13. You'll Always Come Back.
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.
Author's Notes: Hello again! It's been a week, but feels so much longer! Okay, I don't have much time, because I'm trying to post this before I go met my friends and go to watch CAPTAIN AMERICA (yay!) and eat sushi, so I have to be quick! I have to warn you- this chapter didn't turn out how I wanted it to, and became a massive character study of Mycroft and basically acts as a set up for the next chapter….so don't hate me. But no cliffie on this one, not really!
Okay, the usual:
This chapter was beta'd by the bestest, loveliest beta in the world- Adalind, who was brilliant enough to beta this at 4am in the morning, because I'm a crazy fusspot and she just puts up with it.
As usual, this chapter was named after the lyrics of a song- 'Victims of love', by Good Charlotte.
Er….can't think of anything else for now- I'll edit the A/N later if I have to. On with the chapter!
Chapter 13
When Mycroft was seven years old, Sherlock was born. To this day, Mycroft wasn't sure if his brother's birth had turned his life for the better, or for the worse. What was for certain, however, was that Mycroft's life had taken a turn and he had changed, his heart expanding to accommodate a space that would always be reserved for his little brother. It was the danger of being the older sibling, Mycroft knew, the want to protect the tiny human being in a way that a mother and father could not, the need for his little brother to grow up to understand and support him in the trials of living in a world of people that were not like him.
Of course, as nature would have it, Sherlock turned out to be very different from his older brother, unruly and rebellious in a way Mycroft had not been. While Mycroft had grown to become quietly calculating, scheming, Sherlock developed a love for attention and drama, a need for puzzles to be provided for him rather than creating them himself, as Mycroft did.
Mycroft now knew how naïve he must have been to believe that Sherlock would ever consider him as anything other than a hindrance. Mycroft wasn't needed in Sherlock's life. Mycroft wasn't wanted in Sherlock's life. Yet Mycroft found that he could not leave Sherlock to fend for himself in the world where people were not like either of them. An unpolished version of Mycroft, Sherlock would not survive long without him. The drugs later attested for this, and Sherlock no longer physically protested Mycroft's presence.
But before Mycroft was a hindrance, before he was unwanted, unneeded (read: always needed, never wanted), Mycroft had been a big brother to a tiny human being with more potential that Mycroft, especially at the age of seven, could ever comprehend. This little person, Mycroft had thought, could be like me.
When Sherlock was few days old, the doctors realised that there was something significantly wrong with his baby brother. His mother had begun crying, his father holding her tight. The baby has a ventricular septum defect, Mycroft heard above his mother's wails, a hole in the bottom of his heart.
Mycroft imagined tiny little black spots on Sherlock's miniscule heart, and he touches his baby brothers hand, feeling the papery thin skin, until they took him away. Mycroft calculated by his mother's cries, his head buzzing, that he may never see his brother again. There would be no more potential, and no one would ever be like Mycroft ever again.
But then the doctor came back, smiling down at Mycroft, and told him his baby brother was fine, that his brother was alive. Mycroft's own heart leapt and he thought about the implications. Sherlock, he thought. Sherlock. A human like himself. Mycroft would no longer be alone.
Mycroft crept past his parents, past the doctors and nurses, and located the little room of incubators, full of whimpering babies. Mycroft found Sherlock easily, feeling his own blood pumping through his brother, through little Sherlock's heart.
Mycroft found a stool, stood on it to reach through the arm-hole in Sherlock's incubator. Sherlock held onto his older brother's fingers, and Mycroft felt joy, proper, unadulterated joy for the first time in his young life.
Decades later, Mycroft's memories swarmed, tapping incessantly at this particular image. Mycroft imagined the hole in Sherlock's heart, the tiny black spots, and he wondered exactly what kind of tissue was supposed to have been in the place of those holes, what those gaps might have meant.
Perhaps, Mycroft thought once, those holes were like a physical manifestation of the feelings that Sherlock should have had for him. The missing part of that would have meant that Sherlock cared for his brother.
When Mycroft was ten years old he told Sherlock for the first time that love was a chemical defect, that caring was a disadvantage.
Naivety, Mycroft thought years later. Thirty years later, Mycroft would betray his own teachings.
