Sherlock Meet me Halfway

**_This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I'm all for odd couples, and MH & MH has always been an intriguing one for me. I do ship Sherolly, but this pairing has still been on my mind. And recently, when Sherlock was finally back on air (and now is (sadly) off again), I finally had an idea of how I wanted this fanfic to work, vividly imagining Mark Gatiss and Louise Brealey acting it out. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._  
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**_I don't own Sherlock, anything you recognize belongs to people who actually get paid for doing what they do with these characters. I'm just toying with them for pure fun :) _**

**_This is not betaed and I'm not English, so I apologize in advance for all possible mistakes I have made._**

**_[I have re-read it, and fixed some things I thought needed fixing, hopefully it is better now. Also thank you very much for the reviews, follows and favorites that I have received :) 01-30-2014]_**

* * *

><p><strong>Meet me Halfway.<strong>

She sought him out first.

Molly Hooper felt lost. Confused. Important in a way. Sometimes smug and sneaky. Sometimes sad and scared. But most of the time Molly Hooper felt alone. She had never been one to socialize with lots of people, never had many friends and actually enjoyed solitude, but now she found it difficult to keep in touch even with those few friends she did have.

Because Molly Hooper was a bad liar. She lived her life honestly, not bothering to make it easier by lying. The truth always came out, and almost never in a good way. She was also convinced that she possibly had the worst poker-face in the world. Molly would blush and stutter, avoid eye contact and choke on her words to get a lie out of her mouth. And during those few time there was no other option but telling a little lie, it was always terrible guilt about lying to people she cared about that made her go and confess everything. Usually after a night of insomnia or the occasional nightmare.

Her friends knew this about her. So she knew that they would see her tell-tale signs if she made an attempt to lie to them. Therefore she realised she couldn't lie to them; and after doing what she did she had no other choice but avoid them. Her friends didn't seem to mind since everyone knew about her infatuation with the consulting detective and were willing to give her time and space to grieve. Little did they know that their condolences and compassion gave her a bigger reason to grieve than the actual "death" of Sherlock Holmes.

That is how Molly Hooper found herself sad and alone at her flat one Friday afternoon. Not alone if you counted Toby, but since he ignored all attempts Molly made at starting a conversation, she decided to count him out.

Her loneliness had never felt so bad. She had never felt the need to talk to someone as acutely as she was feeling it now. Four weeks had gone by since she had gotten herself into the biggest lie of her life. Molly had lied to her superiors, the police and those government officials in scary black suits that had stormed into her morgue one afternoon to confirm her statement on death of one Sherlock Holmes. Every once in a while she had to lie to reporters who had somehow found out about the mousy pathologist that had been on of the fake detective's closest assistants. But most importantly, she had to keep on lying to her friends.

Which brought her back to her initial problem – she was alone and in desperate need of a good, truthful conversation.

Molly was sitting down on the sofa with a glass of wine and sighed quietly to herself.

"I really hope he is doing well." Molly told her cat while scratching behind his ear with one hand and taking a sip of wine with the other. "I really hope all that trouble we went through was worth it, you know."

Toby gave an indifferent meow for an answer and made himself comfortable in her lap.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Of course it was worth it. He is alive and that is all that matters." Molly went on, not really noticing that her feline friend wasn't paying attention. "At least I hope he still is. I just wish I could talk to someone about it, you know." She looked down at the overweight ball of fur in her lap and sighed. "No offence, but you're not the most talkative company in the world."

This time Toby cracked one eye open and gave her a look of agreement. Or at least that was how Molly saw it.

Feeling annoyed with her cat, Molly finished up the glass of wine in one big gulp and got up for another. She smirked to herself at the angry hiss Toby made after being rudely pushed out of her lap.

She went to the kitchen and upon picking up the bottle of wine she'd opened earlier she was stunned to notice that it was almost empty.

"I'm getting myself a drinking problem." Molly stated to herself and finished the wine without bothering to pour it into the glass. She was sad and alone, drinking straight from the bottle fit in perfectly.

Finding another bottle in the fridge, she poured herself a full glass and returned to the couch. Toby had made himself comfortable on the coffee table, and Molly was annoyed to notice that he had done so by pushing her purse down on the ground.

She swore quietly and bent down to pick it up, causing the contents of her purse to pour out in a pile on the floor. Molly glared at Toby as if it was him who had undone the zipper.

"I hope you're happy now." She growled and got zero attention in response.

Molly was about to make a mean remark about Toby's weight when an object that was lying on the floor caught her eye. An object that had been delivered to her the morning after Sherlock's fall by a couple of intimidating men in expensive suits. They had given it to her with instructions that it would help her get in contact with a man she had never had a real conversation with. It was a direct line, she was told, something that only a few people could say they had.

"He knows, too." She whispered to herself as a trembling hand reached out to grab the phone. She always kept it fully charged, despite never really intending to use it.

