Sherlock Holmes never paid his older brother much mind.

He was a maddening, sad sort who only worked to irritate him and squash his attempts at doing his work in a quick and efficient manner.

But now, with the advent of Mycroft's attentions to Molly, this was untenable. He would need to pay attention to Mycroft, for never in the younger Holmes's life had he been witness to his brother actually caring for a person not in the family.

Though it wasn't immediately apparent that Mycroft did care for Molly, the fact that he paid attention to her was certainly indicative of something.

What that something was, Sherlock meant to discover.

And when Sherlock Holmes means to discover something, it almost always is, and he does so with dexterity and brilliance.

(certain misadventures with certain dominatrixes notwithstanding, though that instance was certainly John's fault, and all was well in the end, anyway)

So it was.

He mused quietly…what if his brother actually fancied Molly?

Poor girl.

Though Sherlock was not opposed to the idea. Mycroft indulged enough in creature comforts (see sweet fetish) that such a weakness was completely believable…even expected from such a fragile wretch as Mycroft.

He chuckled softly. Mycroft. And sex.

He winced…if only he could slam the doors of his mind palace with more ferocity.

Sherlock got up from his chair and retrieved his coat.

Poor Molly…

Mycroft sat at his flat. He loved his flat. In fact, if he loved anything in this world that wasn't his annoying family, it was his flat.

But his flat's charm had staled in recent weeks…withered, like a drooping bloom. Once buoyant and yet calm, the flat which boasted heavy wood of every depth and variety, now closed in on him. The walls shrunk in a loathsome embrace.

Mycroft sipped his brandy; it was a sweet warmth, and he was reminded of a bygone age in his life, splintered from his mind in wrathful tear.

Unlike what his brother had believed, or indeed, what everyone believed about him, Mycroft had fallen in love once. And unlike the fairy tale of a man once who loved and lost and never recovered from his pyrrhic sojourn, Mycroft had been happy at its demise. She was a sweet soul…too saccharine, even for his proclivity toward the taste.

And he abandoned her, with a hint of Ebenezer Scrooge in his dismissal (think Belle), and the soft soul was left hardened by his neglect.

He did not regret his leaving her, rather, that she had forsaken love altogether, deciding that a solitary life was preferable to one without Mr. Holmes. This was insupportable, even for Mycroft, and he had visited her in an effort to persuade her that her behavior was foolish.

He had seen her only that once, and she was a dead scowl of her former mirth.

And he was sorry for it.

He was sorry, and that was what separated him from his brother.

Mycroft had loved, he had left, and he was sorry for what he had left in his wake.

Sherlock was not a bad man, but he seldom felt badly for anything he did. Perhaps he never felt that anything he did was worth the trouble of feeling badly.

Or feeling much.

But Mycroft knew that his brother cared…he cared for John.

Mrs. Hudson.

Even that D.I.

And Molly.

And Mycroft would not see his brother suffer the same error he had in his hubris and his ignorance.

Yes…it was ignorance.

If Sherlock cared for Molly, Mycroft would encourage his pursuing it.

If not, he would encourage him to leave her well alone.

He liked the scientist, and he believed her to care for Sherlock a very great deal. She shouldn't be made to feel worse in his sarcasm and neglect.

A knock was heard at his door.

No one knocked on his door.

No one, save his brother.

Damn.

Mycroft heaved a very heavy sigh and rose from his station.

He approached the door slowly, not really wanting to indulge whatever silliness his brother would be bringing with him.

"Mycroft," he said, as the door was opened and he entered.

"Sherlock. What a dubious surprise."

"You say that often in reference to me, brother. Are you never happy to see me?" and he sat, crossing his legs affectedly, and picked up an obliging pen on the table next to him.

"Not especially. No more than anyone else."

"But I'm not just anyone, Mycroft. I am family."

And Mycroft closed the door and sighed. Employment of the term "family" by Sherlock almost never yielded anything good. "Yes…very astute. What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I'm merely here on a friendly visit."

"A friendly visit."

"Yes," and he twirled twirled the pen.

"You don't pay friendly visits."

"But you're family…"

"Especially to family," and he handed him a glass of brandy.

Sherlock took it. "Still indulging, Mycroft?"

"Hardly. A glass of brandy in the evening in my quiet does not demand the term indulging."

"But you dislike alcohol and the escape it affords."

And Mycroft sat across from him. "I never said that."

"At any rate, Mycroft, I was just thinking about you."

