Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely miabicicletta- Many thanks. Thanks for their reviews also go to Kendra Starkiller, applejacks0808 and shazzykins- Enjoy!


CHAPTER SEVEN: KITH, KIN, KIND


221b Baker Street

40 Minutes Later

When Mycroft enters, Molly Hooper is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is John or Mary Watson, though the door to Sherlock's bedroom is ever so slightly ajar.

His brother is sitting in his usual spot however, a cup of tea in his hand. He's wearing fresh clothes, no more of Molly Hooper's blood staining him. A dark-haired woman is sitting opposite him, her back to the door and a small, curly-haired boy in her lap.

At hearing the door open Sherlock looks up and the woman sets down the child, the boy turning eagerly, the woman showing more reluctance-

Mycroft nods in greeting- he recognises the boy from the youtube video his brother sent him- before moving into the parlour. He aims to stand behind his brother, to hear what was so important he was summoned here on this of all days, but then he sees the woman's face and he stops.

Stares.

For the first time in a long time he feels his mouth threatening to hang agog.

For he recognises her, though he hasn't seen her, in, oh, it must be at least thirty years. Not since just before he left for university and she disappeared off into a life of her own. Not since before that last, ghastly scene on New Year's Eve. She's still tall and dark, he notes. Still striking-looking, rather than beautiful. Her eyes still seem to look right through him, and he still finds himself utterly struck by her presence. The sheer charisma she seems to exude. For a moment they stare at her, blue eyes looking into brown ones, and then he finds his voice. A lifetime of good manners forces him to extend his hand.

"Prudence," he says stiffly and the woman takes it. Nods.

"Mikey," she answers, her voice equally tense. She shoots Sherlock a quelling look, which he pointedly ignores and she rolls her eyes. "It's- I didn't think Will would call you- I asked him not to-"

"And Will always does as he's asked," Mycroft points out archly, making Prudence snort.

At being called by his boyhood name Sherlock scowls but then seems to think better of it. Rather than saying anything he stands, offers Mycroft a seat. You could cut the tension in the room with a meat cleaver; Best that he sit down. As if they'd never been apart, Prudence moves to pick up the tea things, pours Mycroft a cup and then adds milk and sugar, just as he used to take it.

She hands it to him promptly before turning her attention to the child, who's started fiddling with the pot.

"Micah," she admonishes. "What did I tell you?"

The boy pouts. Crosses his arms over his chest and throws himself backwards onto the couch cushions with far more energy than the act deserves, a martyred sigh on his lips. For a moment Mycroft is reminded- sharply- of Sherlock as a child, something which tugs at his intuition, but then-

"These people are helping us," the boy says. He sounds like he's parroting someone. "We don't act up around people who are helping us- And if we do we get a clip around the ear."

Prudence smiles warmly- a smile Mycroft remembers only too well- and presses a kiss to the boy's dreadlocked hair. He scowls and fusses, which makes her smile widen. After a moment she tickles him and he squeals, his annoyance forgotten. His smile is sharply bright, his laughter loud. It suddenly occurs to Mycroft that he has the same quick-silver eyes that Sherlock inherited from their mother, despite his dark skin-

He finds the thought… surprising.

"Precisely," Prudence is telling the boy. "And we also don't act up around family, which is what Mikey and Will here are-"

Mycroft is bringing his tea up to his lips and at these words he sputters. Spits the tea out. The boy- Micah- lets out a cheerful whoop of laughter at the sight, bouncing on the sofa as Prudence rolls her eyes again and Sherlock snorts in amusement. As if on cue the door into the parlour opens and a younger, purple-haired woman walks out, frowning at the scene before her- "Mum," she addresses Prudence, "Mum, what did you do?"

A look at Mycroft and then, "Bloody hell, you told him, didn't you? For God's sake mum, did you even warn the man?"

Though Prudence must answer- "What would have been the point in warning him, love?"- Mycroft hears none of it. Just as he hears nothing of the- undoubtedly droll- commentary his baby brother provides. For when he looks at the woman who has just entered he gets his second shock of the day: She clearly has Prudence's bright blue eyes, her tallness. Her bearing.

She also clearly has his widow's peak, forehead, and the Holmes' family nose.

The one Mummy's so bitter about.

The one Mycroft's so bitter about, not that he'd ever admit it.

"Jesus Christ on a hobby-horse," he swears and it's a measure of how shocked he is that he doesn't even try to glare at Sherlock for snorting.

He knows he has to love Sherlock, but by God, he doesn't have to like him.

"Not quite," the younger woman says, moving forward and holding out her hand. Her eyes are somewhere between amused and sorry. It's an expression Mycroft's seen on his own mother's face more than once. "'I'm Lex- Sorry, Alexandra Sigur Doyle, if you want to be technical about it. Which I suppose you will do, given all of… this." She gestures helplessly with her other hand. She seems chagrined. Unsettled.