Molly didn't give herself tim to think as she observed her own fingers unblocking the device and finding the only number that was in there. _A direct line_, she told herself. Suddenly her mouth felt dry when she saw what seemed to be someone else's finger press the button that would connect her to the only man that knew, too. She had never entertained the possibility of actually _talking_ to him and blamed the wine for doing it now.

And Toby.

Her hand was still trembling when she put the mobile to her ear and heard a beep. Then another one. After the third one she was ready to forfeit and was about to disconnect when a cold voice answered her.

"Good evening, miss Hooper. How may I help you?"

Molly gulped loudly and thought that she should have just kept talking to Toby. She was desperately trying to think of something to say, but her brain remained uncooperative.

However her silence didn't seem to confuse the man on the other end of the line.

"There will be a car at your door in ten minutes." The line went mute.

She nodded to nobody in particular and put the phone down. How the hell was she going to explain her reason to call Mycroft Holmes?

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later there was the promised car. Twenty minutes later she was sitting stiffly in front of Sherlock Holmes' older brother agreeing to a cup of tea.<p>

"Or maybe you would like coffee, miss Hooper?" The man in question said with a raised eyebrow.

"No, thank you." Molly squeaked and felt her cheeks turn red. She was positive that Mycroft Holmes had no trouble deducing that she wasn't sober, not unlike Sherlock.

"Some wine, perhaps?" He continued with a smirk and she felt her cheeks getting even hotter and managed to shake her head.

Mycroft kept the smirk on his face as he picked up the phone and ordered a tea tray to be brought to him.

"After a month of silence, what was the reason for calling now, miss Hooper?"

"Molly."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Molly. That's my name. I'm not used to being called differently outside the hospital." She thought it was a reasonable explanation, one that she never would have voiced out loud to him if she wasn't feeling tipsy.

"I see." He answered with a tight smile. "What was the reason then, _Molly_?"

She cringed at the sound of her name being hissed. "I want to talk."

"Yes, I figured as much."

He wasn't going to make it easier on her, she was sure. And why would he?

"It's just that I..."

She was interrupted by a knock on the door and a woman came in carrying a tea tray. Molly kept her eyes focused on her hands folded in her lap until she heard the door close again.

"Go on then." Mycroft said as he got up to pour the tea. "Milk, two sugars, yes?"

"Yes, thank you. How did you.. Uh, never mind." She said, taking the cup from him with trembling hands. "Thanks." Molly took a sip, trying to buy herself some time to figure out what she was going to say. She peeked at Mycroft preparing his own tea, noting that he took it with milk and no sugar, pouring the milk first.

"Despite how much I enjoy having your wine-induced awkward presence in my office, I'd rather we got to the point of your call, Ms. Hoo... Molly." The man said as he sat down and brouught his own tea to his lips.

Molly looked him straight in the eye. She didn't need any other proof that he was Sherlock's brother than the way he just managed to insult her by bringing out a flaw of hers. She wasn't in her best state, she agreed, but there was no reason for him to point it out like this.

"I wanted to talk." She repeated harshly. No need to be polite with him if he was being rude. The wine in her didn't just make her awkward, it also made her brave.

His eyebrows shot up. "With me?"

"I did call _you_, didn't I?"

She got a smirk and a raised eyebrow in response.

"Yes. And I am still not sure as to why?" Mycroft drawled.

"You're the only one who _knows_." Molly stated simply as if that answered all questions.

"Oh really? Did your cat prove to be uninterested in conversations?"

Molly choked on her tea. "How did you know I talked to him?" She asked quietly. "Oh lord, please tell me you don't.."

He shut her up by raising his hand. "Of course I don't have cameras in your flat, silly woman."

"Then how did you know?" Molly decided to ignore the last part of his sentence. He must think her silly, no doubt or lack of reason there.

The man opposite her let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed his temples. "It's hardly a secret that you live with a cat, judging by it's hairs stuck to your clothes. For the less observant there is of course your _blog_ that leaves no doubt that you _do _own one." Molly felt her cheeks turn crimson as hee continued. "It's most likely a male, since you're intimidated by other women, and even a cat would be considered a threat in your mind. Then there's the fact that you have been keeping to yourself lately, and you would feel the need to talk to at least _someone_."

Having heard more than enough deductions about herself from another Holmes Molly felt strangely unimpressed. Still embarassed though.

"So you don't have cameras in my flat, but you do have surveillence on me?"

Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised. "Well yes, of course. You are the only one to know Sherlock Holmes is still alive."

Molly felt her eyes widen at the unexpected insult. While he didn't say it straight, he still insinuated that she could let something slip. Has she ever proved to be unreliable for this posh bastard to view her as such?

"I would _never_..."

Again the raising of his hand shut her up. "Of course, of course, you're loyal and all that, Ms. Hooper." Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out another sigh. "Sherlock trusts you and I have no reason to believe that you would _intentionally_ compromise the situation."

"You bet I'm loyal." She felt as a pouting child sitting in front of this man who had already called her silly. So there was nothing to lose, eh? "I wouldn't say _anything_, not even unintentionally"

"Oh really?." There was the raised eyebrow again. Molly fought an impulse to fing her cup at his head.

