It had been six weeks since Molly Hooper had last seen Mycroft Holmes, three weeks since she'd last heard from him - and that had been just a brief text in response to hers. Since then she'd decided to back off for a while and to wait for him to contact her, but apparently that was never going to happen.
Molly was angry, frustrated, and a bit hurt – but mostly angry.
She and Mycroft had spent an unexpectedly lengthy, exquisitely sensual, and yet surprisingly cozy Sunday afternoon together. Molly firmly believed that something about it had made Mycroft do a runner. She imagined he felt he'd exposed more of himself than was comfortable and he likely regretted getting closer to her – to admitting they were friends, if only "of sorts."
Molly wished their lovely afternoon had never happened. The pleasure Mycroft had given her had affected her like a narcotic, leaving her frustrated and desperately craving another hit as the days and weeks went by. She was angry at him for withholding it, but was also extremely angry at herself for ever having started something with the Ice Man, as she'd heard him called. Unless Sherlock had been exaggerating, Molly knew Mycroft was the master of hiding in the shadows, of controlling people and events from behind the scenes, of remaining untouched by … rising above the base emotions and needs that drove the majority of humanity.
Molly did give Mycroft credit for not lying to her. His reply to her second text three weeks before had consisted of five words: Sorry - unavailable for a while. He could easily have said he was out of the country. Then again, she thought, maybe he knew he wouldn't have got away with telling her that. Molly knew Mycroft had been around because she'd occasionally heard his name during conversations with Sherlock and John in the lab or morgue. Greg Lestrade had also mentioned him when they were discussing a case that was related in some way to the whole Moriarty mess.
So Mycroft may have been busy, but surely not so much that he couldn't have spared an hour or two during those long six weeks to visit Molly again - if he'd wanted to see her.
Molly sighed as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped one towel around her hair and another around her body, tucking a corner between her breasts. She reached for her moisturizer and glanced over her shoulder in the mirror as she gently spread the lotion over her face and throat. Damn it, she thought, even the bloody shower brought powerful images to mind of her and Mycroft together.
Her course of action was clear. Somehow Molly had to get Mycroft Holmes out of her system.
#####
Two days later, Sherlock's voice was followed by Mycroft's just as the lab doors opened. "You're on the wrong track, Sherlock," he said with forced patience. "You don't need me here."
"You said you'd always be there – here - for me, brother dear," Sherlock said tauntingly as he strode through the door, Belstaff swirling around his legs. "Ahhh, Molly," he said, veering toward the table where she was working. "Just the person I need."
Mycroft had stopped a few feet inside the door, planted the tip of his umbrella on the floor, and folded his hands on the handle. His eyes briefly met Molly's before she turned away, then dropped to his hands. Her expression had been cold, emotionless. Molly Hooper had developed a dead-eyed stare worthy of the best of his field agents, Mycroft thought, then felt a twinge of regret. More than a twinge actually, but he wouldn't have acknowledged it.
Sherlock had reached Molly's work station at that point, and their conversation filtered through Mycroft's distracted state. Molly led Sherlock to the cooler drawers and, despite Sherlock's interference, soon had the subject's body on the post mortem table. Mycroft joined them momentarily, standing back impassively, while keeping a close eye on … Sherlock, and yet he was acutely aware of Molly.
Sherlock kept her busy with questions and disputing certain findings in the PM report. As on Mycroft's most recent visit, Molly flicked her gaze toward him when she went around to the other side of the PM table, but avoided meeting his eyes. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock scoffed. "For god's sake, Molly – he may be old enough to be your father, but just call him Mycroft."
"He's not -" Molly started to protest the childish barb, but broke off. Sherlock knew there was only a decade or so difference in his brother's and her ages, and any attempt by her to defend Mycroft might cause Sherlock to be suspicious. As before, she was aware of Mycroft over her shoulder, the weight of his presence, and as the minutes passed she wanted to scream at him and ask him where he'd been and why he'd withdrawn from her ... but that wasn't their arrangement. He'd said he wouldn't be available very often. The fact that they'd acknowledged themselves to be friends of sorts didn't give her any particular rights – none actually. It had been clear from the beginning that there'd be no commitments, no expectations. Mycroft's actions, or inactions, since their Sunday together had simply reinforced the fact that whatever was between them had just been sex.
