Sometimes in life we are blinded by the conceit that we are supposed to behave in a certain way, merely because it has always been so. We are expected to do such and such because people expect it from us, and to do otherwise would be too out of character to abide.

Mycroft Holmes was expected to not fall in love.

Molly Hooper was expected to pine away for Sherlock Holmes forever.

And Sherlock Holmes was expected to be an arse and only think of himself.

None of these things remained true.

All of them, then, had come to fruition, and Mycroft was walking back to his flat, skipping the rest of the day at work in favor of some alcoholic libation in the form of brandy.

He was walking, it was raining, and he didn't notice.

The umbrella was being held fast in his hand, as though he was convinced that letting go of it would mean the death of him.

He seemed to care little for the fact that he was slowly becoming soaked, and the fact that he wouldn't release his strangle hold was resulting in his becoming steadily more wet. This would surely yield a cold.

But colds are of little consequence when one has a very important position in a very important nation; they matter even less when one is violently in love with delightful pathologists.

Violently, to be sure, despite his indifferent demeanor.

At least, as violent as Mr. Holmes would allow himself to feel. Which really, isn't all that much.

He reached his flat and threw his umbrella on the floor.

He rubbed his hands over his face, soaked with rain water.

He loved Molly.

Molly didn't love Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't love Molly.

There was but one piece missing from this now…did Molly love him?

How could it be so?

How could she possibly?

Over and over he pondered it, while his clothes dripped their sopping melancholy ridden fabric all over his hardwood floors.

Mycroft went to his bedroom and changed his clothes.

He poured himself some brandy, lit a fire, and sat.

Sherlock was always so engaging…even when people hated him, they loved him. His passion was intoxicating, and it spread from person to person and he lit their lives with his heat.

Mycroft, he was more subdued. More difficult to figure. More unreachable, unattainable, stiff. Aloof.

He had built walls, and he resided behind them comfortably. He as content…

But he had a fire, and it burned…the ash so recently blown askew in its frail weight…it now was rekindled, and he felt it acutely.

Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting on one's arse.

Nothing in life was ever worth having if one was never hurt, or embarrassed, or scared.

Trouble was, was Mycroft was so seldom these things; his experience woefully limited, he wondered at his ability to overcome, and then to charm, and then to confess.

He looked out of his window.

Getting dark.

Do this tomorrow…his heart told him.

Best to get it over with…said his mind.

And because Mycroft always listened to his reason, he got up to change into some clothes.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She sighed her obligatory sigh.

And she dropped her keys into the bowl on the little table beside her door.

There…there was the fiend. "Hi Toby," said Molly. "Hungry, then?"

She loved that cat…despite the fact that he was a huge pain.

But then, so were most of the people in Molly's life.

Molly opened the cat food, poured it into the bowl and put the kettle on.

She hummed a tune in an effort to quell the grey which filled her vision…her melancholy…it reared its indifferent visage.

Soup.

She was rather sick of soup.

But it didn't matter, not really.

A child today…she cut open a child…and the truth of it, the finality of everything descended upon her…

A tear fell down her cheek.

What was life if not for love?

And she stirred her soup.

What good was anything if you didn't have that thing…that precious thing…in your life?

Molly didn't have much.

She had even less people.

But she was in love, and that shouldn't be ignored.

Damn it all.

She should just tell him…what was the worst that could happen…?

She sat down and grabbed a book, blowing on a spoonful of soup.

And she swallowed the warm liquid, and decided that she would tell him. She was tired of being silent to save face.

She had behaved that way where Sherlock, the great git, was concerned. She wouldn't do it anymore.

She would tell Mycroft that she was in love with him, and see what happened.

Molly had just finished up the dishes, had cleaned the mess from earlier today, when the bell rang.

She couldn't think who on earth would be bothering her at this hour…she looked at the time. Half-passed eight.

She dried her hands and went to the door to look through the peep-hole.

Mycroft.

Molly swallowed.

She wasn't ready just yet to say something to him…

But she unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hi Mycroft," she said, smiling.

He nodded. "Molly," and he cleared his throat. "Apologies for arriving here so late in the day unannounced…might I come in?"

"Sure," and she stood aside. "So…what brings you by?"

Your inescapable beauty…your smiling soul…"I was in the neighborhood, and it suddenly dawned on me that you lived nearby…"

Molly nodded. "Want some tea?"

"Thank you," and he sat.

He took in her flat…

It was unremarkable.

There was a fair amount of books…the furniture was well crafted. She seemed to like the color blue…it was in abundance in different shades and hues.

She returned with the tea and sat down. "So…you'll forgive me, but it is rather odd…why are you here?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Molly…have you ever experienced something…something profound and moving…and though you knew that it would be an acute error to act in any way regarding this thing, you felt pressed to chase it?"

Molly looked at him uncertainly. "Um…I'm not sure."

He sat his tea down. "Allow me to rephrase…" this was much more difficult than he had imagined it would be…"Have you ever…" and he looked away. "Been in love?"

What. "Sure."

