So, I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened… but it isn't. A oneshot is turning into… a twoshot? At the end of the first chapter, Sherlock leaves to go talk to Molly, after a frank and brutally honest conversation with John. In this chapter, which seemed to be needing to be written, we see a prologue sorts, between Molly and Mycroft, as he takes it upon himself to do some damage control ahead of his little brother's visit on John's prompting. Then, we see an epilogue, with Sherlock going to see Molly at John's prompting from the first chapter. I'm pretty sure there's nowhere else for me to go with this one now though, so thank you to everyone who has favourited and decided to follow a story that I THOUGHT was already complete… ;) Also a note, just as I haven't with other TFP stories, I don't go into detail on the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall. That is not my story, it belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss as inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Molly Hooper sat on her couch, legs curled up underneath her. Her phone had just toned with a text message from John Watson.
"Sherlock is on his way. Will text again in about 15 to confirm his arrival. JW"
She hugged her pillow while she thought back to Mycroft's visit the day before.
"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said, standing in her doorway. "We need to talk. Much has happened in the past 48 hours and my brother is in no position or state of mind to explain himself. So," he said, smiling in his formal manner, "if you are willing to listen, I would like to explain."
Molly looked at him with something across between annoyance, heartbroken dread, and desperation to have that bizarre phone call explained to her.
"Very well then," she said simply, standing aside to allow him inside.
"Well… actually Dr. Hooper… Molly… it would be best if we were to talk elsewhere. Your flat needs to be thoroughly inspected and all surveillance equipment removed."
Molly stared up at Mycroft in horror. "Surveillance… WHAT? Mycroft what the hell are you talking about?" No sooner had she said the words when a team of Mycroft's choosing descended on her home, filing through her open door with cases in hand and looking like they were on a very specific mission.
Mycroft smiled awkwardly as he glanced towards the group that had just taken over her flat. "All will be explained, I assure you. But first I must ask, do you trust me and trust that everything I am about to tell you is the absolute truth?"
"Yes," Molly said finally. "Yes, I trust you. And… do you know about that phone call?"
Mycroft looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed, for the first time since his sudden arrival. "Yes, I do. I was there when it was placed. Please, Molly… walk with me?" He crooked his elbow, offering it to Molly. She hesitated only a moment, before glancing back to the open door of her flat, now overrun by strangers looking for things that made her decidedly fearful and uneasy. Finally, she hooked her hand around his offered elbow and allowed him to guide her on their walk.
Throughout their stroll, broken only by the occasional rest on a bench or picnic table, and even once at a sidewalk café for a cup of tea, Mycroft began to tell her everything. The explosion at 221B; the existence of Eurus and her various aliases while she had been at large; his, Sherlock's, and John's arrival at Sherrinford. He told her of the various trials they had endured, the deaths that had resulted along the way. Finally, reaching the part he knew she needed the most to know about, he raised his hand up to his elbow, taking Molly's hand and gripping it with all of the comfort a man like Mycroft could muster.
"I know it's difficult to hear that my brother's phone call had witnesses. But you must know that it was obvious even to myself that he meant what he said when he told you he loved you. I think, perhaps, the threat of your imminent demise forced him to acknowledge his emotions, specifically the ones pertaining to you." Mycroft squeezed her hand again. Molly stopped walking, bringing Mycroft to a halt as well. She turned slightly to face him, still gripping his arm.
Mycroft smiled at her, sensing that she was having trouble finding words. "I know it's ironic, given how I myself am. Sherlock has never been one to act on emotion, but believe it or not, he was a very emotional child." He squeezed her hand again, prompting her to continue walking with him. Molly hadn't even noticed yet that they had begun to turn back towards her flat.
"In the course of our ordeal, Sherlock began to experience an emotional re-awakening. I will explain better later on as to why that was even necessary, but you must understand that Sherlock has suppressed his emotions for decades, and that has not been without reason, or consequences."
"I have always believed emotion to be a hindrance and a weakness. And that works for me personally… But in Sherlock's case… I believe it will be a strength. Sherlock has always drawn strength from his relationships. With John. With Mary, with baby Rosamund. Mrs. Hudson. Even DI Lestrade. And with you, Molly. I believe you will be his greatest strength, should you consent to something more than friendship with him. If, that is," he said hopefully, "you can bring yourself to forgive him for being an utter arse."
Molly, overwhelmed with what she had been told, couldn't control the burst of giggle. "He has definitely been that. Oh, I'm sorry Mycroft… this is all so much to take in. I have no idea how to even begin to process all of this." She looked up at him, the normally steely gaze of Mycroft Holmes holding a tenderness that she had honestly never noticed before. Her cathartic giggle had already petered out, and as she gazed up into his eyes, she began to feel herself breaking down. As her face began to dissolve into a release of uncontrollable sobs, Mycroft released her hand and wrapped his arms around her, embracing her tightly, letting the stormy torrent of tears soak into the front of his vest.
