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CHAPTER TWO
John Watson jerked awake, the sound of raging mortar shells in his head suddenly translating to a rapid banging.
"Gaaahhh…" he groaned, flopping back onto the pillow, his heartbeat pounding, even as he felt his wife grab hold of his arm.
"Somebody at the door," she mumbled.
"Yap, I'll…I'll get it…" John assured her groggily, sitting up, shoving the covers off himself and groping for his dressing gown. After he'd shrugged it on, he blearily glanced at the clock. It was half one in the morning.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
"Coming, coming!" John called, stumbling out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, trying to make out the outline of the door through the darkness. He reached out and managed to grab the knob, twist it, and pull the door open—
And was almost knocked back into the side wall as a towering someone swooped into the apartment, spraying John with rainwater that cascaded from his coat.
"What…What…" John tried, swiping at his face. He slapped the light switch and the lamps popped on—
To reveal Sherlock Holmes sweeping into his parlor, trailing mud with his footsteps, his hair and black clothes soaking wet.
"Sherlock?" John yelped. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
"It's Mycroft," Sherlock answered roughly, raking a hand through his dark, sopping curls. John blinked and fought to kick his sleepy brain into gear.
"He's in danger?"
"Yes, grave danger. From me," Sherlock snarled back, his ice-blue eyes flashing.
"What?" John frowned, shutting the door. Sherlock paced more furiously.
"He's got Molly."
"What?" Mary interjected, coming out of the bedroom and throwing her dressing gown on.
"He's got Molly—what does that mean?" John demanded.
"He's kidnapped her, then?" Mary asked.
"Tosh, that's nonsense!" John answered. "That's not what he means—that's not what you mean, is it?"
"No," Sherlock shook his head, nearly wearing a hole in the rug with his strides.
"Holding her for ransom?" Mary guessed, folding her arms. John barked out a laugh and threw his arms out in a wild gesture.
"What is going on here? Mycroft does a lot of things, but I'm pretty sure he's not used to kidnapping pathologists and holding them for ransom."
"No, he's…" Sherlock stopped, but didn't look at either of them. "He's…got Molly. They are…friends."
John shot a glance over at Mary. Her eyebrows went up and she shrugged, and quickly shook her head. John turned back to Sherlock.
"Is that…not allowed?" John asked carefully.
Sherlock's jaw clenched and he gave a withering glare to the wall in front of him.
"Sherlock, you're soaking wet," Mary finally said. "Where have you come from?"
"Home, Diogenes Club, St. Bart's, Scotland Yard, here," Sherlock huffed, off-handedly pointing at spots in the air.
"You've been all over London. Tonight," John realized. "What have you been doing?"
Sherlock heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then turned and threw his hands in the air.
"I looked all over my flat, but I couldn't find the book I was looking for—I knew Mycroft had it. So I went to the Diogenes Club to get it from him but what I found was Mycroft and Molly having tea and holding hands, so I left without speaking to either of them—"
"Wait—holding hands?" John repeated, everything he thought he knew about the universe suddenly tipping sideways. "Mycroft? Holding hands—"
"Yes, that is what I just said, John—do try to keep up," Sherlock snapped, spinning on his heel and giving him a narrow, cutting glance that had no effect on John whatsoever.
"I went to St. Bart's to inquire as to how many times Mycroft has interrupted her work schedule," Sherlock went on, rapid-fire. "It seems that he's been a fairly frequent visitor in recent months, and is one of the few people she mentions to co-workers besides her fiancé—and so after that I went to Lestrade to find out exactly how long this has been going on, and after scraping together clues from Lestrade's limited and sometimes faulty memory we were able to calculate that it's been roughly two years—beginning almost the day I forged my death and disappeared to go detangle Moriarty's web."
"Exactly how long what has been going on?" John cut in, stepping toward his friend to try to halt his furious pacing. Instead, Sherlock whirled away from him and cursed.
"This is so typical of Mycroft! He's such an incurable narcissist—he can't even help it! Probably doesn't even know he's doing it—but it never fails. I could place a solid bet on it every single time and I'd have more money than I knew what to do with."
"Doing what, again?"Mary stepped closer too, watching him intensely.
"This!" Sherlock cried desperately, facing them and holding his hands out, his wide, vibrant eyes searching their faces as if they should see something that was perfectly obvious. "If I got full marks on an exam, he would get special honors at the top of his class. If I made a book of riddles I'd invented for Mother, he'd go through and write all the answers in red ink. If I bought a coat for myself, he would buy one that was better or more expensive. If I found a rare book or an artifact or a tool at a neighbor's sale or an antique shop, he would steal it. If I saw something in a shop window I admired, he would buy it for himself!" Sherlock's voice built in volume and speed and fury. "If I have a singular, unique item of value and he does not have its equal he will take mine from me. He's done it ever since we were boys and he has no reason to stop now."
