Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Lion and the Mouse: Texting Subtext

Sherlock found himself working his way backward as he returned to his life – a peculiar sort of breech-birth, moving in reverse, undoing his death a contact at a time. First came Mycroft, the last to see him before he'd disappeared into the anonymity of his death. Eventually he'd renew contact with John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He intended to do so in that order, from the most intimate friend to the least. Before he did, though, there was one other he had to contact first. If Mycroft was his Charon, Molly had been his midwife, birthing him into death…and making sure he'd survived to tell about it.

"You're doing it again, Sherlock."

"Doing what, dear brother?" Sherlock's face gave away nothing but cool hauteur. Of course, Mycroft wasn't handing out clues to his inner workings either: all his face showed was his usual supercilious disapproval.

"You're caring again. You know better. Why not just send them all a nice note, tell them that now that you know they're all safe you're not going to risk putting them in danger again, and have done with it? I'm told they sell perfectly serviceable cards at the chemist's, with rhymes, roses, ribbons and other good things starting with R. Buy a box, jot a few words, and end it. You can hardly say your friendships weren't liabilities – to you or to them. Being alone keeps you safe."

Hearing the echo of his own voice from months past, Sherlock shot his brother an evil glance. "Friends kept me safe. And now, brother, I'm going to renew my acquaintance with them." He flashed a slight non-smile, then, with an inflection tuned to set Mycroft's teeth on edge, said a chipper, "Ta-ta." He sloped away down the center of the vast warehouse in which the two brothers had rendezvoused. His coat skirts swept wide, like black sails.

He knew if he looked back that Mycroft would be grimacing, irked but resigned. Not that he'd give his brother the satisfaction of looking back…and not that Mycroft would expect it. Even after the help Mycroft had been to Sherlock over the past months, even after the help Sherlock had been to him, neither of the two Holmes brothers was going to give the other so much as a hint of sentimental attachment. No, Mycroft would be standing, as upright as ever, dapper in his suit, his umbrella serving as a sturdy cane, one leg crossed in deceptively casual style, the perfect image of an ice-cold, cocksure, upper-class British sphinx, his face the face of impassive mystery.

He was damned good at that. Sherlock had never been able to pull it off for more than a few hours at a time, and had settled for something slightly less highbrow, but not one whit less arrogant. He was a slightly ruffled black-maned British lion—not quite so imperturbable and mythic as Mycroft's sphinx imitation, but good enough to be going on with.

He had Mycroft's limo drop him at his hotel. He paused for a moment on entering his room, senses on alert, hyper-vigilant after months on the hunt with enemies on all sides. He took his mobile phone from his breast pocket, slipped off his coat, tossed it on the bed, then prowled the space, checking the restroom and closets, checking the line of sight from nearby buildings. He closed the curtains. Only then did he slip off his shoes and socks and let himself coil into the modest armchair that came with the room.

"Oh for God's sake," Mycroft had chuffed on seeing Sherlock's room reservations, "I assure you, you can afford a decent hotel suite!"

Sherlock had not wanted what Mycroft considered a decent hotel suite. The shabby, slightly worn single room he'd booked suited him, as the rooms at 221B Baker Street had suited him.

He looked at the mobile phone cradled in the palms of his hands, considering for the hundredth time what he wanted to say to begin this. I'm not dead. Let's go out for dinner. No, no. Maybe to John, who'd at least understand the reference—though probably not to John, either. John would think it was The Woman come back to annoy him. In any case, it wasn't the place to start with Molly, who knew he was alive, and who'd never gone out to dinner with him, or dared to hint at the possibility. Molly didn't have the brass of The Woman. Only recently had Sherlock even taken the time to consider that, instead, Molly was heart-of-gold.

In the end he settled for the same brief message he'd resolved on over and over during the months away, as he had imaged this return.

I'm back. You still count. SH

He hit send, and waited. He could so easily imagine her response – he could imagine a million responses. He had imagined them—not, he assured himself, for sentimental reasons. No. He was Sherlock, and he was just running through probabilities, evaluating various contingencies. In some she was happy, in others angry, in still others she was indifferent. He didn't have much time to review the variations, though. It was only a few seconds before the phone vibrated and her response came up.

Are you all right? Do you need anything?

Nothing. I'm fine. Just happy to… He hesitated, backspaced, then typed again, Just glad to be home with friends.

Have you told John yet?

No. He and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are next. It's a different situation. They didn't know. You did.

It was a long wait till the next text arrived, as though she'd had to try several times before she had a version she was willing to send.

Yes. Be gentle with them, Sherlock. Please? They hurt. A lot.

I know. John's likely to punch me.

They all are. Greg and Mrs. Hudson, too. You're going to be black and blue all over.

There wasn't a better way, he typed, not sure why he wanted to know she understood. He knew he did, though.

I know, she typed back. I still don't know what was going on since you left. I don't even really know everything that was going on then. But I trust you.

You kept my secret.

Yes. Always. I mean, I don't think I'm special. But so long as it wasn't torture or drugs. Of course I kept it.

Now he was the one who was slow to respond, fighting for the right thing to say. Drugs and torture were actually among the possible threats she'd faced, and he'd made sure she'd known that. She'd risked her life, her job, her reputation, and lied to people she loved and respected, for no more reason than because he'd asked her to. She'd saved his life…and he was almost certain she'd hurt as much as those who hadn't known. Maybe more. Knowledge could be a heavy burden—heavier when it had to be kept secret. Heaviest when you could see the damage done by silence. In the end he typed words that never came easily to him.

Thank you, Molly Hooper.

It's all right. No big thing. I promised I'd do what I could.

He snorted in amusement, seeing her in the room he'd built for her in his mind palace, imagining her self-deprecating attempt to undervalue her own actions. You're supposed to say, "You're welcome, Sherlock."

You're welcome, Sherlock. XD

Oh, good Lord. Please do not contaminate my phone with emoticons.

XD :P :P :P XD XD XD

I shan't text with you if you behave like that.

It won't give you cooties, Sherlock.

In his mind he could hear her laugh. Then he realized how rarely he'd heard her laugh in person…or had an exchange in which she seemed so at ease. Or in which he himself had felt so at ease. His fingers flashed over the tiny keys, thumbs moving quickly.

It's common and trite, and debases the elegance of the form. He stopped, looked at what he'd typed, then added, But… He frowned, trying to work out what he wanted to say. But it's all right. You still count. Even with emoticons. You always will.

It was a very long wait before the text came flashing in. You, too. Then, I missed you.

This was deep water. Dangerous. Out of Sherlock's safe depth. Feeling like he was gambling his very soul, he keyed in, I missed you, too.

The room was silent and dim. He could hear his pulse—there wasn't much else to hear. It was slightly elevated. Not out of control. Just a touch quick. Each second that went by he was more aware that somewhere she was sitting, just like he was, with only their phones to tie her to him.

Thank you, Sherlock.

You're welcome. It was time to change the topic. Time, and past time. So. Have you seen any interesting bodies, lately? Intriguing patterns of rigor mortis? Unusual bruising? Anything worthy of a report on my website?

A few things. Then she sent, Sherlock, I am going to see you again, aren't I? More than just this text? I mean, you don't have to. And I know you've still got to talk to the others. I just wondered.

Oh bloody hell, Molly, do try not to be stupid. Of course you'll see me. Once this is over I'll be in and out of the lab all the time, just the same as always. Where else can I count on privacy and time alone with the corpses?

Of course. You're right. Of course it will be the same.

He could hear her voice in his mind palace, stressed and slightly hurt, and it made him want to run in circles and whine like a dog hearing a siren. He had to fight not to answer reflexively – and even then he could only type, I am what I am, Molly.

I know.

Don't ask me to be what I'm not. He could see his hands, fingers tightening on the mobile, the faintest tremor shaking the screen.

No. I won't even ask you to be all that you really are. A short pause, and then, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.

Don't be sorry.

I am, though.

Don't be. It's true. You shouldn't have to be sorry for truth.

Why not? It's the one thing that hurts the most.

No. Lies hurt the most. I should know. He'd typed and sent the last messages so fast he'd hardly had time to censor them—and the time he'd had he hadn't used. He stared at the screen, looking at the short chain of messages.

Her response jogged the message scroll up another notch. I suppose you know about both of them…and, no, that's not supposed to be nasty. Just true.

Yes. I understand.

Sherlock?

Yes?

Don't ask me to be what I'm not, either. Okay? I mean, I can't stop being me. And I can't stop caring. I can't change that. I've tried.

I won't. Then, carefully, he typed, Some things are difficult. But you're worth it, Molly Hooper.

Thank you. You are, too. Sherlock, don't take this wrong. I mean, like you said, you are what you are. But just so you know? I really love you.

He stared at the screen for far too long…so long she typed, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.

It's all right.

No. It's not. It's never all right.

Molly, it's all right. Look, I just wanted to let you know I'm back. It's a place to start. Maybe…maybe lunch sometime, too? And of course, the lab.

Yeah, I'd like that. Lunch and lab. And, yeah, it's difficult. But you're worth it.

You, too. Molly?

Yes?

LV U 2

This was why people liked emoticons and abbreviations. You could take terrifying, monumental things that could be taken all wrong and snowball out of control and ruin your life, and make them seem light as dust motes in a sunbeam. And you could send them on their way without your self-control catching on in time to stop you. Now his pulse did thunder, as he waited for her response. It was a relief when it came.

LOL. Oh, Sherlock! That's…what did you call it? Oh, yeah. Common and trite. And debased, too. But…thanks.

You're welcome, Molly.

Later?

Later.

Bye, then.

Goodbye, Molly…and good night.

You, too, Sherlock.

Yes, me, too.

He waited for several minutes, then, to be sure she wasn't going to toss in one more text. When she didn't, he uncoiled himself and prepared for bed, reviewing the days to come, and pondering the challenges he still had to face—and the challenge he'd somehow miraculously just met.

To hell with Mycroft and all his platitudes about caring. Caring…mattered. Caring about Molly mattered.

He didn't know where their friendship was going. But for the first time he was aware that it was both a friendship and that it was going somewhere.

…and he had to admit, he wasn't bored.

 

It had all seemed so simple at first. Indeed, part of him had expected his return to be a personal victory lap, as he revealed himself alive, bragged about his cleverness, explained how he'd outwitted Moriarty, protected them, and gone on to clean out most of Moriarty's network. Secretly he'd imagined shock, and, yes, some anger as they realized they'd been tricked yet again, shown up yet again. And, yes, very well, some anger over having thought he'd died. But then there would be joy, welcome, surprised delight. After the obligatory, if rather distasteful hugging and crying and so on and so forth that ordinary people insisted on, they'd bathe him in their awe and admiration, their bemused fascination with his genius and sang-froid. He'd expected them to shiver as he told about his own fear as he released himself to gravity and plummeted down with no assurance he'd live, other than reliance on Molly's skill, talent, and thoroughness –and, well, after all: Molly!They'd be amazed he'd trusted his life to so apparently thin a thread, and more amazed his judgment had proven so overwhelmingly correct—almost as though he'd invented Molly himself.

His return didn't go according to script. Indeed, his friends…former friends? No, damn it, his friends didn't appear to know their lines, their blocking, their cues. Instead they seemed to be taking part in some entirely different play, and to be waiting for him to deliver lines he didn't know. When they didn't get those lines…

John did indeed punch him. He had to—only when Sherlock was doubled over John's fist was his head low enough for John to nut him—the man had a skull of titanium, Sherlock was willing to swear it. And then, as Sherlock staggered back, he landed a swift jab to Sherlock's nose. And if that was bad it was nothing compared to the first minutes of screaming silence after Sherlock approached him. The shock and pain and aching betrayal on John's face as he saw, recognized, denied, accepted, and realized what his friend had done to him…

A fist in the stomach, a bash on the head, and bloody nose had seemed a small price to pay. And then John had made it far too clear he didn't want to room with Sherlock. And then he implied he'd found someone, and was getting married, which changed everything in ways that left Sherlock beyond confusion…and almost grateful he'd been punched in the gut: it gave him a good excuse for his sudden retreat to the loo.

Mrs. Hudson had seemed easier. At first. She'd stopped short, as though she'd seen a ghost, and her hands had come up to cover her mouth as she murmured, "Oh, oh… Oh, Sherlock… You stupid, stupid boy… whatever did you do?" Her eyes had filled with tears—but when he went to hug her she'd smacked him on the arm, and snapped, "You were dead, Sherlock. Dead! And that poor, nice friend of yours crushed like…like… I don't know like. Like a daisy on the sidewalk. Just smashed." Then she'd wobbled, and grabbed the wall, and declared she needed a bit of a sit, and refused to let him help her…and refused to invite him in. "I've got to think about it, Sherlock. Lord love you, I know you've no more idea what you've done than a cat that's stolen the last bit of meat in the house… well, we all know what you're like, after all. But—" In a completely baffling muddle of conflicting actions she'd rushed forward and hugged him, pushed him away, called him a dear, dear boy, announced he was an idiot, smacked him on the arm again…and raced into her flat, slamming the door behind her.

He'd stood in the hall and listened to her cry…soft, muffled sounds, as though she'd shoved one of her vulgar decorative cushions with the twee embroidery mottoes against her face to mute her sobs. He'd had no idea what to do then. He still had no idea.

Oddly, Lestrade had been the least difficult…and even then it wasn't what one could consider a jolly sort of adventure. Sherlock had waited to meet Greg in the car-park after work, thinking to avoid a scene in Scotland Yard. The DI had spotted him and stopped—not shocked, not amazed, but almost wearily, like a man who's been burned once too often, and isn't sure he wants to reach for the bright, shiny flame yet again. After a moment he'd quite obviously sighed—a sigh deep enough to be seen at a distance, and begun a weary trudge to his car, where Sherlock waited. As he approached, he gestured lightly, shooing Sherlock away from the driver's side door.

"I see you're back."

"I see you knew I might be." Sherlock hoped that forewarning might improve Lestrade's reactions—at least, as compared to John and Mrs. Hudson's.

"No. Didn't have a clue. Learned a bit about Moriarty afterward, during the cleanup, though—enough to know he'd been playing you for a total berk. Learned enough to think maybe you'd figured out how to take him with you when you went. But I went to your funeral, just like the rest…wore a black armband and everything, and didn't give sod-all what Sally and the rest had to say about it." He opened his door and tossed an armload of case files across to the passenger's seat. Only then did he stop and look into Sherlock's eyes. "We got bits of information from upstream. Not enough; never enough. Enough to think there were people-who-can't-be-named who were making a point of clearing your name. Enough to think maybe there would be more story, someday. But…" He shrugged. "It was enough to make me think maybe you didn't have another way out. But it's not enough to make me like it. I have a damned hard time believing you did less damage this way than if you'd…lived."

Sherlock at least felt on solid ground: Lestrade was hitting him with reason, of a sort. Sherlock was good at reason. "I don't know. If I'd lived, you'd have been the one dead… Dying seemed like a better idea at the time."

"Yeah. Well. Maybe I think dying would have been easier for me, too," Lestrade said, voice not angry, or bitter, or challenging. Just tired, and worn out. "But I didn't get that choice. You did." He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, and leaned against the frame of the car. At last he said, "I'm glad you're back. But…it's not the same. I don't think it will be, either. But—welcome back." He held out his hand, and Sherlock forced himself to take it and shake hands, as though they were simply friendly business associates reunited after a long separation…

And, he thought, maybe that's all they were. Maybe that's all they'd ever been.

They'd talked a few more minutes. Lestrade had given him his current contact information. They'd agreed that maybe someday they should get together for a beer and a chat…but had set no date or time. Then Lestrade had slipped into his car and driven away, leaving Sherlock in the echoing cement car-park, the wind blowing around his legs, batting the heavy hem of his coat against his shins. Even hunched into the heavy wool with his collar turned up high, he'd felt cold. Suddenly he missed Islamabad: minarets, danger, heat, and clean, clean alienation from the entire world around him.

He knew he was in trouble when he accepted a dinner invitation at the Diogenes Club with Mycroft. They ate in silence, only the clatter of the diner's silverware on china breaking the hush of the dining room. Even the waiters were silent, offering menus without a word regarding the special of the day or the particularly fine chateaubriand and accepting orders given by nothing louder than a pointing finger moving along the listed entrees and starters. Only when they were finished and ensconced in the Stranger's Room did Sherlock get a chance to tell his brother what the past week had been like. It was a good thing he'd never really expected sympathy, as he received none.

"It seems to me you've nothing to complain about, Sherlock. None of them killed you. None of them shunned you. Asking more would be entirely too optimistic. They have suffered to stand at your graveside. You will have to suffer them time to come back. If they ever do. I told you it would be better to let them go."

"Better for whom?" Sherlock snapped.

"Better for them, of course. As I understand the theory, as their friend you're supposed to value that over your own desires." His deep eyes were as they'd been for years: still and chill, with the cold of someone who'd hurt and hurt, and finally chosen never to hurt any more…and who'd failed, and yet still fought on.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to those cold, aching eyes. He never did. It always angered him. So he did what he always did, and left on the tailwind raised by a few cutting remarks.

His hotel room suited him less well after being trapped in it for a week. The comfortable aura of being broken in had somehow turned to a sense that it was merely broken down.

Only one person so far had seemed glad he'd returned, he thought. Of course, she was one of the very few who'd known to expect the possibility, and one of the few who'd ensured that return was possible.

He hadn't texted her in over a week.

She hadn't texted him.

Well, of course not. Molly, after all. She wouldn't. She'd twitter and fret and worry that he'd feel imposed on, and wish he'd text her, and dither, and fuss.

He showered, wrapped himself in a silk shalwaar, and proceeded to brood in the dark room. He'd pulled the curtains wide, tonight, and he stared out into the street bellow, regretting he was in a place with no view worth mentioning. It would have been nice to stare out over London only to have the London eye stare back.

The phone in his pocket sighed a sensual, abandoned sigh. He found himself grabbing it like a lifeline.

I hear you're not dead. Have you dined?

With Mycroft.

Where's the fun in that? No…no need to answer. There is none.

Not much, no.

And how is the weather in dear old Blighty? No…no need to answer that, either. Cold,wet, and windy.

Quite.

It makes being dead look so much more appealing. It was thirty degrees* today: I wore that little top you like so much. I had lamb khoresh for dinner. I finished with pomegranates. Sabiha counted us out six pips each and served them over yogurt and honey. We ate on the balcony as the sun went down.

He didn't know what to write back. He could imagine the spacious, blue-tiled Indo-European flat with the wood-railed balcony that looked out over the roofs and minarets of the town. He could smell the warm breeze. Two weeks ago he'd been there, half-mad in his readiness to return to England. Now, he ached to go back into exile.

She'd noted his failure to respond. You can always die again, darling. He could imagine her wicked, feral smile, the look of a dangerous demon in her eyes…

No. It appears one death was already more than I was entitled to.

So you won't come back and rule in hell with me? You make such a compelling Hades.

You just like pomegranates and playing Persephone.

Queen of the dead and the damned? Of course. You can't say you didn't relish your own role in that little play.

No. He couldn't. He'd enjoyed it dangerously much. He could have played it forever…

I had to come back.

We've got it backward, Mr. Holmes. It's Persephone who returns to the land of the living. And she's got the good sense to go to Greece, in spring—not to Blighty in autumn.

Persephone was a maiden. I think that counts you out.

By the time Persephone returned home, I think she'd lost her bouquet. But, still, I admit you're the better choice: far more convincing as the deflowered virgin. You've just got the season wrong.

She was an education; an education and a half. Apparently it took a remarkable depth of knowledge to be all women to all…clients. But the sexy, suggestive texts reminded him of how much work she was…and how pointless it would be to type in "Do you miss me?" The answer would be no, not really. Never really.

Depending on the time or the mood, he could find that wonderful and freeing…or not.

Tonight the answer was "not."

Still, he knew how to play the game, now. He'd learned. She was an excellent teacher, and she knew what motivated him. His fingers flew, and letters spooled out onto the screen.

Maybe we've got it backward. After all, winter in England is hell. Look for me in springtime, Persephone.

Islamabad in summer is hell, Sherlock.

Not when you're there.

What a clever boy you are.

Clever enough.

You'll do.

And undo.

Yes—and you'll go on all night rather than be the one to quit. I'm not so stubborn, and Sabiya is calling me. Good night, my prince of darkness.

Good night, he typed back…but he expected no reply.

He stared at the phone. Slipped it back in his pocket. Pulled it out again. Put it back. He paced the room. Missed his violin. Paced the room some more. Considered going out for a pack of cigarettes. Considered going out for…other stimulants.

He was bored, he thought.

He opened the mini-fridge, and pulled out a seltzer water and a tiny bottle of whiskey. He almost poured himself a drink—but then the thought of being trapped in this room drinking whiskey and soda from a tiny bottle and a can out of a mini-fridge just seemed too bleak even for him.

His hand slipped into his pocket. He pulled out the mobile phone. He woke it up. He pulled up a name.

Are you awake? SH

Yes.

John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are all angry with me.

Yes. You knew they would be.

I didn't know they'd be this angry.

I think you probably did know…or could have, if you'd given them as much time as you'd give a case you were solving.

Ouch…you've learned knife fighting since I've been gone, Molly!

Scalpels. Tools of my profession. I'm good at post mortems.

Are you saying all my friendships are dead?

She didn't respond for a long moment. No. At least…no more dead than you've been.

Then they'll come back to life, sometime?

Maybe.

When?

When they're ready to risk you, I guess?

Did I really hurt them that much?

You know you did.

I didn't think I had.

Yes, Sherlock. You did. You always do. You always know how deep you've cut. You just keep hoping we'll admire the skill so much we won't notice we're bleeding.

The words pulled up memories of a Christmas party he preferred not to remember.

He didn't like this. It wasn't the comfort he'd hoped. But he'd made the call, and he couldn't be the first to end it. He wouldn't.

I think you're an imposter. Where have you hidden the real Molly Hooper?

You're the detective, Sherlock. You figure it out. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight.

Molly?

Yes?

I thought we could talk.

I was out with John and Mary, today, for lunch.

What does that have to do with anything?

It doesn't. It just means I'm not feeling like talking, tonight. Goodnight, Sherlock.

What are you doing tomorrow? We could go out to eat.

Sorry. I'm busy.

Doing what?

Got a first-round interview at a med school.

What?

Later, Sherlock.

No, wait. What?

Med school, Sherlock. I'm turning the phone off, Sherlock. Good night, Sherlock.

He typed and hit send five more times…but she never answered.

*Thirty degrees Celsius – eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

 

"Have you agreed to let him move back into 221B, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked, passing the serving bowl of chicken tikka masala to her friend, then pushing the basmati rice along her way, too.

"Tchk. No, dear. Still can't decide if I want him up there, to tell you the truth. All the bother and the mess and the odd hours, and the gloomy violin music, and the manky dead things in the fridge and around the place, and gunshots—before sunup even, and the class of people he brings in…I swear, I might as well be living with my husband, and that's a fact. It was one thing before all this, but now?" She clucked again, eyed the chicken tikka masala with some severity, then decided to add one more dollop of sauce to her plate. "When I think of poor John... I swear. Well-it doesn't bear thinking about, now does it? Sherlock should be ashamed of himself, but…"

"But he's Sherlock," Molly agreed, resigned. "You're not angry with me, too, are you?"

"Oh, gracious, don't be silly. As if! Good heavens, you were trying to save his life…and it's not like he was good enough to tell you he was well and everything was going a treat, is it?" She shot a sharp look across the table. "Is it? He didn't go sending you reassuring text messages, now, did he?"

"Not me. Mycroft, maybe. Not me." She fought not to sigh.

Mrs. Hudson did it for her—an aggravated, huffy, "oh-that-man" sort of sigh. "I thought not. Save his life and he still can't be bothered to say he got off the boat safely in Paris, can he?"

Molly gave a crooked grin, and prodded her own bengan bartha with a piece of naan. "He's…Sherlock."

"Yes. Well. He can be Sherlock, but I may just tell him to go be Sherlock in someone else's upstairs flat."

"You'll break his heart, you know."

"Heart! What heart? Heartless as a young alley cat, he is."

"Now, that's not fair," Molly argued, ladling raita onto another piece of naan. She slorped a mouthful, and almost lost a drizzle down her chin and onto her best jersey. She caught it with one finger and licked it neatly off. She could see Sherlock's face in her memory. Oddly, it was the night she still thought of as one of the worst in her life: the Christmas party he'd been so awful. But he'd apologized, and it was the first time she'd ever seen remorse in his eyes, or shame. Or, for that matter, seen him spontaneously apologize without it obviously being a ploy…at least, obvious to those who knew him. She frowned at her clean-ish damp-ish finger. "He's got a heart. He…just doesn't use it often. But if you turn him away it will break."

"I'd been thinking of offering it to John and Mary—you know. After. A place to start out, you know?"

Molly shook her head. "You know better, Mrs. H. They're going to want someplace that's their own, not Sherlock's. And you know to John 221B will always be Sherlock's."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," the older woman agreed, peevishly. "But it just feels wrong, him coming back after what he put all of us through. I mean, dying would be bad enough. Being killed would be bad enough. But— jumping like that! And making John watch!"

"I think Moriarty forced a lot of that," Molly said, apologetically.

"Not all of it."

"No. But, then, Sherlock had to make it stick. John and you and Greg Lestrade weren't going to be safe unless Moriarty's people thought Sherlock was dead. Believed it. Really, really believed it."

"Oh, stop making excuses for him, Molly. You always do. It's…it's indecent, that's what it is. The way he can count on you no matter how horrible he gets!" She looked outright angry, now.

"But I don't," Molly said. "Or…not any more, I don't." She suddenly laughed, and grinned in cat-in-the-cream amusement at Mrs. Hudson. "I hung up on him the other night. Well—turned off the phone so he couldn't text me anymore. And without him saying a single awful thing to me. Just because he was being annoying and Sherlocky and thinking I had to pay attention to him because…I don't know. Because he was bored and wanted someone to talk to."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide. "You never did!"

"Did!"

"You're serious?"

"Yes. I am." She said it like a little girl who'd won a spell-off, with the same radiant satisfaction. "It was the night before my interview with Dr. Vanda, about going into the forensics program over at Queen Mary's. Sherlock texted me, and was all 'pay attention to me' without actually saying that. And I'd just seen John and Mary for lunch that day, and between seeing John – I swear, he's lost a full stone this month – and talking to Mary in the loo – I wasn't feeling very sorry for him when he started whining that all of you were mad at him. More like smacking him, if you want to know. And when I pointed out he kind of should have expected it, and that he should have known how much he hurt you all, he got huffy and asked what I'd done with the 'real' Molly Hooper. And then when I said I was going to bed, he wanted to set up a lunch with me the next day. And when I said I was busy, he wanted to know why—like I couldn't possibly be too busy to have lunch with him. And when I said I had an interview for med school he just…I mean... Okay, all he really said was 'what?' But…"

"But he's Sherlock, and we all know what he sounded like…that voice like you just said you could fly to Mars in a ballet tutu. So—?"

