(*full chapter title ...)
*It Is Just Possible That You Won't Be Welcome
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By noon on Monday, Mycroft knew Molly had gone to Edinburgh. By the end of the day, he knew where she was staying and for how long she'd booked.
He ignored the looks of anticipation that Anthea bestowed on him each time she came into his office. Whatever Anthea seemed to imagine, Mycroft was not going after Molly. She'd made herself quite clear about wanting to be alone.
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Leaving his study late Monday night, Mycroft stopped in the doorway, looking at the staircase for several moments before turning left toward the dark end of the hallway. He opened the last door and paused on the threshold before reaching to flip on a light.
The little sitting room had been his grandmother's retreat where she would read by the fire, write her correspondence at the desk, and do needlework. Mycroft remembered sitting with her for afternoon tea, the housekeeper placing a large tray before them that would always include a tempting range of sweet delights. Often his grandfather would come down the hall from the study, first standing at the door, checking his pocket watch, grumbling about the interruption to his work, before crossing the room to join them on the sofa. Grandpa would grumble some more when Grandma laughed at him, bustling about, filling their cups and loading their plates. When they'd finished, his grandfather would ruffle Mycroft's hair and tell his wife to keep the rascal from getting into more mischief.
His grandfather never entered the room again after his grandmother died.
When Mycroft inherited the house, he'd gone to his grandmother's retreat, but was overwhelmed by childhood memories and closed the door. In the years since, the room was kept tidy, but the door remained shut.
For a moment, Mycroft thought he could still smell the soft scent of his grandmother's face powder. Sentiment. He closed the door and headed upstairs.
Caring was not an advantage.
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Tuesday afternoon
Molly leaned over, bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. She let her backpack slide off her shoulder and dug around in it for a bottle of water. She tilted her head back, taking a long guzzle, eyes on the magnificent view of the Castle, backlit by bright sunlight. Perfect weather meant that not only was the entirety of Edinburgh's skyline on view – the Royal Mile, New Town, Old Town – but so was the Firth of Forth with just a turn of her head. She turned in a full circle, eyes closed, the wind whipping her hair, and laughed from the pleasure of it. She looked down the path she'd hiked up Arthur's Seat, coming up the east side from Dunsapie Loch. The climb had been as relatively easy as her B&B landlady told her it would be. She finished the water, stuck the empty bottle in the backpack, and moved farther off the path before dropping onto the grassy slope and stretching out in the late afternoon sun.
Molly lay there for about fifteen minutes, tired but completely relaxed. She could hear bits of indistinct conversations coming from different directions, and several times people called greetings to her as they passed on the trail just below. She finally sat up, stretching her arms overhead, then got up and slung the backpack over her shoulders.
By the time she returned to the B&B and got a shower, she had just enough energy to eat a light supper before returning to her room and falling across the bed. She was asleep by 9:30 p.m., pleasantly exhausted and with no time to think.
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Wednesday morning
Mycroft was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping his tea and watching Mrs. Collingwood prepare his breakfast. He thanked her as she set a plate before him, adding, "By the way, Molly won't be here this weekend."
The housekeeper turned from the sink, frowning. "That's too bad, Mr. Mycroft. She's well, I hope?"
"Just out of town," he said, face and voice expressionless.
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Thursday
Molly spent the morning wandering around the Castle, indoors and out, occasionally having to take refuge within the fortress from brief rain showers. She enjoyed the added drama and gloom those rainy periods gave to the battered stone walls, but was happy that the weather cleared by the time she was ready to leave. She headed downhill from the Castle grounds, treading carefully on damp cobblestones, dodging tourists who were on their way up the hill, and occasionally stopping to look in shop windows. She eventually chose a pub off Grassmarket Square, sitting at a table along the front windows. She spent the next hour or so watching people pass by as she ate her solitary lunch and most definitely did not think about anything or anyone in London – or if anyone in London might be thinking about her.