"Wait, are we talking about Molly?" John suddenly realized. "Molly's the thing he's taken—the thing that's yours that Mycroft's taken."
"Well, yes, isn't that obvious?" Sherlock gestured violently, grabbing his coat collar and thrashing the rain off of it.
"Since when has Molly been yours, Sherlock?" Mary asked quietly, her eyes narrowing at him. "Isn't she engaged to be married?"
Sherlock jerked to a halt.
John's throat choked shut and he stopped breathing.
The bluster left Sherlock's tantrum in an instant. He stared at Mary, and blinked. Blinked again, and swallowed.
"I…" he started—his voice abruptly hoarse. He cleared his throat. John stood very still—watching his friend's frame go unsteady.
"I…no. No! Of course not," Sherlock shook his head once, his brow furrowing. "I simply meant that…Molly has so often…She's been helpful and…nearby. When I've—we've—needed her. On a case. It's inconvenient for Mycroft to…To dominate her time. When I might have occasion to…require her opinion." His piecemeal explanation hung in the air. Mary's gaze pinned him.
Sherlock straightened to his full height, looked at John, and his aspect turned stony.
"Never mind. You've got better things to do. Forget I was here." He strode toward the door, opened it himself, and muttered a "Goodnight" right before it slammed shut behind him.
John blew out a long breath and scratched the back of his head.
"Not sure we actually can forget he was here," he muttered, staring at the long line of overlapping, muddy footprints on the rug.
"What was that all about?" Mary murmured.
"Hard to tell, with him," John admitted. "What do you think?"
Mary studied the door, then gave John a wry, sideways glance.
"I have a guess."
MHMHMHM
Sherlock dashed noisily down the dark stairs of John's apartment building, knocking that useless conversation out of his head. He should have known better than to attack John with speculations after waking him from a nightmare about the war, especially after midnight, so soon after getting married and finding out he's a father. And he should have known that Mary wouldn't understand the depth and breadth of the situation and the personalities—she was still a stranger to Mycroft, after all, and new to this circle in general.
It didn't matter that she was absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent correct.
Sherlock shoved the door aside and lunged out onto the sidewalk once more; and the cold, driving rain hit him in the face. He frowned fiercely, flipped up his soaking collar, stuffed his hands in his pockets, lowered his head and marched on.
And she was. Mary was right. Molly did not belong to Sherlock in any sense of the word. Most of the work she did for him, or that she allowed him to do in the hospital laboratory, was against regulations or flatly illegal. Upon his own admission, she had played a part in his illusory death that had been indispensable—the entire operation would have failed if not for her. If anything, Sherlock was technically in her debt. She owned him—not the other way round.
Sherlock ground his teeth, rain dripping into his eyes.
And Mycroft had not planned this. This…this…
Vulnerability.
Weakness.
The coldest, most powerful, most secretive, most aloof man Sherlock had ever known would never purposefully risk a potentially-fatal emotional exposure.
But that Look.
No matter what Sherlock railed to John or to Mary about Mycroft's evil plots to nick things that weren't his just for the fun of it…
That had been an accident.
She'd caught him off his guard. The way she had an infuriating habit of doing.
And with that Look…
Something familiar resonated deep inside Sherlock's bones.
"You can see me."
"I don't count."
Sherlock dodged under an overhang in front of a shop, pulled out his phone and began to text, fighting with his slick fingers.
221B tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. –SH
He stood there, waiting. Staring at the bright screen, the rain rushing all around him.
Typing, at the other end.
As long as tea is provided. –MH
Sherlock did not reply. He clicked his phone off, rammed it in his pocket and stormed out again into the night.
MHMHMHMHM
Sherlock sat in his chair, dressed, but also wearing his father's old maroon smoking jacket. It still smelled of pipe tobacco, and though its elbows and collar were threadbare, Sherlock kept it. He hadn't the slightest idea why—and didn't care to deduce the reason—but being wrapped in this article of clothing made him calm, and clarified his thoughts.
The morning sunlight streamed in the window behind him, filling the dusty flat and illuminating the steam from the teapot on the small table before him, just to the left of John's chair. Mrs. Hudson had come and gone half an hour ago, clucking like a hen the entire time she had lingered. Now, the house stood silent, save for the ticking of the clock.
Thirty seconds.
Mycroft would not be late.
Sherlock drew in his breath and held it, his eyes unfocusing as he pressed his fingertips together and tucked his hands under his chin.
The clack of the latch. Footsteps on the stair—and that characteristic tap-tap of the tip of an umbrella.
Exactly upon the hour, Mycroft Holmes strode into the flat. Sherlock glanced at him for half an instant. Grey suit and waistcoat, black shoes, blue tie, black umbrella. All impeccable. Sherlock ground his teeth and regretted the smoking jacket.
