Mycroft hung his head over Hooper's bare torso as he panted through the final aftershocks and thrusts. Her fingers were leaving red marks where the dug into his backside, below her crossed ankles. He hadn't thought the second time would be possible, let alone superior. It was likely her finishing cry, stifled too late only by biting painfully into his shoulder, that woke the beast in the bedroom.
"God, clearly I'm still high."
"Fuck," Molly whispered breathlessly. Mycroft scooped his shirt off of the floor, and helped her cover her bare chest. Gently slipping out of her, Mycroft turned to glare at his dishevelled little brother.
"Give us a minute, Sherlock," he said with an icy authority he didn't currently feel he justified. Grudgingly obeying, Sherlock shuffled back to the bedroom and slammed the door.
"Rotten luck." Leaning over her, and beginning to feel quite awkward, Mycroft kissed her lightly. It already felt too intimate, for their moment had passed. She responded warmly, stroking his bare back. He couldn't remember them doing much kissing throughout the morning, and now that it was ending, it felt like an oversight. He felt reluctant to leave the shelter of her legs and her embrace, to leave the acceptable expression of passion and heat and deep sympathy for another, but it was time.
"Can't say we didn't enjoy ourselves," she mumbled, and he realized she had her head tilted down to look at their nethers, "I'm soaked." He blushed, she laughed. Their eyes met a moment, communicating silently. He read in the the barely perceivable details of her face what she read in his eyes. They hadn't thought to take precautions, but at their stage of life the risk was low, and not unwelcome.
Backing off of her, he found her clothes first and offered them up before tracking down the bits of his own. After several days occupancy, Mycroft was surprised his garments had spread so far across Molly's small flat. He'd only been in trousers, pants and shirt when they'd hastily undressed. He found his coat on the back of a chair, his jacket in the closet, his waistcoat under the cat, his pocket watch in the kitchen near the drying rack, and his wallet and keys on top of the telly. Embarrassed at how thoroughly he'd invaded her living space, her personal space, her body, in just three days of close confines, he felt the real world sinking back in.
She was watching him from over the rim of a coffee cup, leaning against the counter in her soiled pyjamas, a peachy tank top and plain green bottoms. Her gingery hair was wild about her shoulders, hanging in long tousled waves like a mermaid newly risen from the sea. It was a fantastical imagine, and Mycroft felt foolish for thinking it, for mentally picturing her a fierce, beautiful sea woman decorated with starfish and shells. He realized he was staring, his mouth dry.
"It's alright if you don't know what to say," she said with a confident sweetness. "You don't have to say anything. Thanks for being a spot of sunshine in a shit situation. My settee is open, whenever you have need of it."
Mycroft's huge intellect was working overtime, sorting through something appropriately kind and non-committal. He realized he hadn't said a word since Sherlock had left them to clean up, and that might be bad form. It was not like he was a complete novice at these things, but he certainly had neither the experience or the natural gift to make a graceful exit.
"How long will I need to stay clean to ensure that I never have to see your flabby backside again, Mycroft," came the acid question from the bedroom door. Sherlock was dressed, had packed up anything that had belong to either brother from Molly's bedroom, and was moving towards her flat door. "I think you've imposed on Doctor Hooper enough for one day, we should leave before we take up any more of her weekend."
"It's Thursday, and Mycroft was hardly the imposition, Sherlock," the little woman answered coldly. "It wasn't your brother vomiting in my hair while he explained in great detail my physical flaws and character defects, which will evidently prevent me from ever finding love, or persuading me that I should commit myself to science and admit I'll just die alone but for cats."
"I would never say such things to you, Molly," he started to argue, but after a moment, likely searching his mental database, he stopped. Mycroft arched an eye brow as his brother's expression fell. "I apologize, I was quite cruel, and you didn't deserve such treatment. Please forgive me."
She frowned, forming a response that Mycroft assumed would be honest but not unkind. There was no chance to deliver it, though.
"Wait, it's Thursday? Must dash, I have an appointment at Baker Street at noon."
And with that, he was gone out the door.
Mycroft knew he needed to take his leave and go after his brother, but still couldn't find the words he needed.
"Go on, Mr Holmes," she said with a smile. "I'm sure I'll see you next time someone interesting ends up on my table. Please be good to yourself."
He nodded, hands in pockets, and taking one last glance at her before the spell was completely broken, he allowed himself to remember her touch and taste and sounds, drink it all in. Then he stepped out the door back into his life, and pushed them from his mind.
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
Despite his promise of discretion, there were a few slips.
There was an unfortunate moment one late night at the office when Mycroft's phone was sitting innocently on his desk while he and his personal assistant reviewed the evening's outgoing post.
"This to the Finnish ambassador," he handed her a stack of unmarked white envelopes, "this to the Home Office," a small brown envelope like the kind a hotel keycard would fit. "This next group must be-" DING!
