9. They've Got To Kill What We've Found.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also don't own Lush, MAC or any of the songs mentioned in this chapter.

Author's Notes: I would just like to put as a warning- this chapter has a bit of swearing in it (just a couple of times, I think), a brief mention of necrophilia, some bashing of UK politicians and PM – I would like to say, AGAIN, that I have nothing against David Cameron, Boris Johnson, or whoever, they just make convenient insulting material. I don't mind our PM. Honestly.

In addition, I know nothing of Barons, Baroness's or generally that much about royalty. Or what kind of events they attend, please don't look too much into that.

The character Harry is mentioned in this- just in case some aren't sure who that is, this is the friend of Mycroft's that works at Buckingham Palace, whom we saw in 'Scandal in Belgravia'.

Also, The song 'Sharply Dressed Man' is by ZZ Top, which I thought could work for Mycroft.

The song 'Psycho' by Puddle of Mudd is also used here-I don't endorse the degrading manner in which Schizophrenia is mentioned in this song, and if that effects/offends anyone, please skip the last half of this chapter.

Other than that, the usual- this chapter is beta'd by Adalind, who was a saint with this monster of a chapter, and to whom I will be grateful to for eternity for putting up with me.

Finally, this chapter title is taken from 'We're In This Together' by Nine Inch Nails.

9. They've Got To Kill What We've Found.

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas.

I am not a sentimental man.

This year was more trying than usual, Mycroft thought, and he did not know why. Of all times, this year was the easiest for him to make excuses and get away; mummy had not insisted- in Sherlock's absence- that they celebrate as a family. But the itch, the itch of being stuck in his own mind without an outlet, without a verbalised thought by anyone other than himself was intensified beyond Mycroft's own recognition.

Christmas wasn't just an endorsement of the boredom that the day of not working entailed. It was a day commemorating his failure to fight the human instinct that always fell on him on the day. Mycroft would not fool himself. Isolation, a metaphorical beast, was a disguise for loneliness. His failure to assuage the…emotion….every year led him to seek his annual punishment of spending Christmas secluded in self-loathing.

At times like this, he could understand Sherlock's behaviour, as well as his eventual fall into seeking friendship with an ordinary, yet extraordinary, man. But love was a paralytic, Mycroft knew, and it was something he could not afford, and if there was anything that he was good at, it was not falling for the obvious. He had built his profession around his ability to avoid disadvantages to himself, and find advantages in others. That's the way it should stay, he told himself.

Mycroft looked at his reflection on his whisky glass.

Read: Blank, schooled expression- the one he had entrained in himself for over a decade. Stiff upper lip, Mycroft noted, as it should be. Chin upwards and eyes straight, assuming a military-like posture. Being the government required one to be a solider first, and for that Mycroft often thought he had more in common with John Watson than the other man would admit to himself.

Mycroft looked over at the fireplace besides him, and tried to feel the warmth of it. He pulled out his phone from his jacket, and typed out a message to Sherlock's last known burner phone, which his assistant had tracked.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock. MH

Whether Sherlock got it or not, Mycroft would not know- he would not receive a message back. Just as he was about to put his phone back in his pocket, and continue his contemplations, his phone chimed loudly. Raising his eyebrows, he checked his inbox.

Merry Christmas, Mycroft! Hope you're having a nice day.

Molly

Mycroft looked back at the fire.

Note to self: I am not a sentimental man. It is a motto worth living by.

/

Molly bit her lip, and sent the text to Mycroft, hoping she didn't seem pathetic. It didn't…she hadn't seen him since that day with the post-card, when he had agreed to allow her assist him trick Sherlock into letting Mycroft help. But Molly knew that the man was alone, and she also knew what it was like to have no one at Christmas. She didn't expect a text back, not really, and her texting him didn't mean anything. It didn't. But it felt right. Besides, she couldn't take it back now.

It is funny how times change.

As a child, Molly had loved Christmas- she had loved, no, adored the bright pretty fairy lights that seemed to be strung in every tree, the tinsel, the flaming Christmas puddings. She had always hated mince pies, didn't understand why they were called that when there was nothing 'minced' about them, but she loved how they looked; delicate, dusted with icing snow, festive on their special plates. Most of all, she had loved how everyone, everybody had a smile on their face, even when they were sad- it was the only way to make Christmas seem legitimate, she knew, remembering her dad's fake smiles and laughs the Christmas after her mother's death, the way he had tried to make that Christmas as happy and fun as their previous ones, so she and Lydia would remember it well.

