A/N: Bless MizJoely for all the many things she does, chief among them putting up with my neurotic ramblings and fears regarding my writing. And, you knowing, being a kickaass writer. Thanks to everyone that leaves reviews and takes the time to follow this story. I adore you all!
Trigger warnings: discussion of abuse
Disclaimer: Sometimes I'm awed by all the shit I don't own.
The three Holmes brothers as children were, on the very best of days, precocious; the worst involved terms like sociopaths and sanitariums. The world as a whole regards genius as something best kept under glass, or safely locked away in stories other people tell. History looks at a brilliant eccentric with a sort of hopeless fondness, such as a family might possess for an odd but endearing uncle that likes to spend his leisure time in well tailored dresses and elaborate haberdashery; at least there are quite a lot of amusing stories to tell at parties, and there's a certain sort of pride in having someone genuinely different in one's life, given how so many work so terribly hard to be as normal as possible. When the unconventional behavior is in the present moment, and unapologetic for being perceived as abnormal, people tend to take a less kind view.
Erasmus considers himself to be the luckiest of the three. By virtue of being the eldest, Mycroft took on the role that might best be titled Absolute Grand Supreme Overlord of Micromanagement (as Erasmus and Sherlock made a great show of announcing every time their elder brother come into a room, often with Erasmus trumpeting a fanfare… at least until Mum 'accidently' threw his bugle in the drive and proceeded to 'accidently' drive over it). Sherlock was treated with a sort of idolatry only the baby of a family will ever receive, getting away with far more than his preceding siblings would have ever dared attempt; when a punishment was dealt out, more so as he become older and their parents fully realized the harm they were doing with their leniency, Mycroft or Erasmus would take the blame and punishment to protect the curly haired monster. Erasmus did so less and less as the years passed, but Mycroft has never able to see precisely how his own brand of indulgence is ruining little Sherlock.
Middle children have their own predispositioned psychological quirks and character flaws: the need to be different, to stand out and be noticed being the most relevant for Erasmus. He recognizes this in himself and feels it to be a perfectly acceptable characteristic, so long as it isn't allowed to consume him. It's led him to be the closest one of the three ever came to conformity when in school; to make friends, play stupid games, read fantasy novels, and buy dirty magazines and hide them under his mattress; he likes learning about people from their own words and thoughts, rather than simply deducing them and using the knowledge to keep a gap between himself and the Others; he is comfortable in nearly any social situation and can make friends with very nearly everyone he meets, which absolutely makes him the black sheep.
All of this has, in one way or another, persistently pushed him into the one continuing belief and corresponding actions, and it is this: Nicholas Brandon Mycroft Holmes is the worst influence in the world on their little brother, and if left unchecked will be his absolute ruin.
In the foyer of the Diogenes' Club, Erasmus pushes his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket while rocking back and forth on his heels. He also hums, quite loudly, the guitar riff for Smoke on the Water. It earns him looks of outrage, shock, and scolding from the elderly gentlemen enjoying their afternoon tea and finger sandwiches from the trolly. Beaming cheekily, he begins muttering the lyrics while rolling back even harder on his heels in an effort to make his boots squeak as loudly as possible on the marble floor.
Footmen in starched uniforms and booties over their shoes arrive to forcibly drag him away. He's half tempted to knock them out – it'd be so bloody easy – but they're only doing their job. Though the one on the right is rougher than he needs to be (likes causing pain, wants to cause more, won't be long 'til he does more than roughs someone up in a pub fight), the other seems incredibly apologetic about the while thing. Without ceremony he's shoved into the audience room, the one space in all the club house where members and their guests may indulge in conversation.
Waiting for him is Mycroft, who's scowling quite bitterly from the onset. "You must be out of your mind," he announces once the footmen have left them in the privacy contained by closed doors.
"Hello, Mikey."
"You can't possible be serious about any of this, can you? This will ruin him, Erasmus, utterly ruin him. I won't have it."
Dropping into a deep leather armchair, Erasmus stretches his long legs out (purposely crowding into Mycroft's space) before crossing his ankles and slouching in a way he knows drives his brother perfectly mad. "That's almost precisely what you said when Sherlock decided to go for criminal psychology and chemistry instead of microbiology or law."
