My goodness, this update was a long time in the making.

I had an accident with my old laptop (glass of red wine + keyboard = disaster). I lost the update for awhile, and by the time I got a new laptop and retrieved my files off the old one i was head deep in an essay deadline so, meh. Life. Don't talk to me about life.

On a similar note, this fic is going to have to take a back seat over the next month or so. DISSERTATION deadline is looming, and i'm stressing out in a big way. I'll probably write this when i need to chill out, but apart from that i have to ignore it. So, if you don't see an update for awhile just know it's not dead (i know exactly where this is going), it's just on a little hiatus while I deal with reality.

Chapter Twenty-One

Molly awoke to an unsettling smell, acrid and sharp - cigarette smoke. She sat up immediately, blinking against the white morning light and clutching Sherlock's bedsheet to her naked body. Pushing her hair out of her face she looked around for him in a daze, for the sight of him smoking - brooding, regretting - but found herself alone. Sherlock's bedroom was completely empty, and it made her frown. Why had he left? And what-?

There was a soft rattling of china in the corridor outside, a muttered curse, then the door handle turned. Molly drew the sheet more tightly around herself as the door opened slowly, but she relaxed as the gap was filled by a shock of red silk and wild, dark hair. Sherlock was backing into the room, balancing a breakfast tray one-handed and obviously doing his upmost to be quiet in case she was still asleep. There was a book and a folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm and what looked like a packet of biscuits sticking out of his dressing gown pocket. Molly stifled a fond smile. The look of concentration on his face was very sweet, as he stared down at the pot of coffee as though daring it to spill. The cups and saucers tinkled against one another as he finally stepped in and prodded the door shut with the toe of his slipper.

"Morning," Molly said warmly.

"Oh," Sherlock gave a little gasp, his head darting up in surprise. The milk sloshed over the side of the jug and he glared at it. "Damn it."

"Need a hand?" she asked, scrabbling to the edge of the bed and reaching out to take the tray from him. "Oh, dear-"

Sherlock's eyes went wide as the sheet fell away to reveal Molly's upper body - all warm, soft skin and curves pinked from the press of the duvet. Molly's face burned red as she grabbed for the sheet and sat back again, pressing an arm tight over her chest. She knew she shouldn't have been embarrassed, certainly not after the intimacies of the night before, but she did feel very graceless all of a sudden. Would Sherlock think clumsy Molly just as attractive as the Molly who wore stockings and cocktail dresses, or would he curse himself for picking up such a klutz?

The bed dipped as Sherlock perched on the edge of it, placing the tray over his knees. Keeping it steady with his left hand, he lifted the right to Molly's face and brushed the pad of his thumb over the bridge of her nose, carding her hair and smoothing his knuckles along her rosy cheek. His fingertips smelt of smoke. The dishes gave another protesting rattle as he scooted up and kissed her forehead tenderly, smiling against her skin. Molly flushed again, but this time from pleasure rather than dismay, her apprehension fading.

It's alright.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, leaning back from her to gaze critically into her eyes. His own were a little raw, tired, as though he had hardly slept, but this was nothing new. Molly didn't think on it because in all honesty, how could she judge when it was their first real morning together? Perhaps he always looked this haggard in the early hours?

"You made breakfast?" Molly asked, trying not to sound too disbelieving as she surveyed the tray Sherlock was now pressing into her lap; toast, welsh cakes, coffee, tea, yogurt, fruit, pots of what looked like homemade marmalade and strawberry jam, and all prettily set out on the whitest serving china Molly had ever seen. Smelling a rat, she raised her eyebrows at her - boyfriend, lover, parter? - and smirked.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock admitted, rolling a nonchalant shoulder before climbing up the bed to slump down in the pillows beside her in a tangled mess of limbs. "But I brought the biscuits. They're John's bourbons. Terribly nice." His shoulder and the top of his head touched along her arm in an almost nuzzle, then he was unfolding the newspaper and staring at it with narrowed eyes, tongue between his teeth. His bare, long-toed feet pressed against her smaller ones at the end of the bed, where they peeked out from beneath the duvet.

It's all fine.

Molly didn't know what to say at first. How comfortable it was to lie beside him, charmingly domestic and calm? How relaxing she found his company, so quickly and so naturally? Or how surprised she was by all of it having worked out at all? She had expected to feel different upon waking up in his bed, yet the realization of what they had done the previous evening didn't overwhelm her in the way she had thought it would. Physically she felt fine, just a little sore and more aware of her body. Mentally she felt strangely restful. No ringing alarm bells or rising panic, just a soft, simple truth taking over her brain as the smell of the coffee unclouded her senses. She was mousy Molly Hooper, and she had just spent the night with the great Sherlock Holmes, and he was still there beside her, not running away, not jeering, just being, just near. Not demanding, not pushing her, just idling close to her and not pressing her for anything.

"Do you want tea?" she asked, wanting something to do with her hands. She kept having to pen in the urge to reach out and touch him, to make sure this was all really happening.

"Please," Sherlock murmured, turning his face into her arm for a moment before returning to the newspaper. He didn't tell her how he took it, because she already knew. Milk, two sugars.