But these days, Christmas was only a whisper of how they had used to be- with her mother and father dead, the relatives had dispersed and the celebrations had been forgotten. To Molly, now, Christmas was when she spent quality times with her cat, curled up in her cushiony sofa, with the Doctor Who special on the TV.

Lydia came into the living room, holding a steaming mug and a crying baby. Molly smiled at her, and held out her arms for the baby, Jake, his face bright red and wet with tears.

'Sorry', Lydia said, setting the mug of tea down, settling next to Molly on the floral sofa. 'His teeth are coming out, so he's being a bit grizzly right now, and nothing calms him down.'

Molly smiled. This year, this Christmas, was different. For years, Lydia and Molly had not talked, for reasons Molly wasn't even sure about. It started after her father's death; Lydia seemed to become weary of Molly somehow, refusing to talk to her, getting angry with her for little things, stupid things, and Molly- stressed and upset- had retaliated, pouring out all the things she had never said before - how Lydia was always the one everyone noticed, the one people loved, the one that always, always got everything. Several screaming matches later, Lydia no longer acknowledged Molly, those rare times they were forced to be in the same room, no longer even looked at her. But then, a year ago, came the first of the late night phone calls, the tentative text messages started and then a birthday card. They cried over the phone to each other, talking about their lives in ways you can only talk to with people that really know you, people who grew up with you.

None of what had gone before was important now, Molly knew, and she didn't care about the bad times, not when things were better between them now.

Molly kissed Jake's forehead as the baby whimpered and squirmed in her lap. She would get to, maybe, see Jake grow up now, with a happy knot in her stomach. She had always loved babies. She still cried when she had to do an autopsy on a dead child. And she had been ecstatic when she found out she would be an aunt.

'It's okay', Molly said, taking a sip of her tea. 'I can't believe how much he's grown up'.

'I know- I feel like it was only yesterday he was born', Lydia said. 'I wish dad could've seen him'.

The happy knot in Molly's stomach unravelled.

'I know. He was always at me to find someone, and settle down', Molly said. 'I just…I think he said it because he hoped for grandchildren.'

Another thing Lydia had beat her at, Molly realised, and tried to push the thought away. Looking at Jake, who had quietened and was nibbling gummily at the sleeve of her jumper, she wondered if she would ever have one. She wasn't totally sure she wanted a child, but sometimes, alone in her empty flat, she told herself that she did, she really did. She knew it could be the loneliness speaking, and the want to be loved unconditionally and thoroughly needed the way only children could do.

'Do you remember the first Christmas I brought David home?', Lydia said, speaking of her husband. 'And you said that you were going to bring that guy that you met at work- what was his name again? Tim, or something? When you didn't bring him, dad was so upset that he didn't even notice David.'

Molly froze, knowing Lydia was talking Jim, of Moriarty. Lydia had tensed as well, but more due to the memory, the resent that still hung between them.

'Something like that', Molly said, hesitantly. 'Dad loved David though, you know that.'

'Maybe', Lydia said, still tense. 'But you were his favourite, we both know that. The one that went to uni, became a doctor.'

Molly felt rigid. 'Lydia'.

'I know, I know', Lydia said, shaking her head. 'I'll stop.'

'Dad loved us equally', Molly said, carefully, not mentioning that she had always thought Lydia was their father's favourite. 'And now you have a l-lovely family, and they love you'.

A painful twinge started in Molly's chest, and she held Jake a little tighter to her stomach. Lydia looked at her.

'I don't know why you don't meet someone', Lydia said. 'I thought….when we weren't speaking…..that you might have met someone in that time. Gotten married. That maybe I was an aunt and I didn't know.'

Molly laughed out loud, and it sounded like a sob to her ears.

'You're pretty, you're successful', Lydia continued. 'There's no reason why you can't find someone. Who wouldn't want you?'

'Lydia', Molly said, trying to stop her sister. She didn't know if Lydia meant any of the things she said, or whether it was the guilt speaking, but Molly found it didn't really matter.

'I'm fine by myself, really', Molly said. 'My job….it-it keeps me busy. I'm okay, I am.'

'What about that guy?', Lydia said, suddenly, perking up. 'You rambled for ages about some guy on the phone, ages ago- some kind of detective. I don't think you ever told me his name. What happened to him?'

Molly tensed again, remembering Lydia's ability to bring up topics that Molly really didn't want to talk about.

'He's…around. It wasn't like that', Molly said, and Lydia scoffed. 'It wasn't! I d-did, sort of, I had a bit of a crush on him.'

Lydia grinned. Molly knew that her sister had always loved to see her flustered.

'It's not like that now. It's not', Molly insisted. 'I don't think he's….the sort of guy I want. I think. And he never liked me anyway.'

