A/N: I know it has been an inforgivably long amount of time since an update, but life, some serious editing here, and a John/Molly story got in the way. Then again, about as much time has passed in this story since my last update, so perhaps this works better. We are now heading into the meat of the matter and therefore the end of the story. Please enjoy, and I promise you: the next update will be soon.

P.S. The photo for this story is an image of what Molly's quilt would be like. I crochet myself so it was easy to make.


Eleven

Two weeks passed, and during that time, May transitioned into June. The old Rodgers and Hammerstein showtune – "June is Bustin' Out All Over" – had never been better applied to that year. The weather was truly beautiful, with days of bright sunshine, blue skies and minimal cloud cover. It was exactly the kind of weather that people wanted with the end of school terms and the beginning of summer.

That evening, Molly walked along Clovernook's main street, whistling to herself. She had just come from the home of Leo and his mother, Gionova, where they'd had a very nice dinner. They, as well as Anna, had been keeping her very well fed since Molly's arrival three weeks ago. However, that didn't mean that Molly's stomach suddenly became a bottomless pit that was always supplied. Though she ate three squares a day diligently, she rarely snacked, and ate small rather than large portions. You can't build Rome in a day, after all.

As she passed Ramona's shop, Molly smiled to herself. Her quilt was coming along at a pace not even she could have hoped for. Only one more block of squares to go, and she would be ready to sew them all together into a final product. The colors were so lovely that Molly was considering just keeping the quilt for herself, since she still had no idea what else she would do with it.

At that moment, a large and elegant black car pulled up to the curb right beside her. This was not something one saw in Clovernook on a regular basis, so naturally Molly stopped in her steps and looked at in incredulously. The black-tinted window of the backseat came down, revealing the face of a middle-aged man with angular features, receding and neatly combed brown hair, and sharp light eyes that looked almost familiar. However, she had never seen this man before; Molly was certain of that.

"Miss Hooper," said the man in a smooth voice.

"It's Dr. Hooper," said Molly automatically. She didn't like the patronizing way the man had addressed her.

His reaction was to develop a good-natured smirk on his face and to open the car door. "If you would please step inside, Doctor. I would like to have a little chat with you."

"Why would I step into the car of a complete stranger?" was Molly's answer, her hand tightening around the straps of her purse. "How do you know me, and how do I know that all you want is a 'little chat'?"

The man actually chuckled. "I assure you, Doctor Hooper, that I have no intention of kidnapping, raping, torturing or murdering you. All I would like is to talk. As to the question of my identity, I would be better able to demonstrate that if we were in London. I quite enjoyed doing that with Dr. Watson when he appeared on my radar."

Molly's eyebrows raised. "You know John?"

"Oh, yes," said the man. "And he knows who I am." The man pulled his mobile phone out of a pocket inside his jacket and dialed a number after setting it to speaker phone.

A few rings, and then she heard John's voice speak in an annoyed voice disguised as calm. "Yes, Mycroft? What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing, John," said this Mycroft airily. "You're just helping me prove a point. And please make sure my baby brother properly sleeps off his jetlag or he'll be even more of a menace in the morning. Good evening."

Molly barely heard John's disgruntled grunt before Mycroft shut off the mobile. Her eyebrows rose even further up when she heard the words "baby brother." There was only one person that could be. She gasped. "You're…you're Sherlock's brother?"

Mycroft nodded his head. "Sherlock prefers the term 'arch-enemy.' Always so dramatic. But I assure you that I mean no harm to him, John or you. So…" He motioned for her to step inside the car. Hearing John's voice had assured Molly that this was not some new criminal mastermind or associate of Jim Moriarty, so she carefully stepped inside the car and sat beside this man in the back seat.

Looking more closely at Mycroft Holmes, the family resemblance almost hit Molly in the face, with the angular features and the identical eyes. Also, the way he spoke was similar to Sherlock: completely and calmly confident in each word and his knowledge that informed them. In this elegant car, next to this imperious man, Molly felt incredibly awkward. After a long minute in which Mycroft scrutinized her and Molly awkwardly fidgeted on the expensive leather, she couldn't bear the silence anymore and said, "I didn't know Sherlock had a brother." She inwardly cringed at how pathetic that sounded.

"John wouldn't know that if I hadn't sought him out first," said Mycroft. "Usually, I make it a point to introduce myself to all who become – or are about to become – people in my brother's life who interact with him on a daily basis."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him slightly. "Why?"