When Sherlock abruptly swung away and strode toward the door, Molly saw Mycroft hesitate out of the corner of her eye as she zipped the body bag closed.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, Molly," he said evenly.
Molly still didn't look at him, but paused as she released the brakes and started to roll the trolley back to the cooler. "Yes you did." She eventually shut the drawer with a loud click, then tugged off her gloves and tossed them into the bin as she passed it on the way to the door.
Once he was alone, Mycroft lowered his head and rested more of his weight on the umbrella. He couldn't deny what Molly had said. Mycroft had meant to hurt her … or as he'd thought of it, to be cruel to be kind. He'd seen that she was starting to let her emotions take hold and thought an abrupt halt early on would be easier on her than a more lingering end later.
#####
When Molly left the lab, she went to her office and sat for a few minutes, pencil tapping her desk, then abruptly got up and headed to the radiology department. Mycroft had given her great sex, the best she'd ever had, and then seemingly walked away from it unaffected. She needed to try to do the same.
Two nights later, Molly started the weekend by going on a date with Christopher Nevis, a radiologist with whom she'd had a friendly acquaintance since he joined the hospital staff. When Molly had tracked Chris down the day Mycroft came to the lab, she ended up maneuvering him to invite her to dinner. Chris had occasionally attempted to move their friendly relationship toward a more romantic one, coming by the lab for a chat or sitting with her during lunch in the canteen. He was a kind, attractive, successful, discreet man who enjoyed the company of women but wasn't quite ready to settle down, which perfectly suited her purposes. He'd proved quite popular with the female staff at Barts over the past few years, but she'd never heard anyone make a disparaging comment about him, nor had she ever heard him be indiscreet about any relationship with another woman. He seemed to have remained friends with all the women with whom his name had been linked. Molly knew some of the rumors had been true because the woman involved had let something slip, not Chris.
So Molly and Chris went to a nice restaurant, lightly flirted through four courses, laughed a lot, and then took a taxi back to Molly's flat, where she asked him in. She'd had two glasses of wine with dinner, but was in no way inebriated, so set a fresh bottle and glasses on the coffee table by the sofa where he was waiting for her.
While Chris opened the wine, Molly slipped her shoes off and sat, tucking her legs beside her. He handed her a glass, then sat back and took a sip from his. After a few moments, he looked at Molly just as she looked at him, and they leaned toward each other and kissed rather tentatively. They slowly separated, then smiled. Molly let Chris take her wine and watched while he placed both glasses on the coffee table. He then shifted closer and slipped his arm around her back before kissing her again. He certainly knew what he was doing, and Molly turned more fully to him and pressed closer. As they continued to kiss, she eventually ended up on his lap, and they took the kiss deeper. Chris ran his hands up and down her back and then lower to cup her bottom as he shifted to stretch out on the cushions and pull her against his chest. They were panting lightly and Molly's breath caught when Chris palmed her breast. When his other hand slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, Molly clutched the edges of his jacket and started backing off the sofa. "Come on," she said, straightening up and waiting for him to stand before leading the way to the bedroom. Molly sat on the bed while Chris toed off his shoes, then shifted over when he sat beside her. They began kissing slowly again, but within minutes were stretched out and full-out snogging, with Molly's upper body pressed against his chest as Chris slipped his hands under the hem of her skirt and slowly slid it up her thighs. She curved her hands around his neck and shifted higher just as he hooked a hand around her knee and started to pull her lower body over his. When her thigh moved over the front of his trousers, Molly froze briefly and then pressed her hands against his chest to lift away from him just as his hand started to run up the inside of her thigh.
"I'm sorry, Chris – I just can't," she said, breathing heavily.
"What," he panted, sounding confused.
"I'm sorry, Chris," she repeated, pushing back onto her knees. "I shouldn't have –"
"Shouldn't have …?"
Molly dropped her face into her hands, breathing jerkily. "I'm not over him!"
