14. Never Let Me Hit The Ground.
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! I come bearing the next chapter of HIPS! I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep it to posting one chapter a week now, as I barely have time to write during week days, what with my now 8am-5am timetable. It sucks, but it has to be done.
Anyways, at this point, I need to point something out, to avoid confusion later: this story is only AU in the fact that Mycroft didn't help Sherlock plan his fall, and really did sell him out to Moriarty. As this story goes on, it will start to slightly fit into the canon events of Series 3, so those of you who haven't watched it may want to avoid reading after chapter 15. When I say 'fitting into canon' though…..i mean a canon with a Mollcroftian twist. Of course.
Okay there's not much else to say, other than the usual:
This chapter was beta'd by the lovely and beautiful Adalind, who is the most patient and forgiving person ever, and really the best beta in the world. I think I'm actually never going to want anyone else as a beta ever again.
Also, this chapter was titled after the lyrics of 'Parachute', the Ingrid Michaelson version.
Finally….don't kill me after you read this. I'm not evil, I promise. I think.
14. Never Let Me Hit The Ground.
Mycroft held Molly's hand, and she looked up at him, surprised at the gesture.
I have faith in your abilities.
Her heart swelled, and Molly could actually feel her chest expanding to accommodate her enlarged heart, already sore with the rapid pace and harder beating. The words were engraved in her mind, and suddenly, like a plug had been loosened in her mind, Molly looked down at Sherlock, and she knew what to do.
Penicillin, suture kit, saline drip, sterile dressings, alcohol-free wipes….
'Anthea, I need you to break into Bart's', Molly said, listing the items she would need. Anthea smiled at her, like a predator, her grin enlarging as her eyes zeroed in on Molly's and Mycroft's entangled hands. Molly blushed, she couldn't help it, and she felt like she was welded to Mycroft, melted onto him.
Molly felt cold when Mycroft removed his hand, swiftly and elegantly, as though he was trying not to offend her- and Molly found she didn't mind.
She wasn't weak, she could feel it now. She could save someone, she could save Sherlock, and when she looked into Mycroft's eyes, they said everything she already knew, and forgot in her insecurity, her lack of confidence.
You have saved Sherlock before. You can do it again. I have faith in your abilities.
Anthea disappeared, claiming she would be back in a few minutes, and Molly looked at Mycroft, and tried to move her mind away from him. She had work to do. She could think about him later, try to decipher what had changed in the last hour, why Mycroft's hands fit so well around hers, as though he knew exactly how to hold her, what her buttons were.
'Erm', Molly muttered, distracted as she worked out logistics, rolling up her sleeves. 'Mycroft, can you help me move Sherlock? I can't…'
Mycroft's eyes flickered down to Sherlock, and then back to her, his glaze burning her even though he was supposed to, had to be, concentrating on Sherlock. Molly mentally re-called every piece of clinical etiquette she had ever learned.
'Certainly', Mycroft said. His eyes became strange as he moved Sherlock over, a sort of pain etching onto his face as Sherlock's bruises were brought into full view, the wounds livid and bleeding, while others were worn and scarring.
Suddenly, all thoughts of- of herself and Mycroft disappeared, and focused on Sherlock.
'What happened to him?'. Molly said, and she knew her voice was quiet and high-pitched. Her stomach became sore as her gut twisted at the sight of the man she had known for so long, unconscious and hurt, when all she could remember was how-how larger than life he could be.
Mycroft's eyes were still on Sherlock.
'Tortured', Mycroft said, simply and painfully. 'Brutally.'
'Can you….will you find them?', Molly said, anger and sadness burning through her, tearing at her throat. Mycroft looked up at her, his eyes bright and blazing with a cold icy ire.
'Rest assured, Molly', Mycroft said. 'I will do more than find them'.
Molly shivered, a cold trail of ice jumping down her spine, and she nodded.
'G-Good', Molly said, and a strange feeling sprung in her chest. She was never one to want….to want violence, to wish someone actually to be hurt no matter how mean they were. She wasn't cruel, she wasn't a fighter, but whoever had harmed Sherlock was hurting Mycroft now. Someone who had done that had to- had to pay for this, because nothing was truly terrible until it actually affected Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft's eyes moved over Molly, and she read approval in his expression, as though she had impressed him by feeling something other than sympathy and pity for Sherlock.
