Author's Note: From wikipedia, "The mongoose emits a high-pitched noise, commonly known as giggling, when it mates. Giggling is also heard during courtship." I was just looking for info about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. The things you learn on the internet.

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his plush chair at his desk, hands steepled under his chin. He looked very much like his younger brother at the moment, but he would not appreciate the comparison if it were mentioned to him. Anthea usually didn't bring it up. She had tact. Mycroft was waiting for his brother, in fact, and his co-conspirator, the St. Bart's pathologist. The distinctive, black car that had whisked John Watson away too many times to count had been sent for Miss Hooper and Sherlock. There were few last technical details that needed to be sorted to avoid having Miss Hooper face any charges for the fraudulent death certificate of Sherlock Holmes. To be perfectly honest, Sherlock was not needed in the meeting. However, Mycroft had heard rumors. Mycroft needed more information. He needed to observe the two, out of their natural habitat.

Kisses at crime scenes. Holding hands in restaurants. Gropings in the morgue. And these were all in public places. Heaven only knew what they were getting up to in private. Well, heaven and Mrs. Hudson. There was a soft knock, and Anthea entered with his laptop. She smiled at him as she handed it over.

"You may want to take a look at the car's video feed," she said with a twinkle and turned to leave the room.

"Thank you, my dear," he called after her absently, eyes fixed on the screen. Big brother was watching. She left Mycroft alone with the grainy images of his little brother and Miss Hooper engaged in what could only be called a full on make out session in the back of the government car. Their heads rested on the back of the seat, jaws working as they tasted and explored each other's mouths. Sherlock had Molly's ponytail wrapped tightly around one hand and Molly shamelessly had both of her hands buried in Sherlock's curly mop, controlling his head as she worked her mouth against his.

Ah, Sherlock. Making up for your lost years, I see. How quaint. And just a bit vulgar. Mycroft hadn't seen such a display since he'd last been forced to take the Tube, many years ago now, and had the misfortune of sitting across from a pair of teenage lovers who were expressing their affection with no regard to social propriety. Eyes closed, mouths glued together as they embraced passionately, those teenagers of yore had nothing on Sherlock and Molly Hooper who were going at each other with enthusiasm. Indeed, the young woman on the train had had the decency to push away her boyfriend's roving hands when they happened upon more intimate places on her anatomy. Miss Hooper had no such compunction. In fact, as Sherlock slid a stealthy hand from her waist up to cup her breast over the fabric of her soft cardigan, Molly actually pulled away slightly to unbutton the sweater, revealing a lacy blue camisole under which resided a pair of small, but very nice, breasts—the footage was grainy, but Mycroft was a man and an excellent observer. Not content to stop there, Sherlock stared down at Molly, his expression unreadable, blank, but his mouth was hanging open—panting like a dog, sneered Mycroft—and slid a hand under the camisole. Molly leaned forward again to nuzzle his neck and captured his mouth again for a long, open mouthed kiss.

The pair shifted until Sherlock was lying supine on the back seat one knee bent and the other leg braced against the floorboard. Molly was draped on top of him, kissing her way down to the top button of his dark blue shirt, which she then unbuttoned to give her lips better access. Sherlock's head was thrown back, eyes closed. His throat worked as he swallowed and breathed heavily. He continued to stroke her hair, tugging lightly, when she suddenly stopped her ministrations to his chest and struggled to sit up. Sherlock opened his eyes in confusion, but Molly pulled him up until he was again sitting properly, shirt gaping, wild-eyed and panting. She smiled and drew her legs up until she was sitting on her knees next to him. Sherlock tried to kiss her, but she stopped him with a finger on his lips. Sherlock (and Mycroft) watched as she slid a hand down to his buckle and leaning over, began to unfasten his trousers. Sherlock's hand entwined itself into her ponytail again and he threw his head back again against the seat-

"Oh dear Lord," muttered Mycroft pressing a button and ending the transmission of the video. He pressed another button on his desk, beckoning his assistant.

She entered his office with a half-smile turning up the corner of her mouth, "yes, Sir?"

Mycroft ran a hand over his lips and chin, his only concession to being a bit, well, disturbed by what he had just seen. "I think there will be a slight traffic delay—contact the driver and have him take the long route here. I think my brother and Miss Hooper need a bit more time to compose themselves before our meeting."

"Yes, sir." Anthea departed with her instructions, and Mycroft leaned back once again, blue eyes gazing into the distance, lost in thought. This was interesting. He had thought it would be difficult to deduce his brother's heart. But there it was, right on his sleeve.


An hour later, Mycroft sat across from his brother and the pathologist. Molly sat primly and politely in her chair, looking over the paperwork Mycroft had handed her to sign. Every button was buttoned. Every hair was in place. Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink. She looked as fresh and wholesome as a bowl full of apples.

Sherlock looked like he had gone through a wind-tunnel—he was thoroughly debauched. He lolled in his chair, two hectic spots of color standing on his cheeks, and his hair was wild. He didn't seem to know where to rest his eyes since no matter where he looked, he kept coming back to rest his gaze on the small woman beside him. The last time Mycroft had seen him look this way, he'd shortly placed a call to an excellent rehab center in the country.

Molly Hooper was a minx, decided Mycroft watching the woman sign her name to the document with a flourish. Contrary to what one may expect, she did not sign her name with a heart or girlish loops. She had a very strong signature—she was a doctor, after all. And despite her nervous giggle and the awkward shuffling that tended to appear when she was with the Holmes brothers, she performed well under pressure. She was a very cool liar when she needed to be. She'd proven herself more than once during Sherlock's exile from the land of the living. Mycroft was impressed. If for some reason this little ploy to keep her record clean didn't work (but of course it would), he would hire her to work for him.

She really was quite frightening—not unlike a…he started to compare her to a housecat, a pampered pet suddenly turned hunter, going after a rat, but that was too cliché, and not quite apt. Molly Hooper was not an indulged housecat, claws cloaked in velvet paws. Nor an alley cat, neither, spoiling for a battle, marking territory. Both were far more suitable descriptions for someone like Adler. Friendly enough until you stroked her fur the wrong way or until she decided to sink her teeth into you-playing with her prey before she ate it. Aloof. Cruel.

No, Molly was not a cat. She was a—something stirred in Mycroft's memory, a story he loved as a little boy—a mongoose. "[Sh]e was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in [her] fur and [her] tail, but quite like a weasel in [her] head and [her] habits," Mycroft silently quoted Kipling in his head. Silly. Playful. A furry, friendly little creature scampering about, taken completely for granted, until she spotted a snake. And then she was deadly. Mycroft blinked at the woman sitting before him with shining eyes and pink cheeks and thought he could like her very much. She was not someone to be underestimated.

Molly signed the last page and handed the papers off to Mycroft with a shy smile. He made a mental note to have Anthea take Mummy's diamond ring out of the safe and send it off for cleaning. Yes, his brother would do well to keep up his association with the pathologist. Rikk-tikki-tck-tck, Miss Hooper.