Chapter 6: Primrose

Summary: In which a shrinking violet proves to be a scarlet pimpernel; Mycroft does not fall on his sword (but manages to get stabbed anyway); and Sherlock's nose is bloodied by a most unexpected assailant.

[Picks up directly after There's Always Something.]

"Since when do we do this?" Molly Hooper asked casually, squeezing the large hand wrapped around her own. She wasn't complaining about holding hands, not by any means, it was just that they didn't hold hands. Ever.

"I'm trying something new," responded the owner of that hand, one Sherlock Holmes, "call it an experiment." He paused before adding, "Do you mind?"

"Well, I do enjoy assisting you in your experiments," Molly answered with a smile. She was enjoying the feeling of her smaller hand tucked up in the warmth of his. It was fine and big with just enough chapping and calluses to be interesting.

Molly had only ever touched this hand fleetingly and in an entirely (well, mostly) professional context. That's not to say she hadn't noticed Sherlock's hands before. On the contrary, the detective's long fingers and broad palms were the subject of long-term study. From the prayer-like position of his hands when visiting his "mind palace," to the sensual way his fingers curled around an object handed to him, Molly had made quite an extensive mental catalogue of Sherlock's hands.

The tiny burn scar she felt at the base of his thumb was added to the gallery in her mind. The tips of her fingers just grazed the scrapes left on his knuckles from the earlier fight. She didn't have a chance to add more as they came to a stop in front of the Land Rover in which Sherlock and John had arrived.

"Now," Sherlock said, releasing her hand and opening the passenger door, "you were relating how you knew Not Anthea was in fact not Anthea." He tilted his head slightly to indicate she should get into the car, but Molly balked. The last time she let someone else drive, she ended up with a black eye and blood on her favourite jumper.

"I'll drive," she insisted, holding out her hand for the keys.

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked and he spared her a quick, calculating squint, but offered no argument. He dropped the keys in her palm and slid into the passenger seat. Molly might have been shocked at the lack of resistance had it happened on any other day, but Molly rated Sherlock's reaction pretty low on the list of "Bizarre Things That Happened to Molly Hooper Today." Sherlock waited until she strapped in and drove them off the tarmac before repeating himself.

"Oh, yes," Molly replied with a start, "It was kind of obvious, really…"

Four hours earlier...

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

The annoying high-pitched mantra repeating ad nauseam on the monitor in St. Bart's morgue resolved itself into a resonating lilt that was disturbing in its banality. Likewise, the satirical animation glitched and morphed into what appeared to be a live recording of a very familiar man.

"A man that was supposed to be dead," Molly thought with growing dread, "Dead and buried. Dead, buried and worm food. Fertilizer even. Oh God, what if..."

Molly Hooper was not too proud to admit to screeching in terror when her mobile began to ring. Biting her lip to halt the urge to whimper as she fumbled in her trouser pocket, the woman finally managed to pull her phone free and answer with a breathless, "H-hello?"

"Miss Hooper."

"Mycroft!" Molly slumped against the bench behind her even as her eyes remained glued to the monitor visible through the office door. "Are you watching this? What's happening? He's de-"

"Yes, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes cut in smoothly, "James Moriarty is dead. I'm confident in your original findings in that area. As to what is in fact happening, I will need more data before forming a hypothesis. In the meantime, I would like to confer with you at our customary tea room. Is one quarter of an hour convenient for you?"

Molly didn't know whether to be annoyed at the Mycroft's composure or laugh hysterically at the inappropriate level of formality he insisted upon. They had known each other for over four years and had tea almost weekly for the last two. One would think the man might at least start using her first name. Molly had to admit, Mycroft's lack of discomfort in the situation was in itself a comfort, in an odd sort of way.

"That is quite convenient, Mr. Holmes," she sighed in relief and rang off.

When Anthea arrived less than five minutes later, Molly was a bit surprised. Even with no traffic it took at least ten minutes to get from the Diogenes Club to Bart's. Her thoughts occupied by the current crisis, Molly didn't think too much of the sudden appearance of Mycroft' trusted assistant until she was securely in the car. They were already well on their way before Molly realized her mistake.

