"Sorry, Mycroft, it's your turn."
Her voice was quiet, and full of exhausted regret. He cracked an eye and peered at her, evaluating the situation in the other room based on the grey lines of her face, the worried set of her eyebrows, the tousled condition of her hair, the stress-bitten colour of her lips. No change.
He sat up fully alert, the multi-coloured crocheted blanket he didn't remember pulling over him falling to his waist, snagging on the button of his three-day-old dress shirt. He untangled the wool snarl, and Molly Hooper handed him a mug of tea. It was hot, she'd brewed it for him before waking him. He had learned many things about Doctor Hooper this week, and her constant thoughtfulness and courtesy was top of the list.
"Thank you, Molly. Really you should take up my offer of a hotel so you can get some rest."
He stood up, and held aside the blanket with his free hand. She ignored his words and fell into the couch, into the warm spot he had left, and curled up into a tired ball of sweatpants and old tank top. He lay the blanket over her, and watched as she succumbed to sleep in a matter of seconds. Walking carefully with his full mug, he trod over to the bedroom door and pushed it wide enough to enter. The alarm clock read 4am, an hour past their agreed upon switching time. Hooper's kindness strikes again.
In the bed was a single occupant: Sherlock. He filled the entire queen mattress; sprawled, restless and sweating, mumbling a steady stream of inaudible nonsense. Mycroft checked the bin, and found it lined with a fresh grocery bag. There was a stack of clean clothes on the nightstand, and the water bottle was full. Bottles of white sports drink sat off to the side, waiting to be needed. It was clear Doctor Hooper anticipated something over the next few hours.
Mycroft was no stranger to this progression, though. It was Molly who was the interloper, despite her flat being the venue.
At half past six on Monday morning he had received a text from Inspector Lestrade that his brother had once again been found in a doss house, stuffed to the gills with who knew what, and had likely been there weeks by his condition. The news had been expected, Sherlock never escaped his older brother's constant vigilance for that long unless it was to hide in the dark with the cockroaches. Lestrade had standing orders to avoid taking the younger Holmes to the A&E in that condition unless his life was in immediate danger, as the legal repercussions could embarrass all, but Sherlock was too far gone this time to not be medically checked.
The compromise had been to meet at Molly Hooper's flat, she could be trusted and would be less annoying than John Watson, who would sermonize. Mycroft had arranged the time off with her supervisor, and they had all arrived at her front door while she was still brushing her teeth, an abandoned comb stuck in her wet, tangled hair. Her home having only one bedroom, Mycroft had immediately offered her a stay at a nearby hotel to avoid unnecessary discomfort to her. Other than periodic medical checks, he was to be the primary care giver, as he had done so many times in the part. This offer had been summarily and repeatedly rejected.
Sitting back in the kitchen chair Molly had moved into her bedroom, beside the bed, Mycroft templed his fingers and stared at his brother's open, vacant eyes. It certainly had helped ease the living nightmare of waiting for Sherlock to return to normal, having a partner to share the load. This was his brother's first major foray back into his old world since he had gathered his goldfish, and while Mycroft didn't know yet what had set off this latest descent, he knew it was likely to have an impact on Sherlock's friends. The young pathologist had set about changing her quirky, comfortable home into a semi-medical care facility with a grim determination and a carefully contained rage that only showed at the cracks. When Lestrade had arrived with the barely conscious man slung over his shoulder, she was all cool professionalism.
They had pinned Sherlock's scrawled list of chemicals to the lampshade, a constant reminder of how unknown the situation was. As things combined and shifted out of his body at different rates, it was unpredictable to know how long each stage would last. They'd done their best to clean him up, but nothing would take the smell of stale urine, vomit and sweat out of the room until he could bathe properly and Molly's bedchamber could be purged and aired out. Mycroft made a note on his phone to hire a professional to come in to tidy when it was all done. He would love a proper shower himself, but he hadn't had a chance to run home and get more clothes, and he would not involve his staff in this sordid personal affair even to bring him some.
Sherlock tossed wildly, nearly flinging himself off the bed. Mycroft leapt up and caught him, pushing him back down towards the centre. The bigger man yelled, flailing his fists, catching the older man square in the gut before muttering something about "pre-buttered saracen gestation calendars" and quieting back down. He seemed a little more alert, so Mycroft got him to drink a couple mouthfuls of liquid before he fell into a fast sleep. Stomach aching, and old anger and resentment that they were once again in this situation seething, Mycroft sipped at his tea and began to answer work emails on his phone as the night hours ticked away.
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
"What do you think?" Mycroft asked, trying to hide how nervous he felt. He knew medical theory, and he could assess Sherlock's health with a single glance better than most, but over the past few days he had come to trust the woman in the old Spice Girls shirt's judgment to a degree that was becoming alarming.
Watching her face as she worked, Doctor Hooper checked Sherlock's heart, lungs, blood pressure, eyes, and breathing in a slow, methodical fashion. Dawn light through the bedroom window was catching in her hair, making it red as she leaned over her patient.
"Much improved," she admitted finally, allowing herself a tired smile. "I think he's actually just asleep now. I imagine that next time he wakes, he'll more or less be himself."
Mycroft felt his entire body relax, and flush with hope. He rubbed his bare forearms, where his shirt was rolled up, and felt some life coming back into his limbs.