/
Molly wiped away her tears as she struggled with her keys, the blurriness of her vision stalling her actions for longer than she wanted. All she wanted, right now, was a hot shower and her warm bed, so that she could forget everything that had happened that day, even if it would be only for the night. A sob escaped her mouth as the hurt became too much to bear.
It had been perfect. Molly wasn't going to lie to herself, because all she seemed to do these days was lie to everyone else. For a blink of a second, in the hours of hell of thinking she was going to die, she had done the most stupid thing she had thought of, and kissed Mycroft, and it had been perfect. In the moment, it hadn't mattered that the lapse in concentration could mean they could be blown up, or that there was someone out there that wanted her very, very dead, or that she was alone- because she wasn't alone, she wasn't, not in that second. Then Mycroft had responded, and she allowed herself to hope. Seeing Mycroft close up back into his shell, under the guard he hadn't used around Molly since the beginning of their….friendship, companionship, meeting, whatever it was, was hard for Molly to handle. He didn't care about her like she did about him, Molly knew, and she would accept that. She would, because she had to.
Perhaps that was the stupidest thing she had done, Molly thought. Hope was…a ridiculous thing to have, if you know that disappointment was the only outcome all along.
Finally, the door unlocked, and Molly wiped her face with her cardigan sleeve, the wetness absorbing through the material to soak the skin of her wrist. She let herself in, closing the door behind her and locking it, then tossing the keys onto the floor. She breathed deeply into the darkness of her living room, and then stopped for a second, her breath hitching. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, a ringing filling her ears.
There was someone else in the room.
'He-Hello?', Molly said, hesitantly, promptly slapping herself mentally for speaking out loud. 'Is anybody there?'
No one spoke or moved, no sound other than Molly's own laboured breathing. Molly breathed deeply again, and couldn't shake the feeling of paranoia that was consuming her. She had every right to be paranoid, but she knew it was a bit much to expect to be attacked twice in one day. But it was true, someone out there hated her enough to want her dead and Molly- she couldn't stand the idea of it. Cold sweat ran down her back, and all Molly could think about now was that she wasn't ready to die, not now, not when she would die alone, not while she knew Mycroft didn't care about her at all. Her hand hovered over the light switch.
Molly closed her eyes, opened them, and then switched on the lights. Blinking into the brightness of the light, Molly looked ahead into her living room and nearly screamed when she saw something very human on her sofa. Molly blinked again, tensing up, and looked more carefully from the spot near her door where she was rooted, and gasped again.
'Sherlock!', Molly nearly screamed, before putting a hand on her mouth and checking the door was closed. 'Sherlock?'
Molly moved closer to her sofa, and she was right- Sherlock was lying on his front, his hair now blond and curly. Molly hesitated and then crouched down to his level, and pushed his shoulder, revealing his face. Sherlock had his eyes closed and wasn't responding, and Molly nearly cried out in relief when she put her ear to his mouth and felt his breathing, the pulse beating under his wrist. He was alive, Molly knew, and tears began to fall down her face.
Does it mean it is all over? Is Sherlock home for good?
There was several things wrong with that, Molly decided, her happiness at having him home being replaced by fear and anger when she turned him over and looked at him properly. Molly gasped loudly, horrified.
Sherlock was covered in bruises. Purple and blue bruises on his face, and the parts of his neck and arms she could see.
It wasn't over.
Molly began to panic, looking around the room for anything that could help her. Some of the bruises had definitely been there for a while, and they were still inflamed, which meant they were probably infected. Sherlock had lost a lot of weight and his face seemed shrunken somehow, so he was also malnourished. Sherlock was unconscious for reasons Molly didn't know, he was too heavy for her to move by herself, and she didn't have any of the things she needed to treat him. He needed to go to hospital now.
No one can know Sherlock is alive.
The panic increased, and Molly's tears increased with her frustration; she never felt this helpless, she didn't.
Mycroft.
Molly rushed to find her bag, and pulled out her phone. Just as she began to go through her contacts list, there was a loud thumping on her door, nearly breaking it down. Molly screamed and dropped her phone.
'SPECIAL FORCES, OPEN THE DOOR!', someone yelled on the other side, an authoritative male voice coming through to Molly's side.
Molly widened her eyes, staring at her door as the incessant banging forced the door to vibrate loudly. Molly was shaking all over, and she looked at Sherlock unconscious on her sofa.
