Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews as always go to Poodle warriors, Equal-Opportunity-Reader, shazzykins, Moonunit, fireelfmaiden1, applejacks0808, Zoey Lamoureaux, Katya Jade, LadyK1138, theartstudentyouhate and Icecat62. We're back to the story and away from the smut for the time being so- Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: CONDUCT UNBECOMING A MYCROFT

"So this is your darling little bride, eh?"

And Sebastian Wilkes' Esq. rakes his eyes over Molly, his tongue poking out to lick at his lip in a most impertinent manner.

His expression tells her that he is not impressed.

It makes Molly feel rather uncomfortable- he is not, alas, the first so-called gentleman who has looked at her like that- though the effect is alleviated somewhat by the feel of Sherlock's hand tightening slightly on her arm.

When she turns to look at him he's smiling blandly.

"Why, of course she's my bride, Wilkes," he says brightly. "You don't imagine there's any other reason why a beautiful, intelligent, gently-raised woman would have slept here without a chaperone- Do you?"

And his grin widens, turning slightly cheeky. Daring.

In almost perfect unison, Wilkes' expression sours: A line has been drawn. Sherlock is clearly willing to call out any underhanded or insulting insinuations Wilkes wishes to make about his new wife.

At the realisation Molly feels her heart expand in her chest, relief and gratitude making her smile: After so long being treated as an interloper or social-climber by the Ton, it's lovely to know that her husband will champion her cause with his fellows without having to be asked to do it. In fact, judging by the mischievous look on his face he'll positively enjoy it.

Molly shakes her head: whoever would have thought that "git," could be a suitable endearment? She muses.

And yet there it is.

Wilkes must come to the same conclusion for, clearing his throat he belatedly gets to his feet, bowing over Molly's hand when she extends it to him. He huffs out a slightly petulant, "How do you do?" whilst Sherlock's eyes dance and Molly inclines her head with as much severity as she can muster. (She is, after all, technically a society matron now).

"I'm rather well," she says. "But then I imagine that's what all new brides say, isn't it?" She allows herself another small smile.

"Perhaps, however, they do so with less reason than I, Mr. Wilkes- After all, you've met my husband."

And she turns to Sherlock. Beams at him so brightly that Wilkes seems rather taken aback.

Sherlock on the other hand seems quite enamoured of her smile- Indeed, he dips his head in to kiss her before remembering that they are in company and pulling back.

She thinks she hears him call Wilkes a "bloody nuisance," under his breath.

Without another word Molly seats herself and Sherlock begins heaping food onto her plate, then his, then Wilkes'. Archie had apparently been warned to buy in extra for there's eggs, kippers, blood pudding, sausages and all sorts of toast. There's even a selection of tea, coffee or drinking chocolate.

Molly pours the latter for herself and her husband whilst Wilkes makes do with tea.

He looks rather like he'd like to complain about this but appears to know what reaction he'll get from Sherlock-

It might not be polite, Molly muses, but it will certainly be entertaining.

She smiles more widely as she thinks this, taking Sherlock's hands in hers and folding them into her lap. Her shoulder brushes his and- completely to irritate Wilkes, she's sure- he holds up a forkful of scrambled eggs to her mouth. Feeds them directly to her, laughing that low, rumbling bark of his when she takes a bite. Not to be outdone she holds her own fork up, offering him some of her kippers-

Mr. Wilkes makes a horrified harrumph. Indeed, he looks rather… scandalised.

But there's something else in his gaze, something Molly can't put her finger on.

She finds she doesn't like this "something else," at all.

Sherlock merely looks at their guest though, his eyebrows raised in question; Wilkes' eyes flick from Molly to he and back again before coming to rest on the detective. There's genuine surprise in their depths. "Good God, Muffin," he says, "I thought Mycroft's boy was joshing but you've actually gone and done it, haven't you?" He shakes his head.

"You've gone and put your head in the old matrimonial noose- And with a common little blue-stocking, too."

Sherlock's smile is serenity personified, despite Wilkes' scepticism (and rudeness). Or, perhaps, because of it.

"Why of course I've gone and done it," he says. "Why ever else would I tell your employer I want the news splashed across the papers?" He frowns. "And knowing me as you do, why are you surprised I chose a clever wife?"

Wilkes sputters to answer but Sherlock doesn't let it.

"Spare me your attempts at diplomacy," he says. "You can't imagine the joys of a clever spouse, your mundanity won't allow it. But I can assure you, Sebastian old chap, that there's no type of woman more worthy of pursuit, nor more satisfying in discovery, than what you would term a common little blue-stocking."

And he grins at Molly. Waggles his eyebrows.

She can't help it, she giggles.

"Besides, there's nothing common about my Molly," he says staunchly, "so you can bugger off." And this time he gives into temptation. Leans down and kisses her.

