Sherlock was safely out of London at last. Molly sat boneless in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club, waiting for the elder Holmes to arrive. The day's main event had left her drained. But then it isn't every day you watch someone you love jump from a building. The plan worked though, and that was what kept Molly from crying. Sherlock was safe. John believed what he saw (and fortunately he was too shook up to truly observe the scene). Sherlock Holmes was believed dead, pronounced so that afternoon and Mycroft Holmes himself was called in to examine the body. Molly had spent the last forty-eight hours scrounging up lab coats and bags of blood, carefully doctoring up the paperwork. It had taken her almost until the last minute to find the body that looked like Sherlock. She was owed a few favors, and thanks to Sherlock's homeless network posing as morgue workers, and Molly 'borrowing' a vehicle to transport the body, she got it to Barts with an hour to spare. After everything had happened, and the day shift went home, she cleaned up Sherlock, taped his ribs and saw him off. Anthea brought her back to Mycroft's club through a hidden entrance to his office where she was to wait. For what she didn't know, perhaps Mycroft needed to speak with her. Or perhaps it wasn't safe for her yet.
Mycroft would be out until late, fixing every last detail. Sherlock would be somewhere over Germany by now (according to her watch it was just past eleven. Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied until the plane landed in the Czech Republic, she was sure. Meanwhile, Molly was beyond hungry. She wandered around the office, trying to distract herself from her stomach's protests.
"Not even a sodding candy dish!" she thought gloomily. She dug through her pockets for her phone.
I don't suppose there's tea to be had in this club?
MollyH
Apologies, Miss Hooper. Until I arrive, nothing must be seen coming or going from my office as your involvement in this endeavor is not common knowledge.
MH
That's charming. I haven't eaten since ten PM. Yesterday.
MollyH
Mycroft did know that feeling. He felt himself sigh a little; the pathologist must have been ravenous. He tapped out a quick text before turning back to the computer on his lap.
Top left desk drawer.
MH
Molly got up from her seat (shoes tucked underneath it, she'd kicked them off ages ago) to poke through the desk. In the drawer Mycroft spoke of she found a package of jaffa cakes and a few tea biscuits. Breaking the seal, she popped a whole cake in her mouth, sighing as she chewed. In a few moments, she was licking chocolate from her fingers, eyeing the tea biscuits. She thought of leaving them, after all, Mycroft did direct her to his snack drawer, he obviously used it, and he may want a snack later tonight.
"Sod that," she muttered, feeling her stomach groan in protest. Slowly, she nibbled on the biscuits, wandering around the office. It was very much as she expected the elder Holmes to decorate such a place. Rich, dark paneling, antique and modern touches throughout. She tried to be fascinated by the paintings on the walls, admiring the brushwork and likeness the artist had captured. She did find some amusement in the photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft, clearly uncomfortable standing next to eachother, Sherlock in a graduation gown and cap, Mycroft, for lack of better words, was somewhat chubbier then. Not huge but…certainly not the slight man he was today.
A few hours later, her stomach was growling again, and just when she was about to send Anthea a text, hoping the PA could slide something under the door (a slice of pizza in an envelope, perchance) the door opened and Mycroft entered, shutting it after him. His tie was loosed, and his suit was a little less…posh than normal, as if he'd been leaning against his suit jacket on the back of a chair. He plodded (yes, plodded, Mycroft Holmes was capable of looking weary) over to the table cart, pulled out the stopper to the brandy and poured himself a glass. He turned, sighing heavily when he suddenly realized that there was a person occupying the chair by the fireplace. He looked at the empty jaffa cake package, another sigh escaping him.
"Don't suppose the biscuits are left?" he asked tiredly.
"Nope," Molly swung her legs off arm rest of the chair. "Is it safe for me to go home now?" Mycroft was considering his brandy, and then swallowed it all, setting the glass aside.
"My resources tell me your flat is safe, it's been thoroughly gone over. Seems Sherlock was correct, Moriarty did not suspect you."
"No, he wouldn't," Molly shrugged. She got to her feet, with a grunt, feeling the ache in her calves and knees. "Well…I suppose you haven't eaten either, are you hungry?" he didn't say anything, not quite understanding what she was suggesting. "I'm going to go home now," she said. "And I'm going to make dinner."
"At this hour?" he looked at his pocket watch. It wasn't the first time he'd been up past midnight, but the day's events were considerably more stressful than a petty UN conference.
