I Could Write a Book
This is not intended to be taken massively seriously – it's just a little bit of fluffy goodness, in four chapters.
I dedicate this to Rocking the Redhead, in whose head canon Molly and Mycroft are great friends who meet frequently to overcome their loneliness and have a pact whereby he keeps her safe while she keeps him in baked goods! I love that idea and just had to run with it. I'm afraid it might go slightly outside your canon in the next couple of chapters, but I hope you won't mind too much!
The cakes described are taken from Mary Berry's website (the Brits among you may recognise her from The Great British Bake Off). They are all either her own recipe or favourites of hers.
And lyrics in each chapter are from I Could Write a Book by Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers, for reasons that will become much clearer in chapter 2.
And please don't fear, A Reckoning is still very much on track! As is A Good Man in Honore, for those who are following that story.
Chapter 1
"If they asked me, I could write a book…"
There's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days.
And there's a reason why Molly walks the streets without fear these days.
As she strides down the road the CCTV cameras on the tall city buildings turn to follow her, but she pays them no more heed than she does the occasional stares from strangers. She's used to the surveillance by now; most of the time she forgets it's there. And she fears no sudden attack from one of Moriarty's nameless killers.
It wasn't always the case. For weeks after Sherlock's 'death', she hardly dared to venture out. It was true that Sherlock had told her not to worry, that she was in no danger, but he had done so in his usual, careless, slightly impatient, manner. She wasn't entirely convinced – it wasn't as if Sherlock had a great record for keeping his friends safe from attack.
Plus there was the fact that she didn't want to encounter any of Sherlock's friends or family…particularly his nosy older brother. Mycroft Holmes was far too sharp-eyed for her liking, and Molly knew she was an appalling actor. So, she scuttled quickly between home and work and back again, and stayed at home in the evenings, refusing well-meaning invitations from friends.
To stave off her troubled thoughts, she started to bake again.
Something that very few of her friends knew about mild-mannered, quiet little Dr Molly Hooper was that she loved baking, always had done. It took her back to lazy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, dangling her legs from a stool and watching Mum mix and whisk and stir and knead a mixture into something that would later be served up, steaming and delicious, for tea. Sometimes, she would 'help' – dropping spoonfuls of cake mixture into little paper cups, cutting biscuit mixture into animal shapes, stealing little bits of salty uncooked dough and rolling them between finger and thumb as Mum kneaded and rolled out pastry for lemon curd tarts.
Later, when she was older, Mum taught her the basics, and then she carried on from that, experimenting, developing her own recipes. It wasn't even so much the finished product, satisfying though it was to produce something delicious, but there was something sensual about the act of preparation. She loved rolling up her sleeves and getting her hands and forearms covered in flour, sinking her fingers into soft, yielding dough, pouring lemon syrup over a freshly baked cake, piping icing onto little biscuits. Since Molly was not the type to binge on unhealthy food, her friends and work colleagues were soon the happy recipients of whatever sweet treat she had "just whipped up" the previous night.
It was just after delivering a carefully-wrapped Lemon and Poppy Seed Traybake to a delighted Mike Stamford that she received the phone call.
"Miss Hooper?" The man's voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't immediately place it.
"Yes? Who is this, and how do you have my number?"
"It's Mycroft Holmes. You carried out the autopsy on my brother."
Her spine tensed immediately. Here it came… She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up the pretence for very long.
"Mmm?" she responded in a non-committal manner.
There was a silence at the other end and then Mycroft's voice came again, cutting through any objections she might have been about to make. "Look, I'm a busy man and I don't have time for any denials. You and I have a secret in common, I think, and it'll be to your advantage to agree to meet me. Will you do that?"
She blinked at his directness and agreed to a meeting after her shift.
They met in a nondescript café close to Bart's and he ordered tea and scones before getting to the point.
"I know my brother is alive, and I know that you helped him. Don't worry," he added quickly at her fearful look. "I'm not going to turn you in for the false autopsy. I am glad you helped him."
"So am I," she agreed, fervently, not able to tell whether it was relief at his words or the knowledge that someone else shared the burden that made her heart a little lighter.
He cut his scone up, spreading it with butter and jam, before looking up at her again. "I'll come to the point. What do you want, Miss Hooper? You can have any payment you ask for, if it'll keep you quiet."
She was offended by the implication, and slammed her cup down so loudly that he looked around the quiet café nervously. "I don't expect any payment! I did it for him. I'm his friend. If that's the only reason you invited me here, then I think we're done already."
