Thank you for your lovely reviews (including some I couldn't reply to personally as they were guest reviews). I should mention here that this will be Mollcroft by the end, so if that doesn't float your boat, sorry about that and don't read on! I must admit that I don't usually ship them myself, but the story just seemed to write itself in an odd way.
I should acknowledge one idea in this chapter - an analogy about the sun and moon. If it sounds familiar, it's because I remember reading something similar in an Agatha Christie and liking the idea of it.
I forgot disclaimers in the first chapter - slapped wrist for me. Most characters here belong to ACD and their modern incarnations plus Molly Hooper belong to Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson and the BBC. I am indebted to Louise Brealey and Mark Gatiss, the talented actors who created two characters that could have been merely 'background' and gave them a life of their own.
Chapter 2
"I could write a preface on how we met…"
If Molly is ever asked when and where she and Mycroft first met, she will always say in the mortuary on that bitterly cold Christmas Eve, without specifying the exact circumstances of the occasion.
And Mycroft will gently shake his head and tell her no, that was not the first time they met. He will, instead, cite a mild spring afternoon a couple of years earlier, when Molly was so busy staring at the back of a certain consulting detective as he strode out of Bart's that she quite failed to avoid bumping into a tall man in a suit. She had looked up enough to mutter "sorry" somewhere in the vicinity of his chest before slinking off.
Molly will, of course, not remember this - why on earth would she, and for all she knows he's making the whole thing up - and Mycroft will mildly point out that she was too busy staring at his brother to notice anyone.
If Sherlock happens to be in the vicinity, which happens rather more these days than it used to, he will snort at Mycroft's words and point out that it's hardly surprising that she didn't notice Mycroft back then, especially if he was wearing that suit and, in any case, he's just jealous that his brother is better-looking. And Mycroft will smile sweetly at his brother and retort that Sherlock's a fine one to talk about jealously between siblings.
And then Molly will tell them both to shut up and will shove a forkfull of mincemeat loaf cake directly into Sherlock's mouth to make her point. Mycroft will laugh at the look of shock on his brother's face, while being secretly miffed that Molly should waste a sizeable portion of one of his favourite cakes on a man who certainly won't appreciate it.
Although…Sherlock will eat it with every sign of enjoyment, once Molly's back is turned. He always did have a sweet tooth even if he will never acknowledge it. And as he does so, he will give his brother a particularly smug look, knowing full well that it was this very same cake that caused all the trouble in the first place…
"Mmm…" John took a mouthful of Molly's latest creation and chewed it with great relish. "That is delicious."
"You like it?" Molly asked.
"I don't like it – I love it. What's it called?"
"Oh, I don't know really. It's a new invention. I was thinking of making one for Mrs Hudson, as a Christmas present."
It was ten days before Christmas, and John had popped in with an invitation to the, by now, traditional Christmas party at 221B Baker Street and also a list of the party food they needed Molly to provide. It was Mary who had planned the party this year, and she would be the first to admit that cooking was not one of her many skills.
Molly skimmed her eyes down the list, smiling. "How did Sherlock take it?"
"Oh, you know him. Moaned about Christmas being irrelevant and Christmas decorations doubly so… Doesn't stop him from practising Christmas carols on his violin though."
Molly could visualise it. Sherlock lived alone in 221B now, although John and Mary often visited him, either separately or together, along with their infant daughter Elena. The previous year, when Mary was heavily pregnant, they had been staying with Sherlock and Mycroft's parents, but this year both brothers had refused point-blank to travel to the Cotswolds (both probably still very conscious of the disaster with Magnussen that had unfolded on that occasion). The consulting detective might have secretly hoped for a solitary Christmas, but the Watsons had already moved in for the holiday.
Mary had taken the place over with her usual good-natured practicality and was cleaning, tidying and decorating with relish, riding over Sherlock's half-hearted complaints. Her excuse, to which he had no good answer, was that his god-daughter had just started to walk and it was therefore not good to have half-finished experiments and toxic substances scattered about all over the place.
Molly mused, her hands suspended above the bowl in which she was currently mixing up the 'official' batch. "I suppose I might call this one a mincemeat loaf cake. Sounds a bit boring, but that's what it basically is. I'm not all that good at names. Do you think Mrs Hudson'll like it?"
"Forget Mrs H., we'd love it. Especially Mary. Are you making one for Mycroft too?" he added, with a teasing glint in his eye.
She blushed. "Don't start. Sherlock's bad enough with the endless insinuations. Yes, I probably will… Look, we really are just friends."
"If you say so," he replied, good-naturedly, as he cut himself another slice of her 'test' version.
