AN: [March 23, 2014] This was originally written and posted before "His Last Vow." I edited a small bit of the story in order to make it consistent with Series 3 canon through HLV. I'm doing this so that the story will remain consistent with my other stories set in this time frame.
"That was tedious."
"That's my line," Sherlock Holmes said blandly. His normally baritone voice sounded rather nasal thanks to the handkerchief pressed tightly to his bloodied nose. The stone curb on which the pair were seated was beginning to make his bum uncomfortably numb.
"All right. It was bloody horrid then," his companion said, pulling an ice pack away from a rapidly blossoming black eye, poking at the offended area and wincing before replacing the pack.
"Which part was horrid? When you tackled Fake Anthea or when you and Tom turned out to be super secret double oh agents?" That may have sounded a bit bitter towards the end, but Sherlock was losing copious amounts of blood via his nasal passages, so he decided to blame his irritation on that.
"Tom's the one with MI6, not me." Molly Hooper said as she poked at her bruise, winced and continued. "I just got caught up in another mad Holmes brother scheme."
" 'Caught up?' Mycroft said you volunteered."
Molly gave him a plaintive look. "What was I supposed to do? Mycroft kidnapped me off the street just before you got back and insisted you were about to be in grave danger -pun intended, I'm sure- and we...he had to prepare for your return." The last was said with a rather spot on imitation of Sherlock's older brother and nemesis.
"His idea of preparing was setting you up with a fake fiance."
"Yes, well, he knew you would spot all of the other surveillance, so he insisted, quite convincingly, that you would 'pay no mind to my new beau' -and I would love to know where the two of you learned to talk like that. Seriously, were you raised by Charles Dickens?"
"More like Noddy and Henrietta Boffin," Sherlock mumbled, "and besides, what is so wrong with proper grammar?"
"Anyway, he -Mycroft- said you were in danger and we -he- needed to make sure you had backup in place, just in case, and that the best way to do that was to have someone on your periphery." She fidgeted. "He was right, wasn't he? You and John needed back up. Even Mycroft didn't know about Fake Anthea and the third sniper."
Molly looked at him throughout her rushed, slightly desperate explanation. Sherlock felt that look more than saw because he was resolutely staring straight ahead and resisting her Doe Eyes of Doom. He was not in the least interested in offering any balm for her guilt. And, all right, yes. Even he could see it was not fair. He really had no right to throw stones, as it were, considering what he asked her to do and the secret he asked her to keep.
"I'm sorry for lying to you, but at the same time, I'm not sorry because it worked. I couldn't bear it if..." Molly looked away and took a breath. "Plus, Mycroft made me sign a non-disclosure agreement."
"Ah, yes. Official Secrets Act. My brother's favorite toy."
"You and John and Mary are all safe and that's what matters. Tom was able to take care of the third sniper while you and John took care of everyone else."
"Except Fake Anthea. You took care of her." Sherlock pulled the handkerchief away and looked at the small woman sitting beside him. "And because you took care of her, you saved Mycroft."
Molly fidgeted and glanced towards the ambulance where a frazzled looking John was helping the emergency crew look after the rather disgruntled elder Holmes. The handcuffed Fake Anthea was a few metres away suffering agonies thanks to a broken clavicle, broken nose, distended knee, and bleeding bald patches where hair should be. Hair that could be seen clinging to Molly's brightly colored jumper. Molly, they had all discovered, fought dirty.
"Yeah, well, not so much on the saving bit, apparently," Molly said quietly, "He still got stabbed."
"It would be much worse had you not figured out that she was not, in fact, Anthea." He frowned, loathe to ask, but needing to know, "How did you know, anyway."
Molly grinned, "Oh! That was simple really. I just-"
"Hello," a man's voice floated down from somewhere above their heads and Sherlock resisted the urge to growl.
"Hi Tom," Molly chirped, looking up at Tom West, MI6 agent and Mycroft's mole.
"Just wanted to check on the both of you one last time before I went to help tidy things up," He said 'both,' but his eyes were on Molly. "You sure you don't need to be on the way to hospital with Mr. Holmes? You could have a concussion."