She made to rise, but he put a hand on her arm. "No – please, wait a minute. Please finish your tea, at least."
She sank down into her seat again and picked up her cup, giving him a suspicious look. He looked at her intently for a moment before his face softened. "I apologise. It was not my intention to offend you. Please forgive me…I'm afraid we Holmes' brothers are not in the business of receiving favours from 'friends' who expect no reward, so it is something of a habit of mine to presume… Nevertheless, the offer is still there. You have my gratitude, and if there's anything I can do, now or in the future…"
She looked out of the window, distracted by a dark figure skulking on the other side of the road. As her heart beat faster, she saw it was simply a teenage boy in a hoodie, and she shook herself, irritated by her own paranoia.
"Keep me safe," she said, suddenly.
Mycroft looked perplexed, so she hurried to explain. "He told me not to worry, but he can't have eyes everywhere. If anyone else finds out I helped him…"
He nodded, seeming to understand. "Of course. I will make it my priority to ensure you are watched and protected at all times."
"Thank you." As she smiled at him, she realised that she had nothing to go on beyond a casual agreement. However, something told her that Mycroft Holmes was not so negligent in his promises as his younger brother. There was a pleasing solidity about the older Holmes brother that Sherlock lacked.
Talking of which…he clearly liked his food too. Although not so much the food in this rather cheap café. He had taken a bite of his scone but returned the rest to the plate with a resigned look on his face.
"I'm not quite sure why I bothered. I should have been able to tell that this place was unlikely to provide any edible food. I wouldn't eat it if I were you. It's dry and quite unappetising."
She hadn't touched her scone, having already examined it with an expert eye and deduced that it had been cooked the previous evening. "I knew it would be. That's the trouble with scones – they have to be served fresh. And this -," she crumbled it with a critical finger, "- even if it had been baked today, it wouldn't have been very nice. Over-mixed dough."
"You seem to know a bit about it," he murmured, doubtfully.
She smiled again. "Oh, Mr Holmes, you have no idea…"
The following afternoon, Mycroft was busy updating himself on Serbian exports when his PA brought in a large white cardboard cake box and laid it in front of him with some ceremony and just the impression of a smirk on her immaculately made-up face.
He looked at it. It was addressed to him in small, neat, handwriting, with a greater element of hope than precision:
Mr Mycroft Holmes
Somewhere in the Government (possibly quite high up)
Whitehall
SW1A 2AF
The box was secured with a yellow ribbon.
He frowned at his PA. "Did you order any food?" He could see it wasn't from Fortnum and Mason's, his usual provider of sweet treats. At one time, it might have been a joke from Sherlock, but not now.
Anthea raised her eyes from her Blackberry just long enough to look at the box with another slight smirk before shaking her head.
He shrugged his shoulders. The box would have been passed as non-hazardous by his security team; probably they thought it was from a child or just some kind of private joke, but clearly it was no threat to him. He opened it, his nose twitching at the delicious, freshly-baked smell that emerged. Inside, half a dozen scones nestled in one compartment, while another contained a small lidded dish of home-made raspberry jam and a third housed a sealed jar of fresh cream.
Mycroft opened the note that came with the box and raised his eyebrows as he read it.
"Devonshire Scones. Must be eaten by 4PM this afternoon or frozen.
The trick is in the glaze.
And thank you.
Molly Hooper."
Anthea looked up at him inquiringly. "Shall I put the Serbian Trade Delegation through to you now, Sir?"
Mycroft looked at the contents of the box in some satisfaction. "Actually, could you reschedule them for later, please? Much later. And bring me a plate, a spoon and a knife."
And so began the odd friendship between Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper.
It was discreet at first. For the next twenty-two months, the two would meet once a fortnight without fail, so that Mycroft could reassure Molly regarding Sherlock's wellbeing. Sometimes, they would meet in a café (although they'd learnt their lesson concerning second-rate cakes and would stick to tea only) and sometimes in a park.
Initially, the meetings could be as short as fifteen minutes, and their conversation was stilted. Gradually, however, the duration increased to thirty minutes and then an hour or even longer, depending on their schedules. And the conversation began to flow.