"I don't know why everyone keeps going on about it," she muttered, stirring the mincemeat into the dough. "Even Sherlock. I mean, for Heaven's sake, what's wrong with two people being just good friends? That's what I don't understand. We don't all have to get married and have kids like you – not that there's anything wrong with that, of course, but some of us just like a bit of companionship. Someone to go to the theatre with, that kind of thing, without being too serious about it. I do have my own life," she added, trying to forget the fact that said life didn't have an awful lot going for it right now apart from Mycroft. She really needed to find herself a man.
"Mmm," he said, not really listening as he ate the cake with relish. "You know, this is really good. I mean, better than…well, pretty much anything. You could publish a book of cake recipes. You're good enough."
She laughed, startled. "Don't be silly, John! I'm not that good…am I?" she added, doubtfully.
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Believe me. You are that good."
Molly will argue with Mycroft over the definitions of a 'first meeting'. She will argue that since it was one-sided, that earlier meeting doesn't count anyway. He will counter that it does count since they did meet – it's not his fault that she was too busy ogling his little brother to pay any attention.
And she will open her mouth to argue…and then close it again, because there's truth in that.
But Mycroft's not being entirely honest himself. He cannot say with any great certainty that Molly made much impression, on either occasion. He had, of course, engineered the collision in order to get a closer look at the woman that was giving his brother illegal access to some pretty powerful chemicals. He needed no more than a brief look to confirm his theory – the look of longing on her face as she stared at Sherlock's retreating back was proof enough that Molly Hooper was no spy in disguise. His brother was safe enough – assuming he could prevent the woman becoming too dangerously attached to him.
The second time, he'd been more interested in Sherlock's reaction to the Adler woman's corpse. Molly had struck him as a rather silly woman on that occasion. Indeed, he had been most surprised to learn that his brother had turned to the very same person to help him in his time of need. However, Mycroft was a pragmatic man, able to put aside his own prejudices to recognise the value of the mousy young pathologist that Sherlock had trusted. Very early on in their 'proper' acquaintance, he could see that Molly was actually no fool, despite appearances.
Molly can make no better claim. Mycroft was a grey nameless figure, standing in the shadow of his more charismatic brother. The two of you are like the sun and the moon, she will tell him, much later. Sherlock is the sun and when it's out, you don't notice the moon, even though it's right there. But when the sun sets, the moonlight is all you can see.
And as it happens, she prefers the moon. The light it shines is kind, calm, measured, helping to guide one's way in the dark. Not hot and harsh and glaringly bright, like the sun's rays. And, after a bit, you always know that the moon is there, even during the day when it's not so obvious. She won't tell him any of that, of course.
Molly deliberately didn't think about John's words until Christmas was over and done with. She'd had a quiet dinner with Mycroft on the 23rd, had enjoyed the Baker Street party on Christmas Eve and had made her dutiful Christmas Day visit to her mother down in Surrey.
Back home on Boxing Day, pottering around her kitchen and compiling a shopping list for an apple dessert she was planning to make, she paused and remembered what he had said.
It was true that she no longer stuck to the recipe books. Most of what she made was based on the classics but always with an original twist. Original enough for a book? Well…there was the fact that she took a scientific approach to the baking process, which gave her a higher-than-average success rate with the finished product. Even Mycroft had said more than once that her creations were far more palatable than anything he'd ever tasted from the top London patisseries.
Yes… It could work.
Shopping list forgotten, she sat at the kitchen with her notebook of scribbled recipes and began to plan.
"No deliveries today?" Mycroft asked Anthea casually, as she came through with some more files.
She shook her head as she turned away, already preoccupied by her Blackberry again.
He suppressed a sigh. It was probably a good thing. The holiday season had not been particularly good for his waistline. Christmas Day had been a thankfully solitary affair, but he'd flown to Washington on Boxing Day and had stayed in the USA over New Year, which always played havoc with his diet. Coming back, he'd expected to find something from Molly in his fridge, but it had been unusually empty. He knew that Molly was off work and hadn't gone away, so it seemed odd that she hadn't been in touch.
Oh well. The next 'Molly' day was at the end of this week, so he'd soon find out. Talking of which…he took out his phone and texted a time and location, smiling as he imagined her surprise.
Four days later, she arrived at his well-appointed Chelsea flat at 7PM on the dot. Not that he would have expected anything else, having sent his car for her.
She looked around her at the spacious penthouse with something like awe. In all their acquaintance, they had never met at either of their homes. At first, when their meetings had been clandestine it had been too dangerous, but even later on, neither had suggested it. Mycroft liked to keep his city apartment private – none of his colleagues or relatives had ever been invited here - and he assumed Molly felt the same way about her own flat. She knew where he lived, of course, having posted various cakes here during the last three years, and he knew her flat from seeing it on security cameras.
