Molly hadn't heard from Mycroft for two weeks. The lack of further communication was not necessarily significant as they generally saw each other no more than twice a month and they usually didn't talk on the phone other than to set up their next meeting.

But it felt significant.

#####

The last week of June saw it shaping up to be a record-setting month at Bart's morgue as London's murder rate rose along with the temperatures.

Despite the increase in body count, Greg Lestrade's overall case load was actually more manageable than usual since most were open-and-shut cases. Greg's work was therefore far less headache-inducing as well since the crimes weren't deemed worthy of the involvement of a certain Consulting Detective. Greg's occasional visits to the morgue to discuss Molly's findings were short on business and more about friends catching up.

A bored Sherlock, on the other hand, called on Molly's assistance more and more in the pursuit and monitoring of his various experiments. As ever, she found his work stimulating and enjoyed contributing what she could to the results, but meeting his growing demands while keeping up with her own increased work load was proving to be exhausting.

Molly would fall into bed almost as soon as she got home, but found her sleep disturbed by fanciful thoughts about Mycroft.

#####

Anthea shut down her computer and checked her watch. 8:30 … not bad. She placed her handbag on the desk, then tapped on Mycroft's door and stuck her head in. "I'm leaving, sir." Frowning, Anthea stepped through and walked slowly to his desk. "Sir?"

Mycroft, who had been leaning back in his chair, chin resting against his steepled fingers, eyes closed, abruptly sat up at her questioning tone and turned a blank stare on her, his face completely unreadable. "Good night, my dear."

Her gaze dropped to his fingers, which were fiddling with his pen. His hand immediately stilled. When she raised her eyes back to his, he arched a brow. Anthea unexpectedly felt awkward – a rare emotion for her, if not unprecedented – so she quickly returned his "good night" and left.

As the door closed behind her, Mycroft picked up his pen, fingers turning it in circles for several seconds, then he let out a long breath and tossed the pen on his desk.

This simply will not do.

#####

Molly was washing dishes and talking to Toby, who ignored her in favor of the more interesting pastime of licking his stomach. She jumped, startled, when three light taps rang out on the door. She glanced at the clock while drying her hands, then walked out of the kitchen wondering what Mycroft was doing there at 9:30. Before opening the door, she looked down at her bare feet, kitten pajama bottoms (black and pink, her favorite), and the black cropped T-shirt that left a strip of waist bare. She hiked her pajamas up to cover her stomach, flipped her hair over her shoulders, shrugged (he'd certainly seen worse) and opened the door.

Smiling, "Good evening, Mycroft."

"Good evening, my dear." His lips quirked as he ran his eyes over her. "My apologies for turning up without notice."

Molly watched him walk past, swinging his umbrella before hanging it on the coat rack. "It's fine. I was just washing up." She ran her eyes down his dark blue, pin-striped suit, then back up, pausing to appreciate his silvery blue tie. She raised her eyes further and flushed when she found him watching her. "Would you like some tea? A glass of wine?"

"Tea would be good. Thank you, Molly."

She led the way to the kitchen and heard Mycroft settle himself at the table behind her. She filled the kettle, flipped the switch, then took a seat across from him. His hands had been splayed flat on the table, but now he intertwined his fingers, raised his clasped hands, and rested his chin on them. He didn't say anything, just studied her calmly. "What is it, Mycroft?" Molly leaned over the table, an anxious expression on her face. "Are you all right?" Her eyes widened. "Is Sherlock all right?"

"I'm fine, my dear." He sighed and dropped his hands to the table. "And as far as I know, so is my little brother."

Molly got up to make the tea, but glanced back at Mycroft, finding him staring at her with a strange expression that faded to his usual neutrality as she met his gaze. She left the tea to brew for a few minutes and returned to the table. Suddenly, she understood. "I knew this would happen." She rubbed a hand over her face. "Would it make any difference to you if I promised never to act so silly again?"

