Since Sherlock's "intervention," Molly and Sherlock were studies in propriety. After that morning, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that they were together, but they went to extraordinary lengths to avoid showing any overt evidence of it, especially once the tabloids got wind that the St. Bart's pathologist might have more than a working relationship with the consulting detective. But while Sherlock and Molly were seen together, there was no public canoodling or hand holding. In public, they maintained a front that was all friendly but diginified. With a lack of information about this new relationship, the tabloids were digging up the old, and since Kitty Reilly herself had harbored "Richard," she was the first to jump on a new angle. Which was why, in part, Mycroft, Sherlock, Molly, Anthea and John were at 221B together, discussing how to best take care of the Reilly situation among other things. Or rather, Mycroft and Sherlock were discussing it. The others were waiting until they were needed.
"Oh, please, everyone's dated at least one criminal or psychopath, at least if they're in their 30s and living in London, they have" Anthea said off-handedly, eyes on her phone, "I told you about my dictator."
"Maybe," Molly tossed her ponytail as she turned the page of a tabloid, "but at least your mistake wasn't written up in the local rag." The headline screamed PATHOLOGIST KEY TO DISGRACED DETECTIVE'S RETURN FROM THE GRAVE? Kitty Reilly's face smiled up at her from the byline. "And you got a blood diamond out of it."
Anthea didn't look up, "Mmm. I didn't get to keep it. International smuggling laws or something…I dunno."
John opened his mouth to ask the name of the dictator, but Anthea barely acknowledged his existence at the best of times, and if Sherlock was in the room, Molly usually didn't notice John at all. As a result, he was privy to some rather entertaining conversation when he sat back and stayed quiet. Oh, the things he'd learned lately!
Molly sighed as she folded up the offending article, "Just when you think you've lived something down. Do you want to run downstairs with me and get a coffee while they hash it out? " Anthea nodded without looking up and followed Molly out the door.
John looked toward the desk where Sherlock and Mycroft had their heads together, for once not at each other's throats. The Reilly situation had been settled, and they were moving on to other important matters. They'd had a series of meetings since Sherlock's return from the dead, Mycroft helping transition him back to real life. Their girlfriends were also a steady presence, assisting in the troublesome task of resurrection. The Holmes men did not call Molly and Anthea their girlfriends. No, indeed. Anthea was Mycroft's "personal assistant," I-don't-know-what-you-are-implying-John-Watson Mycroft's tilted head and snide smile communicated very clearly when John asked him how the "little woman" was. Sherlock was more direct when John had asked him if his girlfriend was going to be joining them. "Don't be stupid, John," he sneered, "Molly is a grown woman. Hardly a girl."
"And you would know about that!" John murmured raising his eyebrows expressively. Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his revolver to see if it were loaded.
Before his relationship with Molly began, Sherlock had only been vaguely aware of Mycroft's involvement with Anthea. That sort of thing flew over his head for so long because he really didn't care about relationships or sentiment of any kind. He did know there had been some sort of incident involving Mycroft, Anthea and a custard tart or something…Mummy had hinted darkly at something untoward at the time, but while Sherlock was always looking for ammunition against his brother, he somehow retained only that Mummy was upset with Mycroft over something pudding oriented and so his insults tended toward the "how's your diet" variety rather than "you compromised your personal assistant in front of Mummy" type. Sherlock understood dessert better than he understood women.
Besides, thinking about how and with whom Mycroft was getting off ranked right up there with the solar system as information he did not need to know, thank you very much.
Sorting through the information before him, Sherlock pushed himself back from the desk and ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, bored. This was bureaucratic nonsense. He knew he was alive. Who cared if the government did? Mycroft was the government. He should just fix it.
Irritable, Sherlock glanced at his brother and off-handedly remarked, "Your moisturizing routine really isn't working on those freckles, Mycroft."
The other man looked up swiftly, a look of surprise on his face before retorting, "That may be, little brother, but I have to say that your new eyebrow plucking is a vast improvement."
Sherlock's head reared back and both men's faces clearly registered shock. The insults were fairly mild, but how did they know these things? They could put it down to each simply being observant, of course, of course! They were the Holmes brothers. Masters of deduction. But a little cold frog of fear had crept into their souls. Molly had told Sherlock that Mycroft was a little sensitive about the sun damage. He knew Anthea was the one who suggested Mycroft try a little fading cream if it bothered him (indeed, she was the one who applied it for him). Sherlock had snorted derisively at the time while Molly lectured him on the necessity of sunblock on skin like his. "I autopsied a victim of melanoma just last week, Sherlock Holmes. At least your brother is aware."