The man continued. "Then tell me this, have you or have you not told your cat?"

His smirk grew when Molly had no answer for him.

But Mycroft wasn't finished apparently. "As far as I am aware, my brother did not extend his trust to.. Toby, was it?"

She lowered her eyes and felt extremely stupid for calling him at all. She should have thrown that damned phone in a drawer and forgotten about it. Tears filled her eyes and Molly had to gather all of her willpower to hold herself together. She didn't want to cry in front of this man.

There was another sigh, this time ot seemed softer.

"He is fine, by the way."

She looked up at the sound of his voice. "What?" Her voice no louder than a whisper.

Cold grey eyes met her stare. "Sherlock. He is alive and relatively well."

"Thank you." She whispered, fearing that speaking louder would open the flood gates and then there would be no stopping her tears.

He gave her a curt nod in response. "Now, is there anything else you would like to discuss?" Mycroft said as she placed her tea cup on his desk. She could throw it at him some other time.

Molly shook her head. She felt better than she had earlier today. Even though they had barely talked about the things that were bothering her, she no longer felt the need to. Knowing that Sherlock was alive seemed enough. All she wanted to do was to be back in her flat with her insufferable Toby.

"Good. The car is outside waiting for you."

Molly got the hint and stood up, avoiding looking at him. Something in his eyes when he mentioned Sherlock had made her feel uncomfortable and look away. She hadn't expected to see any emotion in his eyes.

She turned to walk away and paused at the door. No matter how uncomfortable she was, he had made her feel better in the end and deserved a good-bye. Molly turned around an looked at the man sitting at his desk in a flawless suit with unreadable expression on his face.

"Thank you, mister Holmes." She tried to keep her voice steady. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"I did give you the phone for a reason, miss Hooper." His voice was almost gentle.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and said quietly. "It's Molly, mister Holmes. Please, call me Molly."

Something in his expression changed and he nodded. "Of course. Molly."

Molly nodded in response and turned to open the door.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

He was the one to initiate contact next.

Mycroft Holmes would deny it if he was asked, but nevertheless that was exactly how Molly viewed the situation in hear head.

Two weeks after the time she had drunkenly called him, Molly sat in her lab filling out paperwork. She was done with her autopsies for the day and was eager to finish up with describing her findings and go home. They had made peace with Toby and were on speaking terms again. It was good.

Sighing happily she picked up the file of one Mr. Clarence, her last corpse of the day and set out to describe what she had found once she'd cut him open. Just as she was starting to write about what she'd seen inside his skull, the door to her lab opened with a loud bang.

Molly jumped slightly on her chair and turned to look at whoever it was that didn't know how to properly use a door. It surprised her that she wasn't surprised to see Mycroft Holmes stride into her lab, accompanied by two men in black suits, at the sight of whom Molly wanted to hide under her desk. Nothing intimidated her more that huge men in suits.

"Doctor Hooper!" The older Holmes brother said in his usual calm voice. "We are here to claim a body." It would be stupid of her to expect any kind of pleasantries from the man in front of whom she had made a fool of herself. She felt herself blush at the memory.

"You, um, what?" Was the best her brain could come up to as she saw one of the suit clad men walk up to her desk and start looking through her papers.

"A body, doctor Hooper." Mycroft repeated with a smirk that threw her right back into that evening two weeks ago. And Molly knew that he saw that on her face, too. "Mister Clarence, I believe, is supposed to be his name."

"Wha.. what do you mean by 'claim him'?" She still wasn't grasping the situation. What could possibly interest Mycroft Holmes in a body of a homeless man found in a dumpster?

"We are taking him with us." He said with a smile as he walked towards her. Gulping loudly, Molly stood up, not making up at all for their height differece. He was taller and more intimidating than his brother. She hadn't realised that during their earlier meeting.

"Ah, and his paperwork, too." Mycroft added as he saw one of his thugs pick up a file from her desk. "I see this is your last one for the day?" Molly nodded. "Well then, congratulations, doctor Hooper, you are free to go home."

He turned to leave while Molly was glued to her spot and couldn't find a thing to say. It wasn't often that her corpses were taken from her by the British government and she felt lost.

Mycroft let his men walk out while he stayed behind. He turned around and caught her gaze, his eyes now a tad softer than they had been a moment ago. "He is still alive, Molly."

A lump caught itself in her throat. She nodded and moved towards him, stopping abruptly when she couldn't find a legitimate reason to get closer to him. "Thank you, mister Holmes." Molly said and was surprised at the rasp sound of her own voice.

"Good day, doctor Hooper." He replied, cold smile back in it's place. "Say hello to your cat for me, would you?"

Molly let out an unladylike snort and felt some of the tension melt away. "Thanks. But knowing him I wouldn't count on reciprocation."

It was hard to be certain, but Molly thought she saw a shadow of something alike amusement in his eyes. The moment was short, but she was positive it was there. With a polite nod Mycroft Holmes turned to leave.

