Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock. If I did, Molly and Sherlock would be a couple and Mycroft would have an odd obsession with cake.

A/N: Oh hai there! Listen, there's only a few weeks left in the term and my English teacher just added a fifth project to my pile! Sooo, when all of that is done, fanfiction will come your way! A lot more!

(Last chapter of A Partner, Not a Spouse and a prompt fill for Barriss)


~Chapter 4~

~Of Cake and Guilt~

In a moment of panic and reduction, their lips parted. Molly kept her eyes shut, praying to god it was not Tom who had opened the door and caught them in the act, but instead someone a little more easier to deal with, like Lestrade or a random neighbor. She heard the ruffle of Sherlock's hair and his hands brushing off nonexistent dust from his broad shoulders and she opened her eyes, only to connect them with her lap, feeling ashamed and red.

Letting out a weary laugh, quavering and nervous on the extent of Sherlock Holmes's infamous rotten behavior, he looked over at who had opened the door. "Moment of weakness. Nothing more."

"Whatever you say, brother dear." Letting out a sharp sigh, Molly looked over at Mycroft Holmes, ultimately relieved that it was not someone who would put up a fuss. She noticed that Greg was still asleep on the counter.

Sherlock crossed his arms, walking towards his brother. He had a wavering smile on as he approached him. The air grew heavy and tense, every person in the room holding their breath. Over the entirety of four years worries no longer became worries, but hopes. Hopes that either one of them was alive. Taking a peek behind their stone-cold facades willing to actually seem like they care, the Holmes brothers, a couple thousand miles away from each other, haven't seen either of them for eternity. Molly felt like she should be walking out of the room.

"You clean up well."

"I do."

"Yes, compared to your appearance when you greeted Ms. Hooper earlier this evening."

With the ever so slight raise of the eyebrow Sherlock silently questioned his brother's omnipotence, security cameras and all. Molly watched, amused, as Mycroft nodded his head in the slightest manner as his brother had did, silently answering his question. Then, after a long, pregnant pause, the two of them stepped forward and brought each other in a short, awkward hug.

A smile raising onto her face within a cloud of relief and levity, Molly sat up and stared at the fireplace, silently waiting for the Holmes brothers to complete their hellos. She listened to the two men clear their throats, one after the other, straightening their ties, making do of their hands which have been awkwardly dangling at their sides. After another strange silence, hanging heavy and humorously, Sherlock grabbed a grin.

"I see you couldn't resist the cake."

Mycroft chuckled deeply, his eyes wandering everywhere but his brother's face, finally settling on his own big stomach. "I see you've given sentiment a try."

"Oh please, brother of mine, do tell more."

"Hasn't Mummy told you that you mustn't kiss other men's wives?"

Molly cleared her throat, pursing her lips together. "Your brother was at the wedding. Did he tell you? Send a few pictures?"

Sherlock snickered. "Oh, please, Mycroft couldn't even bear going to John's."

"He did. Well—a few yards from the reception area, that is."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the floor, his hands sinking into his pockets as he kicked at a bump in the carpet. "Mmm, well, I came for the cake, you see."

The Holmes brothers chuckled, cueing Molly to rush into her bedroom, in her rightful place beside Tom's side. Under muffled silence and the lavender covers, she pulled Tom's clammy arm over her waist, cuddling herself to his chest. She closed her eyes, telling herself that the ambiguous man hadn't kissed her. She told herself she was in love with Tom and was going to spend the rest of her life with him. She told herself all of these lies, living under the impression she was happy. Nearly brimming with exaltation.

Then as she drifted off into sleep, she told herself that all of these things weren't true.

What made Molly ache more than the longing for the love of a handsome, mysterious man was only one sight—only one glimpse, only one look. Oh, it shone with the happiness of rising sun after a night of rain, yet it hit Molly with unbearingly large amounts of guilt.

Smiling like the perfect model family on a magazine, two jumpy young girls dressed in frilly, beautiful sundresses skipped down the pathway pulling their parents after them. Molly stopped dead in her tracks, clutching her bag to her chest as her heart ceased to beat. She could only hear the clinking of the mug full of water she had filled that morning, drowning out the squeals and laughs of the two children. Shutting her eyes as if she had seen something so disgracingly nasty, she took in a deep, deep breath just as one of the children recognized her.

"Miss Molly!" she squealed, pointing one of her pudgy fingers at her. "Miss Molly!"

"Oh, Molly!" she opened her eyes to meet Mary's red flats and John's loafers, forcing her head up with willpower she didn't have to meet their eyes, "So nice to see you around!"

