Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. As always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

STRAIGHT TO HIS FACE

Mycroft's Carriage

En Route to Sherlock's Townhouse

Later

Since he can't say goodbye Sherlock scribbles a note to Molly, asks Anthea to make sure she gets it.

His sister-in-law looks amused but nods and solemnly promises to personally give it to her- He's in the carriage before he realises what a gift he just dropped into Thea's lap.

Oh dear.

It's not that his sister-in-law is particularly prudish- She isn't. Keeping up appearances really is more a priority of Mycroft's. But Anthea is also far too clever at nosing out people's secrets and far too interested in his affairs for anyone's good-

He now rather wishes he had had the chance to warn Molly of that.

He doesn't like the notion of her being cross-examined- however charmingly- by Thea, or anyone else.

Nevertheless, he supposes he will simply have to trust that Molly's obvious good sense will be enough to handle his sister-in-law…

After all, it was enough for Culverton Smith.

At the thought of that odious individual he frowns, thinking. In all the… events of the day before he hasn't really had a moment to stop and ponder Smith's sudden overtures to Molly. That she had also suddenly received flowers from Sebastian Moran, a man with whom both Sherlock and Mycroft have previously tussled, seems stranger still. Were Professor Moriarty to start writing her poetry from beyond the grave then she would have attracted the perfect hat-trick of villains, he muses, before dismissing the thought.

The notion of Moriarty anywhere near his Molly is really too unpleasant to contemplate, ghost or no.

And yet…

It's not that he finds the notion that either Smith or Moran would be attracted to Molly odd: Molly is, well, Molly. She's beautiful, accomplished, rich. And even were she none of those things, she is in herself more than enough to tempt any man into courting her. He cannot imagine any fellow with eyes being immune to her charms. And yet, that those two men should have started trying to court her… It's odd. Disconcerting. Sherlock frowns, thinking on it.

They wouldn't have been so foolish as to target her merely because they saw her talking with him- Would they?

A great pit of foreboding opens in his stomach at that... Mainly because he knows the men in question absolutely would.

He thinks back to that first meeting with Molly, their conversation. They had spent a great deal of time together that night, it was true, but then wasn't that to be expected from two old friends? Particularly since one of them was attempting to act as chaperone to his goddaughter, a post for which everyone agreed men were entirely unsuitable? Closing his eyes Sherlock runs through the people he saw at that first ball: Smith was there, toadying up to Lord Castlereagh and his wife. Was Moran also present? Yes, Sherlock thinks, yes he was. He asked Rosemund to dance but at the look on her godfather's face the girl had refused. Good. Rosie might play with rakes but she knew enough of he and John's work to accept their opinion of a man as gospel when necessary-

Which meant that if they were trying to get at him, then Molly would be their next logical target. Since Rosie had shown herself unwilling to be beguiled, and he had shown himself to be beguiled by Molly, they had chosen her as their target. The realisation makes Sherlock swear to himself. For in their years working together he and John had certainly made many enemies, and he while he may have curtailed those enemies' activities Sherlock has not always succeeded in removing them from circulation-

A sudden jolt knocks him from his reverie and he blinks, opening his eyes. The carriage has come to a halt; they must be at his home.

Sherlock gets to his feet, about to exit the carriage but before he can Mycroft raises a hand in request. Unwilling and suspicious, nevertheless Sherlock sits back down.

Something tells him this little tete-a-tete will not be pleasant.

"Before we go in, there's something I wish to ask you," Mycroft says. The words are addressed to his gloves, his umbrella. Sherlock blinks at this, surprised: his brother never deigns to ask one questions. He assumes. He deduces. He does not request you tell him things, that is for mere mortals.

"Yes?" he ventures, uncomfortable.

Mycroft purses his lips, taking a moment, and it's unspeakably peculiar, seeing his elder lost for words.

"I know you think me… Well, I know what you think of me, Sherlock," Mycroft begins. "And you may even have the right of it, however much it pains me to admit. But I want you to know…" He sighs, closes his eyes.

His hand tightens almost uncomfortably on his umbrella handle.

"I want you to know that whatever has happened to you and Doctor Watson, whatever has become of you both… That was never my intention."

And he opens his eyes, looks at Sherlock.

There's something disconcertingly… emotive in his gaze.

"I never meant you to be hurt, brother mine," he continues quietly. "I never meant to bring harm to anyone, including the Watsons."

