Mycroft has always had to best Sherlock at everything. But when it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock thought it was completely understood that she was to remain firmly in HIS hip pocket. Until Sherlock stumbles upon the fact that his brother and his pathologist have become confidants. And the worst part is, in Mycroft's case…it might not even be on purpose.
Set after "Sign of Three."
Rivals
Molly stared at the rivulets of rain coursing down the glass. She blinked slowly, her whole body heavy and numb. Absently, she ran her left hand thumb along the underside of her third finger…
Still no ring. Just as there hadn't been a ring the last fifty times she'd automatically rubbed that spot that afternoon. And she couldn't seem to make herself stop.
Thunder rumbled over the roof of the hospital. Rainwater gushed down the grey streets and sidewalks outside. Cabs splashed through puddles, their headlights bouncing. Inside the lab, all stood still and silent and empty. No one had been killed today. Perhaps the only bright spot about any of this. Molly took a deep breath, fingering the edge of her lab coat, but didn't stir from the spot by the window. She hadn't for a long time.
Ding.
She jumped, bit the inside of her cheek, then forced herself to reach inside her coat pocket. Her heart gave three hard bangs, dread pounding through her…
Please don't let it be him again…
She opened the text…
Released her breath in a rush and put a hand to her forehead.
How are you today, Miss Hooper? –MH
Fighting to keep her fingers from shaking, she typed an answer.
Less than perfect, but I'm fine. Thank you, Mycroft. –M
She could see right away that he began typing a reply.
Less than perfect is unsatisfactory. May I inquire as to the reason? –MH
Molly swallowed again, and sank into a nearby plastic chair.
Just got un-engaged. Over lunch. –M
Her vision blurred and she pushed at her eyes. When she opened them again, he'd already answered.
Tea? –MH
Molly let out a watery laugh, swiped at her eyes again and nodded.
Sounds nice. What time? –M
Your earliest convenience. Diogenes Club. –MH
I will be there at six. –M
Understood. –MH
Molly glanced at the clock. Only half an hour left until she was supposed to leave—but nobody would begrudge her half an hour. Not today.
She got up, headed out to the lockers and hung up her coat, then gathered up her effects and left St. Bart's.
She caught a cab home, again watching the rain play across the window, and didn't even feel the water as she traipsed up the stairs to her flat. She changed clothes, put her hair in a ponytail, ignored any thought of food, and put on her raincoat and wellies and grabbed her umbrella. The next minute, she was out the door, the falling drops pattering against the canvas roof of her umbrella, her feet splishing through the water rushing across the walk, heading toward tea, a warm fire, and Mycroft.
MHMHMHMHMHMHM
"You walked all this way?" Mycroft frowned at her as the attendants took her dripping umbrella and coat from her. "I could have sent a car."
"I don't mind," she assured him, bending down to pull off her wellies. "The mood suited. Today."
He didn't comment, just stood by as she raised herself up again—but as she took a step, her shoes squelched. She stopped, and winced.
"Apparently I've got a hole in each of my boots…"
"Well, take your shoes and stockings off as well," he motioned to them, then raised an eyebrow at her in dead seriousness. "Honestly, Molly. What would Mary Poppins say?"
She snorted and reflexively smiled as she pulled off one shoe, then the other.
"Only you might know," she murmured. She caught a glimpse of one of Mycroft's half smiles—an extreme rarity—as he turned from her and stepped further into the fire-lit room.
A roaring fire filled the throat of a broad hearth just off to her left, spilling light onto the rich red rug before it, and coating the two neighboring armchairs with buttery warmth. In front of the two chairs stood a table spread with a silver tea setting, and the spout of the pot steamed. Molly trailed after Mycroft in her bare feet, enjoying the feeling of the carpet. She might have been deeply embarrassed at actually walking bare-footed across the hallowed floors of one of the oldest and poshest gentleman's clubs in England—if this had been the first time such a thing had happened. But it wasn't. In fact, Molly had accidentally made quite a habit of it, and Mycroft had always had to punctuate her arrival with some comment about Mary Poppins. Molly suppressed a grin, admitting that Mary Poppins was probably exactly Mycroft's type of person.
