Molly Hooper was having a lovely day. The sun was out, the sky was blue, it's beautiful… she thought she'd read that somewhere, but couldn't recall quite where. Still, that didn't detract from the positively bucolic scene she found herself in, what with Meena and her family having a picnic and they'd invited her. And she'd accepted, because this wasn't the first picnic she'd been invited to and gone. This was, however, the first picnic she'd been to that had actual sunlight, as the previous ones were cloud-covered and windy, with one memorable time being a rainy thunderstorm. Nevertheless, today, it was a lovely day, and she was having it, dammit. George Rad had had his nappies changed before the ride and was in a good mood, the parents were both well-caffeinated to balance the energy of their son, the sandwiches were freshly prepared, the beverages in their proper containers, and there were no midges about. Molly sat on the picnic blanket eating sandwiches while Meena and her family were harassing, or rather, attempting to feed, the ducks. She took more than a few photos of the small adventure with her camera in between sandwich bites. She's not surprised the park is full of pale people, probably pulling sickies in order to catch the rarity that was a sunny day in London. All in all, a rather pleasant day, in spite of the predominance of half-naked people (more than a few who should really cover up if they didn't wish to invite skin cancer) carpeting the park grounds.

Which is probably why it went to hell so fast. Heaven forbid that Molly Hooper should be given a completely lovely day without it going to shit somehow. But it started innocuously enough with a call from work, requesting her to work on a couple of bodies for Holmes (of course) of a one Dr. Shlessinger and his wife who'd returned from abroad dead rather than full of bad German phrases. She sighed, then stood up. "Got to go," she said.

Meena's face crumpled a bit as she came over. "What, work? I thought you said you had the day off."

"I did," Molly made a face, "it's that idiot Holmes wanting me to autopsy a tourist couple. I don't know why nobody else wants to work with him, he's an idiot, but no more so than the actual detectives at the Met."

Her coworker snorted. "God, I hope you never say that out loud when they're about," she said, "I don't know who'd throw a worse fit, the detectives or Sherlock."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Make friends with the sunlight since I can't, God knows you tan better than some of the folks around here."

The shorter woman shook her head. "My mother would pinch your arm if she heard you," she said.

"You do know the reason why your husband wants to picnic so much is to see his dark, lovely wife get lovelier under the sun, correct?" Molly raised an eyebrow as she picked up her bag.

"Oh, just go!" Meena blushed. As she pressed more wrapped sandwiches onto the taller woman, she yelled, "Tom, George Rad, Auntie Molly's going to work!"

Father and son waved, and Molly waved back, a little stiffly. Then she went to catch the Tube.

Or rather, she would have, if she wasn't bloody kidnapped on the way. As she felt strong hands grabbing her from behind, she tried to fight off her attackers using the self-defense techniques she'd been taught, but there were at least two and one had already injected her with something that made her woozy and nerveless almost immediately, those bastards. She tried to scream for help, but the world was turning black and even her vocal chords felt too relaxed to force air through.

She flickered in and out of consciousness, but in the stifling darkness, she thought she heard people talking. At one point, she thought she was spun about in a small room, which made her feel slightly ill, but she was still too woozy to do anything about it. She started to go back to sleep, when she was unceremoniously knocked about, and she yelped.

And that's when she came to, the drugs still in her system, but she was unfortunately aware enough of her surroundings to realize that she didn't have much. Surroundings, that is. It felt like she was in a small box, and there was the smell of a corpse. Oh. She was buried alive in a much-too-snug coffin. Shit. Who did she piss off this time?

She can hear someone speaking very, very fast, and she realizes it's Holmes outside of this coffin. Okay, she's not underground yet, but she's still imprisoned. Thankfully, she's not tied up or handcuffed, but there's barely any room to breathe, much less move. But if Holmes is outside, she needs to get the idiot's attention. She knocks the side of the coffin with her sharp knuckles, wincing a bit as she does so. There's a pause in the talking, and she keeps knocking. She's not sure how much air she's got left, especially after the coffin's been moved about, so she keeps knocking as hard as she can.

Then she hears a horrified voice shout, "MOLLY!"

The room, no, the coffin, shakes and presses in on her, and while she's still too groggy to scream, she keeps knocking. The pressing, the shaking, stops abruptly, but she's not free. What the hell?

Then she hears, "What the hell, Sherlock?"

