Anthea swiped through another video feed on her phone. The oldest Holmes was a cunning bastard. He obviously knew where all the surveillance cameras around London were located because neither he nor his pewter grey Mercedes could be found on any of them. She sighed as she looked up from the calm passivity of her mobile's screen to the animated whirlwind of conversation centered on one dainty pathologist. Their eyes met. Ms. Molly Hooper, aged thirty-four, single (though this was in question at the moment), doctor at Bart's, and dreadfully fashion-impaired (oversized pink plaid cardigan, lemon yellow tee-shirt, pleated khaki trousers, and –ug- navy and white striped cotton flats) looked anxious as the men around her conversed hotly. Anthea smiled at her with reassurance. There was something charming about the diminutive woman's utterly hopeless style and nervous smiles.

Anthea looked to her boss then and shrugged apologetically. He pressed his lips together in a grim line and nodded. Her eyes lingered on his face. Sherlock was lambasting him again which of course, irritated Anthea. No one, especially his troublesome sibling, ever seemed to appreciate that Mycroft had the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. She felt her lip curl downwards in response to the shadow of frustration that crossed his handsome face. Her hand itched to smooth the lines of worry that marred his forehead but, like every time before this, she refrained. That one small touch could be a crossed boundary that might send her from his side, a risk she had never wanted to take. She belonged next to him even if it were only ever to serve.

Out of the corner of her eye, Anthea felt the gaze of the pathologist on her again. There was something disconcerting about the way the small woman's eyes flickered after she looked at a person, as if she had just dissected their innermost feelings. When Anthea glanced her way once more, Molly was smiling in commiseration as if to say, "I understand. It's not easy loving a Holmes."

"Alright, enough of this!" Mycroft said at last. "This is not a topic we should discuss here. John, Mrs. Watson, my apologies for the treatment of your guests. My men should be done debriefing them soon. Ms. Hooper, Sherlock, if you would step out to my car we will continue this discussion somewhere more appropriate. Anthea, do secure a room for us."

Anthea retrieved her phone and swiped a few gestures. Her phone vibrated a response within seconds.

"I'll have them sweep a room at the Connaught. It should be ready by the time you get there. Will that do?"

"Yes, thank-you." Mycroft looked expectantly at Sherlock. "Shall we?"

Sherlock raised his brows at John Watson. "You are coming as well, aren't you?"

John looked at his wife who just nodded.

"I guess I am," he muttered.

Anthea watched, with just the tiniest bit of resentment, as Sherlock gazed down at Molly and then clasped her hand while at the same time, John kissed his wife and baby goodbye on each of their brows. Mary took her infant and headed to her room for respite as the three of them left for the hotel. Once they had gone, Mycroft nodded to her.

"You all set, Anthea?"

"As ever, boss."

He smiled and grabbed his umbrella from beside the door. "Will I see you later?"

"Yes, of course. I'll let you know if the technicians find anything."

He dipped his head and left without another word. Anthea stared at the door for a moment after it closed and then started counting minutes.

Molly stood up from the plush blue couch that was trying to swallow her whole. The decadent Apartment suite at the Connaught Hotel made her feel ill at ease and the sparring between Sherlock, Mycroft and John was going nowhere.

Sherlock was at fault! He should have stopped Sherrinford from leaving. Mycroft was at fault for letting him go in the first place! John was fearful for his family! Why had he looked at Mary that way?

"Oh, p-put a cork in it, all of you!" She shouted. "You're talking in circles and I am still no closer to understanding what the hell is going on and why I am of any importance at all. Frankly, I could use a nice, warm soak and that giant tub in the bathroom keeps calling for me to fulfill its destiny. So, unless I am needed, I think I'll go piss off for a bit."

The three men stared at her with stunned looks. Sherlock stopped and finally doffed his jacket before pulling her down to sit with him on the couch.

"Stay . . . erm, please."

He attempted to get comfortable and cross his legs but slouched backwards into the spongy padding.

"I need my recliner," he mumbled. "I can't think in this place."