Might explain the umbrella…
That thought made it almost impossible to hide a smile—she had to duck her head as she came up to her usual chair and sat down in it, tucking her feet up under her. But of course, he missed nothing.
"Contrary to popular notions, it seems a long walk out in this nasty weather has actually improved your mood," he remarked, seating himself as well. Their two chairs were not far apart—one armrest nearly touched the other.
"Took my mind off it. Trying not to get…splashed, and everything," she answered, dipping her head, her smile fading and gone. Mycroft, eyes brilliant in the firelight, watched her. Molly didn't mind.
"Erm, has it been steeping long?" she asked, pointing to the tea.
"Just long enough."
"Do you want me to pour out?"
"Only if you'd like," he inclined his head to her.
"My pleasure."
So she poured tea for both of them. Mycroft took his with no cream or sugar. Molly liked both. Soon, she held her cup and saucer up close to her chin, breathing in the scent of English Breakfast (what else, in this place?) and letting her attention drift to the flames.
"So," Mycroft began—and Molly inwardly winced. "As a matter of security—do we have anything to worry about concerning your former fiancé?"
Molly smiled wryly and glanced down at her tea.
"Not at all," she muttered. "Don't think he was ever anything to worry about."
"What about his family? Mother, father, siblings…"
"You've got his file, haven't you?" she glanced at him through the steam of her cup.
"Of course I do," Mycroft answered with a slight narrowing of his eyes. "I know him and his associates on paper. But you've seen them in person, talked to them…"
"No, Mycroft," she sighed, lowering her cup. "They none of them are anybody special."
"That's what we thought about Jim, too." Mycroft's voice resembled a faraway rumble of thunder.
Molly looked at him, then shrugged.
"Well. Everybody missed that one—not just me."
"A fact that still secretly mortifies us to this day."
He spoke frankly, and used the "royal plural" as she mentally liked to call it—but she knew what hid behind all of that. Which is why she managed a smile for him.
"Don't worry," she said. "Not all the men I fall for can be sociopaths."
"Everyone has a type, I suppose," Mycroft gave her a thin smile of his own—and Molly's heart stuttered as she stared at him.
"So what did you mean, a moment ago," Mycroft draped his arms over the rests. "When you said Tom wasn't ever anything to worry about?"
"Dunno," Molly shrugged again, and set her tea down on the table. "I just…I don't think that I…" She paused, trying to smooth her tangled thoughts into coherent strands. She wrapped her arms around herself and frowned into the fire. "I liked him. I mean, he was nice, he was cheerful, he was sweet to me…It was…a nice change." She braced herself up and nodded firmly. "He's a…A nice man. Somebody…I should have been…I mean, I would have been lucky. To have him. As a husband."
Mycroft paused, carefully.
"But?" he asked—keen as a scalpel.
And it felt like it, too.
Tears spilled down Molly's face, and her chest suddenly clenched.
"But he was so full of nonsense," she cried, her vision blurring over. "Really, he had no sense at all. He'd say the most simple-minded things, all the time—he had no tact, he was so awkward, he'd miss things that were right in front of his nose. He'd forget where he put his keys only to find he'd left them in his jacket. He'd brag about the stupidest things, and then he started telling everyone that we were…that he and I were…But I wasn't nearly ready for that sort of thing!" Molly swallowed and swiped at her face. "So I couldn't think of anything to do except play along with it or…I know I overdid the play-acting; made myself look like a complete idiot. And then my mother heard about it and she…" Molly rolled her eyes, her face twisting again as the tears dripped down. "The stories he'd tell about me," she whispered. "In pubs. The way he talked about me. I heard him. Last night. Talking to a bunch of his mates." Molly shook her head, her entire ribcage constricting like a vise. "He wasn't trying to be…rude. I could tell. He was trying to…I dunno, maybe pay me a compliment. But…" She looked up at Mycroft desperately, but couldn't see him through the tears. "It…didn't feel like that," she gasped.