Exactly. Oh God, she has to rely on these idiots to save her? She keeps knocking, because she's fairly sure the lack of air is compensating for the drugs starting to wear off.

Again, the coffin shakes, and she gasps, but it's shallow as the space she's given. In what feels like days, but probably minutes, there's air, sweet, blessed air, and her next gasp becomes a coughing fit.

She tries to open her eyes, but it's too bright. She tears up as she closes them again. "Fuck," she coughed. She's being pulled out, but is too weak to fight. Only when she is sat up against a metal wall does she open her eyes again, and blinks hard against the tears and the light.

A pale face swims in front of her. "Molly," it's a different voice. Higher, a bit nasal. Watson. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

"Can you?" she asked hoarsely, forcing her arm to hold up the hand pointing a middle finger before it flops back down.

"Whatever they've dosed her with, it's still in her system," Watson murmured. "And considering how much your sister hates her, I don't think we'll be going to hospital any time soon."

Sister? Molly thought muddily. She frowned, or at least, she thought she did.

"Exactly, Dr. Watson," a clear, female voice said. "Since you solved the puzzle so nicely, would you like another minute with the girl on the plane?"

"Yes!" Holmes gasped.

There's a sound of static, and a girl's voice, pitched higher with fear, is apparently still stuck in a plane. Or a radio drama, Molly isn't quite sure. It all sounds so ridiculous. Her vision's still blurry, but she can tell there's someone else in the room, someone tall, but it's not the girl or the woman. Holmes and Watson try to talk to the girl, but she only shares her hysteria. Molly wishes whatever drugs they gave her, they'd give to the girl, too. She certainly needs it.

The static comes back, and Molly winced. The precise, mocking voice says, "Did you think the tests were over? We've got one more."

And, to Molly's horror, she heard Moriarty saying, "Tick-tock, tick-tock," the lights in the room pulsing with his words.

She doesn't realize she's shaking until someone wraps their arms around her. "Shhhh, shhhh, it's okay, it's just a recording," Holmes says.

"Why do you embrace her when she says terrible things to you?" the woman asks from the speakers, thankfully interrupting Moriarty's recording. "What is she to you, Sherlock Holmes?"

He doesn't answer her, only asks Molly, "Are you okay to walk?"

She isn't, but she nods. She tries to push herself to her feet, but stumbles. Both Holmes and Watson support her, and they half-carry her to the next room. "Why are you even bothering?" another voice, male, asks.

"We can't just leave her here," Watson hissed on her right, "and she's alive. Better to keep an eye on her."

That means they've left dead bodies in their wake, Molly reasoned. She supposed she was better off with them for now, at least they could drag her out of whatever the mad woman in the speakers puts her in.

"Sit down," Holmes directs her, but he and Watson laid her gently against the wall. Unlike the previous room, there is no table, no coffin. But apparently, there's still a screen, and speakers. And this next, or last, test, seems to be for Holmes to either shoot his friend, Watson, or his brother, Mycroft. Ah, the other tall man. Well, that would explain why the other voice seemed familiar. And the mad woman was apparently the Holmes sister. She wonders why the Holmes family sounds like it came from some Gothic novel, mad sister locked up in a facility and presumed dead, seemingly heartless and all-powerful brother with a soft spot for baby brother, and friends who would walk through fire for each other.

She's too far away, and her vision's still maddeningly blurry, but it sounds like he's chosen to take himself out of the game by shooting himself. Ah, that's another way to take oneself out, she thought hysterically. She hears something soft, hissing, but it sounds several times, and she sighed as they all slumped over.

"I didn't expect you to live, Molly Hooper," the woman's voice said flatly. "But since you're practically useless, I'll put you in with my similarly useless oldest brother. I've got one more game to play with Sherlock and John." It almost sounds like a child taunting her, claiming to have more friends, and flouncing off. How odd.

Molly's strength is returning all too slowly, so she doesn't fight the guards that pick them all up and out of the room, only to drag them elsewhere. She hears a key ring jangle in someone's pocket, so she assumes Holmes the younger and Watson will be going on a trip.