No one can know.
'Ma'am', the man said, his voice firm and slightly threatening. 'I recommend you open the door now. You will not be hurt'.
'Who are you?', Molly said. 'I haven't….I haven't done anything!'
'We were sent here by Mr Holmes', the male yelled. 'Ma'am, open the door or we will be forced to break it.'
'What?', Molly said, her voice faltering. She didn't know why Mycroft had sent people, sent the special police forces, but he couldn't know Sherlock was here, not already, not when she hadn't even called him yet.
'Ma'am, you're in danger', the man said again, and suddenly Molly could hear police sirens coming from the street. 'We have reason to believe there is someone in your home that may cause you harm.'
Mycroft has surveillance outside my flat. He knows there is someone here, he just doesn't know who.
The cold sweat running down Molly's back began to boil, burning her. The ringing in her ears increased, and Molly could hear cars and yelling below her flat, a light shining through her window. Molly screamed again, the light scorching her eyes, and she looked frantically at Sherlock again.
Molly ran to her windows, and yanked the curtains closed. Rushing to her bedroom, she grabbed her duvet off her bed, pulling the heavy material into her living room. She draped it over Sherlock, the material just covering his long frame. In all this, Molly's mind was buzzing a million miles per hour, and she thought about the- well, the sheer absurdity that her life was now.
The banging on her door became louder and harder, and Molly moved towards it.
'Stop!', she screamed, her voice shrill. 'Stop it now! I'm opening it!'
The banging stopped, and Molly grabbed her keys from the floor with shaking hands, and she leaned against her door for a second.
Molly knew she wasn't Anthea or Sherlock or even any one that knew what to do in such a situation- but she knew, she knew no one could know Sherlock was here. He needed help, needed it quickly, but if she let these people in, Mycroft's people or not, they would know Sherlock was alive, and if there's one thing Molly knew well, it was that not everyone could be trusted.
I live in a world where not even the people under my employ are trusted.
Breathing deeply, Molly opened her door quickly, and threw herself onto the other side, closing the door behind her. Locking her door shut, Molly squeaked loudly at the number of people outside her flat. All dressed in black military wear and carrying guns, there were at least twenty people there, more than Molly anticipated and a lot more than she could hold off. The darkness of the corridor was lit up by torches, illuminating Molly's face and making it hard for her to see.
'Dr Hooper', a man said, looking down at her, and Molly recognised him as the one that had spoken to her through her door. 'Please move out of the way while we check your home.'
The man pushed Molly's arm lightly, obviously expecting her to comply, and reached for the door. Molly squeaked again, and pushed back, throwing the man of his guard and causing him to fall slightly backwards.
No-No!', Molly said, covering her face slightly at the bright light. 'I need to speak to Mycroft first!'
More of them moved towards Molly, and she splayed her arms over her door.
'NO!', Molly screamed, her heart beating fast as she found herself looking down at least a dozen gun barrels. 'I want to speak to Mycroft!'
'The woman is hysterical', Molly heard one of the men say. 'Just move her!'
'I am not hysterical!', Molly shrieked, wishing she hadn't dropped her phone before. 'Just let me talk to Mycroft, and then you can go in!'
'Just push her out of the way', one of the men said.
That's it.
Without thinking about, without even realising that she had thought about it, Molly moved forward and kicked the nearest person as hard as she could on an area that wasn't covered in Kevlar. Anger throbbed in her throat, in her brain, and her vision squared on the people in front of her, the people that saw her as an obstacle, something that could just be pushed away and forgotten, ignored. Someone screamed, and a dozen of the men came towards her as Molly pushed herself against her door.
'No one is coming in ', Molly said, her voice coming out roughly in her sudden anger. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, and her inner self was scared at her own behaviour. This wasn't like her, she knew, but she will protect Sherlock, and Mycroft too, if she had to. 'Until I speak to Mycroft.'
/
Mycroft stood outside in the dark of the night, looking up at flights of wall leading to Molly's flat, watching as the lights from the cars and helicopter floated around it. Umbrella closed, Mycroft bowed his head into the rain that was pouring around him, and tried to ignore the rapid beating of his heart. Molly's face swarmed in front of him and his mind flickered to an image of Molly laying on the floor, dead, her face pale and unfeeling in a way it never was.