"So I told him I was turning the phone off, and I told him good night. And I turned the phone off. And you know what?" Her eyes were shining with joy,

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, as fascinated as a gossiping schoolgirl herself.

"I slept just fine. And I went to the interview, and I felt smart. And competent. And…I'm not sure if I'd let Sherlock keep me awake I'd have felt that way. He's—he… he can be like running face-first into a harvesting machine. He can cut my ego to ribbons."

"That's our Sherlock, Lord love him."

"That last night, before he was gone, it was…wonderful and horrible and terrifying, and the first time I ever felt like I mattered. And I did well, Mrs. H. I really, really did well. It wasn't all him, you know. Not all the thinking, and not all the making it work. I did well. And then he was gone. And for months and months I felt wonderful, and capable, and like Molly Hooper, who counted. Who he could trust. And then he came back, and he texted me. And I was so happy to hear from him. And…and he was nice, too. Except...except when he wasn't. When he told me to try not to be stupid. And then he was so stupid himself, about John and you and Greg. And…I don't know. I'm just glad I went to that interview knowing I was strong enough to turn off the phone and go to sleep, instead of sitting there trying to be perfect for him and letting him make me feel…little."

They were both silent a moment. The moment…stretched.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Hush, dear, I'm thinking. Be a good girl and order me a cuppa-the nice kind...you know, with cardamom-and a some rice pudding, will you?"

Molly flagged a waiter, and ordered two teas and two rice puddings, and waited while her friend pondered, seeking answers in the bowl of a spoon. The tea came, and Mrs. Hudson sugared it, added milk. She took a deep sip, sighed in contentment, then looked across the table.

"I think, dear, you're very smart. Smarter than you think you are…and much smarter than Sherlock thinks, at least on a bad day. He's got to take his own knocks—and you have to take care of yourself, and sleep, and get ready for medical school. But…let him know it went well. Just a little text. No more. Don't offer to chat. Just…let him know."

Molly looked at her, trying to fathom what she was up to. "You're sure?"

Mrs. Hudson gave a sharp, explosive laugh, and slapped the table playfully. "Don't be silly! He's Sherlock. Who knows what goes on in that twisty little mind? I just think it might be good for both of you for this to be the new normal. Right? You're Molly, and you hang up on him when he's being annoying, and you go to interviews for medical school—and you text him to let him know it went well. And it's all normal. Right?"

Molly considered. "It would be an awfully nice kind of normal."

"Yes. It would."

Molly sipped at her own tea, sweet and cloudy with milk. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"What, lovie?"

"I…don't know if I'm in love with him anymore."

"You weren't in love with him before, ducks," Mrs. Hudson said, ruefully. "You were sick-as-a-dog mad for him. But you weren't in love."

"Then what am I now?"

"You're Molly Hooper, dear. And you've got a chance to learn how you feel about him, now. Not many of us ever get that second chance—not with the ones who make our heads spin and our stomach sick and our hands shake. You're lucky."

"What if I don't love him? I mean, what if I don't love-love him? I don't know who I am, if I don't. I've been mad for him so long. It would be like getting a new identity."

"Then you're probably luckier still. First, you could use a new identity besides being that poor, mad-for-him girl—a whole new case full of identity! Second, I don't know if he can fall in love back. And whether he can or can't, either way, loving him wouldn't be a weekend holiday to the Lake Country. Just friends might be best. But even if you're unlucky, and it's love, this time around you don't have to let him make you feel…little. Because you are not little, Molly Hooper! No, no, you let me get the check. You may be a starving medical student, soon. Save your money."

The two women gathered their things, pulled on their coats, and headed out into the streets promising to do lunch again in a week or so.

Molly returned to the lab and was kept busy for the next few hours with a whole series of blood chemistries that had to be run. Only at three did she have time to stop for a cup of tea and a moment to think. She pulled her phone out, laid it on the smooth steel of her desk, and pondered. She sipped her tea. She pulled the phone close, pulled up Sherlock's name, and typed gingerly, with one finger.

Thought I'd let you know. Been to two interviews this week. Looks good. Next year I may be a forensics student at Cameron, at Queen Mary.

She drank more tea, staring, wondering. He didn't answer. She sighed, pulled out her Kindle, read a bit of a new Regency. When her tea was gone he still hadn't replied. She slipped the phone in her pocket, washed her cup, and went back out to run more blood chem. At the end of the day she closed up, picked up a sandwich on her way home, and curled up in front of the TV with Toby, her cat.

She was half-way through an episode of Dr. Who when the phone vibrated.

Forensics? SH

That's the plan, she typed back.

At Cameron?

I've applied several places. Mostly in London. St. Barts, of course.

Well, well, well. Molly Hooper! Who knew? How were your UKCATs?

Top tenth percentile.

Very good. I only made top twentieth.

I didn't know you applied to med school.

I didn't. I only thought I might. My life took a detour right about then.

Should I ask?

There was no answer at first. Then…

I'd rather you didn't. I wasn't at my brilliant best. I'd gotten bored. I'm not good when I'm bored.

She looked at the text, and wondered—no, suspected—that "chemicals" and policemen and Mycroft cleaning up some nasty little details might be hiding behind the simple words.

No, you're not. You're bad when you're bored, aren't you?

Quite.

Maybe that should be next on your to-deduce list: how not to be bored.

That's not exactly something you can deduce.

Don't play "mother," she told herself. I agree it's probably harder for some people than others.

She could almost see him pout.

I need challenges.

Build your own challenges. But I'm not going to lecture you. It's your life. You'll tell me if you need help. Meanwhile—I've mainly been looking at forensics and pathology, but I'm not sure that's where I want to end up. What do you think?

The message again failed to come for the longest time.

I think that you should do whatever interests you, Molly Hooper, because talent and brains and courage are not an issue.

She nearly dropped the phone—and she did jump enough to rate an evil glare from Toby, whose nap she had interrupted. She wrapped her arms around herself and forced herself to think. At last, she whispered, "The new normal," and simply typed,

Thanks. I'm beginning to think so, myself.

 

How's the party, Molly? Nigel-from-the-lab texted her. Sherlock throwing a big bash?

Worst. Par-tay. EVAR! she texted back. No one's talking to Sherlock, so Sherlock's doing monologues.

Ow-ow-ow! You should have stayed here. Kemper came as Harry Potter, and he keeps poking Miss Travis from Oncology on the bottom with his wand.

Gosh. Sounds like fun, she typed, But I'm better off here. They may need someone who's able to call in the ambulance if the rest of this lot decides it's worth the prison time to kill Sherlock. OMG, he just offered to tell how he first met Greg Lestrade. Greg hates this story—and he's quite right, too. Sherlock always makes him sound like a perfect ass. Laters. Thinking on her feet she moved closer to Sherlock, handed him her glass, and said firmly, "We've heard that one, Sherlock. Be a dear and get me a refill?"

For a half a second anger flared in Sherlock's eyes, and she prepared for him to round on her. She made herself meet that hard gaze, chin up and unflinching, waiting to see if what she'd come to think of as "the moment" happened again.

It did. There was a split second of bewilderment, as fast as a shooting star, and then his eyes were questioning her, and his head cocked slightly. He took her glass and leaned close, murmuring, "Saving me from my own mistakes again?"

"Someone has to," she murmured back, then turned and smiled at Greg Lestrade. "It's good to see you here, and I like your new friend. She's got brains."

"That, too," Lestrade said, glancing across the room to where his date was chattering with Mary Marston. "Met her through John and Mary. Cut above my usual. Keep worrying I'm too Non-U for her. But so far she doesn't seem to mind if I swallow my Ts every so often."

She liked Greg Lestrade. She might even have more than liked him, if it weren't for liking Sherlock…and she was beginning to think that she'd finally come far enough to choose someone else if she wanted to. Not just to show herself she could, and because she was desperate to believe someone could want her, the way she had with Jim Moriarty, either. Now she could choose because whatever she and Sherlock had between them, it was less and less the one-sided infatuation it had once been. Sherlock called it "friendship," when he could be brought to call it anything at all. Molly was willing to settle for that word. It seemed right. Still, if Greg hadn't just found a very admirable new date, she'd have been tempted to at least try to get his attention.

He seemed as impressed with her. "You're looking really good tonight, Molly. I don't know what it is, but—"

"It's three weeks working with a friend of Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. If I understand what they've told me, she's someone's aunt's sister-in-law. Really nice lady who's dragged me around to Oxfam to buy up all the nice things that Town and County give to charity to help us little people. Would you believe I've got a genuine Emilia Wickstead in my closet?"

He grinned. "Does that mean you've committed a theft, a kidnap, or just vice?"

"I think five counts of social-climbing in the first degree. Oh, thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it. Oh, look, Mrs. Hudson's back with more beer. Give her a hand."

Sherlock pouted. "I'm the host."

"That's why you give her a hand, Sherlock. Let the guests enjoy the food and the booze, and you do what a host does and make that easy for them."

"Somehow I thought socializing and entertaining was supposed to be part of it, too," he growled.

"Not when it's—oof," Lestrade said, not prepared for her foot to come down on his.

"Later, when they're relaxed," Molly said, and watched as Sherlock dubiously went to help his landlady with her bags of beer and ale.

"Sonofa—what was that?" Lestrade hissed at her, looking at her like she'd grown antennae. Well, she did have antennae: her one concession to Halloween was a headband with fairy-feelers twiddling on top. But it wasn't the fairy-feelers he was staring at.

She shrugged. "He just wants to do it right. I'm helping."

His eyes narrowed, and the look he shot her reminded her he was a D.I. He probably interrogated people like her as warm-up scales in the morning, before he took on the serious criminals. "You're helping—and he's listening. What have you injected into him, Molly Hooper? Whatever it is, the street-value per ounce has to be way up there."

She reviewed the possible things she could say…none of which were really satisfying. At last she shrugged and said, "It's just the new normal. If you want to know more, wait till you can talk to Mrs. Hudson alone. She's got theories. Don't tell me anything she says, though. I'm afraid if I ever have a theory I'll jinx it, like the centipede thinking about how it walks."

With Sherlock being kept busy, the party was beginning to thaw, at least a little. John was avoiding talking to his former roommate any more than he had to, but everyone else had decided to play nice with Sherlock, so long as Sherlock played nice with them. It wasn't a great party, but it was at least not the Cold War Molly had really feared. Yes, Sherlock kept checking his laptop—but he was Sherlock, after all, and at least he got back up regularly and made an effort. She was relaxing, beginning to enjoy the music and the group conversation about the upcoming Avenger's movie—she, Mrs. Hudson and Mary Marston were all hot for Robert Downey Jr and Tom Hiddleston, while Lestrade's date was yearning for Chris Hemsworth, when Sherlock's phone rang.

"Yes, what? What? Hang on, I'm at a party—I can't hear you. You'll have to say that louder. Wha—" Sherlock's voice went from over-loud, as he tried to project over a classical piece he had playing, to sudden, stunned silence. Everyone looked at him, riveted as his face went from its usual intense focus to blank shock—and then ricocheted to anger in an instant. "What kind of joke is this? Who's calling? What? What? No. I don't understand. Who is this?" He turned to John, eyes bewildered, breaking from the phone to say, "He says he's a Dr. Lund, at the Royal Marsden ICU, John. Have you heard of him?"

John's brow furrowed. "Not my area, but—what's wrong?"

"He says…" Sherlock's voice went thin. "He says Mycroft's dying and he needs permission to extend treatment. Only it's…It can't be. No one dies of chickenpox, do they? It has to be a prank. It's Halloween." He sounded angry and edgy…and surprisingly young.

John's face went tense. "Give me the phone, Sherlock. Let me talk to him. Yes-yes, I know, just give me the phone." Grabbing it, he seated himself at Sherlock's laptop, trapped the phone between his shoulder and ear, and began typing and talking at the same time. "Hello, Dr. Lund? This is Dr. John Watson, a friend of Sherlock's. I think maybe you need me to act as translator for a few minutes…Sherlock's convinced this is someone's idea of a Halloween prank. You say you're attending Mycroft Holmes, at the Royal Marsden ICU? Yes. Yes. Just a moment…. Sherlock, take the phone and confirm you're you, and I'm me, and that I have permission to consult with Lund—no, Sherlock, you've got to give the poor bastard some kind of legal fig leaf to cover his ass before he can tell me anything."

As John bounced between Sherlock, the laptop, and the phone, Molly pulled out her own phone. Nigel? Nigel? Are you there?

Depends on what you mean by "there," Moll. In the immortal words of the sixties, I'm definitely where it's at, for sure. Hey, did I tell you I wore a sixties costume tonight?

Yeah, but I need you to do something for me. Can you get at the interhospital database?

Um…Yeah. I think so.

Ok. I need you to do a couple searches. First check if there's a Dr. Lund at the Royal Marsden—and see if anything pops, okay?

The wait seemed eternal, and meanwhile Sherlock was saying unnaturally calm, precise things on the phone in Sherlockish, rigid phrasing, as though his voice could cross every T and dot every i.

Yeah, Molly. Internist of some kind? Infectious diseases.

Okay. Now, I need you to break the rules, Nige. See if you can find out if the Royal's got a Mycroft Holmes in the ICU.

Moll, I can't do that.

I said, break the rules, Nige. This is important.

No, you don't get it. I can't. It's not the rules, or even that I don't have a high enough clearance to do it – I don't know how. I'm a med tech, not a hacker. And I'm drunk.

She was about to tell him she'd call and walk him through it when John's voice grabbed her attention, forcing it back to his own efforts.

"Bugger. Okay, okay, I follow. Adult onset varicella zoster, Oka variant strain, followed by pneumonia, and that one is definitely a resistant strain. What've you tried so far? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Shit. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to him. Should we call back, or come straight over. Straight over? Ah. Talk on the way. I see. All right. We'll see you over there."

The man who handed Sherlock's phone back was, bone-deep, a doctor, a soldier, and a ranking officer. Tension sparked on him like St. Elmo's fire, but his attention was on Sherlock.

"It's not a joke. Mycroft's been in hospital for a week. He went in with adult onset chickenpox, contracted a hospital strain of pneumonia, and has been slipping downhill ever since. He went into a coma a half an hour ago, and you're his next of kin. He wouldn't let them contact you before this, but now you're the only person they've got to sign papers and make decisions…right up till the DNR cuts in and it's all back in Mycroft's hands. We're going over there so you can sign the paperwork…and because he may not hang on much longer."

"Chickenpox?" Sherlock said, shaking his head in frustrated disbelief. "He had chickenpox. We both did. Covered with it. He can't have chickenpox."

"Sherlock, they've tested for it…it's chickenpox. It's Oka strain, and that may be the problem: it slips past immunization, sometimes. But—have you been immunized?"

Sherlock was not using his "inside voice" any more. "John, please listen. I told you: I've had chickenpox. Of course I haven't been immunized."

"Then you're going to go in masked, until they're sure you're not going to get it either."

"But we had it."

"And Mycroft's infected. Sherlock, just shut up and get your coat. Mary and I will take you over."

"I'll meet you there," Molly murmured. "One more person to translate for Sherlock."

"Or translate Sherlock for them, poor things," Mrs. Hudson said. "You go on, now. I'll stay here and clean up the party. "

At the side of the room Molly could hear Greg and his date murmuring. Her voice, puzzled and frustrated, rose, asking, "But I don't understand. How could he not even know his brother was in hospital?"

"Shhh. Laurie, you've met Sherlock. All I can tell you is Mycroft is worse. I mean, I've only met him a few times, but I promise: Mycroft is worse. The big question is how his own doctor got clearance to know he was sick. I would have thought it would take a month to jump through the bureaucratic hoops."

The drive over in the taxi was cold and lonely. Molly wondered if she should have stayed with Mrs. Hudson, or gone home, the way she would have before Sherlock died and returned…or she wondered until the phone pinged.

Molly, this is crazy. John keeps talking like Mycroft is dying.

Sherlock, if he picked up a strain he wasn't immune to—adult onset chickenpox is serious, pneumonia is worse, and a resistant strain of pneumonia is really bad. John may be right.

But he can't be. He's Mycroft. The government won't LET him die.

Everyone dies, Sherlock.

It was a long time before he responded, and then he said only, Will you be over there?

Yes. Have John text me where they take you, and I'll meet you there.

I want John to be able to pay attention to Mycroft and the doctor.

Good choice.

I want you to pay attention to John. Someone's got to make sure he's not missing something.

He won't miss anything, Sherlock. But I'll listen and help you keep track.

How can he have chickenpox? We had chickenpox, Molly. Full up with it. Spots everywhere. We itched for a week. Mycroft put calomel on my back and made up riddles to keep me quiet, because Nurse was with Mummy.

Did she have it, too? Poor thing.

No. Father died the week before, and she was…upset. She wanted Nurse. Nurse sang her nursery songs, like when she was little.

I see. So…Mycroft took care of you?

When Nurse was busy. We went to stay with Aunt Freya for the first few days. Then came home. Mycroft took care of me.

I see.

He's strong. Mycroft's stong, Molly.

Molly had heard enough people say that over her years working in hospitals to know it really meant, "He'll live, won't he?" She said what she'd learned to say.

They'll do the best they can, Sherlock. I promise. They'll do the best they can.

Everybody dies. He said that, once. All lives end. All hearts are broken.

Yes. He's a smart man, Sherlock.

I know. Smarter than me. It's just sometimes I wish he weren't.

 

The exchange between Mycroft Holmes' administrative assistant and Mycroft's brother was of gladiatorial intensity. A clever entrepreneur could have sold tickets. Unfortunately, no such sales had occurred. Only John Watson and Molly Hooper had the privilege of watching the event—and both were long-since accustomed to Sherlock's duels. They huddled against one wall of the room, mainly trying to stay out of the line of fire.

"Mr. Holmes did not want you involved, Mr…..Holmes." Mycroft's assistant smiled a bland, sugar-and-cream smile, clearly expecting that claim to resolve things.

"Of course he didn't," Sherlock replied. "If he'd wanted me involved he'd have immediately contacted me and ordered me to keep out of it. After all, he knows me." He was, even more than usual, a sculpture in arrogance, standing tall, head high, coat shouting, "I'm so cool only Neil Gaiman could describe me—and then only on a good day."

The look the assistant shot Sherlock was toxic. "So nice to see that kind of bond between brothers," he said, "I'm sure it saves you both quite a lot of misunderstanding. Now that that's settled, if you could please sign over power of attorney to us, we can finish this all up."

"No."

Mycroft's assistant had the harried look of a man who had found one Holmes brother to be a serious career challenge, and two to be a crashing professional debacle that had the potential to give him bragging rights in an elite club consisting of the captain of the Exxon Valdez, the manager of the Fukushima nuclear plant, "Way-to-Go Blackie" of Hurricane Katrina notoriety, and all the many damn-fool military strategists over the centuries who'd looked at Afghanistan and assured their nations' leaders it was a piece of cake. "Mr. Holmes, I assure you, this is what your brother would want."

"Are you sure Mycroft chose you for this position?" Sherlock asked, peering intently at the prim bureaucrat sitting behind the desk in the office the hospital had lent him.

He frowned back at his superior's brother. "Yes, of course. Why?"

"He must have chosen you for your bovine predictability...nothing else explains it. Need I repeat what I said previously?"

"Er…"

Sherlock sighed gustily, and rolled his eyes. "No wonder Mycroft's always overworked. I told you—if Mycroft had wanted me to be involved, he'd have told me to stay out of it. What does that tell you about our relationship, Mr…?"

"Beemish. And it tells me, Mr. Holmes, that you are given to defying your brother."

"Yes. And?" Sherlock said, encouragingly. When the penny failed to drop he gave a melodramatic groan. "Mr. Beemish, you've gone about this all wrong. If you had wanted me to sign over power of attorney, you really should have told me Mycroft did want me to serve in that role—indeed, that he demanded it. As it is? Frankly, this entire situation is just too much of a temptation. So I'm sorry, but I shall retain control over my brother's health and well-being for now." He spun in graceful slow motion and moved to open the office door.

"Wait, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock seemed almost frozen, barring a curious cock to his head. "Waiting. You have something to say?"

"Her Majesty will take action, if necessary."

"I doubt it, Mr. Beemish. Her Majesty is cautious in her use of power, and I doubt she'd interfere with a private legal matter. I find it interesting that you were willing to make that threat, though. What is going on? And please, don't say 'chickenpox.' I assure you, Mycroft and I both had chickenpox."

"It is chickenpox, damn you," Beemish said, temper breaking like waves against the stony cliffs of Sherlock. "I wish it wasn't chickenpox. I might be able to do something if it weren't chickenpox. For the love of God, Mr. Holmes, would you please cooperate? Your brother is a very important man, and this is a matter of national—no, international importance. We need Mycroft Holmes to live."

Sherlock turned back, then, and asked, very quietly, "And if Mycroft needs to die? What then, Mr. Beemish? And who decides? Her Majesty? The Prime Minister? You?" When Beemish failed to answer, Sherlock nodded, eyes cold. "Yes. I thought so. No, I think I shall retain power of attorney for my brother, Mr. Beemish. Now, if I understand correctly, I'm to be inoculated." He gave an utterly false smile, chirped, "Pip-cheerio, then!" and glanced commandingly at John and Molly, drawing them into his train as he exited the dull little room with a flourish.

John and Molly raced along after his stalking figure, barely managing to keep up—John marching double-time, and Molly just plain loping to hold even. One elevator and three corridors later Sherlock finally came to a halt—suddenly, without warning, in the middle of an empty waiting area. John and Molly just barely managed to avoid crashing into him.

Sherlock seemed to draw in on himself. "Where am I going?" he asked, softly.

John and Molly exchanged concerned glances. "Down to the lab for blood work," John said. "They need to test you for varicella, and they're going to give you an immunization."

"And the lab is where?"

"I'll show him," Molly said to John. "My first job was here at the Royal. I know my way around. You see if you can find Dr. Lund and learn anymore, so you can prepare Sherlock for him."

"Prepare him for Sherlock, more like." John grumbled. He grimaced at his friend and former flat mate. "Do you really have to act like a porcupine all the time? You're just making things harder, you know."

"Your confidence in my abilities never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock replied in an arid voice. His heart clearly wasn't in it, though. He'd roused to do battle with Beemish, but with no victim to bait and harry the energy seemed to seep out of him.

Molly and John hesitated a moment, sharing the sort of worried, telepathic looks parents share over a sick, cranky child. It was clear that neither was sure what to do to help. At last Molly shrugged. "Let's go, then, Sherlock. There's an elevator down the corridor on your left. John, you've got my mobile number. Let me know if there's any change."

"Will do, Molly. Sherlock, please don't bully Molly or the nurses? Just let them take the blood sample and give you the shot, so we can get on with all this."

Sherlock did rouse slightly at this, proclaiming, "I do not bully Molly!"

"Yes, you do," John with amused exasperation.

"No, I do not."

"Molly, just take him, will you?"

"Molly, tell him I don't bully you, or I'll tell him—"

"See," John said, cutting him off. "There you go again. Molly, you're a saint. Sherlock—just shut up, please, and go get your shot. We don't want both you and Mycroft sick."

Sherlock grumbled most of the way down to the haematology lab, where a nurse was waiting with sampling tubes and a varicella immunization shot.

"Coat off, shirt off, hospital smock on. I'll have to take your vitals first, too." The nurse was calmly prepping, drawing over an old-fashioned blood pressure cuff, a new-style thermometer, and a tray with phlebotomy sampling needles, sampling tubes, a length of rubber tubing, and the injection.

"I am not getting undressed," Sherlock said, with the outraged resistance of a middle-school boy being forced to undress before mere females.

"Sherlock…"

"I am not getting undressed," he said again, more firmly.

"She's got to draw from a vein," Molly assured him. "And the shot's intramuscular. Sherlock, you know this sort of thing. You're in St. Barts at least once a week, and I know you read the journals…"

"For things that impact my cases!" he protested. "And I'm not 'in St. Barts.' I'm in the morgue. There's a difference."

The nurse was getting frustrated. "Mr. Holmes, I was called in here on my evening off just to deal with you. Apparently you're special." It was very clear that being special did not rate high in her books. "If you can't cooperate with a simple blood test and take a shot, I'm wasting time I could be spending re-watching Downton Abbey."

In answer Sherlock merely hunched deeper in his coat, practically tucking his hands into his sleeves."

"I can do it," Molly said, quietly, looking at the nurse. "I've done it before. Just leave it all and I'll take care of it."

"Can't do it," the nurse snapped back. "My signature has to go on there, and I need to be the one who signs it off on the lab pick-up." She gave Sherlock a very ancient look, and continued, "They're even sending someone special to pick up the sample."

"I'll do it for Molly," Sherlock said, still sounding like a sullen tweenie boy.

"Maybe if you stay here and watch?"

"She can't watch," Sherlock grumbled. "She can come back when you're done."

Molly sighed, and pulled the nurse over to one side of the room. "He's going to keep us here all night if we don't play along," she said under her breath. "Look, let me do the job—then you can check it all and sign off on it. The thing is, it's got to be done, and it's got to be done fast. I'm guessing they're going to rush through the testing, and they're not going to want to wait."

"It's just a varicella titer," the nurse said. "I mean, really. Just a chickenpox-immune…and he's getting the shot, for goodness sake."

"He's getting the shot if he lets us. We need him to cooperate. Unless you want to be the one chasing him around trying to make him take off that coat. Look, they've got bloody Whitehall people grinding their teeth over this."

The nurse growled a frustrated little growl, deep in her throat. "Oh, for the love of…all right. If you think you can get him to behave, I'll go down the way and have a cuppa. I'll be back in about ten minutes, and…well, if you've got it done, we can both sign off on it. That way no harm, no foul." She shot a final glare at Sherlock, and left the room.

"Well played, Molly," Sherlock said, darting toward the supplies laid out for use. "Here, help me—I need to know if all this is clean or if someone's tampered with it."

"It's all sealed, Sherlock," Molly said with some frustration of her own, as she joined him at the counter. "Needles, sample tubes, even the shot. It's fresh from the factory. If it has been meddled with I won't know."

"Damn." Sherlock looked around the room, eyes leaping from item to item. "I can't risk it. Will there be spares?"

"I should think so," she replied. "This is their blood-work lab. I'm less sure of the immunization."

"Look—Look. Try to find spares of everything—if you can, find enough sample tubes for duplicates. I want to have this tested myself. I don't trust Mr. Beemish and his friends not to fix the game."

She went through the lab like a whirlwind, eventually managing to collect a complete set of the needed tools. "We're running out of time. Coat off, shirt off, and if you give me trouble it's on your head, not mine."

It was the set-up for any number of possible scenes—if they'd been in a romance novel or a filmed rom-com. As it was, she barely noticed Sherlock stripping rapidly out of coat and shirt. She was too busy setting out her own duplicate tools in order.