After all, Molly thought, she would never have met Mycroft if it had not been for Sherlock. She would never have understood Mycroft if Sherlock had not been who he is- Mycroft was great but not good, unbeatable but very, very vulnerable, made so by his love for and need to protect Sherlock.
'We need to bring his fever down', Molly said, pointing urgently at Sherlock. Mycroft nodded, shrugging off his jacket and waist coat. He rolled up his sleeves and brought his arms under Sherlock, picking him up in one swift move. Molly tried not to blush, and distracted herself by scanning Sherlock as he was moved, making sure that there were no broken bones.
No fractures, she noted, as she watched Mycroft take Sherlock to her bedroom, and wondered how he had known where it was.
/
Sherlock's fever was higher than she had thought, made worse by his infected wounds. Anthea came back with the supplies, and Mycroft sent her away soon after that, instructing her to cancel his various meetings and conferences. Molly watched this quietly, feeling Anthea's concern seeping out of her skin into their surrounding air, and wondered why Mycroft told her, told everyone, that his occupation was more important than everything else, when it obviously wasn't. She wondered why Sherlock said the same thing, again and again.
Molly cleaned Sherlock's wounds the best that she could, feeling inadequate and inexperienced even thought she wasn't. She fed a drip into him, and Mycroft was pressing a cold compress onto his brother's head. Molly felt scared.
'If his fever doesn't reduce in the next few hours', Molly said to Mycroft. 'We have…we have to take him to hospital.'
Mycroft stared at her, and visibly gulped hard. She noticed a slight tremor in his hand, as he looked away, and Molly knew, she knew, that Mycroft felt as helpless as she did.
'If we must', Mycroft said, gravely.
'S-Sherlock will forgive you', Molly promised, knowing that she was probably very wrong.
Mycroft nodded absently. Molly reached over Sherlock to touch Mycroft's hand, and her heart warmed when he slowly, delicately, wrapped his palm around hers, stroking her index finger with his thumb. His not-wedding band rubbed against her skin, and Molly shivered as the cold metal counteracted the warmth radiating from Mycroft's hands.
/
'When Sherlock was eleven, he fell in love with our au pair', Mycroft told Molly, his arm resting lightly on Sherlock's blankets, watching his thermometer. It was long past midnight now, into the early hours of the new day.
Molly giggled, sitting on a chair on the other side of Sherlock, her legs crossed on the seat.
'Sherlock- Sherlock actually liked someone?', Molly said, the idea sounding- sounding ridiculous to her. Mycroft shrugged solemnly.
'It lasted about three days', Mycroft said. 'Then he woke up on the fourth day, and told me that hormones were the work of evil.'
'I thought', Molly said, trying not to laugh. 'That Sherlock wasn't-isn't, I mean- effected by hormones.'
Mycroft raised his eyebrow.
'On the contrary', Mycroft said. 'Sherlock is as affected as any normal person by…adequate people….and biology.'
Molly fiddled with Sherlock's fingers, her eyes flickering to his thermometer. Mycroft cleared his throat.
'As am I', Mycroft said, his voice rough. 'An unfortunate weakness.'
Molly stared, her heart skipping a beat, before looking down again.
/
'….I've always liked, erm, I don't know- maybe red velvet?', Molly said, pondering out loud. 'I like cream cheese a lot.'
Mycroft nodded, approvingly. They were both now sitting on Molly's bed, Sherlock embedded between them.
'Carrot cake', Mycroft said, simply. 'Sherlock always knew to use cake to get me to do what he wished.'
'I haven't had carrot cake in ages', Molly confessed. 'And…you were-you can- be manipulated?'
Mycroft said nothing, a frown on his face.
'I thought th-that's what you do,' Molly said, lightly, trying to show that she was teasing. She tried not to think of- of the bad times, of the times she remembered that she didn't really know Mycroft, but did know how he could ruin her, make her feel like nothing,
It was funny, how, in times like now, it was so easy to forget that Mycroft could destroy her with a flick of his eyes.
