Mycroft Holmes stood in the corner of his office, leaning on his umbrella and taking in the cinema that was the London afternoon as it played itself out before his very eyes. He stood silent, like a great marble statue, absorbing the very essence of the grand city through the large glass window that stretched across the entire room, framing the town in its permanence. Everything seemed to be almost frozen in time, making it feel as though he were staring at a photograph from years past, and yet as his eyes followed the patterns of bustling crowds throughout the streets, he couldn't help but feel as if he were taking part in a film for the ages, playing a minor part of the grandest proportions.
The town was so marvelously captured in all its glory, but even in the brightness of the light of day, there was still something that made Mycroft feel as if there was something awry. His eyes glittered with the luminance of bright sunlight, but just as the sparkle began to become brilliant with radiance, his heart seemed to reach up and extinguish the love for his city and the love for his home. His passion for London was doused with the waters of longing, and the bright sky seemed to turn a dreary grey once more, leaving his soul in a state of sadness and bitter feelings that ate at him constantly. He turned his back on the window, walking over to his desk and sinking into his leather chair, propping his feet upon the desktop. There was nothing that this city could give him, for there was nothing it could do to call his dear brother back to his home.
It was true, he did miss Sherlock terribly, although he would never admit it aloud, and contrary to his brother's belief's, he did actually care about him. Mycroft was completely aware of the circumstances of the fall, but he still wished that he would come home. He knew that he had to finish the job that he had started with Moriarty, but if only there were some way for him to lure his baby brother back sooner, he would give everything to let it be so, no matter the cost. He texted him on occasion, but never once had his messages moved from 'delivered' to 'read' on his iPhone screen, putting troubling thoughts into his head, and making Mycroft worried and apprehensive.
Slowly, Mycroft leaned back into his chair once more, sipping his tea carefully and continuing to ponder the dilemma at hand. How was he going to get Sherlock to come home? Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the vibrating sensation that worked its way through his body from the depths of his jacket pocket. He hurriedly reached into his blazer, hoping and praying that it would be a message from Sherlock, but as soon as his eyes laid sight on the home screen, his expression became grim once more, and with a look of sheer disappointment, he dismally swiped his index finger across the screen and read the new message from Dr. John Watson.
'We need to talk,' was all it read, the words seeming meaningless without an expression to guide their purpose. Mycroft sat staring at them, his smile still down-turned in dissatisfaction, wanting the text to be from his brother. His fingers drummed on the glass screen, sending back a message in reply.
'Then make an appointment with my secretary,' he typed out in haste. He really didn't want to speak with anyone at the moment, and John's text was just a great inconvenience on the folds of his life, making him want even more, though secretly, to hear the voice of his brother again. The doctor's presence in his life was a constant reminder of how long it really had been since he had seen Sherlock, and with every text or phone call that permeated his mobile, he became increasingly anxious, not knowing where Sherlock was, or even if he was still alive. He pressed the send button quickly, only to be met with an almost immediate response.
'I don't think you want this to wait,' John replied, bringing an air of annoyance to Mycroft's being. His nostrils flared a bit at the short sentence, and his face turned a light shade of red, making his body go slightly warm. He leaned upward in his chair, rolling his eyes in exasperation, and, reaching for his phone once more, he proceeded to dial John's number. He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the small ringing noises that dotted the silence between the lines and waiting for his acquaintance to pick up the phone. He waited for what seemed like hours, and as he was about to hang up the phone, he was greeted by a familiar voice.
"Hello Mycroft," John said, obviously happy to be in connection with him. "I see you got my message?" Mycroft stood up, swaggering over to the window, watching as the clouds covered the sun in a blanket of grey. He observed as birds flew in and out of the billowing towers of dark mist, creating a mysterious image, painted by nature itself. His eyes followed every movement, trying to take his mind off the nuisance that was filling the air with idle chit chat and attempting to hold back his lashing tongue with every fiber of his being. He just couldn't.
"What do you want, John?" he popped back, his voice rigid with irritation. He stood at the window, waiting for a reply and watching the sky as rain began to fall on the sidewalks, darkening the day even more. He closed his eyes, mentally punishing himself for not holding his ground.
