Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to everyone for their reviews, hope this answers some of your questions...


CHAPTER SIX: BIG HOUSE, LITTLE HOUSE, PIGSTY, BARN


As soon as Mycroft enters and sees Briggs he pulls out his phone. Whoever he calls is on speed-dial; when they pick up starts muttering to someone- Sherlock belatedly realises it's Adi- about enacting something called a, "patronus protocol."

At these words the heavy-set Goth girl Sherlock had met earlier- Squeak, Agent Hunter had called her- flicks her head up and pulls out her own phone. She darts off into a corner, her free hand curling into a fist in nervousness as she mutters, "pick up, pick up, pick up Ruta."

Whoever she's called mustn't answer for she snaps she call short with a muttered expletive and makes her way over to Mycroft, trying to catch his eye. (He's still talking shop with Adi).

"Sir," she interrupts when her third attempt fails. "Sir, I've called Vi's house and nobody's home-"

Mycroft's look of irritation at being interrupted melts as he presumably takes in the import of what she's telling him.

With a jerk of his chin he nods to a couple of agents Sherlock doesn't know and Dan, the only other member of Sherlock's security team who's with him.

"Check it," Mycroft says tersely. "If the child and her minder are there then bring them in. If not, straight back to the Mews, no detours, is that clear?"

Both Squeak and Dan nod, setting off at a fierce clip and leaving their commander to stare at Sherlock and his friends dismally. His eyes flicker to Molly, and thence to the hand that Sherlock's still holding. Its wrist- both Molly's wrists- are bruised and cut where the plastic ties which had held her down before releasing as the tank filled have gouged into her skin. The elder Holmes says nothing however, merely sighs. Reaches into his inside pocket to pull out a cigarette before offering one to Sherlock.

Though he'd rather like the nicotine hit, when he makes to move away Molly winces.

Immediately he stills uncertainly, then moves closer to her, rubbing one hand ineffectually against her still-wet arm and trying to warm her.

He smiles as he does it, trying to project an air of calm which he most decidedly does not feel.

Molly nods to him though, almost as if he'd spoken, and then moves closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her eyes stay on him the entire time, as if asking his permission. When he doesn't push her away or stiffen she curls her body so that Mycroft and the other agents can't see her face, her shoulders hunching as if she's trying to make herself seem smaller. The message is clear: she wishes to be left alone except, perhaps, for Sherlock.

The realisation makes a rather alarming… something flutter in the detective's' chest.

Mycroft rolls his eyes but says nothing, merely moves to the centre of the room and lights up, the rest of his agents swarming through the building with practiced, easy efficiency. His shoe taps off something- the apple which had been forced into Molly's mouth during her ordeal- and he picks it up with his free hand. Idly examines the IOUs repeatedly carved into its flesh. When he speaks he pitches his voice so that everyone- including Sherlock and the Watsons- can hear.

His tone is almost… admiring.

"The production values really were splendid, weren't they?" he drawls conversationally. "Why, I doubt the BBC could have engineered a better set-piece than this if they had all year. Damsel in distress, a race against the clock. A handsome, flawed hero, rushing to save an innocent-."

To his right Sherlock sees John grit his teeth- "This is not a bloody game, Mycroft, Molly was nearly killed!"- but Mary's expression is calculating. Calm.

She walks over to him, takes the apple from his hand.

At seeing it Sherlock turns his attention back to Molly, pulling her closer and trying to dry her more thoroughly. Trying to distract her though listening in himself. (He doubts she needs to hear what's about to be said).

"So you agree, Mary," Mycroft drawls when she doesn't speak. "This was theatre?"

She shakes her head. "Spectacle," she corrects. "Right down to the tank and the broadcasting it on social media- Your little cyber-elves will be kept busy trying to clean that mess up, and right when they should be looking for your imposter." Her smile turns sharp. Feral, almost.

"Handy bit of timing, that."

Mycroft inclines his head courteously, allowing her point. "And now our opponent has a member of Sherlock's surveillance team," he continues. "Someone who knows our systems inside and out. Someone who knows my brother's life, inside and out. Of course we'll lock down her security clearance, change every password we can, but still… It's the system Hunter knows. The system she helped build. Her loss will cost us."

He inclines his head to Mary. Takes back the apple before handing it to an agent to bag as evidence. "As I said, Mrs. Watson: Theatre. Rather fine theatre."

Mary's only response is to roll her eyes.

John, as usual, joins her.

