A/N: I must say, I'm rather surprised at the response this little story has received...so I'll forge forward with it. Thanks to everyone reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting!

"What you require, Mrs. Hudson, is a cat. You are of the age where a cat is a reasonable and expected addition to your life," Sherlock was saying as Mycroft entered 221B.

"Sherlock, I don't understand why you're always so rude…who was your mother, anyway?"

Mycroft was standing in the doorway now. "Violet, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was her favorite, though as you can see, that did little to quell his rudeness."

"Well…I'd like to chat with her," Mrs. Hudson was muttering as she left the flat. "Tell her what I think of her youngest boy and his suggestions."

Mycroft smiled and went to the sofa. He leaned his umbrella against it and sat back, crossing his legs.

"So, brother. It appears you mean to stay a while," Sherlock couldn't mask the disappointment in his voice, nor did he mean to.

"Tea would be a welcome addition to my current state, Sherlock."

"You know where the kettle is," and the detective sat at his laptop.

Mycroft sighed and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "And are you working on a case, Sherlock?"

"Nope."

"Is it a secret?"

Sherlock smiled. "No, but that doesn't mean I care to share my business with you, Mycroft."

"Where's John?"

"Out."

"With Mary?"

"Dunno…why are you here, Mycroft? I'm fresh out of biscuits, and unless there is something of great importance, I'd rather you rig an election or scare some babies."

Mycroft poured himself some tea. "I happened to run into a friend of yours."

"Friend?" this gave him pause. Friend, indeed.

"Yes. Molly Hooper."

"Ah, yes. Molly," and he turned back to his laptop.

"Quite. She is a rather sad sort, Sherlock."

"Yes, but she isn't always so…and I think that her ridding herself of that dreadful Tom fellow was one of the best decisions she ever made."

Mycroft sat next to him. "You should exercise some kindness around her, brother. She likes you very much."

Sherlock looked up. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. I'm merely observing that she is preoccupied with you, and it would do her good if you weren't dreadful to her."

"What did she say to you, exactly?"

"Merely that she thought you interesting," and Mycroft sipped the tea. "Where do you purchase your tea, Sherlock?"

"I don't…it's always just there when I need it." And he pulled away from the table. "Where did you see her?"

"A cafe."

"A cafe."

"That's right…why?"

"You never go to cafes. What is wrong with Mycroft?" and he stood. "Obtaining tea at a cafe, engaging in conversation with lonely pathologists…?"

"Nothing is the matter with me, Sherlock. I'm offering you food for thought. Take it or leave it," and he stood, took his umbrella, and made for the door. "Give my best to John."

Mycroft left 221B without looking back and got into the black car.

He headed home.

Into his flat he went, and walked over to the bar which housed his alcoholic libation; though this was not something he normally indulged in, he thought, perhaps tonight…

No.

Silly thought.

He went to bed, thinking of his brother and how infuriating he could be.

Sherlock walked into the morgue with purpose and noise, yet without a John Watson behind him as per usual.

"Hey, Sherlock. No John?" Molly asked.

"No, not today, Molly. He's at the clinic…and he had a rather late night with the baby," and he sat at the table next to where Molly was working.

"Oh," and her look betrayed a hint of confusion, but she set back to work.

"My brother told me he happened to run into you the other day."

"Yes, that's true. At the cafe just down the street," and Molly looked up. "Why?"

"No reason…" and Sherlock got up from the chair. "Molly, I…" he paused. "I'll be needing an ear the next time it is convenient."

She nodded. "Yeah, ok. I'll remember."

Sherlock offered her a crooked smiled and dashed out the door.

Maybe fascinating was too strong a word.

Odd and weird were terms better suited for the stubbornly attractive man Molly tried desperately to stop thinking about.

Mycroft entered the office of the Prime Minister.

Tiresome business, being summoned like a child.

He nodded and added his "Hmmms," to the questions leveled at him.

This man was a complete idiot. He had no idea that Mycroft already had calculated the many workings of the French leader, the reaction of the Spanish in relation to the mess in eastern Europe, and the reaction of the union leaders at home. He was more concerned at present with the Scots, and he thought that the Prime Minister should be, too.

He offered his advice, and desiring nothing more than to be done, stood when the man was mid-sentence, and told him he had much to be getting on with.