Mycroft snorted, then smiled. "I don't think deductions are your strong point, Molly."

"If you're not here to … [air quotes] 'break up with me,' then what is it?" As she spoke, Molly returned to the kitchen, finished making the tea, and added crockery, cutlery, a plate of biscuits and other items to the large tea tray. Mycroft cleared his throat and stood as Molly finished, intending to take the tray from her.

"After giving the matter some considerable thought," he paused as she turned toward him, "I wondered if you would be interested in sharing those benefits you described with me – MOLLY!"

He shot forward as Molly gasped and lost control of the tray. Everything on it slid off and crashed to the floor, leaving cutlery, broken shards and hot tea all around her. Toby shot out of the room and leapt to the top of the bookcase, while Molly stared incredulously at her kitchen floor. Without hesitating, Mycroft simply picked Molly up, carried her around the table and set her down under the kitchen archway. He then stooped to pick up the tea pot, which somehow survived in one piece (though its lid had come off), and set it on the worktop.

"Oh my god," Molly whispered, staring wide-eyed at Mycroft.

He wasn't sure if she was reacting to the mess or to his question, but, on balance, figured the latter was probable. "Where do you keep your broom and dustpan?" Molly pointed toward a cupboard. She finally came out of her daze and stepped forward to pick up some cutlery, but Mycroft blocked her with an outstretched arm. "Stay back, Molly. You'll cut your feet." He put the cutlery in the sink, dropped the larger pieces of crockery in the dustbin, then started sweeping.

When Molly returned from putting her shoes on, most of the mess was swept into a central pile. Mycroft hadn't even removed his jacket. "Give me that." She grabbed hold of the broom, but he didn't let go. "You shouldn't be cleaning up my mess. Please, Mycroft. Let me finish this." She pointed toward the sitting room. "Go sit."

He looked at her a moment longer, then released the broom, straightened his jacket, and walked to the sofa. Toby was sitting on a chair, but jumped down and leapt onto the sofa beside Mycroft, who frowned down at him.

Molly finished cleaning up as quickly as possible, then went to the archway. "Do you want to try for tea again?"

"Let's leave it for now, Molly. Come sit."

Molly stood on one foot, then the other, fingers twisting together in front of her. Her fingers touched bare skin and she flushed, pulling her pajama bottoms higher.

Mycroft beckoned her with a hand. "Come and sit."

She finally crossed the room, kicked off her shoes and sank into the chair across from him, propping a foot on the coffee table that separated them. She avoided looking right at him.

"Molly –"

"I did hear you, Mycroft." She met his eyes, blushing. She clapped her hands over her face and breathed heavily, completely humiliated. She finally lowered her hands and found Mycroft looking at her curiously. He lifted a brow, and she felt her blush return. "Oh my god."

"Not quite." He smirked, which made her giggle nervously.

"Mycroft –" She took a deep breath. "Mycroft, I am so embarrassed about what I said last time."

"You mean you don't actually want a –" [smirking] "beneficial friend?"

"Of course I do!" She snapped, then shot up, exhaling loudly. "This is mad! You don't want all this -" [indicating her body with a flourish, then waving her hand toward the kitchen] "this mess, this, this silliness – this MESS! And, yes, I know I'm repeating myself!"

Molly ran her hands through her hair, grabbed fists of it and pulled, at the same time groaning in frustration, eyes squeezed shut. She stood there breathing noisily for several moments. She heard a strange noise from Mycroft and looked at him suspiciously, only to find him regarding her quizzically, eyebrows raised. She let go of her hair, tried to smooth it back in place, and dropped her hands. She took another deep breath, then slumped back into her chair. Lifting her gaze to his, she tried again.

"Mycroft, I am truly sorry to have acted like the silly, emotionally unstable … goldfish … you must have thought me when we first met." [Mycroft huffed in annoyance.] "Yep … Sherlock told me your views on goldfish quite some time ago." Mycroft's expression became closed off. "Don't look like that. I understood – I understand – and am sorry to have proved myself to be as unreliably ordinary as everyone else."