Mycroft Holmes was annoyed. He had intended to proceed directly from the airstrip to St. Bartholomew's Hospital after his conversation with Molly Hooper, but a frantic (if such a word could ever properly be used with Anthea) call made it necessary to change his route. If what his assistant hinted at was accurate, then the Diogenes Club had been compromised as thoroughly as the nation's broadcast airwaves. The fact that he had received the phone call a mere two hours after Anthea had returned from a two week mission to Switzerland indicated that she had special intelligence on the matter.

So, the senior director of Britain's special services found himself pacing in an abandoned factory on the wrong side of the Thames while his P.A. picked up Miss Hooper. It wasn't the change of plans that annoyed Mycroft. It was the decrepit building in which he was forced to wait.

Mycroft suppressed a sigh as he idly swung his umbrella in arcs as he wandered about. He also fought off a completely inappropriate urge to remove his jacket- being seen in his shirtsleeves around lower level operatives was simply out of the question. The air in the empty building was absolutely fetid. Sitting down to wait was also not an option. He wouldn't risk a bespoke Gieves and Hawkes suit on the refuse that passed for furniture at this safe house. Armani, perhaps, but not Gieves and Hawkes.

One thing was certain: the person responsible for compromising Mycroft's personal fortress and forcing him to retreat to this sty would pay dearly for the inconvenience. He paused to poke at slab of broken concrete with his umbrella. Any threat to Queen and Country was taken as a personal slight by Mycroft Holmes and dealt with accordingly. He would destroy whomever was behind this disruption of his carefully maintained order.

And if it kept his brother from being forced into a suicide mission, all the better.

"Okay. This looks bad, but it could be worse," Molly thought to herself as she tried not to panic. Panic wouldn't help anything. Anthea wouldn't panic. The real Anthea wouldn't panic. Molly wasn't certain what that Prada-wearing-imposter who tried to kidnap her would do in this situation, but she knew that the woman who managed to keep Mycroft Holmes out of trouble on a daily basis would not panic.

"You took on one of Mycroft's brute squad once and won," Molly continued her mental pep talk, "You just escaped from some Bond-villainess-wannabe relatively unscathed. Sure, you don't know where you are and neither Sherlock nor John are answering their phones, so your chances of getting actual help are pretty low, but hey! You've got your health. Ow! And a rock in your shoe."

Molly ducked behind a skip and leaned against a nondescript brick wall in an area of London she had actively avoided since moving to the city ten years ago. It was full of empty post-industrial warehouses and factory buildings. Far enough from the general population that no one could hear you scream. As she shook the rock out and replaced her shoe, Molly took stock of her situation.

She really was rubbish at the whole cloak and dagger thing. Yes, she got away, but help was far away, no one important was answering their mobiles and where Mycroft could be was a mystery. It was the latter point that truly concerned Molly. If Anthea wasn't real, then Mycroft was either walking into a trap or already ensnared.

"You heard from her yet?" A gravely voice suddenly sliced through the quiet. Molly froze and listened.

"No," another voice answered, "She won't call until they're far enough out that her guest can't jump."

"Well, she better get here soon. His Nibs is driving me off my trolley. She don't get here soon, I'm going to take care of him myself."

Molly risked a peek around the back of the bin and caught a glimpse of two men, clad entirely in black with suspiciously gun-shaped bulges under their jackets. There was what appeared to be a ski mask poking out of thug 1's pocket. The cliches just kept piling up.

"Shut your mouth!" Thing 1 hissed. "We're getting paid enough to follow orders to the letter, so do as you're told!"

With that, the pair walked back around the corner. Molly, not giving herself the chance to think and therefore talk herself out of it, followed. Clutching the phone to her chest, ready to dial 999 at the least provocation, Molly shadowed the men. She saw them duck into a doorway in the largest building in the complex. Molly tiptoed (later she would be so very thankful that no one had been with her because, tiptoed), across the way. Slinking along the side of the building, she finally found a window low enough and clean enough to peek through.

