Hope everyone had a happy Christmas! And, as always, sorry for the delay... Usual disclaimers and usual thanks to you lovely reviewers!

Chapter 21

As Mycroft entered the flat and turned in their direction, his smooth gait faltered for just a fraction of a second. Face completely blank, his sharp eyes ran over Molly in an assessing manner.

She blushed bright red as she suddenly realised that not only was she still in her pyjamas and dressing gown but that said garments were in slight disarray thanks to Sherlock's manhandling of a few minutes' ago. Mycroft's mouth twitched in an odd manner as she quickly pulled the dressing around her and did up the belt again. It might have been from amusement, but she sensed a certain degree of annoyance also, before his features rearranged themselves into a more familiar expression of superiority.

"Well well." He addressed her very politely. "Good morning, Molly. You don't mind if I call you Molly? It seems appropriate, and you should probably call me Mycroft from now on. And, brother mine, may I congratulate you on a – hmm – wholly unexpected change of circumstance, shall we say?"

"Stop looking so smug, Mycroft," came his brother's surly reply. "And don't make erroneous assumptions, lest you appear less intelligent, God forbid. Why are you here?"

Mycroft tutted. "Please don't bother pretending that you don't know."

He gave Molly a meaningful glance, and Sherlock sighed. "You can say whatever you have to in front of Molly."

"Oh, you mistake me, Sherlock, I fully intend to, since the matter partially concerns her. Only -," he ran his eyes over her clothing again. "- she might prefer to be more appropriately attired first?" He inclined his head towards Molly as she edged away. "Please do take your time, Molly. I'm sure Sherlock can entertain me in the meantime."

"Oh, goody," his brother growled as she hurried into the bathroom.

She showered as quickly as possible, using Sherlock's expensive-smelling shampoo and conditioner. Much to her relief, the brothers had moved into the kitchen, so didn't see her running up the stairs with a towel wrapped around her head. Due to the nature of her job, Molly was an expert at quick changes, so it only took her five minutes to pull on jeans and a jumper, towel her hair as dry as possible and comb it out. Make-up would have to wait.

She re-entered the lounge in a more decorous state. There was no sign of Sherlock, but Mycroft was still in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea and eyeing the cupboard with suspicion.

"I sincerely hope that when you do move in, you'll do something about my brother's quite appalling domestic habits," he commented as he located a box of tea-bags that looked a little battered but otherwise unharmed. "I'm not sure that it's an entirely good idea to combine experiments and food. Can I make you a cup?"

She assented and watched in fascination as he poured boiling water into 2 mugs. It seemed odd not to see Mycroft with a full bone-china tea set, but judging by the efficient manner in which he dispatched of the teabags and poured milk into the mugs, he knew his way around a kitchen.

"I live alone," he commented, as he saw her face. "Admittedly, I have a housekeeper these days, but she doesn't live in and there's still a certain degree of making do. And Mummy made sure we knew the basics before we left home. I'm not sure how much of that knowledge Sherlock has retained."

"Well, as a matter of fact -," she began, a little indignant on Sherlock's behalf, but the man himself interrupted her.

"I retain as much information as I require to survive. Shall we get on with it?"

Sherlock was leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms folded, glaring at his brother. He was positioned rather as he had been earlier when Molly was washing her mug, except that he was now dressed in a white shirt and suit trousers, and his curls had been tamed to some degree. He looked even more ridiculously attractive if that were humanly possible, and Molly looked away quickly to stop herself from drooling too obviously.

Mycroft gave his brother an acquiescent nod. As Sherlock turned back into the lounge, Molly gave the older brother a slightly tentative smile. For all Mycroft's apparently friendly comments, she had the distinct impression that he was slightly annoyed about the change in their relationship. He could hardly have been all that surprised, having been present when they first kissed, so she couldn't quite work out why he seemed so uncomfortable now.

Sherlock sat in his armchair with Mycroft sitting in John's old armchair, facing him. Molly perched on the sofa with her tea and watched with interest.

"First of all," the older brother began. "We have exhumed the body. I am told it is the body of a male in his early- to mid-thirties, of Irish descent -."

"So you have Moriarty's body!" Molly exclaimed, before she could stop herself. As she was subjected to the laser-beam stares of both Holmes' men, she added quickly, "Of course you have, don't mind me; please do carry on."