She dug the fingers of her right hand into the armrest and wiped at her face with her left, shivers running through her.
A soft touch on the back of her right hand.
Cloth.
She sniffed, blinked rapidly and glanced down.
Mycroft was holding out his monogrammed handkerchief to her. The edge of it brushed her skin.
She took it from him, and dabbed her cheeks and her eyes, her fingers shaking again. And finally she could see him.
His razor-sharp aspect had softened. He leaned toward her, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. And, still as a statue, he watched her. As always. It was his way of listening. Mycroft Holmes listened with his whole body.
"Thank you," Molly whispered. She held the handkerchief back out to him. Minutely, he lifted two fingers—and she pulled it back, and tucked it against her.
MHMHMHMHMHM
Sherlock threw another it's-the-wrong-one book against the wall. It let out a deafening bang and slumped limply to the floor.
"Neighbors!" Mrs. Hudson cried, fleeing the room.
"If they haven't come barging through to complain about the bullets in the wall, they're not going to give much thought to a book, are they, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock shot after her, then whirled and started pacing again.
It was no use. He'd searched the entire flat, but The Book was not here. He wanted it. He needed it. It didn't matter if he hadn't even thought of it in the past ten years—he needed it now.
He swore at the couch, kicked John's empty chair—grimaced and immediately repented. One, because it hurt; and two, because it was John. Well, not really John, but. Yes. John's chair. And it didn't deserve to be kicked.
Sherlock knew who did deserve to be kicked. The one who always kept everything of Sherlock's and hid it. The one who most certainly had The Book he wanted.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out," Sherlock called, ignoring his throbbing foot, and grabbing his scarf and coat.
"Oh, dear, but it's raining like mad out there," Mrs. Hudson called from the stairwell.
"I'll take a cab."
MHMHMHMHM
"So you ended it at noon today," Mycroft surmised, still tipped toward her, his left-hand fingers draped over his lips.
"I did," Molly nodded. "Met him at our favorite fish and chips place and gave him back his ring. The ring." She corrected, rubbing her finger again. "We got into a row about it, 'course. Had to go outside on the walk because we were shouting. Eventually, I just had to leave, and go back to work. He texted me a dozen times after that, but I didn't answer. Then it went quiet for a long time, and then…" she half-heartedly chuckled. "When you sent me a text, I thought it was him again. I'm glad it wasn't."
"Ah," Mycroft almost smiled, and glanced down.
"I mean, I'm glad it was you. And not him. I mean."
Mycroft met her gaze again, and inclined his head.
"I know what you meant."
Molly's shivering calmed, and she looked down at the beautiful handkerchief she held between her fingers. She ran her thumb across his initials, embroidered in scarlet. Funny. She'd never realized before that his and hers were the same.
"I know this may not enter your mind at the moment, Molly," Mycroft began. "But…in actuality, this isn't anywhere near the end of the world. In fact, you may find it's very much for the best. Give it a day or two and you'll be right as rain. I doubt you'll even think of it anymore except as a burden that's been relieved. Most…separations…turn out that way, it seems."
A smile flickered across Molly's mouth.
"Should you be talking? I mean, I…don't really know if you could be called an authority on this kind of thing, Mycroft."
She expected him to snort, and sit back in his chair and say something like:
"Of course not. Nasty, unnecessary business."
But he didn't. He didn't say anything.
Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him.
He swallowed, cleared his throat.
Sat back, and looked down at the floor.
And Molly realized—with a sudden, impossible flare of fear—that she may have actually hurt him.
MHMHMHM
Sherlock stopped.
