A/N: I am so sorry I've taken so long to update this...this is not how I normally operate. I will be forthright, however, and tell you that from this point on, you should expect 1-2 updates weekly. I write for another small ship, and I spend a lot time over there. Anyway, I don't imagine that this story will be ALL THAT long...but I hate keeping readers hanging, and I shall not neglect this again. Thank you for reading!


"Sir…I honestly don't know what to say," Anthea was holding the bottle of wine her boss had given her, and was attempting to understand the words she had just heard fall from his lips.

"Say yes, I'd be happy to take the rest of the afternoon off, Mr. Holmes," replied he.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," and she smiled.

"You're quite welcome," and he turned and went back into his office.

Mycroft sat at his desk and poured over his work. He would be taking some of it home with him, no doubt, but that hardly mattered. He had given his PA the evening off and he was pleased with her reaction.

Let her enjoy her date with her significant other.

And when eight pm finally stole its emergence from the 19th hour, he rose and gathered his things.

He went to Baker Street with a parcel and smiled.


"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said, brushing passed her with a jovial look on his continence.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Mycroft," he corrected.

She snapped her eyes to him.

"Oh," she paused. "Really?"

"Mrs. Hudson, how long have we known one another?"

"Quite some time now…"

"Just so. Let us dispel such formalities. It does get tiresome, wouldn't you agree?" and he began to ascend the stairs.

"Mycroft," she began. "That's an odd thing," she muttered to herself, and went back into her flat.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock was typing away at his laptop.

"Hello to you, brother. How are we this evening?"

"Fine," and he stole a glance at him. "Why did you bring me pastries? Or were you simply tired of me not having any to satisfy your hunger?"

"Well, I brought you your favorite cake…one of the only things we agree on," and he sat down opposite him.

"Why are you being nice? Is this because of our annoying conversation last evening?"

"Perhaps. But perhaps not," and he twirled his umbrella on the floor.

Sherlock considered him a moment, and decided not to press it. "Brandy, Mycroft?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock procured the warm alcohol, warm in the sense that it leaves one's belly sweet and warm.

"You know, Mycroft, I believe that you are undergoing some sort of crisis," and he handed him the glass.

"Is that your astute mind drawing such conclusions?"

"What else could it be, Mycroft?"

"Your growing sense of sentiment."

Sherlock laughed heartily at this. "What do you mean? My sentiment?"

"Yes, I'd say that that is fair."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. What was he playing at? "Fair in what way?"

"Well, I think that you've undergone sufficient awakenings to realize that one, you need people. Two, people need you, and three, these ideas needn't be at opposite ends of the proverbial spectrum."

"I…"

Mycroft stood. "Sherlock, I think that you are keen enough to realize exactly what I'm saying. Don't be daft, and think about it," he paused a moment. "But don't think too longly on it, she may not wait forever."

And he left.

What the bloody hell was that about?

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave Baker Street. He watched his step, more springy. He watched his gait, more casual.

And then, with a shock reserved only for the most pressing of cases, he realized that Mycroft had walked.

Walked.

As in, sans expensive and ostentatious vehicle.

This…this was concerning.


She was reading in her corner. It was a nice enough corner of the cafe, it afforded a nice look into the expanse of the place. But Molly was reading, she wasn't looking for anyone, necessarily.

No. She wasn't.

But then, just as her mind once more pressed its insistence that she wasn't, in he walked.

Mycroft.

And her face lit softly, and she swallowed.

"Hello, Molly. Mind if I sit?"

"No…no. Please."

And he did. "I saw Sherlock last evening."

"That right? How is he?" she was nervous, because she had been thinking about how it was possible that the detective fancied her.

"Much the same as he always is. Irritating and exhausting," and he sipped. "Tell me, Molly. Have you always lived in London?"

"Ah, mostly. I grew up in Rickmansworth…moved to London when I was in secondary school."

He nodded. "And do you like it?"

"Um, well…it's nice enough, I guess."

"I mean to say…do you prefer it to a more suburban setting?"

Molly smirked. "Ah, no…I guess not. It's alright, but the noise can be a bit much."

Mycroft nodded. "Have you siblings?"

"Two brothers."

"Older…?"

"I'm the middle child," she answered. "Why all the questions, Mycroft?"

"Merely attempting to better understand my close acquaintance."

She looked crookedly at him. "What about you? Do you like London?"