"Good-bye, mister Holmes."

He never turned back, but stopped right before stepping out the door. "It's Mycroft, miss Hooper." And then he left quietly, leaving his brother's pathologist silently exploring the feeling of his name on her lips.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Next time they met by chance.

Molly had spent a lot of her time trying to find an explanation for Mycroft Holmes to come down to St. Bart's himself to claim a body of some homeless bloke. She realised there was a chance of that poor dead guy being some sort of threat to the government or whatnot, but there was no reason for the man to actually appear himself instead of sending his minions to do his bidding.

She didn't allow herself to explore the possibility that he had come there to see her. But it didn't mean that the thought hadn't appeared in her mind. And Molly had to admit to herself (and once, when feeling very talkative, to Toby) that the thought felt nice.

Molly knew herself well enough to understand that an important, intelligent and handsome man like Mycroft Holmes would capture her attention and her girlish dreams would give her a taste of 'what if'. But her experience with Sherlock had also taught her that not all dreams came true, and with a Holmes it was usually painful, so she didn't dwell on it. It was just a nice thing to think about while slicing up a cadaver.

When Mrs. Hudson called Molly to say that she was worried about John locking himself up in Sherlock's bedroom and not opening the door, Molly didn't hesitate to rush over there, dumping her pile of bodies on an intern. That's what interns where there for, weren't they?

She threw a bunch of bills to the cabbie and jumped out of the taxi, not observing her surroundings and therefore not noticing the shiny black car parked in front of 221B.

Molly took two steps at a time and collided with a solid back of somebody at the top of the stairs.

"What the hell?" She exclaimed, struggling to keep her balance. She didn't really want to break her neck tumbling backwards down the stairs.

She felt strong arms catch and steady her. "Easy now, miss Hooper." His calm voice washed over her like a cold shower and her skin burned where he was holding her. "No need to inflict injuries upon ourselves, is there, Molly"

"Hello." She managed to squeak out as he let go of her. "Why are you...?"

"Mrs. Hudson called me, same as you." Mycroft Holmes said with what Molly supposed was a worried expression on his face. "Although I'm afraid I am the last person on Earth the good doctor wants to see right now."

"Why.."

"Oh, Molly, dear!" Mrs. Hudson rushed towards her, wrapping Molly in a hug and Mycroft stepped away. "Come on now, maybe you will get some sense into the poor boy." Without sparing Mycroft a second glance the older woman dragged Molly towards Sherlock's old room. Upon hearing Lestrade's voice as Mrs. Hudson was rushing her through the kitchen, Molly thought that Sherlock's landlady didn't waste time, calling everyone.

"Hello, Molly." Greg said as he stepped away from the door. "He's not listening to me. Hell, I don't even know if he's alive in there, that git!" He yelled the last part at the door.

"Now now, dear, don't say that." Mrs. Hudson scolded him, the only person that could make the DI took like a misbehaving little boy. "He's struggling. All of us are." She said with tears appearing in her eyes.

"Greg, you better go downstairs and make Mrs. Hudson a cup of hot tea, okay? I'll handle this, promise." Molly tried putting on her most convincing smile.

"Sure. Yeah." Lestrade replied with a nod, his shoulders sagging as he led the sniffling woman away from the door.

Taking a deep breath and bracing herself for the worst, Molly softly knocked on the door. "John?"

* * *

><p>She left 221B feeling completely drained and powerless. Talking to a grieving John had been worse than she imagined. He cried for losing his friend, she cried for having to lie and cause the pain to hers. He had agreed to a cup of tea and a sleeping pill from Mrs. Hudson eventually.<p>

Without looking around she went to the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab.

"Miss Hooper!" Came the now familiar voice from her left and Molly turned to be met by a sight of Mycroft Holmes leaning against his signature black car with a cigarette in his hand. She had assumed he had left already. "Do you need a ride?"

Being too tired to argue or even blush, Molly pushed her purse higher on her shoulder and dragged herself towards the man. After putting the cigarette out and threwing it on the pavement, Mycroft opened the door for her. Molly nodded in thanks. "I didn't think you a smoker. Or a litterer." He gave her a smirk and climbed into the back seat after her.

Despite being sleepy and wanting nothing more than to cuddle up under a ton of blankets with Toby to never wake up, Molly Hooper realised she desperately wanted a drink. She was trying to remember if she still had that bottle of whisky in her flat and thought about the possibility of calling in sick tomorrow. She was counting on a massive hangover if the bottle proved to still exist in one of her cupboards.

"Fancy a drink, doctor Hooper?" Molly lifted her gaze from staring blankly at the buildings they were passing, turned her head towards Mycroft and was prepared to defend her dignity and prove to him that she wasn't a drunk, but upon seeing his expression the thought wanished.

If there was anyone in the world who probably needed a drink more than she did, it was Mycroft Holmes. He looked worse than she felt, and it was weird since he didn't even get to see John. She did. Then she remembered his comment about John not wanting to see him and made up her mind. Maybe this was his way of trying to have a conversation.