'Occasionally', Mycroft said. 'And only ever by Sherlock.'
There was a warning tone in his voice, slightly weary but strong, as though he was alerting himself, telling himself something that Molly would never be allowed to know.
Molly looked down at Sherlock, and pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. She smiled slightly, passing it to Mycroft.
'He's getting better', Molly said gently.
The slightly quirk of Mycroft's mouth, not aimed at her or even at Sherlock, warmed her in a way it shouldn't have been able to.
Get a grip, Molly told herself. You have a patient.
/
It was very early morning when Molly could officially say Sherlock was doing better. He still had a long way to go, Molly knew, and she constantly felt that she wasn't good enough, that Sherlock wasn't getting the care he needed, but she was doing the best she could, she really was.
She knew Mycroft was watching her work, running around and fussing, but she couldn't stop, couldn't sit when she knew Sherlock could easily take a turn for the worse. She couldn't not do something when she had so much going through her mind. Her head buzzed with the implications of the events of the last day, and she could say that she deserved to feel- to feel restless after yesterday.
A bomb meant for her appearing at work, with Jim Moriarty written on it, from 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock turning up in her home, unconscious and beaten- it couldn't be a coincidence.
'Molly', Mycroft said, cutting into Molly's thoughts. 'You are becoming frantic.'
Molly glared at him. Mycroft ignored her.
'Please get some sleep', Mycroft said. 'I shall watch Sherlock.'
'But you haven't slept either', Molly said, and knew he couldn't deny it. Mycroft had stayed awake the entire night, with her, watching Sherlock, worrying over him.
Mycroft shook his head.
'I shall be fine,' Mycroft said. 'I am used to a lack of sleep, which you obvious are not.'
Molly tried not to glare at Mycroft again, and automatically felt ugly. She knew she probably had those dark purple circles around her eyes that always, always appeared after a night of no sleep. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were crumpled. Mycroft smiled at her, with his trademark smirk.
'I shan't be leaving', Mycroft said. 'Now scuttle.'
Molly didn't try to stop herself. She glared at him, opening and closing her mouth as tiredness stopped her from being able to form an argument.
'You're-you're not fair', Molly said, and walked away to her guest room.
/
Molly woke up, had a shower, and walked to check on Sherlock.
Mycroft was asleep, sitting upright on what was now Sherlock's bed, his head lolling forward on the head-board.
Molly felt something blossom in her chest, and felt herself smile shyly as she tip-toed into the room, taking care to not slam the bedroom door.
Mycroft looked a lot….calmer, Molly knew. In his waking hours, his face was always carefully schooled to look blank, uncaring, but with time, even Molly could see the inner conflict and frustration underneath, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings, other people. His shoulders were loose in a way they never were when Mycroft was awake, and a strange sadness filled Molly as she realised that she may not see Mycroft this….this unguarded again. She admired his thick eyelashes, the unlined, unstressed face for as long as she could. This was rare, she knew, for him to fall asleep on anything he considered work or important.
Molly sighed softly, closing her eyes for a second.
'Molly?'
Molly sprang backwards, looking at Mycroft. He had jerked awake, but as they both looked at each other, it was obvious the voice hadn't come from Mycroft.
Horror filled Molly as she saw Sherlock looking up at them both, a curious expression on his face. Suddenly, it was replaced by disgust.
'How lovely', Sherlock drawled, looking at Mycroft. 'First thing I see when I wake up is your fat face.'
'Sherlock!', Molly said, resisting the urge to slap him. Mycroft shook his head slightly at her, and she tried to calm down, seeing Sherlock's expression turn curious again. She felt horror climb up her back, through her neck and her face, as she felt Sherlock read her, observe her in a way Mycroft no longer did.
'I see that you are well,' Mycroft said, dryly. 'You should rest now.'
Sherlock sat up with a jump, staring around the room.
'England,' Sherlock said, his voice excited.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'I see the fever has slowed down your brain, brother.'
Sherlock glared at him, his eyes flickering to Molly. 'I see your brain has slowed down…in your old age. Feel lonely much, Mycroft?'