"What's the book?" she said as she handed him his cup, being careful not to spill it as he wriggled around, his sharp elbows and long legs getting in the way. When he was repositioned higher up the bed, he took the proffered tea and balanced it on his stomach as he tossed her the paperback.

"It's yours, from your bag." He supplied, grinning in a way that suggested he was pleased with himself. "I thought you might want it. Isn't that what couples do in the morning, lounge about half dressed, reading and being pleasant to one another- with tea? And toast?"

"Well, yes, I suppose..." Molly said haltingly, putting the book on the bedside table as she fixed herself coffee from the pot. "But, I didn't think you'd like that side of things much. Isn't it a bit, well, boring for you?"

"Oh no," Sherlock shook his head vigorously, in danger of knocking his tea over the bedclothes. "I like it. It's new, Molly. Fascinating. And really, without a case on I'd be doing exactly the same thing, only alone - you see? This is much better. This way I can be near you but I don't have to put on a suit or talk about the weather because that's the done thing, or get distracted by lab equipment or be interrupted by your annoying colleagues or-" He sighed, rolling his eyes, seeming less pleased. "Not that I mind those things really, but this way it's- I can just- What am I trying to say?"

Molly pressed a hand to his curls and petted him placatingly for a moment, before brushing a kiss to his cheek until he stopped huffing. She was almost sorry she'd asked, but she understood him. She knew what he was trying to say.

"You can just be yourself," she ventured, kissing his cheek again. "I get it."

There was a pause in which she retrieved her book, letting Sherlock settle again against her arm and sip his tea broodingly. Turning to where she'd last marked it, she nestled back into the pillows and began to read, the coffee cup warm in her hand and Sherlock's toes curling next to hers under the duvet. She didn't ask about the cigarettes, shoving it firmly to the back of her mind. If it was important he would tell her, all in good time.

Sherlock presumed - quite rightly - that Mycroft would time his visit to coincide with Molly's exit from the flat. Standing very still, he listened from the living room to the awkward step of Molly's shoes as she made room for his brother on the stairs, her voice raised in apology amid Mycroft's placating niceties - No after you, oh don't trouble yourself - then the rattle of the front door being closed, and her slim shape and bobbing ponytail appearing in the street, quickly fading. He tried to ignore the increased beat of his pulse in his neck as he realised she was gone, out of his immediate grasp, his protection.

"You have your people on her, I expect?" he shot at Mycroft the second the older man put a foot in the door.

"Naturally," Mycroft said after the briefest of pauses, his eyes flicking over his brother's expression, trying to gauge his mood. Putting his umbrella in the crook of his arm he made as though to reach out and touch Sherlock's shoulder, then he seemed to think better of it and ran it back through his short, slick hair. "Don't worry."

"I'm not," Sherlock cut back, moving to his armchair and sinking into it with a sigh. "I don't worry."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began, his tone long-suffering, but the younger sibling raised a hand to silence him.

"Please, just tell me what you know. That's all I want from you, especially after that ridiculous display."

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft strode into the room proper, taking the doctor's chair with an ill-grace.

"You wanted to get a look at her, didn't you?" Sherlock elaborated, fixing his brother with a withering stare over the tops of his steepled fingers. "I mean, I know you probably have a mountain of paperwork and surveillance photos by now, but nothing ever compares to the real thing, does it?"

"It was just a coincidence, I assure you. She was coming out as I happened to be coming in," Mycroft shrugged carelessly, twirling his umbrella by the stem. "Coincidences do happen, from time to time."

"Not with you," Sherlock snapped, losing a little of his poised edge. "Never when it comes to you."

"Fine," Mycroft spat, his composure slipping in a way it only could when faced with Sherlock's intractability. "Can you blame me? My personal safety was placed in jeopardy for that woman - and a plain, ordinary woman, at that. I wanted to see why you would ever allow that to happen. I'm family."

"I don't give a toss for your safety," Sherlock gave a dismissive gesture. "You have the entire British government, the secret services of the UK and America - hell - even the bloody Queen to protect you. What does Molly have?"

"You." Mycroft's tone was deadpan but deadly serious. "She has you, Sherlock."

"A fat lot of good I've done her," Sherlock snorted.

"For goodness sake..." Mycroft closed his eyes, gripped his umbrella and willed himself not to strike Sherlock about the head with it. "If only you'd done the decent thing and kept off the grass. We'd have been saved all this, unpleasantness."

"Careful, brother dear."

"I mean it. I'm not sorry I said it at all." Mycroft was defensive, raising his eyebrows in a pert challenge. "I've told you all your life: caring is not an advantage."

"And I've told you all my life: I don't care what you think of me." Sherlock met the challenge, his lip a snarl and his posture tight. Anyone walking in on the scene might think the detective was about to pounce, to attack like a caged animal greeting its keeper. "I am tired of this game I'm in. If it isn't you I have to dance for, it's Moriarty. And if it isn't Moriarty it's some other lunatic with a wish to test my mettle. Well, I'm sick of it."

"You should have left the girl alone," Mycroft said, disregarding his brother's words. "Especially after what that man did to her. Getting involved with her after that was like rolling out the red carper for trouble. You do realise that you've handed that man an invitation to meddle with you, with her?"

