She stirred the soup absentmindedly.

Her mind perseverated on the thought that Sherlock Holmes might, indeed, fancy her. It was insane, the very idea.

But, oh, how much she would love to hear him confess…

She had dreamt of it on more than one occasion.

"Molly, there is something I'd like to speak to you about," he said, gliding gracefully to her in the lab.

"Yes, Sherlock…of course," she replied, looking stunning, despite the fact that she was in her white lab coat.

"I have so longed to tell you…you are my only desire…my only wish…I am tormented by your smile…please…" and he went to her, taking her face in his hands. "Kiss me, Molly…."

And his mouth found hers….

And such passion would put that Wesley and Buttercup's from "The Princess Bride," to shame…

Molly sighed.

Then she snapped out of it.

To think that Sherlock bloody Holmes would ever do such a thing was beyond ridiculous.

She was always reduced to a puddle where he was concerned, despite her self assurance that she would abandon such pursuits.

Her only hope was that she would be easy around him still, despite the lingering suspicion that he fancied her.

"Molly," he began.

"Oh! Um…yeah?" and she looked at the detective hopefully, and with some hesitation.

Sherlock returned her gaze with some dubiety. "Can you hand me that pipette?"

"Oh. Yes…" and she did.

She went to the other side of the lab and held onto the side of the table.

Stop it, Molly. Stop being so silly.

She chided herself for behaving thus, especially since she had no idea if Mycroft had been referencing him…

And she hadn't seen Mycroft since that day…three days ago now.

She cleared her throat and left the lab.

"Hey Mike…!" Molly called from the hall into the office of Mr. Stanford.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna just pop out for a bit, alright?"

"Sure, Molls…"

Molly needed air.

Her mind churned…and she didn't know where she was going.

Imagine, crushing on someone for years, and then being presented with the idea that they might reciprocate?

It was distracting in the extreme.

She found herself, after meandering through London for a bit, at the cafe.

In she walked.

Latte…latte would set things right.

She procured the desired beverage and went to sit at a table.

"Hello, Molly," said a familiar voice.

Mycroft.

"Oh…hey Mycroft," and she smiled. She could ask him about this…he was the one who had started this mental mess.

"Would you care to sit?"

And she nodded, sitting opposite him. "How are you?"

He smiled. "Oh, well enough…work work work. You?"

"Dreadful."

"What? What do you mean?"

Molly cleared her throat. "Mycroft…you recall your visiting me at the lab a few days ago?"

"Of course."

"Yes…well. I've been torturing myself about what you meant by it. You didn't mean Sherlock, did you?"

Mycroft sat back in his chair and considered her.

She didn't appear to be well.

Her brow was furrowed.

Her lip had been chewed.

She was fidgeting more than usual.

He cleared his throat. "It has been my habit heretofore to remain clear of all things personal with regard to my brother," he paused. "Not that there is much to be found in terms of opportunity for such endeavors where he is concerned," he muttered. "However, I have wondered idly at the friendship the two of you have, and I merely would like Sherlock to do the same," he looked at Molly. "Wonder, that is."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think that he has given it proper thought or attention."

Molly shifted. "And what do you think he'll discover?"

"I honestly don't know, Molly."

"Do you think that he fancies me…? It certainly was implied in the lab the other day."

He cleared his throat. "Again, I cannot say with any certainty…but I do think that he cares for you more than he admits to, and that is what I am attempting to open his mind to. Whether it is romantic in nature, I cannot say."

Molly's eyes fell.

She laughed. "And what about you, Mycroft?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. You're so concerned about Sherlock…what about your own heart?"

"It is of little consequence," and he sipped his latte.

"Only because you make it so."

He smirked at her. "There are many cobwebs gathered on that particular vessel, Molly. I never pay it much mind."

"Perhaps you should start."

His eyes narrowed. "And how, do you propose, I start doing that?"

Molly's eyes widened. She sniggered. "I hope you are joking."

"I am not."

"Mycroft…come on. Find a lady you might fancy and…you know…"

He laughed at her. "And who might you suggest in terms of this unfortunate lady?"

"Well…isn't your PA an attractive young lady?"

His mouth fell a touch. "Bit too young, I imagine. What's more, I shouldn't like to mix work and play."

"No…" Molly agreed. "I suppose that would be a bit messy," she paused. "Do you go to any pubs?" her eyes lit up.

Mycroft chuckled, and then he laughed. "Ah…no."

Her face fell. "It was a reasonable enough question," she mumbled.

"Molly, much as I appreciate your concern…there is no need to pursue this. I am fine…it is Sherlock we are talking about here."