Molly felt Mycroft recoil next to her, such a small reaction she would have probably never even felt it, if she had not been so close to him.
'I don't know what you mean', Mycroft said, tartly.
Sherlock groaned.
'I wish I was still being tortured,' Sherlock said, whining. 'It's preferably to being stuck here with you meddling in my business.'
Mycroft stared at Sherlock. 'I do not meddle. It's only for your own good, Sherlock.'
'It's only for your own good, Sherlock', Sherlock mimicked, in an uncanny representation of Mycroft's voice. 'You are an idiot, Sherlock. You can't take care of yourself, Sherlock. Here, let me baby-feed you, Sherlock, let me smother you with this pillow-'
'Sherlock!', Molly said, unable to take it. 'S-shut up!'
Sherlock stared at Molly, looking bewildered, a look Molly had not seen on him before.
'What have you done to her?', Sherlock said to Mycroft, looking horrified.
/
Molly was definitely- most definitely- not in love with Sherlock.
She didn't know if she had ever been, or if it had been an infatuation, or if she had just admired him and turned it into something else in her head. Because Sherlock was admirable, Molly knew, he was brilliant. But one thing Molly did know, now, was that she could never love him in the way she- she loved Mycroft.
She didn't know if she was really in love with Mycroft, or whether it was also an infatuation, an admiration, any different from what she felt for Sherlock, now or before. But it felt different, different in a way that stuck her heart in her throat and made it sore with wanting whenever he was there. It felt different in the way that she didn't feel weak because of it all, but felt stronger, more confident, more like a human. She didn't feel like she had to give into anything when it came to Mycroft, but she had to rise to his level and above, to be everything she always knew she could be- because when he looked at her, he saw her, and he didn't seem to hate what he saw. More than anything else, this was what affected Molly the most- the fact that Mycroft seemed to not mind her awkwardness, her strange love to cats and weird things, her shyness and tendency to ramble about her work. What she felt for Mycroft now was definitely not what she felt for Sherlock, or what she had thought she felt for him.
But in the next couple of weeks, Molly found herself watching how she acted around Mycroft, being careful. Sherlock was always there, watching her like a hawk, watching her hands, her eyes, her lips when she talked and moved around Mycroft. He was nothing if not horrible to Mycroft, yelling and insulting him in a way he never, ever had yelled at her, and sometimes she wondered how and why Mycroft bore it at all.
'He's my brother', Mycroft said simply, when Molly asked him one day, away from Sherlock's prying eyes. 'I owe it to him.'
'You don't owe him anything', Molly insisted. 'You-You shouldn't let him treat you like…like that.'
Mycroft nodded absently at her, and she knew he wasn't listening.
'I can move Sherlock to a flat, if you wish', Mycroft said. 'I do not wish to inconvenience you.'
Molly shook her head.
'N-No', Molly said. 'It's alright. I don't mind.'
Mycroft nodded again, looking at her oddly, as though he was trying to read her. He looked sad and she didn't know why.
Sherlock continued to watch her carefully and quietly, from his space on her sofa, but never said a word about Mycroft. Molly didn't know if this was a good or a bad thing, but she wasn't going to ask.
/
Sherlock began growing a fungus library in Molly's kitchen. Her glasses were replaced by oddly sized beakers and cylinders, and anger filled Molly.
'Sherlock!', Molly said. Sherlock looked at her dully. 'What- What is this?'
'Experiments', Sherlock said, his voice condescending. 'Obviously.'
Toby the cat walked around, and Molly gasped as she noticed that his- his fur was missing.
'Sherlock!', Molly screamed. 'What did you do to Toby?'
'Bored', Sherlock replied, and flopped on her sofa.
Definitely not in love with Sherlock, Molly thought.
/
'Mycroft is planning something with Sherlock', Molly said, two weeks later. Molly was sitting with Anthea at a bar, her hands laced around a beer glass.
Anthea nodded slightly, neither admitting nor denying her words.
'Is…Is Mycroft helping Sherlock with his…mission?', Molly said. She wasn't sure what exactly Sherlock had been doing, or was going to be doing, but all she knew was that he couldn't do it alone, not anymore.