If she had been surprised to receive an invitation to dine here, she did a good job of hiding it. He was pleased to see that she was holding a promising-looking covered plate in her hands.
"Here, let me take that for you," he suggested, keen to get his hands on whatever it was.
She held it out of reach. "No – it's something new that I want to surprise you with. Where's the kitchen? It just needs warming up…"
He ushered her through to his large, open-plan kitchen/dining area, and her eyes widened at the sight. He hadn't given the kitchen much thought before – Mycroft was not great in the kitchen and relied on his part-time cook to provide anything more demanding than a basic pasta dish – but looking at it afresh through Molly's eyes, he could see why it might impress. The equipment was state-of-the-art and the units were spacious and kept spotlessly clean.
"What I couldn't do in here," she muttered, before shaking herself. She seemed a little distracted tonight, he noticed. "Um – ok, I'll put it here for now…"
She leaned past him to put the covered plate on a unit. He'd been standing close to try to catch a whiff of the dessert's fragrance, but found himself with a face full of her hair instead. Realising he was more than usually close, he stepped back a little clumsily, the scent of her shampoo sharp in his nostrils.
"OK, I'll deal with that later. So…what's for the main course?" she asked, before giving him a strange look.
His thoughts seemed to have scrambled in a way that was completely alien to him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to respond. "Oh – just lobster ravioli with sautéed courgettes and leeks. I thought something a little different to the usual winter fare…" Of course, she didn't need to know that he wasn't the actual cook (who had already gone, leaving him strict instructions regarding the final preparations).
"Sounds lovely." Her smile was warm, but there was something missing in it… Or was he just imagining it?
They settled into the meal, the conversation flowing as it always did. She asked about his time in Washington and he forced himself to make civil inquiries as to his brother's party – it had slightly rankled not to have been asked, even if he would almost certainly have refused any invitation.
Halfway through the main course, she hurried into the kitchen area to warm her dessert in the oven, and after the plates had been cleared away, served him a dish of the most delicious apple cake he had ever tasted. It quite literally melted in his mouth and he praised it to the hilt, making her blush delightfully.
"By the way," he added, at one point. "The mincemeat loaf cake was exquisite. My favourite so far, if this does not surpass it. I'm afraid I have already finished it."
Her face lit up, as he had known it would – she loved being complimented on her cakes. "Good, I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I didn't really know what else to get you for Christmas, so a cake seemed appropriate."
"I was a bit surprised you hadn't left anything else for my return from America," he said, watching her carefully. "Not that I ever expect it, you know, but you usually do send a little something as a 'welcome back'." And I know you haven't been working, he added, silently.
Her face dropped and she gave her full attention to her own serving of the apple cake. "Yes. Sorry, I did mean to, but I've been a little busy – you know, preoccupied with…things."
He instantly felt guilty. "Please don't apologise, Molly. I don't expect these gifts – I only ask because it's unusual and I had hoped you were not…unwell."
"Well, I've been busy, er…typing up my recipes. I think I told you - they're all in this scruffy notebook, and I was worried I'd lose them, so…" She chased the last piece of cake around her dish with a spoon, still not looking at him. "I thought I'd type them up and get it printed out."
"I see. You should be careful that no one breaks into your computer security," he commented, pretending to make a joke of it. "You wouldn't want someone to steal your recipes." My recipes, he thought to himself. She makes them for me. Not anyone else.
He was only partly joking; he did feel a certain degree of possessiveness and liked knowing that no one else tasted quite the same cakes as he did (he didn't count Sherlock, the Watsons or Mrs Hudson, all of whom were clearly philistines when it came to fine dining).
She gave an unconvincing laugh. "Oh, I'm sure that won't happen."
Interesting, he thought, as he smiled benevolently at her. She's lying to me.
Molly had felt a little guilty about not being entirely honest with Mycroft, but the truth was that she wanted to surprise him. She had a vague idea that she might get the book published before his birthday the following August – or printed professionally, at least – so she could present him with a signed copy.
However, that was easier said than done. She knew basically nothing about the publishing industry. So far, her research of just a handful of days had given her a list of publishers who were most likely to take on a new cookery book and a list of agents taken from the acknowledgement pages of her favourite cookery books and the Writer's & Artist's Yearbook. She'd carefully drafted a query letter, sent it out to various agents along with a sample recipe and had sat back, waiting for the offers to pour in.
Several weeks' later, she'd received no reply from any of them. Gritting her teeth, she went back to the library and did some more research, putting together another list. Out went the next batch of letters by e-mail.