Still breathing heavily, Chris let her go, and Molly hated herself for having so aroused him. The entire fiasco was her fault, all because she wanted to prove that someone else could want her, and she could want him. And now, after she'd deliberately encouraged Chris and given him every reason to believe she'd follow through, she'd cut him off. Even now, while he lay there with his eyes closed, getting his breath under control, he'd yet to offer a word of complaint despite the fact that his trousers were still tented. Molly felt awful about it – she'd never been a tease and now … maybe she could offer a handjob … She shifted toward him and reached for the button at his waist, and Chris's hand gently circled her wrist. "No," he said, opening his eyes and looking at her calmly. "You don't need to do that."
"Oh, Chris," Molly said huskily. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean – it wasn't my intention … oh god, Chris – I'm so sorry," she said again, then burst into tears, while flapping her hand. "Ignore me – it isn't fair to turn on the waterworks, but …," her voice faded as she again buried her face in her hands.
Chris watched her for a few moments, then rested a hand on her arm. "Do you want to talk about it, Molly?"
Molly gave a snuffling snort, then rubbed her face with her palms and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. "You want to hear me talk about another man?"
"Not really," he said drily, then smiled when she looked up at him. "I like you, Molly – I've always liked you, and this isn't going to change that." He stopped and looked at her uncertainly. "Has it changed things for you?"
Molly shook her head and reached to take his free hand. "No, Chris, but it's completely my fault," she said, plucking at the material over her thigh as she dropped her chin and closed her eyes. "I didn't mean to use you – truly, Chris." She sighed and lifted her head. "I can't talk about him. We've kept it a secret and –"
"He's married," Chris broke in, sounding disapproving.
"Of course not! I wouldn't do that to someone," she said. "But it's rather complicated. We don't have a normal kind of relationship –" She broke off at his arch look and rolled her eyes. "Nothing weird either, Chris. It's just that we, that we – oh for god's sake. It's more of a friends with benefits arrangement, but we're not really friends."
"If I'd only known you were looking for something like that –"
"Chris!" Molly laughed despite herself. "Anyway, we were really just getting started, then he basically disappeared almost seven weeks ago. I didn't know what to do at first, then I got angry, and then I decided to prove to myself that someone else would want me – someone I could respect and like – and that I could enjoy having sex with someone else again."
"And you chose me," he said tonelessly.
"Oh Chris – I'm sorry … again."
"No," he said, smirking, "I'm actually rather chuffed that you thought of me as someone you might enjoy sex with."
"I've thought it before, Chris," she said lightly, "but every time I might have pursued something, you were busy elsewhere."
"Ah," he said. They were quiet for a while, then he asked, "Is it over with the other man?"
"I don't know." She again rubbed her palms over her face and then carded her fingers through her hair. "I don't want it to be." She sighed. "Let's talk about something else. Would you like some more wine? Some tea? Some ice cream?"
He pursed his lips. "What kind of ice cream do you have?"
"Double chocolate, raspberry ripple, rocky road, and vanilla."
"Mmm … nice selection," he said, shifting to the side of the bed before rising to his feet and offering Molly his hand. "Give me a scoop of each of them, and I'll forgive you for trying to use my body so clinically."
"That's a deal," she said, red-faced but laughing, "and it wasn't intended to be clinical."
After Chris left just after eleven o'clock, Molly stripped the bed and put fresh sheets on it, then went to the shower and washed her hair and vigorously scrubbed her body. The wine with their meal had given her a little bit of a buzz, but she had no excuse for what she'd done. She'd set out to seduce Chris and be seduced by him, not to end up being a cock-teaser. She did like Chris, but she'd tried to use him as a substitute for Mycroft when there likely was no substitute for Mycroft.
Crying in the shower didn't really count, Molly thought, so gave in to her misery.
#####
Mycroft doubted Molly considered her date a form of revenge for his inattention since she had no reason to think he would know or care about it, but he was finding it unexpectedly difficult to decide on and stick with a course of action concerning Molly. He'd admitted to himself that he'd done a runner after their Sunday together, but everything had turned just a little too comfortable, a little too cozy, and done so a lot too quickly. The impromptu nature of most of his dealings with Molly left him unsettled.
Mycroft had sent Molly a text Wednesday afternoon after leaving Barts and she'd replied with a single word: Busy. He'd decided to try dropping by her flat Friday evening, but instead his car had arrived just in time for him to see the back of Molly's familiar coat halfway between the door to her building and the next street. He noted the way her hand was tucked through the crook of the arm of the man walking alongside her and felt a momentary twinge. But then he realized such a new relationship would solve his Molly problem – that he'd have no cause to worry about her if she were happy with someone else.