"Good morning," Mycroft greeted him. "May I inquire as to the occasion?"
"You require an occasion?" Sherlock asked, his tone low and measured, as he finally met his brother's eyes. Mycroft shrugged.
"Of course not. But your inviting me to tea simply for tea's sake would be—shall we say—highly irregular," he replied, stepping forward and settling himself in John's chair like a cat. He leaned his umbrella against the fireplace. "I might be inclined to wonder whether or not you were ill." Mycroft's gaze lingered on him, and his eyes narrowed. "On second thought, that may not be such an irrelevant question. You were out walking in the rain last night, weren't you?"
"Only briefly, for a case," Sherlock lied, laying his hands down on the armrests. "And you were the one who insisted on tea."
"Aha," Mycroft nodded, then gestured to the tea. "May I…?"
"Mm," Sherlock grunted, shifting in his chair. It was getting harder to sit still.
"Now, what is it you want?" Mycroft asked coolly, over the trickle of the tea. He set the pot down.
"What makes you think I want something?" Sherlock countered flatly.
"Because you do." Mycroft took his tea and saucer in his hands and sat back in his chair. "What. Is it."
Sherlock's jaw clenched, and he glowered at his brother.
"The book."
"What book?"
"You know what book."
"I have literally thousands of books."
"But not books I want."
"What book do you want, then?"
"My book."
"Which book is that?"
Sherlock heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.
"The book I lent you before I left."
Mycroft glanced at the ceiling and pretended to think. Then he shrugged, made a non-committal face and shook his head at Sherlock.
"Sorry. I don't recall."
"Yes, you do!" Sherlock slammed the heels of his hands down on the rests. "I gave it to you for safekeeping—and now you've just decided to keep it."
"Ah, that one," Mycroft smiled. "Certainly—yes, I know exactly where it is. Perfectly safe. You may come by the Diogenes Club any time you like to retrieve it."
Sherlock canted his head.
"Why can't you just bring it to me?" he demanded.
"In case it may have slipped your mind," Mycroft said lightly, taking a sip. "I'm a relatively busy man. I don't always have time to pop up to the flat, no matter how much I might enjoy our visits."
"Relatively busy keeping tabs on Molly Hooper," Sherlock muttered venomously, his gaze fixed on Mycroft.
Mycroft's eyebrows drew together and he lowered his teacup.
"I beg your pardon?"
"And you should begmy pardon," Sherlock pressed, leaning toward him. "I asked you to look after her while I was abroad—why have you continued that practice now that I've returned?"
Mycroft smiled crookedly and set his tea down with a clink.
"Sherlock, I shall gladly relinquish that duty if I can be assured that you are present-minded enough to do it yourself."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.
"And now you're insulting me."
"Not at all. You are certainly welcome to have a go at it." Mycroft interlaced his fingers. "But you won't succeed long."
A fire guttered to life in Sherlock's chest.
"And what brings you to that conclusion?"
"You will forget about her," Mycroft said frankly.
Sherlock's breathing hitched. His lips parted—but suddenly, no words would come.
"You never contact her anyhow, unless you need her to do some chore for you." Mycroft studied the worn fabric of the armrests. "And there are times when weeks pass and you don't need her at all. You don't even think of her." Mycroft straightened, and gave him a pleasant look. "So you have my blessing to go right ahead. But as soon as you drop the ball, as it were, I shall gladly pick it up again."
"Isn't that what you're constantly doing?" Sherlock's snarl rumbled in his chest. "What you cannot wait to do?"
"It is my job," Mycroft replied.
Sherlock leaped out of his chair, paced around it and rammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"How often do you contact her?"
"What?" Mycroft picked up his tea again.
"How often?" Sherlock barked, halfway turning to him. "During the week, how often do you contact her?"
"Oh, we exchange texts once or twice a week," Mycroft answered casually. "And we have tea the first Thursday every month."
Sherlock turned and bore down on him.
"And you have clandestine meetings in the dead of night, even though she's quite engaged?"
Mycroft's bright, cool eyes caught his and studied him a moment—Sherlock would not flinch—and then Mycroft smirked.
"How interesting that you are suddenly so eager to defend Tom's honor."
Sherlock's lips tightened and he fought to control his breathing.
"Even more interesting," Mycroft went on, picking up a teaspoon and stirring. "That you knew Molly visited me last evening."
"It's because you're wrong," Sherlock snapped, pointing at him. "I do look after her—my eyes are everywhere in this city. Haven't you learnt that by now?"
"Aha," Mycroft frowned at him. "Curiouser and curiouser."
"What is?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, it's just very curious," Mycroft continued carefully. "That your spies are so very thorough…yet you have no idea that Molly Hooper is not engaged."
The earth stopped turning.
