The door clicked behind Lady Smallwood, leaving a heavy silence in the comfortable office.
Molly leaned against the desk, her face blank and her demeanour passive. Mycroft leaned against the door opposite her, rubbing his head with both hands, then bringing them down his face. It felt strange, like it wasn't his.
"You didn't tell me that you'd failed your psych evaluation, Mycroft," Molly said tensely, not looking at him.
He crossed his arms over his chest, a bundle of nerves.
"I just found out this afternoon, it didn't seem like night before the wedding conversation."
"Fair enough. What's next?"
"Counselling, CBT, and once I've got basic clearance back, low-stress duties for minimum three months." He touched the empty pocket where he usually kept his work phone and his ID swipes. Once he left the office it would lock behind him and he wouldn't be able to re-enter.!
"You're going to be irritatingly bored, aren't you."
"Guaranteed," he said, a touch of a smile crossing his mouth.
"I'd like to go home, shower, wrap up in a blanket like a burrito with a cup of tea, and watch stupid movies until I pass out."
"That sounds ideal." His head was filling with questions and doubts. "We need to talk about tonight, Molly, about everything that's happened and what it will mean for us."
She looked up at him, and his heart sunk. She looked so young, so broken, and he didn't know how to repair the damage just one night in his world had done.
"I'm proud of you, Mycroft," she said unexpectedly. "You really are willing to sacrifice everything to help others. We did well tonight, right? This helped people?"
"Yes, it did. Something I can only describe as evil is being destroyed probably this moment. But, God, Molly, I'm so sorry. I understand if-" he put a protective layer of professional posh into his tone and steadied his voice , "if you'd like to dissolve any formal arrangements we have."
The space between them felt immeasurable, and there was a resistance keeping him away like flipped magnets.
"Mycroft," she said softly, "I love you." She made no move toward him, her fingers clinging to the desk behind her. "I'll be there tomorrow at the registry office if you will."
The tension in his heart eased, but he stared at the carpet.
"I can find you a hotel for the night, love," he offered, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
"Lady Smallwood has offered us a secure guesthouse in town."
"I can have some of your things sent over."
"Mycroft stop," she said, a sharpness entering her voice he'd only ever heard her use on Sherlock. He raised his head and their eyes met for the first time.
"I've known what your job is like for a long time now. I've known what you're like for a long time now. I've accepted the risks that come with it. For fuck's sake, we've only been home a week since last time our lives were turned upside down. And I've accepted that you would step over my dying body, or die yourself and leave me bereft, in a fucking heartbeat if it was for the greater good." She was furious, he realized. "And you know what? That's exactly as it should be. I didn't sign up to marry someone who would let strangers suffer to keep their own peace and security. And what would it say about me if I gave you a hard time for being who you are? We're not fucking teenagers, Mycroft, I don't expect you to change just because we love each other. And give me some fucking credit. Other than the Serbian mercenaries, I've had complete agency over my actions tonight."
"You've been glorious tonight, Molly. You fought for your life, you coped with a traumatic situation, and then you still helped prevent a global crisis. Believe me when I say I could never underestimate your-"
"You're trying to manage me, Mycroft, as if you're not in the same shape I'm in right now," she snapped. "We're in this together."
His false confidence cracked. He slid down the door to sit on the floor, head in hands. She didn't come to him right away, which didn't bother him. He was sure neither of them really felt like touching at the moment.
He heard clattering around his desk, drawers opening and closing. A few minutes later he felt a tap on his hand. Molly handed him a glass of water and two white tablets he recognized as plain paracetamol.
She sat beside him, leaving a bit of breathing room between them. She rubbed her hands on the carpet, the coarse abrasion against her oversensitive skin welcome.
"All your confidence is wrapped up in this job, and that giant brain of yours, Mycroft," she sighed. "But you're going to recover, and it will just be one more scar you've earned in service."
"I was going to keep it a surprise for after we married tomorrow, but I'm to receive the OBE and a knighthood when I'm put out to pasture," he said bleakly.
"Well damn. I'll have to buy a proper hat if I'm to be Lady Holmes."
"I thought you'd like that," he said with a trace of humour.
"If it helps, I'll be in treatment along with you," Molly said, returning to the previous subject. "Lady Smallwood wants to make sure I don't end up with PTSD myself."
They say in silence a few minutes, drinking water and thinking separately the same thoughts of what was to come over the coming days.
"You know, my dear," Mycroft started, trying for bravado and sounding awkward instead. He cleared his throat and started again. "You know that the terror attack, the mercenaries, Adler's revenge, it all would have happened whether or not you were in my life, and my career and all that I am tied into that would still be in the same state without you. The difference is that without my career, I'd have nothing. Now, I have you, and our life, and our future, who knows maybe even children, and that's more than I had ever hoped for for my life."
Molly reached over and squeezed his hand, looking deeply into his pale blue eyes, overwhelmed with love for her partner in all his frail humanity.