Mycroft slunk into one of the armchairs after wiping a hand over his face. John took the opposite chair but sat forward on it, leaning pensively on his elbows.

"Mm-hmm, what would you like to know, Ms. Hooper?" Mycroft asked with a wave of his hand.

Molly rubbed the ends of her fingers together as she fidgeted. "Sherrinford is your brother but there's something wrong with him, isn't there? You are both terrified of him . . ."

Both Holmes blustered.

"Hardly!"

"Not exactly!"

Molly raised her brows and gave each one of them a look of derision. She peaked sideways at John.

"Yup, terrified. I agree," John said with a nod.

Molly touched Sherlock's fingers gently. His lids lowered slightly over his anxious green eyes. His lips twitched. Then he spoke.

"Sherrinford is our eldest brother, half-brother that is. A result of an affair Mummy had with a professor before her and Dad got together. He's intelligent, Molly, like no one you have ever met. Even more so than myself if you can imagine that."

Mycroft coughed. "Hmph, is that supposed to be an impressive measure?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "We've already established he's smarter than you!"

John shook his head. "Unbelievable, these two."

Molly looked between the two brothers and sighed. "Focus, please."

Sherlock continued. "Anyways, his abilities, they're almost unfathomable. We called him Nostradamus when we were children. He can predict things."

Molly chewed her lip. "Y-you – you're not telling me you think he's psychic or something? I mean, that's a bit looney . . ."

Mycroft barked out a laugh. "No, Ms. Hooper, he's a macro."

"Macro?"

"It's hard to explain, Molly," Sherlock provided. "I can work out scenarios and come up with several probable outcomes for most situations but Sherrinford can take the same information and know exactly what is going to happen. He can tell you the entire course of your life such as the friends you'll have and when you will die, and that's just a parlor trick for him. He doesn't just do this on a small scale, you understand, he can predict the outcome of wars yet to happen between nations. He's never wrong. He's never been wrong."

Molly nodded, somewhat in disbelief. "He can do all that? Really? But wouldn't that kind of information help about the wars and such? Especially you, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked away. "No, because what he tells you is a foregone conclusion. Anything one tries to do to prevent or change the outcome actually ends up ensuring it."

"And he's dangerous because of this? Why?"

Sherlock looked at his brother a moment. Silent shared memories seemed to traverse the space between them.

"Imagine all that knowledge at your fingertips, Ms. Hooper. Even the best of us would develop a complex and Sherrinford is not among the best of us. He bores easily. He tries to find ways to entertain himself."

"Like starting a war instead of just predicting it," Sherlock interjected with low voice.

Molly tried to absorb this information. She looked over at John who shrugged. He didn't seem fazed at all. None of what they had just explained answered her most pressing question.

"Why do I bother him so much?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Yes, brother, in all your raving I missed that. What exactly did he say about Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock stood up and started wearing a path in the rug. "That's what has me perplexed. He was nonsensical. She apparently doesn't exist or some rubbish. I've never seen him behave that way."

Mycroft's eyes contracted as he thought about something. "Yes, you have."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. When Mycroft didn't immediately elaborate, Sherlock picked up a cushion from the couch and threw it at him.

"Well, out with it, Mycroft!"

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock and put the cushion aside. "He's not infallible, even though he thinks otherwise. Every once in a while, he misses something. Think about it. Remember that gardener Mum hired that one spring? Sherrinford followed him around for weeks trying to figure out how he factored into his equations. In everything he's ever told you, did our brother ever mention Ms. Hooper or some variation of her?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly as his eyes flicked back and forth. He then studied Molly intensely. "No-o, he hasn't. You're – blast! I really don't want to say it. You're right."

Mycroft smiled like a cat who caught a bird.

"Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself. I was practically there anyways."

Molly cast her eyes downwards. Her hands shook. "So, what does this all mean?"

Sherlock smiled and pressed his fingers together.

"He missed something somewhere and until he sorts it out, he will be unable to focus on anything else. He may not even be able to predict anything you do. Oh, this is good, this is very good. You're a free radical, Molly." Sherlock clapped his hands with glee. "And you're mine!"