"Ok, blood pressure first—"

"One-seventeen over seventy-seven."

"Did you take your own?"

"No, we're not bothering. No time."

She nodded. "All right. All right. If you say so." She slipped the tubing around his upper arm, and they quickly waltzed through the rituals, ending up with two sample tubes for varicella testing. A second later she'd pushed the plunger home on the immunization. "Done."

"Try to set things up so she won't know we made substitutions," Sherlock said, already buttoning up his shirt.

"Already thought of it," she assured him, as she put things away in their proper places. "So—what are you worried about?"

"I don't know." The annoyance in his voice was potent. "I just know that something is wrong. Mycroft and I had chickenpox."

"Some cases are misdiagnosed. Some people don't get full immunity. Stuff happens."

He grunted an agreement that was utterly unconvinced. "Or this could all be some form of game. Given the circles Mycroft plays in, that's a more likely answer than chickenpox. At least—it's more likely than ordinary chickenpox."

She frowned, then, leaning back against the counter as they waited for the nurse's return. "You think someone's infected your brother with something weird?"

"Weird, altered, manipulated. Anything and everything. If you can imagine it, someone's doing it somewhere. Mycroft plays with some very rough competitors, in a very big arena. Molly, slip those samples in your pocket and have them run over at St. Barts. Remember—I want results I can trust. Oh-how long does it take the immunization to work?"

"I doubt anyone would trust it much sooner than three days. A week would be more certain. They're going to make you dress like you're in a plague zone until then." She looked at him, curious. "Sherlock, did you know I could do all this myself? I mean, most of the morgue techs couldn't, you know."

In answer he shifted to his drown-'em-with-facts voice. "Molly Hooper, graduated with a BSc in nursing from the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing and Midwifery, City University of London, 2001."

"You deduced that?"

"No. I read it on your diploma in your office—five years ago. It's not magic, Molly, it's observation. You don't hide your degree. I know the certificates you've earned, too."

"So you knew I could take over for the nurse."

"I was counting on it."

"What if I'd missed the cue? Or if she'd refused to let me?"

"I'd have done something else. Now, when we're done here, I want you to go directly to St. Barts. I want that test done, and I want the answer as soon as possible. Lives may depend upon it—including mine."

She nodded. "By the way... Why me? Why not John? He could have done all this with less risk. People don't argue with a medical degree."

"Because, I need John elsewhere—dealing with Dr. Lund, dealing with Mycroft's people, dealing with the hospital. And…because, Molly Hooper, sometimes a lion can be helped by even a mouse."

"Squeak," she said, smiling…then turned to greet the returning nurse.

Sherlock walked alone back to the ICU ward. Even with John doing everything possible to smooth the way, it was almost another hour before Sherlock stood in Mycroft's room at last, shrouded in a singularly hideous quarantine coverall, with his hands encased In surgical gloves and his nose and mouth protected with a surgical mask.

He'd been running on nerves, anger, and adrenaline up until then. He looked at Mycroft's body. His brother was not dead, but also not entirely among the living. He was flaccid and limp, propped into a sitting position to improve his breathing, with IVs running into his veins, and sensors gummed to his chest. His skin was covered with entire flocks of crusted sores. He seemed stripped of his dignity, as completely stripped as he was stripped of his bespoke suits and hand-made shoes. Sherlock observed that even Mycroft's capacity for regal authority could not survive an ugly hospital gown, unkempt hair, and unconsciousness.

He took a step closer to the bedside, ignoring the bodyguard posted at the side of the room, who reached inconspicuously for his weapon, just in case. Another step brought him to the bed itself. He leaned against the metal rails put up to ensure Mycroft couldn't fall out of bed. He took his brother's right hand. It lay in his own, limp and oddly fragile. An IV needle was inserted into the vein on the back of his hand, and taped down to keep it stable. His brother was in his late forties, pushing ever closer to fifty; even in health, his hands showed the first spattering of age marks. Now Sherlock couldn't even see those for the pox-spots that marred Mycroft's skin.

"His ring," Sherlock said to no one in particular. "Where's his ring?"

"They'll have had him take it off when they knew they might need to be doing a lot of work on him. They'll have it put it away for him—probably locked up for safe keeping." It was John who answered. Sherlock hadn't even fully realized John had come in with him—which was unheard of. It hadn't been as important as observing Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his brother's hand. It had obviously been mere hours since he had been aware and awake. His hands were clean, even with the spots that covered them. The nails were perfectly manicured. His brother kept himself immaculately—and that only made the spots stand out more clearly.

"What do you need me to do," he asked the room.

"He may be able to hear you –but he won't respond," came Dr. Lund's deep voice from the doorway.

"I wasn't speaking to him," Sherlock said, without turning. "I was speaking to you. You have had me brought here for my brother's sake. What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to give us permission for a variety of life-support treatments. Nothing that traps you or your brother: he and I had time to review his wishes, but he was willing to have us put in a drainage tube to help clear his lungs. We'd also like to put in a feeding tube and catheterize him. Those are the main things."

Sherlock nodded, silently. He put Mycroft's hand carefully back on the mattress, taking a moment to push the IV tubing to one side to ensure Mycroft wasn't tangled in it. He turned to face Lund, sensing more than seeing John move into place at his side as though he were a battle companion guarding his flank. He met Lund's eyes.

"Very well. I'll sign."

 

Molly arrived home at the end of the day of the day only to find an email from John with the viral and bacterial analysis she'd requested attached. She flipped them over to the printer, and wandered out to her kitchenette to open a can of food for Toby and to decide what to do for her own dinner. Only when she had a bowl of soup simmering on the stove top and a hot mug of tea in hand did she take the time to text John.

Hi, John. Got your email. Thanks.

No problem. What do you expect to find in it?

No idea. You're the doctor. Did anything jump out at you?

No. Oka strain varicella zoster. CA-MRSA pneumonia. Lund's not hiding anything from us.

I didn't think he was.

Then why ask?

I don't know. Just because. Molly frowned. She really didn't know what she was expecting to find on the files lying in the tray of her printer. She just knew something was niggling at her. Still, it wasn't like she had anything to tell John, yet. How was Buckingham Palace?

The Queen was not in residence. No, I shouldn't have said that. One of Sherlock's bad jokes. It was surreal.

?

Don't ask. I think if I tell you, Beemish's Bright Young Things have to kill us both.

Ooooooh, yeah. TMI for sure. How had she become the sort of person MI5 and MI6 might be interested in, anyway? Molly grimaced. Something about the company she kept, maybe?

Ooooo-kay. Any word on Mycroft?

Not so far.

And Sherlock?

Driven. Been texting people all day. Appears to have hit a roadblock. Not pleased.

Who's at the hospital tonight?

No one. We're at 221B right now. I finally convinced Sherlock he had to sleep.

How did you manage that?

Played dirty. Told him Mycroft was depending on him, and if he didn't sleep he'd make mistakes.

That worked?

Yes.

Hell.

Exactly.

Molly frowned, working through the implications.

So—one in a coma and the other scared enough to behave?

Yeah. Unless he's really just scared enough to climb out a window in a silly disguise and go hunting trouble without me along to nag him.

I'd place my bet on the window.

I know, Molly. But—I can't let him drag me back into this as his babysitter. I've been up 48 hours without sleep. I'm tired. I'm going home to Mary.

Understood. Sleep well, John. Give my best to Mary.

Will do. Night.

She pocketed her phone, poured some of her soup into a mug, and took both soup and hot tea to the living room. Soon she was curled on the sofa with Toby beside her, frowning over the printed analyses.

Nothing. There was nothing odd. Nothing outstanding. John was right: these told her just what she'd expect to see based on what they'd been told…

She couldn't imagine what she could learn from the expected and the normal. It was like helping with the autopsy of someone who'd died of a heart attack: it was no surprise to find all the standard traces of COPD, arteries crusted thick with cholesterol deposits, age… Sometimes she wondered why they bothered checking in cases like that.

Well, they usually didn't check. Non-criminal autopsies weren't standard, though they still happened. Most of the time, though, the doctors and the families agreed: no need to tear up the body of the deceased just to confirm the obvious and the known. She knew only one doctor working with who was really very likely to push for an autopsy, and even he was selective. Molly had asked him once why he'd chosen to autopsy one patient, though. She remembered his answer.

"Even when we know the basics, there are always refinements—little details." He'd gestured at the body they'd just finished closing back up. "That one, for example: cause of death is just what I put down at the time. Terminal stages of ovarian cancer. But… Molly, every time I look inside, I learn something. Know a bit more. Understand a bit more. This one? She let it go too long. She was polycystic. Mistook her symptoms for more complications from the condition—and she neglected the condition because it made her feel like a failure as a woman. You can see years of pain tracking through her body. The cancer was just one more pain. It's worth it just to try to understand the ecology of a disease. Nothing exists in isolation."

What was the ecology of Mycroft's disease? Where had a grown man encountered chickenpox—a grown man leading a life almost as remote from children as it was remote from the moon? She didn't know…but she did now know something she could try to find out. She moved over to her computer, logged on to the internet, and began to search.

An hour later she pulled out her phone and dialed a doctor she knew had night-shift at St. Barts.

"Zhuan? Do you have a minute?"

"Slow night here, Molly—you can take an hour."

"I'm hoping I don't need an hour. What do you know about forensic epidemiology?"

"I know how to say it without stuttering. I knew enough to pass epidemiology a century or two ago. Not a lot more. Why?"

"I'm trying to track down vector patterns, spread of diseases, and mapping of various disease strains. You know—where different variants are endemic."

"NHS keeps records. IEA, maybe? Beyond that—I'd call one of the epidemiology professors in the morning, Moll. I'm not going to be able to help you much."

"Okay. Well. Thanks, Zhuan. "

She hung up, still frowning…and had one last idea.

Her fingers fluttered over her keyboard, linking her to St. Barts' system, passing her through to her morgue account. From there she slipped into the inter-hospital databank, and from there to a routine assay of the Royal Marsden—a public record, if you knew what to look for. She pulled the printouts over and looked, frowning as she concentrated on fine details. Her eyes widened, and she did a quick cross search. A few more searches and she was sure. She checked the printout again, then pulled her phone out.

Sherlock? Are you busy?

Very. Go away.

This is important. Text me back as soon as you can.

Go. Away. Now.

All right. TEXT ME.

She flipped the phone shut, scowled, then flipped it open again.

John?

Molly?

Busy?

Trying to sleep, Molly.

She thought about how worn out he'd looked that morning—and he hadn't slept since. Poor John…

Sorry-sorry-sorry. But this is important and Sherlock won't talk. Mycroft's not just sick. I'm willing to bet someone tried to kill him.

What?

Murder.

Explain.

She could almost hear his voice, the snap of an officer handed bad news.

It's the wrong strain of CA-MRSA staph. Wrong thumbprint entirely. Sampling rate for the Royal Marsden on the strain Mycroft's got is practically zero, for our purposes. There are three other variants he should have picked up before he got this one.

You're kidding.

He's got a strain that's most common in the Middle East. John, someone's got to alert Lund and Beemish, and get an epidemiologist on it. They're not going to listen to me, and Sherlock's—not talking to me right now. You're a doctor. They'll listen to you.

I'm nobody to Beemish, Molly. I don't belong in that world, and they know it.

Then make Lund listen.

Mycroft's already got pneumonia, Molly, even if it's an odd strain. This won't change anything.

He hasn't died, John. He's surviving. Someone tried to kill him at least once—someone with access to him in Intensive Care. Someone who knows how to kill and make it look natural. He's got to be guarded—only they don't know what to guard against. All those stupid thugs in suits can shoot their stupid guns all they like, and it won't stop bacteria.

When John finally texted back she could almost hear the weariness in his reply.

Damn. All right. I'll call Lund. Molly? Write that up and email it to Sherlock. Even if he's being an arse, he's got to know.

Will do. Tell Lund, and then sleep, John.

You, too, Molly. You did a great job.

I know. Even I'm pretty impressed.

You should be.

Yeah.

Good night, Molly.

Good night, John.

At 221B, Sherlock had his own worries keeping him busy. When Molly had texted, he'd been in the middle of a phone call.

"No. She's not going to accept less, Uncle William. … Fine, yes, you're right, it's highway robbery. … Yes. A scandal? What did you expect? I'm asking her to risk her life and her career, just after she began to get it back. … I don't care if you've got a thousand agents who can work with me— Irene's got contacts they can't touch. … No, this is not 'sentiment.' Don't insult either of us. … Yes. Six figures. … All right, I admit, they are six very large figures. It's money well spent. Hold on, I've got a text coming in…"

He scowled at the screen, frustrated. If he didn't bring William around, he'd have to try to work through Beemish, and that was a lost cause. He didn't have time to deal with Molly or her feelings right now—he was working to a clock tied to Mycroft's beating heart, doing the only thing open to him to help his brother... He'd no sooner typed in the last character sending her away than he was back to his call.

"She's got three clients in particular who can offer me insight into the household you've suggested. One's a madrasa boy looking for a brush with Western decadence, one's a minor bureaucrat spending bribe money, and one's a lieutenant for one of the warlords. … Of course she takes terrorist money, Uncle William. Escaping them? That was good. Making them pay her for the privilege of groveling naked at her feet? Priceless. … Do we have a deal? … Good. Yes-yes. Look at it this way, Uncle William: you're fully dressed, right-side up, and you don't have to say, 'thank you, ma'am, can I please have another.' … I'll get back to you as soon as I can confirm. Tell your people to watch out, though: don't mistake her for one of us. Irene's in it for Irene, and if she sees a way to improve on her situation she will…. "

He didn't waste a second after ending the call.

Irene?

Sherlock, I told you—don't bother me unless they're willing to pay.

They're willing to pay.

I see. That does change things. What next?

My contact will have the first payment wired to your account by morning. After that you'll be put in touch with one of our people. He'll want to interview you first, to determine what you may already know. After that you'll have to work how much more you can find out.

Sherlock, what's this all about?

That would be telling.

Another fun game, dear?

No game. Don't play with me on this, Irene. If you do, you'll regret it.

So serious! Tell me, what's in it for you?

That would be telling, too. Don't bother guessing, Irene. It's not anything you'd understand.

Try me?

Already did. Leave it. If you want to play games, play with the clients we mentioned—and play to win.

That's the only way I ever play, dear.

Then be cleverer than when you played with me and Mycroft. This round you dare not lose.

Or what?

I haven't decided, yet.

Mmmm. Sounds interesting…

Irene, it's not a game. And if you lose, you won't find the outcome interesting at all. Just ugly. Do you understand?

You're really serious about this, aren't you?

Deadly.

I see.

Good. You won't get a second chance.

I'm hurt.

No, you're not.

At least the pay is good.

Then take it—and be content.

He wasted no time thinking about Irene after hanging up. For the next day or so she'd be the problem of one of Beemish's agents, rather than his. He called William, assured him that Irene had agreed to their terms, then hung up. He slipped out of his armchair and over to his laptop, arguing with a non-present John as he did so.

"Later. I can sleep later. I'm awake now, and I need to keep working. If you wanted me to sleep you should have stayed here and made me."

Mixed in with his other email, he spotted a message with an attachment from Molly. The subject-line was, "URGENT-URGENT-URGENT—I mean it, Sherlock! READ THIS!"

He scowled and sighed. Molly was never this intrusive….and she knew he was no good at internet-emotional things: she'd learned that the hard way the very first time she'd been fool enough to send him a kitten macro. He couldn't think of anything normal she'd contact him about this determinedly, either. They weren't working a case together, there was no corpse in her morgue that was going to overweigh his concern for Mycroft at this time.

Driven as much by curiosity as anything, he opened the email and began to read. Half an hour later he was back on the phone.

"Molly, meet me over at the Royal. I need to tell Beemish Mycroft needs better protection and you're my backup. He's not going to listen to me, but he might listen to you. I'd bring John, but he's turned his phone off. What? Good. … Good. …That will help. Glad to know he's brought Lund onboard, but I've still got to check for myself. I still want you there to translate for Beemish, and to explain your work. This isn't going to sit well with him. … Then for God's sake, change out of your pajamas! Molly, don't argue, just meet me there."

The fight with Beemish took an hour. Moving Mycroft took three, largely because Beemish and Lund had to deal with the logistics involved in establishing the layers of obfuscation, evasion, and misinformation being laid down at the same time. They didn't dare change hospitals—Mycroft was too weak. Instead Beemish and Lund conspired to play an elaborate shell-game, ultimately leading to a "Mr. Brian Dobbs" being added to the roster of patients at the Royal Marsden—and to Sherlock Holmes phoning in an obituary notice to the London Times.

When he was finished, he sat staring at the screen of the phone, barely aware he'd curled himself into a knot in the shoddy metal armchair in the room the Royal Marsden had assigned him, on the side of the hall opposite Mycroft's. His feet were off the floor and on the chair-seat. His knees rose high, framing his body. He'd wrapped one arm around himself, and was clutching his own elbow so hard that the next day he'd find bruises.

"That was hard," he said. His voice was flat.

"Yes." Molly didn't sound at all surprised.

He didn't choose to acknowledge her understanding. He didn't choose to acknowledge the price any of them had paid for his own death…especially now, with Mycroft's own faked death jangling his nerves, and fear of that death becoming real haunting him.

"You did good work," he said, instead. "You may have saved his life."

"I'm afraid all I did was realize he probably didn't get the staph infection through normal channels. They're evaluating where the strain is common, now. That may tell them something. The same with the chickenpox. But either of them may be from someone's lab. And there's still a chance he could have contracted it normally."

"I still can't understand….I could have sworn we had chickenpox. We were taken to Aunt Freya's. We stayed a few days till Mummy wasn't so upset. We came back. We were all over spots…they itched like fire. Mycroft told me riddles, until I got angry and bored."

"He took care of you."

He growled, annoyance and frustration mixing with fear and nerves. "A regular mother-hen, our Mycroft. 'Holmes Major,' they called him when we were at King's. Holmes Major and Holmes Minor, and if I could have gone anywhere in the world to stop being Holmes Minor I'd have done it in a split second. Even at school he tried to fuss over me. I was seven when I started, and he had three more years before he went on to uni. It was bad enough without him coming over and lecturing me when I got in trouble. It was dreadful: he was a prefect, and then head boy, and he'd come over all prissy and have a talk with me."

Molly snorted, covered her mouth, snorted again, and dissolved into slow giggles. He glared at her. "It wasn't funny."

"Not then, maybe. Not to you. Here and now? To any of your friends? Too cute for words."

"Mycroft and I were never cute," he announced, horrified.

"You were adorable. I can tell. He'd be all stern and gawky and trying way too hard to be a good big brother and set an example and let you know he cared, and you'd be all angry and resentful and telling him he's not your parent, and he'd never understand how much you like being the center of attention even if it means getting in trouble, and you'd never understand that too many people noticing him make him want to curl up and hide."

He frowned at her. "How do you know that?"

"Observation, my dear Sherlock. Just observation."

Molly, watching him, wondered if he'd ever understand: Where he saw a million quanta of little impersonal details, she saw a million quanta of hopes, fears, feelings, and emotions. Once, she had known he was sad, when even John Watson had failed to see. Tonight she could see he was afraid…afraid of losing a big brother he'd never been able to admit loved him, and had never known how to love in return.

She smiled, and gestured to the hospital bed. "Time for you to sleep."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can…and if you don't, you won't be fit to protect Mycroft."

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You're manipulating me."

"You'd be the one to know, genius."

"I don't like being manipulated."

"Then don't make it necessary. It's not that difficult, Sherlock."

"You're a very dangerous woman, Molly Hooper."

"It's the company I keep. Bad influences, all of you. Now—Go. To. Bed."

He complied—but not before sticking his tongue out at her.

She laughed most of the way home.

 

Sherlock stood in the middle of Mycroft's main room, closed his eyes, and opened his senses. He could hear the whispers of the Palace around him and, even more faintly, the murmur of London traffic. There was the steady tick-tock of a seven-day clock on the mantel—Uncle William or a member of the household staff must have wound it. The carpet was thin beneath his booted feet; as he recalled it was an old oriental carpet with little nap but incredible detail. He could feel the leading edge of sunlight from the leaded-glass windows. There was a faint odor of wood smoke from the elegant little fireplace; beeswax and lemon furniture polish; the haunting trace of Mycroft's rare indulgence in a cigarette. He could smell Mycroft's scent: his own personal blend, of course. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at the vanity of it, under other circumstances. It was so very, very Mycroft of Mycroft to have his own scent, compounded of stodgy, traditional bergamot, lavender, lemon, and cedar, but with a startling, beguiling thread of lily of the valley included to throw you off-balance and remind you that Mycroft played the traditional stuffed shirt far more than he actually was a member of that species.

It was his detachment from the role that allowed him to play it with such brilliance, after all. It was one more masking game played by a man who hungered both for games and for camouflage. Sherlock suspected there was nowhere in Mycroft's life where he was not, ultimately, "passing."

Damn Mycroft. Damn him and his twisty, devious, reclusive self. And damn him for having known just what buttons to push to force Sherlock into whatever this mess was that Mycroft was no longer able to complete himself.

He heard the footsteps and classified them well before Uncle William came through the inner door and said, "How very Zen of you, Sherlock. Meditating?"

"Observing. Not that you were in any doubt. Have you found any new information?"

"No. Have you found our contact?"

"No. I can tell you that the connection with Faisal Mohammed Khan can be ruled out entirely."

"On what basis?"

"Death. Two months ago, in a pass in Zabul Province."

"Not that we've heard."

Sherlock opened his eyes and met William's fierce gaze with a sardonic smile. "You don't hear everything, Uncle-mine. My own contacts suggest he and his lieutenants were ambushed trying to bring a shipment of raw opium across the border from Afghanistan into Pakistan."

William gave a sour, disgruntled little growl, and stomped over to the table by the window. He sat, clasping his hands on the polished surface. "We should have heard."

"The family is trying to keep it a secret, until they can restructure."

"How the hell can they…"

"The matron of the house has three sons, and was herself educated in Paris, at the Sorbonne. She combines the best of both worlds—and she knows how to play her competitors. I am told she will succeed, though in what sense is still unclear. But my contacts insist she's too busy holding her family and her allies together to be part of any of Mycroft's grand schemes."

"You got this from your…mistress?"

"I got this from several drug runners working out of Islamabad, who helped me locate one of Moriarty's men a few months ago. I have no…mistress."

"That's not what Mycroft believed."

"Mycroft's beliefs are occasionally limited by his assumptions—about me, about women, and about relationships."

"Then what is she?"

"An education. A competitor. On occasion, an enemy. On occasion, an ally. Beyond that?" He flicked his brows, let his hands fly, his fingers flare in a quick gesture, dismissing the question. "Irene is Irene. I defy anyone to classify her more precisely."

William studied him, eyes hard and narrow. "You quite like having shed the title 'Virgin,' don't you, boy?"

"I quite like shedding a form of ignorance that proved dangerous."

"You're that cold, then?"

"Irene taught me the game; Mycroft taught me the underlying principles. 'Caring is not an advantage.'"

His uncle snorted. "It's as well we never did succeed in recruiting you. A few more beds to your credit, a few more kills, and you'd be asking for your martinis shaken, not stirred."

Sherlock allowed humor to win, and chuckled. "Holmes," he said in a lazy 007 voice. "Sherlock Holmes. Licensed to deduce. It does have rather a ring to it, doesn't it? And speaking of rings…"

"No," William growled, frustrated. "Not a sign of it so far…and we've turned Mycroft's office and these rooms inside out."

Sherlock looked around, surprised. "You've put it back together quite well, then. I'd have expected to notice you'd been through. Some trace…some clue."

"How often are you here, boy?"

"Precisely as often as Mycroft wants me here—regardless of my own preferences." The words were bitter, no matter how he looked at them. "He's a private man."

"Accurate, if not insightful," William drawled. "Back to business, then. If it's not someone in Faisal Mohammed Khan's family, then who?"

"No idea yet. Irene's asking her contacts. I'm pulling information in from mine. Have you more to offer?"

"Nothing."

"And Molly's information about the staph infection? Have you learned more beyond that?"

William rose from the table again and paced the room, circling Sherlock, who held the center ground. "Nothing beyond that she's right. The strain is common in the richer urban hospitals throughout much of the Middle East. Israel, Kuwait, the Saudi Emirates. But there's not a University or an R&D lab that doesn't have some live samples under lock and key, and once there's a sample you can grow your own. It could have come from anywhere."

"You've reviewed the hospital staff?"

William wheeled on him. "We do know our jobs, Sherlock."

"Thus your need for my consultation." The words were intended to hurt. The flash of anger in William's eyes suggested they'd done their work.

"We're doing a full review. Sending out investigators to confirm what's on the record. Contacting associates. Doing this kind of background check takes time, even in this day and age. Especially in this day and age. We've got more information than ever—and most of it's junk." He prowled to the mantel and glared at the seven-day clock. He pulled out his pocket-watch and frowned. "Damn. Men must have buggered this up during the search. It's been losing fifteen minutes a day." He opened the glass face of the clock and spun the minute hand.

Sherlock blinked. "Wait…" He exploded into action, shouldering William aside. He spun the clock case, popped the access, and peered inside, then sent long fingers in to explore by feel. After a moment he sighed, and scowled. "Nothing. You're right. It must have been your men. Mycroft wouldn't have been able to bear it losing time that way."

"They would have looked inside," William said, in dry reprimand. "An empty box like this? Of course they looked in. Probably just slipped the bob a little in the process." He took the clock from Sherlock, carefully closed the back, replaced the case on the mantel, adjusted the hands again, and closed the clock face. "Pretty thing, though. Georgian, at a guess. Black marble with gilt work. Very nice, indeed." He settled the boxy case dead center on the mantel. He turned and looked at Sherlock, then. "Where are you looking next, Sherlock?"

"Irene's gossiping. She's fairly soon she'll know the major families as well as is possible for an outsider with good connections and no ethical restraints. She's looking at those with financial problems, or with conflicting loyalties. I'm pulling in all my contacts. Beyond that—I'm hoping for inspiration, or for your people to find something to work with."

"You're not offering me a lot of hope, Sherlock."

"Mycroft didn't leave us a lot to hope for."

"Except his survival."

Sherlock didn't answer that. John would have called him out for the evasion. He was glad William was not as perceptive as John. It spared him any difficulty with voice management or involuntary twitches.

Damn Mycroft. Damn him. He wasn't supposed to be the one sick and in danger. That was Sherlock's prerogative. This was why he'd been the one who had to die, jumping off St. Barts, while Mycroft stayed at home, safe, secure, and sedentary. Sherlock found he hated being the one to worry, constantly. It was simply intolerable.

After leaving the Palace, he stopped at a rather touristy pub for late lunch. He poked his nose into John's practice, only to be chased off by John and his assistants after he made a perfectly obvious comment about how a patient had come to be pregnant. He went home to 221B to check his emails and text Irene for an update that told him nothing. At last he was out of excuses, and hailed a cab, directing it to the Royal Marsden.