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Friday evening, London
As Walter drove off, Mycroft shut the front door and leaned against it for a few moments, listening to the quiet house. Sighing, he straightened, hooked his umbrella in its usual place, then took a stronger grip on his briefcase and walked down the hall to his study.
Friday night, Edinburgh
Molly turned over yet again, trying to find a comfortable spot. She reached for the extra pillow and clutched it against her breasts. Oh Mycroft.
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Saturday afternoon
Mrs. Collingwood was returning to the kitchen from the sitting room when she heard footsteps and glanced up the stairwell in time to see Mycroft step onto the first floor landing from the upper floor. He hesitated on seeing her, then came down the rest of the stairs.
In response to her curious look, he said, "I was looking at the attic. There's certainly a lot of old furniture up there."
"Should I get a cleaning crew in?"
"At some point, maybe," he said, "after I've had time to go through some things."
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Late Sunday morning
Mycroft was in the study, scanning the newspapers, when he heard the front door open. "Do come in, little brother," he called, mildly.
Sherlock came briskly through the door, full of nervous energy. "The little woman still in bed, then?"
Mycroft sat up, folded the paper very deliberately, then demanded, sharply. "What do you want, Sherlock?"
His brother stopped before the desk, staring at him, unruffled. "Oh god - what have you done to Molly now?" He sighed dramatically, perching a hip on the desk and swinging his leg. "I thought we fixed this already."
Mycroft stood. "Why are you here, Sherlock – don't you have a case" [eye roll] "to solve?"
"Molly wasn't at Bart's yesterday, and one of the lab rats said she was off for a couple of weeks," he said, grumpily. "Molly never takes her holidays. What's going on –"
"- is Molly's business, not yours." Mycroft rounded his desk and dropped into one of the wingchairs. "If that's all you wanted –"
Sherlock followed him, slumping into the other chair and crossing his legs, body angled toward his brother. "What's going on, Mycroft ... is Molly all right?"
"As far as I know," Mycroft answered airily, studying the nails of his left hand. He glanced at his brother when the silence went on too long, then sighed. "Molly went to Edinburgh. She'll be back on Friday."
"Edinburgh," Sherlock echoed. "What the hell is she doing there?"
"Sightseeing, one assumes," Mycroft snapped, irritably.
Sherlock tilted his head, studying his brother more closely. Some undercurrent of emotion passed over Mycroft's face before it returned to his usual impassive mask. Sherlock's brows lifted, then his eyes widened with undisguised amusement. "She's given you some sort of ultimatum."
Mycroft flinched and pressed his lips together into a thin line before giving Sherlock a brief withering look. "No, she hasn't," he said stonily, looking away, then let out a long breath. He was horrified to hear himself continue, "She said she loves me."
Silence again.
Mycroft glanced sideways at his brother, then dropped his eyes. Sherlock was staring at him curiously, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Oh for god's sake, Mycroft," he finally said, "That couldn't have surprised you." When Mycroft didn't answer, Sherlock sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, looking steadily at his brother. After a few more moments, Sherlock snorted. "And John thinks I'm clueless about human emotions." He sighed, dropping his head to stare at the floor. "You've seemed … content the last few months. Would it really be so bad to …"
Mycroft looked at Sherlock, incredulously. "Are you actually attempting to advise me about" [grimacing] "love?"
"It appears so" [gloomily].
"Dear lord."
They both slumped back in their chairs, wearing matching glum expressions and looking very much like the brothers they were.
Sherlock recovered first. "That was tedious."
"Ghastly."
"Never again."
"Never." Mycroft agreed, fervently. After a few moments, he sighed. "Mrs. C is making a roast. Hungry?"
"Nope." Silence. "Maybe."
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Tuesday morning, Edinburgh
Molly had planned another hike for that morning, and the weather was ideal. Instead, she'd returned to her room after breakfast and was still lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tuesday afternoon, London
"Sir?"
"We need to look at my diary."
