Chapter 2: Mycroft's Guide to Romance

Sherlock nudged a tray of thumbs aside to make room on the kitchen table for his favorite microscope. Some cockeyed optimist had written "Property of St. Bart's" in red sharpie on the underside, but really, no one in the pathology department other than Molly could even begin to appreciate the finesse of M-14, so naturally Sherlock had liberated it from the shackles of mediocrity several years ago. If Molly ever wondered where M-14 had gone, she never said. She and Sherlock both also quite liked M-9, a reliable workhorse if ever there was one, which still resided at the lab. None of the pathology interns dared use M-9. They were all afraid of which of their dark secrets Sherlock would unearth in his wrath.

Molly. Sherlock felt a warm thrum of excitement whenever he thought of her.

The fish and chips date had indeed gone very well. They talked of John and Rosie, crap telly, and techniques for rehydrating desiccated skin to obtain fingerprints. She smiled a lot and even laughed a few times. After they parted, Sherlock spent a very productive five minutes carefully tucking every moment, every look and gesture away in the rapidly expanding Molly Hooper room of his Mind Palace for repeat viewing.

He had to admit, amazing as it seemed, he was in love. What to do about it, though, that was the puzzle.

Sherlock heard a light tread on the stairs and then a sharp rap on the door, the unmistakable sound of an umbrella hook hitting wood. Sherlock sighed deeply and braced himself.

"Go away, Mycroft!" he called, little expecting to be obeyed. And sure enough, almost immediately the British Government came striding confidently into the sitting room, coat draped neatly over his arm and using the umbrella as a walking stick.

"Congratulations, Sherlock," the elder Holmes began without preamble. "It appears you have successfully navigated lunch with Dr. Hooper. She not only accompanied you willingly, but she did not throw a drink in your face even once during the whole of the date. She even let you sneak a few of her chips, if my eyes did not deceive."

"Stop spying on me, Mycroft. CCTV is for thwarting terrorists, not stalking diners," Sherlock grumbled sourly without looking up from the lens, determined not to interrupt his analysis of Ecuadorian cigar ash.

Mycroft scoffed. "Nonsense. You would be lost without me." He idly studied the tray of thumbs for a few minutes. "Now that the first and some might say easiest step has been accomplished, it's time to plan your next move. I've discussed the options with Lady Smallwood and –"

"Two of the most powerful people in the country and you've nothing better to do than oversee my love life. How wonderful!"

"As you yourself pointed out only last week, brother mine, you have a checkered past with the good doctor. Add to that the fact that you are – one brief and wholly mendacious relationship with Janine Hawkins notwithstanding – almost entirely unused to courting a woman. Irene Adler ate you for breakfast, emotionally-speaking, so virtually nothing from that liaison will come in handy until you've progressed to a significantly more physical stage –"

Sherlock's head shot up. "Get out!" he barked angrily. Mycroft of all people knew better than to mention The Woman to him! And he was in no mood to discuss his sex life with anyone. He made to stand from the table. "Or shall I throw you out?"

"Yellow."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"Yellow," Mycroft repeated calmly. "It appears to be Dr. Hooper's favorite color, as evidenced by the lemonpeel angelfish print on the mouse pad in her office, the color of the umbrella she keeps closest to her front door, and the dress she wore to John and Mary Watson's wedding."

"You went poking around in her closet?" Sherlock was aghast.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know I abhor legwork. I sent Anthea to poke around. She was most thorough."

"I don't suppose telling Molly to change the locks on her flat would do any good?" Sherlock asked without hope.

"None whatsoever." Mycroft shot back pleasantly. "Now back to yellow."

"Yes, yes!" Sherlock bit out impatiently. "Through breaking and entering, you've ascertained Molly's favorite color so that I can buy her some sentimental item with yellow in it. Thank you, Mycroft. That is modestly helpful. And now you may go." He gestured towards the door.

"But you must buy her the correct type of item, Sherlock."

"So flowers? Or gold-wrapped chocolate?"

"Dr. Hooper –"

"Oh, do call her Molly, you pompous prig! The woman helped you fake my death. I think that puts you on a first-name basis."

"Fine. Molly does not like chocolate. She only eats it when she is unhappy, and even then, only because she feels it is expected."

Sherlock glared at him. "What in God's name do you have in that MI-5 file?"

"Everything, Sherlock," Mycroft replied brightly. "Everything there is to say on the subject of Molly Hooper." Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "Don't look so surprised. The woman helped me fake your death and I trusted her to keep that secret for two full years. She is one of your closest acquaintances. Naturally I maintain a complete personal history and psychological profile on her."

