They fell into a quiet rhythm over the next week. Packets of food, news, and necessities arrived once a day, never at the same time. Mycroft was thrilled to receive his new secure mobile, and spent a contented hour configuring it to his liking, though he was disappointed that it had not yet been linked to the phone network, internet or his email.
They worked on balancing out the rougher times, when he woke in the night choking and pushing the blankets off in a panic, or when healing took it's toll on more than his body. The cottage was on a nature reserve, deeply isolated, and when he felt well they could stroll for hours never seeing another soul. His body healed much faster than his mind. He eventually stopped hiding the old science fiction novels he was embarrassed to read in front of her. He realized she was completely unashamed of picking up the trashy romance novels in front of him. ("Of course they're crap reads, but they're fun and light and what I need right now")
They were into their third week of isolation when awoken by a particularly vivid nightmare, Mycroft initiated a return to their sexual relationship. They'd barely kissed over their time together, neither wanting to impose. Some light hand holding on walks once the sun had gone down, like if they couldn't see it happening in the dark, they didn't have to acknowledge it.
The night in question was windy, the panes rattling in the old wood-framed windows. It had blended into the sound of gurneys, in his dreams, being raised and lowered, wheels clattering over debris, dozens of them all around, and he felt himself forced down into the mattress, secured and unmoving. The paramedic caressed his arm gently, folding down the double wedding ring quilt.
"Wake up, Mycroft," she said gently, her face turning into Molly's. She had removed everything from on top of him, the cold reviving him, and given him a wide berth so as to not trap him in. Normally he'd have some water, wash his face, and maybe read for a bit until he felt like sleeping again, but tonight he reached for her. He kissed her face, her neck, long kisses on her mouth, and then down her throat to her chest, barely covered in a loose tank top.
"Is this okay," he said hoarsely.
"God, yes," she replied, "whatever you feel up to is fine. I've missed it."
He pulled her shirt up over her breasts, and rested his body on top of hers, cradled by her thighs.
Determined to regain control over his own body, the way he had not been able to master his unconscious mind, he focused everything on making her feel good with the focus and drive he had their first time together. Goal-oriented, he used every bit of his knowledge of what she liked, how she responded, to make her climax with his hands, his mouth, and finally with him deep inside her. Noises spilled out of him, incoherent and emotional, as he held her arching body and felt himself empty. He wanted to cry, even as he was elated, as a new powerlessness filled him.
Her brown eyes shone in the moonlight, she stroked his face, gently kissing him.
"It's okay," she whispered reassuringly. "However you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, it's alright, it's allowed."
"I love you."
The words tore out of him unwillingly. Mycroft felt the vulnerable new attachment, the potential for heartbreak, like a fresh wound. He had no choice but to admit this woman who had chosen his bed and his companionship had also broken through a wall he had cheerfully established long ago for his own protection. He turned his face away from her, trying to compose himself.
Molly was breathing deeply, still full of her own orgasm hormones. He could feel the rise and fall of each breath from where their bodies met.
"It frightens you that we love each other," she assessed quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you." She held him close, burying her face into his shoulder. "I'm in this for as long as you are."
Letting her words soak in, he shifted off of her, and they rolled onto their sides to look at each other. He twined her long hair through his fingers, letting the strands slide softly down onto her body.
"Where do we go from here?"
"We go on being ourselves together, day by day," she said, kissing him, "in whatever form we choose."
Once they'd cleaned up a little, they curled back up in the centre of the bed together.
"How much do you think will change?" Molly asked, rearranging where his arm lay under her neck. "Once we're back to reality. Do you think our feelings will be less intense, with our normal lives and cares?"
"I'm at a complete loss," Mycroft confessed. "I'm having trouble processing any of this. I feel like once I'm back in a comfortable routine, I'll be more myself, and have a better handle on it."
Molly pursed her lips and stared at the window a moment. The wind had died down, but she could still hear the roar of the waves on the nearby beach.
"I don't think we should stress ourselves out getting too far ahead, or making any grand plans. What if, since we don't know when we'll suddenly find ourselves back in London, we only plan our first 48 hours home. By then we'll know where we're at and can reassess."
"Prudent," Mycroft agreed, feeling a bit relieved she didn't want to discuss long term arrangements. His mind had skipped ahead to where would they live and should they be married and did they want children, and it had left an exciting but unwelcome knot in his stomach. "What if we planned to spend our first night back at your home, make sure your cat is tended and settled upon our return, and the second night at mine."
"Aw, I do miss Toby," she said with a smile, touched he'd thought of the furry monster. "And by then if we feel like having a night alone, we'll do that for night three, both homes having been exorcised of any lonely thoughts."
"I'll need medical clearance and a psychological assessment before I can return to full duties," he mused. "There's a great deal of work to be done, and I don't know how it's being handled in my absence. Those daily briefings I receive are hardly comprehensive."
