Molly was correct in assuming his schedule would be more difficult to suit than hers. Thanks to an international crisis involved several embarrassingly British citizens, it took nearly a week to meet at Addis Ababa.

Two hours later, and Mycroft had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to keep them clean as he ate his way through the meal Molly had chosen for him. He hadn't told her how unappetizing it looked when it had arrived, or his suspicion that the low prices on the menu were an indication of forthcoming food poisoning. He hadn't mentioned his horror at being expected to eat with his hands, and hadn't felt the need to admit that he was enjoying the food and experience far beyond his expectations. The coffee alone would have had his stamp of approval, the beans roasted to order in a pan on the kitchen stove before being ground and brewed. He was on his third, and was wired.

He was half way through an amusing story about him and Sherlock as boys when Molly interrupted him with a soft touch at his wrist.

"How did you get that? I didn't notice it before."

In the soft candlelight of the table centrepiece, a shiny scar like a burn was flickering across his skin. He held both arms out for her examination, the damaged skin forming a line across both.

"Legwork."

She ran a finger across the marks, considering them.

"These aren't heat burns. Bindings. Rough ones, not hand cuffs or zip ties, more like rope. The uneven weight distribution indicates your hands weren't bound together, but separately. Most common scenario would be something like a lengthy interrogation, or torture." She looked up at his face, regret in her eyes. "I apologize for prying, that's likely a very traumatic memory."

"I don't say this often, but you're clever, Doctor Hooper," he sighed. "I spent a great deal of time earning my stripes before I opted to stay behind a desk and play god, as Sherlock says."

"And what sort of god are you, Mr Holmes?" She began playing with a piece of flatbread, rolling and unrolling it, uncomfortable.

"Most of the time I find myself speaking like the god of the old testament. A wayward people bound to find trouble, and I save and smite with equal vigour," he said wryly.

"You don't have to answer this," Molly prefaced, and he could hear the hesitation in her voice. He watched the tiny adjustments in her expression as she fought with herself.

"You want to know if I've killed anyone. If I'm a murderer, or a psychopath or a sociopath, like Sherlock," he stated quietly, keeping his voice from being overheard at nearby tables. She nodded. "Yes, I've killed a lot of people, Molly. Both by pulling the trigger myself, or giving the go ahead for a job, or having to make a hard decision about the greater good."

Her hands were still on the table close to his. He rested his back inside of hers.

"There is a lot of blood on my hands, and that's something I feel like you have a right to know before you decide whether you want me in your life, or your bed, or your social circle in any capacity. I know you've accepted Sherlock back, despite all he's done, but some of the things I've done would horrify even him. You have only my word that I have done it all, and will continue to do it all, for the good of this country."

In the long silence that followed, he watched Molly stare at his hands in hers. He began to feel his vulnerability keenly, wishing they were in a less intimate setting, or a more familiar setting for him. Ten metres apart in a secret warehouse, or across a solid oak desk at his club, or with bulletproof glass and a microphone speaker. The waiter came and set down the bill on a plastic tray. Perhaps sensing the tension, he said nothing and disappeared quickly.

"Should I settle the bill and go?" He asked in nearly a whisper, recovering his hands, and reaching for his pocketbook. She shook her head.

"Don't go, and it's my treat, I asked you to come here."

"But you're still not sure how you feel about what I've told you."

"No, but I shouldn't be as surprised as I am. Logically, knowing what I do know about the power you seem to exude when you are working in an official capacity, the lack of warmth in your public attempts at pleasantry, your general callousness to mankind, paired with your uncommon patience and love for the damaged goods that is your brother, it all points to a man who is capable of choosing whether someone lives or dies, so long as it serves a purpose."

She paused, and he sensed that she had more to say.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"Do you ever feel remorse?"

He sat back, swallowing down his defensive urge to immediately say no.

"Do you, as a citizen of this country, generally feel safe, Molly? To go to work, to go out to the shops, to be alone, to be in public, to sleep at night?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"Would you say that's the general feeling of your fellow citizens?"

She nodded.

"Then I can't say I regret the decisions that brought us here, difficult or even wrong as they may have been."

"I wonder if Sherlock is mistaken about you, Mycroft," she observed, taking a sip of her coffee, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "I don't think you're detached from people or isolated."

"No?"

"No, I think you're overwhelmed by the responsibility a father feels for his children, a nation of children, their welfare in your hands. You don't lack the capacity to relate to them, far from it, you lack the ability to detach from that relationship. You mock sentiment, but you've given your life and time and health and sacrificed it all for that love. Sherlock thinks this is all a big chess match for you, the thrill of the great game, but it's not, it's fierce and protective and personal."