Sherlock sighs. "And yet Mary is gone and John is a widower," he says evenly. Tiredly. "Whether you meant it or not, whether I meant it or not, that is the world we are in."

"It wasn't meant to be." And Mycroft shakes his head. Frowns. He seems to find the next words even more difficult to say. Again it occurs to Sherlock, how disconcerting it is to see him like this. "When I first sent Mary Morstan to join you, I never dreamed that she would fall in love and marry," he's saying. "I never dreamed that she would produce a child, I thought her far too sensible for that…"

Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter. "Mary, sensible?" he demands. "Had you ever met her?" Mycroft shrugs and he shakes his head in disbelief. "And what precisely about Mary Morstan said to you that she would follow orders like a good little drummer girl, hmm?"

"I didn't think she'd follow orders," Mycroft retorts. "I just assumed that when she chose her companion it wouldn't be a man like John Watson she'd settle on."

He looks at Sherlock, very straight and very hard.

In that moment something which Sherlock has spent a very long time trying not to think about, let alone acknowledge, falls into place. It feels like a crack inside him.

He can see in Mycroft's face that he knows it too, the bastard. For the first time in a long time he genuinely wants to punch his brother.

"You meant her for me," he says quietly, and he can't help the knot of, of…feeling which those words evoke. It's a fist of rage and helplessness and indignation, all rolled together and clenching in his chest. "You meant Mary for me, you meant Mary to be my companion…"

"Yes." Mycroft breaks his gaze, starts fussing with his gloves, his hat. The air of discomfort about him is palpable but there is nothing apologetic in his tone. "I thought that you would suit, and I thought that you would make one another happy-"

"But why?" Sherlock looks at his brother, mystified. "Why on earth were you concerned about my being happy?" Because Mycroft Holmes had spent their entire childhood telling his brother that emotions were a weakness, that sentiment was a thing to be ignored. It was Mycroft who had encouraged him to join the service, it was Mycroft who had discouraged his youthful feelings for Molly. It was Mycroft pointed out at every opportunity that Sherlock was extraordinary and should live an extraordinary price, no matter the cost to him or to other people, and to hear him say this now…

He stares at his brother and for a moment it's like looking at a stranger.

To be fair he meets his gaze calmly, without dissembling or reproach.

"You said you had a question for me," Sherlock says coldly. "Ask it."

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at his Arctic tone but he nods. Composes himself.

He looks his brother in the eye, one of the few who would be brave enough to do so, given the way that brother is glowering at him.

And people say, Sherlock thinks, that I'm the one with more bollocks than brains.

"Do you want to marry Molly Smythe?" Mycroft asks him bluntly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The man is unbelievable. "Molly does not wish to remarry-"

"I didn't ask what Molly wants," Mycroft speaks over him calmly. "I asked what you want, brother mine: do you want to marry the little widow or not?"

Sherlock can't see how this fits in with their earlier conversation and he doesn't feel like giving Mykey the satisfaction of admitting to his feelings. Nevertheless he can't bring himself to lie about Molly. Even spoken in jest, such words would feel disloyal, dishonourable.

And he has had enough of lying to last him a lifetime.

"Yes," he grinds out through gritted teeth. "Yes, I would marry Molly if she would have me."

Mycroft nods. "Good, that's what I hoped you would say."

"You hoped?!" Sherlock snaps, to which his brother smiles. It's a tight-lipped, mercenary thing. He's looking more like the famous Ice Man by the minute, the puppet-master so many in government and at court fear.

It is somehow both frightening and yet oddly reassuring.

"Yes, I hoped," he says. He sets his hat atop his head, pushes open the carriage door with a surprisingly jaunty swagger. "I do not want you to lose anymore than you already have because of my… inadequacies."

And he hops out onto the ground. Straightens his coat jacket and coat.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Thea put you up to saying that," he accuses, following suit.

"Indeed she did." Mycroft's tone is almost cheerful. "She's really rather marvellous for that sort of thing: turns out that when she said she'd make an honest man of me she was not being metaphorical."

"Huzzah." Sherlock straightens his own hat, pulls on his own gloves. They start up the path towards the house. "I still don't see what any of this has to do with what's going on with John Watson," he mutters under his breath. Mycroft must hear him though, for he catches his elbow, leans into him. When he speaks his voice is very, very soft, these words clearly only meant for his brother.