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Mid-afternoon Wednesday
Molly came through the B&B's front door and turned into the front sitting room/reception area. She stopped abruptly, seeing that the landlady was talking to another guest. Molly started to turn away, then hesitated, staring at the duffle bag on the floor and then running her eyes up the man's jeans, over his navy jacket, and then focusing on the nape of his neck.
"Mycroft?"
He turned to her, face serious, then gave her a tentative smile. She dropped her shopping bags and met him halfway across the room. She didn't care if Mrs. McDonald was watching – and apparently neither did Mycroft since he wrapped his arms around her and straightened, lifting her off her feet.
When they pulled back to catch their breath, he whispered, "Sorry to barge in on your holiday –"
"Noodlehead," she whispered, before kissing him again.
He drew back. "Noodlehead?"
"Mmm, something I heard at lunch today. It seemed to fit." Molly gave him another quick kiss, then slid down his body when he loosened his grip. She peeked around him, blushing when she met Mrs. McDonald's eyes. "This is my …"
The landlady helped her out, eyes twinkling. "Yes, he introduced himself." She smiled kindly at them. "Would the two of you like some tea?"
Molly glanced at Mycroft, then said. "Um, that's kind of you, but I need to, um, talk to Mycroft about, um …" Mycroft, who had kept his back turned to Mrs. McDonald to spare her blushes, rolled his eyes.
"All right, dear. I'll be happy to make some for you later if you like."
"Thank you, Mrs. McDonald. We'll let you know." She poked Mycroft in the side and he quickly echoed her thanks over his shoulder before stooping to grab his duffle. Molly picked up her shopping bags and led the way up the stairs and down the hall to the door of her room.
"It's just a single," she said, looking up at him apologetically.
"And that's a problem because …?"
Molly blushed, but grinned as she let them in. Mycroft dropped his duffle, removed his jacket and toed off his shoes while Molly did the same. They stood there for a moment, looking at the bed.
"I hope the bedsprings don't squeak," he said thoughtfully, then swept her off her feet and onto the bed, causing her to squeal.
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The bedsprings didn't squeak – or not too badly – but the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the wall was unmistakable.
Molly would have been mortified if she'd been paying any attention.
Downstairs, Mrs. McDonald raised her brows, then smiled, thinking fondly about the late Mr. McDonald. She went through to the kitchen and shut the door, thankful that the few other guests were out for the afternoon.
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Much later, Molly lifted her cheek from Mycroft's sweaty chest, listening carefully. "I think my next door neighbors are back." She sighed, gave his chest a smacking kiss, then rolled over. After a few minutes, she turned her head to look at him. "Mycroft …" He opened his eyes and met her gaze. "Why did you come all this way when I'm leaving here tomorrow?"
He turned to study a tiny crack in the ceiling, an arm folded under his head. "I thought you might like company on the return journey." When Molly didn't say anything, he looked back at her. "And we don't have to leave tomorrow. Mrs. McDonald has a double room available until Friday … if you'd like to stay over an extra night."
"What about my train reservation?"
"Does that matter? I have alternative transportation ready whenever we are."
She sat up and twisted to look down at him. "But what about your work?"
He raised his free hand and slid it slowly from her nape to the dimples below her waist. "I cleared my diary."
Molly slid her feet up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and dropped her face against her forearms. Voice muffled, she asked, "Why would you do that?"
The ensuing silence felt uncomfortable, and Molly slowly tensed until she was gripping her knees with all her strength. Mycroft slid his hand back up her spine, around the side of her neck and gently tugged until she moved back over him. Once they were stretched out breast to chest, he unfolded his other arm from under his head and cupped her face in both hands.
"Because I love you."
Molly promptly forgot about the neighbors.
Mycroft, ever aware of his surroundings (and believing it appropriate for the moment anyway), made love to a tearful Molly with such deliberate and gentle thoroughness that maximum mutual satisfaction was reached ... with minimal squeaking and no thumping.