Thankful not to have found one of the thugs staring back at her, Molly looked around as much as she dared. The first two thugs had larger, more stereotypical comrades scattered about the perimeter of the room. Mycroft was pacing a circuit around a few pieces of furniture. He wasn't watching anyone and the casual motion of his umbrella seemed to indicate that everything was fine. Either Mycroft was in charge of all of this after all (in which case she was going to kick him in the shin the first chance she got) or he was unaware of the situation (in which case she was never, ever going to let him live it down).

Either way, Molly decided that caution was the better part of valour. Or something like that.

Mycroft was pulled from his detailed mental analysis of his situation by the sound of his mobile ringing. He pulled the device from his pocket and glared at the screen. The noise it was making was completely unacceptable and when he found out who (don't think I don't know, darling baby brother) changed his ringtone to "Do You Hear the People Sing," he was going to eviscerate him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said with the customary hint of complete boredom.

"Mycroft!" Molly Hooper's perpetually cheerful voice blared through the phone, making him wince. "I'm sorry I'm running late. The traffic along the A1 is atrocious as always. Alarming, really."

Mycroft's attention was at full alert. Using alliteration was one of the codes he had devised for Molly Hooper during Sherlock's hiatus. It was a simple alert code indicating danger. "Of course. Outrageous," Mycroft responded by way of acknowledging that her message was received.

"I hope you don't mind me calling now. I'm not interrupting am I? I was feeling a bit nervous, you know, after your first call. The whole zombie supervillain thing," Molly said with a genuinely nervous chuckle. "I thought talking might help a bit and I think I'm driving Anthea batty."

"Anthea's with you, then?" He asked blandly, noting the two operatives on his left who seemed keen on pretending not to listen to the conversation. If this location was compromised as well, it was likely the call was being monitored.

"Oh yes! Anthea arrived just after you called," Molly answered. 'Just arrived' actually meant 'unknown location.' Mycroft worked hard to remain casual as Molly continued. "She was looking lovely as ever with her fancy corsage. The oleander smells wonderful and I particularly like the primrose. That's a primula vulgaris to you, Mr. Brown-thumbs."

Anyone watching Mycroft (and his entourage was currently watching him very closely) would have observed the slight, brief pause in his pacing but only those who knew him exceptionally well, and that was a short list, would have understood this as an indicator of surprise on his part.

"Vulgaris, you say? I can't tell one from the other. Are you certain?"

A high-pitched, slightly hysterical giggle met his ears. Steady on, my girl. Molly audibly swallowed before continuing. "Oh yes. Anthea seems to prefer the English primrose. Personally, if given a choice, I prefer cercis siliquastrum or a dracaena.

"I enjoy proteas, truthfully."

"I love peonies. I have a huge vase full of them at home." Molly's tone had a subtle bite to it that almost made Mycroft smile.

"Of that I have no doubt, Miss Hooper." Mycroft straightened his already perfect posture. "I'm afraid you will have to hold on where you are, at the mercy of traffic."

"I might be able to get there sooner-"

"No," Mycroft interrupted, his tone icy. "Stay in the car. I will see you soon."

With that, he rang off, put the mobile in his breast pocket and removed his jacket. As he rolled up his shirt sleeves, Mycroft's mind kicked into high gear. He would normally take time to formulate a plan, but there were too many things happening at once, none of which were under his control. Anthea was either a traitor or was in danger; he was surrounded by enemy operatives; and Sherlock was most likely walking into a trap. As Mycroft pulled the blade free of its umbrella handle sheath, he comforted himself with the fact that Miss Hooper at least was well away from danger.

It had taken Molly a bit longer than she would have liked to figure out a plan. Not that the plan did her any good. When she crept (no tiptoeing this time!) into the building holding the pipe she had decided to use as a weapon, she found Mycroft already crossing swords with his captors. That wasn't a poetic turn of phrase either. He was literally slicing at Things 1 & 2 (or 3 & 4; they looked remarkably alike) with a long sword. Two of the assailants were already lying in a senseless heap.

