I know that Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper have only ever been in one scene together, but the idea that they would become besties is irresistible to me. This is a backstory of sorts for "There's Always Something," though you don't have to read that to understand this one.

Chapter 1: Sir, there's a mortician here to see you about a dead man

It was just shy of a year after the suicide jump of one Sherlock Holmes when Molly Hooper received an unexpected -and frightening- phone call.

"Hello, Dr. Hooper speaking." Molly answered her mobile on the first ring, pleasant and professional as always. That all evaporated instantly when she heard the frantic voice on the other end.

"Molly? Why the hell are you answering Mycroft's phone!?"

Molly was as startled by the loud popping noises in the background as she was to hear Sherlock shouting in her ear. There was a distant scream and a grunt from Sherlock. And then... was that an explosion? Molly kept her wits long enough to duck into the storage room behind her office before saying anything. Even alone in a cupboard, she felt the need to whisper.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?!"

There was a great deal of noise on the other end. She thought she could hear Sherlock muttering about Mycroft and same initials, but nothing she could really make out. There was more grunting and popping noises, which sounded a bit further away, before a breathless Sherlock spoke again, more to himself than Molly. "Molly. I meant to dial my brother. Sorry to bother you."

"Are you all right? What's going on? Do you need-" Molly stopped short as the line abruptly went dead. She continued to hold the phone to her ear as she slipped back out of the storage room. In a bit of a daze, she pulled the phone away and stared at it. Molly didn't know how long she stood there before a hand fell on her shoulder.

"Molly? Are you all right?" Too dazed to react, she didn't say anything. The hand guided her to a chair and spoke to her kindly. "Sit down. You've gone white as a sheet."

She looked up into the concerned eyes of Mike Stamford, "I have to go," Molly started, hardly realizing what she was saying, "family emergency."

"Of course. You leave right now. I'll clear everything."

The kind older doctor walked with her to the street and hailed a cab, offering his help in any way. She thanked him, calmer now that the shock was beginning to wear off, and got in the cab. She almost gave John Watson's address to the cabbie before realizing her mistake. Where could she go? Who could she...? A face popped into her head, of a man she had only met once and not under the best of circumstances. She sat forward and blurted out the only destination that made sense.

"Do you know how to get to the Diogenes Club?"

Within the hour, Molly Hooper was standing on the stoop of what she thought was an exclusive men-only club frequented by Mycroft Holmes. She was also banging on the door and ignoring the scowling cabbie who was waiting for his fee. Molly hadn't thought to take anything when she left Bart's; she had no purse. At least she had identification. It was pinned to the lab coat she was still wearing. The only money she had was a pocket full of change left over from buying her lunch in the canteen.

Thankfully, a very nice older gentleman (the butler, she presumed) not only answered her knock, but paid the cabbie and sent him on his way. Molly suspected his kindness had more to do with stopping the noise than helping her, but she didn't care at that moment.

"I need to see Mycroft Holmes. Now."

The butler tried to bundle her into what looked like a waiting room, but she just repeated her statement as she increased the volume of her voice. That brought a few younger, more burly men dressed in Victorian waistcoats who were probably supposed to intimidate her. Well, good luck with that. She had dated- and more importantly, dumped- an international criminal mastermind. Molly Hooper was not going to be intimidated by a couple of rejects from Downton Abbey.

"Tell Mr. Holmes there's a mortician here to see him about a dead man!"

All three of the men attempted to grab the agitated doctor. Molly was small and quick and easily ducked under arms and between bodies, repeating her demand to see Mycroft Holmes until the man himself finally showed up, looking very put out. He shooed away the burly footmen, nodded to the butler and gestured for Molly to follow him back through the bowels of the old, wood-paneled building to what she assumed was his office.

"I've just spoken to the dead man and he explained his little mistake."

"Is he all right?" Molly insisted desperately.

"Yes, quite, well," He looked rather annoyed, "as well as he ever is, considering his penchant for dramatic scenes. Really, could he, just once, finish a job without the exposition on his own genius?"

Molly scrunched her nose, "He spent too much time pointing out all of the details to the bad guys again, didn't he?"

