Mycroft groaned as he slowly came to. The last thing he remembered was watching as Sherlock brought the gun up to his chin and counted down to his own death. His eyes shot open to gray. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray world. He sat up. He was alone with no sign of Sherlock or John anywhere. A moment's look around and he was certain he had been locked in Euros' old cell.
He looked about him. He had been left with nothing. The single television on the wall across from him was black. Radio silence then. There was no point screaming into the void, he was pretty sure that his sister would ignore him. No, her focus was on their brother. This worried him more than anything. He wished that he could say that she wouldn't hurt him, but his sister was too unstable.
A cool breeze drifted over his hand cutting his thoughts short. He looked down at his hand frowning. His eyes traced the likely path of the cool breeze, landing on a thin crack in the wall. He edged over to the wall and slid his hand along the crack. As he went pieces of gray cement fell to the floor. He dug at it with his fingernails, removing the dusty cement further up the wall. With each new inch revealed he became more frantic, digging and chipping until the floor at his feet was littered with dust.
He stood back, panting as he tried to gather enough air into his lungs. The single crack had grown up and across in a straight line revealing the frame of a door. He reached forward, once again digging his nails into the crack to try and pull the door open. His fingers were bleeding before he stopped and leaned against it instead. The door creaked under his weight, pushing forward. He swallowed, worried what he would find on the other side, and pushed.
He stood within the open door, mouth open and eyes wide. If he didn't know better he would have thought he had just stepped into someone's home. A certain someone's home at that. The shock wore off as he realized what it could mean and took off towards the little kitchen. He stepped around the counters and looked down at the figure huddled on the floor.
Everything looked as it had on the monitors. The same counters, the same kettle, lemons, mobile. And the same woman in her brightly colored jumper. Only now she was folded in on herself and fast asleep on the floor. He must have made some noise, as she jolted awake and shot up with her eyes wide in fear. She blinked when she realized who it was before her.
"Mycroft? Where… what?" Molly shook her head and used the counters to help pull her up. Her whole body hurt, but not as much as her heart.
"It seems that my sister is even more clever than I believed." Mycroft reached out to catch the younger woman as she stumbled. "I take it you have been here since before Sherlock's call?"
"Yes, I'm not sure how long. At least a day, possibly a little longer." Molly smiled weakly and stepped out of Mycroft's arms. There was something about the Holmes brothers, both of them never failed to fluster a woman. "I was on my way home from Bart's when they took me."
"You are remarkably calm, my dear, for having been kidnapped." There was no censure in his voice, though perhaps a bit of admiration. He had always wondered how his brother could ignore this woman for so long. He wasn't so sure he would have been able to stay away if she had focused her attentions on him.
"I've dealt with a lot since meeting your brother." Molly laughed, though no humor was in the sound. "Though don't be fooled. I've had my cry."
The two just stood there staring at each other, neither really knowing what should come next. Molly cleared her throat and turned to leave the kitchen. She stopped as she reached the end of the counters, remembering that she wasn't in her home but a replication of her kitchen. She turned back and started fiddling with the things on the counter.
"I met your sister. She was the one that came to talk to me, give me my instructions." Molly thought back on it all. How the woman, Euros, had explained what would happen. She had insured Molly's cooperation by dangling Sherlock's life in front of her.
"So, everything you did and said was part of her game?" Mycroft remembered how Sherlock had reacted, tearing apart the coffin with so much rage. He wasn't sure how his brother would handle this new information.
"Yes, well, mostly. She instructed me on what to do, what to say. Still…" She picked up the mobile off the counter and quickly set it back down. "I didn't lie about loving him. I always have, and I know I always will. Funny all of this. The one thing that saved both our lives and that will be the first and last time we ever say it to each other."
"You seem so sure about my brother." Mycroft slipped his jacket from his shoulders, suddenly it was too tight.
"I'm not a fool, Mycroft. I know he feels something for me, but he would never act on them even if it was love." She shook her head. She noticed her companion's hands and sighed. "The two of you are more alike than either of you would admit."
"And what makes you say that?" He lifted a brow as he watched her gather a towel and wet it.
"You have been standing there talking all while your hands are bleeding. Come here then, let me see to them." Molly took his hands in hers when he came near. Slowly she washed the blood and dust from them, careful not to cause further injury. When she was done she looked up into his face.
He was older than his brother, lines were carved at the corners of his eyes. His hair was thinner than when she had last seen him, a single tuff resting in a curl above his forehead. Even so there was a grace about him that Molly thought made him handsome. Her eyes slid away from his face and down his arms. She giggled.
"Are those sleeve garters? How very proper of you."
Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped back. He had felt uncomfortable standing there under her care. It had been a very long time since anyone had shown such gentleness towards him.
"Yes, well one must always look presentable." He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, now wet with a mixture of blood and water. He had a vision of Lady Macbeth then, hands stained with blood. Would he ever be clean of the blood on his hands because of Euros?
"Even at the end of the world. I am sure you would meet your end buttoned and groomed to a shine." She smiled and dried her hands on a clean towel. She was sure there was nothing that could upset the elder Holmes enough to ruffle him up. Though she would pay good money to see him rumpled just once.
Mycroft cleared his throat and turned to look about the room. The place was a perfect reproduction of her flat, down to the plants. The window was a sheet of white glass backed with LED to simulate sunlight. It was no wonder that both he and Sherlock had been fooled.
For awhile the two didn't talk, Molly busied herself with making tea as there wasn't much of anything else to do in there, and Mycroft checked every wall and crack. For what he wasn't sure, but anything to keep himself busy. After some time he turned and looked at the woman sipping at her tea.
"What keeps you going back? My brother hasn't treated you with any kind of care. He disregards your feelings with no semblance of tact. Why would you cling to him when there are others who would gladly hand over the world for you?" He wasn't sure what made him say it. He was even pretty sure he didn't want to know the answer.
"Your brother, he is the kind of man that gets into your blood. You can't get away from him, no matter how hard you try. And believe me, I have tried." Molly set her cup down on the counter and turned to look at the man fully. "And what men are you talking about, Mycroft? In my experience those men only exist in novels."
Mycroft swallowed thickly and took two steps forward before stopping. He cleared his throat.
"Of course they do, how silly of me." He gave a weak smile and went back to examining the room. A small hand on his arm stopped him short. He turned and looked down at the woman beside him. She took a deep breath and with no warning leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was soft, slow, and questioning. Mycroft held on to her, pulling her into his chest as he deepened the kiss. The sound of footsteps pulled them apart. Lestrade could be heard out in the other room, his men working on opening the cell. Molly sighed and stepped back from him, her voice was nothing more than a whisper when she spoke.
"Keep the world, Mycroft. And keep it safe." She gave him a sad little smile and slipped past him out into the cell.
Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment. He gave a soft laugh, shook his head and followed Molly to freedom.
Author's Note: This was a Tumblr prompt for: "Mollcroft. Set in TFP. They are locked in the same room alone and they try to comfort each other." Probably not what you were thinking, but I rewatched TFP and this is what popped into my head. Still, hope you like it.
Also, I figure that Mycroft know what Molly's place looks like not just because of looking into her when she started hanging out with Sherlock, but because he often visited her during the two years Sherlock was gone to keep her informed. I also figure this is where he started feeling something for her.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.