"We have to talk, Mycroft," John replied in a surprisingly even tone, his voice shockingly calm and smooth. Mycroft still listened to him, trying not to yell at him further, but still barely containing his anger. He bit his lip in frustration, holding back any words of hate that might escape his throat. He stayed silent, listening to what John was saying.
"I need to come meet with you, today," he said, sounding more demanding now. The soldier in him was barley peeking through, but it was still apparent that he was completely serious, his tone not wavering. A thick silence pervaded the space between the lines, leaving them both in a shroud of solemn stillness and making Mycroft wonder what was so important. His incisors loosened their grip on his now bleeding lip, and he readied himself to speak, only to be interrupted once more. His teeth assumed their previous positions, and with every word, he could feel them digging deeper and deeper into his flesh, begging to set his aching tongue free. His right hand clasped the handle of his umbrella firmly, wrenching the metal tip deeper and deeper into the carpet below, and he simply couldn't contain himself. He had to say something. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, readying himself speak.
"Why don't you stop by in an hour?" He asked, now subconsciously hitting himself in the temple, making his brain ache with torment. This was almost pure torture for Mycroft, his extremities going rigid as he spoke each word. He really didn't want John coming into his office anytime soon, and now he had just plainly invited him in, as if ordering a cup of tea without a second thought. What was he going to say? And what if Sherlock texted him while he was there? Nevertheless, the deed was done and he let it pass, knowing what the answer was going to be.
"Erm," John began, "I mean that's perfect. We will be over in an hour." Mycroft continued to hold the device to his face, soaking in what he had just heard. We? He tried to say something, but no words would form, his brain still calculating the possibilities. Was it Lestrade? Anderson? Surely one of these men would be the answer. He opened his mouth to ask, but just as soon as his lips parted, the line between the two phones went dead, leaving the room in a chill atmosphere of wonder and perplexity. He glanced down at his watch.
'One hour,' he thought, pondering the amount of time he had before they, whomever they may be, were going to arrive. 'One hour.' Slowly, he walked back over to his chair, slumping down into the leather cushions, the seams barely catching his jacket as they slid past. He leaned his umbrella against the hard mahogany of the old desk, being careful not to scratch it, but also setting it down in urgency. He leaned back into his seat, pressing his fingertips together lightly, as all great Holmes men did in time of thinking, and, without another word, Mycroft sat in his office, gazing at the wall and wondering who was going to step through the door behind Dr. John Watson.
As Molly sat in the living room, staring at the Thames rushing through the heart of London and sipping on her tea with delight, John came bounding in from the bedroom in a great hurry, shoving his phone in his jacket pocket and grabbing his coat in a hustle. He grabbed Molly's from the rack by the door, tossing it in her direction and beckoning for her to get up.
"We have to go," was all he told her, his voice filled with happiness and worry all the same, ordering her from her seat. She sat still, quietly and unmoving, ignoring his orders and continuing to savor every ounce of her sweet drink, letting the liquid cover her tongue with a sugary film. She closed her eyes to take in the pleasant taste. Why was John in such a hurry? She tilted up her cup until the last bit of tea fell into her mouth, sending warm feelings throughout her insides, making her feel sleepy and content. She pulled her blanket tightly around her body in a fluffy cocoon, enveloping her entirely and making her relax completely.
Molly sank down into the couch, continuing to push away the sound of John's voice as it filled the room, knowing that he was watching the back of her head with peeled eyes. But she really didn't care. For the past four months, all she had heard from him was constant pestering as to the health of the baby, and frankly, she was tired of it. She closed her eyes, trying to push his nagging voice out of her mind.
'Make sure you don't eat anything too spicy,' he would say. 'And don't sleep on your right side, it might make the child uncomfortable." She looked down at her belly, which now bulged with an apparent baby bump, placing her hand over where her child lay and not wanting to get up from her seat. John meant well, and for Christ's sake he was a doctor, but for once she just wanted a day to herself to sit and relax, without him in the background barking orders at her. Ever since he found out, he had done nothing except tell her what to do and what not to do, and she was going to have no more. She turned her head to look at him, leaning her arm over the back of the couch and pulling herself up to get a better look. Her kind eyes were filled with a sarcastic sparkle, and she smiled at him, her lip upturned in a half smirk.
