I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
"Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed"

Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You."

Talent Recognizes Genius

As kisses went, Molly had to confess to herself that this one rated mixed reviews. It was determined, and Sherlock had learned the core mechanics of kissing extremely well somewhere along the line. "Mechanics" did seem to be one of the operative phrases, though—along with, perhaps, "competitive" in the sense of a show-piece, like competitive figure skating or competitive gymnastics. It was easy to imagine that somewhere there was a panel of judges with white cardstock score cards, preparing to score points. "Sufficient lip and tongue action." "Drool-free." It would have gotten a ten on style. She was too recently experienced with Greg's kisses, though, to miss that it was a bit lacking in soul or freeform improvisation. It was strictly ballroom.

Her knees were dented and sore from kneeling on what Molly was certain were go-go boots—the oldest go-go boots still kept on active duty in anyone's closet. And the closet itself was a bit off-putting: stuffy, with a faint smell of moth-balls and damp woolens. Above them was a press of coats and jackets. Behind her seemed to be a bouquet of umbrellas, brooms, and even a collapsible shovel of some sort. And a cricket bat—no doubt a vital element in Mrs. Hudson's private home security arsenal.

Offsetting all of that was the tremor of Sherlock's hands on her back, the warm clutch of his long grasshopper thighs gripping her hips, the hitch of his breath as he leaned into the kiss. Those, more than skill or rigorous style, sold it for her.

She waited out the complex, ritual completion of his first effort, then leaned against him, unconsciously channelling Greg Lestrade's gentle, lazy ease and tenderness. "Shhhh. Relax, love. Here, let me..." She let her hands slip up around Sherlock's neck, fingers and thumbs framing the back of his skull, then nibbled and tongued the two of them into a soft, explorative kiss, less concerned with style than with discovery.

Silent questions; silent answers. Do you like this, Sherlock? Yes. He liked that. And this? Yes. Why don't you try this? she said without words, drawing one of his hands up to trace her body. Pulled away from his set-piece, he was uncertain, less sure of himself—but every new discovery rattled through him, easy to read through her palms, through the sound of his breath, through tiny, surprised gasps and whimpers.

At some point, he came to a turning point. His confidence grew, and he began warily combining the easy exploration with just a touch of his own carefully tutored style, learning a move at a time what worked. She wasn't really that surprised he was a fast learner: that ravenous mind noticed too much, understood it too well for him to fail at this if his heart was in the experience. Pretty soon they were on even ground, effectively melting each other's defences, leaving nothing but a long, hungry dance without music, ending temporarily on a sigh. She lay across his chest; he cradled her, his face pressed against her hair.

"Oh." He said with sudden wonder, a child seeing his first butterfly. "Oh."

"Mmmm," she agreed.

"That's quite disturbing," he whispered. "I... If you weren't pinning me down so effectively, I think it likely I'd run away, now."

"I can let you up," she offered, sympathetically. She'd felt a bit the same in Greg's arms, learning that love-making was so much more expansive, so much more revealing, so much more tender than she'd known before. And learning the same lesson again in Sherlock's arms was worse—more intense, if only for his fragile exploration. He was like a fawn staggering to its feet for the first time—breathtaking and wonderful.

"No. Not quite yet," he said, arms tightening. "I need to think."

Of course he needed to think—Sherlock, after all.

"Don't think too long," she said, chuckling. "My knees hurt. I'd really rather we didn't stay here in the closet, either. There have to be better places around here."

He nodded. "Yes. Upstairs. My room. John's old room. Even..." he stopped. "I don't think you were asking for a list, were you?"

"Not really."

"I'm not going to be good at this, Molly," he said, worriedly. "I'm not just going to be a bit not-god. I'm going to be a lot not-good. I won't get flowers or buy cards or remember anniversaries. I'll still hate your stupid kitten macros. I'm not going to be nice, or comfortable, or predictable. I'm not going to be a good lover. I'll lose my temper. I'll still insult you. I'll get carried away and forget you for days. Um... on bad days I'll mistake you for a good lab subject. I will. It's not going to stop being that way." He sounded harried. "You're going to want to kill me, most of the time. People do, you know. John wants to kill me. Lestrade wants to kill me. Mycroft pretty much always wants to kill me."