'But, Molly', Lydia said. 'You talked about him for 4 hours on the phone one night. For you, that isn't normal. He must've been some guy.'

'He was. I mean, he is', Molly said. 'But I just….He didn't appreciate me. That didn't matter, but I don't want to be with someone who treats me like he did. He was always, always so….mean. I don't want to be with someone who makes me feel useless, I don't.'

It came all out in a rush, tumbling out of her mouth, but the minute Molly had said it, she knew it was the truth. Sherlock had always treated her like…like a non-entity, someone Sherlock only really saw when he thought he was dying. Even if Sherlock had been interested, which he never had and ,Molly accepted, he never would be, Molly knew she wouldn't be able to do it.

She was so sick, and so tired of being nobody. Always being second-best- no, fourth-best, only being seen when she was needed. She was alone, so alone, but an eerie flat and a cold bed was better than being used, and tossed out like rubbish. It had taken her a while, years actually, but she finally knew she was worth more than that.

Lydia saw Molly's expression, put her hand on Molly's free hand.

'Well, then he wasn't worthy of you', Lydia said, with forced brightness. 'Tell me about now. Have you met anyone new? I'm not going to ask you about work, because I really don't need to hear another story about dead people and bloody guts.'

'That was only one time', Molly said, smiling at Lydia's change in tone. 'And no, I haven't really.'

Weirdly enough, Molly's thoughts immediately turned to Mycroft again, and her smile became more…wistful. She wasn't sure what was going on in her head, but she knew she was heading for disaster, if her thoughts continued the way they did. But she wouldn't acknowledge it, she wouldn't, because that would be admitting that she had done something truly stupid.

'You so have', Lydia said, putting on a fake American accent, back from her one successful theatre production. 'You have that look on your face.'

'No I don't!', Molly said, her face red. 'W-what face?'

Before she could help it, she thought about her last talk with Mycroft, how he had sat her down, and he had actually listened to her thoughts about what would annoy Sherlock most. She remembered how childish it felt, and how bizarre- the pathologist and the James bond-like spy, planning revenge on Sherlock, like two naughty children. It hadn't felt…real, so unlike Mycroft, so unlike herself, and in the end, Molly had to admit that there wasn't much she could actually do to contribute, other than add some touches to Mycroft's already brilliant plans. But Mycroft had listened, and commented honestly on her ideas, incorporating them, and listened to something she had been worrying about for a while.

'I wish I could tell John that Sherlock is alive', Molly had said, looking out of Mycroft's office window. 'This-This Christmas is going to be horrible for him. John, I mean. But for Sherlock, too.'

'I agree,' Mycroft said. 'However, you know it is imperative John is not aware that Sherlock is alive.'

'I know', Molly said. 'B-But-'

'He can't know', Mycroft said, gently. Molly sighed.

'I know', She repeated. 'I j-just…I don't want John to h-hate me when Sherlock comes back.'

Molly looked down at Jake, as she took a gulp of her tea.

'You do that weird smile, like you have a caterpillar on your face', Lydia said, and Molly spluttered, causing Jake to squeak on her lap. 'Come on, who is it? Tell me! I told you about David, when I first met him, you owe me.'

'Really', Molly said. 'There's no one, really-'

Molly's phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table, and the tune of 'Sharply Dressed Man' filled the room. Lydia stared at her incredulously.

'No way, you did not-', Lydia said, making to grab the phone on table at the same time as Molly.

'No! Don't!', Molly said, trying not to squash Jake, who was now screaming confusedly at his mother's and aunt's behaviour. Molly had no idea where the message tone had come from, but she knew her sister could not see her phone. Lydia caught the phone triumphantly, and held it above Molly's head as they stood up.

'Ooh, let's see!', Lydia said, her eyes excited. 'Who's the sharply dressed man you go crazy- oh my.'

Molly grabbed her phone, glaring at Lydia, before looking at it.

Merry Christmas, Molly. Our plan is working perfectly. I shall see you soon. MH

'Who's MH?', Lydia said, looking over Molly's shoulder. 'Who signs with their initials these days when there's caller ID?'

Molly said nothing, her face now flaming, as she tried not to drop Jake.

'I shall see you soon', Lydia said, mimicking a deep male voice. 'What plan is he talking about?'

Lydia sat down next to her, with a loud thump.

'Your face looks like a tomato', Lydia commented. 'How long have you been sleeping with this guy? Your face only does that when-'

'Lydia!', Molly said, her eyes wide in horror.

/

'You look as pale as a sheet', Anthea commented, blankly. 'Should I delay the next meeting?'