"Hmm," Mycroft agreed, rolling his eyes, "They got a bit tetchy, naturally. Guns were drawn. Ground to air missiles primed." Seeing Molly pale even further, he added, "In the end, he accomplished his goal with very little injury to himself."

Molly wilted with relief, sagging against the nearest wall. Mycroft, with his impeccable manners, stepped forward to offer assistance.

"Humphries, be so good as to bring in a fresh trolley. Miss Hooper has had a nasty shock. A bit of cake will set her to rights. Bring coffee as well. You prefer coffee to tea, don't you Miss Hooper?"

The butler bowed out and Mycroft took Molly's elbow, "Come along my dear and have a sit down. Wouldn't want you to faint, now would we? There we go," Mycroft said as he eased Molly into a plush chair that probably cost more than a year's rent on her flat, then took the seat opposite. Now that she had made it past the brute squad and into the inner sanctum, she had to admit to feeling a bit intimidated.

"Too late to play the timid lass now, Miss Hooper. You've successfully invaded one of the most secretive clubs in the nation. No going back from that."

Molly had the vague feeling Mycroft was ridiculing her and was hit with a very strong sense of deja-vu. Offer her tea and cake and she'll shut up. Compliment her hair and she'll roll out the body for you. She wondered if either of the Holmes boys knew how to interact with human beings without being manipulative prats in the process.

"Not really, no."

...and apparently Molly wasn't calm enough to realize she was speaking aloud. She blushed and tried to apologize.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to-"

Mycroft waived an imperious hand, "It's the truth, Miss Hooper. It is a fact that manipulating a person is often a much more efficient means of achieving a goal than taking the time to explain. I don't expect you to understand, nor do I offer apologies. It is simply the way of things."

Molly smiled a bit, understanding more than Mycroft, with his impeccable condescension, probably realized. She had seen it in Sherlock often enough, the way his brain worked faster than even he could articulate. Molly could see how it would seem easier just to lie to get what was needed. She didn't like it, certainly didn't approve, but understood a bit better now and that made it easier to justify her own willingness to be manipulated.

"Of course, manipulation can also be rather tricky when dealing with someone such as yourself. A person who recognizes the subterfuge for what it is. I must admit to being surprised at how easily you seem to see it."

Mycroft was studying her with the same narrow-eyed look Sherlock had when he was parsing clues. This Holmes, at least, did not blurt out his conclusions to all and sundry. At the same time, he was colder, more reserved. One of the things Molly lov- liked most about Sherlock was his almost manic energy, the passion he showed for his work.

"I've known Sherlock for several years now," Molly said, shrugging, "I've paid attention. You're very like him, you know. Same mannerisms, only a little more subtle. Not that difficult to spot the way you both handle people, though. You're the one who taught him how to do it in the first place, aren't you? He just doesn't apply his skills in exactly the same way. You're more polite about it." Realizing how that might sound to Sherlock's older brother, Molly backtracked, "Oh! I... uh... I don't mean to say Sherlock isn't polite. He can be when he wants something. It's just. Well, I don't think he sees the point in being polite for the sake of being polite."

Mycroft's mouth thinned out into an approximation of a smile. "You are every bit as perceptive as my brother indicated."

"Sherlock told you that?"

"Warned, actually. Ah, here's our tea."

Molly wanted to ask what he meant by 'warned' but Humphries took his time setting out the tea things, presenting Molly with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee and Mycroft a lovely-smelling cup of tea (both served in cups that looked disturbingly expensive), and passing a tea cake to Molly. She tried to refuse the cake, but Mycroft insisted and she found herself devouring the lightest confection she had ever eaten. By the time she and Mycroft had seconds, the conversation had moved forward.

"You know, Miss Hooper, you have turned out to be one of the most useful assets in all of this. Everyone underestimates you, including, I'm ashamed to say, me. I won't be making that mistake again, though, rest assured."

Molly felt equally flattered and troubled. Mycroft made the last part sound suspiciously like a threat. He was staring at her again, hands in a steeple under his chin in a pose so familiar, it made Molly's heart hurt.

"I can confidently say that my brother will underestimate you again, however."

"What makes you say that?" Molly tried not to let the hurt she felt flow into her voice, but wasn't entirely successful.

