"Oh go on then, just give it a try'" Molly teased, pushing the steaming plate of food across the table towards Mycroft, who wore a face like a stubborn toddler.
"Absolutely not," he clipped.
"You may like it."
"If it was meant to be appealing they would let have called it Satan."
Molly rolled her eyes.
"It's seiten, and it's just wheat gluten, it won't steal your soul."
Mycroft busied himself with his pocket watch, thumbing the damage.
"You can't be sure of that."
Molly laughed, making their fellow restaurant patrons in the quiet hole-in-the-wall bistro turn for a moment before returning to their own conversations. She covered her mouth, blushing slightly.
Leaning forward, he met her eyes with mock solemnity.
"You've already resigned me to gout, remember? I might as well enjoy it."
She gave him a wry smile and took her dinner back.
"Such a baby."
"Still want to marry me tomorrow?"
She considered.
"I suppose I already bought a dress."
The ring box shifted in Mycroft's pocket as he tucked his watch away.
"And I don't know how else you'll ever get to Dover," he added seriously.
They ate their meal, flirted, split dessert, and then debated where to sleep that night. Tired as they were after diving back into routine that week, Molly's place was closer and therefore best. Mycroft held Molly's bag while she slipped on her jacket, and they slowly walked down the few steps onto the sidewalk. There was no moon, but the city lights shone bright on the concrete.
"Should we eventually deal with the two homes situation?" Mycroft broached, twirling his umbrella contentedly.
"I'm not particularly attached to my flat, but the location is convenient."
He made a noise of agreement, thinking.
"I'm fond of my house, but considering I'll never be able to host my parents there without seeing my mother's horrified face in the dining room, I'd be willing to part with it if we found the right home."
"Let's not pretend we won't desecrate every bit of a new place," Molly said, smoothing her short green dress primly over her hips, and slipping her hands into the pockets. Mycroft let his eyes wander over her, preserving the impression of his bride to be. Sweet, open, and fiercely intelligent, he felt his luck.
"I won't miss the upkeep," he admitted. "It's always tuckpointing this, and exterminating that."
Molly gasped as a figure in black clothes and a balaclava burst silently from an alley beside them. She turned and ran for the street, and another man joined the first in pursuing her. A hand closed over Mycroft's mouth and he could see the outlines of at least six more people in the darkness of the alley before they swarmed and forced him in. He let himself go limp, absorbing all he could about the situation, and holding on carefully to his umbrella. Two men whispered in worried, hoarse Serbian that there would be trouble if Mycroft Holmes' woman was not caught and killed as well.
Once out of sight of the street, he could see the faint outline of a vehicle waiting at the other end of the alley. There was a mighty clang and gun shots rang out, felling several of the attackers. Mycroft used the confusion to free himself and slip his hidden sword out of his umbrella. It wasn't the right weapon for close quarters but it caused the men still standing to back away for a moment. One rushed him and he jabbed the blade into the man's thigh. A bullet exploded through the attacker's shoulder, followed by the thunk of more shots hitting vests. The men in black grabbed their injured companions and raced through bullets to their vehicle, tires squealing.
Sherlock leapt from the fire escape above to where Mycroft stood below, his sword raised and waiting a only few heartbeats in the darkness.
Three men re-entered the alley from the street, one carrying Molly's tiny frame wrapped tightly against the length of him, her arms pinned painfully, another with a black matte hunting knife poised near her throat. Instead of finding their companions, they found the Holmes brothers. Sherlock aimed John's service pistol low and fired it into the leg of the man holding the knife. Mycroft swung up and brought his sword down hard into the shin of Molly's captor. It cleaved the limb, and he dropped Molly hard onto the alley cobbles. The third reached for her with one hand, pulling a switchblade with the other. He managed a thin cut across her shoulder heading to her throat, but she scrabbled for the fallen hunting knife, gasping, and slashed up, tearing through his stomach like paper.
Sherlock forced the wounded survivor into an upright position against the building wall. He groaned, holding his gushing pelvis. It was clear that he was dying.
"Why did Jovan put a hit on Mycroft tonight?" Sherlock growled in Serbian, his coat pooling around him like a cape as he knelt. Mycroft jabbed him in the arm with the sword tip and the man in the balaclava gave a feeble cry.