She smiled and rubbed her face against him. "You probably will. And I'll try to do what they do—yell at you, tell you when you're out of line, insult you back, explain when you're being a complete berk. And love you."

"Oh."

It was such a small sound. It stole her heart away.

"What are we?" he asked. "Are we—a couple? Lovers? An item? What are we? What are the rules?"

She could hear the intensity of the questions... No. He didn't know. He was Sherlock, and he wasn't sure at all. No doubt from the outside he could have observed and presented a scathing, exact analysis of their relationship. From inside, he was dead hopeless—entirely lost.

"I think it depends a bit on what you want," she said, cautiously, knowing that with Sherlock she might well be opening the door to all kinds of hurt feelings and rejections. "I'd say... I'd say I'm pretty serious. But I've loved you for a long time. It's going to be hard not to be serious."

"You mean you want to be a couple?"

She considered. "Maybe—not quite a couple? Not ready to move in with you, that's for sure. Not ready for heads in the fridge. How about 'seriously seeing each other'?"

"I think I can do that." After a moment, he said, cautiously, "You can still see Lestrade, too. I—I don't own you."

"I might," she said, with a shiver. She hadn't thought about that, and she didn't know where to place it. "I don't know. I really don't. It may depend on him."

He nodded.

Deep in his trousers pocket, his phone cheeped. "Text," he said, and squirmed, eventually retrieving it. He opened the message, then smirked, his face lit by the screen. He turned it to face her. It was from John.

Greg and I are trying to be polite, but our coats are in that closet. Any chance you'll be out soon?

She laughed. Sherlock took the phone back, then typed quickly, turning the phone eventually so she could see his response.

Soon. Don't rush me. It's complicated. SH

K.I.S.S.—Keep It Simple, Stupid. Save complicated for the bedroom, Sonny Jim. Closets are for novices.

Molly snatched the phone out of his hand, and typed her own message.

You have no idea just how full this closet is, John Watson. Believe me, Casanova would find it complicated. Give us a mo' to figure out how to escape, eh? (Molly)

Yeah, okay. TMI. There's tea in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen when you've figured out the human origami, girl. Don't let Sherlock try anything too fancy: he's not what you'd call practical.

They both smiled in the dim light. Sherlock pushed the door of the closet, popping it open. Molly gingerly unwound herself, hands bracing on the walls and doorframe of the closet, supporting her as she eased herself from between Sherlock's legs. Once out she stepped back, allowing him to wiggle and twist his own escape. When he was out she peered down.

"Yep. Go-go boots," she said, with some satisfaction. "Red, too. Mrs. Hudson wasn't a quiet little girl back in her day, was she?"

"I believe not," Sherlock said. "But she seems to have few regrets, beyond her involvement with the late Mr. Hudson—of whom, the less said the better."

Each took the time to tidy up.

"You need to redo your hair," he said. "There's a long bit pulled free." He gestured, hand clawing uncertainly near his head, miming her own disarray. It was clear he wasn't used to providing "living mirror" services to girlfriends.

"Mmm. Give me a moment," she said, straightening the blouse she'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. Then she quickly redid the ponytail. "I'm neat, now?"

"Yes." He studied her—and a second later his eyes darkened, and he looked down. "Mycroft would know you'd been kissing. I'm not sure about John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. They don't observe as closely."

"They already know," she pointed out, feeling a bit rattled. It wasn't going to be easy walking into that kitchen. For that matter, it was going to be a bit odd having a lover who could read his kisses on her face. She reached up to touch her lips, wondering if they were giving her away.

"It's more your eyes," Sherlock said, refusing to look at her. "And your breathing is still a bit off."

"I see. Well..."

"Yes. Well."

She forced herself to stand straight. Gritting her teeth, she marched toward the kitchen. She could hear the murmur of voices—soft laughter, both John and Greg. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Three heads turned. Three sets of eyes looked at her.

Greg smiled and winked, kind and approving. She felt a bit of the terror ease out of her. She smiled back. John was intently studying his tea mug, fighting back a knowing grin.

"Well, it's good to have my closet back," said Mrs. Hudson, with entirely unhidden glee. "Been a long time since that bit of the flat saw so much action."