It took longer to thread the maze to Mycroft's new room, this time. There were subtle and not-so-subtle check-points in place, now, new since Molly's revelation about the source of the CA-MRSA infection. Nurses approached smiling, and asking who he'd come to see who had not been present previously—he'd bet that even If they were real nurses, they were not normally employed by the Royal Marsden, but by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Orderlies with impressive physiques and remarkable reflexes lounged casually about, as though they'd nothing better to do than to observe passing staff, patients, and guests. As that was almost certainly what William had assigned them to do, it wasn't a wonder.

He'd reached the fifth floor, and the north corridor—the last stage before reaching Mycroft's room—when one more nurse approached, this one with a look of steel in her eye. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"This won't do, you know. It's wonderful that you and your friends care so much about your brother, but my nurses can't find a minute to tend to him when he's not surrounded by guards and guests. The poor man deserves the dignity of privacy when we change his catheter, at least."

Sherlock's temper rose. "Excuse me?"

"You hold his power of attorney, Mr. Holmes. He's in your care and keeping. I'm sure you believe that maintaining an endless death watch by his bedside shows love and concern, but do you think the poor man would appreciate being on display now, at his weakest?" The nurse, a short, cobby woman with strength of muscle and force of will, took his elbow and attempted to lead him away. "I'd like a chance to talk to you. We want to ensure you and your brother's friends are accommodated, but—"

Sherlock frowned, suddenly uneasy. "Later, Sister…" He tried to pull away, only to find her hand locking tighter to his elbow.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I know it's hard…" Her eyes, though, didn't look sympathetic, they looked determined.

He pulled away, frowning…only to have her reach for him again.

He knew, then. With sudden terror he swerved, dodged her, and shot toward Mycroft's room, racing down the long, dim corridor as fast as his long legs could carry him. Behind him the nurse shrieked, in a high, furious tone. He was still too far away when Mycroft's door burst open, and one of the tireless guards charged out. Instead of moving to help Sherlock, though, he shouted something unintelligible down the hall to the nurse, then spun on the ball of his foot, preparing to run.

From the room, though, came a small, hissing fury. Molly Hooper launched herself at the man's legs, tackling him like a rugby fullback taking on an opposing player, then proceeded to climb his body even as he fell, crashing hard on the linoleum. Sherlock tried to brake before reaching them, only to trip, flying forward, mashing Molly between him and the flailing, swearing guard.

Molly didn't even bother to see who'd landed on her. She landed an agonizing elbow-blow on Sherlock, leaving him gasping, then continued her climb up the guard, who writhed below her, twisting to face his deadly little attacker. Molly was remorseless, fists landing on nerve centers, knuckles aiming for his throat, fingers gouging at his eyes. She clung hard with her legs, refusing to be tossed aside. Through it all she was silent, but for a grunt, a hiss, a huff of effort. Sherlock, gasping and clutching his ribs, fell back, trying to understand what was happening—just in time to see the frantic guard reach for his weapon under the loose fall of his lapel.

With a panicked shout he threw Molly aside, desperate to get her out of the immediate line of fire, then hurled himself at the guard, clutching his wrist, trying to wrench the gun out of his hand. Molly was already back in the fray, still silent, dodging over him and ramming hard fingers and thumb into the tendons of the gunman's hand.

The pistol dropped. The guard, frantic, bucked and thrashed, tossing Sherlock to one side of the hall. Molly, lunging again, was quickly thrown to the other side. Her head connected with the plaster with a hard, hollow crack, and for the first time she made a sound, yipping in pain.

Sherlock was scrambling back up, but he was too slow. The guard crept, rose up, stumbled, but was up in a flash and racing headlong into more guard as they hurtled around a corner. They shouted, drew—but they, too, were too late.

Sherlock barely noticed though. He was too busy surging across the hall to Molly, who was sprawled on the lino, her eyes shocky with pain, her hands creeping up to test her skull for bruises. The next few seconds were a muddle of hands and voices as Sherlock frantically tried to assess the damage:

Are you all right?/I think-/No, are you all right/Sherlock he…/Do you need a doctor?/I'm…fine—Ow! Sherlock!/There—that hurt. You need a doctor…

Then it ended, with her sudden, fierce, "Sherlock, for God's sake cut it out!" and a fast batting away of his hands. She sat up, scowling, as her hands gingerly tested her skull again. "I'm fine, I think. Maybe a bit concussed. We'll have the doctor check it. Did they catch the guard?"

"I don't know."

"He was trying to do something—I don't know what. He was moving toward Mycroft, and I thought it was just to check him, but someone out here shouted, and he dropped something, and then panicked and ran. So I chased him."

He felt appalled horror rise up in him, and with it frustrated anger. "You could have gotten killed!" It was dreadful, the combined dismay and adrenaline crash. He hadn't felt anything quite like it since he'd ripped the bomb jacket off John by the dim swimming pool years ago. He was panting—not so much from exertion as from surges of delayed terror. "He was twice your weight—and armed, you idiot!" Then, mind veering another direction, "How did you do that?"

"Huh?" She gave him a classic, bewildered Molly look. "Do what?"

"You were taking him apart!"

"Um…" she shrugged. "I'm a London girl? Years of self-defense class? I'm good at anatomy? I don't know, Sherlock. He was big but I was mad." She braced a hand on the wall and started to pull herself up.

Sherlock bounced from his squat and tried to help her up. "For God's sake, wait till the doctor's here."

"I don't need a doctor. I need a cup of hot tea and a biscuit, and maybe a bit of a lie-down. Oh, Lord, now I'm beginning to sound like Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, you're going to knock us both down. Just get me to a chair, please? Go check Mycroft. I want to know he's all right."

He helped her to the guest's chair in Mycroft's room, then turned, prepared to examine—to observe.

What he observed was the wild rush of his own pulse, cascades of details flooding his mind refusing to be sorted, and a driving awareness of Mycroft, limp—dying—and Molly, wincing as she explored her bruises. He'd felt that anguished helplessness by the pool with John, before…the desire to protect, and the knowledge he couldn't. It had been worse when Moriarty had left, and they'd thought they'd won—somehow more terrifying in the relief than during the testing. He was too conscious now of two lives he had to protect, and could not protect.

"I've—I've got to go," he managed to say, knowing his voice was too weak, his pacing too broken, but unable to change that. "I'm—I need to find out if they caught him. I'll—I'll be back. I'll—" He realized he wasn't going to manage any better for now. He gave a blind wave, and shot out of the room, down the hall, moving from a walk to a lope to a dead run. He bypassed the elevator because he wasn't sure the wait wouldn't drive him mad. Instead he found the stairs and ran down all five flights. At last he was out in the car-park, gasping, looking out at the night city.

He leaned against the grubby brickwork and closed his eyes, forcing his breath to still, forcing his senses to close, finding a stillness inside.

"You all right, man?" called a voice from down the way.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looked down the line of the wall. An orderly was there, leaning on his own bit of brickwork, smoking a cigarette. "I'm…fine. Mind giving me one of those?"

"Bad night?"

"Bloody horrible."

The orderly nodded, sadly—wisely. "Gets like that around here. Hospitals." He shook a cigarette from the pack and held it out. "Menthol. Hope that's all right."

"Full tar?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody perfect." Sherlock took the cigarette, borrowed the orderly's lighter quickly, and took a deep, blessed drag, sucking the nicotine down as deep as possible…then coughing. Too long since he'd smoked regularly… He wheezed, leaned back, and took another, more cautious drag. Slowly he felt himself come together, no longer feeling like a puzzle box of muddled fragments all tossed out of order. As he finally began to relax, he contemplated Mycroft's one abiding truth:

Caring was not an advantage.

 

Molly couldn't believe it. The overgrown lummox had apparently suffered a breakdown or something. She tried to think of any time she'd ever seen Sherlock dither…or babble. Or run away. Even after years of knowing him she couldn't think of a single example. The closest she could come was that one Christmas Party, when for a short, shattering second she'd seen Sherlock shamed—and this hadn't really been like that at all, other than the odd sense that his defenses had been shattered and ground to dust.

But she was damned if she knew why. The fight and the mystery and the hunt were the sort of thing that usually had Sherlock baying with excitement like a rugger fan when his team looked likely to score a goal.

She leaned down, aching, trying to stretch strain and bruise out of her back and shoulders. With the adrenaline wearing off her aches and weariness were trying to take over. She could hear the nurses and agents working to put new guards in place.

Under Mycroft's bed, almost hidden his shadow, she saw something. She knelt and fished cautiously, trained by long experience not to risk cuts or stabs in a medical environment. When her fingers found something solid she flicked it gingerly out into the light, then picked it up from the linoleum floor, frowning.

This must be what the guard had dropped when he panicked. She studied it. It was a fine gauge 33 Stubs insulin hypodermic, pre-loaded, with a plastic cap over the tip. Instinctively she slipped it into her open tote, which lay by the wall of the room. The guard had betrayed Mycroft and tried to flee when Sherlock came by and that nurse shouted. She knew, as she'd known then, that something was wrong…deeply wrong. She also knew with cold certainty that Sherlock wouldn't want her handing the evidence over to anyone he hadn't cleared. Not after this.

A nurse looked in the open door. "Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"There are some officers…? People?" She apparently pondered the correct term, and shifted reluctantly back. "Officers—there are some officers here who want to speak with you. Can they come in?"

Molly glanced over at Mycroft. He was still unconscious but not, thank God, dosed with whatever the guard had intended to slip him. "No. I think no one until Mr. Holmes' brother, Sherlock, has cleared it. Tell them I'll be out in a moment." The nurse nodded; her eyes were troubled.

Molly'd been a ward nurse long enough to sympathize entirely. Life at the Royal Marsden must be getting really strange for those nurses and doctors who had any dealings with Mycroft at all. New personnel everywhere, most of them set in place to guard not to pull their weight in ward tasks. Disruptions. Extra precautions. It couldn't be much fun even without events like tonight's. She smiled at the nurse, pitching her voice softly, radiating the kind of "don't mind me, I'm harmless" vibe that had stood her in good stead as a student nurse, and for years afterward. "I'm a nurse, too. I'm the senior tech at the morgue at St. Barts, now, but I was a ward nurse here when I first graduated from Florence Nightengale. If you'd bring by supplies, I can take care of Mr. Holmes for you, once the officers are done with me. Sherlock's already approved me being with his brother." She allowed herself a soft, mothery-dithery Mrs. Hudson-ish chuckle. "Safe as houses, I am. Check with the agents, but I can at least save you some work there."

The nurse brightened. "That would help ever so! Sister Johansen was supposed to be here, but she's disappeared, and Sister Chamkhani's out with flu…no use to us with your man there in intensive."

It took almost half an hour to satisfy the MI5 agent who questioned her. She kept it as simple as she could, and didn't mention the hypodermic. It frightened her that she didn't know who to trust. She wanted Sherlock there to give her a hint—but he was still missing when they finished up. She assured the agent she'd get back in touch if she thought of anything else, then returned to Mycroft's room. A cart loaded with fresh supplies had been left just outside the door.

She rolled it in, closed the door, then carefully examined the supplies for tampering. Once she felt reasonably confident the materials were safe, she began, dropping back into a familiar ritual. Bedridden patients in ICU had to be carefully managed, for fear of sores, site infections, blocked catheters, and more. She snapped on gloves and began, her mind pulling into an impersonal professional zone. When Sherlock did return she was too involved to really care.

She worked her way from Mycroft's head to his toes, leaving nothing untended, nothing unclean, nothing damp or likely to fester. She cleaned the pox sores, and dabbed them with antiseptic and a mild moisturizer to help them heal without scarring. She replaced medical tape stabilizing the various tubes and needles, replaced an IV tap that looked suspiciously gummy. Once she was sure she'd met his medical needs she took a moment to comb his thinning hair neatly, then pulled up a chair and simply held one of his hands.

"He's not conscious," Sherlock husked. His already deep voice was ragged and uncertain. He smelled of tobacco smoke. She might have scolded under other circumstances. The scent was faint, though, and unlikely to harm Mycroft—and Sherlock had a cigarette or two coming to him, what with one thing or another.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't know we're here," she said. "They've done studies on recovery rates and complications based on what's said and done around unconscious patients. It matters." She stroked the back of Mycroft's hand.

"He won't appreciate that, you know. He's not fond of touchy-feely." Sherlock tweedled his fingers in the air as though conjuring up some manic groper determined to pat and pinch and paw at innocent invalids.

"Then he can wake up and tell me so," she said, amused. It wasn't like either Holmes brother could be considered touchy-feely, after all. "I have something to show you when we leave. Something from before the attack."

When she glanced over she could almost see neurons firing. He nodded. "Yes."

"I was wondering. I'm not really happy with what happened here, tonight. Do you think you could call in some favors and have Inspector Lestrade's lab people do some some testing for us? I have something that worries me."

"I'd rather you did any testing."

"I've got another interview tomorrow, and I'm already behind on work."

"Cancel the interview and I'll have Uncle William explain to your supervisors."

"No."

He frowned, then—a thunderous glare she knew only too well. Part of her flinched. "No?"

"No." She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on Mycroft's face. "This needs to be done reliably and with all the paperwork and tracking. We can't fudge this, Sherlock…it's too important, and there are too many people already playing silly buggers with the record keeping. And I need to get on with my life. I can find time to come over after work, and I'm glad to. But I can't start skipping work, or passing up interviews."

"Decided you'd rather be the lion, not the mouse, Molly Hooper?"

"Decided even a mouse can roar, once in awhile."

"You were no kind of mouse tonight. I didn't know whether to rescue you or the guard." He didn't sound entirely happy about it, either. "Don't do that, again, Molly. It's dangerous."

"So's what you do. So's what I do, when it comes to that—mucking around inside dead bodies has its own risks."

"It's different."

She set her jaw. "No, it's not. I don't see you running around telling John to keep out of danger."

He made a noise that was as much huff as mumble.

"Well you don't," Molly insisted.

"He's a soldier."

"Was a soldier."

"He's got the training." Before she could continue, he took a restless turn around the hospital room, growling, "Would you please not argue, Miss Hooper?"

"So I'm 'Miss Hooper' now?" she said, truly amused. She'd been afraid of his temper for so long—she could hardly believe that now she'd actually risk baiting him. They were changing. She wasn't sure how. Was she less in love—no longer feeling the waves of adoration and embarrassment and need she'd once felt? Or were they closer now than they'd ever been, beginning to talk between themselves as friends and peers for the first time? She smiled to herself and stroked the back of Mycroft's hand again, skillfully avoiding jarring the inserted needles. "Sherlock, don't fuss. I won't go looking for guards to tackle, if you don't go all fussbudget at me if I tackle the ones that come my way."

"Fussbudget?" he almost squalled, then cut the volume back. "I do not 'fussbudget.' Which is a noun, not a verb, I'll have you know."

"Horrors. I verbed a noun. The world shall end." She risked a glance over her shoulder, smiling to see him leaning with shoulders propped against the far wall, arms crossed, for all the world like a sulky boy outside the Headmaster's office.

He scowled—then, as he met her eye, the scowl broke up, and almost turned to a smile, before he forced it down again.

She almost didn't realize she'd tightened her hold on Mycroft's hand, until he flinched. Her attention shot back to him. "Sherlock…"

"What?"

"His pain reflex. I jarred his IV by mistake and he registered it." She studied the pale, splotched face. "I can't tell if there are any REM patterns, yet. But—I think he's beginning to come back." She caressed the hand in hers…then smiled, as slim fingers weakly curved around hers.

"He's reacting." Sherlock had come close. He peered over her head, one hand gripping her shoulder much too tight.

"It's likely only reflex right now," she said, softly. "Like touching the inside of a baby's palm."

"But it's more than we've seen before."

"Yes. We'll make sure the nurses record that when we go. Dr. Lund will be pleased."

"We're not going to stay?"

She sighed. "No, Sherlock. He's improving. We can't rush that. What we're going to do is go home." She stood, tucked Mycroft's hand back at his side, then stepped away, gathering her tote and slipping from the room, determined to give Sherlock a few moments with his brother. She flagged the nurse who'd brought the supplies and took the time to update her, making sure their observations were noted on Mycroft's records.

When Sherlock came out, she waited for him to reach her, then said, "I still have something to give you."

He nodded almost invisibly. "Yes. Walk to Tom's Kitchen and talk there?"

"No. Cab to the lab at Bart's."

"So secretive, Molly?"

She considered the repercussions of handing Sherlock a hypodermic in a public place and being noticed. "I think you'll agree with me."

They were silent on the trip down the elevator, and as quiet in the cab. At first Molly found it uncomfortable, raising twitchy memories of the months and years of working with him in perpetual embarrassment, hoping to be noticed, and dreading it, too. After a bit, though, she relaxed. Things had changed. She no longer felt as invisible as she once had—nor as painfully exposed when things went wrong between them, either. As a result she could bear the silence in comfort. She was no less aware of them than she'd ever been, she thought—but now it was different. More like sharing a cab with a feral cat that had started to trust. She noted ever shift, every restless uneasiness, and found herself smiling a little.

Had he been as nervous as she had been back before his death? No. She couldn't believe that. But this entire situation with Mycroft had him on edge, strung tight, and she could read it in him, even in the dark, surrounded by the hum and honk of London traffic.

They walked together into St. Barts, matching their paces as best a short woman and a tall man could. Molly fished in her tote and found the lab keys, opened the door, flicked on the light without even looking, and scurried to one of the central lab tables. She tipped the entire tote out, pawing rapidly until she found the hypodermic, which she offered him without comment.

Sherlock came to full alert. "My-my, Molly. Where did you find this?"

"It's what the guard dropped right before he panicked and ran. It was under Mycroft's bed."

"And you didn't hand it in to the nurses or to MI5? Molly-Mouse is becoming quite the little rebel! I see I've been a bad influence on you."

"I don't trust them," she said, bluntly, refusing to be teased. "If a guard was turned, there could be more."

"A guard and a nurse," he said, absently. "The one who screamed and set you man running." He turned the slim hypo over and over, frowning at it. "Nothing to identify it. Can you tell me anything?"

"It's an insulin hypo, finest Stub's grade—as thin as they come. Short needle length. Smallest volume, too: 1ml. Preloaded. No marker to say what's in it."

"You think he was going to inject Mycroft with this?"

"No. I think he was going to inject it into the IV, close to the needle and tape, where a bit of seep happens anyway. With a needle this fine there's often no obvious sign of tampering anyway: the tube seals itself when the needle is withdrawn."

"Any ideas what's in it?"

She shook her head. "Too many ideas, would be more like it."

"So this is what you want tested?"

"Yes. And it's got to be a pro lab—and not my lab. Go through Greg Lestrade. Or send it to one of the other hospitals-just be sure you preserve the chain of evidence. Don't' leave any holes or gaps. Make it official, but don't let Mr. Beemish's people work on it."

He arched his brows. "I do know how this is done, Molly."

"You know how it's done on your side—even if you and John do seem to spend as much time playing silly buggers with evidence as anything. I know how the hospital makes sure chains of evidence are intact. It's not the same thing."

He studied her, a frown growing in his eyes—and for the first time in weeks she felt herself flush under his gaze.

"Were you always so fierce? Tackling spies, taking charge of things? Scolding me?" He snorted, then. "I don't think so. I could hardly have failed to notice." He set the hypo gently on the table, and began a slow, contemplative pace around her, studying her as if she were an unusual crime scene.

She shivered, and frowned at him. "Stop it, Sherlock. I'm not a blood stain or a paint chip. I'm not a clue." As he tried to circle her, she pivoted, trying to keep him in front of her.

"I don't treat you like a sample or a chip!" he protested, still pacing.

"Yes. Yes, you do."

"Molly, do hold still. You're being difficult."

"I'm being human." He kept walking, and she was feeling dizzy. "I don't want you peering at me like that."

"I would have said otherwise, a few years ago," he said, seeming almost not to notice his own comment. "Back then it was new hair, new dress, new lipstick… What's changed?" The worst part was he sounded curious—but only curious. He was being "Sherlock" at his strange and alien best.

She clenched her teeth. "I grew out of it, all right? Please stop walking around me. You're making me giddy." She veered away from him, going to lean on the lab table, trying to force her stomach to settle. "I'm sorry. I get carsick, too, sometimes."

"Poor coordination between the eye and the inner ear," he said, standing where she'd left him.

"Probably. But it doesn't take many spins around to make me feel bad." She collected the hypo from the table top. "I'll put this in the sample refrigerator. You can have one of Greg's people pick it up tomorrow. Give me a ring so I know who's coming, and don't send them over between eleven and two."

"Your interview, then, is it?"

"Second at Cameron."

"The forensic program?"

"Right."

"How many more interviews?"

"Hard to say, isn't it? More is better. As long as they're still talking to me, there's hope." She slipped a band of tape around the hypo, labeled it with the date and her name, then crossed the room, putting the little tube out of sight where the other lab staff wouldn't easily find it. She crossed back and began piling her possessions back in her tote: Kindle, Feminax bottle, leggings and tank for the gym, wallet, discreet pack of tampons, hair brush, spare hair ties, a pair of gloves…

"No wonder you need such a large bag."

She darted a look at him and realized he was still where he'd been when she pulled away from him, standing almost frozen in place, hands clasped behind his back. He had startlingly good posture: he seemed almost to hang from a string at the top of his head. She risked a smile. "If Batman were a woman he wouldn't need a utility belt—he'd have a tote."

Humor flashed. "I didn't see a Bat-arang anywhere in that."

"I shoot hair ties, instead. Always prepared."

The two struggled to keep straight faces, then dissolved into giggles. When they recovered, he met her eyes. He looked confused—as confused as she'd ever seen him. Between mysteries, research, and his own social failures, she'd seen him look confused more often than he'd probably wish to know. "You…" His voice faded, hesitant.

"Yes?"

"You've become as valuable to me as John Watson." Every inflection made it clear he found that as peculiar a thing to be saying as "I have accidentally swallowed the alligator," or "Please don't let the ocean out, it's not been fed yet."

She nearly laughed. For so long she'd imagined scenes straight out of romances. Sherlock Holmes would swear he loved her, and her only. That he couldn't live without her. That he dreamed of her. That she looked beautiful in a dress, or that her hair shone in the sunlight. He'd compare her to jewels, or flowers, or legendary beauties. Hell, she thought, I'd have settled for "you look nice today—want to snog?"

If she'd been in love with Sherlock, though, and not just the idea of Sherlock, she'd have known—only Sherlock could say he'd started to love her, at least a little, by comparing her to John Watson—and only Sherlock could look so puzzled and unaware of what he actually meant.

It wasn't what she'd dreamed of. She frankly wasn't sure what it could become. With her luck it meant that, like John, he'd drag her from pillar to post, insult her without a passing thought, experiment on her when it suited his needs, and let her go years thinking him dead. But it was better than an imaginary relationship with a fictional Sherlock.

She smiled, and nodded. "Yeah. I think that means we're friends."

He blinked. "I don't have friends."

She ambled toward the door of the lab, grinning to herself, tote slung casually over her shoulder. "Yeah, you do."

"Only John—and he's mad at me now."

"Which is why he busted his bum to help you with Mycroft. Give it a rest, Sherlock. You've got friends. You just see—but don't observe."

They laughed all the way out to the turn-around, where Molly caught a cab home.

Sherlock, however, walked back to 221B Baker Street. It was a long walk—and he still hadn't figured out what he thought or felt by the time he arrived.

 

John Watson, eyes crusted with sleep and enthusiasm at low ebb, looked at Sherlock incredulously. "You stole my flat key, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say stole. Borrowed. Briefly. Here, have a cup of coffee."

"You copied my flat key—you stole my flat key and you copied it."

"Not so much stole as found, John. And I had it back to you in next to no time. Drink your coffee while it's hot—I've got a lot for us to do today."

"You stole my key, you copied it, and you broke into my flat. I could have been busy, you know. I could have had a guest. I might have been pleasantly occupied."

"Don't be ridiculous. Dr. Marston is out of town for the next week, your luck has never been all that good, and I know you: you weren't cheating on the good Mary while she's away." Sherlock ignored John's squall of protest, pointedly pushing the stoneware mug across the counter. "Coffee, John. Black and bitter, just the way you like it. Drink up, shower, and get dressed. We're going to the Royal Marsden."

That was enough to gain John's attention. "Is Mycroft worse?" he asked. He absently grabbed the mug and took a deep swallow, making worried-beagle faces over the brim.

"Actually, he may be doing better. I've arranged to meet with Dr. Lund when he makes his rounds at," he checked his watch, "Eight-thirty. My goodness, John, you'd better hurry—that's only forty-five minutes to shower, shave, dress, and get over there. Drink down, and I'll call a cab while you're dressing."

"Sherlock, I've got a practice—"

"—and today is your half-day and you don't open till afternoon. We'll go to the Royal Marsden to see Lund, then pop around to New Scotland Yard to pick up Lestrade, then over to St. Barts before Molly has to go to her interview. We should be done in time for you to grab some lunch and make it back for your first appointment."

John closed his eyes, the very picture of patience in a snit. "You do this just to drive me crazy, don't you?"

"I would not sink so low… Well, I would, actually. If I were bored. Or you made it easy. Or—but that's not the point. I'm not doing it to drive you crazy this time. I need your help. I want someone with me who knows what Lund's saying, and then I need you and Lestrade to secure a piece of evidence Molly and I, er, collected last night."

Sucking down the last of the coffee, John studied his friend. "Greg can't manage that himself?" he suggested. "It's not exactly heavy lifting…or is it? What, did the two of you heist an elephant or something insane like that?"

"Hypodermic. One of Mycroft's guards tried to inject him. The man was startled and ran, dropping the syringe. I'm going to have Lestrade's people do the analysis because I no longer know who to trust in MI5 and MI6." Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes. Instead he drew a small chef's knife from the knife block on the counter and flipped it, catching it delicately by the back of the blade, then flipped it again, catching its hilt. Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He made it look effortless. Like many things he did, it was nothing of the sort. "I want to be sure I know what's in it, and I want to be sure no one stops me."

"Good God, yes," John agreed, now fully in accord. "I don't see what I can do to help, but…"

"You can always sign the evidence bag. Fill out a report. Help build a paper chain." Flip-flip. Flip-flip. He could have been even more obnoxious and performed the flips while watching John, trusting only his peripheral vision and muscle-knowledge to catch the flying blade. It did not suit him to meet John's eyes. "I would estimate you're now down to thirty-five minutes, John. Shower?"

"Erm…right. Of course. Just give me a few minutes," John said, and hurried off, his familiar worn terry robe flapping around his shanks.

Sherlock put the knife away, and drew out his mobile phone, quickly typing in text.

What progress, Wiggins? SH

Bella & Mad Georgie outside . Kiki's got teh Royal Marsden front. I got no one 4 back or sides. Workin on it.

