(*full chapter title ...)
*I Need You To Give This Matter Your Full Attention
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"You're Jamie."
"No, I'm Nina. You're Jamie." Molly turned back to the keyboard and raised her hands, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry, Mycroft. You don't have to act like Alan Rickman's character … you just need to play the piece."
Behind her back, Mycroft mirrored her eye roll, but picked up his bow and settled the cello more securely between his knees.
Bach. Sonata No. 3 (g minor). Adagio.
The beauty of the music being brought to life through their duet, combined with the images playing across her mind from the scene they were recreating, brought tears to Molly's eyes, and one fell when she glanced over her shoulder at Mycroft. His expression was so serious, so focused … head tilted, eyes lowered, watching his long, sinewy fingers dexterously move from string to string against the fingerboard, while his other hand drew the bow so slowly across the strings. Their deep, warm, melodic vibrations caused a quiver to run through Molly's core. Mycroft's gaze flicked to hers from under his brows, and Molly's breath caught. Her fingers broke off mid-phrase and she quickly moved to stand over him, breathing deeply, watching his strong fingers flex on the neck of the instrument as the deep sounds he drew out of it continued to tug at her internally. "Oh, god," she moaned, "that's enough for now. Please stop."
Molly held her hand out and Mycroft gave her the bow, which she put on a nearby table as he turned aside to place the cello on its stand. He turned back to her, and the next moment they were in each other's arms, his fingers playing over the bare skin of her lower back, hers clutching at the soft linen of his shirt. As Mycroft shifted them toward one of the sofas, Molly tore her lips away, panting. "Not here!" She twisted her head from side to side. "Your parents sat there."
"Dear lord – don't remind me," he muttered, breaking off from kissing her neck. He abruptly pivoted and towed Molly behind him, out of the music room and up the stairs, not pausing until they were in his bedroom. She moaned as he pressed her back against the closed door, his lips again at her throat, his warm hands sliding down her back. She hooked a knee around him, and his fingers curved under her backside, lifting and tilting her hips as his thigh pressed higher between hers. Molly gasped as Mycroft dragged his lips down her throat and rested his forehead against the skin bared by the V-neck of her jumper, breathing heavily against her breasts.
Molly's nipples tightened and she suddenly felt constricted by her bra, by her clothes. She pulled her hands from underneath Mycroft's shirt and pushed against his shoulders. "The bed!" They stumbled across the room and fell onto it, pulling and tugging at each other's clothing, then both exhaled loudly in relief as he finally thrust firmly into her.
Truly. Madly. Deeply.
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Nine weeks had passed since Mycroft was injured, and things were back to normal, or as normal as life ever got for Mycroft and Molly.
Molly stayed at Mycroft's house from Friday evening through Sunday evening. The rest of the week they were mostly out of contact other than an occasional call to confirm an arrangement or a text conversation usually initiated by Molly – and, of course, Mycroft or Anthea or some other security staff kept an electronic eye on Molly whenever she was on the go somewhere. (She had lost the initial sense of intrusion at knowing she was a focus of CCTV monitoring and instead felt cared for as she moved around the city.)
Molly wouldn't say their weekends had fallen into a rut, but a pattern had emerged. Walks in the park, weather permitting. Workouts in the gym. Hours in the music room, Molly alone on the piano or occasionally the two of them playing together. They read in companionable silence in the study, in the sitting room. They ate together in the dining room, in the kitchen. They slept together in Mycroft's big bed and sometimes fell asleep together at opposite ends of the sitting room sofa, legs tangled, when their books didn't keep their attention or when they had missed too much sleep the previous night from spending too much time not sleeping. They sometimes bathed together - more often in the shower, but occasionally returned to the tub – when getting clean wasn't the primary focus for the endeavor. They danced on those rare times when Molly could talk Mycroft into it, one way or another.
And they had sex … sleepy early-morning sex, drawn out late-night sex, playful sex, no-time-for-it-but-OK-if-it's-a-quickie sex, this-one's-just-for-you sex, frantic sex, being-petted-while-asleep-then-awoken-fully-aroused sex, cuddly afternoon sex, barely-averting-a-disastrous-slip-in-the-shower sex, let's-try-something-new sex, oh-so-gently sex, no-not-on-my-desk-well-fine-then sex.
Molly-kicked-the-lamp-and-broke-it sex – but just that once.
Lots of sex.
Their arrangement – relationship – was completely satisfactory to them both. Well, Molly thought, mostly satisfactory. She was happy when she was with Mycroft and had certainly never been so sexually satisfied in her life.
But.
Over those four days in February when Molly had waited to hear from Mycroft and feared the worst, two truths revealed themselves and those feelings had only strengthened in the following months. On the nights she stayed at her flat, Molly spent hours considering what to do about them, if anything. Was it worth risking the relationship they currently had for the possibility of having more?
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By the morning of the third Friday in April, Molly had made certain arrangements with Mike Stamford and with Mrs. Harrison. Anthea had been the only one who came close to balking at Molly's request, but she'd eventually agreed to help.
Mycroft and Molly had a wonderful weekend, including a long walk on Saturday afternoon, enjoying the unusually warm spring weather. He'd had to spend several hours working, but was able to handle it by phone and computer.