"It's been put to that use before?" Greg asked, with what appeared to be honest curiosity.

"Oh, yes. I wasn't always an old stick," Mrs. Hudson assured him. "I was in with the Mods, dear! And when London was swinging, I was one of the girls swinging it! Daresay there's nothing you know that I didn't know first." She winked mischievously. "And if I were a decade or so younger, I'd prove it to you, too."

His brows shot up, and he laughed. "You know—I think I'd let you."

She looked at him under her lashes. "Oh, you would, dearie. You would. And you wouldn't regret it, either. I was a fast young thing in my day."

"And she's still got the go-go boots to prove it," Molly said.

"You'd know!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "My word, I hadn't thought about those in I don't know how long."

Sherlock sidled into the room, warily, avoiding John and Greg's eyes. He made himself a mug of tea, and failed to look nonchalant and relaxed.

Greg and John exchanged glances, apparently deciding if the right thing for "best mates" was to tease the living daylights out of him, or step back. Molly caught Greg's eye, and shook her head. If there was an amused sparkle in his eye, there was also understanding. He nodded back, sent a glance to John, and the two appeared to reach agreement.

John said, calmly, "Got to get back home, then. Make some dinner and get to bed early. Work in the morning."

"Yeah, me, too." Greg washed his mug out in the sink, and put it up to drain. "I've got the car with me, John. Want a lift home?"

"That would be good."

"Molly?"

Molly hesitated. A lift would be good. She wasn't ready to spend the night, and was fairly sure Sherlock wasn't ready for that, either. But a lift home with Greg could get unsettling...especially as she wasn't at all sure what she wanted to do there.

Not at all. Indeed, her feelings approached being perfect examples of "not a clue."

She licked her lips, uneasily.

"I've got to go see Mycroft this evening," Sherlock said. "Molly, if you want to come with me, I can have the cab drop you off at your place on the way home."

"That sounds good," she said. "I want to see how he's doing."

He nodded, silent.

The feeling of being watched intently was totally weird, Molly thought. She could almost feel the cautious looks, almost hear the thoughts as John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson evaluated the situation. As the two men prepared to leave, she noticed them brushing against Sherlock like ponies in a paddock, shoulders touching briefly, establishing friendship. Greg risked a hand cupped briefly over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock didn't twitch it away, but stood, unmoving.

Greg smiled, and continued on. John had fetched their coats, and the two got ready for the late fall weather outside.

Then they made a point of hugging both Mrs. Hudson and Molly on their way out, and brushing kisses on their cheeks. John's were gentlemanly, and a bit austere. Greg flirted briefly with Mrs. Hudson, making her blush and giggle. Then he gave Molly a full hug, her kiss on the cheek—and one on the tip of her nose. His eyes were happy, if less blatantly flirtatious than they'd been. "Call me if you want?"

"I will," she said, and tiptoed, placing her own kiss on his cheek.

It was unsettled—but also comfortable. She didn't feel trapped or judged, and she'd been afraid she would.

"I'd better get my own things," Sherlock murmured, as they left. He left the mug on the counter, and seemed to turn to vapour, misting up the stairs.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth quirked up. "Well?"

Molly blushed. "Um..."

"Nice?"

She nodded, blushing pinker. "Nice."

Mrs. Hudson squealed, happily. "Eeee!" She bounced on her toes and fluttered her hands, seeming all of eighteen, rejoicing with a girlfriend. "Yes!"

Molly couldn't resist. Even she was swept away in Mrs. Hudson's delight. She giggled.

There were footsteps at the head of the stairs, and Sherlock's voice came down, his baritone a rich, funereal groan. "You're doing the girl thing, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson fluted, still giggling, "We are."

"If I return to the flat to collect a tablet, will you stop doing the girl thing?"

"Probably not completely, dear. I think we'll be past the more squeaky bits, though. Is that enough?"

"Will you still be subjecting me to giggling and kissing and other indignities?"

"Only a little, Sherlock."

"It's most disturbing, Mrs. Hudson."

"I know, dear, but for the rent you pay you have to endure a few hardships," she said. "Persevere. Be brave."

He sighed gustily, and trod heavily back into the upstairs flat.

