Authorial Notices:

Regarding Mycroft: just trust me.

Regarding Irene: I'll add her to the character list. Beyond that, I truly think it cheats readers who really like the story just as it is to subvert her occasional appearances by announcing them in advance.

Molly arrived home at the end of the day of the day only to find an email from John with the viral and bacterial analysis she'd requested attached. She flipped them over to the printer, and wandered out to her kitchenette to open a can of food for Toby and to decide what to do for her own dinner. Only when she had a bowl of soup simmering on the stove top and a hot mug of tea in hand did she take the time to text John.

Hi, John. Got your email. Thanks.

No problem. What do you expect to find in it?

No idea. You're the doctor. Did anything jump out at you?

No. Oka strain varicella zoster. CA-MRSA pneumonia. Lund's not hiding anything from us.

I didn't think he was.

Then why ask?

I don't know. Just because. Molly frowned. She really didn't know what she was expecting to find on the files lying in the tray of her printer. She just knew something was niggling at her. Still, it wasn't like she had anything to tell John, yet. How was Buckingham Palace?

The Queen was not in residence. No, I shouldn't have said that. One of Sherlock's bad jokes. It was surreal.

?

Don't ask. I think if I tell you, Beemish's Bright Young Things have to kill us both.

Ooooooh, yeah. TMI for sure. How had she become the sort of person MI5 and MI6 might be interested in, anyway? Molly grimaced. Something about the company she kept, maybe?

Ooooo-kay. Any word on Mycroft?

Not so far.

And Sherlock?

Driven. Been texting people all day. Appears to have hit a roadblock. Not pleased.

Who's at the hospital tonight?

No one. We're at 221B right now. I finally convinced Sherlock he had to sleep.

How did you manage that?

Played dirty. Told him Mycroft was depending on him, and if he didn't sleep he'd make mistakes.

That worked?

Yes.

Hell.

Exactly.

Molly frowned, working through the implications.

So—one in a coma and the other scared enough to behave?

Yeah. Unless he's really just scared enough to climb out a window in a silly disguise and go hunting trouble without me along to nag him.

I'd place my bet on the window.

I know, Molly. But—I can't let him drag me back into this as his babysitter. I've been up 48 hours without sleep. I'm tired. I'm going home to Mary.

Understood. Sleep well, John. Give my best to Mary.

Will do. Night.

She pocketed her phone, poured some of her soup into a mug, and took both soup and hot tea to the living room. Soon she was curled on the sofa with Toby beside her, frowning over the printed analyses.

Nothing. There was nothing odd. Nothing outstanding. John was right: these told her just what she'd expect to see based on what they'd been told…

She couldn't imagine what she could learn from the expected and the normal. It was like helping with the autopsy of someone who'd died of a heart attack: it was no surprise to find all the standard traces of COPD, arteries crusted thick with cholesterol deposits, age… Sometimes she wondered why they bothered checking in cases like that.

Well, they usually didn't check. Non-criminal autopsies weren't standard, though they still happened. Most of the time, though, the doctors and the families agreed: no need to tear up the body of the deceased just to confirm the obvious and the known. She knew only one doctor working with who was really very likely to push for an autopsy, and even he was selective. Molly had asked him once why he'd chosen to autopsy one patient, though. She remembered his answer.

"Even when we know the basics, there are always refinements—little details." He'd gestured at the body they'd just finished closing back up. "That one, for example: cause of death is just what I put down at the time. Terminal stages of ovarian cancer. But… Molly, every time I look inside, I learn something. Know a bit more. Understand a bit more. This one? She let it go too long. She was polycystic. Mistook her symptoms for more complications from the condition—and she neglected the condition because it made her feel like a failure as a woman. You can see years of pain tracking through her body. The cancer was just one more pain. It's worth it just to try to understand the ecology of a disease. Nothing exists in isolation."

What was the ecology of Mycroft's disease? Where had a grown man encountered chickenpox—a grown man leading a life almost as remote from children as it was remote from the moon? She didn't know…but she did now know something she could try to find out. She moved over to her computer, logged on to the internet, and began to search.

An hour later she pulled out her phone and dialed a doctor she knew had night-shift at St. Barts.

"Zhuan? Do you have a minute?"

"Slow night here, Molly—you can take an hour."

"I'm hoping I don't need an hour. What do you know about forensic epidemiology?"

"I know how to say it without stuttering. I knew enough to pass epidemiology a century or two ago. Not a lot more. Why?"

"I'm trying to track down vector patterns, spread of diseases, and mapping of various disease strains. You know—where different variants are endemic."

"NHS keeps records. IEA, maybe? Beyond that—I'd call one of the epidemiology professors in the morning, Moll. I'm not going to be able to help you much."

"Okay. Well. Thanks, Zhuan. "

She hung up, still frowning…and had one last idea.

Her fingers fluttered over her keyboard, linking her to St. Barts' system, passing her through to her morgue account. From there she slipped into the inter-hospital databank, and from there to a routine assay of the Royal Marsden—a public record, if you knew what to look for. She pulled the printouts over and looked, frowning as she concentrated on fine details. Her eyes widened, and she did a quick cross search. A few more searches and she was sure. She checked the printout again, then pulled her phone out.