The expression on Mycroft's face melted from pleasant to serious. "I worry about him," he said, emphasizing each word. "Constantly."

Molly slowly nodded in the silence that followed. "So…you ask those around him to…what? Spy on him? Report to you? You two must not have the best relationship."

Mycroft shrugged. "He's always been so resentful. You should know quite well how stubborn he is. So, in order to know what he is up to and keep an eye on him, I must rely on others and my own devices to do that for me."

The young pathologist cocked her head and asked, "Then why haven't I met you before?"

Mycroft's serious expression gained a drop of annoyance as he looked at her, huffing a breath before speaking. "I…underestimated you, much the way my brother did. Though my brother longs for and craves the adventure and surprises of mysteries and puzzles, he is a creature of habit when it comes to his routines. When he met you, it was abundantly clear to me what your relationship to him would be: he would use your infatuation with him in order to use your laboratory and access to the bodies she performed autopsies on, both for experiments and cases. Both my brother and I drew a conclusion that this was all you would ever be in his life, and because you made a good living with your job and seemed more than willing to always offer help without complaint, I saw no reason to speak with you.

"It was not until the…unpleasantness…that both my brother and I realized that we had…underestimated…how much you mean to him."

By now, Molly was sitting very rigidly in her seat, biting her lips and gripping her purse straps tightly again. To hear this in such a cold, indifferent and almost annoyed way made her hand itch to slap the man's face. She had gotten to a point in the last few weeks to a place where she could think of Sherlock with barely any pain or feeling, but now she felt all of that hard work being destroyed. Her teeth gritted, she asked softly, "What is it you want from me?"

Mycroft's expression softened just a degree, and paused before answering her question – the words of which shocked her completely.


Later that same evening, Sherlock and John were spending a quiet evening in 221B Baker Street. John sat in his favorite chair, flipping through a new medical journal for interesting articles. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin – his classic "mind palace" pose. It wasn't the same as sleeping, but he was resting, which satisfied John. Sherlock had arrived from Heathrow about an hour ago after being abroad for two weeks. Though he'd been annoyed by Mycroft's random call, John knew that it would indeed be better for Sherlock to rest now so he wouldn't start shooting the wall in the morning.

The peace was broken when John's mobile vibrated in his pocket. Huffing a sigh, praying that it wasn't Mycroft again, John pulled out the small device and looked at the caller ID. Seeing Molly's name filled him with relief. After looking carefully at Sherlock, making sure he was truly in his mind palace (Sherlock had an ability to cut off his hearing when deeply lost in thought), John answered the phone. "Hello," he greeted cheerfully.

"Hi, John," was Molly's reply, in a voice that sounded shaken and nervous, though trying to be calm. It did not fool the doctor.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asked gently, softly, still wary of Sherlock being so close. "Has something happened."

"Yeah, um…is Sherlock there?"

"Yeah, hold on, I'll move up to my room so we can talk." John made to stand up but Molly's voice stopped him.

"No, no, John, I don't mean that, I…I need to speak with him."

John sat in stunned silence for a moment before hastily replying, "Yeah, sure, of course, um…just hold on a second." He lowered his mobile and covered the lower speaker before getting up and walking to Sherlock. He unceremoniously poked Sherlock in the shoulder, which caused the detective's eyes to open in a flash and give John an annoyed glare. "What? My body still requires rest." He saw John holding his phone and sneered at it. "And if that is my darling brother again, you know more than well how to hang up."

"It's Molly," said John. "She wants to talk to you."

All traces of annoyance and sneers melted away from his face, replaced by shock and nervousness. He sat up immediately and, for a moment, stared at the mobile as if it might spit at him. Finally, he reached out, took the mobile from John, and pressed the button for speaker-phone, telling John with his eyes to stay. He set the mobile down on the coffee table, leaned towards it, and said, "Molly?"

His voice, usually devoid of emotion, was full of it. So was hers when she replied. "Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock immediately leaned closer, staring at the phone intently. "Molly, what is wrong? What has happened? Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, absolutely fine."

Sherlock sighed. "Molly, the slight tremor in your voice tells me something has at least happened to you, even if you are physically all right. And you wouldn't call me unless it were for a very good reason." His tone was becoming impatient, and John lowered his hands in a calming motion. So Sherlock took a deep breath and said more gently, "Please, Molly."