"I knew that brolly wasn't just a brolly!" Molly shouted as she swung her pipe at the knee of the nearest TiB (Thing in Black). Her weapon connected with a squelching crunch and was accompanied by a rather girly scream from the recipient. She followed up with a vicious strike to his back. Molly really didn't want to kill anyone, but she had absolutely no qualms with doing permanent damage.

Mycroft didn't bother to look up from his own battle as he answered, "I lie for a living, Miss Hooper. Get used to it."

Mycroft brought the sword down sharply across the upper arm of one of his opponents. Molly could see a couple of firearms lying several yards away, explaining why the thugs hadn't just shot him when the fight started. She would have to get that part of the story from him later. Right now, she was busy trying to knock out the second assailant.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car, Miss Hooper."

"As I wasn't in a car at the time, I chose to use my best judgement."

"At the moment I would label your judgement questionable, not best." He ended in a shout as he drove the sword into his opponent's chest cavity, neatly piercing the heart. Molly drove her lead pipe up into the chin of her thug, then bashed him in the head. He probably wouldn't die from the head wound, but he might. Once the area was secure, she would check him. Mycroft's opponent was definitely dead.

In the sudden stillness that followed, only Molly's laboured breathing could be heard. Mycroft, as cool and unperturbed as ever, didn't even look winded. Not for the first time, Molly marveled at the Holmes' genes.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with a small smile, "I thank you for your assistance, but I think you should wait outside. If you would be so good as to text the word 'Saigon' to the contact in your phone called 'Sergeant Pepper' I would be most grateful." As he spoke he made a shooing motion towards Molly.

For her part, Molly didn't know whether to protest being shooed or balk at the fact that Mycroft, at some point, had managed to nick her phone and do something spy-ishy to it. Nor did she have time to decide as, just as she turned back, Thing 2, not so unconscious as Molly had thought, leapt up and plunged a knife into Mycroft's side. Fueled by a rush of adrenaline, Molly slammed the lead pipe against Thing 2's head and followed up with several more crushing blows, just to be sure he wouldn't get up a second time.

Two years on A & E rotation had prepared Molly Hooper for a critical situation such as this, so she was able to shut out the part of her brain screaming in terror for her friend and snap to action. Easing Mycroft onto the ground, she ripped open his waistcoat and shirt (to Mycroft's weakening protests; he really did not like having his clothing mussed) and assessed the damage. The wound was deep and had most likely nicked his intestines increasing the chance of peritonitis…

"The car is on the south side of this building. Take your phone and one of those firearms and lock yourself in until a unit arrives."

"What? No! I'm not leaving you here!" Molly had her phone out, trying to call 999, but there was no connection.

"You won't be able to get a signal on your phone."

"I will on yours," Molly countered, reaching for that device. Mycroft stilled her hand.

"Miss Hooper." Mycroft paused. "Molly. My phone is most likely compromised. If you use my phone then the perpetrators of this farce will know where we are, that I am injured and that you are unprotected." He caught Molly's eye and gave her an absurdly stern look for someone bleeding out at such a rate. "You can use your phone from my vehicle. It's armoured. Even if Anthea's double arrives with reinforcements, they won't be able to get to you before help arrives."

"I can't leave you here. You will die."

"Perhaps, but if you fail to make that call before assistance arrives, I will certainly bleed to death. Go to the car."

Molly was beginning to truly despise the Holmes family record for being correct. With a growl, she packed Mycroft's wound as best she could with his jacket, sticking her tongue out when he whine about his favourite suit. She waffled for one moment more, gave the stubborn man a quick kiss on the forehead and dashed out of the back of the building.

Molly spotted the car immediately. She sent the code as instructed and was about to try calling 999 when she heard cars pulling up on the other side of the complex. She looked at Mycroft's car for a moment and dashed back inside the building.

