Author's note: Hello there lovely people. This chapter is hopefully one for everyone who loves a bit of Possessive!Sherlock (I know I do!). It's all turning out a little more hurt/comfort than I intended, but hopefully not for too much longer.

Disclaimer: I did not invent, nor do I own, any of these characters. Despite repeated letters to Santa ;)

CHAPTER FIVE

Face still pallid after approximately 25 seconds; lack of eye contact (deliberate?); increase in production from lachrymal glands (unacceptable. Note: revenge on Mycroft [URGENT]); shoulders downturned. Previous history indicates cutting speech in 3… 2… 1…

Burying herself into one small, hard ball of pain, Molly studiously ignored the two men bristling at each other across her lab. She considered the two ways this scenario usually went: the all too accurate (and painful) deduction she had been anticipating all morning; or a lengthy discussion of all the signals of misery that she had obviously been projecting… deduction practice makes perfect after all. As neither were an attractive proposition, Molly chose secret option number three – shutting down into herself, experiencing only the torrent of sensations roaring their way through her, to drown out the words. The surging of her own breath in her ears. The stinging of her eyes as she fought back the tears. The pressure on her throat, strangling a wail, and her breath…

.

Memory: "the dog? But it was asleep, didn't even bark!" "Exactly, John. That was the curious thing." Molly Hooper: keenly intelligent, compassionate, questionable taste in clothes (and cats), solver of all problems requiring practical application of data, tough - a fighter. No longer fighting. Reason? … Irrelevant at present. Action? Step one – defend…

.

Angling himself just in front of the troubled woman, Sherlock raised slightly up on to his toes, increasing his advantage over his brother. Meeting him stare for stare, until –

"You must pardon me, Doctor Hooper. That was… discourteous of me." At the lack of response from the silent apparition in his brother's shadow, no sign that she had even registered the sound of his words, Mycroft shuffled slightly, discomfited. Looking slightly at his brother, a question passed unspoken between the two men.

"Let me tell you what is going to happen. You will tell me whatever needs to be said, in as few words as possible. You will give me whatever is in that dossier, your only possible reason to bestir your self from your lair in Whitehall. And then you will leave. Putting your prodigious mind to ways to make amends to Molly. Bearing in mind that it would be extremely prudent to wait for an express invitation before you enter this morgue again. Are we clear?"

.

Result? Failure. Physiological markers and general deportment have not resolved in past 43 seconds. Additional: slight tremor in right leg; fingernails clenched into palms; breathing shallow and rate increasing. Step two – treatment for shock…

.

"Y- yes… I came to find out what interest you have in Analote Huret. Oh, don't look so horrified, brother mine. Ever since Baskerville, I am kept more closely… apprised… of your Internet history. Better to be one step ahead of any major diplomatic incidents etcetera. But, well, my question seems rather redundant."

Casting a glance at the cadaver, abandoned on a slab on the other side of the room, Sherlock twirled his fingers (half 'hurry up', half 'maybe an eight?'). Managing as he did so to take a slight step to his right, nudging Molly down gently to the stool that was positioned next to her.

"I assume this person is linked to the queries received this morning from her Majesty's Police force? Along the lines of "what is happening in France today?" "

"Ah. I see Lestrade's subtlety is improving." Saying this, Sherlock rounded the table, removing his coat to hang it on an available hook in a row of spare lab coats. Simultaneously knocking the thermostat up a couple of degrees.

"Quite. The situation is thus: a certain branch of the French Secret Service has become aware that the major proponents of somewhat controversial documents regarding future military operations in the Middle East are, well, dwindling. Three weeks ago, four decoy teams of agents were deployed, in an attempt to lure out the perpetrators. What you have here is the remains of the final member of team three. Teams one and two all now inactive. Only team four remains intact thus far."

"The presence of that file suggests you need me to take the case. Assist this final group of agents."

"Not at all, brother... I want you to join them. "

Snatching the extended manila folder, tossing it aside with such force that the uppermost documents spilled out onto the bench top, Sherlock crossed the lab to fling open the door (wedge it open, optimal airflow in room). "Not interested. Goodbye, Mycroft."

Not quite daring to challenge his brother, who was still vibrating with barely suppressed rage, Mycroft moved to leave. Pausing momentarily by the open door to cast a (almost regretful) glance back at Molly, before squaring his ever-present umbrella under his arm and moving briskly down the corridor.

.

Result? Failure. Non-verbal signals unchanged. Bring up mind palace model for correct administration of step three – comfort…

.

Still frozen internally, even after being pushed to sitting, raised voices, thrown folders, Molly at last began to register a new sensation – warmth spreading through one of her hands. A… squeeze? Was Sherlock… holding her hand? Bringing her eyes back into focus, Molly was startled to see a pair of blue eyes scant inches from her own. Eyes that radiated not scorn, not scrutiny, not impatience but… concern? Warmth?

Replaying a memory, hesitant of causing any further hurt to this suddenly vulnerable woman in his care. Wanting to perfect the delivery. Sherlock took a deep breath before speaking, his voice low and gentle. "What do you need?" And found his arms suddenly full of Doctor Molly Jane Hooper.