As Mycroft stared at her, some undercurrent of emotion flashed across his face. For a moment, Molly saw something intense in his eyes, then it was gone. He looked down, a crease between his brows as he examined the fingernails on his left hand. Mycroft dropped his hand on the chair arm, looked at Molly impassively, then said, in an even tone, "Regrettably, my brother is a bit of a blabbermouth." He smirked when Molly giggled at his use of such an un-Mycroft term. "You, my dear Molly, are definitely not a goldfish."

He suddenly stood and walked to Molly's bookcase. He paused there a few moments, then walked back to loom over her. Molly looked up at him in astonishment. Finally, Mycroft sat again and looked at her thoughtfully. "So," he said in a tone of bored indifference," the entire conversation was a joke?" Then, his tone sharpening, "Or is it only the idea of me in that role that you find a joke?"

Molly gasped, then without thinking about it, jumped up to stand in front of him, fists clenched. He stood up as well, crowding her, and she instinctively brought her right foot back and then kicked him in the shin. Mycroft dropped into his chair, leaning forward to rub his shin, glaring at her. After a minute of taut silence, he slumped back and let out a long breath. Molly continued to glower at him.

"This is ridiculous, Molly," he said evenly, "and I have very little patience for this kind of childish behavior. What little patience I have is exhausted by Sherlock." He roughly rubbed a hand over his face, then gave her a wry look. "But I've willingly participated in it this time. I daresay you might even accuse me of instigating it." He pressed his fingertips together, rested his chin on them, then looked at her soberly, eyebrows raised. "What does that tell you?"

Molly sat up, then awkwardly pulled her T-shirt down and her pajama bottoms up. "I apologize for resorting to violence." Mycroft made a noise under his breath. "Obviously, you've experienced much worse, but it was still wrong of me. Besides –" [looking at him, crossly] "kicking you hurt my foot so I didn't get to enjoy it!"

They studied each other, Mycroft's expression softening in amusement and Molly's frown changing to a mischievous grin. "Actually, the pain was worth it just to see the expression on your face!" She laughed, then moved to stand by him, flicking a finger toward the chair arm. He moved his hand, and she gingerly sat down, before turning to look at him. He leaned further back, and raised one brow.

Molly twisted her fingers, nervously. "Did you mean it?"

"Yes." Simply said, with no change of expression.

"Really?"

He studied her thoughtfully for a few moments, then raised his brows, eyes widening. "If you are under the mistaken impression that I'm a virgin …" [Molly, blushing, "Of course not!"] "or - what?"

"I haven't thought about it."

Mycroft looked at her skeptically, but decided to let it go. "The very nature of my work not only requires most of my time and attention, but demands utmost discretion. Limiting any social contact to that absolutely required by my position not only suits my personal inclinations, but serves me well professionally. And, Molly, forgoing personal – intimate – relations does indeed suit my own natural disposition. However," he paused, looking closely at her, "I do have the occasional … encounter, though they're few and far between. The most recent was last year with a Greek translator during a NATO summit in Wales. It was for one evening and I never saw her again."

Molly looked away from him, wishing she could control her blush. "That is absolutely none of my business, Mycroft."

"You've told me about Tom. Fair's fair, if we're going to do this." Mycroft took Molly's hand, and she turned her face back to him. "I am not a romantic or sentimental man, as you well know. That Ice Man tag isn't unearned, my dear - I am a cold man. However," he smiled, gently. "If you choose to proceed with this, I will attempt to allow my warmer side to emerge when we are alone together."

Molly straightened her shoulders, threaded her fingers through Mycroft's, then looked straight into eyes, trying not to blush. "I'd like that, Mycroft."

He blinked a few times, expression unreadable, then gave her a level smile and made a move to get up. They both stood, and Molly watched as he flipped his pocket watch open then snapped it shut.