"Yes, sure." She said softly, looking him straight in the eye. He nodded in response and leaned forward to instruct the driver.

"Mycroft." His name escaped her lips without her consent and she could swear she heard him suck in a sharp breath. She never turned her head to check.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

He was the first person she thought of calling. Never mind Greg Lestrade and all his coppers. Mycroft Holmes was the man she wanted by her side when a distraught husband of a recently deceased neurosurgical patient Mrs. Higgins had showed up at St. Bart's with a loaded gun. He had first threatened the neurosurgical ward, yelling for them to get the doctor that had killed his wife and then had asked for directions to the morgue to deal with 'the butcher that had chopped her up'.

Molly had been informed by a nurse from said ward and warned that the man was on his way with a hostage, after finding out that the surgeon was off duty that day. She had looked in the mirror at her pale face and gotten scared of the look in her own eyes.

"I'm hardly a butcher." She said to herself.

Without thinking twice she went and found the phone that had been given to her in her purse, remembering Mrs. Higgins and her subidural hematoma. No surgeon was guilty in her death, its' cause had been an unfortunate skiing accident, nothing more.

With trembling fingers Molly unlocked the phone and found his number. She pressed 'dial' and was about to put the phone to her ear when the door to the morgue opened loudly behind her and was followed by yelling.

"Hooper! Is that you, you bitch? Turn around and face me!" Molly slowly turned around. She felt incredibly calm, the trembling of her hands had dissapeared and she looked the poor man straight in the eye. She now understood what John Watson meant by saying that dangerous situations felt empty, there wasn't extra place for useless emotions. There was only fear and determination to live.

"I'm doctor Hooper, mister Higgins."

"Is that a phone in your hand?" The man raised his voice and pressed his gun against his hostages head. Molly recognized her as a nurse from the unfortunate ward. She remembered having talked to her in the caffeteria once, but couldn't for the life of her remember her name. "Throw it down or she gets it!"

Molly complied without an argument. She had forgotten why the phone was in her hand in the first place.

"Good. Now you and me are going to have a little chat." The man said, not lowering his gun. "About how you think it's allright to cut people up."

"Autopsies are obligatory, mister Higgins. They let us know how people die." It wasn't her speaking, no. Molly knew her voice, and that steady, calm and confident tone wasn't hers.

"I know exactly how she died. Those butchers upstairs killed her. They're no better than you. They start and you finish. I don't even know which one of you makes me more sick, they who love to cut living people or you, getting your nasty hands into those who are already dead."

The man was visibly shaking and his eyes were wet when he moved his gun away from the nurse's temple and pointed it at Molly. "How does it feel knowing they will do the same thing to you soon enough?" He spat as the nurse fell to her knees and crawled away, sobbing quietly."Do you still think it's an okay thing to do? They will chop you up and open up your skull, just like you did to Judy. Do you want that?" He raised his free hand to wipe away his tears.

Molly still kept his gaze. Her mind was blank. She wasn't worried for herself. The only thought that occupied her mind was if anybody would know that Toby enjoyed caramelized apples and who was going to feed them to him when she wasn't around.

"They will defile you just like you..."

"DUCK!"

For the first time in her life Molly Hooper was proud of her relfexes. She had no idea whose voice it was or where it came fromn but she trusted it. She threw herself on the ground, not breaking her fall with her hands. Molly barely registered pain in her knees as che curled up on the floor, covered her ears and shut her eyes. She was still able to hear the shouting and what she thought was a gunshot.

Next thing she remembered herself was being gently shaken by the shoulder. "Molly." Who's voice was that? "It's alright now, you should be getting up." The voice didn't seem too familiar, but it was comforting. It came with soft touches, so it was good.

"Doctor Hooper, I hardly think it is appropriate for me to be dealing with you like one would with a child." At the sharp note in his voice her eyes shot open and Molly was met with a cold grey gaze of Mycroft Holmes. How had he gotten here?

Only later, after the incident she had been told by the unfortunate nurse about armed men bursting into the morgue, followed by a tall man in a three piece suit who had rushed straight to Molly's side.

"Glad to see you are still in possesion of your wits, Ms. Hooper." He said with a smirk that felt so familiar it sent a warm feeling down into her chest. "Maybe you should get up so we could get you home?"

Molly nodded and was thankful when he helped her since she wasn't sure if she could trust her legs to hold her.

"Come on now, off we go." His voice was calm and collected as he allowed her to get a good grip on his elbow and led her away. With a corner of her eye Molly noticed a puddle of blood where Mr. Higgins had been standing, but since there was no sheet-covered body, she thought he must be alive.

"Clean shot through the leg, he'll live." Came a statement from her right.

"Good." She managed to rasp.

"Good? The man threatened to kill you and was eager to have an autopsy performed on you, and you say it's 'good' that he's alive?" Mycroft had turned his head with one raised eyebrow at her, but hadn't stopped walking.

