"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 Barts 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."
"That posh young woman who was at my door? I'm so sorry to hear that, she seemed nice. Did I hear that you'd like me to help?"
He nodded, responded mechanically, still processing all the possibilities.
"The body should be arriving soon, they're almost done sweeping the office."
"Mycroft," she said softly, calling him back. "Would you like to take a minute alone? Or to come sit with me a moment?" He looked at her, returning to himself.
"Thank you, Molly, but we should go, if you are willing."
"Of course. Would you like to change? You might feel better in your normal office clothes."
He looked down at his thrown together shirt and trousers and nodded, going up to his room without another word. By the time he had finished, Molly had the tea ready and handed him a cup to drink hot while they waited for the car to come around. He filled his pockets from the bowl by the door, and she helped him into his coat and scarf. She could smell that he'd patted a very small amount of after shave on post-shower.
They didn't speak much on the trip into the centre of town. Not having expected to go into work herself, she tried to make herself neater, and he watched with mild interest her practiced hands plait her hair and bind it up. His mind was surprisingly quiet. The initial news of the death of the woman known publicly as Anthea had mapped out all the possibilities, and until he knew the cause of death, they all had to wait.
"You know, she was the daughter of possibly the closest thing I've had to a friend," Mycroft said suddenly. "I met her when she was just a little girl. The day I told her that her father had died on a mission, she told me that she was going to be an agent like him. Never had the right aptitude for field work, but to be honest, I was just as happy to keep Keith's daughter safe in my office. There was this one time in Beirut-"
Molly cut him off gently.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft, I know that you're grieving and you want to talk, and I'm absolutely here to listen, but do you think you could tell me about her after we complete the post-mortem? If I become too emotionally invested, I could lose objectivity and not perform it well, and that would be a disservice to her."
He nodded, and went back to silence. She felt terribly selfish, but held firm. They entered the morgue together, and Anthea's body was waiting under a blue sheet, visible through the observation window. Molly disappeared into her office to take off her coat and sweater, and to her surprise, Mycroft followed her and removed his coat and jacket, hanging them up on the rack beside hers.
"I'm coming in," he explained. She put a hand on his chest and shook her head.
"You can't come in. You'll distract me. You can watch in the observation room, I'll turn the microphone on."
"I don't think you have the authority to keep me out of that room," he said arrogantly, trying to leave past her. He read the hurt she was trying to hide, that he caused, but she held him back still.
"I'm not ordering you as a doctor, Mr Holmes. I'm saying as the person who was fucking you a few hours ago, I'm not comfortable trying to stand next to you in there and pretend that your presence and all the things you're currently feeling won't effect my judgement or ability."
He let his arms fall to the sides.
"What if you miss something?"
"Then you chose the wrong pathologist," she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "You asked me to do this, Mr Holmes, I didn't volunteer. Now I'm happy to help, but you will respect me as a scientist and let me do my job."
He watched her leave the office, and walk calmly to scrub and dress. She was meticulous, thorough, skilled, observant, all the things that had made him appreciate her work to begin with. He watched with detachment as she examined and opened up the body of the woman he had spent nearly all day, every day with for the previous decade or more. Sherlock appeared part way through, and stood with him for nearly an hour in silence before leaving again. Mycroft didn't know how he had known, but he appreciated the gesture more than he would let on.
When it came to an end, they had their answer. Anthea probably had no idea she even had a brain tumour, located where it had been. There would be further lab work to rule out unlikely additional causes in her blood and stomach contents, but Mycroft was satisfied. He called Anthea's assistant, newly promoted to his assistant, to make the funeral arrangements with the mother and submit the expenses to the office.
Molly returned to her office quite some time later, paperwork completed and filed, everything cleared away. To her surprise, Mycroft was still there at her desk, answering emails on his phone.
"I owe you an apology," he began, not looking up. "I was rude and hurtful, and I'm sorry. You're excellent at what you do, and I have absolute faith in your judgment." He put his phone away and got up. "That said, with consideration, I'm not entirely sure if I believe you, about things impairing your judgment while you work. I think, after all I've seen of your work, that you are capable of a remarkable detachment, caused by your skill, talent, and borderline psychopathic enthusiasm. So what I'm left to wonder is why the lie?"
"Nightmares," she answered simply, surprising him with her honesty.
"Nightmares," he repeated slowly.
"If I know too much about the person I'm dissecting, it doesn't bother me at the time, but I get terrible nightmares. Seems silly, so I didn't want to mention it."
He was torn on asking the next question. There were a lot of variables and sub-decisions involved, weighing and balancing. Molly was giving him a sympathetic look, and easily found the words he was struggling with.