And she felt the blush ascend her face. She nodded, "I think that you are mistaken, Mycroft. He doesn't fancy me…"

"We'll see," and he stood. "Have a lovely evening, Molly."

And he left.

And Molly, noting the time, rose as well, and left the cafe to return to Bart's.

Mycroft headed back to the office, despite the hour…he had to make certain that the interrogation of the spy had been successful.

He sauntered in, swinging his umbrella in a moony manner, and then sat it in its station next to his desk.

His email inbox was full to the brim, and so he spent the next three hours answering them, simultaneously talking to the inept interrogators on the phone.

How very, very tiresome.

His mind engaged in such rigor, he hadn't given Molly and her advice any thought.

Until he left for the day and went back to his flat.

Mycroft poured himself some brandy (a habit so recently shed, now making its appearance with more regularity), and sat in front of the telly.

He wasn't paying any attention at to it at all.

He swirled the liquid around in its glass…

And at last he rose and turned off the blasted thing.

Mycroft went to the closet…he rummaged through it a bit, and finally discovered the object of his search.

The case was old.

A bit battered from being shoved further and further in the wardrobe.

He opened it delicately…and there she was.

His violin.

How long had it been?

His fingers traced her sternum…(he always thought of it as a woman, and assigned human parts to the body)…and along her neck, the strings of hair…

He picked her up and tuned her with dexterity and precision.

And then, lifting her to his shoulder, began to glide the bow along the fine hairs of strings…

Melancholy sounds issued from the lovely instrument in quiet song.

He stood…rocking back and forth…his expression more subdued than Sherlock's dance.

His eyes closed…and he thought of the cafe and Molly…

Perhaps she was right.

Perhaps he was lonesome….

(I am not lonely, Sherlock…

How would you know…?)

Indeed, how would he?

Nary a day passed by without his reassurance to himself that he needed no one.

And he had been fairly certain that his brother, until recently, had uttered the same prayer in his quiet.

But Sherlock did need people…

Perhaps Mycroft did as well.

This..this was not to be born.

And the tune halted, and he placed her back, slamming the lid shut.

He was old!

He was situated!

He was content in his solitude!

Alone protected him from the dubious enterprise of feeling.

Caring.

Sherlock….

He was munching on a biscuit Mrs. Hudson had left.

His phone rang, and he quickly picked it up.

Mycroft.

He sighed.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Hello, brother, always a pleasure hearing your voice."

"You didn't answer the question."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Mycroft continued. "I was just reflecting on the state of emotional caring and how it happened that you fell victim to her charm."

"I did no such thing."

"John Watson mean anything to you?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Very well…what do you want to know?"

"Was it a mutual thing…did you actively seek out his friendship?"

"I'm not in love with the man, for god's sake," he replied irritably.

"I never said that you were."

"You know the story, Mycroft."

He "Hmmmed," his response.

"I suppose…" Sherlock continued. "I suppose, if I reflect on it, that despite your assurance that caring is not an advantage, that it does allow for growth. It allows for vulnerability, yes, but it gives in return."

"What does it give?"

"Tranquility."

"Is that so? And just how tranquil did you feel when you shot Magnussen for your friend whom you care for?"

This stopped him as he peered out into the night descending on Baker Street. "The tranquility that I reference was what I was seeking when I shot him…and it isn't merely John…it's Mrs. Hudson…Molly…Lestrade, and even you, brother. I sought to protect said tranquility, and Magnussen threatened that."

"How charming."

"If you dislike my answers, then cease asking me questions. And what, may I ask, do these questions tend?"

Mycroft sighed and sat. "I am attempting to ascertain whether it is worth the effort to seek friendship as you have enjoyed…"

"It isn't. Not for you."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock laughed and turned from the window. "Because you lack the ability to give."

"Give what?"

"Everything," and he hung up the phone.

Mycroft dropped the phone and sighed.

Sherlock had a point…he likely couldn't give as Sherlock described. He was too closed off. Too within himself.

But he resented the insinuation that he couldn't change to suit a hypothetical friend.

A challenge…

And what's more, was that he had enjoyed Molly's company…he felt like they were beginning a friendship of sorts.

Perhaps he should cultivate that.

Seek out her company more.

And he could push her gently while shoving Sherlock, more into one another's arms.

And though he dismissed it as soon as the thought creeped into his mind, he blanched a bit at the thought of an embrace between his brother and the pathologist.

He would not ask why.

Not even entertain the why to that particular creep of thought.

He went to bed, determined to see things differently in the morning. Determined to feel (and he winced), determined to be pleasant and accommodating…

He would start with Anthea.

Proceed to Sherlock.

And perhaps pay Molly another visit.