Mycroft blinked and turned his gaze back on his brother. "DNA results on the skeleton have so far confirmed the Republic of Ireland as the most likely origin of the individual in question. But without further identification of the family…"

"You're wasting time," Sherlock complained, leaning back in his chair. "The body you have is Moriarty. I know it. I was there, remember."

Mycroft paused. "It would still help to have an accurate identification. Not everyone shares my – ahem – faith in your deductive abilities…"

There was a note of doubt in his voice. Sherlock gave him a speculative look.

"Which is your roundabout way of saying that you also have doubts."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, we don't even know if Moriarty is his correct name. Oh, there are plenty of 'Moriarty's' in the world, even plenty of 'James Moriarty's'. But for all you know, he may have changed his name, or picked the name of a deceased individual from the same part of Ireland. And we have no DNA evidence from his earlier encounters with you and John. There is nothing to connect him with that murdered schoolboy Carl Powers either – oh, I'm not denying that he was responsible, but we have only his word as evidence, which could hardly be described as reliable. How can we be absolutely sure he is the man that killed himself on that roof?"

"I am sure! I told you yesterday – I looked into his eyes, and they were the eyes of a psychopath, not some frightened actor. That man was undoubtedly the same man who kidnapped John and threatened to blow him up at the pool. And it's the same man that I testified against in court – and the same man that had a unique insider knowledge of the circumstances of Powers' murder." Sherlock shook his head, emphatically. "I cannot – I am not – mistaken about that, whatever his name turns out to be."

Mycroft shrugged. "Ah well, investigations are continuing nonetheless. And so you are convinced that this latest act was instigated by…her?"

"Absolutely." Molly could see no trace of the uncertain lover in this version of Sherlock; the consulting detective was on 'home turf' right now and utterly confident in his knowledge. He leaned back nonchalantly in his chair, giving Mycroft a look every bit as superior as the older man's.

"You seem supremely confident, as always." Mycroft had a brittle smile on his face. "It would therefore surprise you to learn that it would be impossible for Ms Adler to be involved, since she is currently in a deep undercover role for the CIA and has no access to the resources she would require for such an undertaking?"

Sherlock shot forward in his chair. "That's impossible! It's undoubtedly her. The whole thing reeks of her – motivation, choice of target. It's a woman's hand. It's her hand."

"But she lacks opportunity."

"Then she found a way around their security," Sherlock stated, firmly. "Of all people, she could."

Mycroft shrugged again. "Be that as it may…some eighteen months' ago, Ms Adler was offered a deal that she could not refuse." He wrinkled his nose slightly. "Frankly it was that or…well, let's just say that a high-security prison with hard labour would have been the soft option. And I am assured by my colleagues there that there is not a single trace of her involvement in this latest act. She may have had contacts carrying out the operation under instruction; that is true," he added, as Sherlock opened his mouth, "- but you and I both know that that is not her usual modus operandi. Ms Adler favours a rather more personal touch."

Sherlock frowned, seeming to consider this seriously. He leaned back in his chair again, bringing his steepled fingers to his chin in a familiar manner. Molly recognised his 'deductive' mode and suspected that he had already started sifting through his famous mind palace. He was evidently trying to work out how his chief suspect – Ms Adler? – had got around CIA security.

Mycroft turned a serious face towards Molly. "Which brings me to you, Molly. First of all, your flat and workplace are secure, so there are no concerns there. I'm assuming you wish to smuggle her out of Baker Street?" He addressed his question to Sherlock without taking his eyes off Molly. Again, she had the impression that he was disappointed in her for some reason.

"Hmm?" Sherlock was preoccupied, frowning into space. "Oh, yes, that's the intention."

"I see." Mycroft didn't attempt to hide his displeasure. "I am a little surprised that you have chosen to involve Molly in this matter. Was that entirely wise?"

Sherlock's eyes shot to Mycroft, suddenly alert again. "Who else would be suitable? She's a woman, we have a personal history, and she's believed by some to be in unrequited love with me."

Molly glanced at him, reflecting that it was lucky she already knew him to be a chameleon, quick to take on a new persona. If not, she'd have been far more discomforted by the cold, indifferent tone and the haughty mask.

"Set a thief to catch a thief, hmm?" Mycroft folded his arms. "That only works if you are correct as to the identity of the suspect. If you are mistaken -."

"I'm not," his brother interrupted, impatiently.

"If you are mistaken," Mycroft continued, frowning at him, "- the risks are considerable...for both of you."