"I'm feeling quite naked at the moment, Doctor Hooper," Mycroft said eventually. "I don't necessarily agree with you, but I feel like you're attempting to get at the root of me."

"Would you like to be naked?" She asked smoothly, setting down her cup and reaching into her carrier bag for her wallet. Leaving a generous tip with the note she placed on the cheque tray, she stood up and held out her hand to him. He considered the situation a moment before he took her hand, gathered up his jacket, and allowed her to lead him out of the little restaurant.

It only took a few minutes before they were at her flat door, and only a few seconds after that that he kissed her. Tangling his fingers in her long, sweet-smelling hair, he pressed her back into the door, cradling her head carefully so that it wouldn't be uncomfortable against the wood.

Wishing that he wasn't so full of lentils and beans, wishing he wasn't middle-aged, he wished he could lift her up and take her right there against the door like a hero in a pot-boiler novel until she was thoroughly ravished. Instead he took his time making sure they were both comfortable, and when she reached for his tie, he asked if they could go to her bed.

He was pleased that his memory hadn't been boosted by fear and fatigue. She felt and tasted and sounded better than he had remembered, and he relished being generous to her. It was the one arena he had found where she was greedy, soaking up his attentions, and he gave freely. He loved watching the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing altered, the tremble in her thighs, the way she raised her chin and arched, and most of all the way she pulled him back to her again and again to her mouth for long, intimate kisses, reconnecting them. He wanted her to feel worshipped, feel devoured, feel adored, because he knew he had nothing else to offer her. When they were nearly spent, it was the sound of his name on her lips that pushed him over the edge. This time it was Mycroft who cried out, pressing his mouth into her trapezius to smother it.

They lay there panting, entwined, and his mind was utterly blank, clear of everything. She stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, all she could reach from where his face lay pillowed on her chest. He raised himself up on shaking forearms to gently capture her mouth.

There was a knock at the flat door.

"Fuck right off," she said towards the door, knowing whoever was on the other side wouldn't be able to hear her. "I'm not expecting anyone."

There was a second, more insistent knock.

Molly grudgingly slipped out of the warm bed, and pulled on a dark green dressing gown of heavy silk, embroidered along the borders with white and gold. He thought that it might be his current haze, but nothing had ever looked so beautiful on her.

She had barely cracked the door when a familiar voice cut through.

"I need to speak to Mr Holmes immediately. It's urgent, and we can't reach him by phone."

Groaning internally, he remembered that he'd switched his phone to silent for dinner, a highly unusual move for him. Reaching for it, he saw a dozen missed calls, unread text messages, and emails. He switched the volume back on, and began throwing on his clothes. Realizing the majority of them were likely in the living room, he decided to just get on with it, and went out in his trousers and shirt to collect the rest. Molly has allowed his PA into the flat, and switched on the kitchen light.

"Sir, there's a crisis, you're needed immediately. I've got a change of clothes waiting for you in the jet, and packed you for a week's absence. Your appointments have been cleared until your return, and I signed out your firearm, it's in the plane." He nodded while he did up his many buttons and fasteners, hooking his watch chain carefully and tucking the sacred artefact back in it's special pocket.

"How did you know where to find him," Molly asked her.

The woman who called herself Anthea looked to her boss for direction to answer.

"Your home has been under a low level passive surveillance since you first became friends with my brother, Doctor Hooper, for your own safety. They likely noted my entrance tonight."

Expecting her to bristle at the knowledge, she simply shrugged.

"Seems prudent."

Loathe to leave, and dreading the next week and whatever fresh hell it had unexpectedly brought his way, he drank in the sight of her once again. This time his imagination led him to fashion her wild hair, sex-darkened eyes and lovely robe as an Anglo-Saxon princess who had chosen him as her prize. Her expression claimed him, and he found that he liked it.

"I'll meet you in the car," he told his aide, dismissing her. She directed an analytical look at him and then Molly, and then turned on a heel and left clicking sharply down the corridor.

"She doesn't approve."

Mycroft shrugged.

"That hardly matters," he said cooly. "She's capable and competent, but she's not employed to critique my personal life."

"I doubt she's used to you having a personal life."

"You're probably right. That's going to be a spectacular mark on your shoulder, my apologies if I was overenthusiastic or if it hurt," he touched the red mark above her collar.

"I had hoped you would be able to stay the night," she said lightly, "perhaps if there's a next time."

"I think I'd like that. I'm sorry to go so suddenly." He angled his head to the side and looked her up and down again. "You look like a woman out of a Dante Rossetti painting right now. I could spend the rest of the night gazing at you like fine art, with a glass of wine and a forbidden cigarette."