Mrs. Hudson was holding her ribs, by then, struggling with laughter. She raised one hand high—and Molly met it in a gleeful clap.

"Was that a high-five?" Sherlock shouted down.

"Yes, Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called back up.

"One. You get one. Anymore and we're renegotiating the rent."

"Of course, Sherlock... I'd been thinking of asking for an increase anyway."

He walked down the stairs with a steady pace, and came to stand in the kitchen door, looking in. Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked back at him, barely managing to resist more giggles. Seconds ticked by, and Molly was amazed and charmed. Looking at them, his stern, gloomy Eeyore face relaxed. One side of his mouth twitched—and he shook his head, grinned, and gently folded Mrs. Hudson into his arms, kissing her on top of the head—then pulled Molly in, too.

"Idiots," he said.

"I know, dear. You suffer terribly," Mrs. Hudson sympathized, chuckling. "I don't know how you bear it, I truly don't. Now, go, you two. It's going on teatime. You should grab something to eat on the way, then go see Mycroft. Send the poor dear my love, will you?"

"What, and set his recovery back a week?" Sherlock deadpanned.

She smacked him, lightly. "Wicked boy. Go on, go on. Get off with you. I've got to clean this place up: been years since I had this many people in and it's all at sixes and sevens. "

As they all moved to the front of the house, Nigel ascended from the basement apartment—frowsy, muddled, and clearly only just risen from sleep.

"'Sup?" he asked.

Sherlock, Molly and Mrs. Hudson all looked at him. Molly turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Bring him up to speed, yeah?"

The mischief on the woman's face was priceless. "Of course, Molly, love!" She twined an arm around Nigel's waist, and the last thing Molly heard as she and Sherlock left 221B was Mrs. Hudson's voice saying, "Oh, have I got stories for you!"

XXXXX

They ate out at Angelo's. It felt odd. Angelo circled, eyes watchful and a bit perplexed.

"Your bloke's not here?" he asked Sherlock, in what he appeared to think was a subtle whisper Molly wouldn't notice.

"I told you, Angelo, John's got his own place right now," Sherlock said. "He's getting married in the spring."

"Yeah. Right." Angelo studied Molly, then said confidingly, "You take care of him, now, right? He's a great man, but even great men can be unlucky in love. Sad thing, when couples break up."

Sherlock maintained his attention to the menu, refusing to look up. "I told you, John and I weren't a couple."

"Yeah," Angelo said, clearly convinced he was being tactful and letting Sherlock tell a little white lie. "That's right. You just take it easy, now. I'll bring a nice bottle of wine. Drown your sorrows."

"No sorrows, Angelo. He was my flatmate."

"He's a brave man," Angelo said to Molly. "Carries on. Great man. Great, great man. Of course that Moriarty thing was a bit of a dust-up. And I have to say," he looked reprovingly at Sherlock, "your bloke stuck by you through thick and thin, even after everything you put him through." He frowned. "You should be ashamed, you know. He was faithful." And he glanced at Molly, now with suspicion.

"John's straight, Angelo," Sherlock said, "and he's getting married. To a woman."

Molly was nearly dying...and suspected that Sherlock's annoyance wasn't actually helping things. His irritation came across more as "sulking former lover" than "man trying to correct idiot regarding fundamental error."

"I'll have the pasta with gorgonzola sauce," she said. "Salad on the side."

Angelo paused, suddenly reminded of his role as host, rather than Agony Aunt. "Right you are. Starter?"

"Bruscetta," Sherlock growled. "Then the rissoto alla milanese for me. Salad. Carafe of Pinot Grigio for me, one of Zinfandel for my date." He was fuming.

She had to admit, he fumed very nicely, so long as it wasn't aimed at her. When she wasn't the target, it was actually amusing. Even adorable...

"You can't go against nature, mate," Angelo said, sceptically. "Man is what he is."

"And bring a candle," Sherlock snapped.

"I suppose you have to try," Angelo said, as though conceding that a child had to touch fire before he'd understand being burned. "Candle it is." He tucked his order pad in his apron pocket, moved a candle to their table, and disappeared.

Molly risked a snerk.

