This chapter is dedicated to Liathwen, for mentioning this fic on a meta specifically, and for being awesome generally. Check her out (on Tumblr and on here), she's fab. x

'Mycroft, why do people get married?' Sherlock curled his knees under his nightgown, shifting onto his side as Mycroft sat down in the chair beside the bed.

'Boredom. Stop sucking your thumb.' The little boy released the digit from his mouth huffily.

'I'm always bored. Does that mean I'll have to get married?' Mycroft chuckled at the genuine fear etched on his brother's face, pulling up the duvet until it reached Sherlock's chin.

'No, Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed, 'I suppose marriages do occur for… other reasons.'

'What reasons?' The elder Holmes cleared his throat uncomfortably, flicking his eyes to the door in the hope that an adult would come and save him from this conversation.

'I don't know, Sherlock. Sentiment?'

'Sentiment.' Sherlock tasted the word thoughtfully, quiet long enough that Mycroft hoped he was asleep. 'Didn't you say that sentiment was a chemical desect found on the losing side?'

'Defect,' Mycroft corrected, rising slowly as the boy yawned widely, 'well remembered.' He reached the threshold of the bedroom and lifted the lamp that a maid had placed on the table beside the door.

'I'm never getting married,' Sherlock murmured sleepily, burrowing his curly head further into the pillow. Mycroft let the statement hang for a while, formulating a response, but light snores saved him.

'Goodnight, brother mine,' he murmured, shutting the door as the little boy slept for the first time in three days. 'I hope it will be that easy.'

xxxxxx

'Wait. Please.'

It would be difficult for Molly Hooper to describe with any accuracy exactly how much of a surprise it had been to find the library occupied.

It was her- rather morbid- belief, fostered in childhood, that when night fell, all other beings ceased to exist, excluding her.

It meant that there could be no monsters under the bed, and it no longer mattered when her waking life blended into the background- the nighttime was hers alone.

So when Lord Holmes appeared before her, his low voice wavering through the gloom, her first thought was that she would have to create an exception to her rule.

'Miss Hooper.' She thought she could feel his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, and the uncertainty ate at her when she wrenched herself free. 'I must apologise.' He spoke in a rush, his curls spilling over his forehead wildly, and she stared up at him in bewilderment.

Molly could barely hear him through the bubble that seemed to surround her head: lightheadedness pervading her senses when she considered what a world with just the two of them would be like.

His mouth was moving, but she studied him instead, like any creature discovering their only other companion for the very first time.

The shadows clung to the sharp angles of his face like molten metal pouring into a mould, filling in every crevice in the desire to replicate the painstaking detail of the original design. Whatever the success, darkness failed to stifle his eyes, which were as bright and complex as ever, and the only source of colour in a night that paled in comparison.

Molly had been raised on the idea that it was humans who faded into the gloom.

It had never been the other way round.

'Are you listening?' His snappish tone permeated her haze, mild concern in his eyes as she swayed slightly on the spot. He reached for her again, but she took an involuntary step backwards: the action enough to break her wholly from her reverie.

'You were apologising?' He sighed, and she could feel her wonderment diminishing by the second.

'Yes, my behaviour this afternoon was inappropriate, and I would like to offer my sincere, assured and comprehensive-' Her noise of dissent quelled this display of contrition before it could reach its natural conclusion.

'Today? You are apologising for your behaviour today?' Molly was equidistant between hysterical laughter and tears: in danger of succumbing to both simultaneously when he looked down at her with unveiled confusion and offence.

'Yes, of course,' he frowned, 'I thought this was how it worked?'

'Sorry? How what worked?' He exhaled impatiently, and her annoyance flared like a struck match at the implication that it was she who was the slow one.

'I believe I have done something to upset you, Miss Hooper, and I would like to rectify that in light of…' He trailed off, but he had resumed his speech before she thought to pursue the direction of the statement. 'It may be that your dislike for me is due to a general impression rather than an individual event, but if it is something specific, and is in fact the result of this afternoon in particular, I want to take full responsibility, and ask you to take me at my word when I tell you that I am poorly equipped to deal with other humans.'

His earnestness threatened to neutralise her irritation, but he was so incorrect- so infuriatingly oblivious- that even she could not summon the placidity to refrain from checking him.

'A general impression? Lord Holmes,' he winced again, 'do you mean to tell me that you do not know why I dislike you?'

'Please call me-'

'Have you forgotten that in the early stages of our acquaintanceship I believed you were someone else? And have you also forgotten that the reason for this was the fact that you hid your identity from me? Until, of course, I discovered who you truly were when you walked into my grandfather's house as none other than my cousin's fiancée!' Molly finished in a hiss, her breathing shallow from the gain in momentum as she listed her complaints. He blinked at her in surprise, running a hand through his unruly hair while he formulated a reply.