"Quite…and so you understand the illogical state that it so often leaves one in."

"Are you talking about Sherlock? Because I don't think that he is in love with me…"

"No, Molly, no…No, I'm not talking about my brother…"

She raised her eyebrows, and then they fell once more. "Mycroft, look, it is rather tiresome…trying to decipher your meaning…"

And he stood now. "Of course. Well…here is the thing, Molly…" he turned away. "I was in love once, a very long time ago," and he began to pace a touch. "A very, very long time ago…and I would not allow myself to ever become enraptured by the feel of want…not since that debacle."

"What happened?"

"I chose work over her," he said, looking at her, then turning once more.

"Shocking, that," and she giggled.

He smiled. "Just so. At any rate, not many people know about this interlude in my life…not many care enough to know, and fewer still I desire for them to have this intimate knowledge."

"Well, thanks for trusting me with it, Mycroft."

He put his hands in his pockets, and looked at his feet. "Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you…ever…that is to say…you already answered…but what has your experience been like in relation to that singular state?"

Molly's eyes found her own feet. "Um…well…." she didn't talk about it much, mostly because she rather thought that her experience made her look fanciful and ridiculous in front of and in comparison to others. "I have been in love, several times."

"Is that so?" he asked, sitting across from her once more.

She nodded. "Yeah…in secondary school…there were two blokes. Neither one cared much for me. Then at Uni…I had a boyfriend…he was lovely…" and she looked to the ceiling. "And then, after Uni…I got a job at a smallish hospital, and I fell in love with one of my coworkers. And then again, I fell in love with this fellow, he was so sick…he had cancer, you know…" and some liquid filled her eyes…"…quite a bit older than me. It hurt something awful when he passed. Then Sherlock…he was safe…I'd been hurt…but I don't know if you could call it love…and Tom," she finished. She looked uncertainly at him. And looked away again. "And now…there's another…I am doomed, Mycroft…I fall so easily…"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," and she stood. "I mean, that once more I have let myself go, and I am in love. And I promised myself so faithfully that I'd be more careful…that I wouldn't just blindly follow my heart, letting it take over. That I'd use my head…"

"Your head, Molly, when it comes to matters such as these, is hardly useful," and he thought that he was too late…

"You're right. And perhaps I should just go for broke," and she walked over to the window. "Because it is you Mycroft, that I am in love with…and I know that I just made myself an idiot, and you'll never reciprocate," she finished, slumping into a chair.

His heart did stop momentarily.

His must have misheard.

He turned in his chair to gain a better view of her…

She held her face in her hands, and was shaking a bit.

He stood and went to her.

He knelt before her, and took her hands away from her face. "Molly?" he asked, searching her eyes in desperation. "Did you just tell me that you are in love with me?"

She nodded, and tears spilled.

"My god," he said. "I am a fool."

"What do you mean?"

He held her hands tight. "Because, dearest, I am in love with you, and I came here to tell you…to declare myself and to be prepared for you to dismiss me…yet here you are…you divine creature…and it is you who first uttered the words. My brave, brave, brave, Molly…"

"What?" and she laughed. "You love me?"

"With everything that I am," and he wiped some tears away.

She threw her arms around his neck and laughed her tears of relief. "Say it," she whispered.

"I love you, Molly…you are my joy…"

Mycroft pulled away from her, and cupped her face…

…it had been so very long…

He leaned in toward her, and claimed her lips in his, his eyes closing to relish it.

And it was a sweet recollection, despite the heartache.

But Molly's kiss was wholly unique and he savored the taste.

And as it deepened, and Molly glowed, the pair became lost in the silent still of the moment, forgetting everything until they toppled onto the floor in a heap.

She laughed…

And so did he…

Until he swallowed and began to search her face for permission…

Her eyes did answer…and so he took off her shirt…and shed his own…

And they made love on her sitting room floor.

"Love is funny," Molly observed in the afterglow.

"How so?"

"I never would have thought that my association with Sherlock…all of the misadventures…would have landed me here. In my mad pursuit of a Knight in Shining Armor, I found myself a subtle prince."

"You are too generous in your compliments, Molly. I am no prince."

"You are to me," and she kissed his cheek.

He laughed. "No…I am more like a ridiculous professor, haughty in his office, wielding an umbrella…"

"Fine…then I am your enraptured young student…" she eyed him wickedly.

"That, Miss Hooper, is a metaphor I am most eager to examine…"

And the lovers continued on in the heat of new love.

And Sherlock kept his mouth shut when it came to his brother's girlfriend, never really feeling hostile, happy that he found happiness, even if it was at his own expense.

And every year, Mycroft would take Molly to Paris, and leave his umbrella behind.

A/N: The end! Thank you everyone who reviewed, and followed, favorited! I really never thought that this story would become as popular as it did! I had a reviewer say that they wished for Sherlock and Mycroft to battle it out for Molly. THAT is an interesting idea...and one that I might just explore in a couple of months! The only trouble is...who would win her?! I love all of them so much!

Thanks again for reading my little tale.