Sherlock frowned blackly at her. "This is all proving much more disruptive than I'd have thought. Is everyone in London going to see fit to comment on either my presumed break-up with John or my seemingly futile attempt at heterosexuality with you?"

She thought about it. He was, after all, still famous—or notorious. People would talk. "Probably?" She watched his face as he worked through that. It was an epic saga of different expressions: dour, sour, sullen, sulky, morose, petulant, peeved...

"Celibacy had certain advantages."

"True," she conceded. Then, "A lot more boring, though, I should think."

He scowled at her. "That's playing dirty. You know me too well."

"Who me?" She went wide-eyed and innocent.

"Molly Hooper, you're teasing me."

"Yes."

He blinked at the admission, and suddenly went quiet. "Oh."

"A problem?"

He blushed, then, and ducked his head. "Just not used to it. John and Lestrade tease me. Mrs. Hudson teases me." He didn't say he was unused to being teased by non-maternal women; wasn't used to flirting with women.

"Do you mind?"

He thought carefully about it. At last he said, "Not enough data. It's too early to speculate. You'll have to tease me some more before I can accurately evaluate my responses."

The vital thing to remember was that he meant it, too. It wasn't wit, it was honesty.

She smiled at him. "I think I can manage that. In the interest of precise estimates."

"Thank you. Your efforts will be appreciated."

Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, she told herself. Instead she focused on dinner, and on finding moments to gently, gently tease him. After all, she'd promised, hadn't she?

XXXXX

Mycroft seemed almost normal—or as normal as a man stuck in a hospital bed against his will can seem. He'd convinced someone to bring him a very elegant pair of dark charcoal-grey silk pyjamas. His hair was clean and combed. While there were still bruises and scabs and pock-marks on his skin, they were quickly fading—the nurses appeared to have taken good care, and ensured they'd heal well.

Even Molly could see, though, that there was still something fragile about him—not just health, but some damage to his confidence. If it was visible to her, it was apparently a screaming wail to Sherlock, with his greater knowledge of his brother and his observational abilities. She could feel Sherlock tense beside her, much like her cat Toby when she got out the nail clippers. If he'd not been working so hard to be a brave and valiant brother, she suspected that, like Toby, he'd have tried to dive for cover, too—or done the "offended cat" thing of yowling, whinging, hissing, scolding and stomping around with the psychic equivalent of his tail shivering in disapproval.

She wondered if he knew just how strongly he radiated his emotional reactions to things. She thought not. In his own mind he was calm and reserved and detached. Anyone who knew him, though, knew he was a minefield of responses, all on hair triggers, and all attached to live explosives of various sorts.

Whether he knew it or not, he was announcing to the world that he did not like having big brother battered and bewildered. Big brother wasn't supposed to be hurt. Sherlock was not amused—not at all.

"Well. Finally. At least you're sitting up," he said in full curmudgeon mode, glowering at Mycroft. "Lazy old thing. I thought you'd lie there forever."

"Not everyone's permanently hyperactive," Mycroft grumbled back. Molly had never known Mycroft well previously, and she struggled to read his unfamiliar body language—the quirks and kinks and little inflections that communicated so much. She thought she saw warmth and humor hiding behind a desperate attempt at control. He was much, much more the reserved, defended citadel Sherlock only thought himself to be, though: much tougher to read. "There are some of us who actually manage to accomplish things without pacing ruts in the floor."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sloth. Slug. Lie-abed. How long can I expect you to mope around here? I'm tired of filling in for you with the British Government. It's dull and I want to get back to my own experiments."

Molly made a note to herself that this was Sherlockese for "I'm worried silly about you and want you to get well soon."

"Good lord, don't tell me they're allowing you to muddle up my projects," Mycroft sighed, wearily. "I'll be a decade clearing up the disasters you'll sow in your wake." He shuddered, delicately. "What have they let you maul, anyway? Hopefully nothing too sensitive."

Another note: This was Mycroftese for "I have not one clue what the hell I left open, and I'm scared stupid, and would you please bring me up to date because this is getting on my last nerve."

"Middle-East," Sherlock drawled. "Nothing major, not that Uncle William and Beemish are convinced. They're ransacking your files and ripping through every contact they know about trying to bring your projects under their control. They seem to think that without you, they're all that stands between Mother England and Armageddon."