The thought agitated Mycroft in way that he shouldn't have allowed. The secure wall he had spent an eternity building had been compromised well and truly, and in the current scenario Mycroft was not sure how to dampen the burn of a fear that he had never truly felt before.
Mycroft slowly looked towards Anthea, who was running the operation, bellowing loudly at the few officers that weren't already upstairs with Molly. Mycroft marvelled at Anthea's spirit, her ability to jump unprotected into the waters of emotions and the way in which she embraced them. She had taken to and accepted Molly almost straight away, her regard for her now….friend….unimpeded despite the fact that little was secure in the world that Anthea lived in, that Mycroft himself lived in.
You are not a sentimental man.
He needed to think. He could not think.
'Sir', Anthea said, suddenly in front of him. 'The team are saying that Molly is safe, and wants to talk to you, immediately.'
Mycroft stared at her. Molly was alive. Mycroft breathed in and out quickly and schooled his expression into his usual blank one.
'Apparently she is putting up quite a resistance upstairs', Anthea said, frowning at her phone in a strange way. 'She won't allow anyone in her flat.'
Mycroft's mind brought up an image of Molly, small and slight as he knew she was, faced by several trained men and women, her expression stubborn and fearless. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Anthea smiled.
'I know', Anthea said, with a tone akin to a mother's pride.
Mycroft's thoughts raced as he picked up his phone, and dialled his main man on the team. He stared down at his ring, his wedding band that was not a wedding band, and felt his heart thud louder in the anticipation of hearing Molly's voice. She was angry with him, Mycroft knew. Anger on her side was good for him, Mycroft thought, so that he could mend the cracks in his barrier, and learn to be the governmental official that he had been trained to be, the man that he had always been, and will be.
Caring is not an advantage.
'Put me through to Dr Hooper', Mycroft said calmly into the phone, as soon as his employee picked up. There was a rush of voices and air, and then Mycroft could hear a shuffling and squeaking that he knew belonged to Molly. His fingers warmed as he remembered her breath against them when he had seen her last, the fiery burn of her cheek.
'Mycroft!', Molly said, her voice a low whisper against the noise Mycroft could hear was near her. 'Come upstairs. Please'.
Mycroft looked straight at Anthea, his face empty in her curious expression.
'I can not', Mycroft said, coolly. 'I am glad you are safe, but I'm afraid there is someone in your flat that will harm you. Please allow my team to check your flat, and come downstairs.'
Molly squeaked loudly, indignantly.
'Mycroft!', Molly bellowed, before suddenly lowering her voice. 'I'm not…I'm not in danger. There is, there isn't anyone dangerous in my flat, but I need your help now. Please.'
The sheer desperation in Molly's voice, the firmness and decisiveness that wasn't usually there, alerted Mycroft to the strangeness of her behaviour.
Read: Molly was not in danger, at least a danger that she perceives for herself. No, the danger is on someone other than Molly, as the tone of her voice suggested. The tilt and pitch of her voice suggested urgency, also Molly's stubbornness. Strong positive. The pace of the words per second had increased, meaning Molly was struggling. Most likely against holding his team away, which was confusing in itself. Think. Who would Molly trying to protect? Loyalty to someone other than himself, someone she did not want his team to see. Molly was trying to protect the identity of this person, with an alarming tenacity. Someone she deemed important, someone-
Mycroft froze, Molly breathing heavily down the phone into her ear.
'Mycroft?', Molly said, her voice uncertain.
Result: Sherlock. Strong positive- 97.3% on any expectation vs. observation scale.
'I will be with you shortly,' Mycroft said, his mind drowning and beating down on him, as with a jagged piece of glass.
/
Mycroft called off the team, and watched them walk away, Anthea following him into Molly's flat.
Mycroft stared at Molly, at her ever-expressive face, and then down at his little brother, his baby brother, unconscious and unaware.
'Mycroft', Molly said, her voice breathless and awkward (Read: she was thinking about their last conversation, their last….interaction. Ignore this. Think. Sherlock).
'What is wrong with him?', Mycroft said, knowing his voice was rough. He moved forward, dropping in front of the brother he had not seen in a year and six months, taking in the bruises and wild hair.