Mycroft doesn't blame her.

"So you're- you're-" For once in his life Mycroft finds he can't speak. All he can do is gesture vaguely to Prudence.

Lex nods though. "Yeah, Pru's my mum," she says." And this is my son, Micah-"

She nods to the boy, who stands. Tries belatedly to look well-behaved.

"Micah," she says, pulling him over to stand in front of her. "Micah, this is your grandfather: His name is..?"

As if of its own volition, Mycroft hears his own voice introduce himself.

"Yes, well, this is all fascinating," Sherlock cuts, standing, "but I'm afraid I really must check on Molly- You've got quite enough to be getting on with Mikey, what with the threats Prudence and Lex are getting-"

And with that he beats a hasty retreat, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind him, the bloody coward. Previous experience indicates that he will be hiding in there with his morgue mouse for quite some time. Mycroft is left staring at his, what? His progeny? His family? And for once he can find nothing to say. Nothing at all, though it occurs to him, somewhat dimly, that Mummy is going to kill him.

"You might as well start swearing now," Lex tells him sagely and that's precisely what he does-

After he picks back up his tea and takes a fortifying sip, of course.

Meanwhile

In Sherlock's Bedroom

They appear to have made her comfortable, Sherlock thinks as he slips inside his room, glad to be out of the carnage behind him.

Molly's lying on his bed, her wrists and ankles bandaged, a blanket over her. She's curled in on her side, apparently asleep. John's sitting in a corner, conversing quietly with Mary but he looks up when his friend comes in. Walks over to him.

"Everything alright out there?" he asks and Sherlock shakes his head, not ready to explain the particular madness outside until he has to. Given Mary's abilities, he might not even need to: the family resemblance between Lex and his brother was so pronounced that he'd known as soon as he'd clapped eyes on her, before she explained about the threats she'd been getting since Micah made his youtube debut.

"How is she?" he asks instead, rather than dwell on Prudence, Lex and the disturbing, indisputable proof that his brother has actually shagged at least one woman. Possibly more, which really doesn't bear thinking about.

He's relieved when John takes the hint. Lets him change the subject.

There's a reason they're so close.

"She's been through a lot," Watson is saying quietly. "There's bruising. Damage to her throat and lungs from the water. Damage to her wrists and ankles from those plastic ties they used to keep her in the chair. Even though they released them once the tank filled, they've bruised and cut her- She'll need an x-way to confirm it but I suspect her left wrist is fractured."

Sherlock winces at the words but gestures for John to go on.

As unpleasant as this is, Molly needs him to hear it.

"There were traces of an hallucinogenic in her system too," the doctor continues, "something designed to ramp up her panic, most likely. I've taken a sample of her blood-work and sent it to Anthea, rather than Barts-"

"So the hospital's compromised?" Sherlock says and John nods.

His expression darkens ominously.

"The man who took her was a night porter there," he says tightly. "She said she'd known him for more than six months- That he was someone she trusted."

Sherlock grimaces and his friend nods in understanding.

His own expression is just as harsh.

"So this was planned," John's saying, "and it was planned for a while- We can't know how many more are in on this without tipping them off, even if they haven't legged it already-"

"Understood." Sherlock's not letting Molly anywhere near St. Barts until this is all over. In fact, after today he's debating the merits of ever letting her out of his sight again. "Did she say anything else? Give any other clues?"

John and Mary exchange glances, and his annoyance spikes.

"What is it?" he asks sharply. "Don't do that marital tag-team thing with me, Mrs Watson-"

Mary's smile is wry. "Because being cool and mysterious is your thing, yeah?"

Sherlock's look is unimpressed but he nods. "Of course- Copyright infringement doesn't suit either of you." Molly makes a small, moaning noise behind him in her sleep and immediately he sobers- They all do.

Without a word Mary leaves the, pads over to the bed to check on her patient.

Sherlock tells himself he shouldn't be staring but he still does.

"Molly says she saw Moriarty today," John mutters, lowering his voice confidentially. He is clearly trying rather hard not to notice Sherlock staring at Molly. "He swears it was him, said she'd know because she did the autopsy-"

"She did," Sherlock nods. "She cut the bastard open: I remember her telling me after I came back- She wanted me to know he was gone. She wanted to be sure of it, after all he'd done."

He looks at John, about to begin expounding on the likelihood that narcotics and panic had fueled Molly's delusion. How this whole thing, beginning to end, as been played with more theatricality than even he normally produces, that he's no doubt this is just another piece of showmanship-

He doesn't get very far however, because at that moment Micah- his newfound grand-nephew- opens the door and informs him that, "Mum says you're to haul your arse- There's a thing on the telly you have to see."

He and the Watsons scramble out of his bedroom to see Jim Moriarty's face on their tv screen, which is, of course, when Molly wanders sleepily out of his room…