"And as then, I am in the right. Molly Hooper is dangerous."
"Jesus, Mycroft, what's she going to do, be his friend? Take his precious virginity? Damn, you're right, that's bloody evil." Scathing boils up his throat and grows blisters of resentment on his tongue.
"Sherlock is meant for bigger and more important things than a skinny little girl that will force him to conform. All his potential, his brilliance, utterly wasted. He will resent her and it will end badly, surely you can see this."
"Bondmates don't 'end badly' unless someone tries to get in between them. What's wrong with Sherlock having met his literal perfect match? They'll support each other, no matter what; I've been around Molly more than you have, she's enamored with Sherlock just as he is, not an idea of what he could be." Snorting, Mycroft waves a hand in the air. "What, you don't believe me?"
"She's a fifteen year old child, Erasmas. How about when she's twenty-five, thirty-five? When her biological clock begins ticking more and more loudly, when her friends and cousins have settled down to have children and live shallow, meaningless little lives? What happens to Sherlock then?"
For a moment Erasmus holds his tongue, digging his teeth into the thick muscle to keep silent. The pain does nothing to stem his frustration, doesn't dim years of resentment, and quite without meaning to release it, he begins to speak. His words are quick and staccato, sharp and furious. "My God, Mycroft, are you truly so terrified of being alone that you'd ruin our brother's one chance of happiness so you have someone in the world as lonely as you are?"
"What utter –"
"You can lie to everyone else, Mum and Dad and even Sherlock, but you know you can't lie to me. Don't even try. Your relationship with Dave is going to end soon, you can see the signs already. You're too cold, too distant, too busy with your work and too involved with matters you can't share with him without risking CIA or Russian hit squads or someone else taking him out for knowing too much. What's worse is that he bores you – everyone bores you – and the only thing crueler than this is that you desperately want to be one of them; but you're too afraid of rejection to step outside of your cold little world to risk having a life beyond political manipulation and short lived relationships you enter only because it's dreadfully lonely to come home to an empty bed night after night. The only true comfort you have is in knowing, without a doubt, that you are not the only man in the world to feel these feelings have these thoughts, that you're not the only one that is somehow apart from the humanity spawning all around us like salmon in a stream. There's Sherlock, who's just as scared and lonely and closed off as you are, because you've spent his entire life shaping and molding him into your perfect companion. And he's too young, too blinded by a little brother's awe, to see that you do him far more harm than good." His words ring and echo off the wood and plaster and window glass, lingering even after he's finally fallen silent. Chests heaving, hands clenched, mottled with humiliation and rage and fear, two brothers stare each other down from across a divide that will never again be breached.
When Mycroft speaks, it's in such a way that his jaw never unclenches and his lips barely move. "What do you require, dear brother?"
From an inside pocket of his jacket, Erasmus produces the list he's drawn up. Carefully, without breaking Mycroft's gaze, he leans forward and passes possession of it off. "I've done what I can, but there are arrangements to be made that only you can see done."
Both of them are raw, open wounds, and there are no more words to be spoken. Erasmus knows guilt will see that the arrangements are made, as well as he knows that the eventual reprisal of his daring to speak the truths long agreed to be kept hidden will be brutal. In the end, they both do what they believe to be best for Sherlock, the little boy that remains eternally oblivious to the war being waged over his soul.
While exiting the Diogenes' Club he whistles. Loudly.
-X-
"Good morning, Molly. How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Holmes greets Molly by running a hand over her hair and pressing a light kiss to her forehead, as though she's a favored niece that's spent a lifetime coming in and out of their home. Molly's not sure what to make of it, how to react to such immediate acceptance and care from people who amount to strangers. Her smile is small, her manner awkward and hesitant as she pulls the oversized dressing gown a bit tighter around her thin frame.
"Good morning. Um, well, I'm feeling better. Groggy." She doesn't admit how her face pounds with each pulse of her heart, how it feels hot and tight; she doesn't explain that there's a dull sort of distance to sounds when they're picked up by her left ear, making everything seem rather distant and unreal. What would complaints do but worry Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? There's nothing they can do to help, and she'd rather not have another painkiller forced on her quite yet. Later, but only if the pain becomes too much, if there's no way to solider on.