"I imagine you have a lot to do now, and it doesn't really fit our sex-based MO, but if you'd like a friend tonight, you're welcome to come sleep at mine." She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a single key on a squishy rugby ball keychain. The name of a high school was written in faded letters on the leather. "I doubt you need a key to get into most places in Britain," she teased gently, "but use it tonight if you'd like to, and if you don't, you know where it goes. Keep it as long as you like."
That night, after a very long evening of meetings with his staff, and setting up an emergency training program with his new PA, Mycroft hesitated outside the car. It was well after midnight. He fingered the key in his pocket.
"Home, sir?" The driver asked, stifling a yawn.
Mycroft committed, giving Molly's address instead. The lights were off under the door, so he used the key and let himself in quietly. The bedroom light was on. He slipped off his outerwear and shoes, and emptied his pockets onto the kitchen counter. With quiet steps, he went to the bedroom, and found a scene that set off those domestic warning bells. Sentiment! Intimacy! Danger!
Sound asleep, a pathology textbook abandoned on her chest, Molly looked charming. She had her hair tied up in a loose knot on the top of her head, glasses he'd never seen before sliding down her nose, the old Spice Girls tank top, and the blasted cat curled up on the pillow beside her. He carefully prepared her for the night, putting away the book and marking the page, taking off her glasses, and once he was stripped down to his shorts, switched off the lamp and shooed the cat off of his pillow.
Lying in the dark, he had to admit to himself that it felt good not to be alone in his big, empty house with his thoughts tonight. It felt good to be on hand should Molly have nightmares from her day.
Lady Smallwood was right: he could be in trouble.
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
"You seem nervous," Molly said, her eyes full of warmth while she watched him toy with his napkin. She forked a fat mushroom from her plate, and bit into it, savouring the flavour against the wine she had lingering on her tongue.
"Well, I feel one's always a bit anxious sharing favourites, in case the other party scorns what one appreciates." Mycroft gestured to indicate the very fine restaurant around them.
"Oh my, you're very nervous. You only break out the ones when one is highly uncomfortable." She took a sip of her wine. "I feel like it can't just be about the restaurant. I'm clearly enjoying my meal," she nodded to the half-empty plate, "the experience has been lovely start to finish." She leaned back with her glass to examine him while his ears slowly turned red. "You've taken the trouble to call ahead to have them prepare a vegetarian meal for me, and a place like this doesn't need to customize their menu to please even the most regular of patrons."
"Have you come to a conclusion?" He tried not to snip as she saw through his plans.
"You have a favour to ask," she deduced. "One that is making you uncomfortable." She thought a moment. "One that has the potential to change our current arrangements? Out with it, Mycroft."
"I need you to attend a social event with me, if you're willing. It'll be horrid and the people will be tedious, but it would be improper for me to show up unaccompanied to dinner, I'd throw off the arrangements. Usually my personal assistant accompanied me to these, when necessary." He got the words out in a rush, now pink allover.
"You'd take your personal assistant as your date to these things? Wouldn't that be like taking your sister to prom?" Molly asked, smiling.
"It was convenient, and she was observant. Very useful to know who was sneaking off with who, or what was said in the ladies. One evening she managed to charm out of an MP his secret plans to cross the floor of parliament, just in the course of their waltz."
"We've never been on a proper date before," Molly finally responded, "not in public with people, we've just shared meals, like tonight."
"I'm aware," he said dryly. "And even then they're usually just pre-coital."
She gave him a wicked grin and a wink, but then her face went back to pensive.
"We would just tell people we were friends? I wouldn't have to pull a My Fair Lady and suddenly pretend to be some noble lady of yours?"
"Yes, though I'd prefer if we did keep to friends and avoid terms like with benefits or the cruder, fuck buddy." He did air quotes on the slang, making her smile again.
"Well there goes my conversation starter," she teased.
"You'll come, then? Rescue me?"
Molly took a moment, extending his agony, and ate another bite of her dinner. She wiped her face neatly with the serviette.
"It'll cost you, Mycroft," she said seriously. He mentally began calculating what she could mean. Dress money? Some sort of honorarium? Wait, this is Molly, she isn't interested in money. Some sort of extortion, probably social, hopefully physical.
"What do I have to do?"
"These are my demands: one, if there's dancing, you must stand up with me at least twice. My honour as an Austen fan demands it."
He nodded, and waited.
"Two, you'll take me to one of our homes after for a good post-posh shagging. I'm not going to waste pretty foundation garments."
He nodded again, reaching for his wine to soothe his suddenly very dry mouth.
"And three, you attend my friend's fancy dress party with me this weekend. We wouldn't be there long, you could wear a mask so no one knew who you were. I just need to show up long enough to satisfy him that I attended, and I also dread the idea of going to this particular to do alone."