Now Sherlock felt intensely uncomfortable. Mycroft had clearly pried into every aspect of Molly's life and now he was laying all her secrets bare as casually as if he were handing over the morning paper. Sherlock was well aware Molly did not want to love him, and the thought of using Mycroft's intel to emotionally manipulate her yet again turned his stomach. At the same time, though, he had to admit he was completely at sea as to how to navigate a real relationship with a woman and more than a little terrified he'd muck it up. Perhaps it behooved him to seize every advantage?

"As to flowers," Mycroft continued, unconcerned by the inner turmoil now playing out on his brother's face, "the idea has merit. Dr – ah, Molly would appreciate the gesture. It conveys unmistakable romantic intent, which is important in this case. You don't want her to 'friend zone' you," Mycroft intoned ominously.

"Been trolling Twitter again, have we, Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered sarcastically.

Mycroft ignored the jab. "However, a full bouquet would be premature. Molly is by nature an optimistic person, but you have disappointed her many times in the past. She is understandably afraid to share her heart with you and therefore you must tread softly. Lady Smallwood and I agree roses are absolutely out of the question; they place too much pressure on a budding relationship. After perusing the file, Lady Smallwood recommends a single sunflower accompany your gift, although she says you may choose a bunch of daffodils if you want to push the envelope a bit."

"Wait, I'm to give Molly another gift at the same time? I thought you said I mustn't come on too strong?"

"You are going to show her you can be attentive and considerate without being overbearing. Her cat's name is" Mycroft checked his notebook "Toby and he is male. Not that the gender matters, I imagine. Molly might be wary if you give her a gift at this early stage, but she will be charmed if you give her cat a gift. According to Anthea's research, a yellow plush toy filled with catnip will be quite suitable." He produced a folded paper from his pocket and placed it next to the microscope. "Such items are readily available online, but here is a list of pet supply shops and florists within easy walking distance of St. Bart's, should you wish to pick them out in person on the way to see Molly."

Sherlock was actually quite touched that his stern, unsentimental older brother had gone to so much trouble (and inappropriately applied so many government resources) to helping further his romantic ambitions. He tried to keep the grin off his face. "And I assume you and Lady Smallwood have also discussed when I should ask Molly out on our next date?"

"You are not going to ask Molly out this time around," Mycroft replied with a knowing smile. Sherlock frowned. "You are going to stop by St. Bart's – not for a case, mind! – and give her the gifts, and let her ask you out. Give her a chance to put you both on equal footing, as it were. At the risk of repeating myself, the flowers by themselves will convey romantic intent and past practice indicates Molly is not a shy woman. She's asked you out before and only needs a little encouragement to do so again." Mycroft turned and moved to exit the flat. "If said invitation is not forthcoming, you may of course call her up later and suggest dinner as Plan B."

"I hope you'll let me figure out Plan B on my own. And no more interference, okay? I think I can take it from here."

"Time will tell, little brother," Mycroft replied, internally making no promises. He reached for the doorknob.

Far from thanking the elder Holmes, Sherlock tried desperately to think of a parting insult, although his heart wasn't in it. Even he could admit Mycroft was giving him surprisingly sound advice and he was grateful. Still, Mycroft and Sherlock did not do sentiment when it came to each other, and Sherlock knew Mycroft expected some sort of cutting remark.

"You missed your true calling, Mycroft, scheming on behalf of the lonely hearts of London." He grimaced inwardly. Not up to his usual standards. Perhaps love was making him soft?

"Indeed, I exceed even my own expectations," Mycroft called back airily as he descended the hallway stairs. "But then again, I am the smart one."

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door close behind his brother and then quickly snatched up the list of pet supply shops and florists. As he scanned the list, a mental picture of the map of that part of the city stretched out effortlessly before him. Sherlock calculated if he left within the next 5 minutes, he could visit the shops and make it to Bart's just as Molly was finishing her shift.

Definitely daffodils rather than a sunflower, he decided. Faint heart never won fair lady. A quick check of the inventory of each of the pet supply shops on his mobile revealed one that stocked a delightfully absurd yellow banana plush toy stuffed with catnip. Sherlock took a quick trip into the Molly room in his Mind Palace and scanned all her smiles from their lunch date, searching for the one he liked best. Yes, that carefree one, the one that lit up her whole face while her eyes sparkled, the one that had made his pulse race and his breath catch – if his gifts could produce something close to that smile, or even surpassing it, that would be lovely.

Grabbing his Belstaff off its hook, Sherlock swished out the door and hailed a cab, determined to sweep Molly off her feet, one plush toy at a time!