"Of course you are, those pills sent you into orbit. Take a seat and I'll make you some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"
Molly shrugs and promptly winces, because it makes her head swim funnily. "However, I'm not picky. You don't have to cook for me, Mrs. Holmes, really."
"Of I course I don't," she promptly agrees, flashing a smile over her shoulder as sets a burner alight. "But I want to."
Mr. Holmes leaves the table and his game of Mahjong to fetch the compress from the freezer. He hands it over with a smile, patting her shoulder in a comforting manner before resuming his seat. "It'll help with the pain," he advises lowly enough to keep his wife from hearing. There's a knowing sort of expression in his eyes, which makes it clear that he wasn't at all fooled by her earlier she presses it to her cheek, thankful for the burst of painful-pleasure that comes with it. He returns to his game, pondering the tiles even as he resumes speaking. "Do you enjoy school, Molly?"
Her answer is immediate. "Oh yes, very much. Well, I don't like all the teachers – Sister Bertha is really…" she pauses, searching for a diplomatic term. "She doesn't really like teaching. She gets angry if we ask questions or if she thinks we're not paying attention. But I like learning. I, um, well – I guess I'm a geek." With a shrug she adverts her eyes, unable to quell a flush.
"Taking enjoyment in learning is nothing to be ashamed of," Mrs. Holmes proclaims over the sound of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet.
Soon the leading questions and timid answers morph into a conversation that continues through Molly's slow and pained devouring of her breakfast, the addition of Mrs. Holmes, and two more games of Mahjong. She tells them about her family, all her cousins and especially Pat, how there are three whole streets of Hoopers and how all they all go to the same schools and church and have a massive Sunday luncheon once a month. The topic of her parents are not skated around so much as they are determined ignored, none of the involved parties feeling now is the right time to enter such a thorny issue. Instead the conversation flows to future plans (medical school), the time off from school Molly is being forced to take off ("I really don't think I should be missing for something as minor as this," she admits, not catching the profound exchange of thoughts being shared by the married couple as she categorizes her attack and escape as minor), and Sherlock.
"He was born early," Mrs. Holmes confides, a sweet smile curling her mouth as she recalls the birth of her youngest child. "Well, you know how Sherlock is. Once he's set his mind to something there's no changing it, is there? Had him in the back of a taxi; the poor driver cried as loudly as any of us."
"Hospital had to check him in as well, as he fainted dead soon as we parked and he stepped out. 'She's had a baby!' he shouted, then collapsed. Whacked his head so hard he had to get seventeen stitches, I think it was. Poor fellow was traumatized, never saw anything like that in his rear view before." Chuckling, Mr. Holmes stares off, as though repeating the memory in the privacy of his mind.
By the time two hours have passed Molly can feel exhaustion pulling at her, and she's in more pain than she knows how to deal with. Her stitches throb, her cheekbone feels as though it's on fire, her jaw aches dully, and it feels as though someone has jabbed her in the ear with a knife. On top of this all she's shaky, a side effect of the painkillers, she's sure. Still, she's quite determined to take a hot shower and put on clean clothes. A bath would have been preferable, but Mrs. Holmes seemed worried she'd fall asleep in the bathtub – which is actually a completely valid point, Molly must admit – and there's no use in arguing.
Technically she's not supposed to get her stitches wet, but needs must when it comes to the matter of unclean hair. Unfortunately it only makes the site hurt worse, and when Molly emerges in wreathes of sweet smelling steam there's no more being strong and hoping Aspirin will dull it to acceptable levels. Instead she accepts the narcotic Mrs. Holmes hands over with a glass of water, knocking it back and wishing its effect was immediate.
In the waiting, Mrs. Holmes sits her down on an ottoman and begins brushing out Molly's long, wet hair. "I always fancied having a daughter," she admits, careful with any knots or tangles she encounters. "Not that I don't love my boys, I do; I wouldn't trade one of them for a dozen girls. Well, at least there's you now, isn't there? I'm sure we'll soon be good friends."