Translation: "Uncle William and your aide, Beemish, are mucking around in your business, but don't seem to have caught on to whatever you were doing yet. Unfortunately, neither have I. Please brief me, brother, as I'm buggered if I know what you're up to. How bloody serious is it, anyway?"

Mycroft wiped a hand over his face, and said, "God. That's unfortunate. I wish I could remember more. They could be doing anything..."

Which Molly was pretty sure meant, "OMG, I have no idea what's going on there—Armageddon seems only too likely," followed by a long string of really creative cursing. Mycroft struck her as someone who might not swear openly all that often, but who probably knew scads of really vicious cusses in at least seven languages...and who used those wicked words mentally a lot more often than he let on.

Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, his interpretation was pretty close to her own. He didn't look a his brother directly, but kept his face turned slightly away, eyes slipping side-wise for a corner-eye view. "No memory of anything in particular, then?" he asked, giving up evasion and going directly to the point.

Mycroft shrugged, forlornly. "There's always something under way out there," he said. "Unfortunately I have no memory of any specific actions I had gearing up."

"Any feints? Ruses? Ploys? Any known agents? Any feared activity on the part of enemies?"

"I don't remember," Mycroft said, temper suddenly flaring—and with it, a clear flash of fear. "I've been trying to remember since I woke up. At first we thought it was just a few weeks of blanks—but there are whole months that aren't quite right. I can't put it all back together."

Molly thought she was lucky to be sitting in a chair near the foot of Mycroft's bed. If she'd been where Sherlock was, near the head, she'd have instinctively reached out to hold Mycroft's hand—and she was fairly sure Mycroft would have hated that with a passion hotter than the death of suns.

The two brothers were silent for a few moments, both brooding, both uneasy. Then Sherlock said, tentatively, "We've got your umbrella. There's a memory in the handle, and a passworded mobile transmitter-receiver. There's an explosive in there if we get it wrong. You have apparently been taking lessons from The Woman, brother-dear. Any idea what your password was?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"What about what's on the memory?"

"I recall having a memory installed in the umbrella...but in all honesty, it was largely a matter of amusement. So Maxwell-Smart, you see." Mycroft's mouth twitched in a sad caricature of a smile. "As I recall, I was planning on downloading the complete Monty Python collection, for the amusement of any enemy fool enough to steal my brolly, go through the process of gaining my password, and look there."

Molly had to fight back laughter, finding that a blinding revelation about Mycroft Holmes and his sense of the ridiculous. Sherlock, however, seemed to miss it entirely. "Would you have put your ring on the umbrella as a marker, if that was all that was on the drive?"

Mycroft looked up, eyes stricken. His left hand touched the ring finger of his right, stroking the empty space where a ring had once rested. "No. Is that where it went?"

"That's where it still is. You left it there. I think as a message to me."

Mycroft nodded. "Like as not." He looked haunted.

"Are you ever going to tell me the story of that ring?" Sherlock asked, suddenly forlorn and very much the little brother.

Mycroft's mouth twitched in something that definitely was not a smile, and he looked down at his hands. "No."

Molly ran that through her Mycroft interpreter, studying every element she could. What came back was a wordless sense of something deep, and intensely private...and beyond that, nothing. The nothing echoed, though, filled with energy and meaning. She knew that, having once heard and seen Mycroft not-discussing the ring, she would never fail to know that its presence or absence was always important, never casual or random—at least, it would always be important to Mycroft.

Both brothers stirred, restlessly.

"My contacts can't find anything that seems to pertain to this," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Contacts?"

"Her."

"Ah. Her. In Islamabad, still?"

"Where else?" Sherlock asked, sullenly.

"Ah." Mycroft looked at Sherlock, warily, then shot a speculative glance over at Molly. "You're in contact with her, though?"

"She's a good resource," Sherlock said, as though only a fool would miss his point. "And she's not mixed up with your people. She's my source. Any corruption on your side, she's likely to be free from."

"That may be the only form of corruption of which that can be said," Mycroft snipped. "The Woman's made a career of moral decay."

Molly didn't know how she heard the capital letters on "The Woman." She also didn't know why, as he said that, Mycroft's eyes fixed on her, puzzling something out.

