The tension in 221b Baker street was palpable even from where Molly regarded the scene from a sitting chair to the side of the flat's parlor. She could almost taste it, like something seasoned with too much salt. Mycroft Holmes paced the floor behind his brother's chair in a brown tweed suit that was two sizes too large; he leaned heavily on his umbrella with each step as if he was weary from the exercise. Anthea Salisbury watched his every move with despondency in her eyes from the client's seat. John Watson twirled his mustache opposite Holmes anxiously; his gaze kept darting between each member of the gathering as if he expected someone to combust at any moment.

Movement from the stoic Holmes drew Molly's attention. When she peaked at him, his expression shifted and his frame stiffened in his leather chair. Her heart skipped a beat as he sat forward on the edge of his seat. He was dressed in a dark grey blazer and trousers with a deep crimson and black houndstooth patterned waistcoat. A black cravat was knotted tightly at his throat. As always, his impressive comportment made her swoon a bit. Her eyes slid up to his handsome face which appeared harshly beautiful beneath his severe locks. He frowned and juggled the pods in his hand.

"Whoever said these were orange pips?" his head drifted up.

Everyone perked. Anthea's large brown eyes blinked several times and smoothed her hands over her emerald-green day dress. Her fingers fiddled with the black lace trim on one of the flounces that adorned her skirts.

"W-Well, I just assumed-"

Holmes expunged a noisy breath through his nostrils. "You assumed wrong."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snipped.

John cleared his throat hastily. "What is it, Holmes? What about the pips?"

Holmes turned his head slightly. Molly could see his thoughts tumbling in the little twitches of his face. His eyes constricted as if he focussed his deductive lens.

"They are not orange pips. These pods too large and irregularly shaped."

Holmes blinked rapidly then shuttered his lid momentarily. His eyes darted back and forth beneath them. A thought seemed to grip him and his eyes popped open. As always, Molly found it fascinating to watch his fleeting expressions. His thoughts teased themselves like the shadow of dancers waltzing behind curtains.

"Shaddock," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Anthea prodded.

Holmes stretched his neck. "Shaddock, named for the captain who introduced them to the west Indies, also known as pomelo. They are a type of citrus fruit native to southeast Asia. Oranges are actually the product of the crossbreeding of pomelo with mandarins but this fruit has thicker hide, is considerably less sweet-"

"Yes, yes, shaddock," Mycroft grumbled, "do you have a point, Sherlock?"

John gasped. "Wait, this fruit grows in the West Indies? Is this more of Miss Donovan's scheme then? What game does she play?"

Holmes frowned. "As I said, Shaddock hails from many countries with warm climates and such. Though, this does not bode well for her . . ."

Anthea rose, she gripped her handbag with white knuckles. "Is this woman a suspect then? And you know about her?! Why has she not been apprehended?"

Holmes' lips turned down and he swallowed. "Miss Donovan was in custody at one point but she, erm, escaped."

"How fortuitous! Now she hunts my father!"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Holmes sighed and juggled the pips again. He kept fidgeting as if he agitated. Tiny spasms of a discomfort tweaked his features. Molly wanted to go to him, to ask what was wrong, but propriety kept her glued to her seat. Finally, he ascended from his chair and without a word and wandered towards his sitting room. Anthea scooted in front of him. Holmes frowned at her like she was a pesky insect.

"Mr. Holmes? What is your plan? My father is at great risk. I need to know how you are going to help him."

When the detective made a face, Mycroft advanced and cleared his throat. Molly experienced a sympathy pang for the anxious man.

"I will protect him," he said softly.

Anthea glanced at him, her lip trembled and she shook her head. "That is not-"

Their exchange was interrupted by an impatient Holmes. He waved his hand dismissively.

"Yes, see, there you go. I am not in the business of protection, Miss Salisbury, especially not for a man who has likely earned his insecurity."

Molly's lips pulled taut. Holmes was infuriating and so clueless at times for all his celebrated genius. Anthea obviously cared and feared for her father greatly. Molly felt a blossom of anger in her chest for the woman in addition to the burn of mortification for convincing her to meet with Holmes in the first place. As if he sensed something, the great man's attentions momentarily gravitated her way and she was graced an opportunity to glower at him. His eyes rounded, a slightly confused scowl flitted across his features and facial tick caused his lips to jerk at the corners. For the briefest moment, she held his gaze before his nose wrinkled and he looked away. To her surprise, he flushed and mumbled a reassurance to Miss Salisbury.

"There is really no one better than Mycroft to protect your father."