"I'd like that," offers Molly with an almost raw amount of honest. Soon she's heavy and drowsy, and by now her hair has been blown dry and brushed once again, and finally pulled back into a comfortable braid.
"Back to bed," Mrs. Holmes quietly orders, guiding Molly to her feet and towards the staircase. She takes the time to tuck Molly in like she's a little girl, brushing wisps of hair off her forehead and even kissing her temple before leaving the room. Molly thinks if she's wasn't drugged into a state of numbness she'd cry. Instead she passes out and dreams of her forehead against the cold glass of a car window, lolling weakly, and the sound of her mother's voice; "Look at our sweet angels, Ned, they're both asleep… aren't they precious?"
Mummy sings along with the radio and Molly falls further into the dark void of unconsciousness, unquestionably certain that there is no harm on earth that could come to her or little Eddie while their parents are near.
-X-
Sherlock feels it's an unfair tactic, but his parents bribe him into attending classes and finishing wretchedly boring schoolwork by dangling time with Molly in front of him like he's a rabbit being tempted into a garden. What's most frustrating is that he bloody well obeys and can't even blame this on Alpha instinct, because he wants to talk with her and see her smile and enjoy the calm that comes from their scents intermingling. Instinct or not instinct he'd be drawn to Molly Hooper, which shouldn't be more terrifying and less soothing than it actually is. Well, if he's fallen victim to the weakness of emotions and chemical intoxication, at least it's because of more than the urge to rut.
Instead of returning to his dorm, Sherlock leaves his final class at a brisk walk (because he refuses to run) to catch a train back home. It's a ride he normally wouldn't take during the week but if he were locked up with his parents day and night, he'd go bloody mad. Poor Molly must be desperate for some company. The commute is boring and uneventful but provides ample time to finish much of his work, scripting a fifteen page essay and saving it in his mind until he can type it up. It's a rather short walk from the station to home, fifteen minutes on a nice day, but the clouds are bruised gray and purple and open up moments after he sets out. Between the icy rain and frigid wind, Sherlock fears he's going to get frostbite and loose his extremities.
Banging in the front door seven minutes after breaking into a run, he begins shedding sopping layers. A lake begins to form around him. "Mum!" he shouts, though his voice is muffle by the unwieldy cling of his jumper, which fights to suffocate him rather than be pulled over his head and off his arms. "Towel! Several, preferably!"
After a few moments of struggle, his mum helps tug the damn thing off, allowing him to take in a glorious gasp of air. He's smacked with the scent of Molly – crisp apples and wood smoke and soft girl – as well as unfamiliar Alpha and Beta. Before he can stop it there's a snarl welling out of his throat and curling his lips off teeth – too sharp and cruel to be a 'normal' human's – but all the air is taken out of him when he sees Molly standing in front of him, his jumper dangling from her hands. It's ridiculous, it really is, but his brain is quick announce that his Omega just helped in the task of stripping him, and it has the effect of turning the outside world off. Sherlock's perception narrows to he and Molly, the pounding of his heart and the sound of her breathing, her smell and skin and the smile on her mouth.
"Uh… hi," he breathes, staring.
"Hi," she repeats, unable to suppress a wide smile.
"Disgusting," grumbles a cheerful voice, breaking the moment. Looking up, Sherlock finds Pat Hooper and an older Alpha male, Bonded by the scent of him, with the same ruddy complexion and blunt features of the younger. Undoubtedly this is Pat's father. Nose that's been broken several times and scarred knuckles, lines where tape has been removed on his fingers: a boxer, then. His age and family indicates he mostly likely doesn't travel the circuit but he still practices, mostly likely as a coach or is a manager or owner of a boxing gym. Sherlock might have been interested if every protective instinct in his Alpha male brain hadn't gone into overdrive. It takes a supreme force of will to keep from hustling Molly into another room.
"We weren't expecting you this early!" his mother appears with a basket for his wet clothes and towels over her arm, tossing one to the floor to begin soaking up the rain Sherlock brought in. "Why did you phone? Daddy would have picked you up, no sense in being out in this. Oh, Sherlock, you're going to be sick, mark my words. Go change out of the rest of those wet things – and don't leave them in the floor!"
