Here's where the extent of Mycroft's meddling is revealed, Anthea's identity is revealed, and the depths of Sherlock and John's feelings are (I hope) revealed.


As soon as he entered the flat that evening, Sherlock could tell something was wrong, no matter how peaceful the scene appeared. Daisy was lying in her carry cot, warmly wrapped and fast asleep, with John sitting on the other end of the sofa quietly perusing a magazine, but there was a subtle tension in the set of his shoulders, and the way his gaze was fixed on the periodical in his hands alerted Sherlock that the other man wasn't actually reading it, possibly wasn't even seeing it since he was clearly lost in his thoughts.

"John?" Sherlock said softly, cautiously as he closed the door behind him and moved over to the sofa, stopping directly in front of his friend and romantic partner. "What's wrong?" He glanced at Daisy, taking in her peaceful face and the soft sounds of her snores, relieved beyond measure to see and hear evidence that she wasn't the cause of John's obvious distress. Then his eyes fell on the brown manila envelope – contents bulky, mostly loose or stapled papers but possibly some photographs and – yes, a small, recording device as well. Nothing to bring the short hairs on the back of his neck to attention, yet he knew that innocuous-looking container was the cause of John's distress.

"Your brother's PA dropped this off," John said, nodding at the envelope and dropping the magazine on the table next to it. "I haven't opened it yet, figured I'd better wait until you got home." He turned toward Daisy, moving as if to lift her from her carry cot – undoubtedly to place her into her bassinet – but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Let her sleep there, John. No point in moving her. I think we'd both feel better if she remained in the room with us, since this undoubtedly has something to do with Molly," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. If their words hadn't woken Daisy up by now, she would no doubt continue to sleep as their conversation continued.

John nodded, lips compressed in a tight line, obviously believing that the information contained in the packet was unlikely to be entirely good news. If he'd thought for one second that it divulged Molly's whereabouts he would have already opened it. No, he was worried that it was bad news of some kind, something he wouldn't want to have to read on his own without some kind of emotional support. And although Sherlock was hardly the most emotionally supportive man on the planet, or in the UK – or even in the current room – he had long ago resolved to always be there when John or Molly needed him. Having failed for the one, he had no intentions of doing so for the other.

With that in mind, he helped John remove the clutter that had gathered on the low table, sinking down on his knees and grabbing the envelope as soon as everything else – magazines, assorted baby paraphernalia, a set of false teeth from an old case that had amused Daisy for almost an hour the other day – had been set on the floor. John watched as Sherlock carefully opened the envelope, his hands clasped together on his lap and leaning forward slightly, brow wrinkled in the way it did when he was worried and trying (and failing) not to show it.

Sherlock sorted through the various papers, setting the recording device and packet of photos aside for the moment. He had to treat this information as a case, had to remain as calm and impartial as he could even as he felt his temper struggling to rise as he scanned the documents 'Anthea' had provided. It wasn't easy, and he could sense John's own struggle not to demand answers from him until he'd gotten the gist of the documents and felt he was able to speak without exploding into anger. He looked up at John, who stared back at him, then spoke before Sherlock did more than open his mouth.

"Your brother's PA, 'Anthea'," he said, the words coming in a rush. "She's...she's his daughter. Isn't she." He swallowed. "Your niece."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock nodded to confirm John's suspicions. "Her real name is Honoria. Honoria Ashford Holmes," he replied, raking a hand through his hair as his mind raced to find the best way to explain things. "No one else knows except her younger half-siblings in Australia, which is where she is undoubtedly heading by now. She was the product of my brother's only youthful indiscretion with one of the servants...yes, yes, very Victorian melodrama," he added impatiently when John opened his mouth to offer up some form of commentary. "That experience apparently was enough to turn him off women all together, or so he's always claimed, although I believe he had homosexual tendencies even before Honoria's mother got her claws into him. She deliberately seduced him, got pregnant – yes, there was a DNA test done in utero and another immediately after birth – and accepted a generous lifetime payoff in order to take her daughter and disappear, as Mycroft had no interest in fatherhood and my parents indulge him even more than they do me."

