Sorry about the delay, apparently toddler and pregnant wasn't enough, I got pneumonia as well. Hoping this upload isn't riddled with errors. Let me know if you find things, I'll correct it.

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There was a very fine looking older woman waiting for them with a car at the airstrip outside of London, wrapped in an immaculate white wool coat against the misty drizzle. Molly recognized her from the party she'd been to as Lady Smallwood, whom she'd come to believe had a supervisory role over Mycroft's team.

She greeted the pair with cool handshakes as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Mr Holmes, it's good to see you so well recovered. Doctor Hooper," she acknowledged. They all entered the vehicle together, spacious enough to fit three adults comfortably in the back seat.

"I'm afraid there's going to be a great deal to do, now that you're back, Mycroft. Are you fit to return to work tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," he said with a touch of arrogance. "I assume my access to email and the networks will be restored promptly so I can begin to catch up."

"Of course," she responded. "They'll be back within the hour." She turned her soft, firm voice and sharp eyes to Molly.

"Doctor Hooper, you're scheduled to resume shifts at your place of employment tomorrow morning as well, unless you require additional time to sort out your affairs."

"No, no that's fine," Molly answered quickly, "I've already been away so long."

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood discussed non-confidential details of business, general updates, while they rode back into town, and Molly was interested in watching him in work-mode. His eyes were clear, hard, cold, all wheels in his brain turning. She imagined it would not take much for her gentle lover to be the man he had warned her he had to be. Ice man, a dark antihero in a three-piece, she imagined, designing him to be her own superhero. With a death ray umbrella, he'd like that.

Without asking, the driver took them to Mycroft's house. They stayed long enough to collect some clothes for him to wear to the office tomorrow, his back up laptop (his briefcase and main computer having been destroyed in the explosion). He stood in the front corridor while she turned off the lights and joined him.

Mycroft was standing in front of the bowl where he usually kept his pocket contents, holding a resealable plastic bag. He opened it, and the smells of smoke, dust and chemicals were released. Inside was everything that had been taken off of his person by the paramedics, left by some security staff member for him to reclaim upon his return home. His face was a mask as he lifted out the damaged remains of his wallet, his unharmed metal keys, and his pocket watch. The object he usually kept polished and in pride of place was gouged and scratched by the debris that had hit him, the glass cracked inside the lid. The timepiece was still functioning, but off, and he reset it and wound it carefully. The chain was broken in several places.

"My grandfather's," he explained, unprompted, and put it in his pocket.

"Would you like to take it somewhere to be cleaned and restored on our way into town," Molly asked, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Facing the condition of the things he'd had on his person was a very real reminder of what he had experienced.

"No, I think I'll keep it like this for awhile," he decided slowly. "It'll remind me that I'm not quite myself yet, not quite back to normal, as much as I'd like to think so."

"Alright, Mr Holmes, I'm going to take you home. Well, my home. We'll check on that parasitic fur-beast, as you called him, split a container of ice cream, and read through our work emails until our eyes bleed."

Several hours later they lay side by side in Molly's bed, staring at their phones. She had one headphone in, listening to a new album that had been released while she'd been away, and Toby was glued to their feet.

"I missed technology so much," Mycroft said for the hundredth time that evening, rubbing the cat with his bare foot and enjoying the sensation of the soft fur.

"These guys are playing next week, maybe I'll see if Meena wants to go," Molly mused, rocking her head back and forth on the pillow.

"Well, isn't this cosy," said a deep, unexpected voice from the window. Sherlock pulled himself through the frame, and landed like a cat on all fours. He straightened up, dusting off his jacket.

"Were you hoping to catch another voyeuristic peep, Sherlock, coming in through the window at night?" Mycroft said, unimpressed. "Something wrong with knocking at the door?"

"Molly's door is being watched too closely right now," he said, beginning to check the room thoroughly. "Your people never think to watch the windows this high up, common failing."

He pulled a small device from the top of a decorative mirror, and disconnected it.

"Good, now we actually have some privacy."

Molly turned to Mycroft, frowning silently and turning pink.

"I honestly didn't know it was there," he admitted quickly. "Must have been planted while we were gone."

"Good thing we were tired," she said, horror flashing in her eyes.

"Anyway," Sherlock said loudly, awkwardly, "Mycroft, we need to talk."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Do I need to get up? Is this personal or business?"

"Personal."

"Shall I duck out a minute," Molly offered. She was picking up something Mycroft seemed to be missing. Under Sherlock's polite exterior, which she guessed was for her sake, he was furious with his brother.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft a moment, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes, brain whirring almost audibly. He sat back against the bed frame with a deep, dramatic sigh.

