A/N: Thank you for all the love. I've been not myself the past few days and it has helped more than you know. Please keep reviewing. It is officially the day of their third date!
In today's chapter: the return of Oh, My!Croft, Molly's choice, and the Holmes boys get deep.
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Molly stood pensively beside an autopsy table, absently touching her hair. She'd just finished for the moment with examining bodies. There was paperwork to do, or she could take a break. Hell, as late as it was, she could technically take lunch if she wanted. At the moment, all she seemed capable of doing was standing and thinking.
Tonight was the night.
Tonight, she, Molly Kathleen Hooper, was going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.
She'd known him for three years, she was now his girlfriend, and she didn't know his middle name.
Now that she stopped to think about it, what all exactly did she know about Sherlock?
He was amazing. He was brilliant, perceptive, honest, cruel, easily irritated, loyal, protective, sarcastic, fast, and strong. Oh, and gorgeous. Impossibly gorgeous.
She snorted. He sounded like a character out of a bloody movie when she put it that way.
She knew some things he'd actually eat. She knew how he tasted when she kissed him, how being wrapped in his arms felt. She knew, after practice, how to tell a fake smile from a real one with him. She knew who considered him a friend: knew who he considered a friend.
He used to do drugs. The greatest known criminal madman in the world was out for him. And possibly, her.
Molly shivered.
She knew she counted. That he trusted her.
Could she trust him?
She shook her head, angry at herself for the thought. Of course she could. There was no way he'd be playing at this relationship with her. He'd never had anyone before her. She was the first. She was special.
He'd sent her a song: "What Do You Want from Me?" by American Idol winner Adam Lambert. It had surprised her. It seemed so unlike Sherlock as she'd known him. Of course, so did dating and kissing and girlfriends, so that was it, she supposed. The lyrics were perfect for their fight, making up, and their situation in general.
She knew what she wanted from Sherlock. But what did he want from her?
She was having a hard time, in the cold light of their initials carved into a dead man's chest, not worrying. Even though Sherlock kept assuring her he thought she'd be safe, he'd been wrong before. What if he was wrong again?
The thought of turning around and seeing Moriarty in disguise made her afraid.
But what could she do?
She was with the man she'd been hopelessly in love with for almost as long as she'd known him, and she was afraid.
Obviously, she needed professional help.
No. Sherlock would say it was smart of her to question. He certainly wasn't one to jump into things without analyzing them six ways to Sunday first. He'd probably raise his eyebrows and ask her what she had deduced, in that voice.
The thought made her giggle.
No. She wasn't going to let this fear win. And anything she wanted to know about Sherlock, she'd just ask him. He'd tell her.
He'd find Moriarty and everything would be fine.
This was their night, and nothing, no one, was going to spoil it.
"Doctor Hooper?"
Molly froze. She'd only heard that voice three times, but after just one she'd known she'd never forget it.
Slowly, she turned.
And found herself face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes.
He smiled at her, gripping his trademark umbrella in one hand.
"I wonder if I might have a word with you."
Thirty minutes earlier…
Sherlock smiled as he sent Mycroft the text. It was a bittersweet smile, but a smile nonetheless.
You'll need a new nickname for me after tonight, brother dear. SH
He waited for the phone call, curious as to whether Moriarty had assigned text tones and ringtones to each person who contacted him.
No call.
Five minutes passed.
No text, either.
Did all your coffee cake addle your thinking? I said I'm going to need a new nickname. SH
No response.
Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.
Sherlock snorted. Fine. If that's how he wanted it…
He called Mycroft.
Mycroft answered in two seconds. "Not now, Sherlock. I'm feeling a bit ill and I need to see a doctor."
Mycroft hung up.
Sherlock frowned, replaying the sentence in his head.
His eyes widened in alarm.
One minute later, he was outside waiting for a taxi.
Thirty minutes later…
Shit. Keep calm, Molly.
Molly took a deep, albeit slightly shaky, breath. She'd been around Mycroft Holmes before: when he'd come to the morgue about that woman, and when she'd helped Sherlock fake his death. He'd been courteous, respectful: everything she used to wish Sherlock would be. Except for something in his eyes that was so different from Sherlock's.
Why was he here?
"Why are you here?" she blurted.
He raised his eyebrows.
No. No. You can do better than this, dammit.
"No, wait. Please. Allow me to… deduce," Molly said, amazed at how composed she sounded. Maybe she was channeling her inner Sherlock.
Mycroft seemed amused, but didn't speak.
"It's about Sherlock. Or, me and Sherlock, to be exact. You're not talking to him about it because you don't think it would do any good. So you've come to me, to attempt to appeal to me about something or get information. But you're Mycroft Holmes. You probably already knew everything you needed from looking at my ponytail. Maybe even before you walked in. You probably don't approve of our relationship."
Mycroft looked impressed. "And?"
Molly shrugged. "That's all I've got. Sorry."
"Still, you're more perceptive than I gave you credit for, Doctor Hooper."
"Call me Molly, please, Mycroft," she said with a faint smile. "If we're about to have a disagreement about your brother and my boyfriend, we should be on a first name basis for it."
