WARNING: One paragraph in this chapter mentions the torture and death of children (and the death of an adult). If you'd like to skip that, the paragraph begins, "Mycroft already knew the basic facts ..."

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Just after lunch on a Thursday in mid-November, Anthea came through the door to Mycroft's office without any warning, an act sufficiently rare to cause Mycroft at least a modicum of concern. He turned to her immediately, though his face bore its customary neutral expression.

She stopped before his desk, phone gripped tightly between her fingers. "Sir, I think you should go to St. Bartholomew's." Mycroft raised his brows inquiringly. "I believe Dr. Hooper … needs you, sir."

He held his hand out, and Anthea waited while he checked the CCTV images. She knew exactly how long the clip was and that Mycroft kept his eyes lowered to the phone for at least five seconds more than was required. He handed the phone to her as he stood, then straightened his jacket and strode around the desk. He paused when he came abreast of her, and Anthea quickly said, "I have this, sir."

"Thank you, my dear," he replied calmly and was gone.

Anthea turned to go back to her office but stopped abruptly, shocked at the sight of Mycroft's umbrella hanging in its usual place.

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Molly was still sitting on the morgue floor, hands grasping her shins, head on her knees. She knew she needed to get up before someone came in, but seemed to have no strength in her legs.

Greg Lestrade had been the first official to arrive and the last to leave, waiting until she completed the third post mortem. He'd sent a utility cart crashing against the wall when Molly opened the first body bag, but had regained control of his emotions and provided a silent source of support. Others had come and gone, but hospital security, keeping watch outside the door, turned most of them away.

Greg had finally left with copies of Molly's reports half an hour ago, briefly clutching her to him, before slamming through the morgue doors. She followed to watch through the window until he reached the next set of doors. Turning around, she looked toward the cooling drawers across the room and backed into the corner, sliding down the wall to the floor. She decided it was as good a place as any to stay for a while, so slid her feet up, wrapped her arms around her legs, and dropped her face to her knees.

Molly occasionally heard footsteps in the corridor but no one came in. If anyone glanced through the window, they wouldn't have seen her where she sat, nor would they be surprised not to see her. Mike had insisted that Molly leave as soon as the reports were completed. A thud on the outside wall startled her out of a light doze, and she glanced around, not sure where she was for a moment. Her eyes were drawn across the room, and she lowered her head again and tightened her grip on her shins.

Ten minutes later, Molly heard more footsteps coming down the corridor, but this time they stopped outside the morgue doors. She braced herself as one of the doors was slowly pushed open. When no one spoke, she turned her face enough to peek over her arm and saw the toe of a shiny black brogue, then turned a little farther until she saw a familiar gray pinstripe. Her breathing hitched when she heard the lock click and she whispered, "Mycroft," as she reached out to grasp his trouser leg between her fingers. She stared at him, face pale with shock, as he dropped to his knees beside her. "What are you doing," she asked frantically, grabbing at his arms and trying to shove him up again. "Your suit!"

Mycroft just looked at Molly, soberly, then turned to sit beside her, long legs stretched out before him. The next thing she knew, he'd slipped his left arm around her back, his right under her knees, and swung her onto his lap. She stared at him, dry-eyed, but on seeing the warmth in his, a sob burst from her and she burrowed her face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

Mycroft shifted his arms to circle her back, rested his head against hers, and closed his eyes, waiting while Molly continued to cry, quietly. She eventually began talking, choking out a few awful words, then crying, then more terrible words. He understood very little of what she said, but didn't question her. He simply held her, occasionally running a hand over her head.

Mycroft already knew the basic facts and what Molly had been called upon to do - perform post mortems on the bodies of two brothers, aged 5 and 3, and their infant sister who'd been kept in a padlocked room and tortured over a long period. Their bodies had been found the previous night after a neighbor called the police to report what looked like bloody handprints smeared on the front window of the family's home. Upon breaking in, police found a man near the point of death, bleeding from multiple, apparently self-inflicted wounds, and lying beside the body of a woman, who'd been beheaded. The bodies of the children were found in a room in the basement, a loose padlock on the door. Whether the man and dead woman were the parents of any or all of the children was as yet unknown. News stations had been airing interviews all morning with neighbors who said they'd known nothing about any children living in the home. The man, if he lived, would be charged, but the public finger-pointing had already started by politicians, child welfare services, and the like.

Molly had been scheduled to be off work both Thursday and Friday, and they'd made plans for her to come over that night and stay through the weekend. While on the way to Bart's, Mycroft learned she'd been called in at 5:45 a.m. after the on-duty pathologist suffered an appendix attack just before the bodies arrived at 5:30. There were other pathologists on staff, but Molly was always first choice for such sensitive cases - not only for her technical expertise, but because of her manner of dealing with family members and various officials who had jurisdiction over the case.