Sherlock stared at Mycroft. Running his words back and forth and sideways through his head—testing them, tasting them, pushing and pulling them…
He turned his head, just slightly, to the side, his gaze never leaving Mycroft's.
"Not engaged."
He hadn't meant for it to be a whisper. Yet it was. And he couldn't manage more.
"No." Mycroft's eyebrows went up.
Sherlock swallowed, and shifted his weight.
"When?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
Sherlock blinked—and suddenly that fire in his chest flickered again—and heated up.
"How did you know?"
"Why, she told me," Mycroft explained. "Via text first, of course. I offered tea after that, and she came."
Sherlock took half a step back, straightening up.
"Tea."
"She is human, after all, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him. "The promise of some consolation on such an evening is welcome to most people. Also, given her record, her relationships ought to be…monitored. Don't you agree?" Mycroft gave him a sideways, pointed look. Sherlock's stomach suddenly twisted, and his dark, dangerous memories clamored and darted around in the depths of his mind palace. Sherlock swiftly knocked them back into their places and slammed the doors.
"She came?" Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. "You simply…asked her to tea, and she came?"
"Yes, of course," Mycroft said, as if wondering why this was such a difficult concept. Sherlock sighed again, spun and ran a hand through his hair, then approached the window.
"What did you talk about?" Sherlock wondered—failing at trying to sound nonchalant.
"What—your spies didn't tell you?" his brother sneered.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock thundered—and the panes of glass shivered.
Mycroft cleared his throat, and set his tea down again. Sherlock glared, unseeing, at the empty street below, grinding his teeth.
"We talked about why it happened," Mycroft said calmly. "Miss Hooper and Tom had a row, and she ended it—though not without tears."
Sherlock twisted, and stared at him.
"Tears—tears?" he repeated. For all at once, part of his ribs felt hollow.
"Yes," Mycroft nodded.
"A row about what?" Sherlock questioned.
"I am not at liberty to say," Mycroft held out his hands helplessly.
"What does that mean? Why not?" Sherlock cried, storming toward him.
"Unless the information she relates to me concerns your safety, I remain in Molly's confidence," Mycroft answered.
Sherlock threw his head back and barked out a harsh laugh, then swept toward the fireplace, turned on his heel and marched back the other way.
"No, no, no, no—you cannot do this."
"Do what?"
"You know very well what," Sherlock halted and pinned him with a look. "Keep Molly as your goldfish."
"Ha. Why not?" Mycroft asked, amused. "Is she already spoken for?"
The flame in Sherlock's chest billowed, and the hollow bits of his ribcage caught fire.
"Nothing about Molly Hooper even resembles a goldfish—it's entirely foolish of you to entertain that idea—and if you had half an inch of sense you'd realize that. But you're far too busy nursing your ego to realize how absurd—"
"Of course she isn't a goldfish," Mycroft said—his voice low and even. "Molly Hooper is kind, patient, quiet, observant, willful, determined—and in possession of a gentle spirit the poets of old would have praised." His gaze drifted off. "And she is optimistic and gracious beyond sainthood, to give me, of all the people in London, a crippled attempt at offering her sympathy."
Sherlock's breath locked in his chest. He stared at his brother, icy shivers running all over his skin. Mycroft apparently didn't notice the way all the blood and heat drained out of Sherlock's face—he still gazed at the wall, unseeing.
"Since when…" Sherlock started, then cleared his throat and fought to keep his voice even. "Since when have you been in the habit of offering such a long string of…compliments."
Mycroft glanced over at him, a very slight and completely unfamiliar warmth in the edge of his expression.
"I'm not in the habit at all."
Sherlock felt sick, all of a sudden. Rather—his gut had begun to rebel the same way it had all the previous night, and at the moment he abruptly realized he might not be able to control it.
He swept past Mycroft, shoved the door of his bedroom open and went inside. He took off his smoking jacket—much good that had done him!—flung it down and snatched up his coat and scarf. He then grabbed his phone off his bed and stomped back out into the sitting room.
"Lestrade just texted," he said, holding his phone up but not looking at Mycroft.
"I didn't hear anything," Mycroft remarked.
"It was on silent."
"Then how did you know—"
"I've been expecting it and I went to check and he has now texted me," Sherlock retorted, throwing on his coat and slinging his scarf haphazardly around his neck.
"New case?" Mycroft asked placidly.
"Brilliant observation," Sherlock answered back, stuffing his phone in his pocket and heading for the door.
"Thank you for tea," Mycroft called. Sherlock didn't reply.
The moment he was outside, the cool wind biting at him, he pulled his phone out and woke it up. There had been no text from Lestrade, of course. Instead, he composed a new one.
To Molly.
I have need of the microscopes at St. Bart's. Are they available at the moment? –SH
He sent the text.
And kept walking. Walking through the noisy, windy, surging streets of London, hearing nothing and never looking up from the screen.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
To be continued…