He doesn't want to leave Molly with her uncle, a grown man that allowed a young girl to be hurt. But he also doesn't want to cause a scene, not when he sees how worried she's suddenly become. If it were anyone else he'd barrel on, deducing the uncle to rage or tears, calling him out on his horrid acts of leniency; he is not anyone else, he's Molly's blood, and she doesn't want any more fighting. So Sherlock, uncharacteristically silent, nods before draping a towel over his head and squishing to the staircase.
Everything in his room smells of his Omega, especially the bedsheets and pillows, overlaid so prettily on his own scent that as Sherlock strips, dries, and changes into warm clothes, his eyelids become heavy and he develops the urge to bury his nose in a pillow. Even better would be to bury his nose in Molly's neck, so soft and warm, to wrap her in his arms and be held in hers; to be comforted by shared body warmth, the rhythm of her breathing and heartbeat, the involuntary movements of her muscles; to fall asleep that way, tangled together, and to wake with moonlight washing away even his sharp edges and fears, making him brave enough to scatter kisses over every bit of her bruises. Maybe she would sigh or whisper his name, or no, she'd say his name on a soft exhale and push her fingers into his hair. He'd kiss her mouth and she'd sigh again, and moan, and hold him closer; like their first meeting in the alley he'd push his hand under her shirt but this time to feel her stomach, moving with each shallow breath, but there'd be no interruption. But he's not mindless, of course not, so Sherlock would ask, "Molly, may I…?" Blushing would be inevitable, of course, but she'd be flushed too so it wouldn't matter. When she nodded he'd exhale, shakily, and run his hand slowly upwards, taking care to feel the notches of her ribs under her skin, to watch her eyes and mouth and the tiny muscles that provide involuntary tells.
He imagines her not stopping him, of clenching her jaw shut to keep silent and her eyes falling shut as he palmed her breast, brushed his thumb over her nipple –
"You have to come down and be sociable," his father announces while the door to Sherlock's room bangs open. Rudely ripped from his fantasy Sherlock emits a noise of outrage that is not, despite what Mycroft and Erasmus have had to say when hearing similar noises, a squawk. He's standing in front of his wardrobe with a long sleeved shirt in his hands and heavy lounge trousers on; quickly he drops his arms so the fabric he holds covers his groin.
"Doesn't anyone in this house ever knock!?" he demands, colossally embarrassed.
"Molly does, but don't worry, we'll soon have her broken of those silly habits. I won't have manners in this house, not so long as you're living under my roof." Clearly William is attempting to goad his son, and there's a knowing – and amused – glint in his eyes that Sherlock doesn't like. "You're taking your time, aren't you?"
Sherlock sniffs, "I wasn't aware that I was on a time limit."
"Mr. Hooper would like to speak with you, and they don't have all night. Hurry up, son. And no sniffing the pillows or anything, you'll get… distracted."
Sherlock very nearly hurls a book at his father, who laughs smugly as disappears from the open doorway. Of course he has a very good idea of what Sherlock is thinking and feeling and wanting, as he's gone through the very same thing. Which is perfectly natural and expected, but thinking about his parents in the aspect of an Alpha desiring his Omega is enough to banish his erection.
He arrives downstairs fully clothed, with thick socks Auntie Etta knitted him for Christmas last year (he doesn't plan on admitting how much he loves getting her socks, and actively grumbles about it, though she always gets a hug, kiss, and thank you when out of sight of the rest of the family) on his still icy feeling feet. Molly and Pat are sitting together on the loveseat at the farthest end of the lounge, going over the homework he's brought her. His mother is serving tea, and Sherlock moves to join the adults, wanting to hear what Mr. Hooper has to say to him.
"Steve Hooper, nice to meet you, Sherlock; it's a blessing, Molly and you finding each other when you did." He stands and shakes Sherlock hand like they're equals, something Sherlock appreciates as many adults don't bother doing this with teenagers, even those whose IQ is triple their own. Once the greeting is over with, Sherlock takes a seat beside his father on the sofa.