Read: Nothing. Plan of action: Nothing.
He could not think.
'He's hurt and needs to go to hospital', Molly said, her words tumbling out fast. 'I don't- I don't know what to do!'
Mycroft looked at her, his eyes burning.
'Help him', Mycroft said, shortly. 'You're a doctor.'
To Mycroft's alarm, Molly started crying, her shoulders heaving.
'I ca-can't!', she said. 'He has a fever, several infected wounds and is severely malnourished, he….he probably hasn't eaten in days, weeks. His heartbeat is low because he's not breathing properly. I have none of the equipment I'd need, and I….'
Molly gulped hard, and Mycroft forced himself not to betray the inner turmoil that was taking over his body, the sudden surprise of Sherlock being next to him, being alive, porating his already fragile barrier. His hand itched to touch Molly's face, to gather some calm, but he ignored it.
Read: Molly was already tired from the intensity of the morning. Her slumped shoulders suggested a tiredness of mind rather than body, her arms in a defensive pose, meaning insecurity. Most likely in her ability to take care of Sherlock, to treat someone she cares for deeply. Result: There was a possibility Molly was still in love with Sherlock.
Mycroft looked down at his hands, stretching them and then quickly closing them, his fingertips digging into his palms painfully, as he still crouched in front of Sherlock. He breathed heavily as his stomach twisted uncomfortably. He looked up again, looking at Molly.
'You are a doctor', Mycroft said, calmly. 'Help him.'
Molly stared at him.
'I'm..I can't', Molly said. 'I haven't done this sort of thing since I was in my registry in medical school, and now I work with dead people, Mycroft. He needs antibiotics I don't have, saline, drips, his ribs need to be x-rayed because he's struggling to breath and he could've punctured his lung….'
Mycroft felt panic well inside him as he touched Sherlock's face carefully, noting the wounds on his neck, running to his back, a large number of burns.
Read: Sherlock had been tortured. Obviously.
'You are a doctor', Mycroft repeated.
Molly blinked at him, more tears welling at her eyes.
'I am', Molly said, her body shaking. 'But I don't know if I can, now.'
Read: Molly was too panicked to do anything.
Mycroft looked at Anthea, who was standing silently behind him, clicking on her phone. She looked at him.
'Anthea?', Mycroft said, trying to stay calm, feeling the breaks in it already.
'I'm trying, sir', Anthea said. 'None of our….trusted medical experts can reach here within the hour.'
Mycroft breathed hard, gripping the sofa next to Sherlock's face. He looked at Molly, who stared down at him, and Mycroft felt as though she could read his thoughts.
'You are the British government', Molly said, desperately. 'Do something.'
Do something.
Mycroft closed his eyes. When he opened them again, everything was frozen.
/
Mycroft looked at Molly's frozen face, her sadness and struggle depicted on her face as though she was an ice sculpture. Mycroft briefly admired the softness of her face, the lines of worry that meant she cared not only about Sherlock, but also for him. Whether Molly's regard for Sherlock still overwhelmed her regard for himself was another matter, and unimportant. Mycroft did not care whether Molly still loved Sherlock or not.
Sherlock stood in front of him, moving, his heart beating, in the frozen world that was Mycroft's mind palace.
Sherlock looked down at the frozen picture, his own frozen self on Molly's sofa.
'You do care about her, don't you?', Sherlock said, a ridiculing smile on his face. 'How very ordinary of you.'
Mycroft moved away from Molly's frozen form, and looked around him, at the whole image, at Anthea's determined face and hands etched onto her phone. Everything at standstill. He walked back to Molly, her slightly outstretched hands pointing at him.
'I do not care for people', Mycroft said, pointing at the Sherlock on the sofa. 'Caring is what got you into the situation you are in now.'
Mind-Sherlock looked down at himself, looking thoughtful. His pale face illuminated in a way that had been dashed away in the one lying on the sofa.
'True', Sherlock said. 'I admit I care….for some. I have not changed because of it.'
Mycroft stared at him. 'You can not be serious.'
Sherlock smiled at him. 'Caring can be…satisfactory. Everything is moderation, brother.'
'One can not be moderately caring', Mycroft retorted. 'Just as one can not be moderately dead, or moderately in love.'
