One

When Sherlock Holmes asked Dr. Molly Hooper for help in faking his death and subsequently keep the knowledge of his being alive for as long as he was off destroying the criminal network of James Moriarty, he truly didn't know how much he was asking of her. Granted, there were certainly larger and more pressing matters that required his immediate attention, but even so…the young pathologist did not deserve to carry such a terrible burden on her shoulders for such an indefinite – but certainly long – period of time.

It was at the funeral of his little brother that Mycroft Holmes came to this revelation. All he had to do was look at her to see how much pain, worry and guilt she was secretly carrying. It made the grief of Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, even Dr. Watson, seem almost trivial. She stood apart from the other three, her face deathly white, the knuckles of her folded hands even tighter, and her eyes bright with moisture. She wasn't even sobbing, as the other three were (though Lestrade and Dr. Watson tried to disguise them behind coughs and clearings of the throat), but stood still as a statue. The way her shoulders were held so stiffly brought to Mycroft's mind the famous image of Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders.

It was then that Mycroft had a thought that he had never had before: I must do something for her. Shocked at himself, Mycroft tried to brush it away, but the thought was so strong and powerful that he couldn't. Looking at her as the service ended, Mycroft knew that he could not ignore it and had to follow through with it.

But how? What on Earth could she want from me? The only thing that came to mind was news of his little brother, but that he could not give just yet. His little brother was en route to his first location, being smuggled in a cargo boat, and consequently would not be able to make outside contact until he landed in his port.

But surely there must be something else that can be done? Now extremely surprised with himself for thinking this train of thought so vehemently, Mycroft shook his head a bit. The short service had now come to an end, and the government official could think of nothing better than to head to his club and private room for some peace and quiet –

Ah, of course! He had found a solution to his dilemma.

At the end of the short funeral service, Molly kept her farewells and condolences to Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and John as short as possible. It hurt so much to even look at them, knowing what she knew and knowing that she had the power to end all of their misery but couldn't. Once that was done, Molly walked through and out of the cemetery as quickly as she could without outright running or tripping over her modest black heels. Her black coat she wrapped tightly around herself against the damp autumn breeze. Thankfully, she managed to get out of the cemetery without anybody noticing or calling after her.

When she reached the sidewalk, just as she was about to flag down a cab, an elegant black car pulled up to the curb right in front of her. The back door opened, but nobody came out. Confused, Molly stepped back and looked around for whom the car had come for. She soon found out.

From the cemetery and towards her came Mycroft Holmes. In his long black coat, with his brolly firmly gripped in his hand, he looked every bit as imposing as his car. "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Holmes," she said, lowering her head and turning to walk further down the block to catch a cab. But a black-gloved hand on her elbow stopped her; the grip was firm but gentle.

"Dr. Hooper, please accept a ride home from me," Mycroft said, his quiet tone identical to his grip on her elbow.

Lifting her head, Molly looked him in the eyes. She saw nothing but a genuine entreaty to accept his offer, so after a moment she nodded and allowed herself to be led back to the car. He opened the back passenger door for her and, to her surprise, he got in after her. Mycroft gave her address to the driver, who promptly left the curb and joined the London traffic again.

Molly had no idea what to say to the man sitting beside her, and thankfully he did not seem to want conversation. The older Holmes seemed preoccupied with work, writing something down in a memo pad he'd extracted from his inner jacket pocket. Wanting not to seem nosy, Molly turned her gaze to her window. But she saw nothing of London rushing past, being too preoccupied in her own miserable thoughts and worries. Would every other day be as hard as the last four had been? Or would they only get harder? Sherlock had asked her to look after his friends for her, but how could she really do that when just looking at them caused her to wish she were dead? But how could she worry about herself with Sherlock God-knows-where, on the run and dead to the world, with a near-impossible mission before him and not able to come home for months, if not years…

The young pathologist pressed the fingers of her left hand to her forehead, applying pressure to her pounding head (it didn't do any good). What a mess…what a terrible, awful, miserable mess…

"Dr. Hooper."

She jumped at the sound of her name, and the feeling of a hand placed hesitantly on her forearm. Turning her head, she saw that it was Mycroft (Duh, Molly, who else would it be?). "Huh?" she said dumbly.

"We're at your flat."

Looking out of her window, she saw that he was, indeed, right; she hadn't felt when the car had come to a stop. "Oh, right, of course, um…" She nodded at him, and tried her best to give him a smile. "Thanks."

He nodded back, that gentle look still in his eyes. "Anytime, Dr. Hooper. I will let you know when I have any news."

A drop of relief fell into Molly's pool of worries. "I appreciate that, Mr. Holmes…Take care of yourself." With that, Molly got out of the car and approached her building. The black car had gone by the time she was inside.

Once Molly was outside her flat's front door, she reached inside her coat pocket for her keys. When she did, she felt a folded piece of paper nestled beside them that most certainly hadn't been there when she'd put her coat on before leaving a few hours ago. Curiously, she pulled it out and unfolded it. The paper was small, as if ripped from a memo pad…Mycroft passed me a note? He must have slipped it into her jacket pocket after writing it while she'd been lost in her worries. Now more curious than ever, she read the short message that was written in crisp, elegant script:

Dr. Hooper,

I know what a large burden you must bear in keeping my little brother's biggest secrets. If ever you feel the need to escape, for sanctuary, or for simple and peaceful silence, I would like to offer a solution. I have left with you one of two keys to my exclusive private room of my club: The Diogenes. I am there every day from a quarter to five till twenty to eight. However, nine times out of ten I will not be in my private room, which I only use for rare occasions when I need absolute peace and solitude from others, so you need never worry about disturbing me.

The address I have listed below; it should not be hard to find. When you arrive, show the key to Henry at the front desk, which will be all he needs to allow you entrance. He knows I would not allow that key to fall into anybody's hands by accident. If I am using the room, he will know and tell you, and you can come back when I have left.

You are under no obligation to accept this offer; you do not know me and so have no reason to give me your full trust. I only ask that, if or when you refuse, you phone me so we can arrange that you return my key to me. And please believe me when I say that I do not wish to make an already difficult situation even harder for you to bear.

Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes

After looking over the address, which was in Pall Mall and not far from the Carlton, Molly reached back into her pocket. Pulling out her keys, she found an unfamiliar one among them which was not hooked to her key ring. It was a skeleton key, made of old brass but well-polished. It felt heavy but warm in her palm.

As she closed her hand around it while opening her front door, remembering how hard this day and past days had been, Molly already knew that she would at least give this offer a chance.