Both men heard her take a deep breath, and her voice was a bit stronger when she spoke. "I, um, I just met your brother."

Sherlock and John immediately looked at each other; that was not what they had expected to hear, and the very last thing they wanted to hear. John covered his eyes in a silent groan, and Sherlock spoke with a new ferocity, his teeth gritted in anger. "I see…how much did he offer you?"

"What?"

"Money. How much money did he offer you to spy on me? To continue to work with me when you return to London?"

"…That's not what he offered me."

Fear mixed in with the anger on Sherlock's face. "What did he offer you?" he slowly asked. John looked at the phone again, concerned.

Both heard Molly sigh, but when she spoke, her quiet voice was quite calm. "He offered to give me a new life out of London."

Sherlock and John now exchanged a look that was absolutely panicked, and Sherlock went on his knees before the coffee table and the phone, staring at it as if willing it not to disappear. "WHAT?" he exclaimed.

"More specifically, in my hometown. He says he could arrange for me to have a position at the hospital here, as well as a new flat for me to live in. I would be close to my friends, who have become my family again, as well as those I have already said goodbye to. I could be very happy here. Start a new life." She chuckled. "Your brother says he occupies only a minor office in the British government, but if he's able to do all of that, he must practically be the British government."

"Molly, don't."

John couldn't help but be taken aback – and very pleased – with how vehemently Sherlock spoke those two words. It surprised Molly, for she was silent for a few seconds before replying calmly. "Why? I love my hometown and I love my friends and family here. I could have a secure, safe, peaceful and happy life here. Especially if I meet someone, get married, and have a family of my own."

John could see how Molly's logical argument affected Sherlock; the expression on Sherlock's face became incredibly pained. "Did my brother –" Sherlock spit out the word like venom, "tell you why he was offering you all of this?"

"Yes. He said that of course he would never force me to do any of this; that the choice was entirely mine and that he was offering this option. He told me that it would be…unwise…to return to London and be part of your life anymore. It wasn't a threat, but I'm not really sure I want to know what he really means. Perhaps this really is his way of looking after you."

"Well, I never asked him to!" Sherlock practically yelled. He calmed down when John shot him a glare, and lowered his face to the phone again. "Molly…come back to London…please."

When Molly spoke again, her voice was no longer completely calm, as if she were about to cry. "I repeat, Sherlock: why? After everything that has happened, give me one good reason why I should?"

"Because, Molly, I –" Sherlock began, resolving to confess his heart then and there in order to get her to come back (for it was the truth) when the sight of John drastically waving his arms and mouthing "NO!" stopped his tongue. He mouthed, "WHAT?" in extreme annoyance; wasn't this what John wanted him to do. John rolled his eyes in exasperation, picked up a notebook and pen that was on the coffee table, and wrote something in big letters on a blank page, which he then showed to Sherlock:

NOT OVER THE PHONE, IDIOT!

Sherlock nodded in understanding, and turned his attention back to the phone; Molly was still waiting for an answer. "I…" He didn't know what to say, now that he knew what he shouldn't say in these circumstances. He had to find some kind of middle-ground, some kind of compromise.

Thankfully, he found a solution when he remembered just why he had gone abroad in the first place. And just in time, too, for Molly spoke again in a defeated voice.

"If even you can't make a logical argument, then there really isn't –"

"Have dinner with me."

John looked at him as if he'd swallowed a melon, and Molly took a moment to respond, her voice quiet with shock. "What? You're…you're asking me to have dinner with you?"

"Yes, Molly, that is what I'm asking," said Sherlock, keeping his voice calm and patient, while his turquoise eyes shone feverishly. "Please come back to London and let me make dinner for you at Baker Street. Nothing less and nothing more. One meal – that's all, that's all I'm asking for. I don't think even you can deny that we have some things to talk about. And if, after that, you wish to start a new life in your hometown…I will not stop you, whatever you choose to do."

He looked at John, to make sure he had done well. The doctor smiled and nodded at him, mouthing, "Very good, well done." Both then turned their full attention back to John's mobile phone, waiting in silence for Molly to give an answer.

It took a few minutes, but Molly finally replied, her voice resolute and calm, almost cold. "All right, Sherlock. I will have dinner with you. I have a train ticket that takes me back to London in five days. I will come to Baker Street around seven o'clock. If this is all you ask for right now, right now this is all I can give. Bye, Sherlock."

The line went dead.