Once again, Anthea and the elder Holmes traded apprehensive glances.

"Let me escort you home, Miss Salisbury," Mycroft offered. "I will speak to your father this very evening and convince him to accept my help."

Miss Salisbury nodded slowly and Mycroft let out a breath he had been holding. For several seconds, they regarded one another and an awkward silence ensued. Then, Mycroft snatched up his umbrella and held out his arm. Anthea took it hesitantly and the pair of them said their goodbyes. Molly was left with Dr. Watson and Holmes, the latter whom seemed distracted. He continued into his study. She listened to the scrape of several books pulled from his shelves and the thump of them hit his table.

Dr. Watson sighed and pulled out his pocket watch. "Well, I should be off."

Molly swiped her handbag from the floor and sprang to her feet. She looked over to where Holmes lingered in front of one of his bookshelves stuffed full of tomes, then her eyes drifted around his flat cluttered with curiosities. She could not imagine how she might even begin to carve out her own place amongst his collection and suddenly, she felt like an ill fit. Holmes had barely acknowledged her visit and seemed content to let her leave without doing so either. Never had she felt more like an interloper. She stared at Holmes' broad back in an effort to will him to look at her as he mulled over a text but he was too engrossed to notice.

She swallowed and inhaled a shaky breath as she glanced to Dr. Watson. "I should leave as well. Would you like to share a hack?"

His eyes flitted in Holmes' direction nervously, then he nodded. Before she could take another step, Holmes head came up. He snapped his book shut, strode from his study and snatched up his great coat. Molly straightened, shook out her pale blue skirts and lifted her chin.

"You need not also escort me, Holmes," she murmured, "I do not wish to be an inconvenience."

His eyes narrowed as he yanked on his deerstalker.

"It is quite alright, Holmes," Dr. Watson interjected, "I can-"

Holmes growled without looking away from Molly. "She is my fiancé. I will see her home. Besides, you and I need to go pay Lestrade a visit."

Molly frowned. His tone was clipped, impatient. Before she could protest further, his hand was in the small of her back and she was urged out the door. She just made it a couple steps down the stairs when she heard voices. She stopped and Holmes bumped into her, she held up her hand and shushed him when she heard voices. Molly peaked over the railing to see Anthea and Mycroft near the front entry. Anthea's face was flushed, her eyes red. Molly could only see the Mycroft's back and the downward tilt of his head. He leaned his weight on his umbrella silently for a few seconds. Then, unexpectedly, he slunk down to one knee.

"Oh, please . . . Mycroft, I-I do not want my father's problems to be your burden," Anthea said with a tremor in her voice.

He inhaled a shaky breath. "Anthea, my love, you will always be my burden. Always."

Anthea rubbed tears away but could not stem their flow. Mycroft took her hand.

"As I hope my burdens will always be yours. Please, please, promise me that you will allow me to protect you, in name and every other way. Please say you will be my wife, once and for all."

Molly's eyes stung at the unfolding of the scene. Mycroft's voice was so tremulous and sincere. She glanced up to Holmes and Dr. Watson. Both appeared comically uncomfortable. John rocked on his heels with his eyes fixed to the ceiling while Holmes grimaced at his pocket watch. They were so awkward that Molly nearly snorted a laugh, then she made the mistake of studying Holmes a bit too closely. Her smile waned. His nose crinkled and lips curled. He appeared pained. The strain at the corners of his eyes was like a dagger to her heart.

Her gaze returned swiftly to the pair in the foyer as her heart staggered through its next few beats. The ailing organ felt as if it were being squeezed by an unseen hand. She wheezed through her own misery and tried to focus on the unfurling emotional beauty below as a distraction. Anthea didn't speak, just nodded and in the next instant, Mycroft lumbered to his feet and they embraced. Molly listened intently as he declared his love in a near whisper. She blinked rapidly to stave off a welling of bittersweet tears. She was happy for Anthea but felt wretched with envy. She could not imagine her Holmes speaking to her in such a tender manner. In fact, she found it increasingly difficult to imagine she might ever elicit such sentiment in him. For the first time, she admitted to herself she had been letting herself be swept along in his marriage plans because she had hoped he might feel something akin to what his brother just admitted to his lady love.

"Fool!" An inner voice admonished.

Molly straightened and averted her gaze when the pair kissed. It was too intimate and her heart felt like an apple bouncing along a street. She stared at her own feet until she heard shuffling and the creak and slam of Baker Street's front door.

"Oh, dear God, I thought that would never end," Holmes grunted once the pair finally departed.