He couldn't help the petulant note that entered his voice, and knew John heard it simply by the way the other man raised one eyebrow. Sherlock offered a crooked smile before taking a deep breath, anxious to get the entire, sordid story out of the way so they could concentrate on what really mattered. "Fast forward thirteen years; Honoria's mother had married and had two other daughters before she and her husband were killed in a car accident. The husband's family took in the younger sisters, but Honoria's mother named Mycroft as their daughter's guardian and so he reluctantly agreed to take care of her. Luckily – or unluckily – my niece inherited the family traits of extreme intelligence coupled with a disdain for the bulk of humanity, so she and Mycroft got along quite well. So well, in fact, that he employed her as his PA as soon as she completed her formal education – Harvard, Oxford, and a year at Vassar. She reconnected with her half-siblings while in America, apparently grew a conscience very recently, no doubt due to their influence, and has provided us with information that should prove useful in coercing Mycroft into telling us Molly's exact whereabouts on that continent. She is most likely living in New York City or some other large, metropolitan area, under an assumed name and still..."

His voice caught, and he found himself almost choking on the next words as he fought to get them out over the ball of rage and sorrow that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. "Still unlikely to be receiving treatment for her post-partum depression, as the so-called 'therapist' my brother so kindly provided for her was actually doing his damndest to drive her further over the edge."

John knew it was going to be bad, that the contents of the envelope weren't going to be anything good, but this...this was not what he'd been expecting. "You mean...he was incompetent, wasn't doing a good job," he tried, but Sherlock shook his head, effectively stopping him from speaking.

"No, John," he replied, speaking slowly and deliberately, his eyes chips of blue ice in face gone glacial with anger. "He deliberately sabotaged her at every step. These documents are transcripts of his sessions with Molly. Printed out for my dear brother's reading pleasure." The last words were spat out with so much vitriol it was a wonder they didn't burn his mouth.

They certainly burned in John's ears, and in his heart as well. He felt physically ill at the thought of someone – anyone – deliberately setting out to impede Molly's recovery in so cold-blooded a manner as this. Then again, no one had ever accused Mycroft Holmes of anything so ridiculous as sentiment. "Does it say why he would do something like that?" he wondered, blinking away the tears that had sprung up in his eyes. "What did Molly ever do to him?"

Sherlock had jumped back up to his feet and was pacing furiously, tossing the recording device restlessly from one hand to the other as he moved back and forth across the room. "Nothing, Molly's never done anything to harm another human being in her entire life," he said, speaking rapidly, his voice a cold monotone, but his eyes…oh, if Mycroft was in the room with them, Sherlock's eyes would burn his brother to ash. "Mycroft is a misogynistic bastard," he spat out, coming to a stop directly in front of John, his eyes on the still-sleeping form of his daughter. "I don't even have to speak to him to know exactly what he did." A bitter laugh escaped the prison of his lips before he once again turned to meet John's horrified gaze. "He probably went to see her, to tell her that this relationship we three were planning wouldn't work, that she would only be in the way once the baby was born. He doesn't feel that women can truly understand men, can't love the way we can…with the exceptions of his daughter and our mother, of course." His lip curled contemptuously. "He manipulated her into seeing the professional of his choice, had the man prime her, wind her up, push her to the breaking point and cause her to believe the only way to keep from harming her daughter was to run away."

"That's…that's the most disgusting, depraved…how could he claim to be a therapist and do that to Molly?" John's voice broke a bit as he rubbed a trembling hand across his brow. "Oh, God, and I made it worse, played right into their hands when I was so angry with her for keeping your secret…"

In a flash Sherlock was by John's side, taking him into his arms for a comforting hug. Yes, it was awkward; he and John were still feeling each other, still working out this new, tentative relationship, both feeling as if things were somewhat on hold without Molly with them. But one thing Sherlock Holmes had learned, a lesson his own brother had yet to discover, was that human contact, especially with someone you loved, meant more than any empty platitudes ever spoken.

"We're going to go see my dear brother," Sherlock said after a long moment passed in silence, during which he knew John was struggling not to break down. Not just because it wasn't 'manly' but also because he wanted to be strong for Daisy. "And he's going to tell us exactly where Molly is, or face the consequences."

Staring up at Sherlock's grim face, John wasn't sure he wanted to know what those consequences might be…but then again, he didn't really care. Because Mycroft Holmes deserved whatever the fuck happened to him.