"Kids, come here." He gestures to Molly and Pat who share a look of foreboding before setting aside schoolbooks and worksheets, choosing to stuff themselves in an arm chair. It doesn't take a genius to see that Pat is going so far as to physically brace his cousin for the conversation that's about to take place.
Mr. Hooper has a very open and expressive face; if he attempted to lie, he'd be perfectly abysmal; at this moment he's clearly torn apart by a vast array of emotions, too undiscipline to properly suppress them for later analysis. There's a weariness to him as he accepts a cup and saucer from Mrs. Holmes. The voice he uses is quiet and sad. "We need to talk, sweetheart."
Molly's answer is a nod, short but strong. There's a terrible sort of knowledge in her eyes, a resignation to accept whatever is about to come her way. Perhaps it's only Sherlock's fears influence his outlook, but it seems that if her uncle were to announce he was taking her back to her parents she would quietly pack her bag, thank his parents for their hospitality, and leave. Fortunately he thinks Pat Hooper would be an ally in fighting against any suggestion of this nature, and it's clear the sort of sway he holds on Molly; between the two of them, Sherlock thinks they could convince her to stay.
"Yesterday after the police left your parents… had a bit of row. We had to call the police back, and they arrested your mother. She was incredibly…" Mr. Hooper trails off, apparently unsure of how to describe what happened.
"Aunt Helen knocked Uncle Ned in the head with a meat tenderizer," Pat bluntly supplies. "He's in the hospital but he's going to be fine, so don't worry. By the time the police came back round that crazy bi… woman had set your bed on fire and then drove off. No, don't worry, seriously, Molls; Aunt May pulled Uncle Ned out of the house and into the garden and phoned the police, he was seriously wasn't hurt by the fire or anything."
Turned the color of sour milk, Molly's eyes have become round and glassy from both tears and horror. Sweat glistens on her face and neck, and her free hand has knotted in her borrowed dressing gown so tightly that her knuckles have become bloodless and white. "She could have killed him."
Her uncle steps in with firm reassurance. "But she didn't, love. Your dad is fine, I swear it. Cursing about hospital food as we speak, I'm sure."
"What happened to Mum?"
Father and son share a look, both appearing terribly uncomfortable with this part of the narrative.
"She came to the school," Pat admits, staring at his knees. "The police found her there."
"Why'd she go there?"
"I dunno; she was probably looking for you, that's what I figure."
"Yeah, Molls, that's a probably what –"
"Don't lie to me, Patty." With a ramrod straight spine and a narrow slash of a mouth, Molly narrows a harsh glare on her cousin. "Not you. You're the only one that never has, so don't you dare start now."
Flushing shamefully, he meets her gaze. "She was looking for me. Burst into geometry like some kind of horror movie monster, screaming about incest and sins and how I'd been perverted and damned by an – by an incubus. Father Caster slapped her with a ruler when she tried to drag me out of a chair, broke it across her head. Swear she looked him like she was going to rip his throat out with her teeth, I'd never seen anything like it before; I mean, she was crazier than that time she caught us trying to sneak you back in after going to see Rocky Horror. Cops came right after, guess Uncle Ned told him where she was planning to go, and it took both of them, Father Caster, and Sister Bertha to get her down. She kept everyone out of the hall, right, and came in and saw the police trying to hold Aunt Helen down and she was screaming and fighting and calling me demon spawn, and Father Caster was crying and praying because she'd headbutted him and he was bleeding, like, GOUTS of blood from his nose, it was super gross. So she shouted, 'Helen Louisa Flannigan!" and Aunt Helen called her a witch in a habit and so Sister said, 'God forgive us both for our sins,' and belted her so hard across the face that Aunt Helen's head, like, literally rebounded off the chalkboard and it knocked her out. The police were like, 'Uh, Sister, we really shouldn't use brute force.' Know what she said? She ruffled her habit, you know how she does, and she was like, 'Young man, even Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior will make exceptions in His divine law when it comes to the subject of Helen Hooper, poor mad soul that she is.' Then you know what? She offered to take you in if no one else had, because she thought you shouldn't stay with any of us – because, you know, it's right there and Aunt Helen could find you real easy." Finally coming to an end, Pat exhales.
