Bored, Molly was folding the pub napkin in smaller and smaller triangles. It had been wet with spillover when it had arrived, neatly tucked under her pint, but was now dry and brittle.
She had agreed to go out with her mates from uni ages ago, and never remembered until the lot of them were three sheets to the wind how little they all had in common now. Too uncomfortable to drink as much as she wanted, she listened to her old residence floormate tell a joke she suspected had an offensive punchline while she idly scanned the running captions of the news on the muted television above the bar.
Football, football, football, come on, beebs, show something other than sport.
There was a roar of laughter at the table, and she was jostled affectionately. Racist, she confirmed, embarrassed that she knew people who would find such things funny.
An urgent caption in a flashing red bar crossed the bottom of the news program's screen, and the picture switched to scenes of a severely damaged grand building, smoke and rubble mixed with flashing emergency lights with the headline LIVE COVERAGE: DEADLY TERROR ATTACK AT SECURITY SUMMIT.
Molly's stomach sank, sudden nausea twisting her stomach.
No. No.
The scrolling bar gave more information.
AT LEAST 29 CASUALTIES AT LUXEMBOURG HOTEL EXPLOSION. DETAILS STILL COMING IN FROM LOCAL AUTHORITIES. 17 CONFIRMED DEAD. 8 UK CASUALTIES BEING REPORTED BUT UNCONFIRMED.
In her pocket, Molly felt her mobile vibrate with a call from a blocked number. Praying it was Mycroft, she answered it while she climbed out of her seat and moved to the front of the pub to find a quieter spot.
"Doctor Hooper, a black car will be outside of the Lion & Whistle Pub for you in four minutes," an unfamiliar woman's voice informed her, then hung up.
Not knowing what to expect, Molly used the bathroom quickly, losing her beer and chips to her nerves, and retrieved her purse.
"I'm sorry, that was work," she lied, waving goodbye to her friends. They gave her a mixture of disappointed and cheery farewells, and she exited the pub into a misty rain.
The car was waiting. It was a different car and different driver than she had become used to seeing with Mycroft, and the driver had left the partition up between them. They drove off silently, out of the city, lights turning eventually into fields, and then the lights of a tiny airstrip.
Molly texted and called Mycroft, but knew that even if he were in a position to respond, it probably would not be his first priority to check in. Fear for his safety began to mix with fear of her own unknown. There had been no indication of where she was going or why.
They would likely have his parents identify his body, if he were dead or seriously injured, she told herself. I'm not his next of kin.
She was transferred wordlessly to a small airplane, a man with an ear piece and a very grim expression escorting her up the steps. When she arrived at the top, he requested her mobile, and to her surprise he slipped it into his pocket instead of returning it, and ushered her to a seat.
Could I be considered a threat, like we talked about? Do they think maybe I was involved somehow? The thought was alarming, but unlikely.
Left with her thoughts alone, it was a few long hours later that she felt the craft descend. The reverse process occurred, she was escorted directly into another unmarked black car. Something was loaded into the trunk, and the driver ignored all of her questions.
From the deeply tinted windows, into the darkness of the night, Molly realized that what she was seeing was the ocean. They pulled up in front of a tiny cottage, isolated by trees and water. She could see thin lines of light where the black out curtains hadn't been drawn completely together on the second storey, but otherwise it looked unoccupied.
The driver opened her door, then rounded the car to lift out a pair of plain black suitcases from the boot. He carried them to the front door, and taking a plain metal key out of his pocket, he knocked in four sharp raps, and unlocked it. Standing in the front garden, Molly could smell wildflowers and salt in the wind. He waived her inside, and passed her the key.
"Lock it behind me," he said, breaking their long silence, and then he left. She dutifully turned the bolt on the back of the door, and slid home the sturdy looking chain lock. Inside the house was brightly lit, and decorated in a cheerful, rustic way that unconsciously began to work at calming her. There were foot steps upstairs, and the sound of water draining out of a bathtub.
"Hello?" She called hoarsely, hardly knowing what to think after the strangeness of her unexpected, lonely night journey.
"Molly?" The voice she was hoping to hear came from the top of the steps. Mycroft appeared at the landing, naked with a towel forgotten against his wet body. For the first time in her acquaintance with him, he looked well and truly stunned.
"How did you get here," he asked, remembering to wrap the towel around him.
"I got a call, and then a car, then a plane, then a car. I don't even know where I am. No one would tell me anything," she said, dazed. Molly stared at him.
Mycroft's skin was red and raw, abrasions, bruising, and small runs of stitches everywhere. He looked like hell, but he was whole.
"This is a safe house, the closest major city is Bordeaux," he said, carefully drawing her into a gentle embrace. "I'm to stay here with no contact with the outside world until the threat assessment has been completed. But you," he pulled back at looked at her face closely, a furrow forming on his brow. He paused. "The protocol my superiors used tonight to collect you in London and deposit you here is designed for spouses. I hope you don't mind the imposition, but you won't be able to leave or contact anyone until the security situation in Luxembourg has been resolved."
"How are you?" She closed her eyes, and thought despite his bath she could smell chemicals, smoke. "Are you okay?"
He rested his head on hers.
"I was at the edge of the blast, most of my injuries were from debris. It will take some time for my lungs to clear, I'm to go outside whenever possible to move about. Some bruising to organs, ribs, mild concussion, that sort of thing, could all have been much worse. I have medication I'm to take to ward off infection, some pain control if necessary, and they gave me something to sleep I can start taking tomorrow night. Looks like I'll have my own personal doctor on hand."