"Tell me now," said Mycroft, his voice icy and calm. He stabbed the man again.
"Finish what was started. Finish the job," the man panted. "Mycroft Holmes dead, the woman too."
"Why?"
The man's head slumped down, and Mycroft pulled it up roughly by the hair.
"Corsica," he gurgled softly, succumbing.
Sherlock sat back on his heels, tucking his gun away, while Mycroft turned his attention to Molly. He anticipated seeing her cowering in a pool of blood, but she stood, leaning against the building opposite from where the dead man sat. Their eyes found each other in the darkness. It had been maybe three minutes since they'd walked together, less even.
Mycroft took out his phone, pressed his thumb against the pad to open it, and handed it to Sherlock.
"Hit preset four and tell them we need an emergency order."
Mycroft put his sword on the ground slowly, and Molly realized that she was still holding the knife. She dropped it onto the disemboweled man who had captured her. Her whole body hurt, she couldn't stop shaking, and a strange thrumming ran through her.
"Preset four is Bangkok Pad Thai, Mycroft." Sirens rang in the distance.
"Yes, order a pick up, urgent, dinner for six, three spring rolls, extra hot sauce."
Sherlock repeated the instructions while Mycroft reached for Molly's hand.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head no. The scratch on her neck barely bled.
"Were they going to kill us?"
Mycroft weighed his options.
"Yes, they were. And these particular mercenaries aren't known for quick clean kills."
"Who were they?"
"A group of Serbians Sherlock and I met awhile back."
"Why was Sherlock following us?"
"I assume he was following them."
"Mycroft, I killed someone," she said calmly, straightening her bloody clothes. It was beginning to spit.
"Yes. Yes, you did, in self defence."
"What happens now?" The approaching sirens stopped suddenly.
"The police will be told to stand down. My people will be here in a few minutes to contain the scene and take the bodies. You'll need to come with us for now until my team does a sweep of our homes. You can clean up at my office."
"Alright."
Sherlock finished on the phone and brought it back to us brother. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat's inner breast pocket and lit two. Molly watched the Holmes boys smoke, the flare of each drag against their bloody fine suits.
Tension shook through her. Who were these men to her, these men who could without a moment's notice fight off a gang of trained killers, torture a dying man, and then make it all disappear? She looked at Sherlock, a marble statue of Apollo, and Mycroft, all deception and misdirection in his sleepy-looking frame. They were watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.
She could feel her brain trying to make sense of the adrenaline pumping through her, looking for release.
"What do you need, Molly?" her fiancé asked cautiously.
"Fuck me."
Mycroft shot a look at Sherlock, who was dark eyed and staring over the end of his cigarette at his overwrought but glorious pathologist with a penetrative gaze. The older man somehow doubted his brother's feelings for his soon to be wife were as innocent as he would want them to be. At that moment, for that moment, Mycroft knew that she had both of the Holmes at her command.
A sleek black car with no lights slipped into the end of the alley.
"I'll take the next one," Sherlock said a low voice. Reaching out a hand, Mycroft took Molly by the hand and gently guided her to the vehicle.
"Charnel Gardens," he told the driver, the privacy partition sealing up between them. Neither made a move towards the seat belts.
"Now," she whispered, sliding out of her jacket and throwing it to the floor. The cabin of the luxury car smelled of leather, blood and sweat, a heavy rain beginning to fall onto the windows.
"You've been through something traumatic, love. Are you sure this is what you want?" he breathed, combing sticky strands of her hair away from her pink face. She took his hand and put it between her legs.
"Make me forget that I just killed someone, Mycroft," she demanded with an unsettling edge to her voice. "Fuck me so hard that when I ache tomorrow I'll think of this and not being dragged down an alley by fucking assassins."
His heart still beating hard from his unexpected exertion only moment ago, Mycroft swallowed down his usual post-legwork nausea, and focused on his partner. The privacy barrier was not quite soundproof enough, but helped the driver determine when it was safe to let her passengers know that they had arrived at their destination. When they emerged, Molly's voice was hoarse and Mycroft suspected that he may have pulled a muscle in his lower back.
Escorting her down what looked like a service entrance stairs to the back of a mall, Mycroft held Molly's hand tightly. She was still trembling, though he wasn't sure if she was aware of it.