"Dr. Watson checked her," Sherlock said immediately and with an air of finality as though that would be all Molly needed in the way of medical attention. It certainly was as far as Sherlock was concerned. It was also a dismissal of the agent. He would count himself a truly happy man if Mycroft's little helper would just sod off already.
If Sherlock hated anything, it was being reminded of his failures. Tom and Molly, their fake engagement set up to bluff both Sherlock and the villain he hunted, had slipped completely below the detective's notice. Annoying. Especially since Molly Hooper seemed to be his most consistent source of deductive failure. Sherlock Holmes had taken the situation at face value even knowing -knowing- that Molly Hooper was not always what she seemed. By extension, he had not bothered to really look at Tom, just as he had not bothered to really look at Jim from IT, and he had missed the obvious.
No one had met Tom before the coming home party. No one had even heard that Molly was dating. Not even Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade, John... he could imagine them not paying that much attention to Molly's dating life, men usually don't, but Molly had faithfully checked on Mrs. Hudson frequently after Sherlock's supposed death. If she had been dating, Mrs. Hudson would have sussed it out and announced it to anyone who would listen. The older woman liked romantic stories the way Sherlock liked experimenting on eyeballs. Sherlock had ruthlessly avoided making any deductions about the man in order to avoid hurting Molly. Mycroft had known that would be the case, which was why he sent an agent that looked so much like Sherlock. Obvious. So obvious.
"Not a scratch, Molly, I promise," Tom was saying gently as Sherlock tuned back into the conversation.
"That's good," Molly said sincerely. For all her aptitude for lying when she felt the occasion called for it, Molly Hooper was still the most sincere, sentimental person Sherlock had ever known. "It's been fun! Being your not-fiancee!" Molly was saying around the ice pack and through a huge grin.
"Same here," Tom said, no trace of the previous stifling and common dullness left about him. This Tom was pure professionalism and capability. This was a man quite equal to the sort of sub rosa 'tidying up' his brother's minions were asked to do. This man was confident and competent. Sherlock wanted to nut this man.
Apparently some part of what he was thinking showed on Sherlock's face, because Tom, who looked as though he were about to say something else to Molly, took one glance at Sherlock, closed his mouth and smiled. He held a hand out to Molly instead. She quit poking at her black eye long enough to take the offered hand.
"It was great working with you Dr. Hooper. You're a regular Bond Girl." With another squeeze of her hand, Tom nodded and left. The pair sitting on the curb watched him go.
"So," Sherlock said, drawing out the vowel, "you and Tom...?"
"Not really together, no."
"At all."
"Nope."
"So when you mentioned having a lot of...?"
"Lying," Molly said with an obnoxious amount of unholy glee, "There you were, in my lab, trying to get me to help you plan your stag do, and I remembered all of the times you manipulated me, in that very same lab, by complimenting my appearance or standing really close because you knew it would rattle me."
"And so you decided to try and rattle me."
"It worked too," she crowed, "You were completely silent for eight seconds."
He huffed, "five."
Molly giggled, removing the ice pack long enough to poke yet again at her bruised cheek, before wincing and replacing the pack. Silence fell for a few moments as Sherlock refolded his handkerchief, trying to find a spot not already saturated with blood, before wiping his nose.
"So... you and Tom were faking the entire time."
"I thought we covered that."
"Just confirming facts."
"Ah." Poke. Wince.
"Even the kissing?"
"Especially the kissing." Poke. Wince. Ice pack.
Interesting. "...didn't look like you were faking."
"...how would you know...?"
"Observation -Aht! Stop that!" Sherlock shouted the last bit, grabbing Molly's hand before she could poke at her black eye again. She looked up at him with the Doe Eyes and whined.
"I can't help it! It's sore!"
"Poking at it won't make it less sore," he said with exasperation. He stood and pulled Molly to her feet beside him, dragging her along behind him as he marched off. "You're a doctor. You should know this."
"I know, I know, but I can't help it. It's like picking at a scab. You just have to."
They had reached Mycrof's stretcher by then and Sherlock turned to John with a questioning look. John would know what he meant without Sherlock having to actually embarrass himself by saying the words out loud. In front of people.