He inclined his head. "As you wish…Molly. Now. You were correct for the most part. This liaison, charming in theory as it is, is doomed to fail. My disapproval has nothing to you with you personally. I know my brother; I know what he can and cannot do. And this, regretfully for you, is something he cannot do. Not for any length of time."
"How can you be so sure? He's never even tried before," Molly said.
"Exactly. There are reasons, Molly: very rational reasons why my brother has never engaged in romantic endeavors. Sentiment is a chemical defect. It is distracting and dangerous. It is definitely not an advantage. And although Sherlock truly does… care for you, it is only a matter of time before he comes to his senses. When he does, I can assure you, your relationship will be over and you will once again be the owner of a broken heart."
Molly felt herself getting angry despite her resolve. "You don't know everything about him. You never thought he'd come this far. You could be wrong about what he's capable of."
"As much as I would like to believe that for your sake, I cannot. This is destructive and will possibly damage him. It will definitely damage you. I strongly advise you to end it now and save both of you the pain."
Molly glared at him. "No. I understand why you think the way you do, but I'm not breaking up with him."
"No?" Mycroft moved forward a few steps, eyes locked with hers. "Even though he is in danger, and by extension is endangering you? Jim Moriarty is no ordinary criminal. He is the most dangerous criminal mind of this century, he is insane, and he is going to keep trying to destroy Sherlock in some fashion until he succeeds or he is truly dead. Tell me, Molly: how is your back?"
Molly flinched. He nodded slightly.
"Moriarty could have easily had you killed, or injured you far worse. He's unconcerned with you at the moment but that could change. I can assist you, Molly. Arrange for a leave of absence, get you out of the country and let you stay somewhere safe until Moriarty can be found. You cannot tell me that you haven't been afraid, or that you've not had questions or doubts."
Molly fought to keep from shaking. "I have. But I'm not leaving Sherlock."
"Remarkable." Mycroft studied her curiously. "You display the same blind devotion to him as John Watson. No doubt the personality similarities are a large part of his attraction to you. So. You're going to stand by Sherlock no matter what? Even if you die? Does he truly mean that much to you, Molly? Is your… love… strong enough?"
Molly took a slow, deep breath. Then she moved until she was only two feet away from Mycroft.
"Is my love strong enough? I risked my career for him. I lied to his best friend for him. I carried the weight and the guilt of knowing he was alive for almost a year to keep him safe. I would do anything to help him. I would burn for him. I would kill for him. I would die for him."
Mycroft blinked.
"So to answer your question, yes. My love for Sherlock is strong enough. It won't be broken by your words, by Moriarty, by time or by death."
Mycroft stared at her as though she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Then he almost imperceptibly nodded.
"Well then. It appears there is nothing for me to do except to… wish you luck. I cannot comprehend your devotion, and your love for him confounds me. You have a pure heart, Molly. And despite what you may think of me now, please know that everything I do, I do for a reason. I truly hope the best for you, whatever your future with my brother holds."
"Thank you," Molly managed to say.
"Good day, Doctor Hooper," Mycroft said mildly, and with a final nod turned and left.
Sherlock jumped out of the cab and slammed the door. He raced up the steps at Bart's just in time to nearly collide with his brother as he was exiting the building.
"What the hell did you do?" Sherlock demanded.
"In the car, please," Mycroft said, nodding towards his ride.
As soon as they got in and shut the doors, Sherlock turned.
"What the hell did you say to her, Mycroft? Did you try to warn her away from me? Tell her she's in danger and I'll just end up breaking her heart?"
"Yes," Mycroft said calmly. "What have you done to her, Sherlock?"
Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"
"What I mean is, Molly Hooper is no longer the same woman she was a year ago. She is exhibiting strength of will and a level of ferocity that I would not have thought her capable of. She has turned from a mouse into a lioness. Something has changed her, made her become more of who she was, apparently, always capable of being. It doesn't take much to deduce that the 'something' is you."
Sherlock grinned. "Are you saying that you underestimated her?"
"A bit," Mycroft allowed grudgingly. "So. Apparently you are planning on giving her the dubious honor of taking your virginity. Are you certain about this? Sex is a line that cannot be uncrossed, Sherlock."
"Why would you think I don't understand that?" Sherlock snapped. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Very well. Take these." Mycroft handed him a box.
Sherlock stared. "Condoms? Mycroft, do you really think-"
"Take them," Mycroft insisted. "You will need protection, Sherlock."
Sherlock paused, then nodded, knowing better than to argue. "Thank you?" he asked wryly.
"I suppose I can say you're welcome. Now. I have business to attend to, and you probably need to read the Kama Sutra or watch a film such as Last Tango in Paris. So I shall leave you to your sordid education. Do take care, brother. I'm most interested to know what you think of sex once you've had it."
"I'm sure you are," Sherlock said with a tight smile. "Goodbye, Mycroft."
Sherlock got out of the car. Instead of leaving Bart's, he went in and headed for the stairs. He wanted to have the Mycroft conversation with Molly now, not later that night.