John looked at her in besetment, watching as she remained stationary, his eyes practically shooting lasers into her skull as she sat on the sofa, looking at him triumphantly as if she had won. He was all too familiar with that look, and he had tried for months to get it out of his head. John rolled his eyes in vexation, walking over to Molly and placing his arms under her, hoisting her into the air and forcing her onto her legs. He could feel her going stiff, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking at him with a glare that could have killed an army.
"What the hell was that, John?!" She exclaimed, practically yelling at him, her face new wearing an expression of pure disgust. She stood hunched over, her right hand holding her belly and the other bracing her back which now ached with pain. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying not to focus on the discomfort that now coursed up and down her spine, making her feel as if she had been struck with a sledgehammer. John could hear her taking in small breaths, and as she began to become normal once more, he stood back, waiting for the fury of Hell that he knew was about to come. Molly looked up at him, her eyes swirling with anger and pain, wondering what had gotten him into such a tizzy.
"I'm sorry," she heard him say, his voice laced with the sound of attrition. He pointed his face toward the floor in defeat, then suddenly looking up to face her once more, his lips pursed, his eyes darting around the room in all directions, not once making contact with hers. She listened closely, hearing him mumble something that was almost inaudible.
"What was that?" Molly asked anxiously, crossing her arms across her chest and taking on a look of curiosity. He looked up at her, mirroring her crossed form and not moving from his position. She listened to him again, hearing him loud and clear.
"I set up an appointment with Mycroft," he told her, now looking directly into her wide eyes and letting his stature take on its soldier form. John placed his arms at his sides, standing tall and erect, and giving a small nod as he told Molly the news.
The statement fell upon her like a load of bricks, hitting her quite unexpectedly, and John could see that his words had struck her as a surprise, watching as her balance became shaky and unstable, his eyes calculating the possibilities of her landing place if she were to fall. He moved his feet forward a bit, but she stepped back slightly, falling backwards into the large armchair that lay directly behind. John ran over to her, only to be pushed away with a firm hand. She drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself before she spoke, but it was of no use. Nothing was going to contain her emotions.
"I thought we agreed we would do this on my time?!" She yelled at him, catching him in complete astonishment. Her voiced pierced though the room like knives, sending chills that punctured John's body like large daggers. He approached her cautiously, watching as her hard anger turned to bitter weeping, her face immediately falling into her hands. He listened silently as she sent loud crying noises throughout the entire flat, and he knelt down beside her, placing one hand upon her back, making small circling movements with his fingers.
"You have to tell him," he told her softly, his voice soothing her oncoming tears. "He deserves to know, and I think it's been long enough." He leaned over to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, brushing the hair away from her face that was now soaked with tears. She lifted her face, wiping away the streaks of mascara that leaked down her white cheeks, giving her an almost ghostly appearance. She breathed out slowly, looking directly ahead and not moving, thinking of what to say.
Molly knew that the time was coming to tell Mycroft the news, but truly, she didn't know what she was going to tell him. She knew that Mycroft was fully aware of Sherlock's whereabouts, just as she had been all along, but she had no idea if they had been in contact or what he would do when he learned of the current situation. Was he going to scold her? Or worse, tell Sherlock? She didn't want to think of what Sherlock would do if he found out, jeopardizing his own safety just to see her, and she knew he would... Or would he? Her mind swirled in a torrent of never-ending questions, thinking of the endless possibilities that could unfold as the day went on. She closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh as she did so.
"What time are we supposed to meet with him?" she asked, sounding more brittle than ever. She grabbed John's hand and squeezed it tightly, looking into his eyes as a light mist formed underneath her lashes, giving them a glittery shimmer.
"He wants to see us in an hour, if that's alright," he told her, giving her fingers a gentle clasp, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay. And if it wasn't, he would make it okay. He knew that Molly was scared, and he knew with all of his heart that nothing terrified her more than facing Mycroft's judgement.