"Of course I know it, I'm not stupid!"

"You do a mighty fine impression of it sometimes, for all you think you're so clever." Mycroft sneered, "And when I tell you what that man said to me-"

"Just spit it out!" Sherlock was on his feet, having no recollection of standing. His fists were clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily through his nose, and thinking of Molly and of how much he wanted a stiff drink and a cigarette and to still be curled up in bed with her, the world firmly locked out. His brain hurt with the effort of not throwing a temper tantrum, of being denied his way in such an important matter. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach when he thought of all the things that could be happening to Molly right now, all for his brother's need to bridle him, to have control of a situation he had no part in. "I'm not going to sit here and be lectured by you. Either tell me what Moriarty is planning or I will remove you from this flat, Mycroft."

The older man didn't speak, just gazed up at the younger with a sick sort of expression. It was like he couldn't physically be near this new wealth of emotion, that the proximity made him nauseous. He grimaced for a moment before reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out an envelope. Opening it wordlessly he produced a sheaf of photographs which he fanned out on the coffee table between them.

"It wasn't a very long conversation, worse luck, but the meaning was implicit. 'You're holding your brother's hearts, Mr Holmes', he said. 'Pass it on, won't you?'" Mycroft drawled, annoyed at being pushed to play messenger boy. "You don't need to be a genius to work out what he plans to do." He leant back in the armchair and watched Sherlock's face as he stared down at the small collection of photos, his expression blank. "A pretty loaded threat, not difficult at all to get your head around despite the awfully florid language. That's not going to be the hard part you see... Figuring out a way to stop him, that's the tricky bit."

"When were these taken?" Sherlock asked, sinking down into his chair and resting his hands on his knees. He drew up short immediately, frowning. "No. Don't answer that."

"Too obvious a question?"

"Precisely," Sherlock blinked hard, a panic starting somewhere in the depths of his gut, clouding his faculties. "And they aren't from your own surveillance?"

"No," Mycroft replied curtly, a little offended at the implication of a mistake on his part. "I know the work of my men, and this isn't it. This is for you. Everything that man does if for you."

Sherlock reached out and picked up two of the images, holding them close together before his eyes, studying them.

"Molly-" he began, scanning the left before turning to the right and squinting uncomprehendingly. "-and John?"

Mycroft nodded, watching his brother carefully. Some of the rigor had gone out of his face, and he seemed now more concerned than anything. Mycroft had scanned those pictures too, minutely, to the last detail. He could see them all in his mind's eye. John, leaving the surgery, the pub, carrying shopping home from Tesco, waiting impatiently for a train on the Waterloo line; Molly, in the hospital canteen, the lab, the morgue, in a coffee shop on her lunch break, applying lipstick in the window of a furniture store. Their carefree and preoccupied expressions, their different outfits and hair styles all pointed to the fact that they were unaware of their followers, and that the photographs had been taken over a long period of time. Weeks? Months? Hard to say.

"Why would he take photographs of Molly and John, just, going about their day, not even-" Sherlock stuttered to a halt, biting his tongue and scowling. "Oh - stupid."

"You can't tell me you're surprised?" Mycroft scoffed, twirling his umbrella again with renewed smugness. "My God, what has this girl done to you?"

"Shut up, Mycroft. This is serious," Sherlock felt winded, jumpy with anxiety. He knew that John was upstairs, sleeping late after his prolonged vigil the previous evening, but could Sherlock be sure? He put the photographs in his lap and scrubbed his hands through he hair, sighing deeply. "How did he deliver the package? Not in person?"

"Goodness, no." Mycroft laughed, but the sound was almost as hollow as his eyes. He carried an odd, haunted look that was unsettling. "That's not his M.O. No, envelope was on my desk when I arrived home from the club. The conversation came about half a minute after I'd discovered the contents, through my landline."

"Your landline, is he mad?" Sherlock asked, disbelievingly. "That's preposterous."

"Do use your brain," Mycroft said snidely, rolling his eyes. "It was all a blatant power play. Contacting me, a person with some of the highest ranking security in the country? Invading my home, my private quarters? Hacking my phone? I'm supposed to be impenetrable god damn it, and he knows that. The fact that he could infiltrate so deeply, it's all a joke. He's laughing at you, and he's laughing at me!"

"It isn't so impressive," Sherlock shrugged, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "All security is essentially subject to the same flaw, that irremovable human element. Finding one man to break, even in a system as complex as yours, is the end of that system, and I imagine he found a lot more than one man. I wouldn't be surprised if you found your entire staff riddled with his vipers."

"That's for me to worry about," Mycroft muttered, though clearly ill at ease as he immediately got to his feet. He buttoned his jacket and tapped his umbrella smartly against his leg. "Do you need me to spell out the rest for you, or are you satisfied?"

"He's going to play a game with both of them," Sherlock replied, resignedly. "He's going to make me... Lord, I can't even say it."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft hissed, "You're a damn, selfish fool."

So, I left it on a bit of a cliff hanger... again. You may now throw things.

Love your faces, T/S x