'He needs Mycroft's help', Anthea said, fiddling with her coat. 'Whether he admits it or not. It doesn't help that he hasn't yet said a single good word to Mycroft.'
'Sherlock cares for him', Molly said, after a beat. 'He might….he acts mean, because he-he cares. And it's hard for them to…care. I think.'
A silence passed between them.
'I don't like Sherlock', Anthea said, suddenly, and Molly looked at her, surprised.
'But- why not?', Molly said. 'He's your-'
'My boss's brother', Anthea said. 'I don't have to like him. And I don't.'
'I know S-Sherlock isn't the easiest person to get on with', Molly said. 'But he isn't …bad.'
Anthea looked at her.
'That's the problem', Anthea said. 'He isn't a bad person, but he plays Mycroft like he is.'
Molly wasn't sure whether Anthea was referring to Sherlock or Mycroft, anymore.
'And I hate', Anthea said. 'I hate that Sherlock is going to play you too. Mycroft isn't the only one who manipulates people.'
'Sherlock isn't a bad person', Molly insisted, and looked back down at her glass.
/
Mycroft was weary of Sherlock, Molly realised. Mycroft avoided Molly around Sherlock, moving around her like she was a foreign object, something dangerous. He talked to Sherlock in riddles, and Sherlock mostly ignored Mycroft, but sometimes listened intently.
Three weeks after Sherlock appeared in her flat, Molly came home from work to catch Mycroft and Sherlock fighting.
'What-Wait!', Molly said, confused. 'What….What's going on?'
Mycroft looked at Molly, and then looked down. Sherlock looked furiously
'I have to go', Mycroft said finally. 'I have a meeting with the prime minister.'
'Let him know that his children's nanny has been growing cannabis in their family garden for the last three weeks,' Sherlock said. 'It's a terrible shame that your mind is so…busy these days. Very unfortunate. You're slacking.'
Mycroft didn't say anything, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Molly felt suddenly sick, and she knew something was terribly wrong.
'Mycroft', Molly said, as he passed her. Mycroft didn't look at her.
'Goodbye Molly', Mycroft said, and walked out her door. She watched him go, and then looked at Sherlock.
'You always….', Molly said, her heart hurting for some reason. 'You always say-do- such mean things.'
Sherlock looked at her, regarding her.
'It isn't I who does mean things', Sherlock said. 'I told you to stay away from Mycroft, Molly.'
'You just…', Molly said, gulping. 'Why should I listen to everything you say?'
'Because I'm always right', Sherlock said. 'Mycroft is a dangerous man. Stay away from him.'
Molly looked at him, then at the door that Mycroft had walked out of.
'N-No,' Molly said, and walked to her bedroom, slamming the door.
/
Over the next two days, Molly didn't see Mycroft.
She knew he was still coming to visit Sherlock, but after she had gone to sleep, or when she was at work. She could smell his cologne on her chair, in her kitchen, and she missed it, missed him.
She didn't know what had happened that night, what Sherlock had said to Mycroft that made him act so…cowardly. Because Mycroft wasn't a coward, Molly knew, and she thought they had been…they had been getting on better. She wasn't stupid enough to think he would- he could- care about her, but she thought that at least, at least they could be friends. But now he was openly avoiding her, and Molly had never felt so cold.
Wiping her tears, Molly texted Anthea.
Where are you? Molly.
A few minutes later, Anthea texted back.
At work, of course. Why? A.
Molly breathed hard, and picked up her coat.
'Where are you going?', Sherlock said, from her kitchen table, a blow torch in hand.
'N-nowhere', Molly said. 'Don't blow anything up.'
I need to meet Mycroft. Please. And don't tell him.
Molly.
One of these days, Mycroft is actually going to fire me. A.
/
There was a knock on the door. Mycroft froze.
Read: Slight but strong knock. Suggested a smaller hand, most likely female. The knock resonated from near the middle section of the door, implying a shorter person. This information was not necessary as he had long since arrived at the conclusion. He knew it was Molly.
'Come in', Mycroft said. Molly should not have come to see him.
Molly walked through the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
Read: Angry. Most likely with him- strong positive. But she is trying to hide it and seem confident, which she is not, as implied by her shaking hands.
