The sun was shining brightly behind the curtains when they awoke, both going from rested, hazy greetings, to oh-my-god-is-that-time-time rushing. It was nearly 9am, and they were most definitely late. Mycroft showered while Molly brushed her teeth and hair, and washed her face.
"I can drop you off at Bart's on my way in," he called over the water.
"Thanks, much appreciated." She found her clean clothes in her overnight bag and began to dress. He switched off the water, pulled back the curtain, and felt gloriously awkward. Completely naked, wet, and vulnerable, he stared at the calm, neat, clothed pathologist. She smiled, and handed him a towel.
"You know, you shouldn't be so self-conscious," she said kindly, "because you're really rather marvellous."
"I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, but evidence doesn't support that. I'm led to believe I'm an arrogant, pretentious, know-it-all with an inability to see the value in others."
"That's as may be, but I was talking about the sex," she said wryly. "I don't really have much else to go on."
Her response startled him into laughter, and it sounded good. She packed up her overnight bag, and settled on the end of the bed to watch him dress. His wardrobe was a fortune in tailoring, designer names, and expensive fabrics.
"I suppose," she continued, "all you really know of me is that I had a silly crush on your little brother, flaunt middle class tastes, and don't have much ambition for greatness."
"And happen to be a goddess in bed, or settee, as required," Mycroft said with unusual humour. "You know, something that always reassured me about you, when I question the people who gravitate to Sherlock, was your MI6 file. To the best of our agents' knowledge, your ambitions and foibles were all hopelessly innocent."
She shot him a sultry look while he tried to fasten his cufflinks, her voice low.
"And do you still find my proclivities innocent?"
His fingers fumbled on the tiny gold bits and one fell to the floor.
"I think we share a similar morality when it comes to sexual matters," he said quickly. "If you enjoy my company as much as I enjoy yours, and there are no misplaced romantic expectations, I can't see any harm to anyone."
"I'll give you a ring next time I'm in the mood for that romp," she teased.
"Please do," he answered more seriously than he intended. He met her eyes. "I've greatly enjoyed your company, something I haven't said too many times in my life."
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
"Mr Holmes, do you have a minute?"
Mycroft looked up from his phone, and frowned at Lady Smallwood. Around him, the rest of the table of similar men in similar suits had risen and were filing out, the meeting finished. She stood at the window, looking down into the gardens far below. He gathered his folio, and put away his meeting supplies.
To be honest, he couldn't remember much of the meeting that had just passed. He had just received his first message from Molly Hooper since he had dropped her off at work several days earlier, and it had derailed his mental train.
The lovely, polished woman looked around, and watched the last man clear the room. They were alone.
"This is hardly my business unless it becomes necessary, and I doubt you would be so foolish as to let that happen, but I feel like I should inform you that you have the affair face on," she said crisply, not looking at him.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, offended.
"I know that term doesn't truly apply to you, as you are not already married, but after many years I have come to recognize the face of a man who is caught up in an affair." She held up her hand to him to cut him off. "I don't expect you to confirm or deny anything, and as I say, it's not currently my business. Let me just pass on a word of advice. I hope you are making wise decisions, and I wish you happy, you deserve it, but be on your guard. If I can see it, no telling who else may."
She watched Mycroft's eyes turn inward, thinking, and left him to it. He looked again at his phone.
"Doctor Hooper: Nearly killed your brother. Am currently stroppy and ready to eviscerate the living. Could channel rage into lust if provided opportunity. Bring extra pants and a toothbrush, you wouldn't be going home tonight."
A small, scared part of him admitted that perhaps his involvement with Molly Hooper was capable of being unknowingly displayed on his face.
He called his assistant, keeping his voice cool.
"Any idea what my brother was getting up to at St Bart's today?"
"I'll check, sir." There was a long pause, and keyboard tapping.
"It appears he attempted to steal several body parts from the morgue, and interrupted a sensitive post-mortem, contaminating the room. When confronted by Doctor Hooper, he- oh dear."