This was a big step into her future, and taking it meant practically leaping toward a double edged sword, wielded by Mycroft Holmes himself. On one side, there lay the eternal scorn and hatred of an extremely powerful man with the abilities to cast her life into a world of nightmarish proportions forever. And on the other side... John didn't want to think about what was awaiting on the sharp cliff of possibilities that stained this man's power complex. He could literally do almost anything, and it worried him the think of what he might do to Molly, especially since she was carrying the child of his brother whom he hated so. John closed his eyes, trying to push away any negative thoughts and continuing to squeeze Molly's hand in a gentle hold. He stood up, placing his hands directly in front of her, waiting for her to place hers upon his cold palms.
"We might as well go," he told her, extending his extremities downward in an attempt to help her to her feet. Molly looked at his hands, almost in fear, and knowing what getting up meant. For her, it meant entering into a world of the unknown and taking on the challenge of a potential loathing. This could doom her chances at ever creating a normal family with her dear Sherlock, as if things weren't complicated enough, and now as she sat staring at John's outstretched arms, she wanted nothing more than to shrink down to the tiniest proportions and crawl away into the unknown. It was all so much at one time, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing that she could do to stop it. Slowly, she reached out her fingers, touching the tips of John's with hers and recoiling her grasp at first contact. Then, gradually, she slid her palms into his, allowing him to pull her gently to her feet. She stood silent, keeping her eyes closed and breathing out slowly threw her nostrils.
"I..." she tried to say, her voice pulled back by the invisible strings of fright that seemed to draw it back in. "I still don't know if I can do this." Her voice sounded so small and minute, barely humming through John's ear canals as she spoke. John looked at her with sad eyes, watching as her whole being of happiness and cheer continued to wither away before his very eyes. It was killing him to see his friend like this, and he felt so helpless, knowing that there was hardly anything he could say or do to make it seem better. In fact, there was literally nothing that he could do to take it away completely. He quickly wrapped his arms around his friend, feeling as she buried her face into his jumper.
"It's all going to be okay," he told her, hugging her tightly and speaking to her softly. "I promise it will all be fine. And just remember, I will be with you the entire time. I won't leave you." As he spoke these words, Molly's heart began to beat furiously, sending shivers up and down her spine and tears flowing down her already wet face. She buried her eyes deeper into his thick sweater, trying to push the memory of Sherlock's departure out of her mind, but instead hearing his words of goodbye crisply and clearly as if he were saying them to her right in this moment.
He had also made a promise of sorts. A promise to stay with her always and forever, but now, more than ever, she felt as if he had abandoned her in her time of need. He hadn't done it on purpose, she knew, and he really was in her heart, but it still hurt her all the same to think that he wasn't with her and that it would be almost forever until she would see him again. Hell, she didn't even know if she would see him ever again. Molly had not had any contact with the detective since the day he walked out of her life at the morgue of St. Bart's, and now as she stood enveloped in John's embrace, her heart ached in longing for the presence of her Sherlock. Slowly, she lifted her head, wiping away her tears that still streamed down her face, but trying to compose herself all the same.
John looked down at her, watching as she attempted to stay strong, feeling sorry and scared for her all the same. He did know what it was like to lose someone whom he cared about dearly, but he had no idea what it was like to go through something like this. This was something different that he would never truly understand, but he could try. He looked into her eyes, pulling away from her slightly and brushing away any remnants of tears that speckled her red face. He knew that she wanted to cry even more, but her face was hard, trying to hold back the waters of hurt. He admired her for her strength, but he knew that it was only fleeting. There would still be more tears to come and more worries to be faced.
He couldn't believe that all of this was happening to her so fast, everything seeming to crash down all at once, in more than one sense of the word. He still wished that there was something, anything he could do, but there just wasn't, and wishing would do absolutely no good for either of them. It would only just prolong the anxiety of the situation to be faced, making it even harder for him to get her out the door.