Mycroft touched his temples with the tips of his fingers, massaging the pressure points.

'No', Mycroft said, shortly. 'If you wouldn't mind getting me some water?'

Mycroft could feel a migraine coming on, and willed himself to keep a straight face, to keep going. The morning breakfast with the Prime Minister had gone badly, with the man refusing to listen to Mycroft's suggestions. The sheer stupidity of some politicians, Mycroft thought, did not have any limits. This had been followed by a meeting with a foreign ambassador, who seemed to believe that England was threatening them with nuclear attack- Mycroft had tried to understand why he would believe this was the case, and attempted to calm the man. Mycroft was certain the ambassador had gone back home, and confirmed the imaginary attack. Once again, Mycroft felt as though half of his job involved stopping dense individuals from carrying out witless, but damaging, actions.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing himself to stay calm. Anthea knocked once on the door, before walking straight in, glued, as always, to her Blackberry. She had a small smirk on her face.

Read: Knocking once means she has urgent news, but not so urgent that it needs to be dealt with immediately. An annoyance, more likely, to himself. Her un-rigid stance suggests her most recent text message is not work-related, something Mycroft should address, but won't. Irritating his assistant more often than not results in his irritation. Her mouth is turned upwards and the kink in her hair has not yet been noticed by herself, indicating the message is from a friend, a distraction. His assistant does not have friends. Therefore, either Mycroft's deductions are incorrect (string negative) or Anthea has, indeed, made a…friend.

'The Baroness is unavailable for next week's event', Anthea said, carefully. Mycroft bit back the need to scream out loud.

Just adding one more annoyance to the day. The time with the Baroness had been something Mycroft had been working on for months, the woman being difficult to please, and even more difficult to persuade. However, recently, the woman appeared to respond to Mycroft's efforts, and had consented to attend an exclusive soiree with him- a good opportunity to persuade her on certain matters of great importance.

'Did she say why?', Mycroft said, biting back his words. Anthea clicked her phone some more, before answering.

'Not really', Anthea said. 'But her tone suggested her husband wasn't too happy about it. You should really stop entertaining married women.'

Mycroft sighed, raising his eyebrow at his assistant, who was smirking again.

'You know I have no interest in the Baroness', Mycroft said. 'Merely her political leanings. However, it seems all my effort has been in vain'.

'I don't think so', said Anthea. 'She still seems fairly besotted with you. She was very apologetic.'

Mycroft sighed. The rare times these days that he needed to charm royals and dignitaries, he found it more of an irritation than flattery.

'Very well', He said, his voice rough with tiredness. 'Please let the Mayor know I will not be attending the party.'

'Sir,' Anthea said, looking up from her phone. 'The Mayor has been insisting for weeks that you should attend the party. It's fairly important that you don't decline.'

Mycroft looked at the ceiling of his office, wondering whether he would mind if it crashed down on him.

'Yes', he said absently. 'If I must.'

Anthea nodded, and started to walk out of the door.

'Give Molly my regards', Mycroft said, still looking at the ceiling and leaning in his chair. 'I assume the image of the kitten she has sent you is amusing.'

Anthea looked back at him, and opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. She walked out without a word.

Mycroft smiled for a second, and then straightened in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin.

There was work to be done.

/

Mycroft said hello, by the way. He's in a bit of a mood today. A.

Molly smiled at the text, and then put her phone back in her lab coat pocket. Anthea had begun to text her, out of the blue, often with random pieces of information. But the mere mention of Mycroft's name made Molly blush these days, something that got on her nerves. She quickly snuck a look at her lab assistant, and was relieved that he hadn't noticed her change in demeanour. Then again, Molly thought, even if he did, he would never show it.

Ever since Anthea had left her position as Molly's fake lab assistant, and since the Baskov attack, Mycroft had assigned her a new lab assistant, who apparently was another one of his people, who could protect her in case of another attack. The Baskov incident felt like it had been such a long time ago, in Molly's head, although she knew it can't have been, and that the answer to that had still not been found. She knew she should be more worried, but when nothing had happened in such a long time, it was hard to be.

But, Molly thought bitterly, what was more worrying, and annoying, was exactly how little her new assistant talked. Lars was a man of medium height, according to Molly, and what he lacked in height was made up for in broad shoulders and bulk. He was obviously of German descent, as she guessed by his accent one of the very, very rare times he had actually talked. His blue eyes and angel-blond hair made it very hard for Molly to see him as anything other than an innocent lab assistant. But sometimes Molly caught him tense, his eyes sharp and alert, his mouth in a straight, thin line, and Molly knew, she knew, that this was not a man that she wanted to mess with. She knew that he probably wasn't a mean person, and he was never unkind in her presence, but sometimes the lab just became too quiet and no matter how hard Molly tried, Lars would not answer her questions in anything other than monosyllabic sentences.

