Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any fashion, from any series of any kind.

This is my first Mollycroft experiment that's been tumbling around in my head for days now. Expect it to be rather brief, as I prefer working with shorter pieces about 3 to 5 chapters in length. I should also note that, as an American, my British slang is needing work.

Comparative Loneliness

Up 'n down

Ferris wheel

Tell me how does it feel

To be so high...

Looking down here

Is it lonely?

- Norah Jones

The soft thump that came from the living room, the same sound that strangely woke her from a rather deep sleep, could not have been Toby. Molly felt the softness of his fur beneath her fingertips, his small chest cavity rumbling with a deep purr. There was only one other explanation.

Sherlock.

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her fist and maneuvered through the sheets that had wrapped around her flannel-clad legs. Her temporary flatmate had often scoffed at her attire, but she was too tired to change for him. What time was it, anyway?

4:30 a.m.

The illuminated screen of her cell phone told her as much. The bright and shiny new thing that she hadn't quite figured how to use yet now served as a pretty clock. Strangely, Sherlock hadn't been the one to suggest the device. His older brother had.

Molly hated to swim. She was never much fond of sporting activities in general, really. But she did love the heady warmth of the pool air, thick with the stench of chlorine. It would stick to her skin for hours, but Molly never minded. It was clean. Sterile. A perfect way to finish off a day of elbow-deep organ fishing.

Her job as a whole was very malodorous. Even a shower after work hardly put a dent in the odd combination of scents she carried with her. Molly was often self-conscious about it, although discarded perfume. It made matters worse.

The sanitation of a nightly swim, however, tempered the strong aroma.

With one mostly graceful dive, Molly felt the momentary chill of the water as her body adjusted to its temperature. It was both shocking and refreshing, being encompassed by the pressure of fluid. She often imagined the inner workings of the body, that this must be what being an organ felt like, and so on. She never voiced such thoughts.

She surfaced with a gasp, enjoying those last moments before her lungs gave out. Molly wasn't the gambling sort, but the adrenaline rush as her stomach grazed the bottom of the deep end, with her oxygen supply so far above, was strangely exhilarating. Perhaps one detective's interference in her life had caused the change.

The water gently sloshed over her arms as she 'front crawled' her way to the pool's deck. The tiny tiles were smooth beneath her finger tips as she hauled one elbow over the lip of the edge, and then the other, underarms holding her body upright as she wiped the water from her eyes. Thankfully she had chosen not to wear mascara that day.

The soft rumble of a throat clearing alerted Molly to a stranger's presence. She immediately dropped her hands and looked up.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper."

He was a sight to behold, Mycroft Holmes. So out of place in his dark, clearly expensive suit. His polished loafers gleaming even under the dim pool lights. Molly hadn't realized that she had been thoroughly inspecting him before the throat cleared again.

"I have procured a towel."

So he had. The burgundy fabric, lush and thick, hung over one forearm. She glanced quickly at her own towel, a ratty, once-white rag that she'd grabbed in her morning rush. "Ah...th-thank you, Mr. Holmes." She met his eyes briefly. They were dark and focused. "Oh! And good evening to you, too!"

Molly had not interacted with Mycroft very often. Only thrice before that moment. Each time never seemed to get easier. In fact, she was certain that his presence unnerved her all the more. It was then that she realized he was waiting for her.

With a blush that deepened and dropped to her chest, full bloom – she was always embarrassed about that, damned pale skin! – Molly used the slight strength of her arms to pull herself out of the water. She was intensely aware of the heavy gaze on her bare back, where her modest one-piece cut away. It was not sexual, from what she could ascertain. Neither of the Holmes asserted themselves sexually –at least toward her. Discounting the times that Sherlock purposely flirted to manipulate her. Yes, she knew about that. No, Mycroft's stare seemed purely clinical. She wondered what he was deducing from her love handles.

It only took Molly a moment to stand and find herself face-to-chest with the eldest Holmes. She shivered, and he must have taken pity on her, because he successfully wrapped the towel completely around her. It was rather large. More so than any she had ever owned. Softer too. Although she wouldn't have expected less from a man who had emeralds in his cuff links.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He gave her a clipped nod and pulled a rectangle box from the inside of his trench. "You are lacking a necessary tool, Miss Hooper. Due to your involvement in my brother's current activities, I have obtained one for you."

Molly grasped the box with the pruney fingers of one hand. He hadn't bothered wrapping it, which was just as well. She didn't have the extra hand to deal with bows and shiny paper anyway.

"Allow me."

With a moment's pause, she observed his long fingers, suspended mid-air, waiting for her. Molly mumbled an apology for making him wait, for not being able to open her own damned present, and other things that she knew she'd do incorrectly later. She watched as he deftly lifted the lid and discarded it.

Molly gasped in a manner that suggested diamonds. Or perhaps a very nice pen.

"But – a mobile? I...thank you, but..."

Mycroft smirked in a self-satisfied way that shut Molly up instantly. "You will find directions included. See to the second page. It will tell you how to reach me if you need my assistance."

She couldn't begin to wonder what she could possibly need him for. The thought was actually rather terrifying. "With Sher-?" she pressed her lips thin, halting the name before it slipped. Glancing this way and that, Molly continued, "With HIM?"

He had turned away from her as she inspected the present, but looked over his shoulder as she tripped through her words. His eyebrow rose slightly. "No, Miss Hooper. With you."

The phone sat, waiting, as she stared at it a moment longer. Thinking of Mycroft and whatever his aid entailed. He was more of an enigma than she could have ever assumed possible, even after meeting Sherlock. The younger Holmes had motivations that often centered around himself in some fashion, especially where she was concerned. With Mycroft, Molly had a hard time distinguishing when she was being used, praised, or aided. His gifts were always beneficial, but to whom? After a certain point, she forewent thinking and thanked him for his effort, convincing herself that she'd also be bestowing a 'thank you' for whomever else ended up blessed by Mycroft's perverse and rare generosity.

Molly brushed her fingers over the screen, bringing it to life and alerting her to two new messages. She selected them both, quickly skimming one after the other.

Do remember to lock your door. I am not a watchdog. – SH

Do not wait up. – SH

The immediate chill of fear grip her by the throat, tensing her shoulders and tightening over her spine. The pain flooding from her nervous system was immediate, and she anticipated fight or flight mode. If Sherlock was not in her flat, and Toby was curled on her bed, then...

She wasn't alone.