Suddenly, John's mind hardened itself, knowing that if they didn't leave now, they never would. She had to face this challenge, and even though it scared Molly practically to death, she couldn't do anything to avoid it. He pulled himself away from her, walking over to the couch and retrieving her coat from the cushion below and draping it over her small shoulders. He pulled his keys from his pocket, their jingling sending a hollow tone throughout the room, darkening Molly's aura once more. She still didn't want to go, but she knew she must, so she walked over to John reluctantly, looping her arm through his and waiting to be led out the door. They both turned their heads, looking at each other once more, then, turning their faces to the door, they walked through the threshold, heading to meet the man who would seal Molly's fate forever.
The ride from Baker Street to the Diogenes Club on Regent Street seemed to last forever for Molly, time slowing as the wheels of the taxi turned on axle. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours, giving her more time to think about what lay ahead as the streets of London passed them by, blurring into colors of grey and black with every turn. Everything swirled around her as she sat in the dark car, breathing in the smell of old leather and the musk of the taxi drivers cologne, which drifted through the car like a thick fog, gagging her slightly with its bitter smell. She looked out the window, watching as the car made its final turn, and with a swift movement, her hand rushed downward, colliding with John's and grasping it for dear life.
John looked down at his hand from the window, watching and feeling as her grip tightened gradually over his fingers, her tiny hand twisting around his own. He looked up at her face, surveying her every feature and gazing upon her pale cheeks which continued to grow a snowy white as they moved closer and closer to the daunting building, it's fiery presence resonating from every crack and crevice, making both of their hearts jump at its sight. They both sat in silence, waiting as the taxi slowed its speed to a final park, the engine humming in a low drone that bounced off every portico in a phantasmal echo. John fixated his gaze on Molly once more, watching as her other palm came to rest on her stomach, moving to protect the resident inside. He squeezed her hand in return, catching her gaze in his own.
"Are you ready?" He asked in a soft voice as they sat in front of the tall structure, it's shadow casting a shroud of anxiety over what seemed like the entire world. John watched as a single tear formed in the corner of her left eye, drifting down her face like a small waterfall and landing on her belly, disappearing into the fabric of her purple t-shirt. She closed her eyes, swallowing in nervousness and letting the oxygen fall from her lungs all at once, her body slumping down into the seat and practically melding into the cracked leather. She wanted to just disappear, but she had come too far to give up now. Slowly, Molly's hand loosened its grasp on John's, moving toward the door handle. She looked toward him, nodding her head, and with a quick flick, the door latch clicked open, making her heart jump in response. It was time.
John was already out of the car by the time she pushed the door open, his arms reaching down to help her as she staggered from the vehicle. The pair stepped onto the curb, watching as the taxi sped away into the mist of the afternoon, sending chills throughout Molly's extremities. Even if she wanted to turn back now, there was no means of transportation for her to do so, and walking was definitely not an option, for she knew she had come too far to let herself give up at this point. And although her mind was telling her one thing, her heart beckoned for her to stay strong and carry on, and to be the woman her father had raised her to be.
Slowly, she closed her eyes, willing her body to stay in place, not moving an inch further away from the building and letting her hands come to rest on the sleeve of John's coat. To her, his presence was now a great comfort in her soul, soothing the flames which licked at her heart with embers of fear and worry, eating away at her very center. Deep down, she could feel his confidence boiling over into her as he stood tall, facing the giant like David facing Goliath in the Valley of Elah, armed with almost nothing, but ready and willing to take down another's foe at the cost of his own. She watched him, his face hard and emotionless, staring straight ahead, and following his gaze, she too caught sight of what he was looking at, her heart sinking once more.
Two large, wooden doors, standing tall and erect, faced both of them in a menacing stature, creating a seamless barrier between them and the inner workings of the lair of the beast. Grey stone steps rose from the sidewalk, marking the entrance to the sanctum like a gateway to Hell, signifying this fortress of power that now lay before them. To anyone else, it would have been a normal address on the streets of London, but to Molly, it was a nightmare becoming reality. Her grip tightened around John's arms, her nails digging into the fabric of his jacket, holding on with all her might.
John looked down at her, watching as her eyes widened in fear, her hands continuing to tug on his sleeve. He reached up with his other hand, placing it on top of hers in a gentle hold, once again reassuring her that everything was going to be fine. Frankly, he was scared too, but he wasn't going to let her know in the slightest. It wasn't his place to be fearful, and he had to keep his strong appearance for her sake. He leaned over, giving her a peck on the forehead, and drawing in a short breath, his face turned serious once more, returning to its previous position.