"It has its charms."

"And will you stay here? Or would you prefer a more rural setting?"

"I stay where the work is, Molly," and he sipped his coffee.

"Must be sad, always working…having your life so dictated by so many demands."

He looked steadily at her. "I am not sad. I have very important responsibilities, and I am quite content in my station."

"You sure seem like it," she replied with a bit more than a hint of sarcasm.

His eyebrows raised in shock. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Well, were you or were you not, before your holiday in Paris, exhausted and irritated by your work? Did you not seek out the advice of someone you hardly knew to guide you?" and Molly downed her latte for effect.

He cleared his throat and shifted.

He chuckled.

Then he laughed.

And Molly thought it was one of the very best things she had ever seen. "What?" and she returned his laugh.

"Well…" and he cleared his throat. "I'm not usually outdone, Molly. You caught me unawares."

She shrugged. "I would guess that that is a desirable thing. It would be kinda boring, don't you think, to always be right? To never be surprised?"

His gaze fell. "I suppose so."

"I mean…" she hastened to assuage his reaction. "I mean, it must be something to understand things and people so well. But maybe…maybe sometimes to actually not know…not understand why something is happening…I think that that might be a good thing."

He nodded. "You are quite right, Molly. Mysteries in life certainly carry with them a particular allure I don't usually enjoy."

"No."

"No…But then, I wouldn't think that being surprised often would be all that desirable, either."

Molly looked at him steadily in the eyes. Her brown orbs holding in them a soft something, concurrently ubiquitous and yet utterly singular. "No, but what if you were wrong?" and she got up. "I need to go, Mycroft…I'll see you later."

And she left.

Wrong?

What did she mean by that?

He wasn't wrong.

Wrong about what?

Silly pathologists were often so exhausting in their cryptic observations.

But then, he reminded himself, he didn't know any other pathologists.


Wrong.

As he played his violin.

Wrong, and he sipped his brandy.

Wrong, and he found his mobile and Molly's number. (of course he had it, she was connected to Sherlock)

Molly, it's Mycroft. I hope I am not engaging in anything terribly untoward…but just what did you mean by me being wrong earlier today?

Send.

He loathed texting, but the idea of actually speaking to her on the phone was dreadful…he already felt out of his element. No need to delve deeper…further astray.

Sorry? I can't remember what I said exactly.

She didn't remember.

Ah…well…I believe you were suggesting that being surprised was generally a good thing.

Send.

Oh! Oh yes. Surprises. With regard to people…

Clever girl…but not really, as he had, he reminded himself, needed to refresh her poor recollection.

That's right.

Send.

Well, sometimes, I think, it is nice to be surprised. You know, makes certain people stand out from others…?

True.

Thank you, Molly…but you know, I am hardly ever wrong.

Send.

And he put the mobile away.


Molly smiled at the last text.

He was a funny fellow.

She poured her tea and sat on the sofa, petting Toby.

Molly reached for her book and paged to her bookmark.

Her mind began to wander…

Just what would it be like to be Sherlock's girlfriend?

Annoying, she thought.

But lovely…

He would never be around for meals.

But he had that smile, those hands…

He would always interrupt her, or else wouldn't pay attention.

But his mind was something, daunting, even…

He would never come to bed. He would be gone so much.

And Molly considered this.

And she considered being the object of his eye…

And she thought that yes, it would have a certain pull, how couldn't it? She had pined away for the git for years.

But maybe, she had learned to want a bit more.

Maybe she had discovered that she, in fact, deserved a bit more.

What would she do if she were faced with the reality of Sherlock Holmes declaring himself to her…?

Molly smiled a touch.

She'd likely snog him, only because she had fantasized about it endlessly (a certain one she played over repeatedly, with him grabbing the sides of her face after running his hands through his hair and then placing a very proper and full kiss to her mouth. Sometimes breaking through a window was part of it, but then Molly thought that that might be a bit much, and she didn't want to clean up that mess).

Yes, she'd kiss him.

Then what?

And Molly Hooper did think unto herself that night, that Sherlock Holmes would need to do a bit more than just tell her he fancied her.

There would need to be a bit more to it than that. She wouldn't be melting at his feet, or succumbing to a touch…she would maintain a certain strength where he was concerned henceforth.

She thought that this was very good.

And her final thoughts before her eyes closed for sweet somnolence, was Mycroft's silly text.