"Good morning Mr. Holmes," he steeled himself, grip tightening on the handle of his umbrella. The edges of the timer in his wrist itched and he ignored the blinking numbers.

"Good morning Anthea," he replied evenly. He waited for her to look at him directly, as she did every morning, unspoken question on her lips. "I did not see her, Anthea, there has been no time," was always his response. She looked at him sadly, and handed him the day's reports. He followed her through the empty corridors to his office and shuttered himself away.

Six months since he had first seen Molly Hooper, the timer in his wrist had stopped counting down. It blinked constantly now; flashing the time he had first laid eyes on Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar of St. Barts Hospital through a CCTV camera feed. Mycroft sometimes envied Sherlock. His younger brother's timer merely blinked four zeros, an anomaly, it was a defect that came about every so often, too rare to really bother finding the handful of people that went with blank timers. Sherlock would never find his own mate, and he was perfectly happy to live out the remainder of his life alone. Sherlock did not need a mate, he had friends, and that was enough for him. Unlike the other ninety-eight percent of the world who all craved someone to live out the rest of their life with, Sherlock was perfectly content with the five or so friends he kept in constant circle. The way Sherlock had spoken of Molly Hooper, Mycroft had once wondered if his brother had actually found someone, but when he inquired of the young woman, Sherlock stared blankly at his brother.

"Why would I marry her?" Sherlock asked.

"You speak of her often enough, more so than that Woman."

"Molly Hooper is my friend," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "She is pleasant, but you know me, Mycroft," he shrugged. "I am not suited for anyone, besides; her timer has kept on counting down. I should think if we were supposed to be more than friends hers would have at least stopped."

The timers were the bane of Mycroft's existence. Everyone had them, implanted at birth, counting down the time you would meet your 'other half'. Frankly Mycroft found it insulting. Who was to say he was half of a body? He didn't see how a whole part of him could be missing. He was hugely sucessful, working for the government, why would he need a wife? He had watched as Sherlock's closest friend went through the whole ordeal. John Watson's timer had stopped three years ago when he met Mary Morstan, now the two were practically inseparable. He'd been invited to the wedding but did not go, much to his mother's horror. A single gentleman with a ticking timer not attend a wedding? It was downright scandalous, rude and a lack of respect for their way of life. Mycroft, however annoyed he was that he would one day be forced to bow to his body's needs, was curious. What was it like, finding the person you were supposed to live the rest of your life with? John Watson had explained it that it was like time stopping. The timer in your wrist stopped the constant ticking that only you heard, it would be gone, and everything would just fall into place. It seemed ridiculous. Superstitious, romantic, nonsense.

Mycroft ignored the timer constantly ticking away minutes, the window to his meeting 'his other half' growing narrower and narrower, until the day came when only twelve hours remained. For most of that day, he was in a meeting with his PA, (who's timer had long stopped, she was settled with someone from the Royal Family, and he was not at liberty to say who) and the Prime Minister, who was also unattached. Mycroft hoped for the sake of law and order the PM was not waiting for his own timer to stop. The hours ticked by, and Mycroft felt himself glancing at his timer every five minutes or so. He was steeling himself to let the timer go off, and possibly, claw it out if need be when Anthea quietly touched his arm, showing him a text that had just been sent.

COME QUICKLY TO BARTS. SH

Sherlock I am in a meeting. Piss off. MHolmes

The response came in the form of a feed from one of the CCTV feeds. Anthea opened the link and the silent video played. A woman came onto the screen, large dark eyes looked into the camera feed, and the little mouth smiled. The woman waved at the camera, apparently knowing someone was on the other end of it, and held up a hand-drawn sign.

'We need a favor, Mr. Holmes! Can you come right away?'

Mycroft stared. He forgot the Prime Minister was speaking. He forgot he was in the middle of an argument with this buffoon, or that he was afraid he might have to kill him if indeed his timer stopped ticking. The constant tick-tick-tick-tick-tick was gone. It was gone and Mycroft couldn't hear anything else. Silence roared in his ears. He stared at the video feed, stared at the smiling woman with large eyes and sweet face. He stared, feeling as if the world had stopped tumbling by for this moment. He knew this moment was expected, knew that today was the day his timer would stop, but he didn't know the racing in his heart, the pounding in his chest or the thrum in his veins could overtake the constant ticking. He needed to leave. He needed to meet Molly Hooper. There was nothing else until he did, and he didn't care that a day ago he'd promised himself to ignore the timer and go on with his life.

"Sir," Anthea spoke softly, and he turned with a start to face his PA. She looked pointedly at his covered wrist. She knew he'd been worrying about it. Slowly, he pushed back his cuff, and revealed the silver timer. He stared at the blinking numbers, repeating the time. He looked up to his PA, who only nodded quietly. She and Sherlock had guessed who he would meet, and had arranged it. Mycroft, too overcome to know what to say at first stood abruptly. The group at the table all looked at him in surprise. Awkwardly, he reached for his case, buttoning his jacket.

"Gentlemen." He turned on his heel and left, Anthea following close behind.

"Find everything you can on her, leave it at the house. Whatever favors my brother needs, see to it. After that you're free for the evening."

"Where are you going?" Anthea jogged after him to keep up.

"The office." Anthea stopped where she was, too shocked to follow him.

"Sir?" she questioned, and he paused at the door, bowing his head.

"That will be all, Anthea." With that he was gone, and Anthea didn't know whether to cry or go after him and drag him to Barts.