Molly sighed to herself, as she typed up some of the notes she had made on Mr Gerald, the corpse currently on her autopsy table, looking at Lars as he worked carefully on cleaning the body. She knew she shouldn't complain- she had no reason to complain; Lars did his work efficiently and carefully, without ever whining about some of the more 'gross' parts of her work, unlike Anthea had done (the woman had shot her evil 'I will kill you' stares anytime Molly had suggested she clean a corpse).

Anthea hadn't been loud, not at all, really, she had barely talked. But it didn't feel….like this, - it hadn't felt all frozen and pin drop silent as it did now. What Molly knew was that Anthea had a strong, vibrant personality, something Lars seemed to be lacking. Molly felt horrible for thinking it, but the man seemed like a robot. She wondered if the government trained all their people to seem as blank as Lars, the way even seemed Mycroft most of the time.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the lab door, and Laura the receptionist popped her head through. Lars quickly put a cloth on the body as the woman walked in, before Molly could tell him to.

'Hi!', Molly said, confused. Laura didn't often come to see her unless there was a letter or a package for her at the front; Molly wasn't the most social of people, and Laura loved to gossip. 'D-did you need anything?'

'Nah, just thought I'd say hello', Laura, said cheerfully. 'Truth be told, I wanted to ask you something- are you free?'

Molly wanted to say that she was busy- it was quite obvious with the body behind her on the autopsy table, but Laura seemed to very excited, and Molly didn't want to say no.

'It's fine, if you just-', Molly said, awkwardly, gesturing Laura to walk with her to Molly's office. Once they reached it, Molly took off her lab coat and washed her hands.

'I was just wondering', Laura began. 'Are you single, Molly?'

'What?', Molly said, confused. 'Erm, Y-yes. Why?'

'Good!', Laura said, bouncing on her feet, her hair flying. 'I have this friend, Tom, that me and my husband have been trying to set up for a while, and the other day I was saying to Larry, my husband, that Tom would be perfect for you. What do you say?'

'Erm', Molly said.

'He's very cute', Laura interrupted. 'Tall, dark, quite handsome. I think he could be your type. Come on, at least meet him?'

'I-I don't know', Molly said. It was true, she was single. Molly couldn't remember the last time she gone out with a man, let alone had a boyfriend.

'You know, I was worried', Laura said. 'Because I wasn't sure if you were single or not, and hadn't just not told the girls, what with those flowers your mystery man sent you. Did you guys break up?'

'What, no!', Molly said, remembering Mycroft's beautiful yellow roses. 'We weren't- I just-'

'Well, you should meet Tom, he'll make you forget all about mystery guy, I'm sure', Laura said, cheerily. 'Come on, say you'll meet him. We could double date! You, Tom, me and Larry. I never see you outside of work!'

Molly smiled, and put her hand in her lab coat pocket, where she had put one of the yellow flowers, ages ago. It had wilted since then, but the yellow of the flower always made Molly's heart leap.

'Erm, no', Molly said, surprising herself. 'I think….I think I need a little time.'

Laura sighed. 'Fine. It's a shame, really. Do you want some tea? I'm just getting some'.

/

Mycroft blew, carefully, at his tea before taking a sip. Harry, the royal equerry, otherwise known as the personal attendant of the royal household, sat across him in a similar rigid stance.

Mycroft put down his tea cup, crossing his legs. Try as he might, he could no longer enter Buckingham Palace without remembering the time Sherlock had been in this very room, refusing to get dressed. At the time, Sherlock had been the height of embarrassment, in front of a man Mycroft had known for a long time and had respected. Harry, like all men of good upbringing, never brought up the incident.

It was funny how times change. What he would not do to see his brother now, Mycroft thought.

'I trust that there will be no more problems with my employer?', Harry said, taking a sip from his own tea cup, his voice echoing in the large, richly decorated room.

'I believe she shall do well should the incident not occur again', Mycroft said. 'However, there is only so much I can prevent from reaching the media.'

'Like wolves on a single piece of meat', Harry said, nodding. 'I do appreciate your help, nevertheless.'

'We are old friends', Mycroft said. 'Please desist with the gratitude. I have needed your aid many times more than I can recall.'

'Our job is hard as it is, without the scandals that seem to fester every once in a while', Harry said, his voice even. 'Which eventually explode beyond recognition. We must stick together in such times. Such a time seems to have fallen upon you now; I must say, you look troubled.'