"He's stable. We got the bleeding stopped, but he's still going to need surgery. They've got a military air ambulance on the way. You can ride with him, if you want."
"No, you go," Sherlock said and, feeling the need to offer a reason (beside the obvious one that he preferred John stay with his brother than some strange doctor), added, "You can have Mary meet you at hospital. Get back to her and the little bun quicker."
John gave him a look that said he wasn't fooling anyone, but didn't contradict his friend. Instead he checked to make sure Sherlock's nose wasn't broken and that Molly's eye wasn't swelling shut.
"She's been poking at it," Sherlock tattled, earning a look of betrayal from Molly. He ignored it and turned to his brother.
Mycroft was unnaturally pale and still, but nonetheless alert and in complete command of his troops. He had not stopped directing the operation since the situation had been resolved. He was currently on the phone with the agent who had found Real Anthea, alive but not in good shape, at the remote estate where Fake Anthea had orchestrated the switch. He waited for Mycroft to end the call before speaking.
"Getting stabbed in the stomach is certainly a novel way to lose weight, Mycroft."
"Wouldn't recommend it, actually," Mycroft said, his voice a bit hoarse. Even with the weakness due to blood loss, Sherlock could see Mycroft's mind working on overdrive. His elder brother glanced down briefly and immediately got a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Really Sherlock, so soon after Miss Hooper breaking her engagement to Mr. West. Where is your sense of propriety?"
It took him a moment to realize why Mycroft was teasing him in that way. He was still holding Molly's hand. He glanced down at their entwined digits and back to his brother. Sherlock tightened his grip when he felt Molly try to pull away. Smirking, he said, "I'm afraid I can't begin to consider making a proposal to Miss Hooper until after the black eye fades. Unseemly." His smirk grew when he heard John and Molly snort.
"I don't know. I think it's rather charming. Gives her the roguish air of a pirate queen." He smiled one of his cold little smiles at Molly. One of Mycroft's smiles had been known to make grown men wet themselves, but Molly returned the gesture with real affection.
"We can discuss serviette folds the next time we have tea," Molly joked with a smile as the sound of the helicopter quickly drowned out everything else. Mycroft and John were soon ensconced on the helicopter and on the way to hospital. Before they took off, Molly gave Mycroft's arm a squeeze. Molly Hooper was not the least bit cowed by Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was still trying to figure out why when something occurred to him.
"You've had tea with Mycroft?"
"Yes! I don't know why you're always complaining about him. I think he's lovely. Very gentlemanly."
"When did you have tea with Mycroft?"
"While you were... away. It was just after you made that accidental call to me -you were in Moldova I think?- and went to get some information from Mycroft."
"...and he just told you?" That did not sound like his elder brother at all.
"Well, no, not at first. Not until I made a scene at the Diogenes Club."
Sherlock was nonplussed. "You barged into the Diogenes Club?"
"That was the first time we had tea. I'm sure he just offered in order to placate the crazy lady in the lab coat, but we ended up having a lovely chat. After that we would meet occasionally and he would let me know how you were doing. Not details, of course, just that, you know. You were still alive."
Sherlock frowned and looked down at the woman beside him. "You had tea, with Mycroft, at the Diogenese Club."
"When you say it like that, it's like the solution to Cluedo: It was Mycroft, in the Diogenese Club, with TEA!"
"And you still have tea with Mycroft at the Diogenese Club," Sherlock persisted. It wasn't quite a question. More like a statement his brain was still trying to wrap itself around.
"Yeah, or, well, sometimes he stops by the morgue and we share a cuppa in the break room."
They stood on the pavement, dozens of Security Services agents scurrying about, making the whole past two hours vanish without a trace. Sherlock was studying this incongruous woman and Molly was allowing herself to be studied without a trace of self-consciousness. They had been through a great deal together. They had been through a great deal apart. And, like John Watson, she was still there. It occurred to Sherlock that he might just be getting the hang of the whole "friendship" thing. He wasn't sure about Molly being BFFs with his brother, though. Especially if Mycroft was going to BFF back.
After several moments, Sherlock finally nodded and started walking away, St. Bart's resident "Bond Girl" Molly Hooper, by his side.
"Stop poking it!"