Sherlock leaned closer to his brother, his face icy. "I. Am. Not. Wrong. When have you known my judgement to be impaired?"

Silently, Mycroft allowed his eyes to shift towards Molly for the briefest of moments.

She stood up, suddenly needing some space. "I – um, I'd better go and sort out -." She waved her hands vaguely and hurried out of the lounge and up the stairs without looking back.

She looked around a little mournfully at the possessions she had spread about the spare room only yesterday in an attempt to make it look more home-like. It now seemed pretty stupid to have unpacked everything for what, in retrospect, was obviously going to be one night only. Even if they hadn't had this case hanging over them like a malevolent shadow, she wouldn't have been able to stay any longer, especially with Toby to see to.

Mycroft appeared to think it was a foregone conclusion that she would be moving into Baker Street eventually, but all of a sudden she couldn't visualise it. The comfortable domesticity of last night and this morning seemed like nothing more than a brief novelty rather than mere reality. As her eyes ran uncertainly over her possessions, she couldn't imagine anyone but John living here. It had seemed so right, so natural… She could imagine it – the Sherlock-and-John team, well into their sixties or seventies with white hair and rheumatic fingers, still sitting in their comfortable old armchairs, mulling over a case. Try though she may, she could not replace John's image with an older version of herself.

Heaving a sigh, she retrieved her suitcase and quickly started putting clothes, books and toiletries in it. She assumed that Mycroft would have a plan for getting her out of here unnoticed and she didn't want to keep him waiting.

"You might as well keep some of it here."

She jumped and turned around. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, watching her every move.

He shrugged at her look of inquiry. "I presume your intention is to move in anyway."

"Is it?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Um, I mean, we haven't really talked about it, so…"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair impatiently, making it stand on end again. "Look, I can do without all this – this fumbling around. This politeness. It's a waste of time. You want to move to 221B, and I have no objections, so why all the pointless dissimulation?"

"I rushed into something before…and look how that turned out," she pointed out, quietly.

"Yes, that was foolish and short-sighted of you, to become engaged to and move in with someone you didn't love and had no real commitment to," he responded airily and then frowned when she gasped in indignation at the words. "Well? It's true."

"But – but you didn't even care! You approved of Tom!"

"Well, I wouldn't say approved - ."

"Yes you did!" She pointed an accusing finger at him. "In the hospital, you said you were sorry we'd split up. You said I should ask him to take me back for – what was it? A chance for 'domesticity, safety'…"

"And you added 'boredom' to the list," he pointed out, watching her carefully.

She walked over to him, not taking her eyes off his. "And you said 'don't underestimate it'."

"True." He shrugged again. "I live a dangerous, unpredictable life. It's very far from boring. I do not like children and I detest domesticity. I will be selfish, Molly; I will upset you, I will insult you, I may even have to leave you for long periods of time – and I might not bother to tell you in advance. My habits are irregular and deeply annoying - even offensive, according to John. And -," he gave her a significant look, "- Molly, I will put you in the way of danger if it suits me to do so, as it does at the moment. But you already knew all that, didn't you?"

"Yes," she agreed. He was describing nothing that he hadn't done before, after all. Was she mad to be even considering spending her life with him? She'd never be able to relax. She'd always be on tenterhooks, wondering whether he was going to come home – and when he did, what kind of mood he would be in. She might never be completely happy. She couldn't bring children into such a life, so that would be a sacrifice she would have to make, although truthfully she hadn't ever given much consideration to becoming a mother. And what of her career? Would she ever get the chance to qualify as a pathologist or would both her personal and professional life be dominated by Sherlock's needs and wants, much as John's had been prior to the fall at Bart's?

But on the other hand…Mycroft had said it, hadn't he, when he'd made the observation that his brother seemed to be surrounded by people who were addicted to danger. Even John had continued to spend time with Sherlock after his marriage (although presumably he would take a step back now that he was a father – wouldn't he?). Was she any better than John in that sense?

Sherlock's sharp eyes raked her face, taking in her questions and doubts in his usual perceptive manner. "So…" He gave her his crooked smile, the one that always spelt danger. "You've had a chance to consider your options. You can say 'no' if you want to, and walk away right now. Focus on your career. Find another Tom and have a family. Be happy. I wouldn't blame you… But, tell me - do you want to be bored, Molly Hooper?"