Sherlock? Are you busy?

Very. Go away.

This is important. Text me back as soon as you can.

Go. Away. Now.

All right. TEXT ME.

She flipped the phone shut, scowled, then flipped it open again.

John?

Molly?

Busy?

Trying to sleep, Molly.

She thought about how worn out he'd looked that morning—and he hadn't slept since. Poor John…

Sorry-sorry-sorry. But this is important and Sherlock won't talk. Mycroft's not just sick. I'm willing to bet someone tried to kill him.

What?

Murder.

Explain.

She could almost hear his voice, the snap of an officer handed bad news.

It's the wrong strain of CA-MRSA staph. Wrong thumbprint entirely. Sampling rate for the Royal Marsden on the strain Mycroft's got is practically zero, for our purposes. There are three other variants he should have picked up before he got this one.

You're kidding.

He's got a strain that's most common in the Middle East. John, someone's got to alert Lund and Beemish, and get an epidemiologist on it. They're not going to listen to me, and Sherlock's—not talking to me right now. You're a doctor. They'll listen to you.

I'm nobody to Beemish, Molly. I don't belong in that world, and they know it.

Then make Lund listen.

Mycroft's already got pneumonia, Molly, even if it's an odd strain. This won't change anything.

He hasn't died, John. He's surviving. Someone tried to kill him at least once—someone with access to him in Intensive Care. Someone who knows how to kill and make it look natural. He's got to be guarded—only they don't know what to guard against. All those stupid thugs in suits can shoot their stupid guns all they like, and it won't stop bacteria.

When John finally texted back she could almost hear the weariness in his reply.

Damn. All right. I'll call Lund. Molly? Write that up and email it to Sherlock. Even if he's being an arse, he's got to know.

Will do. Tell Lund, and then sleep, John.

You, too, Molly. You did a great job.

I know. Even I'm pretty impressed.

You should be.

Yeah.

Good night, Molly.

Good night, John.

At 221B, Sherlock had his own worries keeping him busy. When Molly had texted, he'd been in the middle of a phone call.

"No. She's not going to accept less, Uncle William. … Fine, yes, you're right, it's highway robbery. … Yes. A scandal? What did you expect? I'm asking her to risk her life and her career, just after she began to get it back. … I don't care if you've got a thousand agents who can work with me— Irene's got contacts they can't touch. … No, this is not 'sentiment.' Don't insult either of us. … Yes. Six figures. … All right, I admit, they are six very large figures. It's money well spent. Hold on, I've got a text coming in…"

He scowled at the screen, frustrated. If he didn't bring William around, he'd have to try to work through Beemish, and that was a lost cause. He didn't have time to deal with Molly or her feelings right now—he was working to a clock tied to Mycroft's beating heart, doing the only thing open to him to help his brother... He'd no sooner typed in the last character sending her away than he was back to his call.

"She's got three clients in particular who can offer me insight into the household you've suggested. One's a madrasa boy looking for a brush with Western decadence, one's a minor bureaucrat spending bribe money, and one's a lieutenant for one of the warlords. … Of course she takes terrorist money, Uncle William. Escaping them? That was good. Making them pay her for the privilege of groveling naked at her feet? Priceless. … Do we have a deal? … Good. Yes-yes. Look at it this way, Uncle William: you're fully dressed, right-side up, and you don't have to say, 'thank you, ma'am, can I please have another.' … I'll get back to you as soon as I can confirm. Tell your people to watch out, though: don't mistake her for one of us. Irene's in it for Irene, and if she sees a way to improve on her situation she will…. "

He didn't waste a second after ending the call.

Irene?

Sherlock, I told you—don't bother me unless they're willing to pay.

They're willing to pay.

I see. That does change things. What next?

My contact will have the first payment wired to your account by morning. After that you'll be put in touch with one of our people. He'll want to interview you first, to determine what you may already know. After that you'll have to work how much more you can find out.

Sherlock, what's this all about?

That would be telling.

Another fun game, dear?

No game. Don't play with me on this, Irene. If you do, you'll regret it.

So serious! Tell me, what's in it for you?

That would be telling, too. Don't bother guessing, Irene. It's not anything you'd understand.

Try me?

Already did. Leave it. If you want to play games, play with the clients we mentioned—and play to win.

That's the only way I ever play, dear.

Then be cleverer than when you played with me and Mycroft. This round you dare not lose.

Or what?

I haven't decided, yet.

Mmmm. Sounds interesting…

Irene, it's not a game. And if you lose, you won't find the outcome interesting at all. Just ugly. Do you understand?

You're really serious about this, aren't you?

Deadly.

I see.

Good. You won't get a second chance.

I'm hurt.

No, you're not.

At least the pay is good.

Then take it—and be content.

He wasted no time thinking about Irene after hanging up. For the next day or so she'd be the problem of one of Beemish's agents, rather than his. He called William, assured him that Irene had agreed to their terms, then hung up. He slipped out of his armchair and over to his laptop, arguing with a non-present John as he did so.