"I can do this," he heard Molly whisper to herself, his face giving a slight smile as he listened. He was so proud of her for making it this far, knowing what a struggle it had been for her internally, taking everything within her soul to get her here, but still, they weren't through yet. He knew he had to get her moving in any way possible, or else they would never make it any closer to the door.
Slowly, he placed one foot in front of the other, ignoring the resistance that she created as he pulled her forward, her body fighting to move away. Finally, she gave way, her feet catching up with his pace as they moved closer and closer to the threshold, closing in the gap meters at a time. They walked up the steps, taking them one at a time, and finally, they both stood only inches from the great covered aperture, their breath fogging the window that framed their presence in a blurry portrait.
John reached down for the buzzer with his free hand, only to be greeted by the clack of the the lock as it popped open, making him aware that they already knew of his presence. They both watched as the door slowly creaked open, revealing a small man who beckoned them inside, wearing a look of surprise on his wrinkled face. Molly studied him with keen eyes, watching as he closed the door behind them as they stepped through, locking it without making a sound. It was rather peculiar to her, but still, she didn't question, not wanting to upset anyone in this silent establishment.
Yes, she had heard of the Diogenes club and their odd ways of doing things, but this was just completely bonkers being looked upon in almost disgust. She knew that this was a place generally meant for men only, but John had made sure that they would be aware of the circumstances of their guests. Or had he? Molly looked up at him. Her eyes narrowing into straight lines.
"John," she said in a short whisper, "you did tell them that I..."
"SHHH!" the old man exclaimed in a rude manner, if shushing can be considered rude. His skinny finger came up to his mouth in a silent gesture, telling her to be quiet in what seemed like the loudest way possible, giving her a glare that pierced her body like needles. She quieted herself, mentally scorning her behavior as they walked through the labyrinthine halls of the building, twisting and turning every which way and that, walking through rooms filled with distinguished looking men as they stared at her when she walked by. Now she was sure that John hadn't told Mycroft the entire truth, making her even more apprehensive as they made their way to the belly of the house.
Molly pulled on John's jacket, catching his attention and giving him a look of great disdain. He shook his head, turning his attention back to the long corridor that lay in front of them, watching as the little man waddled back and forth, leading them to the office at the other end. He turned around, motioning for them to quicken their pace with his lithe hand, his fingers wiggling in the air as he did so, and when they finally caught up to him, he was already standing at the door of the office, his fingers curled around the knob tightly, waiting to open the door.
Molly looked up at the plaque that hung on the wood, the etched letters glittering too brilliantly for her to read, but she already knew what they said. Her stomach tumbled and twisted into knots, making her feel nauseated in the slightest bit, and she placed her hand atop it, trying to soothe the bubbling furry inside her body. She breathed out slowly, pushing the air through her mouth and taking in the coolness of the room around. John looked at her once more with a questioning glance, wondering if she was alright, and she nodded in response, closing her eyes once more.
The little old man looked at them both, rolling his eyes in judgement as their sentiment filled the room with what he considered an uncomfortable presence. And then, without any gestures of any kind, he twisted the handle, catching both of their attentions with a simple flick, pushing the open the door and revealing the large room that had been hidden only moments ago.
Mycroft sat at his desk, watching as John and Molly walked into the room, his eyes widening in surprise as the young girl walked into his office without a word. The door closed behind them with a loud BANG, leaving them both standing in the middle of his office, looking frightened and altogether uncomfortable. Why hadn't John told him that she was coming? And why had she come? He could clearly see that she was with child, but it didn't concern him in the least, unless they wanted money, and he wasn't willing to give any at the moment. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, grabbing his umbrella and proceeding to swing it around awkwardly, prancing about the room in arrogance.
"Hello, John," he said, watching as the tip of the umbrella reached it's arch again and again, coming down in a grand swoop each time. He was already annoyed by their existence in the room, and making eye contact with either of them would make it even worse, so he continued to feign interest in other things, his eyes never coming into contact with them as he spoke. "What is it you wanted to talk about?" He walked over to the window, peering out over the now rainy horizon and watching as the storm proceeded to slide toward the city, concealing everything in its path. He looked through the corner of his eye, catching glimpses of their reflection in the glass.