Sherlock Holmes secretly believed everything his brother ever told him. He would never admit it, of course. Mycroft was quite vain enough, thank you. However, over the past few years, he had begun to doubt Mycroft's opinions on certain topics. Sentiment, for example. More accurately, he began to doubt his brother's belief in those opinions. Sherlock was willing to concede one point: Sentiment was not an advantage.

Take the current situation. He and John had just successfully defeated a cadre of assassins left behind by Moriarty as "plan b" only to discover that the real targets had been Mycroft and Molly Hooper. The only thing in recent memory that had caused him this much distress involved a bullet and massive internal bleeding. Worry had clouded his brain to the point that he was acting on instinct rather than conscious thought. Unacceptable.

"Let's not go barreling in like a herd of bloody elephants," John Watson cautioned, catching Sherlock's arm, "We don't know what's in there."

Sherlock uncharacteristically let John take the lead in this plan and nodded. They cautiously made their way through an opening in the wall leading to the larger of the buildings in the complex. They hadn't made it half a dozen steps inside before…

"Ow!"

Sherlock's head snapped back from the force of the fist that connected with his nose. He would have responded in kind and immediately had not he heard, "Sherlock!"

"Molly?" Sherlock's normally smooth baritone sounded nasally behind his hand.

"I thought you were one of the bad guys! Is John with- John! Mycroft's been stabbed!"

There was a flurry of activity at that point: John and Molly rushed to Mycroft's aid; the cavalry finally arrived as did emergency services. Everyone swarmed around Mycroft as they stabilized him and prepped for transport. It was bedlam, but not of the sort Sherlock had expected.

"This is a mess."

Sherlock turned at the familiar sound of Anthea's voice. He would have responded, but didn't have a chance due to the tiny blur that shot past him and slammed Anthea to the ground. The knife Anthea had been holding (not Anthea, Sherlock now realized), skittered across the floor. In the following few minutes -surrounded by a stunned consulting detective, members of the Met and various branches of special services- Molly Hooper beat the everloving Hell out of a fake Anthea.

When she was done and sitting on the unconscious imposter's back, Sherlock pulled out a set of handcuffs and silently offered them to his favourite pathologist.

"It was the flower?" Sherlock asked Molly as they finished their dinner. After Mycroft had been sorted, he and Molly had cleaned up as best they could and wandered away from the hospital in search of food. They were at a little pub Molly knew of enjoying surprisingly decent dishes.

"Yes, exactly," Molly said with enthusiasm, "You see, Mycroft chose the primula polyanthus as the 'all is well' sign because of the play on Anthea's name. Get it?"

Sherlock nodded, looking genuinely interested, "Both have a common Greek root: anthus, meaning flower."

"BUT," Molly declared, possibly a little too loudly, but the adrenaline had been augmented by caffeine by now, so she couldn't really help it, "Not Anthea was wearing the primula vulgaris -also known as the English Primrose. It's more common and easier to get here, but that was part of Mycroft's point. They look alike unless you really know your flowers."

"That was very observant of you," Sherlock remarked. Being called observant by Sherlock Holmes was a compliment of the highest caliber and one Molly did not take lightly. She felt a slight blush rising to her cheeks, but only responded with a quiet "thank you."

"So, when you called, the flowers you mentioned conveyed the message to Mycroft," Sherlock prompted, "a play on the Victorian language of flowers."

Molly nodded and drained the last of her coffee. Dabbing at her lips with a napkin she explained, "cercis siliquastrum means betrayal and dracaena translates to 'you are near a trap.' Or is it 'snare?' Same thing I suppose. Oleander basically means 'beware.'"

"'Protea.' Courage. That was Mycroft trying to give you encouragement," Sherlock nodded and then frowned, "I'm not familiar with the use of the peony."

"Anger," Molly said tossing her napkin onto her tray, "A whole florist shop full of peonies wouldn't be enough! I was furious."

"So I noticed. So did Not Anthea," Sherlock murmured as he plucked a tuft of bloody hair from Molly's sleeve. She grimaced and looked up to find him squinting at her in concentration.