"Let's get you dressed before you get chilled through," she said, taking his hand and leading him slowly and carefully back up the stairs.
The little cottage only had one room on the second story, with a small en suite bathroom. Plain black suitcases like the ones she'd forgotten at the door were open on the bed, filled with generic looking men's clothing and personal items. She fished out a soft t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and a long grey robe, and helped him climb in.
"Do your parents know that you're alright," she asked, checking his stitches to make sure nothing had torn or caught on the fabric.
"They're my next of kin, someone will call them. They'll get a message to Sherlock eventually."
"Can I assume that they are also making arrangements for my cat, my flat and my work?"
"Undoubtably," Mycroft groaned. "I'd like to be horizontal, but I'm too hungry."
"Let me see what I can find downstairs." Molly moved the suitcases off of the bed, and handed him the remote control for the little television set on the dresser. "You settle in for a bit, I'll bring up what I can find."
The kitchen had been freshly stocked with basics, and Molly made up a tray with eggs, toast, fruit and tea for two.
"Midnight breakfast, thought it would be gentle on your stomach after today."
Mycroft was watching the news, his face a mask of grim analysis as he took in the information being broadcast about the attack.
"My mobile was ruined, new one arrives with tomorrow's packet. This is the first update I've seen in hours. I can't remember the last time I was so disconnected."
"I saw an old phone downstairs, looked a like a rotary."
"It is, and the line is tapped by my people. We can call out for emergencies. The moment you pick it up, someone is listening."
Making a mental note to avoid that, Molly brought up the suitcases from the front door, and found them stocked with a basic women's wardrobe in her size, and necessities. She changed into pyjamas, and slipped into bed with Mycroft, careful not to upset the tea.
It was strangely domestic and cosy, after the violence of the day.
"I imagine there's a lot they can't say," Molly said, nodding to the news program.
"Certainly. Most of our casualties will be people who have told their families lies about working in finance or for corporations, and this will all come as a shock. I don't remember a lot, but judging by where the paramedics found me, the explosion came from near the main entrance. I was taken out through a back emergency exit and had to pass the bodies of several of our younger agents who had been there shadowing and observing. Saw the flag on ID badges through the dust. Mahmoud with just returning with my coffee, the cup was still in his hand. I've been training him for seven years, thought he might replace me someday. Brilliant mind. Brilliant."
His tone was casual, indifferent, and Molly ate her food while she listened to him talk as long as he needed to. In fragments, sometimes disjointed, and always with the air of boredom and detachment, Mycroft explained what had happened, what he had seen, how he had felt. She reached back into her medical training for planning over the next few days and weeks to quietly assess him for signs of post-traumatic stress, help develop coping strategies, and do it in ways that wouldn't catch in his dignity or be condescending.
They both slept for a few hours around dawn, curled around each other with the lamps still lit. Mycroft woke mid-morning, though, sweating and vomiting. Embarassed, he tried not to wake Molly, but there was no way, and by the time the episode was done they were both up for the day. He washed and changed while she puttered in the little kitchen.
"Why don't you go sit in the garden, I saw some chairs out there and a table, and I'll bring something light to nibble on, and your medication."
He grumbled about, already bored, and inspected the bookcase. Selecting a volume, he let himself out the door.
As she tore part of a fresh loaf of bread into easy to manage chunks on a plate, she considered the situation they now found themselves in.
We're going to be living together, alone but for each other, for potentially weeks. There'll be no escape from each other, no privacy. Mycroft will run mad with boredom, and I'll - what. What am I going to do with myself here? He needs some tending, as much as he lets me, but I'll still need things to do as well.
There were a few types of cheese in the fridge, and she set out some slices with some fresh veg and fruit. She put everything together to go outside, and while the kettle boiled for the tea, went to peruse the bookshelf.
It was tightly packed with cheap paperbacks, a sampling of everything popular in different genres, classics and recent bestsellers. Choosing a small book she'd read before, she tucked it into her cardigan pocket to bring outside.
The garden path was edged with lavender and rosemary, leading to a small sitting area with a view of the sea, where Mycroft sat coughing.
"I imagine there'll be a lot of discomfort while your body sorts itself out," she said sympathetically, watching the coughs jar already sore muscles and wounds. "It will ease, though." She'd brought out an assortment of his pills, and he raised an eyebrow at the variety. "Start with these while everything is at it's worst, and you can reduce from there," she recommended calmly. He took them, eyeing her over his water glass.
"I imagine this isn't how you anticipated spending your day," he said, once he had swallowed everything. "I apologize for the secret service essentially kidnapping you for my own benefit."
"Well, it is good for me to have the occasional living patient," she said with a wry smile. "And I can't blame you for being here, it wasn't your decision either and now you're just as stuck with me."
"I'm feeling quite self-conscious about the whole thing," he admitted, taking a piece of the bread and turning it over in his fingers.
"Me too," she sighed. "It's hard to defend our lack of commitment when even the British Government thinks we're partners."
They drank their tea and watched the waves, thinking.
"I'm going to say something and you don't need to acknowledge or respond to it and we can never speak of it again," she said, not looking at him. "But when I thought there was a possibility that you were dead, my heart stopped, and I have never been so frightened as I was, fearing that you might be gone."
There was a long pause. From his peripherals, Mycroft could see Molly blushing.
"With the same introduction, allow me to say that I have never wanted to see anyone so badly as I did you last night. When you arrived unexpected through that door, you were the most glorious surprise."
"And I wasn't even naked," she countered lightly, trying to lessen the uncharacteristic romance of the moment.