Mid-afternoon Sunday, Molly initiated a rather vigorous bout of lovemaking that left them both sweaty and wrung out. They eventually roused enough to take (separate) showers and make it downstairs in time for the substantial tea that Mrs. Collingwood was setting out in the dining room.
Molly left as usual about 6:00. An hour later, Mycroft got a call from Anthea that resulted in Walter picking him up and leaving him at a safe house some miles away.
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"Molly?" Mycroft scanned the room. "What are you doing here?"
Molly stood as he walked into the large dining room. "I'm sorry for resorting to a version of your kidnapping technique, but I needed to talk to you away from our homes and work, and Anthea agreed to help." She pulled out the chair at the head of the long table and returned to hers at the opposite end. "Please sit."
Molly was sorry to see Mycroft's face fall into the neutral mask he so rarely showed her any more. She waited as he settled into the chair and then looked at her, eyes expressionless.
"Three things: First, please do not respond to anything I say. Any questions I might ask will be rhetorical. Second, please listen. Just pay attention but try not to react immediately. Third, please let me go when I'm finished." She sighed, then continued. "Also, I've been nervous about this so if any of what I say seems rehearsed, it's because I've thought about it so much."
Molly took a deep breath. "Mycroft –" She paused to clear her throat, then began tentatively. "Mycroft, when you were injured …" She paused again, then continued more firmly. "Those days of waiting, when I knew in my core that you were in trouble but I didn't actually know any facts, were absolutely awful. That's an understatement a-a-actually." She stopped, swallowing. "I know what you think about caring, but I do – care for you … deeply. I began caring for you almost two years ago now and it's only strengthened over these last ten months. But –" [she took a deep breath, lowering her eyes to her hands, which were twisted together on the tabletop] "… but when faced with that uncertainty about what was happening, I realized just how much I –" [she cleared her throat] "… how much I love you. I love you, Mycroft Holmes. I love you and I'm not willing to hide it from you anymore."
She quickly glanced up at Mycroft, only to find him studying his own hands, which were resting, clasped, on the tabletop. "I will likely tell you that on a regular basis. If hearing me say 'I love you' is going to put you off, I need to know. But not today," she added hastily.
"So that's one thing. The other matter is more of a line of inquiry. I expect your initial, and possibly final, reaction will be a solid negative, but please hear me out and give the matter some serious thought."
Molly sat silently for a few moments, head down. She could feel Mycroft's eyes on her, but did not look up. Finally, she let out a long breath and went on. "During those long days of waiting to hear from or about you, one thought that preyed on my mind was how wrong it would be for – oh, god! I know you're going to be appalled, but remember that this is simply a request for you to consider the notion of something – it's not some sort of ultimatum."
She took another deep breath and hoped she wouldn't hyperventilate before she was through. "Mycroft, I cannot bear the idea that your bloodline will not be continued – that there won't be a mini-Mycroft coming after you. It's not that I'm broody or have always had a dream of being someone's mother. These feelings are entirely focused on you and come solely from my desire for you. If you were agreeable, I would really love to have your baby. Our baby. Sometime. But it would have to be something you wanted. There will not be an accidental pregnancy to force the issue." Molly glanced up at him and observed, in a brisker tone of voice. "By the way, if our relationship is going to continue, we should go back to using condoms all the time since the pill isn't 100% effective."
She swallowed to ease a dry throat, then continued. "Mycroft, I have assumed you've never wanted a child. If that is truly the case and you do not want to consider differently, I will accept your position. I won't try to sway you after this, but know this: I would relish carrying part of you inside of me for those nine months and experiencing everything good and bad that goes with pregnancy. I would love any child of ours unconditionally and forever. I would not expect you to become a different kind of man. That would be unnecessary anyway because I think you'd be a good father exactly the way you are. A child doesn't have to have a sentimental, touchy-feely, full-time, hands-on father to know he or she is loved."
She thought for a few moments, trying to remember what other points she had wanted to make. "Your life wouldn't have to change that much. It could simply be that, instead of just having Toby following you around on the weekends, there'd be a little human wanting to sit on your lap and be scratched behind the ear." [She laughed, but stopped abruptly and sighed.] "There'd obviously have to be some adjustments on the weekends, but the child would be with me the rest of the time and my happy responsibility."
"Well." Molly stood. "I wish I were more eloquent, but you get the gist." Mycroft watched as she came around the table and stopped beside him, then tensed when she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I'm leaving now. If this hasn't affected your willingness to continue our relationship, I'll see you the Friday after next. I'm going out of town for two weeks, but my phone will be on. If you really need to get in touch, please don't call me. Send a text."
He took a breath and started to stand. Molly put a staying hand on his shoulder. "Wait until I'm gone." Mycroft stood anyway and took her hand. She looked up at him, tugging on it. "Let me go, Mycroft. Please."
He hesitated, then stepped back. Molly turned away, grabbed her handbag and left. Once on the pavement, she hailed a taxi, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the front door was still closed. Back at her flat, she delivered Toby, along with a supply of his food and a few of his favorite toys, to Mrs. Harrison. She walked around the flat, making sure everything was turned off that needed to be, then picked up her suitcase and left. A taxi dropped her at Euston Station, where she was taking the Caledonian Sleeper to Edinburgh. Once she was allowed to board, she made her way to her berth, sat on the lower bed, and finally took a deep breath, wiping her eyes.
Oh, Mycroft.