Mycroft had smiled indulgently when Anthea mentioned the good influence Molly had on Sherlock and his hygiene. The bathroom and kitchen were almost usable and Sherlock had even allowed Molly to go at him with the tweezers when she claimed that the uni-brow he was developing wasn't doing him any favors. It hadn't occurred to Mycroft that this information had come at a price, a bit of quid pro quo. Dear Lord, he was losing his touch.
They brothers eyed each other warily, each preparing to test the theory that had just occurred to them both.
"Dear me, you are cantankerous today, little brother. Perhaps when we've finished here, Molly can tuck you in for a nap 'like a teddy bear'" Mycroft jeered. Sherlock stopped short, his cheeks developing a hot flush. So, once…only once, mind you, (alright, maybe twice) he and Molly played "Round and Round the Garden." The childish tickle game led to something of a more adult nature, but Mycroft should not, could not know that!
"Installed cctv in my bedroom, Mycroft? I wouldn't have expected such low voyeurism from you, but what can I expect from someone who thinks the knees are a primary erogenous zone. You need all the help you can get."
Mycroft's nostrils flared and he drew himself up to his full imposing height, "My, aren't we the experienced Don Juan if we are critiquing another's technique. It's the back of the knees you naïve little man."
The theory was proven. The women were talking to each other. They were talking about them. What security breaches had occurred? What did each brother now know about the other?
John's eyes had followed the volley between the brothers, grinning to himself. Oh, this was good. All too human after all, eh boys? Let's have some fun.
"You know," John broke in, "Last night, I tried something in bed with Mary that I didn't think was anatomically possible, and I'm a doctor. I overhead Molly mentioning it. You two can't possibly do that every time, do you?" The macho soldier inside of John, the one who had romanced his way around the world was enjoying the red faced squirm this statement produced from Sherlock. Despite everyone catching them out that one morning (and despite Mrs. Hudson's need for earplugs), Sherlock did not talk about IT. Not with anyone. It wasn't anyone's business, now was it? If you talk about it, you soon find yourself in a situation where Kitty Reilly knows your deepest and darkest secrets, and people are reading about how you like the tops of your ears stroked as foreplay while they eat their breakfast toast.
Sherlock's eyes darted over John's face. Did she do what every time? Every time was different. He was a musician. He understood variations on a theme. She was a doctor. She understood human anatomy. Was it not like that for everyone? What the hell was Molly telling people?
"I thought that was amazing enough, but then I had Mary try this little something I heard about that apparently, only the harem girls of this bizarre, mad dictator know." Mycroft's face dropped and went pale under his freckles.
"I can honestly say, boys, that after listening to your girlfriends chat, I have never been so sexually enlightened in my life." John leaned back against the sofa and smiled.
There was sound of the front door opening and closing and the stairs creaked as the Molly and Anthea made their way up to the flat again.
"But what does it look like?" Molly's sweet, chirping voice floated up the stairs, "I mean, it must be rare to get a glimpse of something like that."
Anthea's honeyed voice replied, "Well, it was kind of small and dirty. Uncut, it wasn't much to look at."
Sherlock and Mycroft stood speechless as their ears picked up the conversation of the two women returning to the flat. Mycroft especially looked as if he were going to be sick. Even John sat dumbfounded—were there no boundaries at all?
"Oh," Molly sounded disappointed as they reached the landing, "I always thought it was something rare and beautiful. Maybe translucent red, like blood." John cocked his head at Sherlock who scrunched his face up, shrugging. Mycroft still looked dazed.
"No, not at all. The name comes from the fact that they are mined in war zone, not because they are a special color or anything," Anthea explained as they both crossed the threshold, a coffee in each hand.
"Here you are, boys!" Molly smiled handing round cups. Noting the looks on the three men's faces, Molly frowned, "Is everything okay?" Anthea looked up at the change in tone, looked at Mycroft's face, and promptly looked down again.
The Holmes feud had gone nuclear. In the war of words, each had a weapon of mass destruction. If Sherlock deployed the knowledge he got from Molly, Mycroft would do the same with what he learned from Anthea. Mycroft was a good politician. A peace treaty must be brokered.
"I think we are just about finished here, aren't we Mycroft?" Sherlock said firmly. His blue eyes beseeched his brother.
Mycroft reached for his umbrella, "Yes, yes, of course, Sherlock. I think that's it." That's it for rudeness and personal insults, petty arguments. How could this war continue? They could only destroy each other.
John felt as though he were watching history being made. The brothers set aside their childish weapons and met as men on the battlefield. The Holmes men shook hands calling truce. The decades old feud was mended as the brothers united against letting anyone else find out what their girlfriends knew about them.