"God forgive me, Pat, I'm so sorry. I never should have left, I knew she'd take it out on everyone else if I wasn't there –"
"Sweetheart, we're all thankful that you weren't there. If she'd been able to get her hands on you…" Mr. Hooper shakes his head, horror glinting in his eyes. "I knew it was bad, but I swear to you Molly, I had no idea exactly how bad it'd become. Why didn't you tell anyone? "
Sherlock snorts derisively. "Is there some level of abuse that is deemed acceptable to society that I have yet to become aware of? I took Molly to see a doctor, you know, and do you know how many times her arms have been broken? Her fingers and ribs? They had to stitch up a wound on her scalp that's at least a week old and badly irritated from not having been properly treated. So all of these things being done to her is fine but when someone from outside your family learns about it, well then, then it's gone too far."
"Molly is naturally clumsy," Mr. Hooper answers rigidly, equal parts angry and ashamed. "I've seen her trip over nothing on a flat surface."
"Oh yes, I imagine it was quite easy to allay any worries or concerns by convincing yourself that the pattern of injuries as well as your sister-in-law's known mental instability was simply a strange coincidence."
"Sherlock," his mother breathes, quiet but firm. With a sneer he sinks into the sofa, arms folding across his chest as he grits his teeth to keep silent. His father puts a hand on his knee, both restraining and understanding.
"What happened to Mum?" Molly asks, and Sherlock has the urge to toss his hands in the air and shout, 'Why does that even bloody matter? Who fucking cares where that bitch has gone, unless it's a shallow and unmarked grave?' Truly, he doesn't understand her continuing attachment to the woman.
"The police took her into a hospital; apparently after she woke up she was furious and more out of control than even before."
"She spat on Greg and bit him," says Pat. "Guess he came awfully close to strangling her. He has to get rabies shots now."
"Patrick, please."
"What? It's the truth."
"The hospital decided to keep Helen to evaluate her mental state." The words sound odd coming from Mr. Hooper, and it's obvious he's regurgitating what he's been told. "There's talk of finding somewhere that she can get help."
"An institution, you mean." It isn't a question; Molly seems quite sure of this.
"Yes, sweetheart, an institution… but you never know, with help it's entirely possible things could get a lot better. That maybe, I dunno, she'd go back to her old self."
Molly doesn't respond, to this or any other banality offered during the remainder of the visit, which goes on only a brief while longer. Dinner is subdued and quiet, and when she goes up to bed Sherlock follows, glad his parents offer up no objections – though his father does tap his watch meaningfully. Once they're behind the closed door Molly draws in a shaking breath, sitting down.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Can… would you care to… I need…" Gesturing helplessly, she looks up with tear glazed eyes. Her voice cracks as she admits, "I really need a hug."
He nearly trips with how speedily he rushes over, glad she's told him what to do. This is so far out of his element that he honestly has no clue what the proper procedure is, but proper or not, whatever Molly wants or needs is what he'll provide to the best of his abilities. Taking a seat beside her, Sherlock winds his arms around her, exhaling shakily as she leans heavily against his side. She wraps her arms around his chest and locks her hands together, hanging on to his skinny frame as though she'll destroyed by releasing him.
She doesn't cry, and while Sherlock thinks it would be an appropriate release of emotion, he's selfishly glad. He doesn't like her tears, finding that they set him on edge. Instead she simply breathes, turning her nose into his shirt as though taking in his scent. They sit like this for a long time, though Sherlock isn't sure precisely how long – not that he cares. When she tugs he follows, clambering onto his bed and curling behind her. Drawing his arms around her, Molly scoots close before threading their fingers together and resting their hands against her stomach.
Sherlock's not quite sure how long it is before he falls asleep, and he's only vaguely aware of his parents coming into the room a while later. His mother's voice is gentle as she urges, "Leave them alone, Will. She needs him after all that." More solid is the weight of his father's hand smoothing messy curls away from Sherlock's forehead, the press of his mouth against Sherlock's temple. He thinks the same treatment is given to Molly, but maybe he only dreams opening his eyes long enough to see it. A blanket is settled over them both, warm and soft, and a fire is stoked to high heat in the hearth before the door is once again shut, leaving him to fully topple back into dreams.