Casting her doubts aside, she smiled up at him. "Never."

In the end, she didn't leave anything behind. It seemed like a bad idea, because the mysterious Ms Adler had apparently let herself into 221B in the past and there was a small chance that she might try the same stunt. It wouldn't help if she discovered any of Molly's possessions there. In any case, Molly felt that if she was going to pretend that she was estranged from Sherlock, it would be easier to make a complete break.

Sherlock had carried her heavy suitcase down the stairs for her. Mycroft, waiting just inside the front door, raised his eyebrows at the sight of his brother being polite for a change and then raised them even further when Sherlock handed him the scruffy case with a smirk.

He passed it quickly on to a shadowy minion who Molly hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows. "Wait for us outside."

The man nodded and disappeared, not out of the front door as Molly expected but along a small dark passageway alongside the stairs towards the back of 221.

Mycroft looked at his brother wearily as he pulled on his gloves. "I would ask you not to do anything foolish, but I know I would be wasting my time. I do hope, however, that you will take my concerns under consideration."

"For heaven's sake, Mycroft, just leave and let me get on with my job."

The older brother wrinkled his aristocratic nose slightly. "And yet he still expects me to run his little errands for him," he said aloud, apparently to the air.

"And you don't, brother mine?" Sherlock replied, his voice dangerously soft.

Mycroft glared as he picked up his umbrella. "If I expected you to show the least degree of patriotic interest…"

"I'll leave that to you, since you're so much better at it than I," Sherlock interrupted, smoothly. "Will you give us a minute?"

His brother sighed in a put-upon manner and walked off in the same direction as his assistant. "Don't take long."

Sherlock waited until he disappeared before turning to Molly, his face serious. "Remember what I've told you. Stay away from that chatroom. Just go back to work, get on with your life and wait. She will get in contact quite soon."

"What do I do when that happens?" She felt a shiver of fear go through her. "What will she want from me?"

"She won't harm you. She wants to get to me. Either to destroy me or, more likely, to gain power over me," he continued in a matter-of-fact manner. "She will see you as a way in – she will think you resent me enough to do what she wants you to do, and she will assume that I won't see you as a threat. She will befriend you – she can be very sympathetic and charming when she wants to be."

"How will I know it's her?"

"You'll know – believe me." He paused and looked down, seeming unsure whether to go on, before meeting her eyes again. "You…have seen her before. In the mortuary on Christmas night. Or, rather, her double."

"What?" For a moment she didn't understand…and then she remembered that gleaming white body again and the oddly blank look on Sherlock's face as he identified the dead woman. Oddly, she wanted to laugh – not another faked death, surely? But, on the other hand, she'd helped Sherlock do the same thing, so she knew how it could be achieved.

So…that beautiful, perfect young woman with the polished nails and the raven hair was the mysterious Ms. Adler who seemed so fascinated by Sherlock… After a moment, she wondered why she hadn't realised before.

"And how do I contact you?"

"You don't. Unless it's a matter of life or death. You have to go along with whatever she wants you to do. Seem reluctant at first, but let her talk you around eventually. Mycroft's people will be watching you, ready to pull you out if things get too dangerous."

Her heart sank at the prospect of being alone. "What – what will she want me to do?"

His face softened. "She may ask you to plant something on me. Nothing dangerous, possibly a camera or some hidden recording equipment. She might want you to bring something to the flat. If she does, it's important that you – we – stay in character, because she'll be listening. And she'll talk to you about me; she may try to find something that she can use against me." He paused. "In particular, she may make implications about my relationship with John. She's looking for weak points. My friendship with him – presumed by many to be more than mere friendship – is considered to be a weak point. Both Moriarty and Magnussen used that… Do you think you can manage?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes."

"Good. I'll contact you when I can." He cupped her cheek and leaned forward to kiss her, lingeringly. "You'll be fine, Molly Hooper," he whispered in her ear, before kissing her again.

A meaningful cough indicated Mycroft's silent presence, and they stepped apart. The older Holmes' brother stepped out of the shadows.

"You need to come with me now, Molly," he instructed firmly, and she nodded, giving Sherlock a last longing look before turning to follow Mycroft.