She decides that if the mad woman is gone, it's safe to get some actual rest, so she does, on a flat, practical bed. When she wakes, she finds herself in something like a cage in a zoo. Her vision's cleared up, her throat's dry, her stomach's growling, and body feels less like a dead weight. She pushed herself up on her elbows, and sees that, while the sheets are dark grey, the pillowcase is white, and the room is a similar mix of grey walls and furniture, with a white floor surrounded by a grey border. Oh, and Mycroft Holmes placed unceremoniously on said floor, still unconscious. She'll leave him be, as he's probably got not much rest, either, what with going through whatever mad tests and dead bodies their mad sister set up.

Molly looked up to see a large skylight, along with well-placed lights, cameras, and a speaker along the edges of the ceiling. Oh. So this is a cage, she thought, and probably the Holmes' sister's cage. Curious, she forced herself out of bed, then inspected the bed. She isn't surprised to find a number of makeshift lock picks and sharp implements tucked under the foot rest side of the bed. Handy, she thought, as she pocketed them all. She walked over to the IKEA version of a prison desk and chair. It was ridiculous, she almost giggled, at the board screwed into the wall serving as a table, and the half-cube as a chair. She idly pushed the chair around, finding it to be a bit heavy, but she supposed if she were locked up here for years, pushing that chair around could develop muscles that would allow her to overpower whoever came past that glass wall.

Was it glass? Or plastic? Flipping around the reverse letters, she read, "Maintain distance of three feet." No metric system here, she noted darkly. She knocked on the transparent wall, and bit her bottom lip at the thickness of it. Plastic or glass, it was bloody solid.

"Good thing she disabled the alarms," Mycroft Holmes' voice said behind her. "Or you'd have set off an alarm and the guards would be tackling and tasering you as I speak."

"So the grey's not just a pretty border, then," Molly murmured, and stepped away. The eldest Holmes was still lying on the floor, but his eyes were open and weary. "Why did she do that to me? And what the hell's going on?"

There's a long silence, and she doesn't think he'll break it, until he sits up and does so. "I'm afraid you've been the pawn in yet another game of madness versus Sherlock," he sighed. "And this time, it really was personal."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Personal to her, not to me. I've never met or heard of her before. I'll ask again, what the hell's going on?"

"It's a matter of national security," he began.

"Oh, don't give me that!" she snapped. "My security's just been stuffed in a coffin, or didn't you notice? What made your sister finally snap the cracker and shower us all in shit?"

"Ah. Well put," he blinked. Sitting on the floor, he managed to look both vulnerable and put-upon, something she believed nobody else on this planet had seen except for his parents. He haltingly told her an abbreviated and much-censored version (she assumed) of recent events, which made her blink in turn.

"So that explains Moriarty's face hacking," Molly mused, "but not why I'm here. I'd understand if it were Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or even that drug-addled boy. Why did she take me, Mycroft Holmes?"

He stared at her, then gave a disbelieving huff. "I'm not sure if you're dimmer than I thought, or as oblivious as Sherlock," he said. She narrowed her eyes, and he turned up his nose, obviously in better spirits now. "She's jealous of your relationship with Sherlock," he said slowly, as if to a small child.

"What relationship?" she frowned. "He bothers me, I don't kill him, and we do our jobs."

The tall man huffed another laugh. "Dr. Watson said something along the same lines, but a bit more cheeky and less," he waved a hand airily, "murderous."

Molly bristled, as if she were her cat and something smelled offensive. "I am nothing like Watson," she hissed.

The corners of his lips went up. "No, you're not," he agreed. "He actually kills people, you just talk about it."

She sighed. "I don't have to kill people," she said, "I just like them better when they're dead. They're so much easier to understand."

Now he frowned. "Oh. I see." Then he turned and stared at nothing in particular, saying nothing else.

Molly shook her head, but figured he was getting lost in thought, or something. She hoped one of those thoughts would be on how to get out of here, because the picnic seemed like a distant memory, even though it happened just this morning. Or something like that.

So, having nothing better to do, and having exhausted all her options and curiosity, she sat on the bed and waited.

To her surprise, it was nothing that Mycroft Holmes did, but rather, the other people who worried about him did. And it was obvious they worried, from the small army that got them out of the prison cage, to the harried-looking Lestrade waiting outside the prison, to the glossy assistant with a tight expression in the back of the limo.

Molly was silent throughout the proceedings, including a brief trip to a private doctor's office, but finally nodded when they dropped her off at her flat. "You thought nobody cared about you," she told the eldest Holmes, "you idiot."