Mycroft kept a straight, blank face, his personal trademark. He did not look at Molly- he did not wish to betray himself.
'How can I help you?', Mycroft said, staring adamantly at the papers on his desk. 'I'm sure Anthea could have seen to it.'
Molly faltered, but then stood her ground.
'You've been….', Molly started, her voice croaking. 'You're ignoring me. W-Why?'
Mycroft looked up, his stare fixed above Molly's shoulders.
'On the contrary', Mycroft said. 'I have not. I have visited your home just yesterday.'
Molly looked at him, incredulous (read: very angry, sad).
'Only to see-see Sherlock!', Molly said, her voice rising in volume. 'You don't talk to me anymore. You only come to see Sherlock when I'm not there, when I'm at work. Why?'
Mycroft stared at Molly, his face blank.
'I do not know what you're talking about,' Mycroft said. He didn't want to look at her, feel her anger radiating from her space, her form heaving with hard breaths.
Something seemed to burst inside Molly, her anger appearing to reach a boiling point. Her face became read, her body shaking.
Plan of action: Nothing. Mycroft had never been very good at dealing with angry women with which he was…..involved.
Mycroft frowned to himself. He was not involved with Molly Hooper.
'What did Sherlock…..what did he say to you?' Molly said.
Mycroft froze, a cold seeping into his clothes, and his shoulders began to ache. He told himself to retreat. It was all he could do now.
I am not a sentimental man.
'Molly', Mycroft said. 'If you know what is good for you, you will leave now.'
'Molly is naïve', Sherlock had said. 'Don't think I don't know you are taking advantage of that.'
Mycroft frowned. 'Don't be ridiculous. Why would I wish to take advantage of Dr Hooper?'
'I don't know', Sherlock said, breathing furiously. 'That's what doesn't make sense. She has nothing to offer you. She is beneath you. What makes her…..special…..enough to entice Mycroft Holmes?'
'I am not enticed by Dr Hooper', Mycroft said. 'You are mistaken. What made you take notice of Molly?'
Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. 'I never took notice of Molly. She took notice of me, and refused to leave.'
Mycroft nodded.
'She attaches herself to the wrong type of person', Sherlock said. 'Look at Moriarty. But you would…..you would be the worst yet.'
Mycroft almost flinched. He looked at his brother, his expression cold.
'Worse than Moriarty?', Mycroft said, quietly.
'Definitely', Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. 'I don't want to have to save Molly as well. Stay away from her or….'
Sherlock trailed off.
'Or?', Mycroft prompted.
'You're worse than Moriarty', Sherlock said. 'Because you gave Moriarty his ammunition.'
Sherlock looked away from Mycroft.
'It's a pity Molly doesn't appear to know that', Sherlock said.
Both brothers turned towards the door, Molly's keys scraping the door.
'You are not a sentimental man', Sherlock said, in warning. 'Caring is not an advantage.'
Mycroft nodded. 'Very well.'
Molly breathed, and Mycroft watched her, imagining the warmth of her breath between his fingers, across his face.
'I ne-never', Molly said. 'I never do what's good for me. Don't you see?'
Mycroft flinched, and his shoulders began to hurt in earnest, his heart beating hard. He moved away from his desk, towards Molly who was obviously shaking.
'Does Sherlock know you are here?', Mycroft said.
Molly shook her head. Mycroft reached towards her, grasping her face.
Plan of action: Retreat.
'Sherlock will know anyway', Mycroft, his voice rougher than he intended, unable to control the intensity and pitch of it, as he usually would.
You are not a sentimental man.
Mycroft wasn't a sentimental man, nor was he an emotional one. But he was one to realise when he was about to lose to his brother.
'I do not like losing', Mycroft said, stroking Molly's cheek with his thumb, feeling every individual whorl on his finger imprint onto Molly's skin, her cheeks rising from pink to red in seconds. He watched her expression carefully, watched her pupils dilate as the intensity and chocolate-brown of her eyes widened.
Molly began to frown at him. 'This isn't….this isn't a game. I just-'
Plan of action: Act fast.
