2. The Bond Complex

Anstice had sorted everything out with Mrs. Hudson that fist morning. The older woman was beyond happy to rent 221c, as well as understandably bewildered at the other Holmes. One could only expect such a reaction when a previously unknown relative simply appears from out of the blue. John had heard her bustling about 221b's kitchen as he left for the surgery the next day; half-raving half-ranting to Sherlock about the lovely Anstice, how she wished he would talk about his family more, and how he could've ignored telling them about the girl.

"Frankly, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answered smoothly. "My sister doesn't enjoy being the center of attention to begin with,"

The doctor departed to: "You never even mentioned her, let alone that you were Scottish, young man! Hard to believe a sweet woman like that and you are remotely related. Makes me wonder how much I really know about you!"

Didn't they all? Wonder, that is.

John, however, did not expect to return to all three (known) Holmes children arguing in rather snappish, but refined mannerisms. Mycroft was currently barking at the youngest:

"Were you really expecting to be able to begin almost two weeks in advance of schedule? Potentially ruining a year and a half's worth of investigation, wasting thousands upon thousands of pounds, mussing up the entire operation, and all without my express approval?" John had never seen Mycroft so worked up over anything. The British government, normally delitescent about intentions, was flushed with rage. The terse atmosphere - all siblings poised to fire nuclear verbal abuse - didn't seem inclined on improvement.

"I didn't think that the Vienna conference would end so… abruptly," Anstice drawled. "And it hasn't gone sour yet. I've just gained more time at the hospital, to observe the targets. Isn't that an unintended benefit?"

"It's never a benefit unless it's to the absolute letter, Stasi," Sherlock chimed in. "I thought you'd know that after working with our brother here for nearly four years," The girl huffed, shifting her weight –her hips moving from side to side in her well-fitting black pencil skirt.

"Mycroft, couldn't you be yelling at me in your office?" she sighed.

"It would make more sense seeing as you've already rigged the flat up for your viewing pleasure. Anybody with a common infiltration strand could listen in," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, lounging in his armchair. Anstice was standing, leaning against the desk, with unwavering eye contact held on her eldest brother. Mycroft's demeanor continued its incalescence, evident in the tension spreading across his limbs.

"Maybe the target's listening; that'd be worse than some bored office worker or an intern experimenting,"

"So many mistakes, dear brother… It's probably all gone to shit as we speak because of this overly-protective driven discrepancy. Maybe little Stasi has to dye her hair and jet off, not to be seen for three years, all over again,"

"And just when this little family reunion was getting all wound up - ,"

"Will both of you grow up?!" Mycroft finally shouted. The little ones had gotten to him, as they so often did as children. The proud man was on the fringes of disheveled, his siblings appearing practically elysian. Anstice was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Mycroft was having an equally difficult time maintaining parental authority. Sherlock adopted a haughty air. From the front door, John caught Anstice's eye for a second – Sherlock had already noticed the doctor come in but didn't offer outright acknowledgment. The detective made to speak (probably to insert some smarmy commentary), but Mycroft was having none of it.

"Not a word, William," was spat out through gritted teeth. His voice was a strained, dangerous hiss that neither Anstice nor Sherlock flinched at. "Not one word out of either of you; and, yes, Anstice Cornelia, that includes you,"

John couldn't help himself. "William? Your name is William?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "William Sherlock Holmes, yes… In an effort to distance myself from our father as much as humanly possible, I have refused to be addressed by our mutual given names,"

"One would think that the good doctor, of all people, would know a little something about odd names," Anstice muttered. Clearly, both were accustomed to ignoring Mycroft and vice versa.

"And 'Anstice Cornelia' isn't odd?"

"I never said it wasn't, Will," Anstice quirked an eyebrow at the detective. "Mycroft, weren't you berating me?"

"Not any more, Anstice. I have more pressing tasks, such as reevaluating your presently quisquilian mission," He sniffed, resuming his collected, pompous air. Somehow, that bit alone made half of those gathered feel worlds better. "You will be in my office promptly at nine tomorrow morning,"

The British government spun on his heel and marched out of 221b to his sister saluting him with a very sarcastic "sir, yes sir". The front door slammed and Sherlock practically leaped from his spot, tossing his coat on.

"Excuse me? Where d'you think you're going?" said Anstice, miffed with arms folded.