Mycroft disliked the constant need. But he couldn't bring himself to meet her yet. Or ever. He knew everything about her. Anthea had been thorough. Molly Hooper lived two blocks from St. Bartholomew's Hospital with a cat in a two bedroom apartment. She was close friends with his younger brother, as well as the Watson family. She was an only child, her father died when she was seventeen of cancer. She never knew her mother, as the woman had abandoned the Hooper's after Molly was born. She was the best pathologist in London, and often went to Cambridge and Oxford to give lectures, and had papers published all over the world on her findings. She was patient, kind to everyone, unless provoked, was happy with silly nonsense and sometimes could be persuaded to join Sherlock on cases (if John Watson was not available). Sherlock declared her a romantic type, judging by the books and movies she read, though her humor could border on the macabre side, and had been known to leave bleached skulls in odd places to startle John Watson or Sally Donovan from time to time. She wept over the bodies of children after autopsies, sang to the unidentified John and Jane Doe's, and held hands of elderly ones who came to say goodbye to their departed mates. Molly Hooper dearly wanted a family of her own, a warm, lovely family and a house in the country and four or five children. Molly Hooper was good, not just nice, but truly good. Mycroft looked at his past deeds, of his abhorrence of the timers, and shuddered at the thought of her ever meeting him. No, Molly, with all her sweetness, would not look upon him with favor. She needed someone more like John Watson, or even Sherlock, who was often at her side, assisting in her lab work or fostering prank ideas on the Inspector at New Scotland Yard. Molly Hooper deserved someone warm, as warm and good as she was, not a lanky, cold, government official who was known as 'the ice-man'. His past deeds, his line of work, it was too dark, far too dark for someone like Molly Hooper. Mycroft Holmes was a man capable of wicked deeds and was not sorry for being the cause of many of them. There were a few regrets, but now more than anything he regretted who he was. It was his work, his own self that made it impossible for him to ever come face to face with the woman he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with, and it nearly broke him.

He knew very well if two mates, having seen each other, did not officially meet, one or both would most likely die. That was his one comfort at least. Molly had not seen him, and so she would be perfectly fine. Her timer would stop counting down, and once he was gone, it would flash blankly, just like Sherlock's. Perhaps the two of them would share 221b, and she would keep an eye on his little brother. There was no one so capable as her.

Months passed and he grew weaker. He withdrew to the Diogenes club, burying himself in his work. His parents pleaded with him, John Watson, at his brother's request, came and examined him, declared he was suffering as a mate would, when they have not followed through.

"You continue this way, you'll die," the doctor had said flatly. Mycroft looked at him through hollow eyes, and John Watson's gaze softened. "She needs you too, you know, don't you think she's wondering who you are?"

"She doesn't need me," Mycroft rolled his sleeve down, covering his pale skin. Dark circles hung under his eyes, sleep was more exhausting than being awake. In his dreams he saw her, what their life could be. He pushed those thoughts aside. John Watson left, shaking his head, muttering that only Mycroft Holmes could be so selfish.

That night he worked far into the night, until he felt his head nod, and he let himself lean back in his chair, shutting his eyes. The constant ache was wearing, and he found breathing hard. Wrapping his arms around himself he began to weep softly.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm sorry,"

The door opened, he kept his eyes shut, not even bothering to wipe his face, ashamed. He was too tired to tell whoever it was to go. The presence in the room was one he was not familiar with. It smelled of lavender and tea tree oil. He had never come across this scent before but it was like coming home, and he felt himself sigh with relief.

"Mycroft Holmes," the voice breathed. They said his name like a prayer and he opened his eyes. Mycroft felt himself take a breath, grasping the arms of his chair, shocked. The woman before him had tears in her eyes, regarding him pitifully, and yet there was more in her gaze, a sense of wonderment. Molly Hooper crossed the room slowly, setting her oversized bagon the corner of his desk. That was where it should be, where it always should be, it belonged there, here, wherever was closest to him. He could tell exactly why she was coming around the desk, and he had no wish, no strength, no desire to stop her. Everything made sense, and he cursed himself for wasting six months away from her.

Slowly, he swiveled his chair to face her as she came around the desk. She knelt then, reaching up to trace the lines on his face, to wipe the tracks of tears down his cheeks, the curve of his mouth and up over his tired eyelids. She knelt between his knees, and tugged him closer, peering up at him before she finally drew closer and kissed him.

"It stopped," she murmured, breathless.

"What did?" he rasped, too overcome, finding air filling his lungs, he felt warm again, and the dull ache he was used to was gone.

"Time." They both looked at her timer, it flashed 3:02AM, exactly forty-five seconds had passed since she had first come in the door and seen him.

"Who sent you here?" he asked. She still knelt before him, arms around him. She played with the hair on the nape of his neck and he fairly purred at the soothing gesture.

"I got a text, sending me the address, someone said you needed me." Her eyes arrested him, and he was very still. "Was it true? Do you still need me?" He had no strength left to resist now, and he found he didn't want to. Slowly, he nodded.

"Yes, very much." This time, he closed the distance between them, kissing her gently. He tugged her up onto the chair with him so she was seated on his lap, legs over the arm of the chair. He pulled away, breathless, and rested his head against her chest, listening. There it was! The gentle 'thum-thum, thum-thum, thum-thum'. It matched his, and he felt his breathing slow again. "I think I shall always need you," he said at last. He felt her turn her head, pressing her lips to his temple. Perhaps, perhaps, it was a good thing after all, to be needed.