"So you think that she was the target, not me?" Molly's voice is rough, low. Her throat's been through rather a lot today, after all. Though the words are spoken into Sherlock's shoulder, they still travel. "You think they put me through all that for- for-"

"For a distraction? Yes," Mycroft says. His tone is not sympathetic. "My apologies, but you rather seem to have been a pawn, Miss Hooper-"

"It's Dr. Hooper, Mr. Holmes." And she drops her head, unable to continue though she doesn't need to. Of course she was a decoy, now that they're looking at it, Sherlock muses. And of course Mycroft must have realised that rather early on. He wants to glare at his brother but he finds he can't, just as he finds himself completely confused as to how to help Molly right now. Even his drying efforts are proving ineffectual, and is she's being all emotional and feminine then experience indicates he's out of his depth-

But still, he can't bring himself to pull away, and he suspects, given how tightly she's holding onto his hand, that she doesn't want him to.

Rather, he meets her eyes, opens his mouth, about to ask something- anything- that will help her but before he can John leans over to them. Quietly asks Molly whether she'd like to go now, to which she nods in relief. Responds with a near-silent, "Yes, please."

Mycroft cocks an irritated eyebrow- "She's not been cleared,"- but John speaks over him.

"I'm her doctor, she's been cleared by me," he says firmly. "We're taking her back to Baker Street where I can treat her, and you and your boys can go play James Bond to your heart's content: Molly's out."

With those words he starts packing up his things, starting with his sidearm. He gives a single look to Mary and she nods, fetching her own gear before tapping Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. There is, after all, never any doubt about where her allegiance lies. "Are you coming?" she asks.

"But of course." Sherlock tries to help Molly stand but after a couple of ineffectual attempts on her part he picks her up, hefting her in his arms and ignoring Mycroft's disdainful look. He also ignores John's whispered, "You know there's no lift, right?" before starting to carry her up the stairs. While he knows the exertion should bother him, it doesn't: It's not that Molly's terribly light- she's too much muscle from moving dead bodies for that- it's the fact that letting her go seems a worse idea than getting out of breath.

He also can't help but be pleased at the thought of actually doing something for her, rather than just sitting there, being useless.

Once they reach the top of the stairs they find a vehicle waiting for them, one of Mycroft's less ostentatious ones. After a moment's confusion, they settle Molly into the back between Sherlock and John. Mary takes the passenger seat, her gun laid rather obviously in her lap. They pull into traffic, Mary and John going out of there way to make soothing, nonsense small-talk-

Molly's hand stays in Sherlock's the whole journey and though he knows he shouldn't, he finds he likes it there.

He carries her up the stairs to Baker Street as he carried her out of the Icehouse, kicking open the door to his flat-

Which is when the second big surprise of the day elects to make itself known.


Meanwhile

In The Icehouse

"So we've no read on the child?" Anthea asks him quietly.

She's standing at his elbow, just returned from her errand with his brother, and when she speaks her voice is pitched not to travel at all.

It wouldn't, after all, do to spook the other members of the team, those who haven't yet heard that Agent Violet Hunter's little girl is now missing- Missing from the flat where her au pair was also found, rather brutally murdered.

"Abigail Hunter is gone," Mycroft answers, just as softly. "Preliminary examination of the flat reveals a great deal of the au pair's blood, but none of the girl's- But then you already guessed that."

Anthea nods. "The child's more use to them alive than dead," she says tightly. "Her mother might hold out for the sake of your brother or her team, but with her own flesh and blood on the line…"

"She'll sing like a nightingale," Mycroft finishes for her. He sighs- an indulgence he rarely allows himself- and shakes his head.

Anthea reaches inside her coat, pulls out a small metal flask. "For the day that's in it," she says softly and for once Mycroft favours her with a smile. Nods and takes a slightly longer sip than he meant to before handing it back.

"Glenfiddich?" he asks and she smiles. Nods. Takes a sip of her own.

"Only the best for you, Sir," she says and despite himself, despite all that has happened in this long, long day, Mycroft finds another, wider smile coming to his lips. Finds himself relaxing slightly, in that way he only ever does with Anthea-

This moment of peace doesn't last, however, for in the next moment his phone chimes. It's a text message from Sherlock.

Come to Baker Street at once, it reads. You and you alone- not even Anthea.

This is followed by what looks like a youtube web address; It appears to be footage of a small, curly-haired boy playing violin before a group of enthusiastic tourists.

With another sigh and a small shake of his head, Mycroft leaves his protege and sets out for his brother's home- He'll wait until he's in the car to watch the youtube video in its entirety-

He feels Anthea's eyes on him as he goes, but as always he says nothing about it- And neither does she.