"Is that so, Sherlock? Should I be concerned?"

He laughed. "No…but perhaps Molly should be."

"I'm sorry?"

"Molly. Hooper? Pathologist…bit mousy…rather bright…" and he gazed up at the ceiling in thought.

"I know whom you are speaking of. What do you mean that she should be concerned?"

"Because, brother mine, I believe you have designs on her."

And Mycroft sat there, staring at Sherlock for a full minute.

And then he burst into laughter. "Designs?! On Molly Hooper? Oh, Sherlock, you are good for a laugh."

"Why not? Why else would you be paying any attention to her?"

He sucked in a long breath. "Sherlock, I am merely attempting to open your own eyes with regard to her. She fancies you, and you are despicable to her."

"I am no such thing. I brought her coffee…"

"And fetching her coffee does not a friend make."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you know of friendship?"

"A bit more than you credit me for."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft….do not attempt to lie to me. You have sought out her company."

"I have done no such thing."

Sherlock then laughed. "If you insist," and he stood. "You would destroy her, Mycroft. You should leave her alone."

"I want nothing from her…I want merely to allow her some peace of mind."

And the younger Holmes made his way to the door. "If you insist. I do not desire anything from Molly other than lab access. But I'd not like to see her hurt, she is a good sort of person."

And he left.

His brother was a ridiculous man, and he loved him so.

Molly was stitching up Mr. Potts. He had a sad look on his face, and she had attempted, in some sort of macabre action, to have him smile.

This was not, she decided, a good idea.

He looked now like some sort of demented clown, a la the Joker.

She shuddered and took out the stitches.

It wasn't her place to see to such things, but Molly was tired of everyone being sullen and serious, and she longed to see a smile, however gruesome it was.

The door slammed shut, and she assumed that Mike was entering, or else that inept intern who was always following her around like a puppy.

She could not have been more wrong.

Or more shocked.

"Mycroft?"

"Hello, Molly," and he handed her a cup.

"Thanks…what are you doing here?"

"Well. I was just thinking that I hadn't seen you in a while at the cafe, and perhaps you were missing your latte."

"Really?" and she sipped. "That's very thoughtful."

He nodded. "Molly…are you a romantic?"

She choked. "Excuse me?"

"Apologies…" he handed her a napkin. "I mean…are you at all romantically idealistic when it comes to…ah…relationships of the intimate kind?"

"Ha…" she nervously responded. "Um…not really…?"

"No? I thought not," and he rocked on his heels, apparently pleased with his ability to read her.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Well…it has come to my attention that someone might be interested in you in that capacity."

"Oh please," and she sat the cup down and turned toward her work.

"I am in earnest, Molly."

She looked at him. "Why?" she whispered.

He appeared taken aback. "Honestly? You don't know why someone might be interested in you?"

"Ah…no. Not really."

"Well…" he hadn't counted on this. "I mean to say…you are rather bright, and you are amusing in your own unique way…not unpleasant to look at…"

"You say the nicest things, Mycroft," her tone was sarcastic.

"I am quite serious!" he paused. "This is rather uncharted…well, at least in quite some time….territory for me, Molly. I'd like to insist that you take me at my word, however."

Molly nodded. "And who, may I ask, is this admirer?"

"I think he'd like to remain anonymous."

She smiled. "Alright. Well, what should I do, now that I know someone fancies me?"

"Nothing, I imagine. I merely thought that…"

"You are a strange sort, Mycroft. Why tell me anything?"

"To ascertain your preferences…"

She shrugged. "Thanks," and she sipped the latte.

"Have a lovely afternoon," and he sauntered out, not unlike his brother.

Molly sighed.

His brother.

What if he meant Sherlock?

Her heart skipped a beat.

No…surely not.

But…who else could he possibly mean?

And Sherlock wasn't one to admit feeling anything, let alone a tug of a romantic sort.

Molly's brow furrowed.

What would she do if it was Sherlock?

Have a fit.

No…she would remain calm and dignified.

Actually, she would likely faint.

But what if it wasn't?

Who else could it possibly be?

It could be Mycroft…

No.

Silly idea.

MYCROFT? No way.

He didn't fancy people.

But then, neither did Sherlock…

Lestrade?

Molly laughed.

It had to be one of the Holmes brothers…

And she thought this had to be one of the weirdest things that ever happened to her.

Including that naked pillow fight on the roof at uni.

What if Sherlock fancied her…?

Well, one thing was certain…she wouldn't be wearing any tight black dresses…