It shouldn't have worked, really. After all, the only topic they had in common was Sherlock. She didn't know much about art; he detested the books she read. They both quite liked music, but their tastes didn't overlap much there either. And yet…and yet it worked. They were both good listeners and both fairly tolerant of differences of opinion. Mycroft disliked mediocrity, but found, much to his surprise, that beneath the mousy appearance and the silly nervous laugh, Molly was an intelligent woman. Away from Sherlock, her nerves disappeared and she was able to converse with him in a witty, sensible manner. For her part, Molly found that Mycroft was by no means as officious and cold as he first appeared, and she appreciated his wry humour and wide knowledge of the world.
And then Mycroft received two tickets for the Rossini opera at Covent Garden and couldn't think of anyone to ask, but the performance happened to fall on a 'Molly day' so it seemed sensible to invite her. And, of course, it was only polite to invite her to dinner beforehand. And then there was the time that Molly read about the Vermeer exhibition at the Tate and recalled that Mycroft was a fan of the Dutch painters… And so it went on.
They rarely varied their meeting schedule. It was always every other week – the exact day, time and location might vary according to Mycroft's frenetic schedule, but Molly could expect to receive a text at the beginning of the relevant week, giving details of the meeting point. It was usually easier for Mycroft to fit the meeting in his own schedule and he usually seemed to know when she was free. It didn't occur to either of them to increase the meetings to once a week, but equally it never occurred to them to reduce the occurrence.
There was no romantic subtext; both of them could attest to that. Neither felt the slightest temptation to move their friendship towards something more intimate. It was simply companionship. It was something to look forward to.
And Molly had the security of knowing that she was being watched all the time. That might have freaked out most people – she certainly found it disconcerting when she first noticed security cameras rotating towards her – but Molly was used to Sherlock and the concept of having no secrets. Even the camera outside her block of flats was monitored for any unusual activity or the appearance of strangers, day or night.
Meanwhile, she kept baking, and now she had a clear objective in mind as she produced new and ever more elaborate concoctions. Anthea never quite stopped smirking at the beribboned boxes that arrived at work, but frankly Mycroft didn't care what she or any of his staff thought. He even cancelled his Fortnum's order; nothing they produced was as delicious as Molly's home cooked cakes, anyway.
Sometimes, the goods were delivered directly to Mycroft's home. He would often return late at night to find something delicious on the unit in his kitchen or left in the fridge by his maid. Of course, this played havoc with his diet, so he made sure he increased his exercise regime in his home gym.
And so life went on…until, twenty three months after his fall, Sherlock returned.
There was now, theoretically, no further reason for Mycroft and Molly to meet, but somehow neither of them got around to cancelling their little arrangement. And in fact, only two aspects changed: they no longer needed to be careful when talking about Sherlock and, inevitably, their meetings were no longer secret. It would've been impossible to keep such a secret from Sherlock at any rate. So, both were now subject to a certain degree of bemused (and amused) speculation as to what on Earth they were up to.
If asked, Molly would simply say that she valued Mycroft's advice and support. If he were asked, Mycroft would point out that it was a break from the office environment and that he appreciated Molly's cooking. Neither would describe the other as a friend…and yet both knew that there was a friendship there.
There were certain characteristics of Mycroft that Molly was often reminded of, particularly when she saw those security cameras swivel in her direction or when she noticed that she was being shadowed by a man who looked like any other passing businessman but was not. She remembered the keenness of his expression, the way he would turn his face from side to side very slightly as they walked through a park, ever alert to dangers. The time he took an instinctive half-step in front of her when a teenager attempted a dangerous-looking skateboarding stunt nearby. The ever-present umbrella that he would use to shield her from sudden squalls of rain. The angle of his head as he listened intently to her over a restaurant meal. The steady quiet voice that explained rather than patronised when she didn't understand a specific art concept or needed the plot of an opera explained to her.
And, as Mycroft bit into a generous slice of moist carrot cake with mascarpone topping or some other creation that was so perfect it brought tears to his eyes, he'd be instantly reminded of a jaunty figure walking through the rain without seeming to notice it. The slightly nervous manner in which she pushed a lock of hair off her face. A surprisingly cheeky laugh. The way she would tilt her face up in curiosity as he pointed out a particular feature on a painting. The smile on her face as she listened to a piece of music that she liked.
It wasn't romance, though – very definitely not. It was friendship, pure and simple.
So, yes, there's a reason why Molly walks the streets without fear these days
And, yes, there's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days.
But, he reflects as he wanders into his kitchen in his gym clothes and cuts himself a slice of rich fruit cake with white royal icing…it's definitely worth it.