He had, too recently, witnessed a similar emotional release with his little brother, when Sherlock had, in a rage that Mycroft never suspected his brother was even capable of, destroyed a wood coffin with his bare hands, the splinters flying in every direction and the fabric lining shredding while Sherlock screamed in agonized fury. When the primal screaming had stopped and the coffin lay in shattered, splintered ruins, Sherlock had sat himself down on the floor. Backed up against the wall, his legs drawn up and his wrists resting limply on his knees, he watched as John Watson walked up to his little brother, and picked up the pistol that had been cast aside in the explosion of rage.
Mycroft saw John speak briefly to Sherlock, then reach down and offer a hand up. Sherlock took the offered hand, and allowed John to pull him to his feet. He had straightened and buttoned his jacket, taken the pistol back from John's offering hand, and strode out of the room with him. Nothing more needed observing, Mycroft had thought. Sherlock would be okay - for now.
"There is much more to the story yet, Molly," Mycroft said softly. But if you wish, we can finish in the comfort of your own home. I assure you it has been cleared and secured by my team."
Molly wondered how Mycroft could possibly know that. His mobile hadn't made a single sound, nor did she hear it vibrate. She supposed it was yet another Holmes mystery that wasn't meant to be solved by anyone – merely accepted as being just who they were.
"Yes, thank you," she said. "That would be best. Would you like a cup of tea, or something?" she offered.
"Or something may be in order, I think," he said, smiling lightly. "You have heard most of this ordeal, and the part that pertains specifically to you, but I'm afraid that the worst my dear Molly, is yet to come. Please be sure to pour yourself a little of that something as well."
Molly felt dread at those words, but didn't doubt Mycroft in the least. As they entered her flat, he released her hand, feeling she was finally safe enough to be liberated from his protection. Thinking about it later, he conceded to himself that there was no logical reason for her to not be safe, and he couldn't quite explain it, but he just NEEDED to hold on to her – perhaps for his own reassurance.
When he had finished, a few "or somethings" later, buffered by a light meal ordered in, Molly thanked Mycroft for his candid honesty. As he said goodbye and departed her flat, she suddenly felt an overwhelming need to talk to Sherlock. She wanted to hold him and kiss him and tell him that there was nothing to be forgiven for. But, the hour was late, and she hoped Sherlock would be fast asleep in the spare bed at John and Mary's flat. She would wait until morning, and then text John. He would know exactly what to say to Sherlock. She had waited this long, she had weathered the storm. Now, calm waters and gentle, warm breezes awaited, she need only have patience and faith for one more night.
Sherlock barely had a chance to ring the bell at the door of Molly flat a second time before the door flew open, Molly's hands were on his face pulling it down towards her, and he was drawn into the most unexpected, wonderful, mind blowing, cathartic kiss he had ever experienced.
By the time his brain had realized what was happening, his instincts had left it in the dust. Bringing his hands up, one landing between her shoulder blades and the other sliding its way upwards through her long hair and cupping the back of her head, he pulled her close and returned Molly's kiss with all of the emotion he'd kept under wraps for far too long. When they had both finally come up for air, Sherlock managed to say, his baritone voice husky from the moment, "Molly… we need to talk." He smiled down at her, trying mightily to resist the urge to try that kiss again, just to make sure. "But I suspect from your greeting that you know far more than I realized. What the HELL did Mycroft tell you anyway?"
Molly smiled up at him, her eyes shining. Sherlock was immediately concerned when tears welled up and began to cascade down her cheeks. What ELSE had he done to her?
"Everything," Molly simply said. "Mycroft told me everything." She glanced downwards and cleared her throat to compose herself, then took his hand. "Come now, I have tea ready. We can have biscuits with it, or brunch instead if you prefer. Have you eaten much yet today?"
Sherlock paused a moment, thinking back to the blueberry scone he had consumed along with the two cups of tea at John's flat. "Not much, no. I confess I haven't had much appetite the last few days."
"Well then, how about a good old fashioned English breakfast? We're going to have a rather long afternoon I suspect, best to face it with full bellies, don't you think?"
"Wise as well as beautiful," Sherlock said lightly, realizing his appetite was beginning to return full force. "But please let me help you in the kitchen. I'm not the most skilled chef but I can cook up a platter full of bangers that would blow your mind."
Molly looked away, hoping her expression and her blush wouldn't be too obvious. "You are in charge of the bangers, then," before dissolving into a fit of giggles.
"Seriously Molly, WHAT did my brother say to you?!" Sherlock implored, finding himself grinning like a fool. Molly was right, it was going to be a long afternoon, but clearly it wasn't going to be as agonizing as he had feared.
"Well, as I said, he told me everything. Mycroft has a far bigger heart than any of us suspect. He sees things we don't realize he sees, because he tries to put forth this ridiculously stale façade of logic and disdain for emotion. He told me, quite pointedly, that you meant what you said to me. And," she said, quietly, "he told me that you would only be made stronger by letting your feelings for me lead you now and then."
Sherlock caught his breath and found, to his amazement, tears of relief and joy springing to the corners of his eyes.
"Mycroft was right," he said simply.