Then she got inside her flat, noticed how very tidy it was, coaxed Obit out of hiding and fed him, and drank two tumblers full of the good Scotch she'd stowed away. Then she drank some water, had a midnight snack, used the loo, and went to sleep.

And woke up, feeling disoriented for the umpteenth time. She made a quick check of her room, herself, and her cat, sleeping on her stomach. Then she remembered everything that happened the day before and groaned. Grumbling, she tried to flail her arm as far as it could for her mobile on the side table, when she remembered that it was stolen or disposed of when she got kidnapped. Great, she couldn't even call in sick. Oh wait, she had a land line in the kitchen. Ugh. Getting out of bed didn't seem like a great idea, especially since the Scotch seemed to overpower whatever food, water and drugs were left in her body.

Sighing, she dislodged her cat, who also grumbled before he resettled back onto her bed, the lucky thing, and went to the kitchen. She dialed a number she knew automatically, and was surprised to find she'd been given the week off. Oh. She supposed it was a side effect of knowing the Holmeses, like getting kidnapped by them. All right. She went to the loo, then back to bed. Might as well enjoy the lie-in if it's free, she thought, and went straight to a deep, dreamless sleep.

The rest of the week was uneventful, and Molly Hooper found that not only could she not share anything of that prison with anybody, she didn't want to. She wasn't sure if it was denial, or shock, or perhaps a combination, but the comfortable numbness was something she knew would go away if she even tried to talk to the Holmeses. So she didn't talk to anyone, merely nodding when clerks greeted her and texting empty phrases to coworkers when they asked about her vacation.

When she went back to work, she found she wasn't in the mood to talk, even to insult or correct the newbies. This seemed to scare them more, and Meena was concerned, but when she asked, Molly only shook her head. She noticed the only time she talked was to Obit, who didn't talk at all, which seemed to suit her strange mood.

It was only broken when Holmes the younger (but not youngest) visited the morgue. It seemed he'd grown up a bit, or perhaps sobriety under extreme circumstances did something to a body. Either way, he seemed even more concerned when he noticed her lack of insults. "I'm sorry," he said, and she frowned. "My sister isn't talking, either. But in her case, it's for the best." And he looked infinitely older. No: he finally looked his age. Her lips flattened, and she shook her head.

"Mycroft told me about your conversation," he said, still looking troubled. "And you still don't know, do you?" She frowned again, briefly. "Eurus was jealous of you. She was jealous that you got to play with me, even though you were mean to me. She didn't understand why you got to do that and not be locked up when she was. Granted, she did try to kill me when we were children, and she did burn our childhood home down, and she actually killed my best friend because she was jealous – oh," he interrupted himself, "you didn't know about that. Sorry, forget about it." She shook her head with a smirk. "Fine," he pouted. "Don't. Anyways, that's why you got taken. You got to be the friend and sister she never was, and she got jealous. There's your answer. It's not pleasant, but the truth never is."

Then, to her surprise, he hugged her. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this, and I hope you don't hate me."

"I don't hate you," she said, her voice feeling rusty from disuse, "I don't like you sometimes, but I don't hate you."

He releases her from the hug, which was her intention, and grinned. "You talked!"

"And you're an idiot!" she punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" he frowned, rubbing it. "That actually hurt!"

She glared. "Sister? Friend? Really?"

"Yes, really," he glared back. "If you bothered to notice, other people care about you, too."

Ah. So oldest brother blabbed everything. Figures. She sighed. "I never wanted siblings," she said.

"Too bad, you got them anyway," Holmes smirked. "And friends. Don't forget friends."

"You're just going to keep rubbing it in my face, aren't you?" she muttered. "So is Watson my brother-in-law?"

Holmes choked on thin air. "What?" he coughed.

She sighed again, more deeply. "If I'm your sister, according to your logic, then Watson is my brother-in-law," she repeated. "See, this is why dead people make more sense. Sooner or later, it's clear what killed them, and how, and maybe even why. But living motivations, feelings," she wrinkled her nose, "it's confusing unless it conforms to a previous pattern. But living people aren't like the books or movies, unless it's you, Holmes."

He frowned. "How am I like a book or a movie?"