The back passageway led into a small yard, almost surrounded by the brick walls of the buildings adjacent to 221 Baker Street, except for one narrow access way. She followed Mycroft closely down this gloomy alleyway; he paused near the end of it and grasped her arm. After a moment, he said something quietly, apparently to no one, although she guessed he must have some kind of hidden phone. Her guess was confirmed when he nodded in response to an unheard reply and stepped out onto the street, pulling her behind him. Within seconds, she was safely seated in the back of the inevitable limousine.

Looking out of the tinted window as the car moved off smoothly into the traffic, she could see that they hadn't emerged onto Baker Street at all, but onto Bickenhall Street, which ran at right-angles to it.

"I assume -," Mycroft broke the slightly tense silence, "- that you wish to be taken home immediately?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so." It had been on the tip of her tongue to say that she'd like to visit John and Mary and their new daughter, but she felt that it might be unfair to turn up quite so soon after the birth. And, in any case, she was keen to get away from Mycroft as soon as possible. He seemed more hostile now than he had in the flat.

She surprised herself by asking, quite suddenly, "Why are you angry with me? Is it because of me and Sherlock? You must have known this was on the cards; I mean, you even predicted it, ages ago. Am I – am I really so bad for him?"

He paused, before answering heavily. "No. I don't disapprove of you, Molly."

"Then what is it?"

"I had hoped you might be more of a steadying influence on him." There was quiet anger in Mycroft's voice – anger combined with heavy resignation. "Instead, not only is he playing another dangerous game with an as-yet unidentified enemy, but he is involving you in his game." He shook his head. "I'm not sure you appreciate just how dangerous this might be for you."

"I'm not stupid," she said, quietly. "I've been there before, remember? I know what Sherlock's life is like - what the risks are."

"Do you?" he replied, equally quietly. His head was bowed and she was struck by his air of desolation. "I don't know that you do. He is making an error this time, I am sure of it. He is wrong about Ms. Adler."

She was ridiculously irritated by the sense of certainty in Mycroft's voice. "Since when has he been wrong? You've doubted him before and he's turned out to be right."

"Doubted him?" Mycroft looked up at her suddenly. "I've never doubted his abilities. Disapproved of his methods certainly, despised his behaviour definitely, but I know what my brother is capable of. But he is allowing sentiment to cloud his judgement this time. He is making assumptions that are not sufficiently backed up by the facts."

"And you blame me for that," she stated, bitterly. "It's my fault that he's off his game, I suppose."

She noticed that he didn't deny it. "It was inevitable." His voice was resigned. "My brother has the ability to be a considerable force for good – just so long as he is not distracted. But first John and now you have proved a distraction. I told him a very long time ago that caring was not an advantage. In a purely tactical sense, I am correct. Caring led to his downfall once; it will do so again if he is not careful."

"Then if it's so bad for him to care, why did you ever encourage me?" She looked out of the window, seeing the streets blur as she fought back tears.

"I did not encourage you," he said, after a pause. "I only reflected on what I knew to be inevitable. Oh, when I first met you, I had no sense at all that you would be anything other than a rather silly woman with an inconvenient crush on my brother. It was the fall and your role in it that convinced me otherwise. I knew then that there was a significance to Sherlock's trust in you. Potentially, he could have kept you out of it; he could have found a way of achieving his goal without involving you. My brother hates working with someone else, so that would usually have been his preference. But in his moment of greatest need, it was not his instinct to work alone. Even if he didn't realise it back then, I knew that you were – that you would be – important to him."

"You could have…got rid of me," she observed in the silence that followed.

"Once more, you over-estimate my powers," was his terse response.

Sooner than she expected, the car drew to a halt outside her block of flats. She waited while one of his assistants got out of the front passenger seat, removed her suitcase from the boot and walked towards the front door, looking from left to right. When he nodded towards the car, Molly made to get out, but Mycroft put a restraining hand on her arm. "Do not attempt to contact Sherlock, however tempting it might be. You will put yourself at greater risk if you act in any way out of the ordinary."

She nodded, but hesitated when she saw the strained look on his face. She realised, belatedly, that although he was seeking to hide his feelings behind his usual smooth manner, Mycroft was quite genuinely afraid for her. The realisation made her pause – if even Mycroft was frightened, what was she getting herself into?

"I'm going to be fine." She tried to force a smile onto her face. "I won't take any unnecessary risks, I promise. But Sherlock is right, he has to be. He's never let any of us down before, has he?"

He nodded in agreement, and she got out of the car. But as she moved away, just before the door closed, she heard his quiet reply. "Indeed he hasn't…yet."