Harry had known Mycroft for decades, and had been well versed in Mycroft's facial expressions.

Read: Old friend, but not without reserve. Harry's folded arms suggested a defensive attitude, wanting to repay Mycroft's help despite none being expected. Harry had always had the hardest time being in someone's debt, and it had happen to be often in Mycroft's. His eyes are expressionless, but drooped in the corners- undefensive suggested conflicted thoughts, no gain from his question, from this conversation. Harry genuinely thought Mycroft was troubled. The neat pleats of his suit jacket indicated he was on top of his duties and had time to talk, while the scratch on the toe of the shoe indicates his employer is not currently in residence. Boredom. Very, well.

'I am not troubled, as such,' Mycroft said, eventually. Harry smiled wirily (read: the man now knew when he is being deduced. Interesting. Revisit at a later date).

'It is a minor matter', Mycroft said. 'The Baroness has declined my accompaniment to the Mayor's soiree.'

'I'm sorry to hear that', Harry said. 'I understand you have been working on her for a while.'

Mycroft nodded his assent.

'I don't believe the matter is of any worry', Harry said. 'The Baroness is temperamental at the least, but controlled by her husband- or rather, his money and influence. I daren't say she is not still in awe of you.'

'That is not the problem, thankfully', Mycroft said. 'However, the Baroness is a very headstrong woman, and very prone to indecision, hysteria and acts of temper. I worry she may change her mind of my person very quickly.'

'Her political favouritisms aside', Harry said. 'The Baroness seems very amenable to your opinions in general, so I don't think the delay will much effect how she thinks of you. Why, to have your charm, Mycroft, I honestly wish I knew how you do it.'

Mycroft felt bored of this conversation.

'It is not difficult', Mycroft said. 'A few well placed smiles, small talk, and a little playing to the subject's vanity can work wonders.'

'Nonsense', Harry said. 'It's your natural charisma. You have always, above all else, been incredibly good at interesting the right people. I find it very hard to understand how you are yet unmarried'.

'I have no interests in marrying or dating, Harry, as you well know', Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow. 'Our line of work does not allow for…romance'.

'If you say so', Harry said. 'Just understand that romance is not beneath you.'

Mycroft sighed.

'Cheer up', Harry said, his stare trained on Mycroft. 'Think of the Baroness's absence as an opportunity. You love those.'

'I have no idea what you could mean', Mycroft said, grimily. Harry chuckled.

'Mycroft, simply do what you do best', Harry said. 'Be efficient. So the Baroness is not available- find somebody else.'

Mycroft looked at Harry, staring at him.

'I'm sure you have no shortage of admirers', Harry said. 'But surely you have someone else you need to keep sweet?'

Mycroft stared at Harry for a little longer, before looking away. His glaze met his umbrella, leaning against his chair, his second favourite one.

'He can't know', Mycroft said, gently. Molly sighed.

'I know', She repeated. 'I j-just…I don't want John to h-hate me when Sherlock comes back.'

Mycroft had stayed silent, as Molly got up to leave.

'I hope the plan goes well', Molly said. 'And thank you for the umbrella. I'll, erm, I'll look after it.'

Mycroft watched her leave. That had been his favourite umbrella, but she didn't need to know that.

'Well?', Harry said, cutting into Mycroft's thoughts. Mycroft looked at him.

'Perhaps', Mycroft said, slowly. 'There is someone I need to keep quiet about some sensitive data'.

Molly tried not to let her hair get wet, as she ran across the street, umbrella covering her head. The thick mahogany of the handle had been hard for her to hold up, obviously not being for her size, but she loved the umbrella all the same.

Wiping her jeans, Molly entered the small bistro, the one that Mycroft had taken her two months ago. She saw her table, and rushed towards it, plopping her wet bag next to her chair, umbrella closed.

'You took your time, sit down, I need to vent', Anthea said, grumpily. 'Some state secrets are annoying me'.

Molly giggled. 'I don't think you're allowed to talk about that with me'.

Anthea sighed.

'Whatever, sometimes I hate my job', Anthea said.

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Anthea spoke first.

'I hate your job too', Anthea said. 'See another dead person lately?'

'Shut up!', Molly said, laughing inside. Anthea, for everything Molly had thought her to be, was turning out to be Molly's best friend. 'I love my job'.

'I'd say you're into necrophilia, but you wear too much pink', Anthea said, causing Molly to choke on her water, the people on the table next to them to stare.

'Anthea!', Molly said. 'F-fine, you can't talk about your job. So, erm, how's Mycroft?'

