Molly Hooper.
Such a drab little name, she thought. So fitting that she worked in a morgue.
She took the scalpel, and she made her deft incision down the front of the cadaver.
And she set to the business of removing the innards for examination.
Pretty morbid stuff.
She should seek therapy, for not only was her job utterly dismal, her name was ridiculously drably cheerful.
An oxymoron.
Just like her bright jumpers in a gloomy morgue.
It was a plight she struggled with constantly. She had a very dark side…she masked it well with her wardrobe and her smile.
But it was her melancholy which drew her to Sherlock Holmes…he was dark, she felt it. Any addict had a hint of the macabre in their soul.
She longed to be cheerful…she wanted it so much that she made her outward self so.
But she couldn't conceal it altogether…it was too part of her makeup to erase it.
And so Molly smiled.
But inside, she sighed.
"Mycroft Holmes, I don't understand the question," David Cameron, Prime Minister, somewhat in charge of things in the United Kingdom, asked as he looked steadily at his interlocutor.
"I am requesting a few days off from work…I shall retain my mobile, but I should like three or four days wherein I am not expected to come into the office."
Mr. Cameron laughed. "Well, Mycroft, I must admit, I never thought I'd see the day. Yes…take four. But do, as you say, keep your mobile on and handy," he paused. "Are you going somewhere?"
"I have no fixed plans," replied Mycroft, leaving the office.
He went to his own office and began to see to arrangements while he was away.
Mycroft had decided that he would be leaving a week from Friday...it was Tuesday...plenty of time to see to things.
He hoped that the world wouldn't fall to ruin in his absence…
Sherlock was playing his violin…its sound banked along the walls of 221B.
He was in his dressing gown, and he was thinking of his brother.
He disliked occupying his mind thus, but he felt pressed…Mycroft had been behaving oddly. Perhaps he was undergoing some sort of strange midlife crisis.
It would be unlike him to fall victim to such a common ailment of age…though he thought momentarily of him on a motorcycle, and that made him smile.
Mycroft.
On a motorcycle.
He set the instrument down.
"You shouldn't stop, Sherlock…it was rather good."
Speak of the devil…
"My musical proclivity has always been impressive…especially if one compares it to your own paltry attempts," and he turned.
Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella in the doorway. "Evening, brother. And how are we this evening?"
"Why do you care, Mycroft?"
"It is a common and natural thing to inquire after another person, especially if one is related," and he entered the room.
"How are you brother? You have been out of sorts."
"I have not," and he sat.
"Cafes…concern over my treatment of Molly…"
"Is abhorrent."
Sherlock then sat. "Yes. Perhaps…but why does it concern you?"
"I cannot say, except that I read something sad in her eyes, and because she admires you, it would be efficacious for you to curb your treatment of her."
"Precisely my point. It is unlike you to read anything in anyone, let alone someone like Molly," and Sherlock leaned back, his fingers steepled.
"Well, there you are wrong, Sherlock…it is my job to read people. And I do so with resounding success."
"But it is not your modus operandi to behave thus independent of work."
Mycroft smiled. "How would you know…perhaps I am always working…"
Sherlock nodded, admitting his point.
So Myrcoft pressed on. "It is fortuitous that this subject has been broached, for I just today submitted a request for time off."
The detective's eyes widened a touch. "You did what?"
"I am taking time off this coming weekend…four days. I should prefer to be left undisturbed."
"You. You are taking time off."
"That's right."
And Sherlock stood, and went into the kitchen, putting on the kettle. "What has sparked this behavior, brother?"
Mycroft twirled the umbrella a bit between his fingers. "Ah, well…a bit of fatigue…and then Molly suggested it."
Sherlock's back muscles became taut. Ah…"Molly, you say?"
"Yes."
He brought in the tea. "Molly suggested that you take time off?"
"Yes, as I said…but the thought had already planted its seed…she merely watered it, as it were."
"Indeed."
"Yes," and he downed the tea. "So…I will have my mobile, should a need arise…and I'll contact you Monday evening, upon my return," he rose.
"Where are you going?"
Mycroft smiled. "I haven't the faintest idea."
Molly was in the canteen reading a book.
She loved old romances…she was reading Emma for the third time.
"Afternoon, Molly," said a deep voice.
She looked up. "Oh! Hi, Sherlock," he really had no scruples. She was on break…couldn't this wait?
He sat down. "What are you reading?"
Seriously?
"Jane Austen."
