There were no tears now. Her face had even dried from the droplets of rain that had showered her just moments ago as she paraded herself down the street to this musty and smelly pub.
Mycroft is a jackass. Anthea thought, pounding another shot and whipping her mouth.
"I'll have another pint now." She announced to the bartender, setting her shot glass to the side.
All these years, she had practically take care of Mycroft; mere steps below whipping spittle from his chin. So much energy put into this man out of love and friendship that, though she wasn't sure why, she often hoped would grow into more. Something about Mycroft had called to her as she gradually grew closer. They didn't have to talk; their relationship was already that intimate.
Fueled on beer and several shots she shouldn't have had, she placed her money on the bar and strode out; head high and steps determined.
Much like Mycroft, Sherlock also needed emotional coddling and goading. As Molly took the cigarette from between Sherlock's fingers, she sucked in the finally hit before allowing it to splash into the puddle at their feet.
"Its time to go back in, Sherlock. Three is more then enough." He didn't argue as he followed her back in and they made their way to the elevator.
"You know, I always thought i understood why people want to believe in a god and the afterlife. Silly things like their dead relatives popping round for a visit…" Sherlock swallowed and the elevator doors slid open.
"And…?" She inquired, carefully.
"Now, I do." He whispered, pushing past her and gliding down the hall to the waiting room only to pace.
Anthea was finally just the right amount of angry. No matter what was going to happen, she could weather it. After all, it wasn't her fault he was… how he is. In the elevator, she took the few seconds to brush off her suit and adjust herself in the mirrored doors.
"Fucking Mycroft." She exhaled and a cool breeze flowed from the AC in the corridor.
He would hear her, she knew, if he was fine, and he would be, right? Yes. Of course he would.
Her heels were going to give her away and she didn't care.
She ignored the calls of Molly Hooper as she motored on through the waiting room. Anthea couldn't have stopped if she wanted, but she could the pathologist and the brother puttering after her, attempting to catch to up.
Bursting through the room, she saw he was conscious as she turned to the doctor.
"Is he going to be alright?" The doctor only stuttered, pulling through paperwork and asking her name. "Nevermind." She dismissed him, pulling her self on the bed, straddling Mycroft and smashing her lips against his. He returned it, to her surprise. Pulling back, she met his face. "Are you alright?" When he didn't respond, she pulled him close. They didn't need to speak.
Molly's breath hitched as she watched the display and felt Sherlocks fingers string through hers.
"We should go." He whispered, softly, and pulled her toward the door.