Do. Let me know as you get people in place. Plan on watching in shifts. This will not be over soon.

Will-do, boss.

Within seconds he'd pulled up another contact.

News? SH

No, Sherlock. Stop nagging. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything. I've got an appointment with old Mohammed Julalipur in an hour. He likes to show off, and he knows everything that's happening in the Muslim business community. Don't rush me, I'm working on it.

Someone tried to kill Mycroft again last night.

If you expect me to weep, you've badly mistaken my relationship with Mycroft, dear.

If you expect me not to, you've mistaken mine. Sherlock hit send before he fully realized what he'd written. He stared at the text, wishing he could call the words back. Feeling that emotionally naked in front of Irene was not good—feeling that naked in front of himself was worse.

Caring was not an advantage. He knew that; he and Mycroft had both learned it young—and he and Mycroft had long tried to convince themselves they applied it to each other, as well as to outsiders. Crashing face-first into the lie was never pleasant.

Irene wasn't slow enough to miss the opening, either.

How touching. Fraternal affection between the Holmes Boys! I doubt the Ice Man would approve, but, still, it's sweet.

You have to stop trusting Moriarty's evaluations. He always did misunderstand us. And that, too, was telling too much. He didn't want Irene to start questioning her understanding of Mycroft. His brother was already facing death. Losing his masks, though? That would be like sunlight to a vampire: Mycroft would burn under Irene's avid, prying eyes. Keep me informed. Oh—and don't trust our contacts with MI6. At least some are moles.

I don't even trust the ones who aren't. Maybe especially the ones who aren't. I can work with a proper mole. An honest agent can be lethal, and for the stupidest reasons.

Save your wit for another time. Just keep on it, and keep in touch.

He could hear John had finished his shower. Sherlock checked his watch, estimated five minutes for shaving and general toiletries, and another five to ten to dress. He called for a cab, then texted Lestrade.

We'll be by to pick you up around 9:30/10:00. Be ready. SH

Ok. I can clear the time, but—you sure Donovan can't pick it up?

Certain. Consider it a sign of my high esteem.

Yeah, yeah. Tell me another one, I could use more laughs.

If you fail to recognize the truth in that statement, it's your failure, not mine, Detective Inspector.

Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock. Ok. I'm flattered. But I gotta say, it's a hell of a way to flatter a guy: haul him off the job to pick up one piece of evidence.

I trust you. I trust you entirely—with evidence and with more.

You going soft on me?

By no means.

Mmmm-hmmm. You know you're a bit of a flake, Holmes?

I've been told on occasion. How are things working out with your date from the other evening?

Too early to say. She's going out for dinner with an old boyfriend this evening, but it didn't come across as a game-ender… she says accountants aren't her thing. So, it's early days.

You should be careful. She's got a lover in Leeds under a restraining order, and a bad track record over the past three years. You're her fourth new relationship since April, and she's juggling two others who are still active.

Sherlock? Are you giving me dating advice? Because if you are, you gotta know you're way outside of your field of expertise.

Point taken, Detective Inspector. John's almost ready. We'll see you at NSY.

Yeah. I'll be ready. And Sherlock? Just call me Lestrade. Detective Inspector's just too damned wanky for texting.

Later, DI Lestrade.

Jerk.

Sherlock was working on something to cap that with, rather than lose the sparring contest, when John came out. The older man was dressed for work, in brown pants, a cream and brown checked shirt, and a dark chocolate corduroy jacket. He shrugged on his shooting jacket and grabbed an umbrella, and the two headed for the door just as the cab beeped its arrival.

At the Royal Marsden, Lund confirmed Mycroft's increased responsiveness with cautious pleasure, expressed both dismay and frustration at the most recent attempt to harm his patient, and ongoing annoyance at having to work around constraints imposed by Beemish, MI5, MI6, and Sherlock. Sherlock was relieved at the confirmation, in agreement regarding the dismay, and annoyed at the annoyance.

"It's not a situation I created, Dr. Lund, nor is it one I can ameliorate. Even if his heath was strong enough to risk a transfer to another hospital—and you assure me it is not—I am actually quite content with the care he's received from you and from the hospital's staff. As for Beemish and his people: blame Mycroft. They're not my sort of thing at all."

Lung gave him a sour look. "And your sort of thing is?" he grumbled.

"Ah! Um,—you don't want him to answer that. You really, really don't," John cut in quickly. "He makes med students look sane. So, Mycroft's showing some improvement, then? What do you expect over the next few days?"

The conversation quickly headed into dense thickets of medical vocabulary that Sherlock chose not to wade through. He already knew the crucial bits: Molly's observations had been correct, and Mycroft was showing increased responsiveness. His blood work indicated that his body was, slowly, winning the war against the CA-MRSA. Dr. Lund was cautiously optimistic. That was enough—and not what Sherlock had come for anyway. As the two medical professionals proceeded to burrow into the comfort of medical jargon, Sherlock eased himself back and over to the nurses' station, where a nurse was sitting, bent over a clipboard of paperwork. He leaned his elbow on the counter and studied the floor.

He could see three likely guards from where he stood, and spotted four cameras added to the hospital's normal assortment. He was betting on several more. Without turning, he murmured to the nurse holding down the station, "Are you one of Beemish's bright young things?"

"Mmm," she said, equally quietly.

"What do you think of the set-up here, then?"

"Couldn't say, sir," she said, still softly. "This is only my first year as a field agent, sir. Wouldn't presume to comment on my superiors."

"You'll never get anywhere with that attitude, Sister. Mycroft would be disgusted. He'd expect you to at least venture guess."

"Then I'd guess he'd be happy to know you're making sure we know you're watching us, Mr. Holmes, sir."

Sherlock snorted with amusement. "A sharp one, I see. I'll be sure to tell Mycroft if…when he recovers. He's always looking for sharp new talent."

"Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. I think that's covered it."

"Sir? One more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Ask for Averil, Denver, Jameson, and Hansen to be put on guard duty, in shifts. They've all served with the other Mr. Holmes, and they're not happy he's been hit once, and almost hit a second time. The men Beemish has assigned were good, so far as we knew—but the names I gave you are Mr. Mycroft's people, and they're angry."

He turned and looked at her, startled. He automatically ticked over the details: neat uniform, hands with give-away signs of regular martial arts practice, lack of any jewelry, tick-tick-tick, the total picture mounted.

She was young, but radiated professionalism. She was pretty, too—East Indian, with big dark eyes that burned with a fire Mycroft seemed to inspire in some of his subordinates, in spite of his own cool professional aura. That, however, could be faked.

"And I should trust you, why?"

"Because you can look them up, Mr. Holmes. Their records are available—and your contacts could give you access even if they weren't." She met his gaze without faltering.

He nodded, pensively. "Good reason. I'll give it some consideration. Your name? So I can recommend you to Mycroft later?"

"Amy Trapper, sir."

He nodded, saying no more—but he would remember her. She'd be useful to Mycroft—and, someday, he might find her useful himself. Knowing people inside Mycroft's secret world was occasionally worthwhile, especially the good ones. He then checked the time, took a moment to relay a request to William to pull up the records of the agents Trapper had suggested, review them, and assign them if he thought them sound—and then collected John and headed off to pick up Lestrade and before proceeding on to St. Barts.

Molly was clearly pleased they'd arrived as early as they had. She was dressed for her interview, and Sherlock was glad he'd asked Mycroft to recommend a family friend to help her with her fashion choices. She wore loose, elegant slubbed-silk trousers in dark cinnamon brown, a cream jersey in brushed cotton that draped fluidly over her torso, and a gold and garnet circle pin and matching earrings. Her hair was clubbed in a doubled-over braid, and secured at the nape with a polished wood hair clasp. She wore only a trace of makeup. None of that mattered to Sherlock, and much of it was lost on him—cluttery information he didn't need to solve mysteries. He did, however, know what a woman "of his class" was supposed to look like, and Molly was now dressed to pass, no longer calling attention to herself by choices that too obviously tried too hard. She would be spared embarrassment, and judged for her professional skills, not her social class—or lack thereof. The result was all he had hoped for.

Molly retrieved the hypodermic from the sample refrigerator and gave it to Lestrade. Lestrade slipped it into an evidence bag, and gave Molly a clipboard of paperwork to fill out to add to the paper trail. He and John likewise filled out forms. Sherlock was put to work recording his observations from the night before, and Molly's presentation of the hypo to him and their actions after. The paper-trail was being laid.

Lestrade and John finished first, and made small talk with Molly while they waited for Sherlock to finish. He was in no rush: it provided an opportunity to watch them…study them. John complimented Molly on her outfit. She blushed, echoing traces of her shyness from years before, but still clearly pleased. Lestrade chimed in, and she dimpled. The two men flanked her, one to each side, both kind, solicitous, and admiring.

Sherlock weighed it all carefully, thinking the whole time. Only when he was sure of his choice did he scrabble a last few sentences on the form he'd been given, race off his signature and the date, and rise, handing it all to Lestrade.

"There. Done. Molly, what are your plans this evening?"

All three looked at Sherlock like he'd grown a second head.

"I'm going to sit with Mycroft, Sherlock."

"No. We'll be getting new guards in and I want to oversee them myself. And you've been overworking yourself. I think you should have dinner with Lestrade, here. He's been stood up by his date, who's off making eyes at a chartered accountant from Chandler's Cross, so he's at liberty. You're free; he's free. Why not make the best of it? So: dinner, maybe a movie. You deserve a treat. What about it?"

"Wha-? Holmes, you arse," Lestrade growled, scowling at Sherlock. "For God's sake!"

John, at the same time, simply smacked Sherlock upside the head, snapping, "You stupid pillock!"

Molly looked at him. She looked at him for a bit too long. At last she said, "Are you trying to set me up with a date, Sherlock?"

"Well, you're not doing it for yourself," he pointed out. "And Lestrade's a good sort. Solid, sensible, kind. A good husband, by all reports. Not, perhaps, the quickest CPU in the inventory, but he gets there eventually."

"Yes. He's quite nice, I agree…and if he ever decides to ask me out, I may even say yes," Molly snapped. "But not like this."

Lestrade and John both looked like they had several volumes worth of things they'd like to add—and didn't dare. Their eyes swung back and forth between Sherlock and Molly, reminding Sherlock of nothing so much as the eyes of half-wild, half-spoiled Shetland ponies at the gymkhanas of his childhood. If a bird had flown past the window he had no doubt both men would buck and bolt.

Sherlock sighed with exasperation. "Why not like this? It's what friends do, isn't it? Match-make? Fix each other up? What part of this am I failing to understand?"

"Just bloody everything," Lestrade muttered. John growled, "Sherlock, you don't ask people out for dates with other people. You ask for yourself."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd lost all his marbles and perhaps a few of someone else's as well. "Ask Molly out myself? Why would I do that? John, I like Molly. I'd no more ask her out to dinner than I'd let her go out with…with…with Mycroft!"

Lestrade's face seemed to melt and buckle like warm wax, as he fought back laughter. John didn't manage to hold it back at all—he gave a sharp, loud bark, and then dissolved in giggles. Soon both men were leaning on the lab table, howling with laughter—and, Sherlock suspected, just short of pissing themselves.

Molly, however, had buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking. It was hard to tell over Lestrade's whoops and John's cackles, but Sherlock thought he heard a faint, high, sobbing wail.

Frustrated, uncertain, and suddenly afraid, he stepped closer. One finger traced her hand.

"Molly?" She shook her head, frantically. He was sure she was crying, now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I got it wrong again."

Her hands seemed flutter, reposition themselves, and he was met by the complicated sight of tears and laughter both shining in her eyes. She partially covered her mouth, but got out, "No, Sherlock, it's all right. It's not a bad thing, it's just such a Sherlock thing, that's all." She choked on a giggle, then—to his surprise, and apparently to John and Lestrade's as well, she suddenly stood on tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek, and said, "Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Just—next time you want to set up a date, set it up for yourself. Now, I've got to run or I'll miss my interview." She grabbed a purse—a small, neat purse quite unlike her usual tote—and darted out the door, still laughing as she called back, "Laters! Wish me luck!"

He watched her go, then turned to John. "But I don't even believe in luck…"

When he still hadn't gotten anything but hysterical laughter out of the two men five minutes later, he stalked out to the turn-around entry and stood sulking in the doorway, watching the rain pour down. He refused to turn as he heard John's footsteps approach. "I could have left you to get your own cab," he grumbled.

"Yeah, you could have. But then you'd have had to sulk all the way home alone." John sounded almost sympathetic. "Look, I still have time for lunch. Hungry?"

"God, yes. I'd kill for a curry."

Later, as John gasped and panted over a scarlet bowl of rogan josh, he asked, "Why did you do it? I mean, really? I know you. You thought you were accomplishing something. What was it?"

"Set up two friends on a date," Sherlock insisted, slurping a spoonful of rice and lamb korma. "Is that so impossible to believe?"

John paused, looked Sherlock up, then down, and said, firmly, "Yes. Completely impossible. You'd sooner join Mrs. Hudson's Little Theater group and try out for Yum-Yum in Mikado."

Sherlock barely managed not to exhale his korma through his nose. A few seconds later, after some gulping and some napkin work, he looked at his friend in reproach. "Was that necessary, John? Was it kind?"

"No. But it was true. And it made you laugh."

Sherlock grudgingly shrugged and rolled his eyes to concede John was right. He didn't say it, though. That would have been too much for John to expect of him.

John didn't appear to mind. Instead he just asked, again, "So. What were you really up to?"

Sherlock sighed, set both hands flat on the table, and looked at him in frustration. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"Not in a million years."

The hands flew from the table in exasperation—and in surrender. "All right. All right—but no laughing."

"Sorry. Not a promise I can make. Tell you what: I won't stand on the seat and announce it to the rest of the restaurant. That's a promise I can keep."

Sherlock grimaced. "And that's your best offer?"

"Afraid so."

"You're a hard man, John Watson."

"War does that. Now for God's sake, tell!"

Sherlock sighed, prodded his korma despondently, and mumbled something.

"What's that? Couldn't hear you."

"I said, she could have been killed last night."

"She wasn't, though."

"Yes, but she could have been. Mycroft and I—we aren't safe."

"And a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard is? I've got news for you, sunshine: Greg's no more safe than you are."

"He's better fit to take care of her." Sherlock said, stubbornly. "He's safer, he's steadier, and he'll…take care of her. His first wife was an idiot. He'd be good for Molly."

John leaned back and studied his friend, eyes suddenly both serious and curious. "And…you wouldn't?"

"Of course I wouldn't!" Sherlock snarled. "It was always impossible. She was an idiot to even want it. I'm not a nice man, John."

"No. No, you're not," John agreed, calmly. "You're a right bugger a lot of the time."

"Exactly. I'm not made for that kind of thing. I may be smart, but I'm just short of mental: ask Donovan if you've got any doubts."

"No need. I've roomed with you. You're correct on all counts."

"So—we're in agreement. She was a fool to be all—you know," Sherlock said, fluttering his hands as though shaking off pretty pink sequins and Hello-Kitty confetti. "She was fixated, then. But now we're getting along better, I thought it would be a good thing to help her along. You know. Find someone else. Something that could work."

"Like Greg."

"Exactly. I considered you, but you do seem to be quite determined to stick with this Marston woman, and the chemistry between Molly and the good Detective Inspector was better when I watched you all today."

This time it was John's turn to clap a napkin to his mouth and attempt not to spray. "Wait-what? You dragged me along on this just to make a final decision about who to set Molly up with?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not as though we absolutely needed you to witness the transfer of evidence."

John shoved his dishes aside, crossed his arms on the table, and face-planted. "You're lethal, Holmes. It's a wonder anyone survives you."

"That's my point. I'd prefer that Molly live."

John rolled his face up, and peered over the top line of his crossed arms. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't set your friends up. You don't have the knack for it. And…"

"What?"

"And the next time? Ask Molly Hooper out for yourself. And God help her if she says yes."

 

Molly came back to the lab from her interview bubbling with optimism. She was pretty sure she'd interviewed well, but, better still, she'd been introduced to a Doctor Francesca Bollud, one of the best forensic researchers in the country, and a specialist in toxicology. The opportunity had been too perfect to pass up, and she'd spent almost an hour of her time discussing a possible ID for the contents of the syringe she'd found the day before. It had thrilled her to learn her hunch was not only possible, but quite a practical choice under the circumstances.

And, she thought, it was a double win. First, she was actually pretty proud of herself for thinking of it and having at least formed a strong hypothesis. It was good, practical forensic thinking. Second, the folks at Cameron might not be impressed—but on the other hand, they might be quite impressed.

On coming back she took the time to search for and print out a set of papers Dr. Bollud had recommended, and then write up notes for Sherlock to review. By the time she was done, there were about two hours left before she intended to leave for the night. She was just getting ready to leave her office and go to the main lab when her mobile phone chimed for an incoming text message. Slipping it out of her purse, she glanced at the screen, and felt a flutter of embarrassment when she saw it was Greg Lestrade.

Molly—Greg here. You got a minute?

She considered letting it go, but that didn't seem fair. It wasn't Greg's fault Sherlock had put them both on the spot the way he had. And she liked Greg Lestrade.

Yes. I'm back at the lab.

How'd the interview go?

Don't know. I was a bit wired.

No wonder. Damn Sherlock.

He was just being himself. No big. I'm used to him by now. XD

You sure? John and I want you to know—we'll kick him arse over tit if you want us to.

She gave a snort of laughter. She wasn't sure who'd win that sort of fight: Lestrade was a trained officer, John was Army to the core, but Sherlock could be insanely wily. But it was sweet of them to offer. She didn't think she could recall a time when anyone wanted to watch over her. As a result of years on her own, though, she could take care of herself. Best not to get them started with the Big Guy Protection thing. And, really, Sherlock had been being sweet, too—in his own way.

No. This time I think he really wanted to help. Not his usual show-off stuff.

Yeah. Um, about that…

?

Just because Sherlock thought of it doesn't mean it's a bad idea. You want to go out tonight?

She had to read that several times before she was sure she wasn't somehow confused about something. Even then—

You mean it?

Yeah.

This isn't some kind of big-brother, let's be nice to poor wet Molly thing you and John dreamed up?

No. I mean it. Dinner. Movie. You know—a date.

She shivered a little. The thought of Greg Lestrade as a date? Oh, my. And to think she'd been half-wishing he hadn't found a new girl just a few days ago. Wow! Um—Chinese? Italian?

Chinese, Italian, curry, chop house, fish and chips—your pick. I'm easy.

Oh? I can't say I'd noticed. XD

Try me later, you'll see.

Are you flirting with me?

Trying damned hard.

Her heart gave a giant wump-bump, and she giggled a bit frantically…then decided she'd better be honest fast, or she'd be in the same kind of mess she'd been in with Sherlock, before.

I'm not very good at flirting, Greg. I get all stupid and say dumb things.

You know what? That may bug Mr. Genius, but most of us don't give a damn. Put your foot in your mouth. I like you anyway.

Her world seemed to tumble around her. Was it really that easy? Could it possibly be this simple? He liked her, he didn't mind that she was a muddled mess sometimes—and he knew her, after all these years, even if not well. He couldn't be unaware of just how awkward she could be.

He'd said he liked her. And he was flirting with her. On purpose.

Molly? You still there?

Yeah. Um…trying to think through the blush. It slows me down a bit.

Oof. That's pretty sexy. Pretty Molly, all pink and nervous.

Oh, stop it! I won't be able to type at all.

Do you really want me to stop? I don't want to make you feel weird.

What was she supposed to say to that?

What did she want to say to that?

Maybe what she really needed to know what who she wanted to be…and who she wanted to become. She really liked who she'd been turning into lately: applying to med school, standing up to Sherlock without wrecking their friendship, fighting that horrible guard, finding the hypodermic. What would the "new normal" Molly do?

She'd tell the truth, and go on from there.

I don't know the answer to that. I really don't. But I'm willing to try to figure it out if you are. Dinner sounds great. Movie, too. Come on over to the lab after work and we'll talk about it.

Great! I'm off at 5:00, but I can cut out a bit earlier if you like.

I'm here till at least 6:00—I'm trying to make up for time lost to the interview and the stuff with you guys this morning. So come over when you can, I'll be here.

Ok. See you.

You, too.

When the phone didn't spool up any more messages, she went into a predictable panic. She was dreadful at dates. She wasn't dressed for it. She never knew what to say. Her only small talk was body parts and tissue analysis… Oh, wait. Greg's small talk would be body parts and crime scene analysis.

Obviously they were a match made in heaven. Or in Sherlock's meddling mind.

She giggled again, only to have Nigel hear her and call in, "'What's up, Moll? Good LOLcat?"

"No."

"XKCD?"

"No."

"Onion article?"

"No."

There was silence, and then the creak of a rolling lab stool. Nigel, scooting backward like a squid, careened and caromed down the aisle to Molly's office door and peered in, lying nearly on his back with the seat support pushed almost horizontal. He had glasses…nice, round mad scientist glasses and a mop of ginger frizzle hair. It made his various comic expressions all the more comic. He peered at her, owlishly. "Okay. Confess. You got drunk on the way back from the interview."

"No, Nige."

"Not even a little tiny one-pub pub-crawl?"

"No, Nige! Good God!"

He spun the stool, rose, performed a complex flip that turned the stool back-to-front, and sat again, this time backwards in the seat with his elbows on the backrest. "You're up to something, my little Molecule. I can see it by the gleam in your eye. Tell Uncle Nigel."

"You're younger than me."

"But wise in the ways of the world."

She sputtered. "Nige, your areas of expertise are where to get the best chips within ten minutes walk of St. Barts, perfect recall of every Terry Pratchett novel ever written, including footnotes, and the complete life history of Amelia Pond, the Girl Who Waited. Oh, and you learned how to tie a bow tie because 'cosplay' and 'bow ties are cool.' I don't think any of that gives you insight into my private life."

"Whoo-hooo! 'Private life!' New territory! Let me guess—that guy Sherl tried to set you up with this morning decided it wasn't a half-bad idea? Oh, my God, your face! I was right! I don't believe it! I was right! Molly-m'Golly has a date with Mr. Hunky Cop!" He spun the stool around squealing "Eeeeeeeee!" like a fan girl at a Star Trek opening. He smacked his trainers on the lino, bringing his wild spin to a sudden stop. "When's the date?"

"Tonight! He's meeting me here after he gets off work."

"Eeeeee! I can't wait. I'll make fresh coffee and dig up a tube of biscuits so we can entertain properly."

"You'll disappear…or I'll tell Sherlock you want him to match-make for you, too."

"Well, hell, yeah. I mean, success on the first time out of the gate? He can yenta for me any day."

"Do you have any idea how often you convince me that you're proof Darwin was wrong?"

He blew her an affectionate kiss. "I knew you loved me. Seriously—if you want me to disappear when Mr. Hunky Cop shows up….well…"

"That's DI Hunky Cop to you, Nige. And, yeah, I'd really rather not have an audience while he and I figure out if we want korma, spaghetti and meatballs, or what."

"Hix Oyster and Chop, over on Greenhill Rents. Plenty of choices, a lot of them good whether your man's a foody or a meat-potato-two-veg guy. Price is a bit of a yip, but not an oh-my-God. Nice enough to feel like you're dating, not scarfing student stodge."

"Whoa—good idea, Nige! Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Darwin didn't mess up. That's a survival skill if I ever saw one. Now all I have to do is figure out what to wear, and how to change before he gets here."

"D'oh. No, you don't. You're in your interview suit, Moll. Nice hair. Nice outfit. Any nicer and you'd scare him off, 'specially since he's going to be coming over straight off work himself."

Molly stopped, and looked down. "Yeah! Wow! Yeah, I am!" She gave an amused little bounce, grinning. "That means all I have to do is redo my hair!"

Nige rolled his eyes. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. It's at that nice leaky point with whispy bits ladies work hours to fake. Leave it. Grab your purse and your DI and live a little."

"Are you sure you're straight? Because if you're not straight I know some really nice guys I can try to set you up with."

"Nah, I'm just a geek. It's a sexuality in its own right." He grinned. "We're hero-sexuals."

"What, you do it in phone booths?"

"No, blue police call boxes."

"Riiiiiiight." She laughed, and laughed—not because it was funny, but because Nigel was nice and she didn't need to worry about dressing up, and Lestrade was coming over to take her out to dinner. She and Nigel decided it was such a good afternoon that they lined up a play list of big-voice female vocalists like Emelie Sande, Adele, and Rihana on Nigel's computer. Soon enough they were doing all the clean-up, close-down, lock-up protocols while singing their lungs out, trying to out-Adele Adele. Nigel wasn't half bad. As they finished up the computer switched into Adele doing "Skyfall." Nigel dropped into a solid but sultry baritone and began riffing croony girl-backup harmonies, tossing torch onto Adele's scorch. Molly grinned and began a slinky, hokey Bond-girl stalk-and-shimmy.

Which was, of course, when Sherlock and John walked in. Had to be. It was the patented Molly Hooper Karma. Greg would have been better. Greg would have laughed. She'd heard his laugh—it was big and warm and happy.

Sherlock stared like a goosed spinster, and John looked hideously embarrassed for her—which only made it worse.

She was frozen in mid-grind. She could feel the joy leaching out of everything.

Sherlock was still and icy cold, whether with shock or disgust she couldn't tell. He cocked his head almost microscopically, and said, "Planning on backup as a club dancer if you don't make it into med school, Molly?"

"Well, bugger-all, if it ain't the vicar and his wife," Nigel drawled. "There goes that knees-up. Hide the booze and get out the chamomile tea, Moll. No more hijinks till Prunes and Prisms are gone."

Sherlock's eyes went nova, and he shot a wicked glare at Nigel before drawling in his own stratospherically Oxbridge accent, "I see you're consorting with a closet furry, these days. Pity, but you can't claim I didn't try to do better for you, Molly."

"That's nothin' but the freak calling the geek weird," Nigel taunted. "Face it, Sherl, strip off the one-trick-pony carnival deduction act and you're just one more socially clueless wanker with good clothes and crappy manners. Welcome to the club. World's full of us."

"At least I have the good clothes," Sherlock snarled, edging into true tantrum.

The look Nigel returned was sweet with both victory and contentment. "Yeah, yeah. But I've got all the good songs, and the friends to sing 'em with."

Now it was Sherlock standing like a deer in the headlights, jaw slightly dropped. Molly and John exchanged panicky glances, unsure what to do that wouldn't summon up an Eldritch Horror so awful even Lovecraft couldn't have imagined it. Nigel, though, was in the moment, riding his own private wave. He met Sherlock's eyes with his own honey brown ones, googly glasses magnifying them and his ginger locks wild as his beloved Tom Baker's. "You're not going to hurt Moll," he said, almost amiably. "Not havin' it. Sorry."

"What's that? Sherlock, you on Molly's case again?"