Stopped dead in the center of the dark hallway, right outside a door in the Diogenes Club that stood ever-so-slightly ajar. Firelight spilled through, and he could clearly see inside—right inside Mycroft's personal entertaining space; and from here could enjoy a full picture of the two people seated in armchairs near each other, before the hearth.
Mycroft, his brother, wearing a brown suit and dark red tie—sitting still as a stone, unreadable as a sphinx. And just beside him, curled up comfortably, every angle of her frame attuned to the man opposite her…
Molly Hooper.
Her hair back in a ponytail, wearing a brown striped jumper and black trousers, her feet tucked up under her. Mycroft's handkerchief gripped tightly between her fingers. She'd been crying—it was obvious. But now her tears had evidently been forgotten, because her bright eyes fixed on Mycroft, an intent line between her eyebrows.
And they'd had tea. It stood spread on a small table. But the pot didn't steam, and neither did the cups. They had been sitting here a long time.
Questions barreled through Sherlock's mind—but somehow he couldn't make his feet move a single inch, and his throat and mouth were paralyzed.
"It's true," Mycroft said.
Sherlock twitched—then frowned hard. What tone was that? What kind of tone was that? Soft and careful and—unsure? No, impossible.
"Molly," Mycroft said—and his right hand curled into a loose fist. "It is true. Of course it is. And don't worry. It isn't a cruelty to point it out. All of my associates know that I have always avoided the entanglement of…" He paused, and cleared his throat. "Caring for people. I often cite that it's not an advantage, not in my business. Too dangerous, too many secrets to keep covered, too many loose ends to worry about. But…" Mycroft took a deep, uncomfortable breath. "I have seen what caring does to Sherlock. It thrills his blood, and fires his resolve and his imagination. It keeps him going when exhaustion should knock him to the floor. It makes him sharper, more attentive. It makes him…better. In all ways. And so my argument is invalidated."
Sherlock had stopped breathing. He frowned so hard pain started dancing around in his forehead. The back of his throat—and his breastbone—started to hurt. And he couldn't tear his gaze from the two inside that room.
"I have no doubt that you've perceived the truth about me a long time ago," Mycroft went on, even more quietly than before. "I am afraid."
Sherlock's lips parted. But he still couldn't breathe.
Mycroft studied his own right hand upon the rest as he rubbed a seam with his thumb.
"Afraid that I could never make a proper go of it," Mycroft murmured. "And that I am, after all, such an intolerable prat…that no one would actually…" he trailed off, but the ending was clear. "And, of course, the danger of that is so very real…I dare not make the attempt."
Sherlock slowly let his breath out, his heart beating erratically somewhere inside him.
But then she moved.
Molly moved. Her hand. She reached out, toward Mycroft.
She was going to touch him.
Sherlock's jaw clenched and he tilted forward, eyes widening…
Molly set her fingers on the cuff of Mycroft's left wrist. Mycroft glanced over at them. But he did not move.
Then, Molly's fingertips ghosted down the back of his hand, slipped behind, and grasped it. Entwined their fingers.
Mycroft stared at what she had just done. He swallowed.
And then his long, pale fingers curled around hers and held on. And he lifted his eyes to Molly's face.
And Looked at her.
Open. Soft. And flooded with silent revelation.
Without even the thinnest veil of caution or superiority—stripped of all pretense and arrogance.
Completely. Utterly. Honest.
Sherlock suddenly felt as if he was watching a stranger.
He went cold all the way down to his marrow, and his stomach flipped over three times. His attention wrenched from Mycroft to Molly…
She was looking back at Mycroft. Eyes brilliant and gentle.
And of course—she was always utterly honest.
Something that felt like poison or illness pumped through Sherlock's blood with alarming force. His vision suddenly went scarlet, and he backed up, gritting his teeth, making certain his feet stayed silent. As soon as he was twelve paces from that offensive door he turned on his heel and left the Diogenes Club, completely forgetting the reason he'd come.
To be continued…