And then another set of letters in March. This time, she did receive one acknowledgment of her letter, but the agent regretted that…etc. So that was that.
Molly was just at the point where she thought she might as well get the manuscript printed out, so she could at least present it to Mycroft as an unpublished book, when another e-mail arrived. It stated, briefly, that the agent was prepared to meet Molly if she could contact the office and arrange a time. Excited beyond reason and already considering book titles, Molly made an appointment for her next day off.
The appointment was a disaster – or seemed to be, as far as she could tell. The female agent was pleasant enough but clearly busy and appeared unimpressed by Molly's unprofessional presentation. Molly was utterly unprepared and stumbled over most of the questions she was asked. She could see by the woman's face that she was not likely to get in touch again, and she left the office feeling foolish and humiliated.
"Doctor Hooper!"
She turned, surreptitiously wiping a stray tear from her eye. It was the nice young man who had been sitting in the adjoining office with the door open while she had her meeting. He was running along the road after her.
"Are you alright? You seemed a little…upset when you left." His blue eyes were warm with concern and she found herself blushing slightly as she replied.
"I'm quite alright really. Just feeling a little stupid." She laughed lightly, to hide her embarrassment. "I'm not very experienced with publishing, you see… Well, actually I'm not experienced at all."
He smiled, the lines under his eyes crinkling attractively. There was something about him that seemed a little familiar… "You weren't so bad. It's just about getting your presentation right. Would you like me to give you some tips?"
"Would you? I don't know why you would want to…" she replied, slowly and with some suspicion.
He spread his arms wide. "No ulterior motive – I promise you. I just happen to think that your book has potential, that's all. I'm Jennie's junior partner, so I don't have much say in her decisions, but I know potential when I see it. I saw your recipe and I can tell how good you are."
She smiled, all the time wondering what it was about him that she seemed to recognise. "Well – that's really good of you. Thank you. Um – I didn't catch your name?"
He looked over his shoulder at the nearby café and then held out his arm to her with a wide grin. "It's Tom."
Mycroft looked at the grainy footage. The angle hadn't been great, but he could see Molly smiling at a tall, dark-haired man who was holding his arm out to her. She linked her hand through it and they walked away from the camera towards a café. There was something about the man that looked vaguely familiar…
Well. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She was an attractive, intelligent young woman. Molly's love life had nothing to do with him - he had no interest in it whatsoever. Nevertheless it would be wise to check the man out; if nothing else, it might ease the oddly uncomfortable sensation located somewhere beneath his ribs if he knew he didn't have to worry about her safety.
He looked up at Anthea, who was waiting expectantly. "Full security background, checking particularly for any connections with Mr Moriarty. And get me a decent photograph."
She nodded and turned away, but not before he saw that damned smirk on her face again. Really, it was quite irritating, that look of hers. If she wasn't such an impeccable PA…
She was extremely efficient, and it was not long before he was presented with a thin file by one of her own minions, telling him all he needed to know about one Thomas Clarke, a thirty-four year old publishing agent. There were no suspicious gaps in his history, no connection whatsoever to any underground organisations. He was exactly as he appeared to be – a pleasant, intelligent, well-educated and reasonably wealthy young man.
That should have made him feel better about the whole thing. It didn't.
At the bottom of the file, he found a few copies of photographs taken in recent years, and pulled them towards him. As he saw the first picture of a smiling Mr Clarke, taken at a publishing conference, his breath caught.
Thomas Clarke could have passed for a younger version of himself, quite easily. Add on ten years and he might be him.
He quickly retrieved the page giving the man's personal details. Six feet one, dark brown hair, grey-blue eyes, long straight nose… He glanced back at the photograph and then at another. No doubt about it – if Mycroft had ever needed to resort to a double for security reasons, Thomas Clarke would have been top on the list of possibilities. The likeness really was uncanny.
He called to his PA, and Anthea came back into the room. At his urging, she lifted her eyes from her ever-present smartphone for long enough to glance at the photograph. The minute rising of one perfect eyebrow told him everything he needed to know.
"By the way, I checked his current work status," she added, with a degree of meaning in her voice that he had learned to heed carefully over the years. Anthea was no fool. "He specialises in getting cookery books published – and Doctor Hooper had an appointment with his senior partner just before that security footage was captured."
With that final comment, she raised the other eyebrow significantly before returning to her smartphone.
Mycroft stared at the image, noting the smile on Molly's face.
A boyfriend for Doctor Hooper? Inevitable, sooner or later.
A publisher for 'his' recipes – the cakes she had made for him, Mycroft? Completely out of the question.