A/N: God bless MizJoely for continuing to beta for me, proving she has the patience of a saint. I don't know she puts up with me, to be honest. Glorious, rapturous applause for everyone that reviewed, sent me messages, and jumped me on tumble to talk about Religion; none of you have any idea how much I appreciate and thrive on it! And remember, I LOVE concrete, don't be afraid to say something if you see a way I can improve!

Disclaimer: Look at all the shit I don't own.

Mycroft Holmes is steadily advancing up the chain of government command, and his younger brother suspects he will soon become not a member of and more puppeteer in the shadows. The eldest Holmes is already carving out space for his youngest brother, visions of a sibling take-over in mind, and there's logic in the assumption. Together they could turn Britain into more than a former empire or a country that comes in second to the United States on the topic of global leadership. There is no mind brighter than these three, after all, and if they were to work in tandem…

The mere thought forces Sherlock to burst into hives. It's why he avoids calling in favors to his brother, afraid to rack up a debt that can only be paid by joining the family business his parents left behind many years ago. (Oh, yes, Mother's a mathematician; she wrote books and still gives lecture tours, there's no denying it, but there's so much the public doesn't – and never will – know about Maura Elizabeth Vernet-Holmes. As for her husband, well, William Holmes carries the air of an absentminded professor incredibly well, but he also teaches his sons hand-to-hand combat and weapons training and the quickest ways to build and dismantle bombs. Shadow Squadron, his old unit was called; Sherlock wonders if they still use the same moniker.)

If time had been less of an issue, he'd have called Erasmus and not Mycroft. There are certainly lesser evils when it comes to dealing with his brothers, but time is a luxury Sherlock is not in possession of at the moment.

"Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper: I need all the information available."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, one that rings of a cat that has lured the canary out of its cage. "Erasmus could certainly gather such intelligence and has far less important matters to deal with than I."

Smug bastard, Sherlock bites his tongue to keep from muttering. "It's required immediately. I'll hold for it."

"Tit for tat, brother mine: why do you require such information? Have we finally begun developing special feelings in our privates at the thought of the opposite sex?"

"Not that you'd know anything about that. Have you told Mummy about the new man in your life? It's becoming rather serious; you've even changed your cologne."

"My goodness, I didn't realize the height of your obsession. If you're planning on emulating me, you must stop playing stupid."

Sucking in air between tightly clenched teeth, Sherlock briefly fantasizes punching his brother square in the face. His imagination is as highly developed and impressive as the rest of him, and it goes in a long way in lowering his blood pressure and urge to scream profanities. "Yes, I met a girl."

"Really, Sherlock, stalking? An act that is even beneath you, surely you must realize this."

"I'm not stalking her, Mycroft. Just get me the damn information already."

"Is she an Omega, or this a run of the mill infatuation?"

Clearly the only way to win this game is to lose, at least by their usual standers. Gods, Sherlock loathes losing to Mycroft. But Molly's safety is infinitely more important than his ego – damn, that's a strange realization, that someone or something comes above his own sense of pride and self. Has he ever realized this before? Not when it comes to his brother, that's for certain. "Not an Omega; Molly Hooper is my Omega. I believe her well-being is at risk, and I promise you, Mycroft, if your childish antics cause her to be harmed I will take my pound of flesh from you. Which you'd thank me for, I'm sure, as you've began putting on even more weight since entered this relationship with, ah, yes, Doug. Who you haven't introduced to the family, but I do believe Mummy could engineer a meeting if, say, someone were to let it slip that her Mikey-poo is in an actual, adult relationship."

A pause, now, filled with the sound of Mycroft's breathing and papers rustling. There's the tap tap tap of high heels on the floor, coming close and then retreating, followed by the soft squeak and thump of a door closing. Sherlock hopes his assistant got to hear him being outwitted by a seventeen year old Mycroft likes to refer to as dull. "Well played," the government official congratulates.

"Thank you," Sherlock civilly accepts. "Do change the score to reflect."

"Yes, of course. Now, here is the file on your Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper: born February 22nd, 1979 –"

"You'd already called for it," Sherlock accuses, indignation heating his blood. "Are you having me followed again?"

"I got to add some very racy surveillance photos to both your files; your team though the two of you might shag right in that dirty alley. Seemed a bit put out they hadn't got more of a show, to be honest."

"It's Erasmus. You've got Erasmus keeping bloody watch on me!"

"After that stunt you pulled last month –"

"Oh, now you're just jealous –"

"Sherlock, you nearly started a war!"

"Jealous, as I said!"

"I thought time was of the essence, brother dear?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock sniffs, shooting an annoyed glower at the ceiling. If he doesn't let Mycroft have the last word he'll never get the required information.

"Glad to see you've made your mind up. Alright then… her parents are Edward and Helen Hooper, nee Flannigan, married on June 14th, 1975 in Our Lady Grace and St Edward's, and they immediately set up house in Chiswick in a home partially purchased by Thorton and Viola Hooper, Edward's grandparents. They've maintained this house ever since – the Hooper family has done their best purchase up close to a block of residential area, it looks like most of the extended family all live there together – scared yet?"