"A highly successful career," Sherlock snapped back, "and one that brings her in contact with the more critical members of society. She's worked hard for us."

"No doubt for a stratospheric fee."

"High earth orbit, more like," Sherlock said, amused.

"You helped her negotiate?"

"It seemed sensible. If nothing else, it kept her aware of where her best interests lay."

"You're really quite wasted on private commissions, Sherlock. At the very least there are members of the diplomatic corps who'd appreciate your ability to drive for the greatest profit—when you set your mind to it."

"A compliment, Mycroft? I'm touched."

Mycroft shrugged. "I didn't suggest you set your mind to it often, now, did I?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, not. Why would I have expected more?"

"Why indeed?"

Molly frowned. "Stop it. The two of you aren't talking, anymore. You're wittering around trying to pretend you're not scared."

Both brothers looked at her, pale eyes lit with far too much perceptive alertness. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, then, and said, quietly. "You do have a taste for dangerous women, don't you, brother-mine? At least this one's workable. Do try not to waste the opportunity she offers."

Sherlock glared back. "I'd be more inclined to listen to your suggestions, brother, if you showed any level of practicality in your own choices."

"Solitude is eminently practical," Mycroft said, with an intensity that Molly found far more frightening than anything else he'd demonstrated during the visit. It implied a dedication firmer than bedrock—something more durable than tungsten steel.

Sherlock didn't reply. After a few moments he said, "I'll be back. I've got to check things with your aide."

"Aliena?" Mycroft asked, with wicked innocence.

"Assuming that's her nom du jour."

"I believe you'll find her in the nurses' break room," Mycroft said. "They've got better coffee than the rest of the floor."

Sherlock grunted and stalked out, failing to invite Molly to go with him.

She looked after him, then warily back at Mycroft. He looked back, eyes pale and still. She licked her lips, suddenly uneasy. He was as intent as Sherlock ever was...and far less familiar to her. She felt watched, as a mouse is watched by a silent cat.

"I won't bite, my dear," he said, quietly.

"I... of course not. I mean, I didn't think..."

"On the contrary, you most definitely do think," Mycroft said, wryly. "Quite a bit more than Sherlock fully realizes, too, I suspect."

A cat could look at a king. Could a mouse look at a cat? Maybe not, if it were wise.

She watched him watching her.

"He's not reliable," he said, as though continuing a conversation well under way already, "but he's solid at the core. You've got a chance."

She nodded; then, driven by her own observations, said, "You're not as damaged as you think, you know. The memories may not all be there—but the mind is."

His eyes dilated, and then settled. "You've not much prior observation to draw from."

"Years of Sherlock," she said. "It's got to count for something. You're still one up on him. I can tell."

"Indeed? Interesting. Most people can't."

"How much of what you're saying is true? Or... No. How much truth are you leaving out?"

"I'm withholding very little from Sherlock," Mycroft said. His voice was grim. "Would that it were not so."

"But some?"

He bowed his head slightly. "Some. But Sherlock knows that, too. He's used to the exigencies of my position. There are always levels of truth held in reserve. Does he understand that you see things he doesn't?"

"Sometimes?"

"Do you understand that what you see won't be much comfort to you?"

"Well—it never has been before. I don't see why I'd expect it to start being a comfort now."

"Just so you're aware that seeing Sherlock's feelings when even he can't is going to hurt much of the time. Sherlock's feelings are seldom processed to conform to social expectation. His reactions tend to be rather—primal. Nature red in tooth and claw, and so on."

She shivered. "Are you saying I should just let go?"

"If you must, by all means do. But if you can? My dear, if you can, please stay. You are a better answer than I dared hope for." His voice was soft and gentle. "Call on me, if you must. If I can, I'll help. But—he's not an easy person. You'll cry, sometimes."

She felt herself grin—a crooked, hurty grin that came from somewhere dark and lonely. "I won't be the only one he's ever made cry, will I?"

"No. Not the only one," he admitted.

"I thought this was supposed to be the 'hurt him and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth' speech."

"I can give that one, too, if you like," he said. "And if I do, it means quite a bit more than it usually does. But it seemed more honest to admit he's more likely to hurt you than the other way around...and give you a chance to run."