"Go on," Mycroft said through clenched teeth, knowing what would come next.
"He made a number of comments about an alleged… liaison between herself and you, sir, claiming her behaviour and judgment was being manipulated against him as part of your sibling rivalry."
"And this is all in our security report?"
"Yes, sir."
"Delete the report."
He hung up abruptly, something she was used to.
"Mycroft: Will acquire extra pants and toothbrush."
"Doctor Hooper: Be forewarned, I won't be gentle." He groaned internally.
"Mycroft: Neither shall I. Select safe word."
"Doctor Hooper: Rainbow unicorns."
"Mycroft: That's appalling."
"Doctor Hooper: That's the point."
It was six hours later that Mycroft knocked on her flat door, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. The door opened, and she pulled him inside. Forcing him back against the door, she kissed him hard. He felt her hands go straight to his trousers. Within seconds he was inside of her, and the next morning, despite his excellent memory and a roadmap of red marks and scratches on his shoulders, back, chest and bum, he had a hard time recalling the portions of the evening when he hadn't been.
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
The abrasions and bites from that encounter hadn't even begun to fade when disaster struck. Sunday afternoon found Molly splayed out on Mycroft's solid oak Elizabethan dining room table, with him feasting on her. They were too absorbed to hear the knock at the door, the spare key in the lock, or the halloo in the hall. With no need to be quiet, they weren't.
'Mikey? What's that strange noise? Sherlock said you'd likely be here, we're in town just for the afternoon - oh god."
Mycroft pulled his face away from his task, comprehending the full horror of the moment.
Half an hour later they were all sitting in silence in the parlour, drinking the whiskey his father had poured for all four of them, unasked. They hasn't said a word yet, none of them. No one could even look at the others.
Their clothes hadn't even been in the same room, they'd had to go naked to find them before they could even start covering up.
Recovered to a certain degree, though no less humiliated, Molly was the first to finally break the ice.
"I should be going," she said, putting her empty glass down on the coffee table. She caught Mycroft's eye and blushed deeply.
"No, dear, we need to sort this out, or we'll likely never get to see you again," said Mrs Holmes firmly. "I apologize for spoiling your afternoon, and for all the embarrassment we caused. It never occurred to us that Mycroft may, er…"
"My need for basic privacy has always alluded you," he snapped back, not waiting for her to finished the awkward sentence.
"So how long have the two of you been together?" Asked Mr Holmes brightly, topping up Molly's glass. Molly looked at Mycroft, who seemed absorbed by swirling his whiskey slowly.
"We're not, sir. I won't pretend, we're actually more like casual friends who occasionally sleep together. There's nothing, um, romantic or anything. And not long."
"Long enough that there are old hickies down your collar, Mikey," his mother said sternly. He tugged the top button of his shirt together and fastened it. "And Sherlock told us about Miss Hooper weeks ago, remember dear? I just didn't expect to find such a display. And on a Sunday! And in the dining room, where people eat!" She slammed her nearly full glass down on the table in front of her. Mr Holmes raised a hand to calm his wife, her cheeks pink. She composed herself. "Just tell me that you're being safe, the two of you."
Mycroft groaned and covered his eyes with his hands.
"No, I know the things that go around even with older people, Mikey, and just last spring my friend Eula got the clap at a couples retreat in Oklahoma. Plus I want to know if grandchildren are now on the table. God knows you boys have been telling me your whole lives not to expect any." She didn't seem to realize her amusing turn of phrase, but Mr Holmes let out a wispy little snicker.
Molly, seeing Mycroft was still indisposed in horror, answered for them both.
"As I said, our acquaintance is pretty casual, Mrs Holmes. I wouldn't expect anything from it, and it could end at any time if we chose. But I am a medical doctor, and I wouldn't allow Mycroft or myself to be exposed to anything harmful, I assure you."