He groaned dramatically, and slumped in his chair.
"Well, I can promise that there won't be dancing at this party, so I'm afraid that's out, my dear. But item two I can promise faithfully, and item three I will agree to if you are formally and absolutely making it a condition."
"I am," she said firmly.
"Is there a theme to this fancy dress party," he asked without enthusiasm, placing his cutlery on his empty place.
"Yes, the theme is show-your-fuckwit-ex-fiance-that-you've-moved-on-somewhat," she said darkly. "Wear a black suit, I'll pick you up a Phantom of the Opera mask. You can be snooty and insulting to everyone, and it'll all be in character. What's the dress code to your party?"
"Cocktails and dinner, that sort of thing, black tie. Nothing elaborate, but full of snobs."
The staff cleared the table and brought out a fruit and cheese plate for dessert, with coffee.
"This wasn't on the menu," Molly said, already cutting into the bresse bleu and selecting a slice of pear.
"No, as it turns out most of their regular desserts include some form of artisan bacon."
Mycroft considered a personal question for a moment, deciding if it were appropriate for him to ask, and if he did if she'd want to answer, and if she did answer what he would do with the information. She looked up and caught him deducing her, and in her own perceptive way turned it around.
"Tom never hurt me or cheated or did anything like that. We had very different expectations for each other, and we didn't want the same things. He wanted the little wife, as it turns out. Someone to bring him a beer after a long day, clean the toilets, and leave work for good to raise the multiple kids. He didn't tell me that until we'd been engaged awhile, thought he could bring me round to his way of thinking."
"You would be wasted, my dear," Mycroft said affectionately, mentally scorning a man who would take such a finely skilled scientist and wish to make her his drudge.
"And I know there are people out there who love it, staying home to raise kids and all that, but I've never been interested and I thought I'd made that clear to him. I think I'd like a child, and I'd take some mat leave, but I have no intention of stepping away from my career."
"No more than I would. So why the bitterness about Tom now?"
"Oh," she scowled, "after I broke it off he put it about to all our friends that I ended it because of a crush on Sherlock. Made a better story for him."
"Fuckwit," Mycroft agreed, taking a sip of his coffee. It all tasted slightly disappointing after the fresh Ethiopian coffee that previous night now weeks ago, but he hadn't brought himself to request to go back yet.
"Any exes at this party of yours?" Molly asked, carefully breaking the bunch of grapes into two equal halves and passing him one side.
"Yes," he answered calmly, "four."
She looked up, alarmed.
"Four? Are we talking girlfriends? Sexual partners? Serious?"
"I went through a phase in my career, early in my desk days, where I noticed my colleagues were all considering having a polished wife on their arms a necessity. I ran through some likely candidates, all nice, intelligent young women from good backgrounds, but we didn't suit each other. Some married other men, some went into politics, some became CEOs of corporations too big for the government to ignore."
"Any you regret losing, in hindsight?" Molly's voice was calm, supportive.
Mycroft considered the question.
"No, not at all. It all looked good on paper, but we had nothing to talk about."
He looked at Molly. She had become so familiar, that sometimes he had to really look to see her.
"This is meant as a compliment, and I feel like we understand each other well enough that you're not likely to misconstrue it, but I receive more enjoyment from our arrangement than I have from any actual relationship."
"I should have propositioned you and made you my not-boyfriend years ago," she agreed, raising her coffee cup for a toast. "Here's to reliable, amazing, no strings attached sex."
"You know, I think for the longest time I only ever saw you in Sherlock's company. You behaved differently around him, less confident, lost for words." He raised his cup to her, accepting. "Took me awhile to realize you wouldn't be where you were if that was your normal behaviour."
She shrugged.
"He brings out the best in some, and the worst in others. But we're friends now." She chewed a bite of strawberry, careful not to let it drip. "I should ask, if we're to be out socially, are you seeing or sleeping with anyone else? I don't want to say or do something that will mess up anything for you if news could get back to another partner."
Mycroft snorted loudly, causing a few patrons around him to shoot him looks.
"I barely have time for my one not-girlfriend, as you say. No, my dear, my favours and time are exclusively yours. Fair's fair, anyone else in your life I should be concerned running into?"
"Equally very much no, I've been enjoying myself with you too much to even consider it, really."
They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, thinking.
"Are we unintentionally in a relationship?" Molly asked, eye brows furrowed. "Did this get more serious than we intended when we weren't paying attention?"
Mycroft fingered his pocket watch, uncomfortable.
"I would argue we're still missing the rather important component of romance to make it a proper relationship."
She pointed her fork at him, a piece of cheese speared on the end.
"Excellent point. We're in the clear."