"Strong sweet tea, and a brandy, Mr Holmes," his assistant said gently when they'd entered the office, gesturing to the tray on his desk. He raised an eyebrow. "I happened to still be working when I got the call, sir. Your brother has already arrived and been taken for a statement. We'll have everything cleaned up shortly."
Mycroft poured himself a measure of brandy and drank it down, his face steely and pale. In the harsh fluorescent lighting he could see the blood in the skin of his hands, in the cracks and folds, the cuticles, under his nails. It stank.
"You may go, thank you," he said impatiently.
She kept her eyes politely averted from Molly as she passed out of the room. Mycroft poured her a drink, but as she came into the light to receive it, he saw the state of her. She was covered in blood. He had known this with his brain, but now to see it overwhelmed him. His stomach, full from dinner such a short time ago, heaved. Mycroft made it to the bin under his desk and was sick.
It was about an hour later that both Molly and Mycroft met again after thoroughly cleaning up in the staff showers. It hadn't occurred to that there would be nothing for Molly to change into, so he was surprised to see her in his own well-cut trousers and tailored shirt. Her long coppery brown hair hung in loose, damp waves.
"I had no idea my clothes could look so enticing," he commented gently, standing to greet her from his sanitized desk.
"How's the stomach?" She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder.
"Fine, fine. It happens. How are you feeling? We can't go home, but I could find you a safe place to sleep tonight if you want to rest."
"No, if you don't mind, I'd rather stay close to you. I imagine you'll be having a late night."
"I'm afraid so."
"Anything useful I could do while I'm here, love?" She placed a soft kiss on his jaw.
From the doorway came the sound of someone clearing their throat. It took Mycroft only a second to read in his little brother's stance and expression that a shower and a change had not washed away his hormonal and presumably fleeting lust for his soon to be sister in law. Jealousy flared, and then was stilled by a flash of icy genius.
"There may be something, my dear, but you can say no at any time."
Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Adler," Mycroft said with a dangerous smile.
MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMH
Irene Adler, or rather, Interrogation Room #4 inmate, was permitted an hour of exercise and leisure a day in the little garden that gave Charnel Gardens its name. Fully secure, fully disguised, and fully creepy, it was a lush garden for the use of staff and well-behaved inmates. In the centre were the ruins of a seventeenth century charnel house, the occasional bone or skull still visible through the creeping soapworts. Designed to be as pleasurable at night as by day, bright and creamy pale flowers shone under the moonlight. Silvery and sculpted black leaves drew architectural shapes, and heavy perfumes drew her into relaxation. She imagined herself a tall, graceful elf as she passed soft-footed along a musical stream, twirling a jasmine flower in her fingers.
There were rarely other people there when she and her guard entered, and tonight appeared to be no different, but sometimes if she were lucky she would be able to eavesdrop on staff having secret affairs, new lovers, or private conversations that she filed away for later.
A telltale gasp of pleasure pricked her ears, and she stopped to try to place the direction. She brushed aside a curtain of moonflowers, and let her fingers trail down some white bleeding hearts. There, in the lilac bower, on a stone bench surrounded by columbine, lay the unmistakable form of Sherlock Holmes. Straddling him was a small woman Irene didn't know. Where their bodies met was obscured by Sherlock's trademark coat, but she could see from the woman position, pinning his hands over his head, that her white shirt was open to the waist. It was clear that she was teasing him, his mouth seeking kisses that were offered and then pulled back, and there was a familiarity between their bodies, but what lit a fire of jealousy in Irene was his words.
"Please," he pleaded in a whisper, arching his hips and placing an open mouth kiss on her sternum. "Please, Molly, I can't take it." His voice was thick, low, desperate. Just the way she'd heard it in a tiny safe room in Pakistan what felt like ages ago.
"No," the small woman responded breathlessly, going in for another kiss and then at the last moment pulling back. "We can't get carried away again, Mycroft said other staff use this garden."
"You're killing me, Hooper."
"You wouldn't be the first man I've killed tonight," she said, her eyes flashing.
"What would you do if I stopped pretending you had me trapped?" He asked, a dangerous tone entering his voice that gave Irene a thrill she tried to ignore. Arching again, he finally caught her mouth in a slow, melty kiss.