"No, my dear, to a certain degree this involves you, and I would guess that Sherlock believes you have a right to know. So, my dim-witted sibling, finally figured it out."

"Took me long enough, Mycroft," Sherlock spat out, allowing some of his anger to vent.

"Let me guess, you helped yourself to my damaged laptop before it was incinerated?"

"Indeed."

"Care to fill me in," Molly asked with a frown, used to but nevertheless annoyed at the way the brothers communicated without needing to fill in the details for everyone else.

Sherlock gave Mycroft an expression Molly couldn't fully understand, but Mycroft did.

I'll give you the chance to explain in your own words for the sake of preserving your relationship, but note that you owe me one.

"Sherlock has retrieved from my old laptop a short video that I created. I had taken great pains to wipe it's existence from the hard drive in every form, but never underestimate my brother's need to violate my privacy."

"What sort of video," Molly asked nervously, a pit of nerves forming suddenly in her stomach at the awful possibilities.

Mycroft took a deep breath, and to calm himself, quickly in his mind ran through the actions he would need to take should Molly kick him out of the flat and end their relationship after his next sentence.

"The video of Moriarty that appeared on all the screens in England as Sherlock was being sent away. I made it, and broadcast it myself, right from my home office. Moriarty was never back, and no one was using his image. Well, other than me."

"You WHAT," Molly said loudly in disbelief. "You made all of us believe that he could be back. Everyone was scared. I was terrified that he'd know I'd helped Sherlock fake his death, Mycroft, he knew where I lived, where I worked, everything about me. Terrified."

"Why, Mycroft?" Sherlock's deep voice cut from the end of the bed. "Why did you make me think my nemesis had returned from the dead?"

"You know why, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, turning pink. "Did you think I was going to let you go off to get yourself killed if I had any means of preventing it? Did you think I could put my little brother on a plane to certain and imminent death? I haven't spent years of my life putting you back together just to let you be broken."

"And that was the only thing you could think of," Sherlock asked derisively, brushing aside his brother's uncharacteristic sentiment.

"I was on a timeline," Mycroft said tightly, "as you recall, you were only moments away from a fatal overdose when the video aired. Anticipating your behaviour, I set up the video, sent you off, activated it, acted surprised, you returned, I started the standard investigation, got you a pardon, and nothing came of it. As far as my superiors are concerned, Moriarty has slipped off into hiding, if he was back at all, and we'll wait for him to surface."

"Mycroft, if anyone finds out you won't just lose your position, you'll likely be arrested as a terrorist," Molly said softly. She reached over and took his hand. His hands felt cold, and he cupped her warm fingers against his, borrowing some of their heat.

It felt good to have his secret out, but it meant there were two people now with the ammunition to destroy him entirely.

"I'm not going to rat you out, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "But you've wasted a great deal of my mental and physical energy hunting Moriarty down a rabbit hole that was never going to end."

"I'm not going to apologize for saving your life," Mycroft retorted. He turned to Molly. "I do, however, owe you an apology for the distress it caused you. I must admit, I was thinking only of Sherlock when I aired it. It wouldn't have changed my decision, but I would have tried to find a way to make it less frightening for you."

"It was for a good cause," Molly admitted. "I'm not happy about it, but if you're right, and it did save Sherlock's life, it was worth it."

Sherlock rubbed at his face, and stared at the couple lying in the cosy little bed. He shook his head, and went back to the window.

"I'm glad you're not blown up, Mycroft. Welcome home. Call Mummy, she's been unbearable. Non-stop phone calls"

He climbed back out, and disappeared into the darkness.

An uncomfortable silence fell for the couple left behind. Mycroft straightened the items on the nightstand beside him, and smoothed out the blankets underneath him. Beside him, Molly leaned over and scooped up Toby, dragged him into her lap.

"Whatever your reaction is, I understand, and I'll comply," he said quietly.

"I'm processing, Mycroft," she said. He didn't think he heard anger in her voice anymore, but that wasn't the sort of thing he was best at. "I'm a bit slower at that sort of thing than you are, bear with me."

"You're not slow, Molly," he responded automatically. She gave a faint smile.

"I know I'm not slow. You wouldn't be able to stand being with me if I were. But I am slower at parsing through these things than you are."

They didn't speak for another few minutes, and Mycroft hoped the conclusion she came to was nothing about him leaving and never seeing her again.

"I love you," she said decisively. "One of the things I love about you is how much you secretly love your loved ones, and that are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to protect them. It's one of the things that makes you good at your work. You love Britain so much you're wiling to do likely unspeakable things to keep her safe."

He didn't respond, embarrassed. She continued, not looking at him.

"Just don't get caught, Mycroft. I'm not losing you to prison."