When Molly had been quiet for a while, Mycroft loosened his hold, cupped her face and pressed his lips to her forehead. She opened her eyes – those beautiful brown eyes that had tears pooling along their lower lashes. One fell to her cheek and he caught it with his thumb.

"Mycroft, how did you know?" She shook her head slightly. "No, why did you come?"

"I thought you could use a lift home."

Molly smiled tremulously, then pulled out his pocket square, dried her eyes, and rubbed it over her nose and mouth, before putting it in her own pocket. She then slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. He cupped her face more firmly and moved his mouth gently over hers before pulling back. "Are you ready to get up?"

At her nod, Mycroft set her back on the floor, then stood, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her to rest against him. She pushed away before a minute had passed. "I'm all right." Her eyes slid toward the cooling drawers and Mycroft stepped in front of her, blocking the view. He unlocked the morgue door, drew her arm through his, and stepped into the corridor. When he looked at her, brows raised, she pointed toward the locker room.

While Mycroft was waiting for her, Mike Stamford came swiftly down the corridor, looking distressed, his forehead sweaty. "I just heard that Molly is still here." Mycroft flicked his fingers toward the closed door. "Is she OK?"

"She will be," he said evenly.

"Should I …?" pointing toward the door.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "No."

Mike hesitated, turned away, then stopped again. "Tell her she's off the schedule until Tuesday morning." He walked on when Mycroft didn't reply.

After he'd gone, Mycroft exhaled through his nose, releasing tension. He wanted to flay someone for Molly having been left alone in the morgue, and Mike would have been an easy target. But he was also generally a good guy and treated Molly with respect and care.

Molly came out of the locker room, flushed from a hot shower and the speed at which she'd dressed. "I'm sorry that took so long." Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. He followed her down the long corridor and finally out onto the street, where Walter was standing by the car. Molly looked at Mycroft wide-eyed. "Surely Walter hasn't been here the entire time?"

"No, he just arrived." He put a hand on her back and moved toward the door Walter was holding open. Molly stopped abruptly and ran her eyes over Mycroft.

"Mycroft, where is your umbrella?"

For a moment, his mind actually went blank. "At the office." Molly stared at him, astonished, then followed him into the car, where they found the umbrella – and coat - that Anthea had sent to him.

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Mycroft slid his phone back in his jacket pocket when Molly asked where they were going. "I thought you'd be ready for some of Mrs. C's tea."

"Don't you have to go back to work?"

"Not right now."

Molly sighed. "Tea does sound good." She leaned her head back and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, Mycroft saw her start to slide toward the door, so quickly pulled her over to rest against his chest. While she slept, Mycroft called Anthea.

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They had tea by the fire in Mycroft's study. Molly's head was resting on the wing of the chair, and Mycroft, who'd been keeping an eye on her, quickly leaned forward take the cup out of her hand as she nodded off again. He refilled his own cup and took it with him to the desk. An hour later, he closed his laptop and moved to stand over Molly. He touched her shoulder and gently ran his hand down her arm. She opened her eyes, looking confused, then sat up abruptly and rubbed her neck.

"Don't get up yet." He sat on the arm of her chair and massaged her upper back and shoulders. She sighed as the tight muscles loosened. "Some time in the tub should finish the job."

"Hmmm … thank you, Mycroft." She flinched when something brushed against her leg, then laughed when Toby leapt onto her lap. "How did you get here?" She kissed his nose and tucked him against her neck, then looked up at Mycroft with tear-bright eyes. "How did Toby get here?"

"Mrs. Harrison got him from your flat and put him in the carrier for Walter to pick up."

Molly was comforted by Toby's continuous purr as she rubbed her chin over his head. "I'll have to thank them." Her gaze returned to his. "But I know it was your idea, so thank you."

"You're welcome, my dear." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Mike Stamford said you're off the schedule until Tuesday morning. Would you like to stay and leave for work from here?"

Toby meowed in protest when Molly suddenly clutched him a bit too closely, hiding her face against him for a few moments. "That's … kind of you, Mycroft, but Toby and I should probably go home on Sunday as usual. I'll be all right on my own, and there are things I need to do at the flat." She then wrinkled her nose at him. "Plus, we're already going to be here an extra day, and I don't want to wear out our welcome!"

Mycroft stood and gave her a brief smile. "How about that bath?"