Like characters in a bad "Murder at the Country House" tv special, everyone whirled to where Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway of the lab. He had on a well-worn soot black Burberry and had a plain black laptop case slung over one shoulder. He glanced apologetically at Molly, and said, "Sorry, Molly. Got off a bit sooner than expected and made good time on the way over. Is early a problem?"

Before he could return his attention to Sherlock and the brewing "incident," Molly realized what New Normal Molly should do. She took a deep breath, grinned back at Greg, and said, "Nope. Timing couldn't be better. Nige and I were just finishing up and having a bit of a sing-song and a knees up—it's been a good day. Nige is better than karaoke. Wait a minute while I do the last bit and we can be out of here."

"Don't worry about that, Moll," Nigel said. "I'll finish up here. Grab your coat and bag and push off."

Molly smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Nige. You're a sweetie." She started toward the coat hooks.

John, with something clear and comprehensible to do, said, "Oh, here. Let me help you with that." He snatched her coat and purse off the hook and held them, like an old-school gentleman. As she slipped into the coat he eased it over her shoulders and leaned in, whispering, "Sorry. Just caught off guard. Next time I'll do the baritone line, not that I'm any match for Nigel." He turned to open the door for her, only to find Lestrade already there, and holding out his arm.

Behind her, Sherlock said, in a flat voice, "She's going out with Lestrade, John. I think she can count on doors being opened without your help."

Lestrade, tucking her hand into the turn of his elbow, looked back over his shoulder. In a voice that was almost gentle, he said, "Been listening to you for years, now, Sherlock. I've learned to trust you when you tell me something. Thanks for the tip."

"Mere observation," Sherlock said, still sounding hollowed out. "It's logic, really. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Go. Have fun. Be good to her."

The two were halfway out the door when Molly turned back. "Sherlock? It's going to be at least a day till you get the test results back in, but I talked with one of the top forensic researchers at Cameron during my interview today. I had an idea, and we both think it's worth treating as a strong possibility. I think it's going to turn out to be botulinum or a botulinum derivative. There's a fair chance the guard was planning on killing Mycroft with Botox. I've put together some notes. They're on my desk. Be sure to pick them up before you go."

Molly wasn't quite sure how Greg managed, in a matter of minutes, to shift them from prim Victorian arm-in-arm to her with her arm around his waist, and him with his around her shoulders. It seemed to happen with lazy grace, and his grip on her was light, undemanding, and friendly as they walked north from to the chop house.

"Someone's trying to murder Mycroft?" he asked, casually, not losing the rhythm of his stride. "Not just regular chickenpox, then?"

"It looks that way. The chickenpox may have been natural, though the Oka strain makes me wonder if someone wasn't taking a shot in the dark. Oka strain gets past immunization sometimes. The staph almost certainly wasn't. And if I'm right, and the syringe your people have holds some form of botulinum toxin…that's just murder, plain and simple."

"Wouldn't it be obvious, though?"

"No. A low concentration fed into the IV might not be spotted even in a healthy patient. But a low concentration fed into the IV of a comatose patient with pneumonia? Look, if you already knew someone was bleeding to death from a gunshot wound, would you go looking for an anticoagulant in the blood that made the victim bleed out faster?"

"Probably not. Not without some evidence to make me look."

"And if the evidence was subtle? That's the thing: a low concentration of Botox would just do more of what the pneumonia was doing already. Most people who die of botulism die of reduced respiratory function. The muscles don't work as well, less air is brought in, circulation is failing… If the guard had managed to give Mycroft the shot without being caught, it wouldn't have been obvious what was happening, because he would have just appeared to get worse. And we're already afraid that's going to happen."

"Huh." His index finger tapped lightly on the tip of her shoulder, a restless drumming that felt like and established habit. "Would it show up in the blood work?"

"Yes and no. Yes, if you knew to test for it, or if you did thorough testing: mass spectrometer, NMR, IR, melting point. More, too. But we don't test for everything most of the time: it costs too much in time and money. Even with full testing—it takes incredibly small dilutions of botulinum to kill someone. Testing for trace elements can be finicky work."

"So the best way is to have a hint already, so you can—what? Aim more precisely from the start?"

"Yes."

"And if you don't have a hint, it may just be missed."

"If you were expecting the patient to die of reduced respiratory function and slow systemic failure anyway. Yeah."

They cut across West Smithfield, jogged over onto East Poultry Avenue, and headed for Charterhouse. It was dark already, and a damp mist hung lightly. Molly found herself easily and naturally slipping her arm into and under Greg's trench coat and leaning a bit closer, enjoying the sense of solid strength and mass. He was taller than John, slightly shorter than Sherlock, but more muscular and solid than either of them.

After awhile Greg said, "is it hard to get your hands on Botox?" She could almost hear wheels turning—not the screaming whir of thoughts at lightning speed that she associated with Sherlock, but something steadier, but no less purposeful.

"Dead simple," she said. "Easy to steal. Easy enough to find a crooked supplier. If you've got a crooked doctor to work with, you don't even have to break any laws."

"Well, right up till you murder someone," Greg pointed out.

"Yes," she replied.

 

Molly heard Greg come into the morgue, and called out, "I'm back here, in my office. How did it go?"

"You're not asking, 'Was he there?'" he responded cheerfully, as he worked his way down the aisle to her door.

"No. You were up there too long for him not to be there."

"Good deduction." She made a face, and he grinned. "He's okay—I think. He talked himself around."

"Mrs. Hudson's been ransacking his place trying to make sure there's nothing there for him."

"Good—I don't think it's necessary, but it may be kinder." Seeing the question in her eyes, he added, "No. He hadn't used. I think that was the point. Tempt himself to the limit, and learn if he'd stop or not."

"He's failed that one before."

"The funny thing is, I don't think he has. Before he's always had Mycroft and me, and later John and Mrs. Hudson as a safety net. When he used, he wasn't testing himself, he was testing us. This time I think he was really afraid there was no 'us.' He had to know if he could stop himself."

"And he could?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, silently. After a moment she said, "Want some coffee? I made a pot while you were up top."

"I will worship you for coffee."

She blushed, and damned herself for it as she hurried from her office and led him back to the main work area, where the coffee pot was. She'd had a small taste of his "worship" earlier, before the phone calls had come in and the search had begun. She'd liked it.

That scared her more than a little. Rather than deal with it, she asked, "Sugar? Cream?"

"Sweet and white. Maybe it will fool my body into thinking I slept and ate breakfast."

"We could go out for breakfast. I'm not actually on duty for hours, yet."

"No. Coffee will do. Thanks for that, though. Look, I'm going to be dead knackered tonight: I'm not the lad I used to be. But I'm off Saturday, so tomorrow night's good. Maybe we could watch that movie we never got to see?" He accepted the mug with a smile and a flickering stroke of a finger over her knuckles.

The hair on the nape of her neck rose and she came out in goose bumps. "I…um. Yeah. I… Yeah. I'd like that." She didn't faint. She wasn't sure why, though. She knew now that going out with Greg meant good odds of kissing—and that he was talented at it. She wasn't sure she could match his skill level, but she'd enjoyed trying. "Friday night, then. Tomorrow. Um…meet here?"

"Works for me." His free hand traced down her arm to her hand, and his fingers laced with hers.

She wasn't breathing quite right, and she knew she was red as a London double-decker bus…but she didn't pull her hand away. Instead she tightened her fingers in a light squeeze. He grinned at her mischievously, brown eyes alight—

And of course, damn it, Sherlock came in and glanced over.

All three of them stiffened and froze for a moment—then shifted into uneasy motion. Molly slipped her fingers free and made a jittery attempt to pour herself a mug of coffee. Greg, spotting her jitter, put his mug down and tried to take over for her—and cracked his knuckles on the pot. Both laughed nervously…

And Sherlock, still and reserved as…well, as Mycroft…looked away from them and paced to the bank of microscopes, seating himself at the new Keyance digital. He leaned over and fiddled, idly. It would have been much more effective if Molly had not known the microscope could not possibly be turned on.

Molly huffed unsteadily, not sure if the sound she made indicated hysteria, laughter, or her hormones going into overdrive. She had Greg leaning much too close, Sherlock far too present and far too ridiculous, and the memory of last night's kisses far too vivid in her mind.

Greg eyes laughed, and he picked his mug back up, toasting her silently. She found herself grinning back. She took a second pass at pouring her own coffee, and succeeded this time. Feeling brave, she called, "Want coffee, Sherlock?"

His head stayed down, bent over the microscope, but one black-gloved hand rose and seemed to brush the suggestion away. "No, thank you. 'Keep calm and carry on.'"

"God, that's tempting," Greg murmured softly, more mischievous than ever. As she blushed crimson, he rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I know you'd hate it. But, so help me, if you didn't… I think we could probably pay him back for all last night with one proper snog."

"I can hear you, Lestrade…" Sherlock grumbled. "I'm not so easily rattled."

Molly could see the challenge match developing… "No." She shook her head. "Just—no. This is so not happening! Greg, I'll see you tomorrow night. Sherlock? The Keyance works much better when you plug it in. If either of you need to talk to me, I'll be in my office." She grabbed her mug and skittered back to her own safe space, closing the office door behind her. Then she spent the next five minutes trying to recall how to breathe. The life of New Normal Molly was so much more exciting than the life of Old Normal Molly! Terrifying, in some ways. Tempting—oh, very tempting in others.

She closed her eyes and shivered, remembering the night before. If Sherlock had always made her feel small and unwanted and clumsy and stupid, Greg had unintentionally made her feel young and inexperienced. He was good at what he did. There was no mistaking that he'd been a bit of a lad, sown his wild oats, then married and stayed married for years. All that experience was there in glances, kisses, light touches that demonstrated his knowledge. It was blended with sincerity and an adorable first-date insecurity that kept it from being a rote performance. In comparison she'd felt every year of the decade and a half that lay between them—along with the certainty that if he'd been a bit of a lad, she'd never managed to be wild at all, ever. What was the female counterpart of a "bit of a lad," anyway? A bit of a lass? No. That didn't seem right. Whatever it was, she'd never been one. But, oh, dear, the evening with Greg had made her regret it…

She gulped coffee, and prayed for caffeine to cut in…her focus kept drifting in ways it shouldn't.

It didn't help that the line of Sherlock's shoulders, the cant of his head bent over the microscope, even the graceful lift of the black gloved hand had not become one bit less compelling. Instead of a nice, neat either/or, she was now stuck with a raging case of "OMG, both!"

That's impractical, Molly, she told herself. Not sensible at all. You've finally got a great guy at least interested. Don't ask for more, you idiot.

Apparently one did not recover from years of Sherlock-addiction so quickly as all that.

We're friends, now. That's good enough. He loves me, now…in his own weird Sherlock way. And, please, God, I don't want to go back to the old normal. It hurt too much. I don't want to live like that again. It was horrible…and it wasn't even all his fault. It wasn't his choice to have me that crazy for him. He's got his flaws, but he didn't seduce me. I don't want to land there again. I really don't. It was cray-cray. I was cray-cray…

She could hear the murmur of voices in the main lab. If she hadn't been so keyed up, or so tired, she would have realized more quickly that it was Nigel and Sherlock, talking. As it was, she'd been staring into her coffee mug for an unknown period of time before the fact registered.

With a gasp and a curse, she jumped up—then caught herself, and forced herself to slow down. She opened the door quietly, preparing to go out and play "senior lab technician and morgue manager"—and prevent either Nige or Sherlock from becoming residents of the morgue, rather than mere visitors. It took her a second to realize that the voices had already fallen off.

She stopped, and listened. For a long stretch there was nothing to be heard but the standard sounds of Nigel opening up shop for the day: clicking on the main computer they used to log bodies in and out, and to maintain files; doing a check-through of the autopsy room; bringing out the rolling gurney with the first corpses, ready for the medical pathologists like Dr. Kemper to get to work. He checked supplies, refilled drawers and containers, checked the autoclave and primed it for future use. All the sounds of normal activities of the morning. She wondered if Sherlock had left already…or did until he spoke, his voice as frigid as an ice bath.

"Am I truly so offensive to you?"

Molly wondered what Nigel had said to bring that on.

Nigel made a grumpy, sullen sound, then said, "You're a right prat. And you're mean to our Moll."

"I'm perhaps less tactful than some people would prefer."

"Try again, mate. You'd lie outright for a shot at being clever-dick of the hour."

"I do not lie!" Sherlock said, sounding affronted to the core.

"Give over. You'd lie in a second, if it suited you."

"Examples, please?"

"You're not dead. That's one, for a start."

"That was different. You do know Molly helped with that." It wasn't a question.

"Well, d'oh." Nigel had a way with "d'oh." When he used it, it sounded twice as dumb as when anyone else did. "Like there was any way for you to get through listed as dead without someone to help you. Who's it going to be but Moll? It's not like I'd have helped you."

"You'd only been hired at the time, so you wouldn't have been much help in any case," Sherlock said, dismissively. "Nor are you remarkably much improved since that time. You may be a competent lab tech, but you're no Molly Hooper."

Nigel laughed, wickedly. "I've a bird in Croydon's glad of it, too."

Sherlock made a sound as though about to tear Nigel apart with analytical brilliance—and then he stopped with a slight choke, before saying in tones of stunned horror, "Good God. You do, don't you? Is the poor girl mad?"

"Like as not. She has a bit of a thing for gingers. That helps," Nigel said, cheerfully. "Still, I'm mad, too, but only when the wind's north-by-northwest. When the wind's to the south I can tell a hawk from a handsaw, me."

There was a long pause, then Sherlock said, "What?" Molly could hear the sound of his brain suddenly and completely crashing—blue-screen Sherlock.

Nigel made an incredulous sound. "Huh? That's Shakespeare, yeah? Hamlet. You know? 'Alas, poor Yorick?' 'To be or not to be?' 'Good night, sweet prince?' Just the most famous sodding play in the whole sodding world?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, dismissively. "I don't bother with things like that. They're not useful to me."

"You're having me on, right?"

"No. Brains are limited in capacity. What value is there in keeping trivia like that?"

"You don't mean it. You really know bugger-all about Shakespeare?" He whistled. "That explains a lot. Look, you may be a complete whiz, but if you don't know Shakespeare, and Dr. Who, and the Bangles, and the Beatles, and who the Spice Girls are, and who won the World Cup, and what the latest movies are, or the classics, or who Cole Porter is, or…or all that…you're going to make such a mess of things! All that stuff, it's not useless: it's…it's…" he stopped, stunned by the enormity of such ignorance. "It's people stuff. It's all…" he paused, then said, firmly, "It's evidence, y'great pillock. It all means as much as grit on a shoe or brown sauce on a lapel. You don't know stuff like that and you can look and look and still not know what you're looking at."

"Passionately argued, but I've not found it to be the case," Sherlock replied. "On the contrary, I find those who fill their heads with that sort of 'stuff' to be incredibly boring."

"Yeah, and I fall asleep if you sit me down with a bunch of math types. But that doesn't mean what they're saying isn't important. It just means I'm too stupid or ignorant to know why it's important. You're blinkered…and you don't even know it."

Sherlock snorted. "You sound far too much like my brother Mycroft. Well—not like him. However, he'd agree with your thesis, while being stunned at the plebian limits of your expressive capacity."

"He's the one who's… I mean, yeah. I forgot he was…" Nigel sobered, ignoring Sherlock's insult. "Hey, I'm sorry."

"It's hardly your fault."

The two were quiet again. The steady sound of the morgue waking up replaced their conversation. Molly was about to go in to add her own contribution to opening up, when Nigel cleared his throat.

"Anyway. Um…just between us? Geek to freak? You're not so bad, when you're not being a total prat. Just… don't dick around with Molly, ok? She's good people. She doesn't deserve it."

Sherlock cleared his own throat, then murmured, "Yes, she is, and no, she doesn't. And… Freak to geek? You're almost intelligent. Sometimes."

"More often than you think."

"Don't push it."

"Yeah, yeah. Toff. "

"Geek."

"Freak."

Molly couldn't believe it. It was…

It was male bonding. Real, authentic, insult-ridden, classically juvenile male bonding—in her morgue! Between Sherlock and Nigel! Any minute now one of them might well pound the other on the bicep and offer to stand the next bloody round. Fighting back laughter, she punched the air silently, then crept back to her office, collected her mug, and swept back in to the lab.

"Good morning, Nige. Need a hand with the first gurney?"

"Nope. No point till later. Dr. Changwani's not scheduled for the DOA till ten, and he's the first for the day."

Molly poured coffee for herself, Nigel, and Sherlock, adding the correct amounts of sugar and cream automatically. Nigel took his black, she liked hers with a sugar and a splash of cream, and God knew, she had Sherlock's black-two-sugar down cold. Once done she rinsed the pot and started a new one. She and Nigel fell into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of morning set-up, neither paying all that much attention to Sherlock, who remained where he was by the microscopes. Only when the morgue was fully prepared for business did she stop to lean against the lab table and talk.

"It's none of my business, but just what did happen last night?"

Sherlock scowled into his cup. "I just pointed out that Mycroft would hate being turned into the big-eyed poster child for MI5 and MI6. Really, Molly, it was quite saccharine."

"Mmm. Would he hate knowing his people care about him that much?"

Sherlock shrugged and refused to meet her eye.

Failing to get any further response, she asked, "Are you making any progress on learning who's trying to kill him? Or on the stuff you're working on for his people?"

"None," he said, voice growly and annoyed. "Beemish is investigating the attacks on Mycroft. He and William are continuing to send me summaries on the issue of his concealed agent. My own contacts are sending in information—but none of it suggests a pattern."

"Do you know if the two are connected, or is the killer someone taking advantage of opportunity, and the agent-thing just the fallout? It just seems like a lot of stuff to be going wrong at once, if it's not connected…"

He paused, and something flashed in his eyes. She'd seen that alertness before—a sudden tension, a revving of the mental engines. He sat, still but poised, frozen for second after second, eyes flicking as he studied something unseen by anyone outside his skull. One hand rose, then, and seemed to push an invisible object to one side. The other hand rose—pulled something into alignment. Something was flicked away; something was drawn forward. He studied his invisible array, pondering.

"Heall right?" Nigel asked, worried.

Molly frowned. "I've seen him do it before. He's thinking."

"I think every day without conducting the choir invisible."

"That is because you have no composition or structure to give your thinking form," Sherlock snapped, coming out of his fugue blazing with intensity.

"You've figured it out?" Molly asked, as breathless at the sight of him in action as she'd ever been.

"Not all, but a start. The hunt's begun, Molly! It's begun." He uncoiled from the lab stool and shot toward the door—then stopped, almost as though his shoes had been glued to the lino. He struggled, then, seeming almost torn in two by conflicting impulses.

Then he turned and walked back to her with that insanely good posture, head up, chin up, like a man going to face a firing squad and determined to shame his executioners.

"Sherlock?" she asked, bewildered. This was when he usually raced off, leaving her feeling awed, amazed—but also wrung out and completely irrelevant. He looked down at her, and her breath caught. She'd seen that shattered vulnerability so rarely, but every time it had stolen her heart.

"I'd meant to speak to you alone, but…"his eyes shot around, restlessly, and he growled, "there's no time. I have to go. I…I wanted to apologize. I'm sorry I embarrassed you yesterday afternoon. There was no shame in your laughter or your friendship with Nigel. I wanted to apologize for frightening you and my friends last night. It was uncalled for. I wanted to apologize for interrupting your engagement with Detective Inspector Lestrade. You both deserved better from me. I seem to be apologizing to you far too often lately…or perhaps I'm only beginning to apologize enough. But Nigel is correct. You are a good person, Molly Hooper. You do not deserve to be hurt. I hurt you too often. I am sorry."

It shattered her. She placed a hand on his chest, and said, softly, "I make it hard not to hurt me, Sherlock. I'm sorry about that. And I'm glad to be your friend, even when it's not easy."

He gave a curt little nod. "Thank you, Molly." Then he reached out, and tentatively drew her into a hug, lowering his head over hers.

She'd seen him hug Mrs. Hudson much the same way—Sherlock, who didn't hug or touch, had crossed some boundary that allowed him to treat his landlady with an affection that didn't require personal space that could be measured in leagues. The only time he'd ever hugged Molly, though, was the night he'd died. Then, as now, it hadn't been particularly sexual—but then, as now, it was overpowering.

And then, almost at light speed, he was gone.

Molly made herself breathe. It wasn't the easiest thing she'd ever done, but she managed it. She decided if she kept it up, some day it might be natural again.

Nigel studied her, wide-eyed, then said, contemplatively, "So. How did your date with DI Hunky Cop go, anyway?"

"Really good, Nige. Really, really good," Molly said, with a shiver.

"Uh…huh. Oooookay." Nigel drew a breath even deeper than hers, and said, calmly, "Molly-me-love, you're in deep, deep trouble. You know that, don't you?"

"Oh, hell, yes," she said.

 

Sherlock and John crashed into Molly's morgue as though blown there by the late autumn winds that had been building over the afternoon. Molly exchanged glances with Nigel: it was the Old Team, back in action, familiar as strong tea and digestive biscuits.

"The x-ray scanner, Molly—the big one, not the little one! I need it, now," Sherlock proclaimed, brandishing an elegant and expensive men's umbrella like a baton gripped at mid-shaft. "Big enough to fit this."

"You're going to x-ray a brolly?" Nigel asked with a snort. "Right daft, that."

"Not so daft as trying to take it apart without x-raying it first," Sherlock snapped. "It's my brother's. God knows what he's done to protect it."

"'S goin' a bit far, ennit? I mainly just keep a tight grip on mine in the Tube."

"You haven't had me trying to steal yours regularly," Sherlock pointed out, though Molly had a gut instinct that from here on in Nigel had best start consulting with Mycroft regarding methods of securing his. Sherlock had a suspiciously devious glint in his eye as he crossed verbal swords with the lab tech.

"You make a habit of it?" John asked, then added ruefully, "What am I saying? Of course you try to steal Mycroft's umbrella, if you have a clean shot at it."

"Not so much, these days. Not since the one he primed with itching powder—dumped an entire load on me the next time I went out in a downpour. I only pinch it occasionally, to prove I still can."

"So why do you have this one?" Molly asked, as she opened the door of the larger scanner.

"Because..." The falter in Sherlock's voice was almost undetectable, or would have been to listeners less accustomed to his usual tones and inflections. He fixed his attention on aligning the umbrella in the scanning chamber. "It was there."

"And Mycroft wasn't."

John could say things like that, Molly thought; say them with that firm, almost authoritative tone that suggested Sherlock wasn't going to be allowed to faff about avoiding core truths. Judging by the sudden tightening of Sherlock's lips, John had struck true. She wondered if she'd ever have the perception and the nerve to strike as cleanly.

"And Mycroft wasn't," Sherlock conceded, his voice armoured and unwavering. He turned and found the viewing screen at the work station behind him. In seconds he had the image up. He hissed in annoyance. "Mycroft, damn you..."

"What?" Molly said. She looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"That, my dear Molly, is Mycroft being too clever by half. And, worse, learning lessons from his enemies. You'd think he'd be above learning from The Woman, but apparently not." One long finger pointed to a dark disk embedded in the shaft of the umbrella handle. "Explosive. And there—that's an embedded memory, I suspect. And this, I believe, is a mobile receiver/broadcaster."

"Cell phone in a brolly?" John said, coming to look over Sherlock's other shoulder. "That's a bit too James Bond for me to credit. Mycroft doesn't seem the type to play around like that. He's serious. Responsible."

Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Mycroft's sense of humor may evade most people, but it's very real. And he takes absolute delight in playing John Steed. I can think of few things that would charm him more than secrets hidden in a booby-trapped umbrella."

"He's your brother," Nigel chimed in, peering in awkwardly from Molly's far side. "You'd know. Seems to me the big question, though, is how we get the secrets out."

"We don't. He'll have followed Irene's model: layered passwords. I don't even know how to send them to the receiver. Yet."

The final added word was said with fierce determination. Molly found herself chuckling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, with a frown.

"You," she answered. "You're not about to give up, are you?"

"Heaven forbid," John said, joining her laughter. "He'd die first."

"Well, he has, hasn't he?" she asked.

John's grin was dazzling. "Yeah, but he cheated—and you helped him, Miss Hooper."

"I just proved you can't beat me at the game," Sherlock snapped. "No one. Including Mycroft." He stood and wheeled back to the compartment, retrieving Mycroft's umbrella. "This is not impossible. Mycroft isn't trying to beat me. He wouldn't have left me a clue if he didn't want it solved."

"He may just have wanted you to know there was something going on," John argued.

"No. It's more than that. He wanted me to find this. He wanted me to investigate—he wanted me out of it completely, as long as he was able to manage it himself. But he wanted me on it when he couldn't be."

"Is it something you can work on outside my morgue?" Molly asked. "I mean, I'll stay open if you need to work, but it's closing time, and I was hoping to get some dinner and some sleep." She risked a glance at Sherlock, and added, "I was up all night."

"Several of us were," John said, grimly. "And I, for one, am knackered."

"Dinner, maybe?" Sherlock asked. "Food, then home?"

"I'm on," Molly said. "All I've got in my fridge today is yogurt."

Nigel raised his hand. "Count me in, too. But then I'm off."

"Not me," John said. "Dead on my feet. Home, shower, microwave, sleep." When Sherlock shot him a slightly panicked glance, he shook his head. "No. You go. I'm going home." He stretched.

Sherlock leaned close, and Molly heard him husk, "John—I don't..." He looked uneasily at Molly and Nigel. "I don't socialize."

"You eat curry. They eat curry. It's not so hard," John said, firmly. "You can do this. You're Sherlock 'I will not be beaten' Holmes."

Molly felt her stomach drop as she realized Sherlock had assumed the invitation was to John—with Nigel and her perhaps as unavoidable add-ons. For a few moments Old Normal Molly squirmed, screaming internally that she should back out now and avoid the inevitable humiliation of rejection...or, even worse, Sherlock sullenly accepting the situation, and then spending the next hour or so venting his resentment in every way he could think of.

New Normal Molly wasn't willing to retreat, though. "We can go to the Pret A Manger over on Holborn Viaduct. They make a good sandwich. Or we can do Smithfield or Barbican for Indian."

"Barbican," Sherlock said, quickly, clearly determined that if he couldn't ditch Molly and Nigel he'd at least put in dibs on the restaurant he preferred.

Molly, feeling much too clever to live, smiled to herself—she'd successfully stacked the deck. "We're on, then. Nige, you good with that?" Not that she had any doubts. Nigel lived for Barbican's tandoori.

"I'm good."

"Great. John, great to see you." She stepped in and hugged him, pleased when he hugged back. "Now, you go home and sleep. You earned it. But call Mary first—let her know what's up here."

He chuckled. "You're teaming up with her, are you?"

"Modern version of the WI," she said, cheerfully. "No jam or Jerusalem, but we stick together, no matter what."