Anthea looked at her with a confused look on her face, and then her eyes flickered to the umbrella.

'His highness is being a weenie', Anthea said. 'And moaning about some old fart that won't go out with him. He's more like his brother than you think.'

'What?', Molly said, her happy mood disappearing fast. 'Mycroft h-has a girlfriend?'

Anthea blinked at her, and then smiled brightly.

'No, he's just pretending', Anthea said. 'Why do you care if he has a girlfriend? Wow, that sentence sounds funny out loud?'

'W-wait, what?', Molly said, confused. 'I was….just asking. W-why is him having a girlfriend funny?'

Anthea seemed to be considering Molly.

'Mycroft doesn't date. Ever', Anthea said. 'I don't think the Holmes are wired like that.'

Anthea looked at the umbrella again.

'But why do you have his favourite umbrella?', Anthea said, her voice odd.

Molly blinked.

'His favourite?'

/

'Why does Molly have your favourite umbrella?' Anthea said, her voice demanding.

Read: The assistant's hair was slightly wet, curling at the ends. She had been outside sometime in the last hour, the lack of a shoulder bag indicating not on official errands. Lack of a watch suggests a social event, potentially meeting someone. Was Anthea dating? Shade of lipstick is a pale pink, probably MAC, indicates a non-romantic meeting, possibly a friend. Anthea doesn't have friends. Molly, of course, as suggested by her outburst.

'I beg your pardon?', Mycroft said, evenly.

Anthea looked at him suspiciously.

'Sir,' Anthea said. 'I believe Molly has your umbrella, the one you most prefer. I can extract it if you would like?'

'That is fine, Anthea, do not worry yourself', Mycroft said. 'I gifted that umbrella to Dr Hooper.'

The incredulous look on Anthea's face was quickly muted.

'Gifted, sir', Anthea said, shortly, her voice one-toned.

Mycroft looked at Anthea. He knew she and Molly had formed some kind of bond, a kind of friendship, over his observation of Molly Hooper, something he had not expected. Both women were polar opposites, although under Anthea's influence, Molly had become more confident, openly speaking her mind.

But the more Mycroft thought about it, he realised exactly how precocious the notion of Molly Hooper actually was. Mycroft's job in the government was one of defence, or control, yet he had failed to notice a significant break in the barrier, so to speak.

I wish I could tell John Sherlock is alive.

Like an unexploded bomb, Mycroft knew things could end badly, for Sherlock, and for himself. Closing his eyes for a second, he tried not to think of why he had not considered addressing Molly's silence sooner.

'Never mind that', Mycroft said, his tone harsher, making Anthea stare. He cleared his throat, schooling his expression to remain blank.

'That is not of important', Mycroft said. 'I believe I have found a replacement for the Baroness at the Mayor's event.'

Anthea took out her phone, clicked a few buttons.

'Of course, sir', Anthea said. 'I shall confirm your attendance. May I know who is accompanying you?'

A split second, and Mycroft hesitated. Anthea looked at him in confusion.

A few seconds later, her confusion was cleared by realisation, and then followed by anger.

'No', Anthea said.

/

Molly felt tired. She could feel it in her bones, the way it made her feel older than she was. She couldn't wait to go home; to a hot bath with one of the Lush bath bombs her sister had given her for Christmas, and then a cuddle with Toby the cat.

As she packed up to leave, there was a knock on her door. Molly sighed, knowing it would be Lars to say he was leaving for the day.

'Come in!', She called, with her back to the door, as she dug for her oyster card in her bag. 'Hang on, I'll sign you out in a minute-'

'Forgive the lateness of my visit', Mycroft's voice said, from behind her. 'I hope you don't mind.'

Molly swung around, nearly tripping on her own feet.

'What, no! It's-It's f-fine', Molly stuttered, before giggling nervously. 'I didn't know you were-'

Molly's phone interrupted her, her ring tone loud and clear as it sung the lyrics of 'Psycho'.

Maybe I'm the one, I'm the one, that's a schizophrenic psycho-

Molly was going to kill Anthea.

'I'm so sorry!', Molly babbled, picking up her phone. Mycroft looked at her as though Molly was deranged- at this point, she didn't know if she wasn't. She clicked the 'accept' button on her phone.

'I'm so sorry', Molly said to Mycroft, before putting her ear to the phone. 'Hello?'

'Hello, Molly', said Sherlock, his voice deep and rough. Molly gasped and Mycroft looked alarmed.

'Sherlock?', Molly said, hearing his voice for the first time in months. 'I don't-'

Mycroft stood closer to Molly, dropping his umbrella, listening in.