Sherlock's eyes brightened at his last words.
'Ah, there it is!', Sherlock said, clapping his hands. 'You said the word 'love' in a serious manner. You are correct. One can not moderately be in love. You're in for the full hog, Mycroft.'
Mycroft scoffed at him.
'You're in my mind, Sherlock, try not to act smart', Mycroft said. 'You know fully well I am not in….love'.
'Then why do you care?', Sherlock said, circling Mycroft. 'Why would anyone care if Mycroft Holmes….cared?'
Sherlock pointed to himself on the sofa.
'If you didn't care about Molly, or about me', Sherlock said, nonchalantly. 'You would've left me here to die. Or taken me to hospital, not caring what that would do to my plans, to my life. With a click of my fingers, just like that, you would know how to save me.'
Sherlock appeared right in front of Mycroft, and clicked his fingers repeatedly.
'Come on, Mycroft, you're the smart one', Sherlock said, taunting him. 'Save my life like you always think you can. Save it.'
Sherlock disappeared, replaced by someone else.
'Save it', he said. 'Or does poor little Mycroft care too much? Whatever happened to the ice man?'
James Moriarty stood behind Molly's frozen figure, staring intently at one side of her face.
'I always thought she was sooooooooo pretty', Moriarty said. 'Wild in bed as well. But you wouldn't know, would you Mycroft? Because little Molly Hooper doesn't care about you at all.'
Mycroft blinked and Moriarty stood in front of him, looking disgusted.
'Oh no! no, no no!', Moriarty said. 'Not you too!'
'What?', Mycroft said, his voice calm. The image of the room dimmed, and Mycroft found himself in his office, Moriarty sitting in his chair behind his desk.
Moriarty slammed his desk hard.
'NO!', he screamed. 'How can you be so ordinary? WAKE UP!'
Mycroft flinched slightly at the screaming, suddenly Moriarty was standing in front of him, grabbing Mycroft's jacket.
'You care about Molly Hooper', Moriarty said, and pushed Mycroft away, shrugging. 'Sucks, I guess. I thought you'd be better than that. Boooooooooring.'
'I do not care about Molly Hooper', Mycroft said, firmly.
Moriarty laughed.
'Nope!', Moriarty said, his face liht up in glee. 'Wrong again! You loooooove her. Do you love little Molly Hooper? I think so? Good, I love happy endings. It's so much more fun to destroy those.'
'You are dead', Mycroft said, nonchalantly. 'You no longer exist. Do not think you can play me.'
'Oh, I'm not playing you', Moriarty said. 'I'm dead, like you said. But I'm still alive in your mind, you see? I can twist you, and turn you, and torment you a lot. If I want to. You see, Mycroft? You're so weak you can't even control your mind.'
Mycroft blinked, and they were back to the room, Molly's face a few metres from Mycroft.
'See, ew', Moriarty said, standing on Mycroft's side. 'Even now you're thinking about kissing her. Stop being boring, Mycroft, and think.'
Moriarty moved behind Molly, his face suddenly serious.
'If you didn't care about Molly Hooper', Moriarty said, his voice deep and eerily normal. 'Then why can't you think of how to save Sherlock? You're too busy thinking about HER!'
The last part was said in a scream, the words echoing around Mycroft.
'You can't even think!', Moriarty yelled. 'You're boring, you're ordinary, you're normal!'
Mycroft swallowed hard, the burden of thinking bearing down on his head, pushing at his neck.
'You are dead', Mycroft said. 'You tried to kill my brother. I will save him.'
Moriarty looked surprised, and when Mycroft blinked again, he was gone.
Mycroft turned around, and saw a younger Sherlock standing next to Anthea's frozen figure, looking up at her. This was Sherlock at ten years old, Mycroft knew.
'You never loved me', Sherlock said, tears staining his face. 'It's why you left me and went to school forever'.
Mycroft crouched in front of his little brother, the little boy's curly hair flying over his face. Mycroft's heart twisted as he looked at him.
'I never left you', Mycroft said, his voice rough.
'You're a liar', little Sherlock said. 'You never loved me. Now you don't even love me enough to save me.'
Little Sherlock disappeared in front of Mycroft's eyes, and suddenly Mycroft found himself crouching above Moriarty, whose face was upside down with his body stretched ahead of Mycroft.