Molly released his hands, and sat back on his hips, making him groan. Unexpectedly, she slapped him across the face. "Behave yourself, Sherlock, or I'll tell your big brother on you."
With a grunt he flipped them both over, and pressed himself hard to her.
"What will you tell him, Miss Hooper? That you've had me nine ways from Sunday and suddenly feeling some restraint?" He pulled her knee up over his hip, and nipped at her breast through the fabric of her shirt.
"As if you know the meaning of the word," she gasped.
"I'll save you the trouble of wondering, I already know my brother lacks restraint when it comes to Dr Hooper," came an icy voice from behind Irene. She hadn't heard Mycroft's footsteps on the soft clover. The pair on the bench scrambled apart.
"Dr Hooper, his mousey pet pathologist?" Irene asked, taken aback. Molly shot her a wry smile.
"Yes yes, all a cover of course, but unfortunately he's infatuated with her. Guard," he motioned to have Miss Adler taken back to her cell. "I've never seen Sherlock like this before, he's quite undone."
"Go fuck yourself, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.
"Of course, articulate as always, brother mine,"
"Fun to watch, though," Irene added, biting back her resentment.
"But I don't believe you've given us enough information to entitle yourself to this sort of treat. We'll speak again when you're ready to talk about Tunisia."
The guard's hand closed lightly on Irene's orange-clad wrist. She was furious, her eyes boring into the passive face of The Ice Man as he watched the pair in the bower put themselves to rights, colour in their cheeks from presumably embarrassment.
"The debriefing room, Sherlock. Miss Hooper, my office. Goodbye, Miss Adler."
Irene turned back several times to look at Sherlock and Molly as she was escorted away. They watched the garden door seal behind her. Sherlock popped the collar on his coat and looked down at Molly.
"You've given me even more reason to regret my foolishness over the years, Molly Hooper."
He left, leaving Mycroft and Molly alone.
"Ass," she said flatly once he was out of ear shot. She turned to her fiancé.
"How are you feeling right now," she asked cautiously.
"It was my idea and I still want to throttle him. You?"
"All sorts of weird. What's next?"
"We wait. We wait to see if Adler snaps. We wait to see how much this screwed up Sherlock. We wait on the blood panels to make sure the people who bled all over us didn't have HIV, etc. We wait for the security teams to determine our homes are safe. We wait on news from the ops team taking out the threat."
"Palate cleanser in your office?"
"Please," he said calmly. She noticed his facade was cracking, and tension was showing through.
They walked professionally together to his office, a socially acceptable distance from his each other.
"You have been both courageous during helpful tonight, Miss Hooper."
"That must have been difficult for you as well. Seeing your partner with your brother after all the water that's gone under that bridge?"
He looked grim.
"No, you're right," she answered herself. "You'd give your life for this country, so sacrificing your dignity, sanity and potentially even your heart are within the realm of expectation."
He closed the door behind them and leaned against it with his eyes shut.
"I hated that. I would like to be made of alcohol right now, at home in our bed."
"Think it worked? She might see right through it."
"Brilliant as Irene Adler is, she's human, and blinded by her feelings for Sherlock. And your performance was convincing. I have no doubt that if my brother had sorted himself out before you and I became partners, you two would have found your way into some sort of relationship."
"But he didn't, so we didn't, and I'm grateful that you intercepted."
She sniffed the collar of her borrowed shirt.
"I feel like I need another shower."
"Not yet," Mycroft said, moving over to the decanter. "If Adler wants to talk to you, you need to smell like Sherlock and sex."
"I didn't really picture any of this happening the night before our wedding," Molly exhaled, sitting on his desk. He handed her a glass of straight gin.
"What did you imagine?"
"Certainly not making out with you brother in front of a war criminal in a spooky garden after killing an assassin."
"Did you like the garden?"
"You really like places that are guaranteed haunted, don't you?"
"I believe you mentioned a palate cleanser?"
She parted her knees and welcomed him into her embrace. He had watched her try cleverly avoid kissing Sherlock on the CCTV, but there had been a few in there and each one had stung.
A buzz came through the intercom.
"Sir, Adler is requesting to speak to Dr Hooper. She's given us a couple of verified facts to show that she's ready to deal."