"Yeah?" she replied lamely, looking over at John. Her heart ached with rotting, horrible guilt, hands shaking with unbearable irony. "Well it's nice to er—see you two around. I guess."

"Mary told me you were with someone last night? Said you were dripping wet—did you catch a cold?" asked John, genuinely concerned. One of his daughters tugged at the hem of his shirt causing him to flash a warm smile her way.

"Yeah, he seemed like an odd one." Mary recalled, pursing her lips, placing a protective and gentle hand on her bag as a group of noisy teenagers passed by. "His name was S—"

"Mary." Her named slipped out of Molly's mouth with forced panic. She pushed it out, starting to grow warm. Her words ceased immediately, to Molly's relief, as she said, "That wasn't really his name. He—he does that."

Molly had lost count of how many times she had lied to Mary. The very first was lost in the web of lies she had intangled herself in—yet she guiltily indulged herself in such memories that she had kept to herself. She could still feel her lips tingle from Sherlock's kiss, the sweet fire his mouth offered. A finger brushing over her wedding ring and Sherlock's ring, she pushed back a smile as guilt slapped her in the face when she caught sight of the Watson family on front of her.

"Ooh!" the younger Watson girl pointed a finger, covered in pink nail polish, at Molly's ring. "Shiny!"

The other admired Molly's two rings, pulling her hand closer to her face. "Ooh! Pretty!"

Mary chuckled heartily, pulling John nearer to her. "That's a beautiful ring, Molly. Did Tom give it to you?"

She was going to let another lie slip inbetween her lips, but going along with her better judgment she replied, "No. It was the friend I was with last night."

John's eyes grew wider ever so slightly, with surprise coursing throughout his now stiffened body. "Oh?"

"Don't get the wrong idea" –Molly's words slipped out in a quavering voice that was usually reserved for lab talk with the consulting detective—"he's a…he's a jeweler. Haven't seen him in a while, gave it to me as a present."

Molly was starting to get disgusted by how easily lies could fly out of her mouth. She felt so ashamed of herself, how she let lying become easy for her. A facile practice now, which before felt like sinning—it ached even more as she made eye contact with John, eyes bright with joy for his children, but deep, deep down, was still sad. After four years, still slightly sad. Sad that Sherlock Holmes hadn't heard him when he said, "Do me just one more favor. Don't—be—dead."

The painful irony was that he was there, he was in Molly's flat, yet she daren't say a single word, no matter how heart-wrenching it was, no matter how much she wanted to get rid of the two Holmes in her flat, how she wanted to be alone with Tom. Because lies upon lies, she didn't know what was true or not anymore. Did she want the Holmes out? Did she want to be alone with Tom? She bit her lip and sighed profusely, quickly formulating an excuse.

"Nice to see you two little ladies." She looked down at the Watson sisters, "However I'll be late to work soon."

"How so?" asked Mary, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder. "It's Saturday!"

Molly's eyes widened, weight pushing on her even harder, "Oh—really?"

"That's what you get for standing in the bloody rain early in the morning, Molly! Go on—get some sleep."

Molly silently nodded, clutching her bag like the mouse she wished to never be again and walked on the opposite direction, trying to block out the delighted squeals of "Bye Miss Molly!" and made her way home. She only felt relief that the dam inside of her hadn't broken, that the truth wasn't heavy enough to break free. Yet, she kept telling herself, it would have to come out sooner or later. She'd have to reintroduce the man London thought was dead. She'd have to keep John from murdering his best friend and keep Mrs. Hudson from fainting. Tough, large tasks, all stacked up on each other, even the deed of dealing with the press. She'd even have to convince Stamford to let Sherlock work in St. Bart's again. She'd have to deal with Anderson's fan club, Tom, the guilt, the criticism—

The unfortunate thing was, she just didn't know how.

Sherlock watched, with somewhat of a warmth filling up his chest cavity, his brother. He watched the rising of his cheeks as he smiled, his large stomach stressing against his shirt, the hem of his trousers hidden. Like a faint memory floating in the air, he had pulled it closer and pushed it on front of him, watching the figure of his dear brother before his eyes. The only difference was he was here. Here, in Molly's flat.

His manicured nails drummed on the side table, in perfect rhythm, like soldiers marching. Sherlock had missed his smug smile, his criticism, their banter. He was quite fond of his brother.