"Yes." Molly said quietly as the pain in her knees caught up with her. She would have to get an x-ray. "The poor man just lost his wife, of course he was upset. He just didn't know how to deal with that."

Mycroft didn't dignify that with a response, the only thing Molly got was a posh snort.

Her way out of the hospital was easy, no doctors or policemen bothered her. Somewhere along the way a blanket had appeared around her shoulders and before she knew it Molly was on her way home in a shiny black car that she was getting used to.

Just like she was getting used to the man sitting next to her. And she blamed her shock for making her reach over and get a hold of his hand. She smiled silently to herself when she felt him cover her hand with his.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When Molly woke up from hearing a knock on her door, she knew something was wrong. Without bothering to check if she was decent, she rushed to open the door.

There was a haunted look in his eyes that made her heart clench painfully in her chest.

"What is it, Mycroft?" Without him saying anything she _knew_. "Is he alive?"

The man nodded as he stepped around Molly and walked into her flat without an invitation. She didn't even mind. While closing the door she let out a relieved sigh. Not dead then, but probably wounded.

"I do believe this would be a good time for you to bring out that bottle of whisky you hide in a cupboard behind a pack of pasta, miss Hooper."

Molly didn't even ask as she moved to the kitchen while rolling her eyes. Why would Mycroft Holmes feel anything less than the owner of her flat? But she prefered him to be obnoxious and annoying as opposed to the distraught man she saw when she opened the door.

She quickly remembered in which cupboard she had stashed the whisky and stood on her tiptoes to reach it. Tips of her fingers merely grazed the bottle as they pushed it deeper into the shelf. With a sigh she decided she would be needing a chair. As she was about to move away and get one, she felt solid presence behind her and watched graceful digits grab the bottle and lift it effortlessly off the shelf.

When Mycroft didn't move away Molly felt annoyed enough at him for invading her personal space, she turned around with a pout only to be met with a smirk.

"I believe we still need the glasses?" He said with that damned eyebrow raised again as he reached with his free hand to grab the glasses from the nearby shelf. She quietly cursed those Holmes' brothers and their love at intimidating people.

Thankfully Toby came to her rescue, deciding that the back of Mycroft's shins would be a good place to sharpen his nails. The man hissed when, what Molly knew from experience were quite sharp weapons, dug into his skin.

She chuckled and made a note to herself to feed Toby one extra time tomorrow.

"Shall we?" Molly said quietly as she motioned to the living room.

"Lead the way, miss Hooper."

"Will it kill you not to call me by my last name, _mister Holmes_?" She asked annoyingly while shooting him a dirty look across her shoulder.

He gave her an un-Mycrofty shrug.

"Or are you going to keep calling me that until we perform the ritual of brotherhood drinking?"*****

When Mycroft shot her a quizzically raised eyebrow, it was her turn to shrug. "That's right, I know what it is, mister Holmes."

"Then who am I to disagree with a lady?" He said while pouring their drinks.

Molly looked down at her feet clad in socks that weren't matching, at her pink pyjamas with drawings of sheep in different stages of drunkness and thought that she was hardly a lady.

"Shall we then?" He asked as he towered over her. Her sleep deprived body didn't even bother to blush.

"Here we go."

They hooked their forearms. "Bottoms up." Molly said, looking at the undecipherable expression in his eyes and bringing the glass to her lips, emptying it. He mirrored her actions precisely, never taking eyes off her.

"Mycroft."

"Molly."

Without allowing herself to think about it she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. He leaned down and met her halfway.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When she stupidly asked him to come to her birthday party, she did so via text. And never expected him to reply. Or show up.

That's why she wasn't surprised or disappointed when he didn't. Even though he had been a constant, stable presence in her life (and she suspected under all those layers of expensive clothing and cold attitude he felt the same), she wouldn't call them friends.

She remembered with a smile that night at her flat when they had finished her treasured bottle of whisky fairly quickly, he had produced another one from the depths of his coat. They had finished that one as well and talked into the sunrise.

He had asked her why she was in love with his brother. She said she didn't know. They had drunk to that.

She had wondered about the umbrella he seemed to carry around wherever he went. He didn't give her a straight answer and they had drunk to that, too.

Molly had collapsed into her bed at 7 a.m. after sending him on his way, realising that she would have to get up in an hour and go pretend to be a pathologist, when a text from him had informed her that she wouldn't be needed in the morgue that day. Some bureaucratic inspection or something like that, the morgue would be closed.

She had drunkenly told Toby that she loved the man.

So now, when she was with her friends, celebrating her getting a year older, she didn't feel bad that he wasn't there. But she felt good that she had invited him.

After reiceiving gifts that could easily be packed into one bag and saving a piece of cake for breakfast, she decided to walk home. The pub they had been at wasn't far away and she always loved a good walk before going to sleep after a night out. She was so soaked up in her own thoughts and happiness that she almost missed the now familiar black car parked in front of her building.

Molly had slightly jumped when a window rolled down and a familiar raised eyebrow greeted her. "Happy birthday, doctor Hooper."

