A/N: Ok, I realise this one skips quite a bit but let's not forget that everyone underestimates our dear pathologist. Mycroft is no different. This one is set in ASiB.

It would be at least two years before Mycroft saw Molly again, this time for purely professional reasons as he had had the body of The Woman sent to the morgue at St. Bart's for identification.

He cast an odd look at his brother as they walked down the empty corridors leading to the morgue and he explained about the body, noting that his brother barely even acknowledged his barb about the hospital being his 'home from home.'

Both men noticed the pathologist at the same time, Mycroft almost felt guilty as he noticed Sherlock's face pale slightly and Molly tense.

Almost.

Their odd reactions were too intriguing to make him regret the decision entirely.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock said in a low tone with something akin to gentleness in his expression.

Molly made a dismissive gesture, avoiding his gaze, "That's okay," she assured him, "everyone else was busy with...Christmas."

Something flashed across Sherlock's face and Molly looked decidedly awkward before slipping into a more professional manner. "The face is a bit, sort of…" she searched for an appropriate word, "bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult," she explained, compassion evident in her tone as pulled back the sheet revealing the victim's face.

Or, rather, what was left of it.

Mycroft suppressed a grimace and glanced at Sherlock, "That's her, isn't it?"

Sherlock looked up at Molly, "Show me the rest of her."

Molly's professional demeanour faltered slightly as she obediently pulled down the sheet, but Mycroft hardly noticed, his eyes were on his brother. Sherlock's eyes swept the woman's body from top to toe before glancing up at Molly, "That's her," he said flatly, spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

Mycroft nodded at Molly, "Thank you, Dr. Hooper."

Molly looked Mycroft square in the face, "Who is she?" she asked, her professional demeanour slipping away, "How did Sherlock recognise her from…not her face?"

Mycroft only smiled in return and followed his brother out, but he couldn't shake the image of her looking like a lost little girl. Not even when he caught sight of his brother staring out of a window and looking like a lost little boy.

"Just the one," he said, holding a cigarette out to him.

Sherlock regarded it suspiciously, "Why?"

"Merry Christmas," Mycroft said drily as Sherlock took the cigarette and Mycroft searched for a lighter.

"Smoking indoors – isn't there one of those...one of those law things?" Sherlock asked in a feeble attempt to bait him.

"We're in a morgue," Mycroft reminded him as he lit the cigarette, "There's only so much damage you can do," he added. The forlorn expression on Molly's face rose unbidden to his mind, but he brushed it aside.

Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have mirrored his own since he was almost certain he saw him glance at the morgue before he took a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly.

"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft asked conversationally.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, taking another drag on the cigarette, "She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on," he shrugged again, "she chose to give it up."

"Where is this item now?" Mycroft asked, more for formality's sake than anything else. He knew very well where it was.

They were distracted by the sound of a family weeping nearby and both men turned to watch them dispassionately.

"Look at them," Sherlock said after a moment, "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" he asked, his tone almost wistful.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken," Mycroft replied philosophically as he turned back to Sherlock just in time to see him glance at the morgue doors and grimace slightly. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he reminded him meaningfully.

Sherlock shot him a warning look, blowing out more smoke, "This is low tar," he said finally.

"Well, you barely knew her," Mycroft replied easily, watching him closely for a reaction.

"Ha!" Sherlock scoffed, walking off.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he watched him go, his suspicions seemingly confirmed. This was about a woman all right, but he had his doubts that it was about The Woman. Something else had happened.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Sherlock said without turning around.

"And a happy New Year," Mycroft replied ironically as Sherlock disappeared through the doors at the end of the corridor. Once he was out of sight, Mycroft pulled out his phone to call John.

"He's on his way," he said without preamble, "have you found anything?"

"No," came the reply, "did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes."

"Shit," John cursed as he hung up.

Mycroft glanced back into the morgue as he pocketed his phone. Indeed, he thought to himself as he caught sight of Molly.