A/N: OK, so maybe instead of working on one of my other WiPs now I've finished "The Handler", I've gone and started a new one. This one has been in my mind since I first saw TAB.
And though there is Angst, I promise no Character Death (despite the title). In fact, I plan to keep it as canon-compliant as possible. We'll see how that goes!
Thanks again to any and all of you who commented on my work - especially the last chapter of "The Handler" which I posted yesterday. Your encouragement is what keeps me going in inspires me to find time to write in my (admittedly crazy) life!
Enough rambling. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Shock
It was a ridiculous last request, even for Sherlock Holmes. He'd never expected his brother to agree to it. But then, Sherlock always knew that Mycroft's distain for emotions was always more of a petulant protest than pure belief.
Sherlock had no doubt that acquiring a cottage in Sussex wouldn't be any issue - particularly when Janine had just bought him a delightfully charming little property - as far as he could tell from the photos.
No, it was the other part which would cause more problems for Mycroft than anything he'd ever asked his older brother to do for him. Harder even than the task of asking the Dean of King's College to let Sherlock continue his studies after his fourth-straight semester interrupted by substance abuse.
No, a mere academic would be child's play compared to Mycroft's new foe. Sherlock feared that even his brother, for all his practiced skills in international diplomacy, would struggle to find a way to win over this opponent.
After all, a wronged and angry Molly Hooper was a force to be reckoned with.
Sherlock could imagine the scene. His brother, hiding in the shadows of Bart's basement, waiting to catch Molly on her way home after a long day. Too tired to raise the same level of anger she showed Sherlock that day in the lab, all those months ago.
"Your presence has been requested," would be his opening statement, his voice echoing off the walls while Molly's breath caught in her throat with the shock.
One beat, maybe two, then it would dawn on Molly what Mycroft was asking, and who he was asking it for.
"If my presence is requested, then he can damn-well come here and request it himself," eyes full of fury, directed at Mycroft but meant for his brother.
She would turn to walk away.
"No, Doctor Hooper, he can't."
The words would stop her. The colour would drain from her face.
"Magnussen," she would whisper to herself. She would have already seen the story, would have worked out the link. After all, Molly was already well aware of where Sherlock was the night he was shot.
Mycroft would nod so slightly that the surveillance cameras wouldn't be able to catch any record of his acknowledgment.
"If the case is over, why does he need me?" Her tone would soften somewhat, but her eyes still piercing, unnerved by Mycroft's power, prestige or position.
"I promised not to say."
"Then I promise you, I won't go."
Sherlock knew this would be the case, so he gave his brother the one sentence he knew would work to soften her resolve.
"My brother is going to die."
In the end, it wasn't that hard to have Molly Hooper come to Sussex for what would be his last week on earth. But making her stay would be another matter altogether.
She arrived the next morning, clutching her overnight bag against her chest like armour as she walked down the cobbled-path to the porch where Sherlock stood, waiting, resting against the front door and taking a long drag of a cigarette.
No point denying himself anymore. All his sins could be remembered.
Seeing him, she dropped her bag at his feet with a thud, and ripped the cigarette from between his lips.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her eyes were fire, her tone pure fury.
"Trying to have a smoke," he nodded to the cigarette, smouldering on the ground. For a moment he considered picking it up, but thought better of it, crushing it with his heel.
He braced himself for a lecture, a description of the biggest lung tumour she'd ever seen, or what a life-long smoker's lung tissue looks like.
Instead, she reached down, picked up her bag, and headed inside the cottage, giving him no choice but to follow her.
She stood in the small parlour, surveying the mess – piles of books strewn all over the floor, pieces of furniture still covered to protect them from disuse and dust, sun shades which had not been shifted, making the room far more claustrophobic – especially now he had joined her.
"Where's my room?" She asked, business-like.
"… ahhh, um…" he stumbled, a first for him in her presence. Usually failure of language was something he evoked in her – rather than vice versa. But he really hadn't expected Mycroft to succeed in getting her to come, so he hadn't devoted any brainpower to the problem of what to do when she got there.
She looked at him, her eyes beginning to narrow with impatience.
"Well, there are two bedrooms," he began, pausing to read her face which was infuriatingly blank. "But only one of them has a bed."
Molly smirked. "That's fine."
Sherlock was shocked, especially considering what happened the last time he had shared a bed with her. Or more specifically, what happened the next morning when her fiancée Tom dropped by to find a scene which both Sherlock and Molly knew was nothing more than the result of a bone-tired consulting detective crashing in his bolt-hole and not having the heart to request that the owner of said bolt-hole vacate her bed for the one in the spare room because, as Sherlock had told her time and time again, he needed the space.
The only reason he was half-naked, as he protested to Tom, was because he always slept that way.
Of course, Tom was having none of it.
He had left Molly and Tom to fight it out in the kitchen while he slunk away down the fire escape he'd used to come in.
The morning Molly slapped him was indeed the first time he'd discovered that her engagement was over. And he truly was sorry, no matter how poorly he'd expressed the sentiment at the time.
So he was shocked at Molly's willingness to recreate that event, sans fiancé.
Sherlock followed her into the room, only to find her gathering up Sherlock's things, ready to shove them into his hands the moment he appeared in the doorway.
"You can have the lounge, Sherlock." She said coolly.
He nodded. He wasn't going to protest.
After all, she was his guest.
A/N: I hope you like it. I've almost finished Chapter 2 so hopefully I can post it in the next few days!