"You got to not talk dirty, baby
If you want to impress me
You can't be too flirty, mama
I know how to undress me, yeah
I want to be your fantasy
Maybe you could be mine..." (KISS, by Prince)


"More detail, if you please."

"Regarding Mr Musgrave's unusually intellectual cleaning lady?"

"No, the other thing; the Privy Council induction thing."

Mycroft Holmes observes his brother quite beadily as the latter makes a show of cleaning his nail using the tip of his letter knife with a casual affectation. Realising his little brother to be showing less than his usual degree of bored indifference, he determines that more data must be softly and gently elicited.

"How nice, Sherlock, that you take such an interest in the Royal prerogative and judicial committee of your own Sovereign; perhaps an acceptance of the Knighthood this year?" Mycroft raises a polite yet clearly mocking eyebrow to further test the waters. It simply would not do to allow Sherlock to notice his genuine curiosity.

"Perhaps not, Mycroft." Sherlock lays down the knife and immediately falls into his armchair, tapping out a repetitive arpeggio on it's leather clad arm. A few moments more, considers Mycroft Holmes, and he himself should be able to identify the piece successfully. How tense and preoccupied. How delightful.

"So," encourages Mycroft, "would it be the ceremony I attended today you wish to know more about? Surely you must have some knowledge of the induction of new Privy Councillors - the bowing and scraping, the obsequious forelock-tugging you profess to despise…"

Sherlock squints up at his brother, drumming fingers pausing in their rhythm and knows he must tread carefully; Mycroft always knows far too much.

"I am undertaking a ... small study at present, involving a sociological investigation…I am interested to know how one presents to Her Majesty at such an event… the kneeling etc…"

He sits back, affecting indifference, but exhibiting a tightly-coiled impatience which serves to amuse Mycroft no end. Softly. Gently.

Mycroft expounds:

"One approaches Her Majesty, then kneels before her on the footstool provided. The Queen will then proffer her right hand, palm down and fingers lightly closed. The inductee will then extend his own right hand, with palm upwards - I do hope you are following, little brother?"

Sherlock huffs an unconvincing disinterest as his brother continues.

"Then, he will take Her Majesty's hand lightly, lift it and bestow, Sherlock, the merest touch of the lips. Anymore than this would be deemed most impertinent and inopportune."

Sherlock nods slowly, his fingers steepled, but a glint inhabiting a corner of his pale eyes.

"Devotion. Loyalty," he notes, quietly and Mycroft nods in agreement.

"Indeed."

There is a short pause as Sherlock isolates and files his thoughts in the depths of his Mind Palace and his brother watches him for a moment before picking up his gloves and umbrella.

"Do see yourself out Mycroft. It should be pointless calling on Mrs Hudson since her shortbread slices apparently lacked 'sufficient shortening` and had to be consigned to the bin - "

Mycroft smiles without a shred of sincerity as he steps towards the door.

" - and Mr Musgrave should check his family tree; I suspect his cleaner to be rather more qualified than he realises and to have a more than legitimate claim on the family inheritance."

Mycroft sighs. This is not unexpected news.

"Your insight is appreciated Sherlock."

"As is ... yours."

And Mycroft takes the staircase with a distinct sense of … intrigue, as well as the sense that his little brother still had the ability to surprise him.

~x~

So I got it. Yay me!

I suppose there were only three candidates and one of them is a total idiot and a stranger to paperwork, but I should also point out that I aced the presentation on only two hours sleep (crazy landlord hammering into the night keeping the whole house awake) and a tube strike nearly stopping me from getting here. I should also point out that Mike Stamford hugged me and whispered "best man won, Molly" like the gorgeous myopic teddy bear that he is, and I am now on cloud nine and being ironically slap-dash about paperwork, since I am being interrupted every two minutes by folks coming into the lab to congratulate me.

"Eeeh, Leading Forensic Pathologist Molly Hooper!" Sarah Gnezere is half a foot taller and three times as strong as me, proved by her lifting me up and planting a smacking kiss on my forehead.

"Hey you, stop kissing the boss!" My other favourite APT Joanne rushes in (cakes for all - she is quite the asset and I make mental note to introduce Cake Friday just as soon as I can) and hugs me tight, wafting Nina Ricci and genuine admiration my way in droves.

Less than twenty minutes later, the silverest of police foxes drifts in to offer his congratulations as he collects the lab results on several unfortunate people who trusted a taxi driver who...wasn't really a taxi driver.

"Molly Hooper - you dark horse! C'mere!" and large, wax-cottoned arms engulf me, pulling me in for a peck on the cheek, which redden with a sudden heat on seeing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes entering the lab on the heels of the inspector. Of course, it was one of Sherlock's cases too.

John bounds up, slightly less exuberant than Greg but just as genuine, hugging me swiftly with a light kiss across my cheekbone. "Star girl," he smiles. "We heard all about it, didn't we Sherlock?"

And we stand, Sherlock Holmes and myself, less than three feet apart and staring at each other in silence, and it is difficult to tell who looks more awkward. Surprisingly, he breaks the stare first, looking down at his freakishly large (beautiful) hands as if he'd only just discovered them and had no clue as to their purpose. A lock of dark hair falls across his pale forehead as I take in the lovely planes of his alien features and exquisitely crafted mouth… Oh the nights I have thought of that mouth and how I might want to still the unpunctuated, garrulous, unedited stream of consciousness that pours from it each time we meet…

But not this time, it would seem.

All eyes are now on Sherlock, apparently rooted to the spot and bizarrely mute as he looks up and around at his audience, realising an expectation was being had, and most likely deciphering which would be the least offensive method of -

Oh.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly catch my own and I find I can look nowhere else, and that everyone else in that room might as well have disappeared into the ether, or the nether realm, or whatever kids were calling it these days.

"Molly … "

"Sherlock."

Eyes so pale as to be mutable, turbulent, capricious… unforgettable. Eyes that were unsure?

Like a puppet, he jerks into action, stepping forward, reaching towards me and taking the hand that lies limp and redundant by my side and lifting it. Time is suspended, caught in a fragmented and unreliable dimension as I see my own hand brought up to that mouth and the huff of air that caresses my skin just before the sweep of lips; that softness, that yielding, that breach of a thousand barriers flits through my consciousness ... and then it is over.

"Congratulations," murmurs Sherlock Holmes, low, sonorant, looking up at me as he lowers my hand and I realise two things:

Never has a room had so little air in it.

Never has a fully-clothed (and recently promoted) pathologist felt so completely... naked.

Shit.

~x~


a/n: Guest - thank you for dropping by and I hope you can stick around and see how things turn out! ;)