Wilkes opens his mouth to protest, either the kiss or Sherlock's claims about Molly, but one look at the detective stops him. Instead he throws Molly the single least sincere smile she's ever seen- and she grew up in Whitechapel- before nodding his head. Shooting her what he must fondly imagine is a conciliatory smile.

Again, she spies that something in him that she doesn't like.

"Yes, well," Wilkes allows. "You always were rather an… outlier, amongst our set, eh, Holmes?" He takes a sip of tea. "Always a bit eccentric- Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Sherlock inclines his head graciously and Wilkes' eyes narrow, his tone turning almost… gloating. It makes Molly stiffen.

Her husband stiffens likewise, telling her she is not alone in her suppositions regarding Mr. Wilkes.

"And," Wilkes continues with forced casualness, "after your brother's sudden scandal, I suppose one shouldn't be surprised that you've opted for marital drudgery over adventure-"

Sherlock frowns. Holds up his hand to stop the other man.

"I beg your pardon," he says, "but did you just say Mycroft has found himself in some sort of bother?"

He says this in a tone which indicates disbelief. A tone best used when speaking of the claim that the British Empire is secretly run by cats, or that the French really had the right of things at Agincourt. At his words Wilkes' smile turns decidedly nasty and Molly has to remind herself rather sternly that she really shouldn't thump him-

"Why, I suppose you hadn't heard," Wilkes says silkily, shooting another insultingly insinuating glance at Molly. "Can't say I'm surprised, wedding night and all.

"But it turns out that your brother's gotten himself into quite a spot of bother with one of your circle. Lady Anthea Utterwood- Or should I say the Merry Widow?"

And with that Wilkes takes out a copy of The Daily Interrogator, one of Magnusson's more respectable rags. There's a blurred photograph on the front page, right beside a far clearer line drawing apparently depicting the same scene. It shows a room which might be Magnusson's study, shows a large, dark-haired man who might be Mycroft Holmes kissing a lovely, dark, shapely example of womanhood Molly knows is Lady Anthea.

He's bending her rather dramatically back over Magnusson's desk as he does so and the picture's caption reads, Spare The Rod and Spoil The Lady.

The double meaning isn't lost on anyone, least of all Molly.

"Oh," Sherlock mutters. "Oh, bugger." He looks at her. "Oh bugger, bugger, bugger."

Molly finds she has to agree- In fact, she'd rather like to start swearing too but she won't give Wilkes the bloody satisfaction.

Meanwhile,

Mycroft can't believe that Magnusson would do this.

He can't believe that the jumped up little sewer-rat would even attempted this.

And he casts his morning copy of The Daily Interrogator from him in disgust. Almost reaches for one of Mrs. Hudson's delightful breakfast scones before catching himself and picking up a piece of toast instead.

He does permit himself the indulgence of a bit of marmalade.

For there- in admittedly blurry glory- is a photo of him kissing Lady Anthea. There is photographic proof for his superiors- and the Great British Public- that he has no problem attempting to debauch one under his command, one he should have taken care of rather than indulging this, this childish little tendre of his.

He should, he knows, be ashamed of himself.

He certainly wishes he could bring himself to regret his actions.

That he can't is not something with which he knows how to deal, and not knowing how to deal with things tends to make him feel very cross indeed.

But he can't focus on that now. He won't let himself. Rather, he shakes his head, helping himself to another piece of toast as his butler stands gingerly behind him, waiting, apparently, for his temper to explode. If that's what Jenkins is waiting for, however, he'll be waiting a long bloody time. Instead Mycroft picks up his tea cup. Sips. Mulls over what this might mean, what Magnusson might be up to-

He knows it might take a while, but this is far too important to try and hurry the process along.

So he sifts through what he knows of the man, what he can plausibly deny of this and what he might be able to do for Anthea, too. (She is his true worry in this, after all.) He should be able to help her, he thinks. At the very least he should be able to come up with another identity for the man in the photo. Someone she wouldn't actually mind being forced to marry, someone liked by her and worthy of her rather innumerable fine qualities than an old man like he. At this thought Mycroft frowns, makes a mental note to ask Thea when he sees her whether she has a preference for any particular fellow in their set- There must be someone she wouldn't mind being set up with-

He tells himself that the plummeting feeling in his stomach which such a plan elicits isn't a plummeting feeling at all but even he can't bring himself to believe it.

For if he had no untoward feelings for Thea then the circumstances that photograph illustrates might not have taken place at all.

It could be moments or it could be hours but after some time he hears another servant- Parker? Stevenage?- clear his throat. Step up to him. He realises with a jolt that his tea has gone cold as he's been thinking and he indicates tersely that the man should pour him a fresh cup. As the servant does so he leans down, murmurs in his ear that Lady Anthea is here to see him. Apparently she's waiting in the small parlour.

Mycroft steels himself and rises, bids the servant fetch more tea as he heads to her location-

While across town Charles Augustus Magnusson smiles and welcomes Sir Henry Knight into his home.