"Lestrade's got three arson victims in Hackney," Sherlock tightened his scarf about his neck, shooting John a knowing look. The doctor responded with a questioning expression. "Yes, I know it's less than exciting but I can't have my brother thinking I've got nothing on. I couldn't take another one of his solicitations… Stasi, I'd get down to the morgue if I were you. You may even get to read Molly's notes,"

With a heavy sigh, Anstice marched off to find her coat and mobile. Sherlock obviously had no intention of waiting for her, speeding down the stairs after her and making a beeline for the sidewalk. The cabs were slow to stop that evening and the dark-haired man's patience was wearing dangerously thin. John and Sherlock were just pulling away as the young woman exited the building headed towards the tube entrance, raven curls flying.

"Sherlock," John began after she disappeared from view. "What exactly does your sister do for a living? Outside of put up with Mycroft more than you?" Sherlock cast a glance at the doctor and retrieved his buzzing phone within the Belfast coat. He answered after a spell:

"She's currently on as Molly's assistant mortician, if you can believe it. Remind me to request her for cases so we don't get landed with Anderson,"

"That doesn't answer my question,"

"Were you expecting it to?" Sherlock clicked away at the screen. "Surely you have ideas, John – deduce," John was silent: half- thinking and half- forcing himself to leave the game alone. It was late and the ex-soldier wasn't about to go get verbally beaten to death. Sherlock let out an impatient huff. "Fine; you mentioned liking James Bond films, didn't you?"

John laughed: "Anstice is not a spy. She can't be,"

Sherlock made no attempt to reply and John let the conversation drop, thinking his flat mate was acting more ridiculous than normal. They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the drive. The doctor grappled for any conceivable way the resident of 221c was more than simply Sherlock's sister; more than an assistant coroner. The cab slowed to a halt just outside of the temporary police line. As the men ducked under the tape, Sherlock added:

"She's asking to be called 'Corine Hastings' whenever we see her outside of the flat – for future reference,"

She had been five years old when the boy with the unruly dark hair shoved a dead rat at her.

"Do you want to help me?" She hadn't noticed the way he wouldn't look at her straight or how his whole demeanor was tensed. No, that all came later, when she was old enough to realize that her broher had actually come to take a liking to her. What she noticed right then was the disgusted face her mother as she shooed relatives from the kitchen and that the dead animal didn't make her wretch. It made her… curious; had her brother found it that way or did come to a more gruesome end? What kind of help was Sherlock talking about? Would they cut it open? Anstice subtly leaned back from the rat.

"Sure…" She had said, her voice a bit shaky. It was enough to make his blue eyes snap to her. She wouldn't think of it until later, but Anstice would admit later that her brother always had an unhinged quality, but the brilliant sort unhinged; the epitome of 'mad-genius'.

"Excellent!" He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and began pulling her past the droves of relatives to the stairs. The women shrieked and complained as they ran past. They may have even gotten their first collective disapproving stare from Mycroft. It didn't inhibit the feeling of anticipation spreading over her senses, making her feel warm. "I've already set up a space, but I need a helper. I guess because you're my sister that you'll do,"

"Thanks for coming in on such short notice," Molly smiled gratefully at her second in command. "I'm having trouble ID-ing some of these victims,"

"Don't think anything of it," Corine grinned, pulling her black hair into a tight bun. Nodding, the senior coroner led the way to the three victims in the back room – or rather what was left of them. Two were men, one with significant smoke damage. The third was a woman, but totally unidentifiable. Her skin had the appearance of burned paper, curling and cracking to reveal a dark crimson under-layer. Corine chewed her lip as she yanked on a pair of gloves, pouring over the woman.

"From left to right, they're Richard Evart, David Leigh, and –for now- Jane Doe," Molly said briefly before they both began their more thorough examinations – Corine working on the woman and Molly on Leigh. All the while, Corine mumbled to herself, making tiny notations in a notepad.

After about ten minutes, she called: "Molly, I've got something,"

"What did you find?"

"A few things…" Corine passed over her notes, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Rayon dress and a cotton shirt; I'd say she was dressed to be as flammable as possible. There's enough of it salvageable that I tested it and it's coated in gasoline. And I think I may have a way of getting a positive identification,"

Molly nodded in response, motioning for the other woman to continue.

"Her left hand isn't as badly burned as the right. So, I was thinking that I could rehydrate her hand," Corine explained excitedly. She bobbed a little as she spoke. "It's a long shot, but it's been done in Califor-,"

"Please," Molly smiled encouragingly. "I'll just entrust that to you. I'll just get the other two boxed up, so when you're done you can go. I just got called down by the Yard to take a look at the fourth body. They can't move it because the… organs are spilling out,"

"Oh, okay!" Corine answered enthusiastically. "I probably won't get results until tomorrow; takes twenty-four hours and all. See you later then!" Molly gave her a small wave and disappeared into her office. When the main door of the facility clicked shut, Anstice placed the fake glasses on top of her head and pulled out her mobile. In a moment, she had lost the abnormally chipper tone of Corine Hastings.