Warm silence had passed between them, the two men ignoring a rather dazed and confused Tom, rubbing his head and shuffling back into his room. They ignored the door slamming shut as Molly made her way out. After a great while, taking in each other's company, Mycroft broke the silence.

"I'm guessing Garter didn't enjoy your company?"

"He actually did. Locked me up in his prison for two years."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows for a moment, eyes drifting through the flat with bored and unamused vision. "You were supposed to be back after two years."

"Yes, as I said, brother of mine, Garter rather liked me. Kept coming to my cell. We played with the riding crop quite often. I still have the bruises—would you like to see?"

"I've seen the physical bruises," Mycroft narrowed his eyebrows, "and your skin has been weakened dramatically. I'd like to see the mental bruises—oh wait," he cocked an eyebrow at his brother with sarcasm tinting his voice, "I've already seen them."

"Moment of weakness. Feelings—they took over for a short moment. Won't happen again."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If you say so."

He cleared his throat, continuing, "I suppose you're aware of the plane crash?"

"Do you mean the badly-planned scare? Honestly, an American craft landing in the Thames? If they wanted to terrify people they would've hit Big Ben."

Mycroft laced his fingers together, resting them on his stomach. "I was under the impression you were behind it. After all, being away from London for four years would've called for an explosive return."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, voice tinted with amusement. "Oh? My own brother thinks I was behind a 'terrorist attack?' Your deduction skills aren't up to par, Mycroft."

"I'd say the same for you."

"Ooh," Sherlock held his stomach like he was the one with all of the fat. "It must be the cake."

Mycroft snickered. "Would you like to hear my cake-altered deductions?"

"I'm all ears."

"I knew Gregory Lestrade was recently appointed as Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard, and would turn to Molly first in the case an autopsy was needed. At any time she would be whisked away to St. Bart's. I assumed you knew this information as well. So, you 'borrowed' a plane, painted on the US Presidential Seal, and crashed it into the Thames—by remote control, of course. Not Big Ben, the Thames, where it was certain no one would be severely injured. At the angle it crashed the only possible way someone would die was if they were swimming in the river. But why would you crash a plane? An explosive entrance, of course—a way to tell anyone who knew you were still alive that you were coming back. This also doubles as a way to get Molly Hooper at St. Bart's, where'd you greet her."

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, do you really think I'd waste my time on impressing a woman?"

"I should be asking you that question. You do not flirt with married women."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes, crossing his legs. "I was right. It was the cake."

"Cake does not affect my mind. Anyways, since I can confirm it was not you, who might we suspect was behind the crash?"

"Airport worker, computer hacker and no social life."

"Wrong, wrong and wrong."

Sherlock sighed. "Who do you suspect?"

"It wasn't just an innocent little hobby. It was an attention-getter; the jabbering first sentence of an entire essay. A new villain for your fairytale, Sherlock."

"I've had too many."

"It doesn't mean you can't get anymore."

Mycroft shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket and read a message. "Rivière en bas. Have you heard of the gang?"

"River Down." Sherlock translated, "Yes. Your point?"

"Aren't you aware of their work? They target rivers and crash things in them. Terror work, nothing more, nothing less."

"Why does this concern us, if you already know who did it?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Garter belonged to the gang. They must hold a grudge against you after you miraculously convinced him to kill himself. What I'm trying to say Sherlock—is that they may come after you."

Sherlock's finger flew to his lips, silencing his older brother. Footsteps grew louder, increasing with volume yet soft at most. Opening the door with a shaky hand and a stern face, Molly shut the door behind her and shed her scarf and coat, flying into the kitchen.

Mycroft cleared his throat, standing up just as his brother did the same. "I'll leave you to it, Sherlock. Just remember—"

"—not to kiss other men's wives, yes, you've made that clear now."

"No." Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, surprised as he said, "Just remember that your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, staring down at his shoes. After a few moments, he replied, "Remember to watch your cake intake."

Mycroft nodded, clearing his throat as he pivoted in his heels, walking out the door with every bit of self-control. Sherlock nodded as well, sitting back down in the living room, deeply and secretly relieved his brother was still alive—and self-admittedly, better off fat than dead.

The jar opened twice. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, deducing Molly was making coffee for the two of them. Tom, no—for he had walked out the door after Mycroft, murmuring in Molly's ear with a kiss on the cheek before shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

And not a moment too soon she came walking out of the kitchen, steam spiraling out of the two mugs she held. "Black, two sugars. Just how you like it."

Next time on Two Years Too Late…

…Molly tries to talk to Sherlock about important things, whilst Mary discovers things she wasn't supposed to know.