'Wrong, doofus!', Moriarty said, pulling a face. 'Love is why you can't save Sherlock, don't you see? All it does is stop you. And now Sherlock is going to die, and he can stay with me forever!'
'No', Mycroft said. 'No.'
Little Sherlock appeared again, tears pouring down his face.
'You don't love me'. Sherlock said. 'You can't save me because you don't love me.'
The older Sherlock appeared next to younger Sherlock, and Mycroft's mind swarmed when he realised he was now staring at three versions of Sherlock, with the frozen Sherlock on the sofa in the room.
'Caring is a disadvantage', said older mind- Sherlock. 'Love is a chemical defect. It's what you always told me to believe. But tell me Mycroft, do you believe it now?'
Mycroft closed his eyes, frustrated, his need to screaming becoming unbearable as the voices in his mind reached unimaginable decibels.
'It's in front of your face, Mycroft!', Sherlock shouted, pointing at frozen Molly. 'Look at her!'
Mycroft stared at Molly, feeling desperate and confused, allowing his guard down as he openly stared at her, and finally broke down in his own mind.
'What do I do?', he said, his voice croaking, to a frozen Molly. 'I can't save him.'
Mycroft crumpled, shame hitting him like a beating stick, bearing on his back.
'Mycroft', said a voice behind him. Mycroft ignored it, bowing his head and looking at frozen Molly's fingers, angry at his own mind for not supplying answers, arguing with all the notions in his mind that he had, until this day, held true.
What if he was wrong?
'Mycroft'.
What if by not caring enough, he had killed his own brother? If he had cared more, he may been able to think of a way to find Sherlock treatment, without compromising.
'Mycroft'.
This should not have been above Mycroft's ability, and yet it apparently was so.
'Mycroft'.
Mycroft finally turned around, away from frozen Molly. Blinking hard, he found himself faced by Molly, moving and happy.
She looked up at him, earnestly and smiling, and Mycroft's heart leapt. She reached up and stroked his cheek.
'It'll be okay', she said, confidently. 'Look, the answer is in front of you.'
Mycroft looked at her carefully.
'You're the answer', Mycroft said, his mind clearing. Molly beamed.
'Exactly', she said, bouncing. 'You and me.'
Mind Molly took his hand, guiding him back to frozen Molly.
'Look at me', Mind Molly said, pointing at her frozen self. 'What do you see?'
Mycroft stared at them both, finally understanding, his mind working.
'You're a doctor', Mycroft said, repeating his earlier words.
'I may be a forensic pathologist, but I'm still more than capable of keeping someone alive', Molly said. 'I am capable, just a little scared. You don't have to do everything yourself, Mycroft. Just…Just let me help. Tell me to help.'
'Of course', Mycroft said. 'You just need a little encouragement.'
Molly smiled at him, holding his hand, and a tingling sensation sprang across Mycroft's chest.
/
'Mycroft?', Anthea said sharply, and Molly breathed hard when Mycroft suddenly blinked and looked around. 'What were you thinking?'
Molly felt strained with the panic that filled her, that had frozen her body and mind, making her useless, and so helpless. She hadn't saved Sherlock once for this, for Sherlock to become weaker and die in her living room, in her own space.
Molly flinched as she felt rather than saw Mycroft train his glaze at her, his eyes piercing blue, as if they were trying to enter her mind. Mycroft sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. The carefully coiffed strands became loose, and his trousers crinkled as he stood up from the place he had been crouching next to Sherlock.
'Molly', Mycroft said, his voice clear. 'I know you are more than capable of helping Sherlock. I have faith in your abilities.'
Molly blinked at him, and watched as he held his hand out towards her. She took it, remembering the way it had felt on her face just hours ago, and his stare became comfortable as she looked down at Sherlock. Her spirit rose, and her mind cleared, the panic that was previous sitting there receding.
Think, Molly, think.
'First', Molly said, her voice still slightly shaking. 'I need Anthea to break into Bart's medical supplies.'
Anthea looked at her and Mycroft's hand, grinning. Mycroft carefully let Molly's hand go, and Molly mentally started listing the things she would need.
'Excellent', Anthea said, putting down her phone, a predatory look on her face.
TBC.
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