That the thought didn't make Mycroft happy was no surprise. He didn't put much stock in the idea of personal happiness and never had.
Mycroft returned to his office and set the matter aside while he got back to work. That he took time to locate Molly and her new beau on CCTV and to track them until they entered a restaurant within a mile of Molly's flat was simply a holdover from feeling some sense of responsibility for her security. Besides, they'd made it easy for him by walking.
Just over two hours later, Mycroft saw them leave the restaurant and get into a taxi, and that was it. When the friend left Molly's flat approximately ninety minutes after arriving, that was definitely the end of Mycroft's involvement in the matter.
#####
Mycroft watched as Molly's friend headed down the tube entrance, then sighed and sat back in his chair, elbows on its arms, fingers steepled under his chin. Whatever had happened in Molly's flat, he felt at least partially responsible. The scene at the lab Wednesday would only have confirmed whatever sense of rejection she'd felt at his drawing back, and a young woman like Molly feeling rejected by one man might very well seek out the attention of another one to prove something to herself. And in this case unwittingly to him.
#####
After tossing and turning for some time, Molly flipped her pillow, rolled onto her side and pulled the covers over her ear, determined to forget about her aborted evening and get some sleep. She'd fallen into a light doze when something woke her and she froze, staring into the dim glow from the streetlight filtering through a slit between her drapes. She felt the other side of the bed dip and the mattress jiggled for several moments before all was still … although if she strained, she could hear his quiet breathing.
"Was it the CCTV camera on Watling Street? I thought I saw it follow as we walked past," she said matter-of-factly, then rolled onto her back and turned her head until she could see his profile in the dim light. "I didn't have sex with him … well, I – you know what? It's absolutely none of your business what I might do with other men."
They were silent again for several moments, then Mycroft sighed. "No, it's not, and I really don't care about what you may have done with him." He turned to look her way and a faint glimmer of light caught the sheen of his eyes as he continued in that neutral voice. "But it was my fault that you were with him."
Molly didn't respond to that since he'd see through the lie if she tried to deny the reasoning behind her uncharacteristic action ... or maybe Mycroft didn't think having sex on a first date would be uncharacteristic for her considering how they'd initially come together. "Why are you here?" When he didn't answer, she responded to his earlier comment. "I needed to prove something and I did," she said, then rolled onto her side away from him before continuing in a stony voice. "I wanted to prove that you aren't as fucking brilliant at sex as I think you are because how can you be that brilliant if you can turn it off like a tap." She turned her face toward the ceiling. "It wasn't just sex that I wanted – it was sex with you," she said huskily. "It's your body that I crave, your touch - but it's just sex," she added quickly, then continued more slowly, "but I don't understand how someone so apparently detached from people, so dismissive of emotions, can be so unbelievable as a lover." When Mycroft's hand came to rest on her shoulder, Molly shrugged it off. "You may have temporarily spoiled me for sex with other men, but eventually I will forget what it feels like to be with you." She stopped to catch her breath, then rolled all the way onto her back and looked his way. "It's so easy for you to turn it off. How can you forget our times together so easily? How do you shut out feelings and emotions like they never existed? I don't understand how you do that, but I wish I c-could," Molly turned her head away, embarrassed that her voice had cracked. "I just mean the sex, Mycroft."
"Molly –"
"Why are you here?" she again asked abruptly. "What do you want? If you're suddenly in the mood for it, well … I'm not."
Mycroft didn't answer her directly. "Do you want your key back?"
She didn't answer for several moments, then, "Do you want me to take it back?"
Just when she'd decided he wasn't going to answer, he sighed. "No."
"Are you staying then?"
"Do you want me to stay?"
Molly looked toward him again with a frustrated sigh. "Why are you - we - answering questions with questions? Do you want to sleep here, Mycroft?"
She could feel him staring at her in the semi-dark. "Yes."
Molly sat up and reached for the lamp switch, then turned to look at him. All the aggravation of the night suddenly vanished and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to hold back a nervous giggle at seeing him squint, blinking at the light, and looking more cuddly and unkempt than she'd ever seen him in wrinkled clothing … and what unusual clothes they were for him – or at least she'd never seen him in something like his blue rolled-neck jumper over a white shirt and soft gray corduroy trousers. "What in the world do you have on?"