"This isn't to do with John Watson," he mutters. "It's to do with you. You, Sherlock, and nobody else. I want you to remember that there is more to your life and your future than this house and the mistakes of the past. I want you to know that you have things to look forward to, should you get your act together enough to fight for them."

"Like Mary did?" The words are out of his mouth before he can help himself. Their bitterness is palpable. "Mary fought for what she wanted and looked at what it got her-"

Though Mycroft flinches at his bluntness, nevertheless he doesn't pull away.

Rather he cocks his head. Surveys his brother. "What would Mary want for you?" he asks. "And what would she want for Rosie? For John?"

"She'd want us all to be happy." Of that, Sherlock has no doubt.

Mycroft nods, as if there's something self-evident in that statement but Sherlock doesn't see it.

"We will see to it that John and Rosie have the chance to be happy," he says. "And we will see to it that you have that chance too, brother: there's none who deserves it more." Again that mercenary smile. "Except, perhaps, my lady wife."

And before Sherlock can comment on this- frankly disturbing- piece of positivity, Mycroft has opened the door to the townhouse and ventured inside.

"Come along," he calls, "chop, chop. People to wake, doctors to cross-examine, etc, etc, etc."

Sherlock grinds his teeth and clenches his fists but nevertheless he follows him inside.

The Library

A Few Minutes Later

To Sherlock's not-so-great surprise, he knows more of the women in the house than the male carousers.

That's mainly because in the course of his investigations he has found courtesans and working girls to be by far one of the more interesting sources of information on the Ton.

They also seem to like him, something he has always found slightly mystifying.

"Morning, Sherlock!" the first woman they come across trills, grinning. She's as naked as the day she was born and covered in paint, almost as if she had been rolling in it. (And maybe she has; Sherlock makes a mental note to check his art supplies later). She stretches her arms aloft, causing her rather impressive breasts to rise, and both the brothers Holmes blush and turn away.

"Do you know where your clothes are, Venetia?" Sherlock inquires. She answers in the affirmative. "Then could you put them back on, please?"

The girl laughs, scooting her to feet. "So virtuous," she coos, making a point of pinching Mycroft's backside as she saunters past. He jumps and then tries to pretend he did nothing of the sort.

Sherlock is unconvinced, something his expression conveys quite eloquently.

"Are the rest of the girls here from your house?" he asks Venetia, still keeping his back to her as she hunts through a pile of clothes, looking for her gown. Again she answers in the affirmative. "Then can you please round your confederates up and vacate the premises?" Sherlock asks. "I can have Wiggins arrange a carriage for you all."

"No breakfast?" Venetia pouts.

"Alas not," Mycroft says. He hunts in his pocket, takes out a guinea. "Take that to Coffreys in Covent Garden and buy yourselves some coffee and a bun, there's a good girl."

Venetia grabs it out of his hand and stuffs it into her bodice. "It'll be brandy and cake, ducks," she tells him, "but thank you kindly, anyway." She then starts rousing her fellow courtesans, a great deal more efficiently than either Sherlock or Mycroft would have dared do.

The Holmes brothers also pretend not to notice her picking the nearest man's pocket.

"Do you know where John is?" Sherlock inquires once they're dressed, to which one of the other girls- Fredericka, he thinks- points towards the door to John's study.

"He collapsed in there," she says. "Couldn't hold his whisky, the poor mite." There's a chorus of knowing, feminine sniggers at that. She and the girls are putting on their shoes by now, their dressing accomplished a great deal quicker than one would expect in the absence of a ladies' maid.

Sherlock supposes they've had the practice, though.

Once the girls are gone- Venetia again pinching Mycroft's bum before she goes- the brothers set to rousing the male carousers. This is a great deal more fun, since it involves the pouring of cold water over them, cups of which have been provided by their housekeeper Hudson.

The woman is clearly not best pleased with one of her employers.

Each man wakes, swearing and sputtering. Most of them come up swinging, too; they get a punch in the chops for their trouble.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft, being used to having people try to hit them, rather enjoy ejecting those men from the house. They are told not to return in no uncertain terms, under pain of more than a thump. Only one of them is foolish enough to argue; that individual leaves with a black eye, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Having made the fatal error of insulting both the brothers' mother and any hypothetical wives they might possess, Sherlock knows that the blackguard got off easy. Mycroft is touchy about people insulting Anthea.

The house thus cleared Sherlock dispatches Hudson to make some dry toast and a large pot of coffee.

He and Mycroft then head into John's study, making as much noise as possible as they go.