"Come on, let's have a celebratory bowl of cereal and a cuppa, and then you should call a cab and go home for a few hours to take of yourself. Doctors orders." She took his hand, and led him out of the bedroom. He liked the feel of her warm fingers on his dry palm, the simple human contact, and rubbed them one by one with his thumb.
"You've been remarkable, Hooper," he found himself saying. "Thank you. For everything, thank you."
She gave him a smile over her shoulder, sweet and sincere. "You're welcome, Mr Holmes. I can't believe how much you've had to shoulder on your own. You're a good man, and a good brother."
Seeing something in his eyes that he didn't know he was emoting, she stopped her progression to the little kitchen table and turned back to face him.
"Come here," she said with gentle authority, and drew him into a close embrace. He didn't have the energy to feel awkward or alarmed, and while this sort of touch was nearly unprecedented, it didn't feel wrong. She rested her head on his shoulder, and lightly rubbed his back with both hands. "You don't have to do it all alone, all of the time."
Her warm, slight figure was having an unexpected affect on his, and he began to step away. Giving a contented sort of humming noise, Hooper went to press a kiss to his cheek, but missed as he moved and it landed in the hollow under his jaw. Surprised at the sensation, he paused and in her surprise, she let it linger. Running a brief internal diagnostic, Mycroft found himself uncharacteristically interested, most likely the combination of stress, pent-up emotions, and close proximity to an admirable, attractive youngish woman. This was a terrible thing.
"Do you ever make poor decisions, Mycroft Holmes?" The doctor asked into his neck, her pulse almost audible. There was no way she could mistake his body's decision, pressing firmly into her pelvis.
"Not typically," he responded, strained. He should really just go call a cab and leave this flat for a few hours. His brain began to feel sluggish and cloudy. All he could sense was her. "Do you think I should begin now?"
"Mmhm," she agreed, pressing another slow kiss to his neck, feeling the blood pumping through his body. "I think we've earned a senseless, no strings attached, job well done shag."
"I didn't realize that was a thing one did," he gasped as she pressed her teeth lightly into his skin and then flicked the sore spot with her tongue to soothe it. He grasped her hips, bringing her closer with an uncontrolled thrust. "I've been celebrating all wrong for years."
"Just to be clear, you realize that I'm asking you to fuck me and then we'll never speak of it again," she breathed, reaching for his shirt buttons and working them open.
"Obviously," he agreed, with a little of his usual arrogance. Guiding them backwards towards the couch, he slide his hands under her shirt and lifted it over her head. Underneath she wore nothing, and the first touch of her bare skin against his as she leaned over to kiss him felt explosive. His exhausted brain was overwhelmed by sensation, by the taste and feel of her as a guest in his mouth, her skin on his body. Not new to sex, but new to giving in to more primal passion beyond reason or intellect, everything felt different, more intense and horrifyingly personal.
These hands caressing his chest and threading through his hair were the skilled hands that brought his loved one back from the brink more than once. The mouth was the mouth that had spoken kindness in the dark when the hoarse words shouted from the patient were cruel and cutting. This body on moving on top of his while he pushed down her sweatpants and pants to bare her belonged to the woman who had given her health and energy for his cause, and in this moment it was more dear to him than anything he had ever hoped to hold.
Determined to make her feel as good as he was feeling from her, when they finished Hooper felt rung out from finishing so hard, so many times. Mycroft stroked her hair as his own haze of pleasure ebbed, his mind clearing. She was gathered onto his chest as they lay entangled on the settee, sticky and flushed.
"You surprise me, Mr Holmes. I thought you more the for queen and country sort," Molly said wryly. "That was downright filthy, the whole lot of it."
Mycroft flushed. "I think it was rather overdue. I hope I didn't alarm you."
"Goodness no!" She answered emphatically, tracing an old scar that ran down his torso onto his thigh. "What's this?"
"The result of legwork, my dear," he frowned. "There are several. I leave most of that to Sherlock, these days, he's always excelled at that sort of thing."
She put a hand on the scar for a moment, leaned forward, and pressed a light kiss to the pale, puckered skin. His breath caught, every nerve still electrified from their incredibly recent endeavours.
"Reading between the lines of Sherlock's insults, it sounds like the British public couldn't afford to lose you to an alley tough."
"You flatter me, Doctor Hooper," he responded wryly. After a short pause, he voiced a concern that was bothering him. "I apologize if all this was ill-thought out. It was terribly sudden, out of character, and I understand if there's awkwardness or embarrassment to follow. I assure you I intend absolute discretion, and won't bother you in future with expectations or demands."
He felt himself pulled forward until their positions were reversed on the other side of the couch, falling into the space between Hooper's thighs as her legs wrapped around his hips. He caught his balance on his elbows, his face at her chest. Catching his mouth, she kissed him until his lust burned through his exhaustion.
"It's been a long time since I had even a one night stand," she admitted, "I can't pass up the opportunity for good sex when it's already on me."
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
Mycroft hung his head over Hooper's bare torso as he panted through the final aftershocks and thrusts. Her fingers were leaving red marks where the dug into his backside, below her crossed ankles. He hadn't thought the second time would be possible, let alone superior. It was likely her finishing cry, stifled too late only by biting painfully into his shoulder, that woke the beast in the bedroom.
"God, clearly I'm still high."