A bit. "The rest?" he bites off, irritated beyond words.

"Mary Katherine – who goes by Molly – is an old child. Her father is an unmated Alpha and her mother is mundane, unsurprising given the relative uncommonness of Omegas and Betas, especially in their generation. Though the Hooper family seems to have a higher than usual Bonding rate. Hmm… she attended St. Mary's Primary and now attends Sacred Heart High School, with an academic record that is rather above average, and has expressed interest in perusing higher education in the fields of medicine or science. Her father Edward works for Fuller's Brewery in the advertising department while her mother is a homemaker. In 1988 there was an unfortunate accident involving the Edward Hooper family: driving back after spending New Years with the Flannigan family, they were struck by a vehicle operated by one Jason Smith, who fell asleep behind the wheel and drifted into the oncoming lane. Young Molly suffered several broken bones which required surgery to her left hip and femur, her father's back was broken, and her mother suffered severe trauma to the brain after being thrown through the windscreen. Edward Thorton Hooper Junior, aged five years, was killed instantly, resulting in a law suit against the maker of his safety seat which failed upon impact."

An idea begins to form, and Sherlock dislikes the outline it takes. "Address?" he demands, committing it to memory as soon as it's spoken.

"Don't forget – you owe me." There's an impossible amount of smugness in those words. Sherlock's answer is to hang up, mashing the end button a few more times than necessary as he springs from the chair beside his window. He's quick and light footed as he makes his way downstairs, hoping to leave without catching his mother's attention.

Unfortunately, his father is leaning against the front door. There's dirt on his trousers and hands, clear signs of work being done in the garden. He's cleaning the out from his thumbnail with the blade of his pocket knife. "Going somewhere?" he inquires without looking up.

"Out," Sherlock answers sharply, belatedly realizing this answer provides only enough to make his father dig harder. "Back to the dorm – I've got a project to finish, and since Mum says I have to participate in my classes…" He shrugs, pulling a mask of only mild annoyance onto his face.

"And I'd thought you'd be heading out to your Molly's, after that disastrous phone call."

"Were you and Mum listening in?"

"Do you think I could have stopped her?"

That's a valid point. "She hit Molly, Dad. I heard it."

"Yes."

"She hit her!"

"Yes, son – and she made it clear that you are in no way welcome in Molly's life."

"That's not her choice to make."

"Until she's of legal age, I'm afraid it is her parent's decision."

"Last year a court ruled that in the case of an Alpha and Omega that are, or will become, Bonded, then it's their right to chose."

"Do you really want to drive a wedge between Molly and her parents?"

"If her parents are so cruel as to try and keep us apart, then there's no need for them in our lives."

With a heavy sigh, William shakes his head. There's something old and sad about him in this moment. "Our lives?" he repeats, closing the pocket it knife before it's tucked away. "Son, you're seventeen, and how old is this girl? Fifteen?"

"Sixteen in February," he grudgingly tacks on, as though that may make it better.

"You're too young to even comprehend what Bonding truly means. If it were only up to me –"

"You'd really leave my Omega in an unsafe position? The future mother of your potential grandchildren?" Guilt can do wonders, Sherlock has learned… and he does have a gift for manipulation.

His father levels a stern expression on him. "Don't try that with me; your mothers infinitely better at it and if I can resist her, I can certainly resist you. No, I won't leave her there without knowing she's going to be safe – but I think you're about to rush off and do something stupid, and I want to make sure you understand the full ramifications of your actions. If you take her away from her family, she's going to need you to be there for her. To be strong when she's weak, and to let her in your life despite your mood or tendency to shut people out – you understand? You'll have to grow up, and being selfish is no longer an option. You still want to run off?"

Taking a moment, Sherlock considers. There's something ugly and scared rising up in his chest, shouting that he needs to run as far and as fast as he possibly can. It's more than his age, it's the fact that he's a freak and he hasn't got any idea how to relate on a purely emotional level to anyone else. God knows his parents tried to teach him, but the other children in his life were so dull and slow he couldn't stand them, and he was also so busy imitating Mycroft that he never bothered to try and see why Erasmus was so infatuated with them. He almost turns this matter over to his father, who he knows will deal with Helen Hooper and make sure that Molly is well taken care of.

But then he thinks of her scent, already engrained in his memory so clearly he swears he catches a faint whiff of her. He remembers the way she'd smiled at him, how her mouth felt under his and the way her fingers curled into the fabric over his shoulders. There's something primal and fierce rising up inside him, drowning out the scared, childish voice calling for a retreat.

"I know," he finally admits, straightening his back and looking up to meet his father's gaze. "I don't know how to provide what she'll need from me, but I'll do my best. I'll learn. She needs me, Dad."

There's never been such a look of pride on William's face, at least not in Sherlock's memory. The distance between them is eaten up before one large hand rests on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing. "Take my car. And son… try not to get thrown in jail, okay? You know how it upsets your mother."

-X-

Molly wakes from a light, restless sleep to the sound of her bedroom door slowly creaking open. Lungs seize in fear she waits, trembling, beneath her heavy winter quilt. Her father hasn't bothered to check on her in the night since she was small, and she'd actually prefer a robber instead of it being her mum, who sometimes likes to wake Molly to fight over some imagined or minor infraction of the rules. Squeezing her eyes she waits, hoping whoever it is will simply leave her alone.