"We'll both likely have a lot of late nights catching up on our reading, that will be pleasant. And we'll have to explain to our friends why we both suddenly disappeared at the same time."
"Didn't I tell you? They've been given a cover story. You received a sudden offer from MSF to go to Calais to work in the refugee camps after one of the doctors volunteering there became ill."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I'm going to feel pretty guilty about not actually doing it, considering I've spent these weeks walking on the beach, reading in the garden, and time permitting, now spending every moment in bed with you."
"My department will sponsor a doctor to go in your place," he committed, pulling her tight against him.
They did spend the majority of the next two weeks in bed, though this time getting considerably more exercise than they had when they'd first arrived. The nightmares didn't abate, but they began to discussing strategies for handling them as they took breaks to stand in the waves up to their knees with their trousers rolled to the knee, tea cup in one hand and pastry in the other.
"I think we need to acknowledge something," Molly said one day, not looking up from opening the first bottle of wine that had finally appeared in their grocery delivery. The stood in the sunny kitchen, hungry but too lazy to make dinner.
"You sound nervous," Mycroft said, reaching down the wine glasses from the top shelf she couldn't reach. He could feel a sudden spike of anxiety.
"I am a bit, yes." She filled each glass far above the proper amount one would normally pour, and immediately took a sip. "If we go on like we have, nearly forty or not, odds are we're going to get me pregnant. It was different when we were having sex once or twice a week, or even less, but at this pace…" She trailed off, taking a large drink. "I think I was due to ovulate this week, we could already be in trouble."
Mycroft took a long look at Molly. He read all the little signs about her, picked up those tiny details his brain absorbed almost unconsciously, and every part of her was lovely. The clever, scientific, dark and twisted mind, mixed with unfailing kindness, gentleness and generosity. The idea of becoming a parent had been absolutely horrifying until he met her, but somehow, the thought of a child of theirs was intriguing.
"So long as you were willing, I feel like we would make it work. You'd make a rather fine mother, I imagine, if eccentric."
She snorted.
"Me eccentric? We'd be raising the kid on repeats of Yes, Minister to try to explain your work in a kid-friendly manner. No need to let on how many assassinations daddy has ordered before tea time."
"I don't think either of us would be able to do take your kid to work day," he said wryly, remembering how neatly and effortlessly she could disembowel a corpse.
"We could send it off with Uncle Sherlock and John," she offered, smiling now.
"Good lord, that would be something."'
"So am I hearing that you want to continue doing nothing to prevent this from occurring?"
"I'm finding myself warmed to the idea of procreating a small version of our strange, demented selves."
"They could be smarter than you," she warned, amused. "Wouldn't that be something, Mr Holmes. Or what would you do if their life's ambition was to be a poet, or a musician, or a greengrocer?"
"Oh, probably have them bond with my father," Mycroft mused. "They'd speak the same language. Goodness knows he and I never have. Should have heard our house before Sherlock came along. I was nearly ten when he was born, and once he got out of the boring nappy stage and started to show some spark, it was admittedly a relief to at least be on the same ladder with someone, even if we were on different rungs. Not that I'd ever tell him that, of course."
"Have you and your Dad never had anything in common," Molly asked, opening a tin of soup and pouring it into a pot.
"Just science fiction. He was concerned that I had trouble finding things that were, well, fun as a kid. When I picked up a book, I usually could anticipate the plot and ending within the first few chapters, and it all became rather boring. With the wild science fiction books he gave me, there was no rhyme or reason as to why things happened, everything was unpredictable."
"What else dd you do for fun? You're not much of a fan of traditional arts and culture, television, outdoors, other people, any of that."
"Work gives me challenges and puzzles, those I find entertaining."
The old rotary phone in the parlour rang, shaking the entire table it sat on, and making them both jump. Mycroft answered it with a simple yes. Molly watched him as he listened to the other end of the line, and she could see in his eyes that he was committing everything he heard to his brilliant memory. He hung up without saying goodbye.
"The car will be here in an hour to take us to the airport."
"You're no longer in danger?"
"Apparently the security threat was resolved, the bombers caught and interrogated. My team was not the target."
"That's something," she said quietly, stirring the soup as it began to bubble. She switched off the burner, and divided it into two coffee mugs. "We should pack."
"Not a lot of need," he shrugged, topping up their wine. "None of those clothes belonged to us in the first place. You'll just need to gather your own personal possessions that you brought with you the night you arrived. A team of cleaners will come to collect everything else, remove any trace of us from the house. We might as well enjoy our last hour here."
"Up for a romp somewhere inappropriate?" Her tone was conversational, and it took him a moment to process what she meant. "Beach, garden, here in the kitchen?"