"Will you be safe? She mentioned a gun." Molly was undeterred by the compliment.

"It's solely for my protection, should things go wrong. It's highly unlikely they'll go so wrong that I need to use it, however, where I'm guessing that I'm going always has the potential for danger to flare up quickly. If you like I'll give you a ring when I'm back, let you know I survived."

"Please," she agreed. Both debating on how to end the evening, Molly stepped forward and kissed him. He let his hands find what were becoming familiar spots on her hips and backside, caressing her, gathering up fabric between his fingers. Inside his jacket pocket his phone began buzzing and beeping, and they broke apart.

"Duty calls," he said finally, letting himself out the flat door. Molly popped her head into the corridor and silently watched him walk out. His posture and attitude changed with each step, become taller, straighter, more authoritative. It was not this that surprised her, it was realizing how low his guard had become with her already before he had needed to pull it back up.

MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH

By the end of the week, the drafts mailbox of his texts had filled with the dozens of messages he had composed and then filed unsent. For some reason nothing had seemed appropriate. Now with his latest, he stared at the screen, thumb hovering between send and file.

"Mycroft: Arriving home at 11:30pm tonight. Would you care to meet me at mine for a nightcap?"

He hit send, and slumped back into the rich, leather plane seat. He'd already spent the return trip drinking, but hoped she wouldn't mind. His personal assistant sat several rows back, using her coat as a blanket as she slept, and several security agents were playing a quiet game of poker near the washrooms. Everyone was tired, but he was the only one who got to go straight home after. Agents would need to be debriefed by the team waiting at the office, and his assistant would be filing notes and memos until dawn. If things were in good shape when he arrived at 9am tomorrow, he'd let her go home, otherwise she'd work a regular day.

"Doctor Hooper: Sounds good, send address."

He sent her his address, and the gate code, and for good measure the door code in case she beat him there and wanted to let herself in through the back. They ran into a landing conflict at the airport, the private strip was under repairs, and he poured himself a last single-malt while they circled in the air.

"Doctor Hooper: I'm here, and I must say I'm disappointed."

"Mycroft: Oh?"

"Doctor Hooper: No moat, no dragons, no fortifications. What's the point of having a castle if you're not going to defend it properly."

"Mycroft: Apologies, will procure dragon immediately."

"Doctor Hooper: I guarantee you this place is haunted. Do you know how many people have died in this house since 1667? ALL OF THEM. Also, nice heritage plaque."

"Mycroft: Still waiting to land. Liquor cabinet is in library, wine is in kitchen. Have fun."

"Doctor Hooper: Squatters rights tell me that if I refuse to leave this gorgeous library, it's eventually mine. Brb, packing and retrieving cat."

"Doctor Hooper: Have you had dinner? I can put together something easy to have ready for us."

"Mycroft: Only whiskey since lunch."

"Doctor Hooper: So I've already got something easy and ready for me, hm?"

"Mycroft: Appallingly salacious and accurate. Landing now."

"Doctor Hooper: I assume that's some sort of posh euphemism."

"Doctor Hooper: Who doesn't own a single tinned soup? Why do you have so many cupboards but no food?"

"Mycroft: Confession, I'm a terrible cook."

"Doctor Hooper: Terrible cooks should have MORE tinned soup in their homes, not less."

"Mycroft: Go have a glass of wine."

"Doctor Hooper: Have you been bossing people around all week and now you're going to go boss me around?"

"Mycroft: Would you like that?"

"Doctor Hooper: I picked a bottle at random. According to the label this wine is old enough to drive next year. What do you have in a cheap, young and plentiful?"

"Mycroft: Anything from Niagara, should have VQA on the neck."

"Doctor Hooper: Mission accomplished. Come home. Two glasses of this and I'll likely be pantsless and wildly open to suggestion."

"Mycroft: I'm on my way."

Mycroft tucked his phone into his breast pocket, and gathered his jacket, coat and briefcase. Descending the slippery steps to the tarmac in the rain, he found himself incredibly impatient to be home.

It was for the best that the driver was the one in charge of remembering his luggage. When they pulled up to the door of the 17th century now-suburban great house, Mycroft sprang out as best as a tired, wee bit drunk, middle-aged man could spring, and headed straight for the front door. The driver was only a few steps behind him, and left everything neatly in the entrance way corridor out of the weather.