Sherlock continued to stare at Molly with one of those assessing looks that made her want to squirm, but it was several more moments before she felt the need to look away. To hide her discomfiture, she stuffed a few more bites of food in her mouth in rapid succession. She realized suddenly that she probably looked like a chipmunk. Swallowing hastily (miraculously not choking), she risked a glance back at Sherlock and was relieved to see him staring at his own plate. She watched him pick at the remains of his dinner and realized he was working up to saying something.

"I owe you a great debt, Molly. It's more correct to say 'debts,' I suppose." He stopped and cleared his throat before beginning again. "You were extraordinary today."

Molly full-on blushed this time. "Oh, I didn't do anything special. Anyone would have-"

"No," he interrupted, looking at her sharply, "That's not true, as you well know. You were very brave, as I expected, and extremely clever, which surprised me more than it should have. You were also foolish." Sherlock scowled down at his plate, stabbing at a piece of penne, "Part of me wants to shout at you for putting yourself in danger for Mycroft. The other part is grateful. Mycroft's death would have been… annoying in the extreme."

Molly smiled gently. "I'm glad I was able to help."

"Yes, well, so am I," Sherlock's gaze darted about, avoiding Molly. It was cute, the way Sherlock got all flustered when he apologized or said 'thank you.' Especially in this instance when he was trying so hard not to admit that he had been afraid of losing his big brother and had been worried about Molly. He really was adorable, Molly thought, as adorable as he was formidable. He was a big adorable force of nature.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hmm?" Molly shook off her thoughts and pushed away from the table. "Oh, I was just considering something." They stood and began to make their way to the pub entrance.

"What, exactly, would you be considering?"

"Giving you a kiss on the cheek."

"Wanton hussy," Sherlock deadpanned.

"I know," Molly bubbled, "Whatever are you going to do with me?"

"Experiment some more," he said casually, grabbing her hand and pulling her out onto the street.

As they walked back towards St. Bart's, Sherlock felt his mobile buzz. After a quick glance and a quicker response, he pocketed the phone and, when Molly wasn't looking, flipped off the CCTV camera they were just passing. John was correct. Sometimes gestures were the most satisfying response.

A few blocks away, Mycroft Holmes smirked at the tablet in his hand currently displaying the CCTV feed from the Smithfield street cameras. Dressed as he was in a red silk dressing gown, propped up on a bank of featherdown pillows (hospital issue would never do) and not one single hair out of place, he looked as regal as ever. If he was unnaturally pale and if his hands shook subtly as he typed the text to his brother, no one noticed. Actually, one person noticed.

"You really shouldn't bait your brother like that. At least, not until you're out of hospital."

Anthea, the real Anthea, was sitting primly on a comfortable chair (also not standard hospital issue) situated next to the bed. She was, per usual, dividing attention between her mobile and her boss. The only indication that she had just spent two weeks as a prisoner in the ruins of a Swiss castle near Basel was a plaster on her chin and the cast on her arm.

"If I don't bait him," Mycroft responded, "he will get the impression that I approve and we know how that would end."

"Do you?" Anthea asked, glancing up briefly, "Approve of them?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose briefly. It was his version of a shrug. "She's proven herself capable of handling him, I suppose, although what she actually sees in the overgown child, I will never know. He's a textbook study in narcissism and obsessive compulsive behaviour. What sane woman finds that attractive?"

Anthea eyed him over the top of her mobile and smirked, "I wouldn't know, sir."

Big, huge, well-deserved THANKS! to TheStormweaver who is the best beta ever. Not only did she help me clean this chapter up, she helped me with the source material for the flower code.

Why, yes, I do have a hand fetish, why do you ask? Benedict Cumberbatch is definitely on my top ten list of gorgeous hands. Richard Armitage is still undefeated at #1, but BC is definitely high on the list.

...and you're welcome for the mental image of Mycroft in his shirtsleeves fighting with a room full of ruffians.