Though it couldn't be said that Mycroft had been rude, per se, he certainly wasn't being as accommodating as per usual.

Why was that?

He was tired, his mind whispered.

Old.

No…not old…just tired.

Perhaps he required a holiday.

What utter rubbish!

A holiday, indeed.

Mycroft Holmes didn't take holidays.

He worked.

And worked.

That was what he did.

And babysat his younger brother.

"No…I think that the Prime Minister would be delighted at the prospect," he paused. "No…of course I didn't mean that. Sarcasm mean anything to you?" he was on the phone. "See to it, then."

Mycroft rose from his desk and sighed.

There was a knock, and he looked at the door.

"Anything else, sir?" asked Anthea.

"No, that'll be all…" he looked at the window, adorned with heavy drapes. So heavy, indeed, that nary a chink of light could be spotted. He couldn't ascertain if it was light from the sun, the moon, or a street lamp. "What time is it?"

"After 7, sir…I have an appointment at 7, so I thought…" Anthea blushed a touch.

"An appointment?" he looked at her, and nodded. "Best not keep him waiting." He smiled.

Anthea closed the door behind her.

He put his overcoat on, grabbed his umbrella, and left.

Mycroft arrived at his flat and he poured himself a brandy.

He sat at his piano and sipped.

He should really break out that violin, but it was too tucked away for him to bother.

And as he played, he realized just how much everything had become too much a bother.

Yes, he needed to get away for a short while.

Perhaps a long weekend would set him to right.

"Um, no…a latte, not a cappucino…I'm pretty certain that I told you that," Molly was standing in the cafe, ordering her drink. They had mucked it up again, and she thought that this would definitely be the last time she bothered with the place.

Except that she knew it wouldn't be.

She was a fierce creature of habit.

"Fine, miss, but you'll need to pay for both," replied the cashier.

"What? But it was your mistake…"

"She won't be paying for either, young man. You shall make her the drink she ordered, toss the other, and both will be complimentary," said an authoritative voice just behind her.

"Mycroft?" Molly smiled.

"Hello, Molly."

She was handed a drink with a side of a scowl, and she waited for Mycroft to order.

He obtained his beverage, and turned toward her. "Well…have a good day."

"Wait…do you have a minute? I always sit for a few minutes before heading to work…it'd be lovely if you joined me…"

"I…" he hesitated. "Of course."

They went to the same table they had occupied a week ago.

And fell easily into conversation.

"It must be something, having so much power and responsibility. I don't think that I could ever do that," Molly marveled at his job.

"One merely requires a disciplined mind."

"I think one requires a bit more than that."

"Hardly, Molly…if you can juggle a few things simultaneously in any given situation, you can accomplish my job with relative ease."

Molly looked at him with a contentious glance. "You undermine your abilities."

He smiled. "I am merely hesitant to indulge in pride."

She shrugged. "Pride isn't all that bad, if you're not annoying about it."

"Ah, but that is a subjective term…what one person finds annoying, another may not. For example, I find a certain consulting detective annoying in the extreme. You find him fascinating."

Molly coughed on her drink.

"Apologies, Molly," he muttered. "Perhaps that was untoward."

She smiled. "It's ok…" she sought to change the subject. "Do you ever get time off with such a demanding job?"

Odd, that. He had just been ruminating on that very thing. "Not usually…"

"Never?"

"Well, I never inquired."

Molly's face fell. "You've never asked for time off?

"No…I mean, there are the Christmas holidays I occasionally have…but other than that…"

"That's ridiculous. That should be illegal or something," she paused. "Isn't it? Illegal, I mean."

"Not with my position."

Molly adopted an assertive manner. "You should, today. Ask to have a short leave…just for a few days or something."

Mycroft laughed. "A short leave."

"Yes."

He cleared his throat and finished his drink. "Perhaps you're right. A couple of days away from things has been seeming rather attractive."

"Of course it is. Everyone needs a break, and then you are all the more refreshed, and able to perform your job more effectively," she finished proudly. Molly looked at her watch. "I should get going…I'll," she got up, and looked at Mycroft. "I guess I'll see you here again sometime?"

He got up and nodded. "Indeed…and I shall take your advice, Molly…"

She smiled. "Good," and turned and left.

Mycroft went up to the counter to obtain another beverage.

What would they say at Downing Street when he inquired about a leave?

He laughed at the thought, and left the cafe.