Molly shook her head and peered up at him above her on the stairs. Her temper spiked even as the emotional bruises began to set it.

"Always, always scorn . . . scorn and derision for such emotions," she rasped, nearly choking on a mix of ire and sadness.

Holmes squinted and a muscle flecked in his jaw. She could see the wheels of his mind turning as he formulated his next words. He shrugged and descended the steps. John followed after him.

"All emotions are abhorrent to me, Hooper," he muttered as he passed her on the way to the front door.

Her footsteps faltered at the bottom of the steps. John did not notice and kept striding towards the exit with his counterpart.

"Even love?" Molly ventured softly after them.

Her question halted the pair's advance. Holmes' shoulders stiffened. He stretched his neck sideways and then spun slowly on his heel. John teetered around with an anxious expression as if he were witnessing a carriage accident in progress. His mouth kept opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

"Love," Holmes repeated with a tremulous, irritated voice, "love is the worst affliction of all. It clouds one's mind and obfuscates the path of clearest reasoning. Love is a frailty and a failure. Look . . . look at what it has done to m- . . . ahem, m-my brother."

Molly winced. "It has made him very happy-"

Holmes stepped forward, his expression contorted in disgust. "It has made him miserable!"

"So you do not want it for yourself . . . ever?" her voice was barely audible.

His eyes widened and he scanned her face rapidly. For a moment, she thought she saw fear. He drew in a breath.

"I do not."

She swallowed. Another question arose in her throat and bubbled past her lips before she had time to think.

"I-If this is your opinion, why would you ever marry?"

His chin went back, his lips parted, and his eyelids fluttered as if she had just spoken an unfamiliar language. She clasped her hands together in front of her to stop them from trembling. She wanted to take her words back but they were already hanging in the air. She knew in that instant that she wasn't ready for the truth. She knew it would not be what she wanted to hear.

John cleared his throat as if he knew that as well. "Holmes-"

The great man waved his hand at his friend to cut him off. His voice dropped to its lowest tone. For a few seconds, his lips remained in a grim line.

"I am not marrying you for you to love me, Hooper. Do not ever love me, understand? I forbid it."

She wrung her wrists nervously. Her heart collapsed like a fallen cake.

"F-Forbid it? A-As if you can do such a thing," she retorted lamely and achingly disappointed in the meekness of her voice.

His nostrils flared, his next utterances dropped to a gravelly timber. "Listen to me, I do not want your love. I do not want its demands."

"Wh-Why?" her voice sounded weak and needy, she hated herself.

Holmes expunged a hoarse breath. His voice cracked.

"Because I cannot return it, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock watched the slight frame of his fiancé as she made her way up the steps towards her front door. Her head was bowed slightly, her shoulders slumped. He slammed a fist against the side of the hack as it jerked away from the curb. He flexed his fingers before balling them again. He feared if he actually laid his hand on the handle by his knee, he would jump from the moving cab and race back to Stamford's house.

"Holmes-"

"Do not," he ground out, his breaths fogged the hack's window.

"Do not what?" Watson asked gruffly, shifting in his seat.

"Do not . . . be you at this very moment. I need a clear head."

Watson snorted. "Right, well, sometimes it helps to discuss these things-"

Sherlock slammed the side of his curled palm against the window. A crack snaked its way from under his hand to the top corner of the frame. The hack jerked to a stop and the driver poked his head in through the slider at the front of the cab. The slim, toothy man spied the damaged pane and then glowered at Sherlock.

"Oy! You better have the coin to pay for that, sir, or I will toss you and your friend out right now and then have you blacklisted for good measure."

Sherlock huffed and dug into his pocket. He flipped the fellow more than enough to replace all of the hack's windows. The driver grumbled and whacked the slider closed, then they were on their way again.

"Holmes-"

"Aarg, be quiet, Watson, and for once in your life, mind your own damn business!"

Watson threw up his hands.

"Fine, Holmes, fine! I will let you navigate these unfamiliar waters all on your own," he jerked his pocketwatch out and shook his head. "How long will we be at Scotland Yard, might I ask? I would like to catch my wife before she heads out to her women's group again."

Sherlock hiked a brow. "Who said anything about Scotland Yard?"

Watson sighed. "You. You indicated we were going to see Lestrade."

"That I did, but we are not going to his place of work. We are paying him a visit at his mother's home."

Watson's brows scrunched. "What? Why?"

Sherlock squinted through the rain which had just started to fall and streak down the broken window. He sighed.

"Because that is where we will find Miss Sally Donovan."