"Later. I can sleep later. I'm awake now, and I need to keep working. If you wanted me to sleep you should have stayed here and made me."

Mixed in with his other email, he spotted a message with an attachment from Molly. The subject-line was, "URGENT-URGENT-URGENT—I mean it, Sherlock! READ THIS!"

He scowled and sighed. Molly was never this intrusive….and she knew he was no good at internet-emotional things: she'd learned that the hard way the very first time she'd been fool enough to send him a kitten macro. He couldn't think of anything normal she'd contact him about this determinedly, either. They weren't working a case together, there was no corpse in her morgue that was going to overweigh his concern for Mycroft at this time.

Driven as much by curiosity as anything, he opened the email and began to read. Half an hour later he was back on the phone.

"Molly, meet me over at the Royal. I need to tell Beemish Mycroft needs better protection and you're my backup. He's not going to listen to me, but he might listen to you. I'd bring John, but he's turned his phone off. What? Good. … Good. …That will help. Glad to know he's brought Lund onboard, but I've still got to check for myself. I still want you there to translate for Beemish, and to explain your work. This isn't going to sit well with him. … Then for God's sake, change out of your pajamas! Molly, don't argue, just meet me there."

The fight with Beemish took an hour. Moving Mycroft took three, largely because Beemish and Lund had to deal with the logistics involved in establishing the layers of obfuscation, evasion, and misinformation being laid down at the same time. They didn't dare change hospitals—Mycroft was too weak. Instead Beemish and Lund conspired to play an elaborate shell-game, ultimately leading to a "Mr. Brian Dobbs" being added to the roster of patients at the Royal Marsden—and to Sherlock Holmes phoning in an obituary notice to the London Times.

When he was finished, he sat staring at the screen of the phone, barely aware he'd curled himself into a knot in the shoddy metal armchair in the room the Royal Marsden had assigned him, on the side of the hall opposite Mycroft's. His feet were off the floor and on the chair-seat. His knees rose high, framing his body. He'd wrapped one arm around himself, and was clutching his own elbow so hard that the next day he'd find bruises.

"That was hard," he said. His voice was flat.

"Yes." Molly didn't sound at all surprised.

He didn't choose to acknowledge her understanding. He didn't choose to acknowledge the price any of them had paid for his own death…especially now, with Mycroft's own faked death jangling his nerves, and fear of that death becoming real haunting him.

"You did good work," he said, instead. "You may have saved his life."

"I'm afraid all I did was realize he probably didn't get the staph infection through normal channels. They're evaluating where the strain is common, now. That may tell them something. The same with the chickenpox. But either of them may be from someone's lab. And there's still a chance he could have contracted it normally."

"I still can't understand….I could have sworn we had chickenpox. We were taken to Aunt Freya's. We stayed a few days till Mummy wasn't so upset. We came back. We were all over spots…they itched like fire. Mycroft told me riddles, until I got angry and bored."

"He took care of you."

He growled, annoyance and frustration mixing with fear and nerves. "A regular mother-hen, our Mycroft. 'Holmes Major,' they called him when we were at King's. Holmes Major and Holmes Minor, and if I could have gone anywhere in the world to stop being Holmes Minor I'd have done it in a split second. Even at school he tried to fuss over me. I was seven when I started, and he had three more years before he went on to uni. It was bad enough without him coming over and lecturing me when I got in trouble. It was dreadful: he was a prefect, and then head boy, and he'd come over all prissy and have a talk with me."

Molly snorted, covered her mouth, snorted again, and dissolved into slow giggles. He glared at her. "It wasn't funny."

"Not then, maybe. Not to you. Here and now? To any of your friends? Too cute for words."

"Mycroft and I were never cute," he announced, horrified.

"You were adorable. I can tell. He'd be all stern and gawky and trying way too hard to be a good big brother and set an example and let you know he cared, and you'd be all angry and resentful and telling him he's not your parent, and he'd never understand how much you like being the center of attention even if it means getting in trouble, and you'd never understand that too many people noticing him make him want to curl up and hide."

He frowned at her. "How do you know that?"

"Observation, my dear Sherlock. Just observation."

Molly, watching him, wondered if he'd ever understand: Where he saw a million quanta of little impersonal details, she saw a million quanta of hopes, fears, feelings, and emotions. Once, she had known he was sad, when even John Watson had failed to see. Tonight she could see he was afraid…afraid of losing a big brother he'd never been able to admit loved him, and had never known how to love in return.

She smiled, and gestured to the hospital bed. "Time for you to sleep."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can…and if you don't, you won't be fit to protect Mycroft."

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You're manipulating me."

"You'd be the one to know, genius."

"I don't like being manipulated."

"Then don't make it necessary. It's not that difficult, Sherlock."

"You're a very dangerous woman, Molly Hooper."

"It's the company I keep. Bad influences, all of you. Now—Go. To. Bed."

He complied—but not before sticking his tongue out at her.

She laughed most of the way home.