He looked confused before he glanced down at himself. "Cords and a jumper," he said. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Molly wanted to hug him, but refrained. "No, but I've never seen you looking so informal ... so informally dressed, I mean," she said. "Did you bring a suit?"
Again, she wanted to hug him when he hesitated, looking at her uncertainly. "I did, but I wasn't assuming –"
"We'll call it strategic planning," she said briskly. "If you're going to stay, it's too cool for you to sleep on top of the covers. You can get into bed …on your side of the bed."
Mycroft quickly stripped down to his pants and slipped under the covers on his side of the bed. Then they were silent until Molly turned the lamp off and rolled away. Mycroft looked at her in the dim light and suppressed a sigh. "It wasn't."
"Wasn't what?"
"Easy," he said.
Molly stared into the darkness for a long time, then whispered, "Go to sleep if you can, Mycroft."
They did drift off to sleep eventually, but Molly woke before dawn and realized Mycroft was spooned along her back. She then became aware of his morning erection and knew he was awake when he shifted far enough away to stop pressing against her. Molly took a couple of slow breaths, then turned toward him, and they looked at each other in the pre-dawn light filtering through her drapes. Mycroft reached out to push some hair off her face ... and then they were in each other's arms and proceeded to have very slow, drowsy sex, lying on their sides, facing each other.
Once she'd tossed her nightgown and knickers over the side of the bed and Mycroft had slid his pants off, Molly handed him a condom, then waited a few moments before lifting her upper leg over his hip and hooking it behind his waist. Her breath caught when he slipped his leg between hers, smoothed his hand down her back to cup and tilt her bottom, and pressed into her when she reached between them and guided him home. Molly's body had been so soft and relaxed from sleep, but her muscles tightened when Mycroft began making circular grinding motions, rubbing his pelvis against hers. She found his shallow thrusts both frustrating and exciting as it made her work her internal muscles harder, seeking the maximum friction. She shifted her knee higher on his side, then tilted her head back and flushed when he lifted his eyes to hers, suddenly realizing that while she'd been watching what they were doing, so had he. In a defensive move if nothing else, she reached around his neck and pulled him down to her, closing her eyes as she kissed him open-mouthed and they continued to rock together. Molly moaned with Mycroft's hand smoothed over her bottom again and dipped lower, teasing her with the tips of his fingers. In response, she slid her hand down his back, lightly raking her fingernails along his spine. She was enjoying the lazy intimacy of their slow snogging and gentle rocking, but eventually her muscles tensed from staying at such a low-level of arousal for such a long time. She wrapped her hand around his neck again, then tugged him over her as she pulled her head back. "Mycroft … could we change posi–" She broke off as he slid further into her and his pubic bone ground against her when he shifted partially over her. "Oh god yes – just like that." She lifted against him, wiggling until she could free her other leg to wrap around his thigh, then arched her back and pressed down with her bottom, groaning in pleasure as she stretched her spine. She smiled up at him and hesitated, flushing again when she saw he was studying her quite openly. "Don't look at me," she protested, turning her face away, but she smiled when he lowered his head against her throat and his heavy breaths warmed her skin. "Mmmm," she moaned breathlessly, sliding her fingers through his hair, "that feels good."
Mycroft brought his hands around between them and cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing back and forth over her nipples, then trailed the fingers of one hand slowly down her stomach to curve between her legs. Molly moaned again, arching as his fingers probed gently, then she abruptly gasped when his thumb pressed firmly then dragged against her. "Oh god, do that again," she groaned, then jerked her hips upward to grind harder against his fingers.
Mycroft rolled more fully onto her, then braced his palms against the bed, and thrust forcefully into her, and again, taking on a hard, fast pace. Molly shifted until her feet were flat against his bottom and lifted harder against him on each down stroke. When he suddenly threw in a circular grind, she came with a guttural groan, arching her head hard against the pillow, and then another orgasm rippled through her when Mycroft lightly bit the side of her throat, which was arched so tautly below him. He thrust harder and faster, skin slapping against hers, then rolled onto his side, taking her with him, as he shuddered and came with a bitten-off shout. They lay facing each other, chests heaving, all mashed together to the point that a brain-scrambled Molly wasn't sure which limbs were whose. Mycroft shifted onto his back and pulled Molly over him, and she hooked her knee over the side of his hip and collapsed against him in a sprawl. She felt almost boneless, like she never wanted to move again.