"At this rate, I won't have any sleep until we hear something," she shrugged. "I'm going to make french toast; you can come if you want."
Two in the morning found Mycroft (shockingly enough) sitting at Molly Hooper's kitchen table. Her cat was in the chair opposite, his yellow eyes just level with the table, glaring at him.
"You're in his seat," she said, watching the pair of them from the stove. Mycroft looked confused, wondering if she meant the cat. "That's Sherlock's chair." Mycroft was surprised. He was unaware his brother ever went to the pathologist's flat. "He comes here, or did, nights when he didn't have a case and I wasn't at work to let him in the lab," she explained, seeing the confusion on his face. While she turned back to the stove, he looked around the flat. There wasn't much evidence of anyone but Molly living there. But then, Sherlock wouldn't leave anything of his behind, not out in plain view. Mycroft could hazard a guess that there was an extra toothbrush in the medicine chest, and a spare blanket in the bench seat near the sofa.
Molly forked the bacon, turning it over, fat hissed and popped in the pan.
"I'd feed him, make him play games on my phone to keep him from getting bored and…" she pursed her mouth, trying to think of a delicate way of putting it.
"Keep him from getting high?" Mycroft asked bluntly and she nodded, sliding a stack of french toast off the griddle onto a plate. Stacking up a generous portion of bacon, she set it before him, along with a bowl of strawberries, a tub of whipped cream and syrup. He slid a few off the stack onto his own plate.
"Sorry," she muttered. "I don't exactly eat right when I'm worried…"
"Neither do I," he confessed. She almost laughed then.
"I used to fry Mars bars for Sherlock, for him to take on his cases, he could bring them anywhere. Didn't seem to matter what time, if he was hungry and a case was over, he'd be in my fridge, poking me to make him a bacon sandwich or fish and chips."
"Sherlock's diet was always wretched," Mycroft said. "He eats anything," Molly smiled knowingly, picking up Toby, she set the cat on her lap, reaching for the berries and whipped cream.
"I know, it used to infuriate me. He could have two helpings of bacon, and the grease in the pan if he wanted, and not gain an ounce. Seems like I can smell a chip shop and I feel my rear already growing."
They ate quietly for a while; conversation seemed like work at this hour. Mycroft ate his fill, and with great restrain pushed back his plate and shook his head when Molly offered to make more. The last of the bacon was divided, Molly telling him it was cruel to make her eat it all (it's never good heated the next day, and one does not simply waste bacon). He thanked her, promising that if he heard something, he would pass it along to her.
"Sorry it wasn't anything fancy," Molly said, nodding to the table. "I can actually cook,"
"It was greatly appreciated, and better than the tea biscuits I was going to scrounge for."
"I don't know about 'better'," Molly said with a smile before sobering. "I know I can't do much," she fidgeted her hands a moment. "But…if you need anything, food I mean, or just someone to shout at or talk at," she shrugged her shoulders.
"Why should I need someone?" he asked with a frown, truly confused. Molly was reminded suddenly of the first time she offered her assistance to Sherlock; absolutely baffled that someone of their intellect could need someone like her. She looked steadily at Mycroft then.
"Because you just lost your brother, and there is no one in the world for you to talk with."
Mycroft was silent then, realizing the truth in her words. For the next six to twelve months, Sherlock would only be contacting him via encrypted text message, regarding Moriarty's network. No, he and Sherlock were not best friends; their relationship was…complicated at best. They didn't meet every Wednesday and Friday for tea, or go to lunch or even play cards (two geniuses in the same house, it was too easy to deduce what the other person was holding). But Sherlock was still his brother, and the only one who could carry sustained intellectual conversation. Molly bowed her head a moment, rubbing the back her neck.
"Look um…I know I'm not Sherlock, not even close…" she shrugged. "But I love him, and you're his family, he told me to look after you," Mycroft looked up then, surprised. She smiled warmly then, almost laughing. "I suppose he meant feed you, that's what I'm good for, so…that's what I'm here for," she shrugged. "If you need someone to talk at, or even just another person in the room, who happens to bring you plates of sweets or sandwiches, I can do that." Mycroft actually bowed his head to her then.
"Thank you, Miss Hooper, perhaps I shall take you up on that," he hesitated a moment. "You're wrong, you know, you've done much more than you realize." And he left her so.