"We need to talk, Mycroft," John said, he too becoming annoyed by Mycroft's lack of interest. He had never been this rude to him before, which was a grand achievement for the older Holmes brother, but this was just to the point of ridiculousness.
"Well, I must say, I was under that impression when you called me," he sneered, fueling John's anger even more. Mycroft turned on his heel toward the table by the wall, walking over to pour himself a bit of scotch on the rocks before returning to his little game of swing the umbrella. He placed his glass back in its proper place, continuing to annoy John even further. Finally, John gave Molly a slight nudge, pushing her to speak.
"Mycroft..." she said in a child-like voice, her words barely audible over the thunder that cracked throughout the town. "Mycroft, I'm pregnant." Her words felt like fire coming out of her mouth, burning the tip of her tongue like coals as they tumbled from her throat. She closed her eyes, gulping hard as she did so, waiting for a response, watching as he turned to face her, still not making eye contact.
"Yes, I suppose you are, my dear, " he told her, his back facing them yet again in an attempt to keep his annoyance at bay. "It doesn't take a qualified physician to see that, and quite frankly... I don't think this concerns me. " His voice was grating, pulling on John's nerves like the strings of a marionette, his emotions doing a small dance as the invisible puppeteer tugged at them constantly. Suddenly, he pulled himself away from Molly, walking closer to Mycroft in an attempt to catch his attention. Molly reached out to stop him from doing anything rash, but she was too late, and before he knew what he was doing, he opened his mouth to speak.
"Well considering the baby belongs to your BROTHER, I think it does concern you!" John's orotund voice was capped by a clap of thunder that rolled throughout the building like an earthquake, shaking Mycroft to the core. He jammed the tip of his umbrella into the carpet, not believing what he had just heard and turning around to face the pair, his eyes narrow, but still making contact with John's for the first time. They both stood silent, staring at each other in an apparent stand off.
"What did you say about Sherlock?" he asked in confusion, trying to take it all in, not knowing what else to say. His eyes darted over to Molly who was now sitting in one of the armchairs, her hands resting on her round belly. Her eyes were large with fear, looking into his as they widened with surprise, gaping at the current situation. He looked back over at John, searching for answers.
"It's his," he heard a female voice say, making both he and John look in Molly's direction. "The baby is his. It's Sherlock's." Her voice was tranquil and soothing like sweet wine, fading out as she spoke her lover's name, almost with a slight giggle. This was so much easier than she had ever imagined it would be, finally admitting that this wonderful creation was a piece of him. This baby was a piece of Sherlock Holmes, the man whom she was deeply and irrevocably in love with, and she didn't care what his brother thought.
Mycroft watched as her lips pursed into a small smile as she looked down at where her baby lay, gazing at her as she pushed herself out of the chair in a small victory. John ran over to her side, helping her become steady once more, and within a few seconds, she was walking over to Mycroft, his eyes never moving from her abdomen. His mind was swirling in a mass of questions, each one of them carrying a certain level of importance, but right in this moment, his mouth had for once lost its ability to move, rendering him speechless. He continued to watch her until she was standing within arms reach, his fingers twitching in nervousness, dropping his umbrella to the ground.
"Umm..." was all he could muster, his mind holding back any words that came to him as he attempted to speak. "Erm... May I?" He gestured his hand toward her, wanting to touch where his brother's child lay growing, just beneath the surface of this precious woman, healthy and beautiful. She nodded her head, reaching for his hand with her own, and grabbing his wrist, she placed his palm atop her stomach, watching as his expression seemed to melt into a grand smile.
Mycroft let his hand relax as he felt a small kick, making all three of them chuckle. He had never experienced anything like this before, and it almost made him happy, his mind not worrying about how or why it had happened. And he knew that John wanted to talk, but there was nothing to actually say. He had been able to see the relationship between she and Sherlock blossoming over the past year, watching as she flirted about here and there, and laughing internally as he would be completely oblivious, but then finally understand moments later. Plus, this had obviously happened before the fall, and Mycroft knew how babies came to be, so he spared her the obligation of explaining the details because he practically already knew the whole story.