He gave her an extra squeeze. "I'll let her know you're watching out for her best interests."

She nodded; then, feeling far too assertive to believe, she said, "Okay. Sherlock, Nige, help with close-down and then we're off."

XXX

Nigel, to Molly's relief, proved the perfect person to moderate Sherlock. Every time the older man attempted snark, Nigel either topped it with something clever and funny and sweet, or simply nailed him for being a prat in a good-natured, almost affectionate way that reminded Molly of John. Before they'd completed the walk Sherlock had apparently decided ill-humor was a waste of energy and had settled into an easy pace, using Mycroft's umbrella as a cane.

"Sure you want to go smacking that down on the pavement like that?" Nigel asked, looking uneasily at the umbrella. "Won't it detonate?"

Sherlock gave him a vastly superior look and drawled, "Oh, and my brother is so likely to go about with a hair-trigger brolly. I think not."

Nige sniggered. "I dunno, mate: he's related to you. No telling what barmy ideas he'd think sensible."

To Molly's amazement, instead of coming back with an annoyed retort, Sherlock almost smiled—and then casually reached past her to cuff Nigel on the back of the head. "Prat. Mycroft has better sense."

"Better sense than who?"

"Whom. And than I do," Sherlock said. For once he didn't sound like the admission of Mycroft's superiority had been dragged out of him with hooks.

"Eh, well—setting the bar low, then, are you?"

Another gentle cuff—but no more. Nigel had apparently slipped into the strange, charmed circle of people Sherlock accepted. Molly was tempted to call the Vatican and declare a miracle had occurred.

The walk over was cold even for November. As near as the Barbican was, Molly still wished she had worn a thicker coat. Nigel, who wore a ghastly purple parka from late September through early May, seemed fine, and Sherlock had The Coat, of course, but Molly was still wearing her light go-to-interview jacket from the day before. She crammed her hands as deep in the pockets as they'd go, walked as fast as she could, and hurtled into the Barbican at high speed, breathing a sigh of gratitude for central heating and the warming scent of spices.

They ordered quickly, then settled into conversation. Nigel again served as the hub, providing a surprisingly strong, well-reasoned and deeply informed defense of popular art forms, particularly adventure-based forms. Sherlock, while tart and determined to maintain much of it was "silly wankers playing games" actually appeared inclined to give the geeks of the world a pass.

"'Course he does, Moll," Nigel chuckled, when she risked bringing it up. "Look at him: overgrown geek. If he didn't have his detective thingy to amuse him, he'd be at a convention decked out as Batman or something."

"Don't be offensive," Sherlock said. "I would not wear a silly costume. It's among the least logical elements of the comic book superhero: what sensible vigilante would go around in tights with spandex knickers on top?"

"Aye, yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. So, what? You'd be writing fan fiction?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course not. That would be John's hobby."

"So what would you do, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Fan wank," he said, firmly. "I'd be the idjit on all the fan sites annoying everyone by pointing out they don't know their canon. Worse, I'd be right."

Nigel gasped and dissolved in hysterics. "Eeeeeee! Yes-yes-yes-yes!"

Molly looked at both of them, then turned to Sherlock. "How did you know to say that?"

"What John so cleverly called 'The Case of the Geek Interpreter,'" he said. "Cover persona. It was an interesting introduction to fan culture. I fit in rather well, if I do say so myself."

Nigel fought down his laughter long enough to gasp, "Oh, shite. What was your fandom?"

"I went for the classics: Lord of the Rings. But I had secondary interests in Harry Potter—pro-Snape all the way—and you don't want to hear what I had to say about what DC did to Oracle."

Nigel lit up. "Duuuuuuuude! Favorite X-Man?"

"Xavier, of course. Hank McCoy after that."

"Avenger?"

"Depends on the day. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner. Dr. Strange."

Molly's couldn't believe it. "You're kidding me, right? You know this stuff?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to look distant and reserved. "Research."

"No way," Nigel declared. "Man knows his fandoms. You picked pretty good, Sherl. Mainstream enough, with just a touch of quirk. So, what's your wank when you're not passing?"

Sherlock looked down his nose. "It was just a cover, Nigel."

Nigel narrowed his eyes. Then he said, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total oblitera—"

Sherlock crumpled his napkin and tossed it at Nigel, just barely choking back something between a grumble and a laugh. "Tosser."

"Nailed it, didn't I?"

"Oh, shut up."

"He's embarrassed because it's not all obscure and hipster and cool: one of the big-time popular books," Nigel told Molly. "Dune is the ego-geek's Mecca. I bet I could tic off the other stuff he'd love, too."

"Don't," Sherlock said, repressively.

"But Sheeeerlock! I haven't even started on the hard-core stuff," Nigel pouted. "Sandman? Neuromancer? Snow Crash? Watchmen?"

Sherlock was on the edge of some sort of heated reply when his mobile rang. He pointed at Nigel and said, "You're not safe yet," then answered the phone. "Yes. Yes...what? Oh..." He went tense, then. "Yes. Yes, I can come. Give me fifteen minutes to half an hour. No, taxi. I'll be there." He ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket, groping clumsily for his coat on the back of his chair. "Mycroft. They think he's coming around. I have to go."

"I can go with you, if you like," Molly found herself saying, remembering Sherlock's response to his brother's illness. Coming out of coma could be rough on the patient and the family alike.

He was about to turn her down... then hesitated, before saying, "I...Yes. Yes. That would be good." He looked around the table, filled with half-eaten bowls of food and baskets of naan. "I'll pick up the bill. Feel free to take the leftovers home."

Nigel, whose income was nothing to write home about, didn't argue. Instead he eagle-eyed Sherlock and said, "Make sure Moll gets some sleep—or make sure she phones in sick tomorrow. She's been up over thirty-six hours already, thanks to you. You don't send her staggering back in tomorrow morning still dressed in her interview clothes, you hear?"

Sherlock nodded, too concerned over Mycroft to come back with any clever sallies. He'd risen, finally, and collected his coat. He glanced at Molly. "Ready?"

She nodded, pulling on her jacket. "You go pay. I'll meet you outside. If I can I'll flag a taxi and hold it for you." They walked together to the front checkout, and she continued on out into the cold. She looked both ways, failing to spot a cab. She frowned and pulled out her phone, logging in to look for the number of a cab company. The icy wind seemed to cut through her jacket. Her silk pants almost might as well not have existed. As Sherlock came out she said, "No cab. I'm calling for one now."

Instead of answering, he leaped at her, knocking her to the pavement just as a car came screeling down the street. Shots stuttered over their heads, peppering the wall of the restaurant. The plate glass doors and windows shattered; glass rained down. Molly shrieked and tucked herself into a ball as best she could under Sherlock's weight. He'd tented himself over her, arms and upper body attempting to shield her from the attack. She could hear the car as it gunned its engine; the screech of metal as it cut too close to another car; the shouts and exclamations of people on the pavement.

For a small forever, she and Sherlock stayed where they were, hunkered on the concrete. Then, cautiously, Sherlock eased himself up, looking around.

"Are they gone?" Molly asked, embarrassed by the quaver in her voice.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "For now." He stood and fished his own mobile out of his pocket. "Hello, Lestrade? I need your intervention. Someone just tried to shoot me, and I can't stay to give evidence: Mycroft's coming around and I need to get to the Royal Marsden. I need you to send people over, but cut me free."

"And me," Molly said, fiercely determined not to be thrown as a sacrifice to Lestrade's investigators.

"And Molly," Sherlock added, without arguing.

As he continued in his negotiation above her, Molly cautiously sat up. She considered standing. She quickly concluded she had better wait a few minutes before she tried. She was shaking dreadfully. Wrapping her arms around herself she stared blankly at the shot-out door of the Barbican. Framed in the ragged edges of glass left in the frame, Nigel stared back, Mycroft's umbrella clutched in his hand.

One and one made two, and then cascaded into a sum too large to express. Feeling panic rise, she risked raising one hand and gestured in a shooing motion. "Run," she mouthed at him, silently. "Hide!"

Nigel's eyes, already wide, widened further. He nodded and seemed to fade back into the restaurant, disappearing behind other customers gaping out through the destruction.

Above, Sherlock finished his call to Lestrade. He looked down and realized Molly was still on the ground. Leaning over, he offered her his hand. "He's taking care of it. I told him you were safe. That's all right, yes?"

She felt his strength as he pulled her up. "Yes."

"He did ask," Sherlock assured her, soberly. "He does care."

She smiled. "I know." It was sweet Sherlock wanted her to know, though. Greg wasn't the only one who cared—Sherlock cared about her, and about Greg, too.

"He's sending one car just to take us over to the Royal Marsden," Sherlock said. "Police escort, as it were."

"Cheaper than a cab, I hope," she said.

"For us, yes. For the department? No idea what they charge on the budget." Nor, she suspected, did he care. He looked up, then, and she could almost imagine ears pricking. "Here they come. Sirens, coming south on Aldersgate."

She managed to nod. The shock and the cold had hit in full force by then. She was shivering as hard as ever and trying not to cry. She refused to cry in front of Sherlock, not when he was treating her with something like respect at last. He didn't notice, and she was glad of it. Maybe she could pull herself together before he ever did.

The police cars pulled up wailing and whooping. Sherlock left her side, stepping forward and practically grabbing the first officer to step out of the passenger side. Soon he was gesturing, nodding fiercely, and pointing, appearing to give a thumbnail of events for the officer to work from. Then he loped back and grabbed Molly's elbow. "Come on. We've got to get to Mycroft."

She allowed him to drag her along past the waiting cars to one near the end of the line. Sherlock opened the door and let her slip in, easing in after her. He slammed the door, said, "Ready," and the car took off, siren howling overhead.

The noise felt like an attack on top of her shock. She tried to sink into her jacket, ducking her head down. The police car dodged out into traffic at a rate that felt terrifyingly reckless. She pulled in further, wishing her jacket were bigger so she could turtle more effectively. She clamped her teeth so tight her jaw hurt.

Sherlock was rattling on a mile a minute about something... the attack, she thought. Something about his opponents getting desperate. She didn't really care. She didn't even notice he'd asked a question until he repeated it.

"What?" she asked, tightly. "I didn't hear you."

He was silent a moment, then said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Molly? This is me. Sherlock. Don't waste my time lying. What's wrong?"

"Fine, Sherlock. If you're so smart, you tell me what's wrong."

"It's not exactly like I've got the advantage. Dark car, sirens, you all hunched up like that. Limited detail for observation."

"Then nothing's wrong. Nothing."

She heard him draw in his breath for a sharp response—then stop. He touched her arm. "You're shaking."

"Cold."

"Well, yes, that jacket is perhaps a bit light-weight," he said, almost absently, still studying her. Then, pensively, he said, "You've never been under fire before, have you?"

She shrugged, afraid to answer for fear she'd start bawling.

"It's all right to cry," he said, a bit sulkily.

"No. It's not," she snarled, fighting back the tears. "You'll say horrible things. It's been so nice with you not saying horrible things."

The sirens ensured that the following seconds weren't silent, but they didn't contain any Sherlock-comments. Soon she felt motion beside her, and he said, "Lean forward."

She did. One half of his coat front and all of one arm seemed to sweep around her. He drew her close, sheltering her like a chick under a mother hen's wing. "I'm not going to suggest this is a perfectly good time to cry, because it's not. We'll be at the Royal in about five minutes, which even I will admit isn't enough time for a proper bout of hysterics. But I won't say anything horrible if you cry a bit—or if you cry a lot later. And at least you won't be freezing." He sounded like he was running out of rationalizations, but he continued to hold her close.

The warmth of the coat and his body were lovely, as was the arm around her shoulders. She huddled against his side, and sniffled.

He fished in a trouser pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "Mummy always said a gentleman should never be without one. I find they're rather useful in investigations. You never know when a nice bit of clean cotton will come in handy."

"Won't be clean long," she snuffled, then blew her nose.

"I've got more at home."

She didn't sob. She hardly leaked at all, she thought—only a little. Then she just leaned against him, drinking in the warmth and the completely unexpected luxury of being comforted by Sherlock Holmes. When the car pulled up in front of the Royal Marsden she was almost calm again.

XXX

Dr. Lund met them just outside Mycroft's room. "He's coming around. That's the good news. But I've got to warn you, he's...not very good right now. He's a long way from properly awake, and he doesn't know what's hit him. We've managed to pull the feeding tube—he was choking himself on it. But we may have to sedate him."

Sherlock glared at Lund. "What? He's just coming out of a coma, doctor."

Lund shrugged. "He's panicking. His awareness has come back faster than his understanding, if that makes sense to you."

"He's Mycroft," Sherlock proclaimed, as though that ruled out messy things like panicking when coming around from an extended illness and coma.

"Sherlock," Molly said, quietly. "It's not unusual."

He looked down at her, frown darkening his eyes. "He's Mycroft," he said again, more forcefully. Then, plaintively, "He'll get over it, won't he?"

"Probably," Lund said.

"Probably?" Sherlock didn't appreciate the ambiguity.

Lund took a deep breath. "He may have some permanent amnesia. There's a slight chance that the illness or the period he was in coma will have done worse. It's too early to rule it out. Personally, I'm expecting a full recovery. He's almost over the chicken pox, the pneumonia's doing better. His lungs aren't producing as much fluid. The coma wasn't the result of brain trauma, so there's a good chance there's no lasting damage. But I can't promise you, Mr. Holmes. People don't go into comas just because. He was very sick, and he stayed out for a fairly long time. There's always the chance there's some form of brain damage, and even if there's nothing we can spot, sometimes there's lasting cognitive damage."

Sherlock went from his usual Victorian-lily whiteness to a greenish grey. "Then why sedate him?"

"Light sedation. If he's awake but feels threatened there's a serious chance he'll injure himself. He's still on the IV, he's got the drainage tubes still in place. And he's not going to be very strong or very—agile. He's been sick, Mr. Holmes. Very sick. He's not well, yet. A delusional struggle to free himself from his hospital bed won't do him any good, and could do a lot of damage."

Sherlock didn't look as though he liked it. He did look as though he was going to argue. Molly risked touching his arm. "He's telling the truth, Sherlock. Look, before you say more..." she looked to Lund. "Can he go in and see Mycroft?"

Lund nodded, his eyes grateful. "That's why I called him—that and permission to sedate. Familiar faces can help. People he trusts."

"I'm the last person you should have called, then," Sherlock said, bitterly. "His aide, perhaps."

"Sherlock, try. Just try," Molly said.

His lips tightened, but after a moment he nodded.

Lund opened the door and ushered them in.

Mycroft was the wriggling, unhappy focus of too much attention, surrounded by nurses and orderlies trying to deal with wandering hands and a restless effort to move—to move anywhere. They'd succeeded in removing the feeding tube, but a red, bruised streak remained where it had lain on the skin by his mouth, and gummed patches of old tape adhesive clung tight. His eyes veered as he tried to focus. Molly could see he didn't have full control over eye motion, yet. Her heart tightened. She'd seen patients coming out of sedation, and out from comas before. Some woke instantly, minds sharp and in focus. More, though, experienced some degree of confusion and reduced control over motor skills. Mycroft, in her opinion, was coming in on the bad end of that spectrum.

Sherlock's breath sucked in, hard and fast. He seemed unable to move a step further into the room. "Mycroft?" His voice wavered.

Mycroft's head turned, and he struggled to focus on the latest intruder into his private chaos. "Who?" he croaked. His voice was wrecked, vocal cords sore and raw from lack of use and the extended presence of the feeding tube.

Molly was sure the sound Sherlock made was one he'd never want to admit to or own. It wasn't a cry, or a sob, or a moan; it was a little, shocked thing, too weak to survive for long in the open air. She looked over and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed down fear. "Mycroft?" His voice was almost as broken as his brother's.

"Shock?" Mycroft continued to try to focus, when focus was beyond him.

Molly slipped her hand onto the small of Sherlock's back, feeling the wool strap and buttons that marked out the start of the coat's classic flare. She pushed gently, whispering. "He can't bring you into focus. His motor skills are going to be punk for awhile yet. Get closer, and talk." Moving him forward with one hand, she gestured to one of the nurses to bring the guest chair up to the bedside. She guided him as though he were as ill and injured as his brother, needing a nurse's hand.

He sat heavily.

"Talk to him, Sherlock." She stationed herself behind him, hands on his shoulders.

"Mycroft? It's me. Sherlock."

The unfocused eyes turned toward him. "Shock?" Even through the raw, cracked voice she could hear the fear. "Where am I? What happened?"

"It's all right, Mycroft. It's all right. You've been sick, that's all. You're getting better, now." Sherlock reached out spontaneously, grabbing Mycroft's roaming hand. "It's going to be all right."

"Not... not accide... not... Can't think. Can't think." The fear jetted up, now, taking control.

If Mycroft's voice and terrified eyes hadn't made it obvious, Sherlock's reaction would have clarified just what it meant to these two brothers to lose their one great ability—the one master-skill by which they managed to survive. Eyes as stricken as Mycroft's, Sherlock rose and fumbled the guard rail down, ignoring the protests of the nurses. He hitched a hip into the space left at Mycroft's waist, then gingerly, cautiously took both hands in his, avoiding the tangle of tubes. "It's all right. It's going to be all right, Buddy."

"Shock—can't stay this way. Promise?"

Molly felt cold to the core, knowing just what Mycroft was demanding.

"Shhh. Shhh. I won't let you get stuck like this. I promise. You're going to be all right, though. Don't be scared. It's going to be all right. You're getting better. I promise."

Mycroft sighed and relaxed, leaning back against the raised head of the bed. He closed his eyes. "Not right. I'm s'posed t' take care 'f you."

Sherlock smiled—a smile that just barely held back tears. "It's all right, Buddy. You do. You always do. This time it's my turn."

When they'd remained together quiet and steady for a few minutes, Molly let the tension bleed out of her body. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Sherlock? Is it all right if I go home, now? I'm dead."

His eyes turned to her. "No. I mean, please, no? They're still holding the room across the hall for me. You can sleep there. Please? I'll take you home later."

What she really wanted was a hot shower, her most broken-in knit nightshirt, and about twenty hours of sleep. But she couldn't quite resist the fear still lurking in his eyes. She nodded. "Okay. Wake me if you need anything."

He nodded, then turned back to Mycroft, stroking his hand with one thumb. "Let Lund know he doesn't need a sedative. Not now. Not while I'm here."

"I will," she said, and slipped out of the room.

XXX

It was near dawn when Molly woke. Sherlock stood at the window, hands deep in his coat pockets, staring out at the silvery sky. She blinked and wiped sleepers from her eyes. "Morning, Sherlock."

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

"How's he doing?"

He almost shrugged, but stopped short of more than a twitch of the shoulders. "Sleeping, now. I think he's doing better. How long does it take to come back properly?"

"Depends," she answered. "Depends on a lot. He's lucky. The coma wasn't from blunt force trauma to the head. But he's been sick. Really, really sick."

He nodded again. After awhile he said. "I couldn't say 'brother' when I was little."

She thought about it, still groggy from too little sleep. After a bit she managed to put it together. "So—Buddy?"

"Yes."

"And Shock. Short for Sherlock?"

"My parents wanted Sherry. Mycroft said it was unkind enough to stick me with Sherlock without saddling me with Sherry. He shortened it to Shock. Or Shock-o. Or Shocker. Or Shock-Jock. And he made it stick, too. Even at King's. I still went through hell at school, but at least I didn't go through hell as Sherry."

"Intelligent man, your brother," she said, sitting up.

"Quite."

She nodded. Eventually she said, "Someone tried to kill you last night."

"Mmmm."

"Someone knew Mycroft was coming around?"

"Probably. They're running out of time."

"Time for what?"

"I have no idea."

She moaned, softly. "Normally you'd think that was fun, wouldn't you? A game." Every tone of her voice made it clear that, in her opinion, it was proof he was a bit crazy.

He snorted. "Normally, it doesn't put my friends and family in danger." The gray light of the morning lit his face, silver-plating his profile, glowing in blue-green eyes. There was something achy in his voice, still grieving from the night before.

"What do you need?" she said.

His eyes darted to her. He shook his head, a tiny motion. "I don't know." She could hear the confusion and misery.

She stood. Drew in a breath and stepped close. Staring at his chest, she said, "I won't say anything horrible, you know."

The laugh he gave was tiny, and forlorn. "No. You never do, do you?"

She risked grabbing the front edge of the coat, where it lay open. She gave a little tug.

With a weary sigh he swung the coat wide, never taking his hand out of his pocket. He pulled her in under his wing, drawing her to himself as though he was comforting her sorrow and fear.

She leaned in close, slipping her arms around him. She did cry, a longer cry than the night before. If the palms of her hands told her that he cried silently, too, she didn't make him pay for her knowledge.

Finally, they drew apart. Molly mopped her face dry with his handkerchief and ignored him doing some mopping of his own with a tissue from the bedside table. Both politely pretended nothing of any great moment had happened.

"I'll call a cab and see you home," he said.

"No," she said, firmly. "Call the cab, but then sleep here. Mycroft may need you."

"All right, but you're calling in sick today."

"No, I'm not. I've got a job."

"Calling in sick. Nigel will kill me if you don't."

"Pfft. Nigel. You can... Oh, my God." She froze, staring at Sherlock. "Oh, my God. I forgot."

"What?" he asked, suddenly on alert.

"Nigel's got Mycroft's umbrella."

 

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
"Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed"

 

Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You."

 

As kisses went, Molly had to confess to herself that this one rated mixed reviews. It was determined, and Sherlock had learned the core mechanics of kissing extremely well somewhere along the line. "Mechanics" did seem to be one of the operative phrases, though—along with, perhaps, "competitive" in the sense of a show-piece, like competitive figure skating or competitive gymnastics. It was easy to imagine that somewhere there was a panel of judges with white cardstock score cards, preparing to score points. "Sufficient lip and tongue action." "Drool-free." It would have gotten a ten on style. She was too recently experienced with Greg's kisses, though, to miss that it was a bit lacking in soul or freeform improvisation. It was strictly ballroom.

Her knees were dented and sore from kneeling on what Molly was certain were go-go boots—the oldest go-go boots still kept on active duty in anyone's closet. And the closet itself was a bit off-putting: stuffy, with a faint smell of moth-balls and damp woolens. Above them was a press of coats and jackets. Behind her seemed to be a bouquet of umbrellas, brooms, and even a collapsible shovel of some sort. And a cricket bat—no doubt a vital element in Mrs. Hudson's private home security arsenal.

Offsetting all of that was the tremor of Sherlock's hands on her back, the warm clutch of his long grasshopper thighs gripping her hips, the hitch of his breath as he leaned into the kiss. Those, more than skill or rigorous style, sold it for her.

She waited out the complex, ritual completion of his first effort, then leaned against him, unconsciously channelling Greg Lestrade's gentle, lazy ease and tenderness. "Shhhh. Relax, love. Here, let me..." She let her hands slip up around Sherlock's neck, fingers and thumbs framing the back of his skull, then nibbled and tongued the two of them into a soft, explorative kiss, less concerned with style than with discovery.

Silent questions; silent answers. Do you like this, Sherlock? Yes. He liked that. And this? Yes. Why don't you try this? she said without words, drawing one of his hands up to trace her body. Pulled away from his set-piece, he was uncertain, less sure of himself—but every new discovery rattled through him, easy to read through her palms, through the sound of his breath, through tiny, surprised gasps and whimpers.

At some point, he came to a turning point. His confidence grew, and he began warily combining the easy exploration with just a touch of his own carefully tutored style, learning a move at a time what worked. She wasn't really that surprised he was a fast learner: that ravenous mind noticed too much, understood it too well for him to fail at this if his heart was in the experience. Pretty soon they were on even ground, effectively melting each other's defences, leaving nothing but a long, hungry dance without music, ending temporarily on a sigh. She lay across his chest; he cradled her, his face pressed against her hair.

"Oh." He said with sudden wonder, a child seeing his first butterfly. "Oh."

"Mmmm," she agreed.

"That's quite disturbing," he whispered. "I... If you weren't pinning me down so effectively, I think it likely I'd run away, now."

"I can let you up," she offered, sympathetically. She'd felt a bit the same in Greg's arms, learning that love-making was so much more expansive, so much more revealing, so much more tender than she'd known before. And learning the same lesson again in Sherlock's arms was worse—more intense, if only for his fragile exploration. He was like a fawn staggering to its feet for the first time—breathtaking and wonderful.

"No. Not quite yet," he said, arms tightening. "I need to think."

Of course he needed to think—Sherlock, after all.

"Don't think too long," she said, chuckling. "My knees hurt. I'd really rather we didn't stay here in the closet, either. There have to be better places around here."

He nodded. "Yes. Upstairs. My room. John's old room. Even..." he stopped. "I don't think you were asking for a list, were you?"

"Not really."

"I'm not going to be good at this, Molly," he said, worriedly. "I'm not just going to be a bit not-god. I'm going to be a lot not-good. I won't get flowers or buy cards or remember anniversaries. I'll still hate your stupid kitten macros. I'm not going to be nice, or comfortable, or predictable. I'm not going to be a good lover. I'll lose my temper. I'll still insult you. I'll get carried away and forget you for days. Um... on bad days I'll mistake you for a good lab subject. I will. It's not going to stop being that way." He sounded harried. "You're going to want to kill me, most of the time. People do, you know. John wants to kill me. Lestrade wants to kill me. Mycroft pretty much always wants to kill me."

She smiled and rubbed her face against him. "You probably will. And I'll try to do what they do—yell at you, tell you when you're out of line, insult you back, explain when you're being a complete berk. And love you."

"Oh."

It was such a small sound. It stole her heart away.

"What are we?" he asked. "Are we—a couple? Lovers? An item? What are we? What are the rules?"

She could hear the intensity of the questions... No. He didn't know. He was Sherlock, and he wasn't sure at all. No doubt from the outside he could have observed and presented a scathing, exact analysis of their relationship. From inside, he was dead hopeless—entirely lost.

"I think it depends a bit on what you want," she said, cautiously, knowing that with Sherlock she might well be opening the door to all kinds of hurt feelings and rejections. "I'd say... I'd say I'm pretty serious. But I've loved you for a long time. It's going to be hard not to be serious."

"You mean you want to be a couple?"

She considered. "Maybe—not quite a couple? Not ready to move in with you, that's for sure. Not ready for heads in the fridge. How about 'seriously seeing each other'?"

"I think I can do that." After a moment, he said, cautiously, "You can still see Lestrade, too. I—I don't own you."

"I might," she said, with a shiver. She hadn't thought about that, and she didn't know where to place it. "I don't know. I really don't. It may depend on him."

He nodded.

Deep in his trousers pocket, his phone cheeped. "Text," he said, and squirmed, eventually retrieving it. He opened the message, then smirked, his face lit by the screen. He turned it to face her. It was from John.

Greg and I are trying to be polite, but our coats are in that closet. Any chance you'll be out soon?