When their breathing and heart rates returned to normal, they shifted onto their sides, with Mycroft again spooning her. They were quiet for a while, then Molly sighed. "Where do we go from here?"
And there was nothing but silence as they both pondered that question.
#####
Mycroft was up to take a shower and get dressed by half past seven, leaving Molly dozing in bed. When he came back into the bedroom, already wearing the trousers and shirt to his suit, she scooted across the bed and leaned over to pick up the white shirt Mycroft had dropped on the floor during the night. He was sitting in the chair in the corner, putting on his shoes and socks, and looked up solemnly when she came to stand in front of him. Molly hadn't opened the drapes or turned on a lamp so the room was still dark with shadows, partially obscuring Mycroft's face but his eyes shone in the dim light. Molly rubbed one foot over the other, self-consciously, when he ran his eyes slowly down her body. She tugged on the shirttail, twisted the hem between her fingers and shifted a bit skittishly when his gaze lingered on her bare feet. "May I, um, keep the shirt?"
Mycroft's eyes made the return journey up Molly's body to her face, which was bright red by the time their eyes met, then he sat back in the chair and draped his wrists over the chair's arms. "Oh, I absolutely insist on it," he drawled.
Molly grinned, still blushing, then skipped the few feet separating them and dropped onto his lap sideways, arms encircling his neck and legs dangling over the chair arm. He'd moved his right arm just in time and used it to hitch her legs closer. "So when are you coming back?"
"Molly –"
"Okay, okay … I'm greedy," she said, tucking her face against his throat. "Just come back when you can," she said solemnly. "Once a week would be good. Twice would be even better. Now if you want to go for best case …"
Mycroft snorted. "I'll see what I can do." He gave her a light pat on the bottom and shifted to check the time on his pocket watch. He helped her off his lap, then rose to his feet and tucked the watch away. "I have to go, but I'll call you later."
Molly noticed his cords on the bed and turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Do you want me to get those clothes cleaned? Do you want to take the shoes?"
Mycroft glanced at the clothes he'd put on the night before to come over. "I'll take care of them later. Just toss it all in a carrier bag."
Molly followed him out of the room, then stooped to pick up Toby when he appeared by her feet and gave him a cuddle. "Would you like some tea? It won't take long to prepare it."
"Thank you, Molly, but I'm on the way to a breakfast meeting at Downing Street," Mycroft said, then paused, lifting his brows at his own indiscretion. "Don't repeat that to anyone."
"I won't, and neither will Toby," Molly said, putting said cat down as she followed Mycroft to the entry. Mycroft's lips twitched as he turned away and shrugged into his coat. Molly then handed him the scarf, waited until he'd looped it around his neck, then moved in for a hug before he saw her coming closer. "Thank you, Mycroft," she said. "I know this isn't forever, or probably even long-term, but, please, let's give each other some warning when it's the end, all right?"
Mycroft lifted his hand and ran his palm over the crown of Molly's head and then gently tugged on the ends of her hair until she tilted her head back. "All right," he said, then bent to give her a brief kiss as his hand continued down her back. He straightened abruptly. "Where are your knickers, Miss Hooper?"
"Probably on the floor where I threw them last night, Mr. Holmes." Damned if Mycroft didn't harrumph, like some old-fashioned gentleman in a period film, and Molly couldn't suppress a giggle. "You better go. The Prime Minister awaits."
Mycroft gave her a stern glance, then grabbed his umbrella and opened the door, but Molly peeked her head into the corridor and saw him swing the umbrella in a rather jaunty circle before he turned to go down the stairs.
Molly leaned against the closed door and thought about the two visitors who'd left her flat since the previous evening. She still felt chastened by what had happened with Chris, but was elated by Mycroft's turnaround. Molly pulled the latter's shirt more closely around her and headed for the kitchen, looking forward to the easy comfort of the morning's first cup of tea.