She wanted to roll her eyes at him for still using her last name, but her body decided to blush instead. "Thank you."

He opened the door for her and she clumsily got in. She was rubbish at being graceful while drunk. Or sober, for that matter.

"I have cake!" She exclaimed, not really knowing what else to say. She realized that apparently she had been counting on him not showing up at all and now felt lost.

"Oh, no, thank you, I do believe Sherlock would have one too many 'when Mycroft was fat' stories if he heard you now." He said with a raised hand. "And I'd rather you not hear them."

She chuckled and was quietly happy that her after-birthday breakfast would still be cake.

"Time for presents, isn't it?"

"Oh, my, you really shouldn't have!" Molly exclaimed and suddenly felt guilty. She hadn't invited him in order to get a gift.

"It's the tradition, isn't it?" He said with an expression that would only be described as Sherlockian. She wondered if Mycroft was the one to teach it to his little brother in the first place.

He produced a small box from his jacket and handed it to her. "Happy birthday, Molly Hooper." She took it with trembling hands.

"Thank you." The smile she gave him almost broke her face. The redness of her blush almost set her hair on fire.

"I will however ask you to open it in solitude once you safe inside your flat."

Molly nodded in response. Silence hung in the air and she knew it was her cue to leave.

"Thank you, Mycroft. For everything." Molly said before leaning over and kissing him quietly on the cheek. She later blamed sentiment and emotion for that stupid action. But he didn't yell at her, or turn away, so it couldn't have been that bad.

When she was out of the car and turned to leave, he called after her.

"It won't be long now. He'll be coming home soon." Then she heard the car drive away.

Once back in her apartment she left her bag of gifts on the couch and put the cake in the fridge, away from Toby. She waited until she was in bed to open the box he had given her. Molly told her cat that she was just postponing the surprise, when in fact they both knew she was simply nervous.

She took the lid off and saw a card. It had one word written on it, but he used it far too rarely and she loved it written there in his flawless hand. **_Molly_**.

The woman in question looked at the contents of the box and gasped. There, resting on the bottom was a pendant on a silver chain. She took it out carefully and couldn't believe her own eyes. Molly remembered telling him about a pendant of a kitty-cat that she had had when she was a girl, it had been her favourite one (she had been a dedicated cat lady from a young age), but she had lost it and never found a replacement. In an emotional outburst she had even showed him pictures of herself wearing said chain around her neck and had almost made herself cry. Only a scolding look both from him and Toby had stopped her.

That pendant had been some cheap metal with cheap stones as the eyes and cost no more than five pounds. This, however, looked like silver and the eyes reminded her suspiciously of real gems. Not that Molly was an expert in jewelry, but she would be surprised if Mycroft Holmes would give her something that wasn't the best. Not because she thought she deserved it, but because she knew him well enough to know how he valued quality over that sort of sentiment. Which meant this was probably custom made from memory.

This time she was almost sober when she told Toby she loved him.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

They kept in touch. Molly called him when she suspected her creepy neighbour Bob was following her. Mycroft sent his thugs to escort her out of the building when a prank caller had claimed that there was a bomb at St. Bart's before anyone in the hospital even knew about it.

He also kept coming to collect various bodies from the morgue now and then, and sometimes Molly wondered if they were really suspicious or he was simply looking for a reason to see her. Not being one to flatter herself she dismissed the latter and convinced herself that her morgue was full of dangerous (and dead) enemies of Great Britain.

One day she had come home to find a box with a dress in it nex to a ticket to _Les Mis_. She had wanted to go ever since seeing a poster informing that the musical was to be seen on stage. She must have said something to him at some point, but couldn't remember for the life of her when and why. So Molly dressed up and enjoyed an evening with a man that, she was convinced, every woman around her would kill to have for themselves. He did look like he would rather be dead at some point, but said nothing.

Molly had to admit that he was there for her more often than she was there for him. But then again-what could she do for him except offer her company. And she knew that Mycroft knew that, there had been several times after that first one when he had come to her after Sherlock had been in trouble. He never talked about feelings, but once had admitted that she was the only one who understood his worries for his brother's safety. And the only one he could confide in. She had quietly squeezed his hand and recived the first genuine smile from him.

Then there was the time when she needed him the most. She had always known cats never lived as long as people, but never allowed herself to remember how old Toby really was. So when he had gotten sick and the vet had informed her that he wouldn't have long, Molly's first reaction was shock. Next thought in her head was to call Mycroft and ask him to fix it. She didn't, however, never told him anything, deciding to wait until after..

She couldn't call him then either.

Turned out she didn't have too. He appeared at her door with his umbrella and quietly walked in to he flat, letting her soak his expensive shirt with her tears. He managed to slip a sleeping pill in her tea and she was grateful for it later.

He even attended the little funeral she had arranged for her long-time friend without her asking or even telling him where and when it was. And it was an even bigger surprise when a month later he stood at her door with a tiny meowing ball of fur in his coat pocket. Molly refused and said that it was too soon, but he said that after a loss of something you have to fill up the void. That losing something meant there was space for something new, something different. She couldn't help but hear the double meaning.