"Oh that's right," Mr Holmes said suddenly, lighting up. "You're the girl who helped the boys with Sherlock's disappearing act. Thank you for that, Miss Hooper."
"You're welcome, sir," Molly said with a small smile.
"It's Doctor Hooper," Mycroft snapped. "She's a highly respected pathologist and surgeon at one of the finest teaching hospitals in the country. At least do her that courtesy after mortifying her entirely."
His mother leaned across the table and patted his knee.
"I'm glad you like her, Mycroft. Let us know if you two get to the point where we can have you round for dinner together."
"It was nice to meet you, dear," said Mr Holmes, "we should leave you kids to your afternoon, though." He stood, offering his hand to his wife.
"I imagine you haven't met Molly's parents either, then, Mycroft, with this arrangement you have going," she said, a hint of mocking in her voice. They all walked to the front door, and Mycroft opened it wide.
"I'm afraid I don't have any family," Molly responded kindly, showing the statement didn't upset her, at least anymore. "I lost my Dad five years ago, he was the last of them. It's just me now."
"No wonder you are such a good friend, then," Mrs Holmes said warmly, putting a hand to Molly's cheek in a manner that Mycroft found overfamiliar. "I hope my boys reciprocate and treat you well." She pressed a kiss to Mycroft's barely tolerating cheek, and Mr Holmes clapped his son on the shoulder affectionately.
From the beautifully landscaped walk, before the door closed, Mycroft and Molly both heard his parents' final comments before they got to their car.
"Judging by the act we walked in on, I'd say Mycroft is treating her quite well, dear. And I didn't hear a clear no about the grandchildren question."
"When I gave him a peck, his face still smelled like quim," she responded with a snort.
"Dear God, we can still hear you!" Mycroft shouted out the door before slamming it shut. He leaned his head against it, eyes closed.
"I am so, so sorry about all of that. That was utterly humiliating."
Molly laughed, and rubbed her hands on his shoulders reassuringly.
"We have the worst luck. We survived though, and they're delightful."
"They are the absolute worst."
"You know you're a bit childish around them? Were you this dramatic as a child?" She teased, giving his back a final pat before wandering off to the library to see if she had missed anything in her haste, and to give the dining room table a good scrub. He was still leaning against the door when she returned.
"How about you go make a pot of tea while I pack up. We'll sit and have a quiet chat, get our brains back together after that shock, and then I'll head out."
He nodded, and went off to perform the menial task. By the time the water had boiled he was feeling more himself.
"You don't have to rush off just because my parents caught us like a pair of teenagers," he said politely when she dropped her bag by the door, "though I understand the urge."
"Much more practical than that," she laughed. "I still need to do laundry, clip Toby's nails, change the linens, hoover the carpet, do groceries. All those weekend chores I've left undone being here."
"Makes sense," he said, feeling slightly guilty that all those things were done for him by a discreet and well-paid staff.
"And I imagine the country doesn't stop every time you feel a bit randy," she pointed out, listening to the distinctive sound of his phone vibrating on the marble countertop. "Do you need to take that?"
There were several missed calls, all from the assistant director of intelligence, or his staff.
"I do," he apologized, answering the phone call with the clipped, cold voice she realized she heard less and less of as their familiarity grew.
She watched his face age and darken as he listened to the person at the other end of the line, reading great rage and great sorrow in equal parts in his eyes and expression.
"What arrangements have been made," he asked, his voice going icy. His body thrummed with tension. Molly poured the water into the teapot, replaced the lid, and pointed for herself to leave. He jerked his head no, eyes suddenly boring into hers. "Have her body delivered to Bart's when forensics are done, and prepare security clearance for Doctor Molly Hooper to perform the post-mortem. No, I will contact her myself." He hung up, and stood like a statue, unseeing.
"Can you tell me some of what's happened without breaching your confidentiality?" She asked gently.
"My personal assistant was just found dead in my office. No obvious cause of death."