"Considering how much he's already hurt me, I might as well stay," she said. "It's only now it's beginning to give back anything but blood and tears, after all."

He sighed. "Again, he's not an easy man to love."

But you do love him, she thought. "He loves you, too," she said out loud.

He laughed, then. "And I'm no easier to love than he is. Difficult to the bone."

"Worth it, though, I think," she chuckled. "Look, I don't know where he and I are going, yet. I've got options I never did before. I'll try not to hurt him—but if this doesn't end up where any of us hopes—can you not hunt me to the ends of the earth? I promise, I won't hurt him on purpose, and I won't just be stupid-negligent."

He waved one hand in regal absolution. "The hunt shall be held in abeyance, my dear. After all, we've more serious prey to attend to at the moment."

"Your brother doesn't trust Beemish and his Uncle William."

"My brother is an intelligent man."

"Can't you tell him more about what's going on?"

He shook his head, wearily. "My dear, I've told most of what I know, all of what Sherlock can actually use, and more than is strictly safe." When she looked at him in doubt, he said, "The secret, you know, is to understand what role I play on the board at the moment. Now, Sherlock will tell you, with mischief, malice, and actual conviction, than I play the queen: the most powerful piece on the board. There are times he's correct. In this instance, though, I'm not the most powerful piece, but the most precious."

She frowned. "I don't know much about chess. What's the difference?"

"Ask Sherlock, Miss Hooper. He'll know."

And then he changed the subject, discussing the pleasures of estate teas for the next fifteen minutes, until Sherlock returned.

XXXXX

"Sherlock," she asked, during the cab ride to her flat, "what's the most precious piece on the chess board?"

He'd slipped close to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "It depends. The queen, usually. But placement during play can determine a piece's power more precisely than anything."

"No. Not power—Mycroft was really particular about that. He said he wasn't the most powerful piece, but the most precious—not the queen, but something else. He said you'd know."

She could feel him come to full alert beside her, muscles suddenly alive in a way they hadn't been mere seconds before. "What?"

"Mycroft. We were talking about this whole mess. I was asking him if he couldn't tell you more. He said he'd told you most of what he knew, and all that was of any use. And more than was safe. And then he said that the secret was in understanding what role he played on the board."

"And?" His voice was electric.

"And then he said you usually thought of him as the queen—but that he isn't, this time. That he's something more precious."

She could feel him draw a breath, hold it, almost cling to it as he thought. When he let it go, it was as a sigh. "Oh. Oh, Mycroft." She wasn't sure if he was admiring—or frightened. His voice seemed to hold elements of both.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm..."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

He looked at her—but she didn't feel like he even saw her. "Sorry. It's just one more piece of the puzzle."

"So tell me," she grumbled, feeling entirely left out. "What was he talking about?"

"The queen's the most powerful piece on the board. She can move, engage, she can take an enemy from any angle. Used well she's close to unstoppable. But she's only a piece in play—a powerful piece, but otherwise entirely irrelevant. There's only one precious piece on all the board—and in many ways he's the weakest piece of all. The king. He can barely move. He can barely engage. He's got to be constantly guarded. His primary role is evasion, defense, and avoidance. But the entire game revolves around the king. The entire outcome of the game depends on taking the king—or failing to take him."

"And Mycroft's the king?"

He nodded, still barely focused on her. "Yes."

"And that means?"

"It means that he's not the queen. I've been trying to solve this as though he were, and he's not."

She sighed. "Someday you'll explain this, right? In English?"

He smiled, slightly, and grunted an affirmative, but his eyes were studying invisible worlds, and his mind was far away. When the cab pulled up at her apartment building, he didn't even remember to kiss her, instead shaking her hand absently, and murmuring, "I'll see you in the morgue tomorrow," as though none of the day's earlier events had even happened.

Fortunately, Molly knew him far too well to take offense. The game was afoot, and until he'd solved this latest switchback in the trail, all hope of romantic progress was probably derailed.

Which was, she had to admit, not a bad thing. At least she'd get a decent night's sleep. Still, she hoped this entire situation was solved soon... She'd really like to progress to a stage where her most intimate memories of Sherlock Holmes didn't involve a coat closet, after all.