He followed Molly upstairs to the bedroom they'd started treating as hers. She hadn't slept there, but had asked if she could keep using it. "Besides," she'd said, dryly, "I believe having separate bathrooms, whenever possible, makes for a much happier relationship."

Mycroft opened the door to let Molly pass through, but she stopped on seeing her weekend bag on the bed. Turning back to him, "Mrs. Harrison and Walter?"

"I assumed you'd have packed the bag last night, so it was easy enough for Mrs. Harrison to locate."

She put Toby on the bed, then walked back to Mycroft. "Thank you," she said, sliding her arms around his waist. "You thought of everything." She tilted her head back and he kissed her lightly before stepping away.

"I'll see you later."

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Mycroft intended to take his shower, but instead detoured to the kitchen where Mrs. Collingwood was in the process of preparing dinner. He sat on a stool at the island and picked up a spoon, which he began turning between his fingers.

"How is Miss Molly?"

He sighed. "She seems to be doing all right, but –"

"But?"

"I have no experience in dealing with …." He shrugged a shoulder, while continuing to twiddle with the spoon.

Mrs. Collingwood came around the island, patted him on the arm, then continued to the refrigerator. She opened the door, then looked back at him over her shoulder. "You're better at dealing with people than you think, Mr. Mycroft."

He sat quietly for a while, watching her move around the kitchen, then start to work on a salad. "This case will likely lead the news all weekend." He said, tonelessly. "I have to go to the office in a little while and will obviously be gone again tomorrow."

She set down the tomato she was slicing, then the knife, and looked at him until he met her gaze. "Don't worry about anything here. I'll watch out for Miss Molly."

She saw some emotion pass over his face before he lowered his eyes and focused on placing the spoon back on the worktop just so. He stood and tugged his waistcoat straight, then rounded the island and stopped beside her. "So, what am I missing tonight?"

"Nothing special – just a shepherd's pie," she said, glancing up at him. "Comfort food, you know?"

"Your shepherd's pie is always special." He pressed a hand on her shoulder, saying, "Thanks, Mrs. C," then left the room.

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After finishing her bath and dressing, Molly went to Mycroft's room, shutting the door quickly to keep Toby out. She heard a noise from the dressing room and found Mycroft there, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, and in the process of selecting a suit. Molly stared at his bare back and watched the muscles in shoulder and arm flex as he reached for a hanger. She leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed tightly against her, trying to breathe normally. "Are you going back to the office now?"

Mycroft turned and looked at her for a few moments, then hung the suit back on the rack, before walking across to her. "If you need me to stay awhile longer –"

"No, no – go on, get ready." She took his arm, turned him around, then put her palms on his back like she was going to shove him. Instead, she slid her hands around him in a tight hug. "Thank you for everything you've done for me today." She pressed a quick kiss on the smooth skin between his shoulder blades [oh god] and quickly backed away and headed for the door. After opening it, she glanced back, saw Mycroft was watching her, so gave him a wide smile before hurrying down the hall. And away from temptation.

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Molly was sitting at the kitchen island, watching Mrs. Collingwood finish dinner preparations, when Mycroft came to the door. She went to meet him, then waited while he said good night to the housekeeper. She followed him to the study, watching from the doorway as he gathered some files and put them in his briefcase. He clicked it shut, then rounded the desk, stopping just inside the door, facing her.

"I'll see you later, then," he said, tucking some hair behind her ear. "Or tomorrow if you're asleep when I return."

"Wake me up," she whispered against his lips as he took her in his arms.

Molly watched the gate close behind the car, then shut the front door and leaned against it. She wondered if it was her imagination that Mycroft had been reluctant to leave. He'd lingered over their goodbye kiss, and she'd responded, but had tried not to delay his departure any further. She didn't want to give him any cause to think her an impediment to doing his job. She wondered, though, if she'd made a mistake in refusing to stay until Tuesday.

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Molly twisted fitfully in her sleep as Mycroft climbed into bed and slid across the sheets. He carefully slipped an arm under her, pulled her against his chest, and rolled onto his back. She mumbled his name, then rested her chin on his chest and opened slightly pink-rimmed eyes. "Hello."

"Hello," he replied, in the same mild tone, despite noticing the tear tracks. A nightmare, he assumed, correctly.

She smiled slowly, then cupped her hands over his shoulders and slid herself up his body until her face was above his. "I'm awake."

"Hmmm, so you are." Mycroft pursed his lips, thoughtfully. He slid his hands through her loose hair, pulled her mouth to his, and made love to her as slowly and gently as he knew how.

When they eventually fell asleep, still wrapped around each other, Molly's face was again tear-streaked, but her tears weren't from sorrow.