'I did not hide my identity from you,' he said eventually, 'I merely chose not to observe my title, which could be attributed to the same modesty that leads you to revoke yours.' There was a challenge in his eyes, and she took it up without hesitation.

'Our situations are incomparable. You did more than understate your status when you deliberately chose to ignore the fact that you are engaged!'

'You mistake me, madam,' his nostrils flared, his stature more imposing accompanied by his anger. 'I made no calculated attempts to divert you from the truth,' he paused, 'and I am not altogether sure how you managed to come to that conclusion.'

'You truly are a scoundrel,' she drew herself to her full height: now they were two figures squaring up to one another in a darkened library. 'Is that what you view as amusement? Attempting to seduce strange women when you are well aware of your obligation to someone else?' He scoffed.

'Seduction? So this is your accusation,' he grinned ferally, and she wanted to strangle him with his cravat, which hung loosely around his pale neck. 'It is fortunate that I did not succeed, Miss Hooper, or perhaps you would be in trouble.'

Her mouth opened to form an injurious reply, but his lips crushed hers before she could articulate the words.

If she had been more present, she would have noted that this was excellent proof of her point, but the press of his body against hers dashed all rational thought from her head.

The kiss was not the antithesis to the argument they had been having, as she would have expected, instead she could feel every point being recontested in the way their tongues battled for dominance.

His fisted collar was collateral damage, as were the creases in her dressing gown, left by the frantic exploration of his hands. He drew the material away, and she shivered when his fingertips skimmed the small of her back through the thin cotton of her nightdress, forcing her to find purchase in his waistcoat as she pulled herself more insistently against him.

He traced a hot path down the side of her neck, teeth grazing delicate skin, before he paused in the crevice between her shoulder and her collarbone. She moaned when he sucked a dark mark there, her nails scraping the embroidered fabric on his back, and she would thank him later for the inconspicuous spot that he had chosen even if she thanked him for little else.

Molly drew his lips back up to hers, desperate for the taste of him, but she could not help but notice the softness in the way he kissed her that had not been there before. His touches began to lose their lustful desperation, and he seemed to desire knowledge of her instead, in a manner that had implications far beyond the fit of passion that she believed had brought her here.

Still, she was too weak to withstand him, until she felt the pressure of his hands on the back of her legs, declaring his intention to sweep her into his arms.

There was a stirring in the pit of her stomach that begged her to relinquish herself to this silent request- to alleviate the need for him that was making itself ever more apparent.

Then, reason reminded her that the lean torso, firm shoulders and silk curls beneath her fingers did not, and never would, belong to her.

And it was this more than anything else that led her to step back, stumbling out of his arms, her lips still swollen from his kisses.

'Molly?' It nearly broke her- walking away from him- and the thud as her back hit the door sent rivulets of pain through her body in a manner unrelated to the physical impact.

Her mouth opened, trying to form an apology, or an explanation, but it was consumed with the taste of him, and the words remained stale and unsaid.

Beneath his confusion, she could see the injury that her rejection was causing: experiencing the same acute pain within her own heart at the possibility that the damage could be irrecoverable.

But the door shut behind her, and she could not even allow herself the finality of closing it soundly, loathe to disturb the peace of her surroundings, in spite of the voracity of her emotional turmoil.

Because Molly Hooper did not break, or disturb, or mark things.

She left them, behind oak doors, imprisoned in a room full of books, with the lamp she had forgotten to take with her extinguished on a table.

xxxxxx

Elsewhere, Lord Mycroft Holmes jolted awake, stranded in the centre of his bed.

He stretched out, pressing each palm to the mattress, hissing when the frigidity of the material kissed his skin.

He thought he could hear noises in the house- voices perhaps- but they were too dim to place, and he could feel fatigue blurring the usually sharp perimeters of his mind.

Sighing, he settled on his side again, and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

Involuntarily, he drew both of his hands to his chest, clasping them primly over his heart.

Then sleep claimed him, sending him to meetings with the Queen without trousers, into rainstorms without an umbrella, or marooned on a four-poster bed with only a six-year-old to save him.

A/N: So, I fucked up with the updates. I'm really sorry. I honestly do not know what took me so long: work, a bout of writer's block, more work, more writer's block= not enough TBTG time. I get that. I aim to improve.

Still, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thought it mildly worth the wait. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and to those who have been kind enough to review/favourite and follow: you are the finest specimen of humanity, and every chapter I post is the sheer result of your encouragement.

I'm still on Tumblr (even though it's bad for me), and I've also created a new side blog (AquaScriptus- I'm building a fleet, people!). I'll probably post short little drabbles and stuff there when the mood takes me, because working solely on this isn't always effective. I might post little outtakes from first drafts of this as well if that's something you want to see.

Thank you always for reading :-)