was infinitely more intimidating. Maybe because she felt nothing for him beyond curiosity—she liked to catalogue the differences between he and Sherlock in her head, and tally them up against the similarities. Maybe because she knew if he ever meant her harm—and why would he?—he wouldn't come in person. Mycroft did a lot of barking but he didn't do his own biting.
"I just popped in to let you know you may return to work tomorrow. That confusion around my brother's paperwork has been cleared up and the matter is now fully resolved."
"Oh," Molly repeated. "Did you talk to them?"
Mycroft made a noncommital gesture, not quite a shrug. "It was never meant to come to this, not when you had performed such a valuable service."
"Is that a 'thank you for saving my brother'?"
If his previous movement hadn't been enough to register as a shrug, the twitch of his lip definitely didn't count as a smile. Especially not a fond smile. "Sometimes it is useful to have someone sharing the burden of ensuring my brother does not get himself killed."
"Then you're welcome. And thank you."
Mycroft rose, brushing invisible crumbs from his suit and heading for the door. "This way I don't have to put up with a temper tantrum about why his pathologist isn't available anymore. Although if you ever consider a career change, my employer is always on the look out for competent bakers."
With a wave of his umbrella he was gone, and the path of Molly's life righted itself.
Christmas was supposed to have been different this year. She'd have Tom, and his family, and and the whole weekend off to enjoy it. Instead she was on her own, the airfare to visit her mum in New Zealand out of her price range, and the Baker Street gang had decamped to the Holmes' family cottage in Dorset. Not that she hadn't been discretely invited by Mrs Holmes, but things were still weird. Weird between herself and Sherlock, after she'd tried to slap some sense into him. He hadn't invited her round when he'd been convalescing and when she found out he'd strung that girl Janine along she'd decided it was for the best. Things were also weird between John and Mary, for reasons Molly had no clue about. Not that she'd gone searching for clues. It was none of her business, really, not when she barely knew Mary, although she'd have put good money down that Sherlock was involved somehow.
She'd sent Mycroft along with a tin of homemade mince pies and cranberry scones—he'd hinted ever so subtly—and committed to All The Overtime. At least this way she might be able to afford the plane ticket to Auckland next year.
Christmas was the worst time to be in the mortuary, really. The days were so short she never got to see sunlight, as she started before dawn and left after sunset, and it seemed to be an endless stream of car crashes caused by drunk drivers, elderly people succumbing to the cold, and people getting so stressed about their financial situation they took the only way out they could see. Entire families wiped out in some cases. She was thankful she only had to deal with the aftermath, in facts and science, rather than the bloody mess of emotions left behind. She saw it all too clearly on the police officers who came in to pick up the autopsy reports. Men and women who'd scraped bit and pieces of people from tarmac then gone to give their loved ones the bad news—delivered solemn words under the glow of fairy lights and the glitter of tinsel and turned worlds upside down. All things considered, she had the easier task.
She sent Sherlock a text on Christmas Day, wishing him a merry Christmas, and wasn't disappointed when he failed to reply. She wasn't even surprised when he didn't appear in the mortuary in the following week—murder happened at this time of year, but it was domestic stuff that even Molly could figure out. If Sherlock was asked to solve anything he could probably do it over the phone. He wouldn't need to look at the body.
The day before New Year's Eve an official-looking envelope arrived in the post, one Molly would have shoved in with all the bank statements to deal with in the new year if it hadn't had a return address of the Cabinet Office. Curious, she tore it open, and then it took three attempts for the words to process.
The Queen may be graciously pleased to approve that you be appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE).
She almost didn't hear her phone ringing over her excited screams.
"Congratulations, Doctor Hooper," said Mycroft when she answered.
"Is this you? Did you do this?" she said, the words rushing out on one breath.
"It appears your services to pathology are greatly appreciated."
"Pathology. Right." She bit down on her lip to keep her urge to squeal under wraps.
"It's true. You have written several excellent papers that will have a significant impact on future forensic investigations. And all at such a young age. The criminal justice system owes you a thank you." Mycroft sounded worn out. Poor thing had spent an entire weekend around people.
"How was Christmas?"
He paused. "Christmas was abominable, I expected nothing less." There seemed to be more to his statement that the usual Holmes theatrics, but she didn't pry.
"So you entertained yourself by adding people to the New Years Honours list?"
"Mummy demanded it. You'd normally have been notified much earlier, but it was only when she realised Sherlock hadn't bought you a present that the idea occurred to me."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you liked me."
"I don't like people, Doctor Hooper." She could practically hear the curl of his lip. "However, you are a competent pathologist, an intelligent woman all things considered, and my taste buds adore you. Besides, Sherlock would be horrified to hear I approved of any of his associates."
She giggled. "Then he'll never have to know."
"Please don't wear anything with kittens on it to the Palace. My employer detests cats." He paused, like he was about to say something else, but then thought better of it. "Goodbye, Doctor Hooper."
It sounded so formal. Mycroft didn't usually do goodbyes. Or hellos. His grasp of social niceties was tenuous at times, though his position had forced more polish onto him than his brother possessed. She didn't have chance to question it; he'd hung up, and she had no way of contacting him directly. He always sought her out when he needed something.
Molly didn't put the pieces together until weeks later, when Moriarty's resurrection had been dealt with and the truth about Christmas came out. She withheld her baking from Mycroft for two weeks until he apologised for keeping Sherlock's exile from her, and if Mycroft was almost pleasant towards Molly whenever she saw him, Sherlock never twigged.
And if he quietly made a complimentary remark or two about her to Sherlock, she had the good manners to pretend to be oblivious in return.