Mycroft could feel a tear welling up in his right eye, begging to pour forth from the floodgates, making him feel slightly embarrassed as he did so, and he cleared his throat rather viciously. Quickly, he stood up, looking Molly in the eyes and smiling his Mycroft smile. Suddenly, her smile vanished slightly, her mind knowing exactly what he was thinking. For a moment, she had forgotten that he too knew about the suicide bluff, and now that she remembered, her heart fluttered in a panic, making her face turn a light red. John looked at her, wondering what was wrong.
"Molly, are you okay?" He asked, grabbing her arm cautiously. Mycroft knew that she was thinking exactly the same thought, fearing what he would do with this new information. Slowly, he grabbed her other arm, helping John guide her to the other side of the room and into the chair that sat by the door. She sat down, continuing to stare at him, but now fanning herself with her little hand. He looked down into her eyes, winking to her in a sense of knowing, and assuring her that her secret was safe with him. He wasn't going to tell anyone who didn't need to know, and she knew, even without any words being spoken. Finally, her pulse returned to normal, bringing her face back to its light tone.
"Well, I guess we'd better be going then?" John asked, looking a bit confused by their silent exchange, but not saying a word about it. He reached down and helped Molly out of her chair, helping her balance herself once again as she stood leaning against the wall. Mycroft watched as she looped her arm through John's once more, his hand coming to rest atop hers just as it had when they walked in not twenty minutes ago. It had certainly been a quick exchange, but it really was just the right length for what needed to be said, which was almost nothing, so it had been perfect. But even though he really did want Molly to stay so he could talk about his soon to be niece or nephew, he knew that he must let them go, so he kept himself quiet, watching as they opened the door and slipped out, John giving him a small nod as the latch clicked behind.
Hurriedly, Mycroft ran over to the window, watching as the hailed a taxi and climbed in, waving goodbye as they sped away into the London fog. He had never felt like this ever before, wondering why he was so happy, but also feeling nervous all the same. Then, suddenly, his happiness dissipated, his gaze catching glimpse of the phone that sat on his desk, radiating a ray of white light, signifying a notification. He walked over, picking it up and noticing that the text was simply from John, his unopened message from hours ago still sitting on the screen. He stared at the letters, watching as the faded into themselves over and over, blurring into a great blob of black writing. He dismissed the message, pressing the home button and raising his phone to his pocket once more to place it inside, but suddenly, he paused pulling his phone into view once more.
Mycroft looked down at the screen, the passcode keyboard blinking, waiting for someone to enter a code and peruse the many files inside. In an instant, his fingers couldn't control themselves, flying across the screen with lightning precision, composing a new message in a heartbeat. He pressed the folder which held Sherlock's messages, typing out a small text, hoping that he would get a reply.
'We need to talk,' was all it read, just like John previous message to him had been earlier that day. He pressed the send button, watching as yet another message labeled itself with 'delivered', making him sigh in exasperation. Then, without thinking, he typed out another text, sending it off even more quickly: 'It's about Molly.'
Mycroft watched the screen with great anticipation, his heart leaping and racing as he waited for the message to go through, but to his dismay, it too labeled itself 'delivered', giving him the feeling that Sherlock was truly dead. He hung his head low, leaning back on his desk and letting his phone drop to his side. He lifted it back up to look at it one last time, but this time, there was something different. He watched, his eyes widening as the message changed from 'delivered' to 'read', giving him an internal sense of happiness. He held the phone closer to his face, waiting for anything else to happen, hoping that anything would. There was no one who had the code to his brother's phone other than Sherlock himself, and he knew he had seen it.
Mycroft's eyes crossed as he continued to look at the screen, his nose centimeters away from colliding with the glass. They strained to see the keyboard, making him feel as though he were going to go blind, but just as his index finger made it to the top button to turn the screen black, he stopped, for three grey dots had appeared in the bottom left corner of the screen, and he knew what that meant. Someone was typing out a message in reply.