When they enter the room is in darkness; everything stinks of alcohol and tobacco, of sex and unwashed bodies. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the grimness of it all, once again thankful that he hadn't brought Rosemund home last night. They find John passed out as his writing desk and wearing little beyond his smalls, his flesh smeared here and there with paint- So clearly he and Venetia had gotten along well together.

With a huff of distaste Sherlock pulls open the curtains on the bay windows. He then opens the windows wide, letting the cold of the wind sweep into the room (and hopefully airing it out). John mumbles something irritated in his sleep, frowning and turning, trying to hide his eyes from the light.

It makes him look… It makes him look awfully young, Sherlock thinks.

Wearing that same tight smile he's had in the carriage Mycroft stands beside him. Leans down so his mouth is at the doctor's ear. "John Watson, where is your medical bag?" he booms.

Instantly John jerks awake, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.

They flash around the room in a panic, trying to find the source of the medical emergency. After all, he spent years being the nearest doctor to every battle, he knows what it's like to be put to work at a moment's notice. When at last his eyes come to rest upon Mycroft he opens his mouth angrily, clearly about to tell the older man off-

Alas, before he can do so he turns a horrible shade of green and doubles over, vomiting all over his former commanding officer's shoes.

As angry as he is at the man, Sherlock can't help but think it serves his brother right.

Mycroft steps back quickly, managing to avoid most of the onslaught. Acting as he has been required to for the last two years Sherlock makes his way to John's side, pats and strokes his back. He murmurs quietly that he's here, something which past experience would suggest John finds soothing. When the doctor is finished throwing up he stands, his face embarrassed. Eyes casting about for his clothes (God knows where they are). Sherlock hands him the last cup of iced water, something which would have ended up poured over him had he not proven so easy to rouse. John gulps it down thankfully.

"Morning," he finally mumbles.

"Good morning, John!" Mycroft booms, again far too loudly and jovially to be decent this early in the morning.

John looks at him in loathing.

"Oh don't be like that!" Mycroft says. "You've already ruined my shoes: let's call it even." He shakes some of the vomit off his shoes and onto John's Persian rug with the same gleeful smile, before settling himself in the chair in front of John's desk. Making himself comfortable.

Sherlock takes the seat beside him, pausing to fish a long silk stocking out from beneath the cushion and discarding it.

John flops back in his chair, his face still grey.

He brings a hand to his forehead, wincing at the pain, and Sherlock notes with worry that the fingers are trembling. Mycroft notices it too: tremors are the telltale sign of a drunk, both of them know this well. And a doctor with unsteady hands is little use at all.

Despite his better judgement Sherlock finds himself wondering what Mary would say were she to see her husband in this state.

He doubts it would be complementary.

"Are you here to talk morality?" John asks, his voice hoarse. "Or is this a social visit?"

He's already casting around for another drink, judging by the way his eyes are lingering on the top drawer of his desk. .

Mycroft and Sherlock exchange looks, the former disgusted, the latter horrified but unsurprised.

"Oh no, we're not here to talk morality," Mycroft says. "We're here to talk about marriage: Are you aware that you nearly ruined your daughter's prospects for securing one of those last night?"

John frowns. "Rosie's not getting married," he says. "She's far too young." He blinks, panic darting into his expression. "Is she here?" he asks, "did you-"

"Did I bring her home when you had filled the house with courtesans and rakes, you mean?" Sherlock can hear that his voice is not quite even. He can't bring himself to care about it. "No, she spent last night at Mycroft's- Not that you gave any indication it matters to you, considering your behaviour."

"My behaviour?"

John's frowning and Sherlock's not sure whether it's the effect of the hangover or something else. There's something… unfocussed about the man, something he's not sure alcohol alone could produce. "How much do you remember about last night?" he asks carefully but his friend appears not to hear him.

"So she's alright?" John adds. "She's- Rosie is alright?"

Sherlock frowns. "Why wouldn't she be alright?" he asks. "Aside from the obvious?" And he gestures to the room.

John opens his mouth to retort, expression angry, but before he can say anything his eyes roll up in his head and he collapses backwards, his head narrowly missing the edge of the fireplace. As Sherlock watches he starts to shake and shudder, his limbs quaking as if he's having a fit-

"Get Hudson," Sherlock snaps, pulling off his cravat and grabbing his friend's legs Pulling him towards the centre of the study.

Though he clearly dislikes being ordered, Mycroft rushes to obey.