She barked an odd laugh. "Your sister is from a Gothic novel, your brother's from a spy novel, and you, you and Watson are," she paused, thinking of a suitable comparison, "like those old romantic adventures. The old-fashioned meaning of romance, as well as the new," she explained when he made a face. "You know, they could be solving crimes, or sailing the seven seas, or going round the world in eighty days. Grand adventure, with some humor and romance in it. And some dead bodies, or there wouldn't be any risk." When she saw understanding dawn, she nodded. "So. Even if Watson is straight as an arrow, he's still your partner in all senses of the word in a romance in all senses of that word."

"I'm thinking of downgrading you to 'friend'," he said, half-joking.

"Isn't it odd, to go from having no friends, to having an abundance of them and family, to boot?" she asked. "Because it feels odd. Almost itchy."

"I've been adopted by Mrs. Hudson, or so John says," he shrugged. "It's not that bad."

She narrowed her eyes. "It's very uncomfortable."

But he only grinned like a lunatic, which didn't help matters at all. "Look at it this way: John's already given my parents a grandchild, so there's no pressure!"

She stared at him for several beats, then laughed loudly, to the point of tears. He laughed, too, but finished earlier than she, and smiled at her, bemused. "You haven't met my mum," she said, "you'd regret adopting me in a heartbeat."

"You've met my sister," Holmes raised an eyebrow, "and my brother, and you've yet to meet John's alcoholic sister Harry. But we're all nightmares."

She thought about it. "Oh, all right, then," she said.

"Come by the flat," he said, "it's all cleaned up and baby-proofed now. John even put a new smiley face on the wallpaper." And he grinned goofily at the image in his mind's eye.

She rolled her own eyes. "Is Watson and his child living there, too?"

He rolled his back. "I used to call Rosie 'Watson'. Stick to christian names, it's less confusing. But yes, they are," he added quickly.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment. "All right," she said, and blinked rapidly when he went into something like a spin of joy. "Go home, you ridiculous man."

"Bye, Molly, see you later!" he shouted as he swooped out as dramatically as he swooped in.

She sighed, then leaned back. Dammit. She supposed they were friends, at least, she ought to attempt to visit.

So when she finally returned to 221 B Baker Street, she was surprised to see how many things had survived the explosion Mycroft Holmes told her, and how many things were replaced so very close to the original. She certainly wasn't expecting the strange wallpaper to be replicated, but then again, she wouldn't put it past either of the Holmes brothers to hunt down something as odd as all that. Mrs. Hudson sassed her on the way out of the kitchen, but not before offering her tea, and she sat bemused as John and Sherlock (how very odd to be thinking of them like that) took turns playing with the baby girl, who was going to have a very interesting life, no matter what.

Then Sherlock said, "You're not her godmother, but you're her aunt, so come here and play with Rosie. I know for a fact you play with your godson, so don't try and deny those double-X chromosomes."

She snorted at the assumption. "As ever, Mr. Holmes, you are an arse."

John covered his baby's ears and glared, but she rolled her eyes at him. "Oi, just sit down and play, please? It's uncomfortable seeing you smirk at us, like you're Mycroft or something."

She shuddered. "Ugh. No." So she walked over to play with the girl. "Don't think I don't know that's a shameless ploy to hide the fact you two are going to snog each other's brains out."

The blonde man blushed fiercely, but so did the curly brunette, and she smirked. Salvaging what little dignity he had, John said to his daughter, "Play nice with Auntie Molly, all right? And I don't mind if you drool or toss things at her, either!" And he and Sherlock ran when Molly started throwing blocks at them, a couple even hitting their targets.

Rosie laughed and picked up blocks to throw at them, too, but hers fell short. "Don't worry," she told the little girl, "I'm going to teach you how to throw properly, and then we're going to see if Sherlock's got any body parts we can work on. All right?" She isn't surprised when the girl nods back, but she's yet to see how far her comprehension goes.

That's fine. They have a bit of time now to get into a bit of trouble, and, if she plays her cards right, even more trouble to get into, with or without the parents snogging in a hallway. And, like playing with George Rad, she's strangely unbothered by how comfortable she is. Perhaps because they have yet to be even more complicated, but she'll see how things go after age five.

In the meantime, there is a tape measure to dig out of her handbag, and a few nice, handy balls lying on the floor. Nothing like a little hand-eye coordination exercise to get things going, and her grin is almost as evil as Sherlock's as she pulls out the tape measure triumphantly. Then she picks up a ball and sits beside Rosie. "Here's how you hold a ball," she starts, and molds the girl's chubby fingers around the toy.

Sherlock and John won't know what hit them.

THE END