Hello there! Ge wiz it's been a while. I'm sorry for that. I kind of fell out of love with the story, but I just reread it and I know what I want to do. For everyone still with me, thanks a bunch. I'll try my best to not disappoint.

Notes: This takes place in the present day of 2016. The lapse between my last update and now is exactly how long it's been for them in the story.

"They're not going to like this you know." Mycroft's grin deflated. Leave it to John to poke a hole in his plan, and here he thought that he'd support it. He would though, Mycroft could be very persuasive.

"Why wouldn't they? You said so yourself Sherlock has been more, aggravated since that day. At the very least, wouldn't you want peace?" John laughed sardonically, and Mycroft was taken back, for a moment.

"It was never much peace to begin with."

"Yes, but all the same, it was much better than this." Mycroft gestured to the empty café. Speedy's used to be hailed as the epitome of eateries on Baker St. Well, Speedy's was the only food service available for service, but nevertheless people came. Especially with the famous consulting detective housed just above, people came. The time was not a quarter past two, and the place should have been bustling with the activity of late lunchers. Weather that day was fair for February, but not a soul dared to set foot inside.

"Is he home?"

John glowered.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

John sighed heavily, as if even that action of release was pressured. Turning his head to the ceiling where he could hear the angry grating of Sherlock's violin, John reflected on the events of the past two years.

Maybe he shouldn't have texted him that night. Ever since Molly's wedding, coming to 221 had been like walking blindfolded through a minefield. Sometimes he'd be lucky, and Sherlock would be relaxing as well as he could, complacent or charged with excitement from a case. On other instances, John didn't have to go further than the base of the stairs to be able to hear his friend's frustrations taken out on the flat. Sometimes he would go up and try to reason with him. Sherlock was being ridiculous after all, and they both knew it. However on particularly bad days, John would just leave. The first year was a nightmare of a headache to say the least. Even now with three feet of solid wood and metal between them, John could sense the familiar warning signs of a throbbing migraine about to descend. Usually, Sherlock wasn't like this. On bad days he'd be snappish and especially brutish when met with stupidity, which was a lot according to him. He had calmed down much from those first few months, but the anniversary was two days ago.

"This can't go on John."

John attempted sternness, but they both knew who was right. "I know. I know Mycroft, but he's not going to like you interfering, and what about Molly?"

"What about her?"

"How do you know that she wants a reconciliation as much as he does?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"No," John said, placing his palm flat on the table. Between the two of them his patience had worn quite thin. "Don't give me that look. What do you know?"

Mycroft sighed. "She doesn't love Tom."

"Yeah, so you've said. But how do you know that?"

"She told me."

Mycroft had to concede, he never thought he'd come into contact with Doctor Hooper again, but when her name turned up on the case file for one of Russia's agents they'd been tracking, he couldn't resist.

"Well what an unexpected surprise," he said gliding into her lab. Molly briefly glanced at him before returning to her work. She seemed almost unsurprised.

Interesting.

"I must say Dr. Hooper," he continued, "you seem rather impassive today."

"Yes," she sighed. "It's been a rather slow day, but I assume you're here for him?" She pointed to the body of "Jamie Hollerand" with a bloodied scalpel. For a few moments he watched the widening puddle forming on his abdomen before clearing his throat.

"If you wouldn't mind," he said with a smile.

"Not at all," she responded just as primly, shoving over the autopsy report and discarding her glasses.

Mycroft half paid attention to them as he read her scrawl. "And how have you been Dr. Hooper?"

"It's not Hooper anymore."

"Yes, but you didn't seem to mind that slip up earlier." He looked up when she didn't respond. At the eye contact, she gritted her teeth.

"Well Mr. Holmes," she ground out.

Mycroft nodded. "And Tom," he asked, flipping to the next page.

"Alright, I guess." The tension seemed to seep out of her. A quick glance at her distant look spelt out resignation. Something was wrong.

"You seem a bit put out," he ventured. "I trust everything at home is running smoothly?" She became stone-faced then.

"No."

Well.

Mycroft gulped, discarding the clipboard to a nearby table. "Not happy?"

Molly smirked at his discomfort, and Mycroft felt the sudden urge to leave. "No," she mused. "I'm generally happy; when I'm here at least, or anywhere else."

"You sound as though you don't love him."

"I don't."

Oh. Mycroft, leaned in, pressing his palms against the cool metal of the table. People weren't normally so open with their emotions, and maybe he had caught her at a bad time, but he had to dig deeper while he still had the moment.

"So," he thought for a moment, "why are you still with him?"

"Because it's better than the alternative."

"And who would that be?"

"You know who."

He did.

The music stopped, and so did Mycroft. It was too quiet, too dangerous to continue, and when John implored him to finish he hoped his look communicated their vulnerability. He must have apparently, because John was now studying the ceiling too, searching for any cracks that would betray them. None were obvious, but even so he didn't want to risk it. Mycroft gave a tight smile and stood to leave.

"I want to hear the rest of it, you know."

Mycroft paused and turned back to him. "Of course, but perhaps later when," he gestured to the oppressive silence, "we have more privacy."

John nodded.

"Right, but you do understand, Doctor, that this plan will be beneficial for everyone right?"

"I'm starting to, but remember who we're talking about," he said pointing to the ceiling.

"Yes, the wild card."

John snorted. "Understatement of the century."

Mycroft smiled briefly. "Well, hopefully when you finally see it as I do, you'll be able to help things run more smoothly."

John took a sip of his now cold coffee and grimaced. Pushing it to the side, he responded. "I'll try."

"Listen John, I know what both of you probably think, but I have his best in-"

"Yeah you have his best interests at hear," he smirked, and then smiled more genuinely. "I know."

Mycroft blinked, but nodded with a small smile of his own and left.

Oh boy.