He paused, and both of them looked automatically to his phone. On screen was a photo text message of an unsuccessful pregnancy test, only the control line marked with lurid pink dye. A second noise, and a message followed: "All clear! xo MH". The top line, the label pulled from his contacts read clearly Dr. Molly Hooper.
The personal assistant looked like Christmas had come early. Mycroft's ears were turning pink, and he slipped the phone into his breast pocket.
"Had a scare, did we, sir?" she said pleasantly. "Shall I add Dr Hooper to your personal gift list for birthdays and holidays?"
"That won't be necessary," he said tightly, "now if we can return to the task at hand." He checked his pocket watch to buy himself a moment of thought. Why did she take a test instead of waiting for her regular cycle? If her cycle were affected by birth control, there'd be no cause for concern. Consistently unpredictable cycle? Either that, or she's late and got worried, in which case it could be a false negative. Focus.
The next slip was most certainly his own fault, as was everything that followed.
Sherlock had come out of his latest round of seediness somehow looking more chiselled and sleekly handsome than ever. Mycroft was feeling his extra years, mousey features, cushy job and thinning hair in comparison as they walked side by side down the street on their way to St Bart's. They were to view the body of a murdered American congressman who was ostensibly in London for a conference, and the elder brother's mind was already keenly aware that it would be his first meeting with Doctor Hooper since their days together.
Near the morgue entrance was a new sweet shop just opened, and Sherlock caught the momentary glance Mycroft gave the brightly coloured display of pastries in the window.
"I'd resist temptation on the sweets, Mycroft. Your breasts are already bigger than Molly Hooper's." He turned up the collar of his greatcoat despite the fact that they had arrived at their destination. Like a peacock, preparing for his display.
"Funny you should mention them, brother mine, because I found them to be quite the mouthful and rather sweet." The mocking words came out before he could stop them, complete with an immature smirk. There at the entrance to the hospital, cigarettes slack in their shocked-open mouths, were Inspector Lestrade and Mike Stamford. He felt his stomach turn over with guilt and embarrassment, but he kept his voice cold. "I would personally appreciate it if you could forget what you just heard."
"Not a chance," Lestrade said, a wide grin spreading. "How on earth did his lord and mighty end up at second base with our favourite pathologist?"
"I assure you, Lestrade, those bases were rounded at least once, to continue your juvenile metaphor," Sherlock said with disgust. "I caught them in flagrante delicto on her living room settee at half ten in the morning."
Something inside of Mycroft, possibly a key portion of his dignity, up and died right there. He could feel his behaviour level sliding from immature to horrible, and there was nothing he could do to stop his pride from lashing out.
"Your obvious jealousy is unbecoming, Sherlock. You ignored Miss Hooper for nearly a decade, and she waited for you. Could you be surprised that the consequence of watching you fail to control your addiction over and over was that she was willing to throw any chance with you away for a trifling morning of meaningless congress with me." Mycroft stepped closer to his brother, and ignored the hurt look on his face to deliver his final blow in the same icy calm. "You've always known that you don't deserve her, Sherlock, and she's finally realized it too."
Mycroft pushed past the detective and the pathologist to enter the building, already ashamed at his outburst but with no intention of displaying it.
He saw Molly almost immediately through the observation window of the sterile room where she did post-mortems. She was head to toe in a hooded pale blue clean suit, a mask covering one half of her face, the other behind thick goggles. While he watched, she squeezed the contents of a disemboweled stomach onto a medical pan and began to poke around at them. I should ask her to lunch, he thought suddenly. I've shamed Sherlock for his treatment of her, but it wouldn't hurt for me to be at least- he mentally cringed at the thought- friendly.
Lestrade knocked on the window next to him, making him jump a little.
"Can we come in?" He shouted through the glass. She shook her head no, and pointed at the morgue doors. The trio of men waited in awkward silence in the large room, and Mike Stamford went back to his office. The tension between the Holmes brothers was palpable.
After what felt like an eternity, Molly came through the doors and began pulling off her disposable suit. Mycroft told himself that it would be absurd if he were to connect at all the removal of her clothes with a now-unwelcome erotic memory, and that it was only with detached disinterest that he watched her pull it down each leg. He had no opinion about the way she pulled her hair out from the back of her shirt and let it fall down her back, or about the reminder of hastily redressing as she slipped her lab coat back on. She washed her hands thoroughly and wiped her face down with a damp paper towel from where her goggles had left perspiration. Did I wash my hands Thursday morning, after Sherlock interrupted us? Or did I just get dressed and leave. Good lord.
"I imagine you're all here about Mr Caranci," she said with a small, welcoming smile once she had set herself to rights and joined them. It only took a moment for her to read her audience. "What's happened? What's wrong with you all?"
"A bit of a family dispute, you could say, Molly," Lestrade finally answered when no one else would. "Yes, the American please. What can you tell us about him?"