Molly began to move away for a second, seeming conflicted, and Mycroft caught her face, latching lips to hers. Molly gasped into the sudden kiss, her breath falling into his mouth, the warm spreading down Mycroft's body. Then as quickly as she could, Mycroft felt Molly catch on, and push harder, her smaller body fitting into his, her tongue fitting into his mouth. He could feel the tremble of her body across his stomach, and he craved the feel of her skin on his, to expose the parts of her he couldn't see.
Her fingers reached as far up his neck as they could, gripping onto the hairs on the back of his head, pulling slightly. Mycroft pulled away for a second, and then pushed back to kiss her again briefly, and then pulled away for good.
'Mycroft-', Molly said, finally, her lips bruised and red.
'Please leave', Mycroft said, not looking at Molly.
'But…I….', Molly said, a range of emotions flitting across her face- from happiness to abject anger to overtly obvious sadness. Mycroft realised that either he had never inspired such emotions in anyone, or he had never been around to see it, until now.
'Please leave', Mycroft repeated, feeling as though a chord within him had broken. He ran a hand through his hair. 'And listen to what Sherlock tells you.'
Molly was staring at him, Mycroft knew, and he could not face her expression.
'What….What will Sherlock tell me?', Molly said. 'Why should…Why does Sherlock matter, here, now?'
'Because I'm afraid what he will tell you is correct', Mycroft said. 'I will not deny it. I do not wish to be around once you hear what he has to say.'
He heard Molly leave. Mycroft walked over to his desk, and poured whisky into his glass.
You will hate me when you do.
/
Molly felt as though her head was not within her body. She felt like crying, but refused to, because she didn't, she really didn't want to cry over Mycroft, again.
She let herself into her flat, into Sherlock's space.
Sherlock was staring at her from her sofa, his face an odd array of expressions. He blanked them the minute he realised she was staring.
'I don't…' Molly said. 'I don't want to talk now.'
'You went to see Mycroft', Sherlock said, his eyes flitting over her body, swiping information like a frog to flies. 'I told you to stay away from him.'
'Sherlock-', Molly started, but Sherlock cut in.
'He', Sherlock started, and then stopped for a second. He seemed conflicted, and Molly, for a second, wondered what could make him seem so.
'He's manipulating you', Sherlock said. 'Even now. He always has been, I'm sure.'
Molly shook her head, and started to walk away.
'No', Molly said. 'I don't want to-'
'He told Moriarty everything about me', Sherlock said. 'So Moriarty knew how to attack me.'
Molly stopped in her tracks. Her heart stopped beating.
'What?', Molly said, slowly.
'Moriarty would never have been able to accomplish what he did if it had not been for my dear brother', Sherlock said, conversationally. 'Mycroft, although not completely without duress, told Moriarty about my weaknesses, my life story, everything Moriarty needed to win.'
Molly didn't say anything, but felt something break in her chest.
'His…', Sherlock said, not looking at Molly. 'He sold his own brother. For queen and country, of course. My brother is nothing if not patriotic.'
'You're his brother,' Molly said, her voice wobbling. She didn't want to believe what she was hearing, but it…there it was. Mycroft had not- would not- change.
'Exactly', Sherlock said, his face blank. 'If he can sacrifice his own brother, who else would he not use?'
This is my redemption.
'There is no such thing as redemption', Sherlock said, reading Molly's thoughts, looking away from her. 'There is no one to rescue us from our own mistakes.'
Sherlock's eyes turned to Molly, and Molly was reminded of the way Mycroft had looked at her at Sherlock's funeral, the way his eyes had pierced her, and seen her.
If you can sacrifice your own brother, then what hope do I have?
TBC
That's all for now, folks! I don't know why I insist on using that Looney Tunes phrase at the end of every chapter, just indulge me guys. I'm going to confirm now that this story's chapters have now increased to 21 chapters- and there it will stay. I refuse to let this story get anymore of a monster than it already has.
Anyways, please read and comment- honestly, your comments always help keep me interested in writing this story, and encouragement always, always helps with fast and regular updates. They definitely wake up the plotbunnies.
Also, if you have tumblr and want updates on this story, or any of my other stories, or have questions, prompt ideas etc, please follow me (link on profile).