The floorboards creak, and a scent wafts towards her seconds after Molly's lungs, shrieking for oxygen, unlock. Bolting upright in her bed, a breathless sound of shock only half-swallowed emerges in a bare whisper. "Sherlock?" He's halfway across her room, a tall, gaunt shadow in the dim light, but she can make out his wide eyes and the finger he's holding to his mouth emphatically. She nods to show her understanding, something wild and painfully grateful building inside her chest.

Quiet as a cat burglar he advances forward, crouching down on the balls of his feet once he's at her bedside. One careful hand curls around the back of her neck in a light touch, pulling Molly down until his mouth is against her ear; he speaks so quietly that his words are more of a suggestion than something she actually hears. "Pack only what you absolutely cannot leave behind and only what's in this room." He hands Molly her glasses, which were resting on the nightstand.

The entire time it feels as though her heart is going to hammer right out of her chest, and she's shaking with adrenaline, fear, and hope. If they're caught, God, Mum will kill them – but she's so tired of this life, of being scared and hit and treated as though each breath she draws is a horrendous sin. Packing isn't an issue, as she's got a bag tucked just inside her closet, a just-in-case precaution. It's not very large so she crams it into her book bag, making sure it's completely shut before she shrugs it across her body. One nod to Sherlock is all it takes for his hand to find her own and then they're sneaking out of her room.

He takes her to the back staircase, and then to the garden door. Waiting for them is Pat, who appears washed out and ghostly in the moonlight. He shoos them on with two flapping hands, and Molly catches the scent of oil as they pass – he must have oiled the garden gate to keep it from shrieking obnoxiously when he and Sherlock entered. It leads to the alley between their house and the next, where cars park off the road and they leave their bikes leaning against the fence. To Molly their footfalls sound like echoing drumbeats, and her breathing seems to be amplified over dozens of speakers. A dog is barking a street over, and she almost trips when it beings, looking behind her in a desperate sort of fear.

Where the lane intersects the main road, they stop. Molly bends, hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. "Are you crazy?" she gasps, pressing a hand over her chest. "If my mother caught you, she'd have you thrown in jail or –"

"She didn't," Sherlock cuts her off. Carefully he takes her arm, pulling until she's upright. Two fingers press under her chin, pushing her face up until the streetlight displays the swelling of her face. Bruises are already filling in, black and blue and purple, and the larger one is very clearly in the shape of a hand. Ashamed Molly closes her eyes, and so she does not see the spasm of rage that crosses over Sherlock's face. "How long has this been going on?"

"I-it's not her fault, really – I know everyone says that, but there was an accident, and –"

"Years," Pat answers flatly. "She restrains herself all the time, so the accident isn't an excuse, Molls. If she couldn't stop it she'd beat you bloody every time you did something 'wrong' in public; instead she waits until you're back home. Don't make excuses for her."

"But –"

"Stop," Sherlock orders with a cold fury. "Don't apologize for or excuse her ever again, Molly Hooper."

Looking over his shoulder worriedly, Pat speaks. "You'd better go. I'll cover for you best I can. Better not come to school tomorrow, okay? Give it a few days."

"I'm not missing –"

"I'll pick up your work, okay? Seriously, just this one time, play hooky."

Throat too tight to speak, Molly nods in answer. There are no hugs and kisses or I-love-you's shared between the cousins, just a look that speaks more than words and a short grasping of their hands. Then Pat is jogging back to his house and Sherlock has an arm looped around Molly's shoulders, guiding her towards a parked car. She'd always imagined running away would make her feel powerful and free, but her abused face throbs agonizingly in time with her heartbeat, and she's so overcome with fearful nerves she has to pull away from Sherlock to get sick in nearby shrubbery. He doesn't seem appalled or even slightly phased by witnessing her vomiting; instead he hands her a stick of gum before urging her on.

For a moment, she almost turns and runs home. She's petrified, overwhelmed with anxiety. Mum is going to murder her, literally murder her for doing this. But then Sherlock puts his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the passenger side of the sedan, and somehow her jitters become less overpowering. Whatever happens, she's not in this alone.

She begins crying as soon as they pull away from the curb, and for the first time it's not out of fear or self-loathing, but hatred… hatred directed for firmly at her parents, who never should have put in the position to have to run away in the middle of the night with a boy she's not even known an entire day. She's furious for all the years of her mother's abuse and her father's negligence, his willingness to make excuses and turn a blind eye to the escalation of his wife's cruelty. Most she's hideously angry that her mother has twisted her until she's guilty for leaving, ashamed for abandoning the woman that has tortured her for the past six years – no, not abandoning. Escaping. Fleeing.

In a dimly lit parking garage outside Sherlock's university, he takes her hand but stares firmly out the window. "What do you need?" he quietly asks.

"You," she answers with an artless honesty, too raw to search for a less pleading admission. "Don't leave me… please."

He nods and smiles a little, and everything seems much more hopeful and brighter than it did just seconds before.