'Yes, hello, I'm alive, et cetera, et cetera', Sherlock said, briskly. 'I happen to know you are spending an unhealthy amount of time with my fat, moronic brother, so put the phone on speaker.'

How-

'Erm', Molly said, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft carefully prised Molly's hand free of the phone, his fingers warm around hers. Molly nodded at him, and Mycroft put the phone on speaker, holding it to their faces. Molly blushed as she finally realised exactly how close they were standing, but Mycroft didn't seem to notice.

'Greetings brother mine', Mycroft said, his behaviour changing. Molly noticed how Mycroft became almost defensive, as he talked to Sherlock. 'How is death treating you?'

'All the better for not seeing you', Sherlock retorted. 'It's been extremely refreshing. As I have better things to do, I'll keep this message short.'

'And what would the message be?', Mycroft said

'Fuck off', Sherlock swore, loudly. 'Don't think I don't know this is all your doing- being held back at airlines, borders, I've been detained twice for owning a brothel, I don't even-'

'Sex always did alarm you, brother', Mycroft said, a predatory smile on his face. 'You can't blame me for that'.

'Shut up', Sherlock said, disdain dripping through the phone. 'I know what you're doing. You're trying to trap me. While else am I suddenly on a black list for every pseudonym of mine that you know? You forget, brother, your manipulations don't work on me.'

'Charming', Mycroft said. 'Here was I, thinking we could have a civilised conversation about your…departure.'

'I'd rather extract my toenails with an unsanitary needle. Just leave me alone!'

Mycroft sighed, and Molly looked at him carefully. His face seemed worn, broken, but somehow patched back together.

'Oh Sherlock', Mycroft said, quietly. 'You know I'll do nothing of the sort'.

'You always did need to stick your abnormally large nose into things. I don't need your help.'

'Sherlock', Mycroft said. 'But I think you do. And you know it.'

Sherlock scoffed loudly on the other side of the call. 'What on earth makes you think I'll need your help?'

'Balance of probability, brother mine', Mycroft said, his voice rough. 'Balance of probability'.

Sherlock stayed silent.

'I can provide you with money', Mycroft said, quickly. Molly saw a flash of softness, of panic, in his expression. 'I can find you shelter, contacts that can help you. I won't come and find you if you don't wish me to.'

Sherlock groaned loudly on the phone.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock said, seeming less angry. 'Why are you with Molly?'

Mycroft scrunched his forehead. 'You knew I was with Dr Hooper'.

'Balance of probability', Sherlock said, mimicking Mycroft's voice. 'Keep away from her.'

Sherlock's voice was suddenly quiet, deadly; Molly felt a cold chill run down her spine. Something Molly couldn't recognise flashed over Mycroft's eyes.

'Let me help you', Mycroft said. 'I do worry about you so.'

'I know what you're doing. Keep. Away. From. Her'

Molly was confused, and Mycroft smiled at her kindly.

'You have always been so paranoid, Sherlock', Mycroft said, calmly. 'You're not in a position to make negotiations.'

'I'll accept your help', Sherlock said oddly, as though he was talking through gritted teeth. 'If you leave Molly Hooper alone'.

Mycroft was quiet for a second. Molly felt as though she had had her breath knocked out of her.

'If those are your stipulations, then I accept', Mycroft said, evenly.

'Fine', Sherlock said roughly. 'Tell your annoying assistant to look under the little grey chest in the desk in 221B. I'll contact you after that.'

Sherlock hung up, a crashing noise filling the room as he cut off. Molly breathed out, and looked away from Mycroft.

'W-Well done', Molly said, croakily.

Mycroft leaned against Molly's desk, his hands moulded around the edge as he looked at her. Molly's face heated as she physically felt the smallness of her office.

'Indeed', Mycroft agreed.

Molly nodded numbly, moving around Mycroft to grab her bag and coat.

'I have to go', Molly said. Mycroft stared at her, his eyes piercing blue.

'I hope you don't mind', Mycroft said. 'But I hoped you could help me with a delicate matter'.

Molly looked at Mycroft, confused.

'W-What can I help you with?', Molly said, and Mycroft smiled at her.

'I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a bind', Mycroft said, carefully. 'I wondered if you would accept an invitation of mine.'

Molly's eyes widened.

She didn't know why, but at that moment, she didn't feel unlike a marionette.

TBC

That's all for now, folks! If you want to listen to the songs mentioned in this chapter, or see the picture of the funny cat Molly sent Anthea, then you can find the links on my profile. Please review- it seriously does help the creative process and speed up updates- honestly!