"Hello, is Gatewood in? Thank you – tell him it's Persephone… Evening, Cavalier. Just letting you know that I've landed a job… Mhmm. I'm close to the mouse. It's a shame because she's so sweet," She paused for a minute then added: "Would you be a doll and pass that along to Queen for me? Thanks, love,"

Molly stood out in the hall for a few minutes, then began walking to the computer lab downstairs. She hadn't gotten a call from the Yard, but she figure this "Corine" could handle an hour or so on her own. She was certainly capable enough. Besides, Molly had bigger things to attend to than an over-zealous assistant.

"Hullo?" A thick voice slurred over the receiver.

"Nice to see you're awake, Sebastian," Molly replied, vaguely amused. "Is Jim there?"

"Of course not,"

"Fine then; could you tell him something for me?" There was a pause on the line and a slow exhale. "Alright – remember when he was talking about the possibility of government interference? Well, it seems the prediction has come true. I think she's my new co-worker,"

Moran: "Yea, no problem… Want me to look into a name for you?"

"Sure… Corine Hastings," She heard the tapping of a laptop keyboard.

"Nothing, sorry Mols… Got anything else?" Molly thought for a second.

"She's got a tattoo on her wrist, but it's in Chinese. I'll send you a picture," Molly quickly scribbled down her best impression of the characters, snapped a picture and sent it off. As she waited for Moran to call back, she checked the door of the computer lab, truly expecting someone to come marching in at that second. It was suspiciously quiet, the phone vibrating on the table making her jump.

"You won't believe this, Mols," Moran said.

"It worked? What's her name, Seb? Tell me!"

"They're numbers – the numbers nine, four, and two. A quick search brings me to Anstice Holmes, agent 0942 and 'Persephone' to the Americans…" Molly waited. "Wow… you'd think they'd be smarter than to leave all this info up,"

"It is a private database – we just have all the right keys," The man, in his typically atrabilious manner would've probably have dismissed the name otherwise – at least that's what Molly believed. Instead, Moran chuckled – the atmosphere slowly felt darker.

"Or SIS is getting slow. It seems that the Holmes family has a keen ability to work themselves into all kinds of trouble. Almost as keen as their reasoning…" The conversation tapered off there. Molly took a breath before pulling out her laptop and scouting out strategic points for sniper fire in London. Good rooftops, balconies, the works.

Maybe on the weekend the government planned on hosting members of the United States and Israeli intelligence bureaus?

Jim would appreciate that level of internal chaos.

Four and a half months earlier

If Molly Hooper didn't want to work for James Moriarty upon the first offer, the least he could do was give her a few harmless incentives - even if they had finally agreed to something of a work contract.

"To help you along with your morgue. Best of luck, JM" He had penned in neat script on his favorite Bohemian stationary. It was the thick, lovely kind that only princes and kings used to use. All his letters, along with his gifts, contained little puzzles. Simple riddles, nothing too superfluous or difficult to draw attention to themselves but enough to make Molly forgive James for his outburst when the job had been rejected.

The body had done the trick - just like that. Molly had solved the mystery death; quite brilliantly, he might add. The next day, he received a text in response:

Are you going to do this every week?

He chuckled under his breath when he read it. Sebastian, polishing the butt of his prized Winchester 70 rifle, rolled his eyes. A 'business associate' of theirs sat slumped in unconsciousness, awaiting the next phase of his torture.

'Patience, Molly' had been James' cryptic response.

A few days later, two gruesomely beautiful bodies appeared in Saint Bartholomew's morgue. Two successfully-solved crimes later, Molly Hooper's morgue was trustfully in league with London's police force. That was the day dear, sweet, surprisingly-not-mousy Molly had agreed to an alliance with the world's only consulting criminal and his sidekick, the best sniper Great Britain ever dismissed from the armed forces. Three days later, James Moriarty's phone buzzed and his life got a little less boring.

Met Sherlock Holmes - Molly

Author's Note:

Hope you are enjoying and are not to confused at this time. All will be revealed sooner or later so hang in there! (This is only the second chapter, we've got 6 more to go...). General update: I will be actually able to update in the foreseeable future because I'm about to hit exam week and that means a lot of otherwise wasted free time. Hopefully it will be put to good use :D

Cheers,

Carie Lea