And different it was, the little ball of fur Molly fell in love with the moment Mycroft handed it to her, was a girl. She named her Shirley. He laughed and handed her the cat's papers. Molly shook her head; she hand't expected the kitten to come wihtout them.

Another month later he texted her that Sherlock was coming home.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

He strode back into her life as if nothing had happened. His hair the usual mess on his head, his coat flapping as he rushed down the hallways (collar up), his cheekbones as sharp as ever. After the swelling had come down where John had punched him, that is.

Sherlock was back to his old ways, deducing everyone on his path, including her, though she had to admit he was gentler about it. Or maybe he just didn't give her the flutter in her chest as he used to, and that's why she didn't care. She didn't know if it was because she had gotten over him while he was out of her life or if it was because another Holmes occupied her mind. And her heart, she had to admit.

The younger Holmes would sometimes observe her at work and 'help out' with his comments. Basically Molly Hooper could say that the part of her life that concerned Sherlock Holmes was back to the way it was before the fall.

Including the absence of his brother. At first she had thought that Mycroft was busy with helping his brother return. Then, when Sherlock's life was back to normal and she still hadn't heard from him, she tried calling. Only to have the robotic voice of an answering machine tell her that the number didn't exist. Then one day the phone mysteriously disappeared from her work desk.

But Molly Hooper had always prided herself for knowing how to cope. She figured that once Sherlock was back, Mycroft had no need of her, so she convinced herself she had made many silly assumptions in her mind, scolded herself for a bit and went on with her life, getting back in touch with her friends and trying desperately to teach Shirley how to properly use the litter box.

Three months after Sherlock's return she heard a familiar knock on her door that seemed like a hallucination and almost made her heart stop. Slowly she walked to open the door, preparing herself for disappointment.

It didn't come. There was Mycroft Holmes, umbrella and all, standing in front of her, producing what she had started calling 'their whisky' from his coat. Not trusting herself to speak, Molly stepped away and let him in, quietly closing the door behind him.

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. He seemed calm and collected, nothing unusual. But Molly Hooper could now say that she knew Mycroft Holmes well enough to see the distress in his appearance. And she wasn't going to make it easy on him.

He knew it as well as she did, but kept quiet and waited for her to blame him. Everything that she had been trying to deny during the past few weeks came rushing back to her.

"You're just casually strolling in here after ignoring me, because why not, huh?" Molly asked, forcing to keep the tears away and looking him straight in the eye. She had gotten good at it.

"You know I am smarter than my brother, don't you?" He asked, putting the bottle on her coffe table and picking up Shirley who for the last few minutes had been trying to climb his leg.

Molly allowed herself to roll her eyes before nodding. Mycroft didn't have Sherlock's need to show off, but he wasn't exactly shy about his mental abilities either.

"Well, it doesn't necessarily mean that I am not an idiot." He said calmly before placing Shirley back on the floor, taking off his coat and going into the kitchen to get glasses.

Molly heard the apology where he didn't say it, and she was sure it was the best one she had ever gotten.

She quietly moved after him and giving herself up to her emotions, hugged him from behind as he was getting the glasses from the upper shelf. "You sure are."

He put his free hand over both of hers where they were resting on his chest and gave them a little squeeze. Molly pressed her lips between his shoulder blades.

"Now, one would think my dimwit of a brother would stop getting injured when safely back in England." And Mycroft proceeded telling her how Sherlock had gotten shot in the shoulder by some elderly woman while trying to break into her neighbour's house.

She smiled and tried imagining Sherlock's despair that he had been shot by a (relatively) harmless old lady and not some hardcore criminal.

Molly watched Shirley settle in his lap as he absently scratched behind her ear while continuing to tell her about Sherlock's antics in the ambulance. She sat down next to him, laughed along and commented where necessary, sipping her drink.

They would be alright.

* * *

><p><em><strong>*Brotherhood drinking-<strong>In Germany and also Austria widespread drinking ritual in order to come from the german formal adressing form "Sie" to the more familiar adressing "Du"._

_With hooked up forearms of each other both persons will bring the own glass of usually beer or wine to the mouth. Afterward they say their own forenames, often followed by a kiss on the mouth._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Yes, I did borrow an idea from 'Sex and the City' if anyone caught it. And yes, I did make Mycroft suffer through 'Les Mis' once again. I also feel bad for killing off Toby, he was almost my favorite one in this, but Mycroft was right-things change and you have to learn to let go, to allow new things into your life.<br>And I hope it's not terribly out of character, I did write it in one sitting, so things developed (seemingly) at a normal pace in my head. I will read it over tomorrow and maybe change something, but I do like the way it came out.  
>Anyways, thank you for reading, I hope you liked it and I would appreciate commentsreviews/basically any kind of feedback. Cheers! :)**_


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Sherlock, Friendship, Hurt-Comfort