"I have to go, my dear, but I'll call you soon." He smiled at her, then turned toward the door. "You're off duty this weekend, are you not?"

"Yes."

Molly followed him and waited as he took his umbrella in one hand and reached for the door knob with the other. Then hesitantly, "Mycroft …."

He stopped and turned back to her. "Hmm?" She didn't say anything, just stood there biting her lower lip and staring at him, wide-eyed. "Molly?"

"Can you actually do this, Mycroft?" She blushed when he frowned, a vertical crease between his brows. "No, sorry – I don't mean can you do THAT." She rolled her eyes. "I mean, can you really bring yourself to allow me to touch you? Do you think you could … actually enjoy it?" She blushed again as she lowered her gaze to the floor. "You appear to be so untouchable."

Mycroft pursed his lips, then sighed. "Molly, this is not a conversation I ever imagined having." He raised her chin with a finger. "I assure you I never would have raised the matter if I hadn't taken into consideration all that it means." He raised his brows and quirked his lips. "Can you say the same?"

Molly spun away from him, feeling panicky, but turned back after a few seconds. She looked up at him, then dropped her eyes to stare at his watch chain. "You most likely don't want to hear this, but – " Molly took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. "I find you extremely attractive and have done so for a long time." She stopped, held her breath for a moment, then let it out in a deep sigh. She looked up at him. "Don't worry … I'm not crushing on you, but there is that silent 'wow' thing going on whenever I first see you."

Mycroft's cheeks darkened as he raised his umbrella and focused fiercely on its tip.

Molly coughed nervously. "I just can't believe you find me at all attractive in that way." She blushed again. "Obviously, some sort of attraction is required for this to work." Mycroft continued staring at his umbrella, then suddenly gave it a twirl and hooked it back on the coat rack.

"As I've told you before, my dear, you are a very attractive woman, despite your odd clothing choices." [Molly huffed as she hitched up her pajama bottoms, then remembered the kittens on them and winced.] "Yes, the attraction is – quite sufficient."

Molly stepped closer, lifted her hands, palms facing him, and paused. "May I?" Mycroft inclined his head, and Molly rested her hands against his chest, lifted up on her toes, raised her chin, and waited. As he continued to look at her, she saw a heated glint (dear lord!) come into his eyes. He lifted his right hand, slid it through her hair and around her neck, then tilted her head further back. She felt heat rise from her core and her heart rate speed up as they stared at each other in silence.

Mycroft slowly lowered his head and Molly strained higher on her toes. They tilted heads in opposite directions, warm breaths mingling, then their lips touched softly. Mycroft pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet, then dropped his gaze to her lips as his free arm slid along the now-bared skin of her waist and pulled her closer. Molly lifted herself even higher, wrapping her arms around his neck as far as she could reach and pressing her breasts more tightly against him. Mycroft tilted his head the other way, Molly followed suit, then they simply claimed each other's mouths – humming as they mapped the contour of the other's lips, sliding over slick surfaces, nibbling gently to test their firmness. As Mycroft ran his tongue lightly over Molly's lower lip, she opened her mouth and they took the exploration deeper, their breaths quickening until Molly felt light-headed and grabbed Mycroft's shoulders. They slowly separated, breathing heavily and staring wide-eyed at each other.

After a few moments, Mycroft raised a hand, tucked Molly's hair behind her ears, then gave her a warm smile that was reflected in his eyes. "So … unless a new war starts somewhere – " [lifts his brows] "Friday night?"

"Oh, um, OK," biting her lip – her softly swollen lip. (Oh my god.)

"Good night, my dear" Mycroft smiled again, then grabbed his umbrella, and went out the door.

Still feeling a bit light-headed, Molly followed him into the corridor, but let him get as far as the stairs before remembering to reply. She stumbled back into the flat, pushed the door shut with her backside, and promptly slid to a sitting position on the floor in front of it.

Dear god … I'm going to have sex with Mycroft BloodyHolmes.