'What's all this stuff?' Abigail Hobbs had just dropped off her suitcase in Mycroft's spare room, and was now fiddling with some equipment in the kitchen. A thorough understanding of molecule arrangement was not fundamental to his government position, but it was a hobby of his. A hobby he kept quite secret from Sherlock. He rushed over to her.

'I'd appreciate if you didn't touch anything.' he said condescendingly. He was not a children person.
'What do you do?' Abigail asked, mostly out of absent-minded curiosity.
'I...erm,' Mycroft started, wrenching a piece of equipment from her frail grip, 'I work for the British Government.'
'My dad sometimes looked into oversea politics.' she said, leaving Mycroft stuck at what to say next. Whether she was making this up or not, he knew that they weren't to talk of Garett Jacob Hobbs. He knew she was trying to push his buttons and create some blame for him to have to assume. Good try, he thought, but not good enough.

'Doctor Bloom says you were at the Psychiatric Facility for a while. How long?'
'2 or 3 months.'
'And what was it like?' There was no pause before she answered.
'Hell. Like everyone knew everything about me.'
He could imagine. From what he'd heard, the Minnesota Shrike, who Britons had only heard whispers about, was plastered everywhere in the US, like cheap wallpaper.

'But Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, they helped you, yes?'
She shrugged.
'Will killed my father, but Will saved me. Hannibal gave me a place to go when I had nothing.' Mycroft considered this.
'Have you had any trouble with the press?' she shook her head.
'Not trouble. Freddie Lounds helped me tell my story.'
'And you've worked with Alana Bloom?' She didn't nod. Instead, she sunk into the nearest chair.
'She thinks everything comes from a textbook. She's so wrapped up in it, she doesn't see me changing for the better...or the worse.'
'The worse?'
She stood up again, with an urgency that Mycroft had not seen in her before. Maybe she had said too much.
'You're not the average teenage girl, are you?'
'Does the average teenage girl have a serial killer for a dad?' Abigail Hobbs, who had not previously shown much sign of emotion, burst into tears. Unsure of what to do next, Mycroft's hand hovered above her. Should he toussel her hair, maybe put a friendly arm around her? Suddenly, she grabbed him with both arms, her sobs muted in his jacket. Uncomfortably, Mycroft returned the hug.
'I just can't do this.' He began to hug her properly. He stroked her hair with his thumb.
'Shhh, it'll be okay. It'll be okay.'