She laughed. Sherlock took the phone back, then typed quickly, turning the phone eventually so she could see his response.

Soon. Don't rush me. It's complicated. SH

K.I.S.S.—Keep It Simple, Stupid. Save complicated for the bedroom, Sonny Jim. Closets are for novices.

Molly snatched the phone out of his hand, and typed her own message.

You have no idea just how full this closet is, John Watson. Believe me, Casanova would find it complicated. Give us a mo' to figure out how to escape, eh? (Molly)

Yeah, okay. TMI. There's tea in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen when you've figured out the human origami, girl. Don't let Sherlock try anything too fancy: he's not what you'd call practical.

They both smiled in the dim light. Sherlock pushed the door of the closet, popping it open. Molly gingerly unwound herself, hands bracing on the walls and doorframe of the closet, supporting her as she eased herself from between Sherlock's legs. Once out she stepped back, allowing him to wiggle and twist his own escape. When he was out she peered down.

"Yep. Go-go boots," she said, with some satisfaction. "Red, too. Mrs. Hudson wasn't a quiet little girl back in her day, was she?"

"I believe not," Sherlock said. "But she seems to have few regrets, beyond her involvement with the late Mr. Hudson—of whom, the less said the better."

Each took the time to tidy up.

"You need to redo your hair," he said. "There's a long bit pulled free." He gestured, hand clawing uncertainly near his head, miming her own disarray. It was clear he wasn't used to providing "living mirror" services to girlfriends.

"Mmm. Give me a moment," she said, straightening the blouse she'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. Then she quickly redid the ponytail. "I'm neat, now?"

"Yes." He studied her—and a second later his eyes darkened, and he looked down. "Mycroft would know you'd been kissing. I'm not sure about John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. They don't observe as closely."

"They already know," she pointed out, feeling a bit rattled. It wasn't going to be easy walking into that kitchen. For that matter, it was going to be a bit odd having a lover who could read his kisses on her face. She reached up to touch her lips, wondering if they were giving her away.

"It's more your eyes," Sherlock said, refusing to look at her. "And your breathing is still a bit off."

"I see. Well..."

"Yes. Well."

She forced herself to stand straight. Gritting her teeth, she marched toward the kitchen. She could hear the murmur of voices—soft laughter, both John and Greg. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Three heads turned. Three sets of eyes looked at her.

Greg smiled and winked, kind and approving. She felt a bit of the terror ease out of her. She smiled back. John was intently studying his tea mug, fighting back a knowing grin.

"Well, it's good to have my closet back," said Mrs. Hudson, with entirely unhidden glee. "Been a long time since that bit of the flat saw so much action."

"It's been put to that use before?" Greg asked, with what appeared to be honest curiosity.

"Oh, yes. I wasn't always an old stick," Mrs. Hudson assured him. "I was in with the Mods, dear! And when London was swinging, I was one of the girls swinging it! Daresay there's nothing you know that I didn't know first." She winked mischievously. "And if I were a decade or so younger, I'd prove it to you, too."

His brows shot up, and he laughed. "You know—I think I'd let you."

She looked at him under her lashes. "Oh, you would, dearie. You would. And you wouldn't regret it, either. I was a fast young thing in my day."

"And she's still got the go-go boots to prove it," Molly said.

"You'd know!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "My word, I hadn't thought about those in I don't know how long."

Sherlock sidled into the room, warily, avoiding John and Greg's eyes. He made himself a mug of tea, and failed to look nonchalant and relaxed.

Greg and John exchanged glances, apparently deciding if the right thing for "best mates" was to tease the living daylights out of him, or step back. Molly caught Greg's eye, and shook her head. If there was an amused sparkle in his eye, there was also understanding. He nodded back, sent a glance to John, and the two appeared to reach agreement.

John said, calmly, "Got to get back home, then. Make some dinner and get to bed early. Work in the morning."

"Yeah, me, too." Greg washed his mug out in the sink, and put it up to drain. "I've got the car with me, John. Want a lift home?"

"That would be good."

"Molly?"

Molly hesitated. A lift would be good. She wasn't ready to spend the night, and was fairly sure Sherlock wasn't ready for that, either. But a lift home with Greg could get unsettling...especially as she wasn't at all sure what she wanted to do there.

Not at all. Indeed, her feelings approached being perfect examples of "not a clue."

She licked her lips, uneasily.

"I've got to go see Mycroft this evening," Sherlock said. "Molly, if you want to come with me, I can have the cab drop you off at your place on the way home."

"That sounds good," she said. "I want to see how he's doing."

He nodded, silent.

The feeling of being watched intently was totally weird, Molly thought. She could almost feel the cautious looks, almost hear the thoughts as John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson evaluated the situation. As the two men prepared to leave, she noticed them brushing against Sherlock like ponies in a paddock, shoulders touching briefly, establishing friendship. Greg risked a hand cupped briefly over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock didn't twitch it away, but stood, unmoving.

Greg smiled, and continued on. John had fetched their coats, and the two got ready for the late fall weather outside.

Then they made a point of hugging both Mrs. Hudson and Molly on their way out, and brushing kisses on their cheeks. John's were gentlemanly, and a bit austere. Greg flirted briefly with Mrs. Hudson, making her blush and giggle. Then he gave Molly a full hug, her kiss on the cheek—and one on the tip of her nose. His eyes were happy, if less blatantly flirtatious than they'd been. "Call me if you want?"

"I will," she said, and tiptoed, placing her own kiss on his cheek.

It was unsettled—but also comfortable. She didn't feel trapped or judged, and she'd been afraid she would.

"I'd better get my own things," Sherlock murmured, as they left. He left the mug on the counter, and seemed to turn to vapour, misting up the stairs.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth quirked up. "Well?"

Molly blushed. "Um..."

"Nice?"

She nodded, blushing pinker. "Nice."

Mrs. Hudson squealed, happily. "Eeee!" She bounced on her toes and fluttered her hands, seeming all of eighteen, rejoicing with a girlfriend. "Yes!"

Molly couldn't resist. Even she was swept away in Mrs. Hudson's delight. She giggled.

There were footsteps at the head of the stairs, and Sherlock's voice came down, his baritone a rich, funereal groan. "You're doing the girl thing, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson fluted, still giggling, "We are."

"If I return to the flat to collect a tablet, will you stop doing the girl thing?"

"Probably not completely, dear. I think we'll be past the more squeaky bits, though. Is that enough?"

"Will you still be subjecting me to giggling and kissing and other indignities?"

"Only a little, Sherlock."

"It's most disturbing, Mrs. Hudson."

"I know, dear, but for the rent you pay you have to endure a few hardships," she said. "Persevere. Be brave."

He sighed gustily, and trod heavily back into the upstairs flat.

Mrs. Hudson was holding her ribs, by then, struggling with laughter. She raised one hand high—and Molly met it in a gleeful clap.

"Was that a high-five?" Sherlock shouted down.

"Yes, Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called back up.

"One. You get one. Anymore and we're renegotiating the rent."

"Of course, Sherlock... I'd been thinking of asking for an increase anyway."

He walked down the stairs with a steady pace, and came to stand in the kitchen door, looking in. Molly and Mrs. Hudson looked back at him, barely managing to resist more giggles. Seconds ticked by, and Molly was amazed and charmed. Looking at them, his stern, gloomy Eeyore face relaxed. One side of his mouth twitched—and he shook his head, grinned, and gently folded Mrs. Hudson into his arms, kissing her on top of the head—then pulled Molly in, too.

"Idiots," he said.

"I know, dear. You suffer terribly," Mrs. Hudson sympathized, chuckling. "I don't know how you bear it, I truly don't. Now, go, you two. It's going on teatime. You should grab something to eat on the way, then go see Mycroft. Send the poor dear my love, will you?"

"What, and set his recovery back a week?" Sherlock deadpanned.

She smacked him, lightly. "Wicked boy. Go on, go on. Get off with you. I've got to clean this place up: been years since I had this many people in and it's all at sixes and sevens. "

As they all moved to the front of the house, Nigel ascended from the basement apartment—frowsy, muddled, and clearly only just risen from sleep.

"'Sup?" he asked.

Sherlock, Molly and Mrs. Hudson all looked at him. Molly turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Bring him up to speed, yeah?"

The mischief on the woman's face was priceless. "Of course, Molly, love!" She twined an arm around Nigel's waist, and the last thing Molly heard as she and Sherlock left 221B was Mrs. Hudson's voice saying, "Oh, have I got stories for you!"

XXXXX

They ate out at Angelo's. It felt odd. Angelo circled, eyes watchful and a bit perplexed.

"Your bloke's not here?" he asked Sherlock, in what he appeared to think was a subtle whisper Molly wouldn't notice.

"I told you, Angelo, John's got his own place right now," Sherlock said. "He's getting married in the spring."

"Yeah. Right." Angelo studied Molly, then said confidingly, "You take care of him, now, right? He's a great man, but even great men can be unlucky in love. Sad thing, when couples break up."

Sherlock maintained his attention to the menu, refusing to look up. "I told you, John and I weren't a couple."

"Yeah," Angelo said, clearly convinced he was being tactful and letting Sherlock tell a little white lie. "That's right. You just take it easy, now. I'll bring a nice bottle of wine. Drown your sorrows."

"No sorrows, Angelo. He was my flatmate."

"He's a brave man," Angelo said to Molly. "Carries on. Great man. Great, great man. Of course that Moriarty thing was a bit of a dust-up. And I have to say," he looked reprovingly at Sherlock, "your bloke stuck by you through thick and thin, even after everything you put him through." He frowned. "You should be ashamed, you know. He was faithful." And he glanced at Molly, now with suspicion.

"John's straight, Angelo," Sherlock said, "and he's getting married. To a woman."

Molly was nearly dying...and suspected that Sherlock's annoyance wasn't actually helping things. His irritation came across more as "sulking former lover" than "man trying to correct idiot regarding fundamental error."

"I'll have the pasta with gorgonzola sauce," she said. "Salad on the side."

Angelo paused, suddenly reminded of his role as host, rather than Agony Aunt. "Right you are. Starter?"

"Bruscetta," Sherlock growled. "Then the rissoto alla milanese for me. Salad. Carafe of Pinot Grigio for me, one of Zinfandel for my date." He was fuming.

She had to admit, he fumed very nicely, so long as it wasn't aimed at her. When she wasn't the target, it was actually amusing. Even adorable...

"You can't go against nature, mate," Angelo said, sceptically. "Man is what he is."

"And bring a candle," Sherlock snapped.

"I suppose you have to try," Angelo said, as though conceding that a child had to touch fire before he'd understand being burned. "Candle it is." He tucked his order pad in his apron pocket, moved a candle to their table, and disappeared.

Molly risked a snerk.

Sherlock frowned blackly at her. "This is all proving much more disruptive than I'd have thought. Is everyone in London going to see fit to comment on either my presumed break-up with John or my seemingly futile attempt at heterosexuality with you?"

She thought about it. He was, after all, still famous—or notorious. People would talk. "Probably?" She watched his face as he worked through that. It was an epic saga of different expressions: dour, sour, sullen, sulky, morose, petulant, peeved...

"Celibacy had certain advantages."

"True," she conceded. Then, "A lot more boring, though, I should think."

He scowled at her. "That's playing dirty. You know me too well."

"Who me?" She went wide-eyed and innocent.

"Molly Hooper, you're teasing me."

"Yes."

He blinked at the admission, and suddenly went quiet. "Oh."

"A problem?"

He blushed, then, and ducked his head. "Just not used to it. John and Lestrade tease me. Mrs. Hudson teases me." He didn't say he was unused to being teased by non-maternal women; wasn't used to flirting with women.

"Do you mind?"

He thought carefully about it. At last he said, "Not enough data. It's too early to speculate. You'll have to tease me some more before I can accurately evaluate my responses."

The vital thing to remember was that he meant it, too. It wasn't wit, it was honesty.

She smiled at him. "I think I can manage that. In the interest of precise estimates."

"Thank you. Your efforts will be appreciated."

Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, she told herself. Instead she focused on dinner, and on finding moments to gently, gently tease him. After all, she'd promised, hadn't she?

XXXXX

Mycroft seemed almost normal—or as normal as a man stuck in a hospital bed against his will can seem. He'd convinced someone to bring him a very elegant pair of dark charcoal-grey silk pyjamas. His hair was clean and combed. While there were still bruises and scabs and pock-marks on his skin, they were quickly fading—the nurses appeared to have taken good care, and ensured they'd heal well.

Even Molly could see, though, that there was still something fragile about him—not just health, but some damage to his confidence. If it was visible to her, it was apparently a screaming wail to Sherlock, with his greater knowledge of his brother and his observational abilities. She could feel Sherlock tense beside her, much like her cat Toby when she got out the nail clippers. If he'd not been working so hard to be a brave and valiant brother, she suspected that, like Toby, he'd have tried to dive for cover, too—or done the "offended cat" thing of yowling, whinging, hissing, scolding and stomping around with the psychic equivalent of his tail shivering in disapproval.

She wondered if he knew just how strongly he radiated his emotional reactions to things. She thought not. In his own mind he was calm and reserved and detached. Anyone who knew him, though, knew he was a minefield of responses, all on hair triggers, and all attached to live explosives of various sorts.

Whether he knew it or not, he was announcing to the world that he did not like having big brother battered and bewildered. Big brother wasn't supposed to be hurt. Sherlock was not amused—not at all.

"Well. Finally. At least you're sitting up," he said in full curmudgeon mode, glowering at Mycroft. "Lazy old thing. I thought you'd lie there forever."

"Not everyone's permanently hyperactive," Mycroft grumbled back. Molly had never known Mycroft well previously, and she struggled to read his unfamiliar body language—the quirks and kinks and little inflections that communicated so much. She thought she saw warmth and humor hiding behind a desperate attempt at control. He was much, much more the reserved, defended citadel Sherlock only thought himself to be, though: much tougher to read. "There are some of us who actually manage to accomplish things without pacing ruts in the floor."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sloth. Slug. Lie-abed. How long can I expect you to mope around here? I'm tired of filling in for you with the British Government. It's dull and I want to get back to my own experiments."

Molly made a note to herself that this was Sherlockese for "I'm worried silly about you and want you to get well soon."

"Good lord, don't tell me they're allowing you to muddle up my projects," Mycroft sighed, wearily. "I'll be a decade clearing up the disasters you'll sow in your wake." He shuddered, delicately. "What have they let you maul, anyway? Hopefully nothing too sensitive."

Another note: This was Mycroftese for "I have not one clue what the hell I left open, and I'm scared stupid, and would you please bring me up to date because this is getting on my last nerve."

"Middle-East," Sherlock drawled. "Nothing major, not that Uncle William and Beemish are convinced. They're ransacking your files and ripping through every contact they know about trying to bring your projects under their control. They seem to think that without you, they're all that stands between Mother England and Armageddon."

Translation: "Uncle William and your aide, Beemish, are mucking around in your business, but don't seem to have caught on to whatever you were doing yet. Unfortunately, neither have I. Please brief me, brother, as I'm buggered if I know what you're up to. How bloody serious is it, anyway?"

Mycroft wiped a hand over his face, and said, "God. That's unfortunate. I wish I could remember more. They could be doing anything..."

Which Molly was pretty sure meant, "OMG, I have no idea what's going on there—Armageddon seems only too likely," followed by a long string of really creative cursing. Mycroft struck her as someone who might not swear openly all that often, but who probably knew scads of really vicious cusses in at least seven languages...and who used those wicked words mentally a lot more often than he let on.

Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, his interpretation was pretty close to her own. He didn't look a his brother directly, but kept his face turned slightly away, eyes slipping side-wise for a corner-eye view. "No memory of anything in particular, then?" he asked, giving up evasion and going directly to the point.

Mycroft shrugged, forlornly. "There's always something under way out there," he said. "Unfortunately I have no memory of any specific actions I had gearing up."

"Any feints? Ruses? Ploys? Any known agents? Any feared activity on the part of enemies?"

"I don't remember," Mycroft said, temper suddenly flaring—and with it, a clear flash of fear. "I've been trying to remember since I woke up. At first we thought it was just a few weeks of blanks—but there are whole months that aren't quite right. I can't put it all back together."

Molly thought she was lucky to be sitting in a chair near the foot of Mycroft's bed. If she'd been where Sherlock was, near the head, she'd have instinctively reached out to hold Mycroft's hand—and she was fairly sure Mycroft would have hated that with a passion hotter than the death of suns.

The two brothers were silent for a few moments, both brooding, both uneasy. Then Sherlock said, tentatively, "We've got your umbrella. There's a memory in the handle, and a passworded mobile transmitter-receiver. There's an explosive in there if we get it wrong. You have apparently been taking lessons from The Woman, brother-dear. Any idea what your password was?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"What about what's on the memory?"

"I recall having a memory installed in the umbrella...but in all honesty, it was largely a matter of amusement. So Maxwell-Smart, you see." Mycroft's mouth twitched in a sad caricature of a smile. "As I recall, I was planning on downloading the complete Monty Python collection, for the amusement of any enemy fool enough to steal my brolly, go through the process of gaining my password, and look there."

Molly had to fight back laughter, finding that a blinding revelation about Mycroft Holmes and his sense of the ridiculous. Sherlock, however, seemed to miss it entirely. "Would you have put your ring on the umbrella as a marker, if that was all that was on the drive?"

Mycroft looked up, eyes stricken. His left hand touched the ring finger of his right, stroking the empty space where a ring had once rested. "No. Is that where it went?"

"That's where it still is. You left it there. I think as a message to me."

Mycroft nodded. "Like as not." He looked haunted.

"Are you ever going to tell me the story of that ring?" Sherlock asked, suddenly forlorn and very much the little brother.

Mycroft's mouth twitched in something that definitely was not a smile, and he looked down at his hands. "No."

Molly ran that through her Mycroft interpreter, studying every element she could. What came back was a wordless sense of something deep, and intensely private...and beyond that, nothing. The nothing echoed, though, filled with energy and meaning. She knew that, having once heard and seen Mycroft not-discussing the ring, she would never fail to know that its presence or absence was always important, never casual or random—at least, it would always be important to Mycroft.

Both brothers stirred, restlessly.

"My contacts can't find anything that seems to pertain to this," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Contacts?"

"Her."

"Ah. Her. In Islamabad, still?"

"Where else?" Sherlock asked, sullenly.

"Ah." Mycroft looked at Sherlock, warily, then shot a speculative glance over at Molly. "You're in contact with her, though?"

"She's a good resource," Sherlock said, as though only a fool would miss his point. "And she's not mixed up with your people. She's my source. Any corruption on your side, she's likely to be free from."

"That may be the only form of corruption of which that can be said," Mycroft snipped. "The Woman's made a career of moral decay."

Molly didn't know how she heard the capital letters on "The Woman." She also didn't know why, as he said that, Mycroft's eyes fixed on her, puzzling something out.

"A highly successful career," Sherlock snapped back, "and one that brings her in contact with the more critical members of society. She's worked hard for us."

"No doubt for a stratospheric fee."

"High earth orbit, more like," Sherlock said, amused.

"You helped her negotiate?"

"It seemed sensible. If nothing else, it kept her aware of where her best interests lay."

"You're really quite wasted on private commissions, Sherlock. At the very least there are members of the diplomatic corps who'd appreciate your ability to drive for the greatest profit—when you set your mind to it."

"A compliment, Mycroft? I'm touched."

Mycroft shrugged. "I didn't suggest you set your mind to it often, now, did I?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course, not. Why would I have expected more?"

"Why indeed?"

Molly frowned. "Stop it. The two of you aren't talking, anymore. You're wittering around trying to pretend you're not scared."

Both brothers looked at her, pale eyes lit with far too much perceptive alertness. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, then, and said, quietly. "You do have a taste for dangerous women, don't you, brother-mine? At least this one's workable. Do try not to waste the opportunity she offers."

Sherlock glared back. "I'd be more inclined to listen to your suggestions, brother, if you showed any level of practicality in your own choices."

"Solitude is eminently practical," Mycroft said, with an intensity that Molly found far more frightening than anything else he'd demonstrated during the visit. It implied a dedication firmer than bedrock—something more durable than tungsten steel.

Sherlock didn't reply. After a few moments he said, "I'll be back. I've got to check things with your aide."

"Aliena?" Mycroft asked, with wicked innocence.

"Assuming that's her nom du jour."

"I believe you'll find her in the nurses' break room," Mycroft said. "They've got better coffee than the rest of the floor."

Sherlock grunted and stalked out, failing to invite Molly to go with him.

She looked after him, then warily back at Mycroft. He looked back, eyes pale and still. She licked her lips, suddenly uneasy. He was as intent as Sherlock ever was...and far less familiar to her. She felt watched, as a mouse is watched by a silent cat.

"I won't bite, my dear," he said, quietly.

"I... of course not. I mean, I didn't think..."

"On the contrary, you most definitely do think," Mycroft said, wryly. "Quite a bit more than Sherlock fully realizes, too, I suspect."

A cat could look at a king. Could a mouse look at a cat? Maybe not, if it were wise.

She watched him watching her.

"He's not reliable," he said, as though continuing a conversation well under way already, "but he's solid at the core. You've got a chance."

She nodded; then, driven by her own observations, said, "You're not as damaged as you think, you know. The memories may not all be there—but the mind is."

His eyes dilated, and then settled. "You've not much prior observation to draw from."

"Years of Sherlock," she said. "It's got to count for something. You're still one up on him. I can tell."

"Indeed? Interesting. Most people can't."

"How much of what you're saying is true? Or... No. How much truth are you leaving out?"

"I'm withholding very little from Sherlock," Mycroft said. His voice was grim. "Would that it were not so."

"But some?"

He bowed his head slightly. "Some. But Sherlock knows that, too. He's used to the exigencies of my position. There are always levels of truth held in reserve. Does he understand that you see things he doesn't?"

"Sometimes?"

"Do you understand that what you see won't be much comfort to you?"

"Well—it never has been before. I don't see why I'd expect it to start being a comfort now."

"Just so you're aware that seeing Sherlock's feelings when even he can't is going to hurt much of the time. Sherlock's feelings are seldom processed to conform to social expectation. His reactions tend to be rather—primal. Nature red in tooth and claw, and so on."

She shivered. "Are you saying I should just let go?"

"If you must, by all means do. But if you can? My dear, if you can, please stay. You are a better answer than I dared hope for." His voice was soft and gentle. "Call on me, if you must. If I can, I'll help. But—he's not an easy person. You'll cry, sometimes."

She felt herself grin—a crooked, hurty grin that came from somewhere dark and lonely. "I won't be the only one he's ever made cry, will I?"

"No. Not the only one," he admitted.

"I thought this was supposed to be the 'hurt him and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth' speech."

"I can give that one, too, if you like," he said. "And if I do, it means quite a bit more than it usually does. But it seemed more honest to admit he's more likely to hurt you than the other way around...and give you a chance to run."

"Considering how much he's already hurt me, I might as well stay," she said. "It's only now it's beginning to give back anything but blood and tears, after all."

He sighed. "Again, he's not an easy man to love."

But you do love him, she thought. "He loves you, too," she said out loud.

He laughed, then. "And I'm no easier to love than he is. Difficult to the bone."

"Worth it, though, I think," she chuckled. "Look, I don't know where he and I are going, yet. I've got options I never did before. I'll try not to hurt him—but if this doesn't end up where any of us hopes—can you not hunt me to the ends of the earth? I promise, I won't hurt him on purpose, and I won't just be stupid-negligent."

He waved one hand in regal absolution. "The hunt shall be held in abeyance, my dear. After all, we've more serious prey to attend to at the moment."

"Your brother doesn't trust Beemish and his Uncle William."

"My brother is an intelligent man."

"Can't you tell him more about what's going on?"

He shook his head, wearily. "My dear, I've told most of what I know, all of what Sherlock can actually use, and more than is strictly safe." When she looked at him in doubt, he said, "The secret, you know, is to understand what role I play on the board at the moment. Now, Sherlock will tell you, with mischief, malice, and actual conviction, than I play the queen: the most powerful piece on the board. There are times he's correct. In this instance, though, I'm not the most powerful piece, but the most precious."

She frowned. "I don't know much about chess. What's the difference?"

"Ask Sherlock, Miss Hooper. He'll know."

And then he changed the subject, discussing the pleasures of estate teas for the next fifteen minutes, until Sherlock returned.

XXXXX

"Sherlock," she asked, during the cab ride to her flat, "what's the most precious piece on the chess board?"

He'd slipped close to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "It depends. The queen, usually. But placement during play can determine a piece's power more precisely than anything."

"No. Not power—Mycroft was really particular about that. He said he wasn't the most powerful piece, but the most precious—not the queen, but something else. He said you'd know."

She could feel him come to full alert beside her, muscles suddenly alive in a way they hadn't been mere seconds before. "What?"

"Mycroft. We were talking about this whole mess. I was asking him if he couldn't tell you more. He said he'd told you most of what he knew, and all that was of any use. And more than was safe. And then he said that the secret was in understanding what role he played on the board."

"And?" His voice was electric.

"And then he said you usually thought of him as the queen—but that he isn't, this time. That he's something more precious."

She could feel him draw a breath, hold it, almost cling to it as he thought. When he let it go, it was as a sigh. "Oh. Oh, Mycroft." She wasn't sure if he was admiring—or frightened. His voice seemed to hold elements of both.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm..."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

He looked at her—but she didn't feel like he even saw her. "Sorry. It's just one more piece of the puzzle."

"So tell me," she grumbled, feeling entirely left out. "What was he talking about?"

"The queen's the most powerful piece on the board. She can move, engage, she can take an enemy from any angle. Used well she's close to unstoppable. But she's only a piece in play—a powerful piece, but otherwise entirely irrelevant. There's only one precious piece on all the board—and in many ways he's the weakest piece of all. The king. He can barely move. He can barely engage. He's got to be constantly guarded. His primary role is evasion, defense, and avoidance. But the entire game revolves around the king. The entire outcome of the game depends on taking the king—or failing to take him."

"And Mycroft's the king?"

He nodded, still barely focused on her. "Yes."

"And that means?"

"It means that he's not the queen. I've been trying to solve this as though he were, and he's not."

She sighed. "Someday you'll explain this, right? In English?"

He smiled, slightly, and grunted an affirmative, but his eyes were studying invisible worlds, and his mind was far away. When the cab pulled up at her apartment building, he didn't even remember to kiss her, instead shaking her hand absently, and murmuring, "I'll see you in the morgue tomorrow," as though none of the day's earlier events had even happened.

Fortunately, Molly knew him far too well to take offense. The game was afoot, and until he'd solved this latest switchback in the trail, all hope of romantic progress was probably derailed.

Which was, she had to admit, not a bad thing. At least she'd get a decent night's sleep. Still, she hoped this entire situation was solved soon... She'd really like to progress to a stage where her most intimate memories of Sherlock Holmes didn't involve a coat closet, after all.