"Because you are a conundrum, Miss Hooper. You are everything you appear to be and, yet, not."

"I don't understand," Molly was truly confused and, she must admit, feeling the affects of overindulging in the lovely cakes. She had the feeling Mycroft was up to something and that, sooner or later, she would be caught up in it. She also had the sinking feeling that Sherlock's inability to see her clearly was going to be used against him somehow and that made her nauseous.

Again proving that he did indeed share genetic material with Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft answered her last concern without Molly having to voice it.

"My brother's safety is important to me, Miss Hooper. I should think the lengths I've gone to in killing him would serve as proof of that."

"I know," Molly started, "but you both put winning above safety."

"Some sacrifices are always necessary, Miss Hooper. The fate of nations outweigh the personal safety of individuals."

"I just want Sherlock to be all right," Molly said, standing and looking down at the powerful man seated before her. "All of your political machinations, international intrigue... it's all very exciting, but I just want him to be safe."

Mycroft looked at her for a long moment and stood, towering over her now. "I know," he said, "I'm counting on that, Miss Hooper." With a smile, he walked Molly out of the office and ordered a car to take her back to Bart's. It was after she arrived at the hospital and made it safely to the deserted morgue that her phone rang again. She answered with the usual professionalism, but a wobble to her voice.

"Dr. Hooper speaking."

"Mycroft said he just spoke to you."

"Sherlock? Are you all right? Tell me!"

"I'm fine, Molly. Calm down."

"I won't calm down! You and your brother...! This is all a game to you, isn't it? I thought was listening to you be killed!"

"Of course it's not a game!" Sherlock shouted. He stopped talking abruptly. Molly remained silent, counting the breaths she could hear over the phone, matching hers to the rhythm, until they were both calmer. She knew she should apologize for the accusation, but also that she wasn't entirely wrong. It wasn't her place to say it, though, Molly knew that. It wasn't her place to seek out Mycroft Holmes, either, but Molly was as impulsive when acting on her feelings as Sherlock was when solving a case.

"Why were you talking to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed. He interrupted before she had a chance to reply, "It doesn't matter. Stay away from him. And don't let him into Bart's while I'm away. He invades enough of my life."

"And death, apparently," Molly said without thinking. She thought she heard a snort on the other end of the phone. It made her smile.

"Listen," Sherlock said shortly, "I'm sorry that I called you-"

"I'm not," Molly blurted, "I mean, I'm sorry you didn't get help faster because you called the wrong person, but I'm not sorry that I got to hear your voice. I've been so worried." The last was said in a tear-filled whisper, in spite of Molly's best efforts.

"Molly," his voice held that warning note that Molly was all too familiar with, "you have to be careful. If anyone catches on to the fact that you're worrying over a dead man, it may lead to awkward questions."

"Don't worry. No one pays much attention to me and when they do, they assume it's grief." Molly paused and took a breath, "Which it is, in a way-" She closed her mouth to stop the ensuing babble that would probably have made him hang up. As it was, silence reigned on the line for so long that Molly was worried that he had actually disconnected. She heard him clear his throat, though and sighed in spite of herself.

"I'm glad I misdialed," Sherlock said in a low voice, "It's comforting to hear," he stopped and was silent for another long moment, "It's good to know that someone in the world wishes me well."

"Always," Molly breathed. She closed her eyes and swallowed, "But you're not going to 'misdial' again. Are you?"

"No. I can't afford to make mistakes."

"I know," Molly answered quietly.

"Staying in touch will only hinder my efforts."

"I know that, too."

"I'll be removing your contact from my phone as soon as we disconnect."

"Okay."

There was another drawn out silence in which Molly concentrated on listening to Sherlock breathing on the other end. It didn't even occur to her that he might be doing the same.

"Goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye, Sherlock"

"And stay away from Mycroft." With that he did ring off.

It wasn't until a year after his return to the living that Molly found out Sherlock had not, in fact, erased her from his phone. Instead he had relabeled her number "Hope" and buried it in an encrypted emergency contacts file. Molly tried really hard not to read too much into that, but then Sherlock was suddenly kissing the air from her lungs and the point became rather moot.