"Welcome home," a warm voice called from his library. He cleaned his shoes, hung up his coat, dropped his umbrella into the stand, and slid his briefcase into the discreet locking portion of the hall table. He emptied his pockets into a Byzantine glass bowl, and put his phone on the charger next to it. The familiar was done, now to proceed to the unfamiliar.

Feeling less confident, but cautiously excited about his guest, he went to greet her. His library was top to bottom, wall to wall built in bookshelves complete with rail and ladder. On his sofa, Molly was in a black cabled jumper and beige trousers, legs curled under an afghan of deep green merino, hair in a simple braid over her shoulder. A half full glass of white wine sat on the little table beside her, and he smiled to notice, a nearly empty bottle of riesling beside it, glinting in the firelight. She used the ribbon bookmark attached to the spine to mark her place in what appeared to be some sort of Bronte. The scene was like a photo definition of the word cosy.

"You've gone through a lot of trouble filling this library with reproductions," she said. "I had you marked as someone who would track down the originals."

"I considered it," he said, pulling a glass from the bar and pouring himself some of her wine. He sat down next to her on the couch and pulled her legs across his lap. "But what's the point of a room full of books you shouldn't touch, and could damage by reading, in a place where books are meant to be used? No, I leave originals for researchers, I prefer my library to be useful. The house came with quite a few, none connected to the founding family of course, just collected over the years, but I donated the majority to the Bodleian."

"You've amassed a fascinating collection. All the classics, of course, but there are many curiosities in here."

He picked up the book she had placed on the table and read the spine.

"And with all those curiosities, you selected Jane Eyre. I would hazard you've read this book a number of times, judging by the fact that you've skipped her childhood and gone straight to Thornfield."

"I selected a book I could enjoy tipsy in a strange house, waiting for who knows what of a night, with a man who is still mostly a stranger," she corrected. "It seemed appropriate."

"How was your day," he asked, alarm bells going off in his mind at the picture of domesticity they were presenting together. He ignored them.

"Cut up a lot of dead people." She shrugged. "Found a golf ball in a man's upper colon. That was the highlight of the day. Accepting that you can't give me details, how was your trip?"

"Hard to tell, at this point. Lots of sitting and talking and arguing, but few clear results. I'll know more in the morning." He rubbed at his face, which was numb with fatigue.

"You're back in first thing?" He nodded. "Maybe I should tuck you in and head home, you must be exhausted," she said gently.

"Please stay," he asked. "Let's finish our night from a week ago."

"Alright, that sounds lovely. But you're drunk and I'm on my way there, so we shouldn't get too ambitious."

Molly pulled off the blanket, crawled off of the settle, and switched off the gas fireplace. She collected the dirty glasses and the empty bottle, deposited them in the kitchen, and then promptly returned for Mycroft's hand.

"Do you need anything out of your suitcase tonight?"

He shook his head no, and they made their way up the central staircase. Her overnight bag was on the floor at the top step. He showed her which room he used, and closed the door behind them. Molly looked around at the comfortable arrangement. It was a blend of traditional luxury and clean modern, in fine greys and rich brown woods, and it was clear that this room was used only for sleeping. There were no reading chairs, no desks, no distractions, and barely any personal items. He pointed out which door was the en suite, which the large closet, and which lead to a sitting room.

"Tonight may not be the playful welcome-home romp you had anticipated," Molly said with a smile, feeling very small in the grand room. He felt equally self-conscious, having her in his most private of spaces. "But let's make the best of it," she continued, turning to him and carefully unfastening his watch chain from his waistcoat. She carefully put the ornament down on the bedside table and began working down his buttons.

He slipped his jacket off and laid it on the hard wooden chair near the closet, followed in steady succession by the rest of his clothes. When his chest and shoulders were bare, she began to place random, slow kisses on his skin. He helped her out of her jumper, and the black tank top she had worn underneath, and then debated on whether he should remove the highly impractical but fascinatingly designed brassiere she had on under that. He cupped her breasts, weighed them in his palms, and the result was that the lacy scrap was disposed of so he could explore them.

Feeling their years, feeling the days, feeling the effects of the alcohol, they moved at a pace that was slow, getting the most out of every touch and movement. The more sober of the two, she was on top, her long hair tormenting his skin where it stroked his knees, his sides and chest. He watched her face, so visible from this angle, and was fascinated by the thousand indications in her expression of her pleasure, of concern for his, of thoughtful minor adjustments or changes. The moment before he finished he was overwhelmed with a feeling he recognized and dismissed as chemical: possessive. He gripped her hips tightly, helping her to her own end, and when they were done he held her face and kissed her. She nestled closely against him, contentment in her eyes.

This time there was no one to disturb them. No one to wake them. In fact no alarms set at all.