He nodded. "Molly…" he began. "Have you been in contact with Mycroft?"
"No. Why?"
"He's taking a holiday."
Molly's eyes lit up. "Is he really? That's brilliant."
"And very unlike him."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, in and of itself…but I would think that it would occur in smaller spurts…you know…his diet is suddenly successful, so he takes to walking to work. He enjoys the vigor of a constitutional, so he begins to abandon his driver in favor of his newfound exercise. He wishes to change the scenery of his walks, so he goes away for the day…something like that."
Molly smirked. "Got it all figured, have you?"
"Apparently not, as he's skipped over the necessary steps and gone straight to a full-fledged holiday."
"Only necessary in your opinion," was her retort. "I think it's lovely. Good for him. He needs it."
Sherlock smiled. "How would you know what Mycroft needs, Molly Hooper?"
His voice had fallen, and she returned his gaze warily. "Um, well…I…"
Sherlock laughed. "That was rhetorical, Molly," he got up. "I'll see you later…"
"Why? Have a case on?"
"No…but I'll see you nevertheless."
What the bloody hell was that.
Molly was leaving the cafe, latte in hand, when she saw Mycroft leaning against a jet black car.
She smiled, and went over to where he was standing.
"Hi Mycroft! Not going in today?"
"No…I need to return to the office…much to see to…but I wanted to offer you my thanks."
"What for?"
"For insisting that I take time off. I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh! Where are you going?"
He shuffled his feet, and looked down. "Paris."
"Wow."
"Yes."
Molly smiled. "Well, that's quite a holiday."
"It is…I have a mind to see the Louvre…perhaps enjoy some wine…"
"Sounds lovely," and she meant it.
"Yes…so. Thank you for your suggestion…" and he turned, and got into the car. "You know, you should, perhaps, heed your own advice…I daresay you deserve a holiday as well, Molly."
She shrugged. "Maybe…but I take time off…and I never feel guilty. Have a wonderful time, Mycroft!"
She turned and began to walk toward St. Bart's.
And Mycroft drove away, anticipating a rather long evening in front of him.
"Sir," Anthea said into the intercom. "Your brother is here to see you."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes…?"
"Send him in," this was unexpected, though not utterly surprising.
He entered in his usual dramatic manner. "Mycroft…you're leaving tomorrow, I recall?"
"I am."
"Where?'"
"Paris."
Sherlock nodded. "Paris…well…I have taken your advice, and I wanted you to know, before you left, that I have been exercising some more kindness toward Molly and shall continue in that vein during your absence."
Mycroft's eyebrows raised in mild interest. "I am glad to hear it, Sherlock."
"Yes…so you needn't concern yourself with her any longer."
"I'm sorry?"
"She is well in hand."
"Is she indeed?" he paused. "Sherlock…I'm not certain what it is that you think is going on here…one never knows what conspiracies you formulate in that mind of yours…but I've seen Molly a total of three times, all at the cafe, and every interlude was quite innocent. Your guilt, perhaps, has mired your reason, and you are running wild in your assumptions."
Sherlock laughed. "Mycroft, brother, my dear dear man…I had never suggested that anything was happening…that was your supposition. But it does give one pause, that that was where your mind went…"
Mycroft Holmes sighed, rolled his eyes, got up, rounded to the front of his desk, and leaned against it. He folded his hands on front of him. "Understand, Sherlock, I am tired. I wish only to see a museum or two and eat out at a restaurant. Everything that has transpired between your pathologist and myself has been friendly…and that is where it ends. If you, brother mine, care to pursue something…" he paused. "Less than innocent, shall we say…? By all means. Go to it."
"You are ridiculous," and he flipped up the collar on his Belstaff. "Enjoy your pastries. I'll speak with you on Monday," and he left.
Mycroft laughed.
He sat back down at his desk, and he finished up the tedious business of emailing….
The room was nice enough.
It wasn't overdone…he had seen to that…he wished for something simple in style and decor.
Mycroft left the room to enjoy a walk.
When was the last time he had been so unburdened?
He honestly couldn't say…
And the sweet smell of Paris rain hinted itself in the air…
The many hues of the city rippled the light in a prism of luminescence.
A melody played on the pulse of atmosphere…
It was as lovely a scene as he had ever beheld.
And the clouds broke, filling the place with warm water, saturating the blooms already heavy in their girth.
And Mycroft Holmes laughed…for he had forgotten his umbrella.