Consulting a clip board of tidy notes, she rhymed off the relevant facts. Once complete, Sherlock fired a series of questions at her that she calmly answered.
In Mycroft's pocket his phone buzzed twice, urgent email. He scanned through the text of it.
"I'm sorry, may I use your office to make a private phone call?"
"Of course," she said, handing him the keyring from her pocket with only a three keys and a safety whistle on it. Their fingers brushed a moment, but he told himself that it was nothing, and certainly not a spark. After a short chat with his assistant, the crisis was resolved, and seeing he was off the phone through the window, Molly knocked and then let herself in.
"Now really," she said, "what's going on?"
"Sherlock seems to be having difficulties coming to terms with what he, ah, interrupted. He teased me in front of your colleagues, and I'm afraid I cut him rather badly," he admitted, again trying to repress any hint of shame or regret.
She leaned her back against the door, arms crossed. Unimpressed.
"Is this going to be more complicated than anticipated, Mr Holmes? I've had one night stands before, but never with a friend's brother. Have you ever slept with one of Sherlock's goldfish before?"
"He told you about that, hm?" Mycroft fingered his watch in his pocket uncomfortably. "No, I can't say I have. All my previous liaisons have been with people well outside his sphere or knowledge."
"People? Not just women?" She cocked her head to one side, examining his face. Blasted creature.
"Would you care to have dinner with me, Doctor Hooper?" He asked suddenly, making deliberate steady eye contact with her. "Perhaps tomorrow? I could get reservations at this stunning little-"
"Why," she interrupted, not unkindly, but uncertain. "Decided to set up your own aquarium?"
"I can't say that interests me."
"Then what?"
"Perhaps I'm hoping to lure you back into my bed?" He asked casually.
"I've never been in your bed, Mr Holmes." A tiny smile was forming, and her expression was softening. She put her hands in the pockets of her lap coat, her stance opening. "And the man I invited into mine wasn't the polished government bureaucrat in the tailored suit with a fancy car and driver waiting outside, and likely some grand old lonely house somewhere."
"Oh?"
"No, he was a tired, dishevelled man with his heart laid bare, grateful for a cup of cheap tea and for any sleep he got on my dingy old couch. He was much more vulnerable, Mycroft, more human." She looked deep into his eyes, her pupils dilating as she saw something about him. "He could have me anytime."
Lumps came to both his throat and his pants.
"Besides," she finished lightly, teasing, "all those days in my flat, sharing take away, and you didn't notice that I'm a vegetarian? Those posh restaurants you frequent probably make even their bread with chicken broth and creamed liver."
Mycroft opened his mouth automatically to protest, pulling the menu of his favourite sets of restaurants from his memory, mentally reviewing the common recipes used to achieve those dishes and flavours, and changed tack.
"You could choose the venue," he said, wondering why he was pushing this.
"Anywhere? Would your palate not be horrified?"
"Well I assume we wouldn't be eating anything with mc in the name, or bathed in a deep fryer."
"Ethiopian? There's a great place near mine. And maybe if things go well, you could convince me that you're more than a Holmes-brand automaton."
"I should hope you would remember that." He pursed his lips, a little sullen. Molly touched his face gently.
"We had sex, and it was great, but I don't know you. The fact that you've even asked me out for a chat goes against what little I did think I knew about your character."
"You don't behave the way I expect you to behave," he admitted. "You're so easy to read, but so hard to predict. I'd like to find out what makes you the person my brother goes to when he won't go to anyone else. There's clearly more to you than I anticipated, and you seem to have an affect on me that I'm willing to say is unique." He leaned into her touch, allowing her hand to rest on his shoulder
"I've been called unique before," she said pleasantly. He silently acknowledged, taking in her silly jumper, the cat poster on her office wall, and the large stack of research studies on her desk about brain dissections, that some would go so far as to call her odd. "But never by someone so strange himself. So to clarify, are you asking me on a date?"
"I hadn't intended to, but that seems to be the direction it's going. Initially I meant this to be a simple chance to smooth things over. I have no interest in romantic attachments or playing at sentiment."
"Just some psychoanalysis, potentially followed by sex."
"If the mood strikes."
She considered him a moment.
"Alright, but it won't just be me talking and you judging me."
He nodded, wondering how much honesty she would expect, and how careful he'd need to be.
"Text me details. I'm off at 4pm tomorrow, but I imagine your schedule is less predictable than mine. I've got to go figure out how Mrs Figg died, if you'll excuse me.
The last slip was Sherlock's revenge for Mycroft's cruelty. It was a blow so low that it was nearly unprecedented in their long conflict, one he thought they'd silently agreed would be counted a war crime.
One new voicemail on his phone:
"Mike, it's your Mum. Sherlock's just told us and we're so excited. Please call as soon as you can, we'd love to hear all about this new girlfriend. When can we meet her? Love you! Bye!"