CHAPTER FOUR

Mycroft sensed him even across the room—even with his back turned. Even though he was silent. The Diogenes Club had darkened and quieted this evening, leaving Mycroft alone in his private office, awash in firelight, to enjoy a solitary tea and perhaps a bit of light reading.

Well, those would have been his plans. Not now, of course.

"Do come in, Sherlock," Mycroft called quietly, finishing pouring his tea. "Care for a cuppa?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Mycroft frowned minutely but didn't turn until his cup was full, and he set the pot down on the little table. When he did, he found Sherlock still wearing his coat, standing halfway into the room. His scarf was missing, and his top button on his shirt was undone.

And he was gazing at Mycroft in a striking, open—yet unreadable way. Mycroft focused on Sherlock's face.

"You're very pale," he noted. "Have you finally fallen ill?"

Sherlock still didn't say anything.

Mycroft's being settled—all mirth and teasing faded to nothing. Sherlock did look pale. And his stark eyes almost grey. Sherlock leaned forward, very slightly, his shoulders weakened. And Mycroft waited.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said—his voice unexpectedly quiet and rough. "Have you ever, in all your life…considered the possibility of being my brother, rather than my competitor?"

The bass tones—the heavy words—hung in the air. The fire crackled. All remained still. Mycroft stared at him carefully.

"Does this still concern Miss Hooper?"

Sherlock said nothing. The two men never broke eye contact.

Mycroft let out the smallest of sighs.

"If you must know," he began. "Whatever feelings I may harbor for Molly Hooper are genuine, and based entirely on her own merit." His eyes narrowed. "They have nothing whatsoever to do with you."

Sherlock absorbed that. Slowly, part by part. It should have brought clarity—a straightening of the spine. And yet, as Mycroft watched each word enter him, and penetrate him with understanding…

He saw a different change come over him. A shadow. A diminishment. A further paling of his skin, and a distance, yet brilliance, in his eyes.

Mycroft took a half-inch step toward him.

Sherlock's attention drifted to the floor.

"So…" Sherlock said, his tone low and rumbling. "You never…considered me, then. What I might…Who I might…While I was away."

Mycroft listened to each nuance—every lilt of the voice.

Listened to the way his brother stood, and how he breathed, and the way one hand stayed in his coat pocket, holding a small object between his fingers.

And…

He understood.

A dark wave of something cold, empty and…sad…washed through Mycroft, somewhere in the furthest depths.

"What did she say to you?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't shift or look up. He'd been expecting that line of questioning.

"She accused me of investigating her," he said. "Of prying into her personal affairs. As if she had…done something. Wrong."

"That is somewhat true, is it not?" Mycroft pointed out. "You did perform an investigation."

Sherlock blinked once, his gaze still on the rug.

"Yes."

"Mhm." Mycroft finally took that one step forward, and clasped his hands behind his back. "And what was the reason for this investigation?"

Sherlock looked up. Met Mycroft's eyes.

His eyebrows drew together, his eyes became vibrant and shining in the firelight.

He said nothing.

Mycroft stopped breathing.

Time suspended. Neither of them spoke or moved. The fire in the throat of the hearth shimmered, and the light glowed across the furniture.

At last, Mycroft turned around and strode back toward his desk. He paused in front of it, then reached down and picked up a hundred-year-old, worn, forest-green book whose title had long ago been rubbed off. He hefted its familiar, comforting weight, bits of the narration flashing through his mind—he had memorized all of it a long time ago, and the pleasure and memory of the story would never leave him, no matter where the actual manuscript went.

With the book in hand, he turned and faced Sherlock again, and slowly approached him. He came within just a few feet, and held it out to him.

"I believe this is yours."

Sherlock saw it. Studied it for a moment. Then, he reached out with his left hand, and took it from Mycroft as if it were made of glass. He lifted his head, and looked at Mycroft…

A question flashing across his lost gaze like lightning.

"You and I, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him as he withdrew to the table to pick up his tea. "We have always known how to calculate risk versus possible gain. Let it never be said of one of the Holmes' that he was unwilling to take a risk in favor of a gain which is possible, and worth such a risk, beyond any doubt."

Mycroft sat down in an armchair, his back mostly toward Sherlock, and sipped his tea. Sherlock did not stir for almost a minute.

"But…" Sherlock said at last, low and hoarse. "What about you?"

Mycroft smiled quietly, so that Sherlock could not see.

"I never wade in," he said. "Especially when I know there's a better man for the job."

Silence returned to him, instead of a witty remark. Sherlock stood unbalanced. And thus, the undercurrents of the very air began to take Mycroft's words, and turn them into a deep, and unspeakable ache. Mycroft swallowed, his mouth closed.

And then…

"You have always been the better man."

Sherlock's voice settled across Mycroft's shoulders—like the warmth of the late sun in autumn. He swallowed again, and glanced down at his teacup.

For another moment, all was quiet. Then, Sherlock turned, and left the room. Mycroft knew where he was going.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight. And now that no one stood nearby who could see him, Mycroft allowed himself one more nearly-invisible smile.

MHMHMHMH

Molly jumped off the couch, then hopped to a halt on her sitting room rug, her heart accelerating. She glanced at the clock. Half eight. It was dark out. She wasn't expecting anybody—but someone had knocked on her door three times.

That meant it had to be…

Wait.

She hesitated, the floorboard creaking beneath her stocking feet. Odd. Nothing followed. So, if it was, then this was uncharacteristic…

She bit her lip and hurried down the short flight of stairs to her front door. Fighting to keep her breathing steady, she flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open…

Sherlock.

He stood just outside, in the halo of the lamplight, his coat undone, no scarf. He was white—his lips grey—and he wouldn't look at her. He stared, unfocused, at her knees.

"Sherlock," she gasped. "You okay?"

He swallowed.

"Came to give you my new number," he said faintly. "Might need it for a case."

"All…right," Molly said, wrapping her arms around herself. "Come in? I'll just…put it in my phone right now."

She withdrew from the doorway, making room. He stood still, now studying the stairs in front of him.

"It's chilly out," she said quietly, watching him uneasily. "I can…make tea?"

He didn't answer. But he stepped forward, and came inside.

Shivers ran down Molly's spine as she led the way back up the stairs, listening as Sherlock shut the door behind him and trailed heavily up after. She entered the warmth and light of her cozy little sitting room—still messy from dinner—and grabbed her purse off the couch. She dug inside, pulled out her phone.

"All right, I'll be ready for it in just a…" She turned and faced him.

He looked at her now. Right in the eyes. And his breathing—he wasn't breathing right. Unsteady, and tense—and he had no color at all.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" she whispered, going cold and completely forgetting her phone. "Is it Mycroft?"

Sherlock twitched away from her—Molly jumped, her eyes going wide. He closed his own eyes a moment—squeezed them shut—then opened them and once again addressed the ground.

"You…You were right," he said; quiet, careful. "I was conducting an investigation. But I was not investigating you. I was…endeavoring to discover something about my brother."

Molly tried to breathe evenly, even as she gripped her phone so hard she might break it. Sherlock went on.

"And I did indeed find what I had suspected. It coincided perfectly with what I already know about him. Mycroft Holmes…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Is a purposeful, consistent, conscientious and fastidious man. He is also powerful, and wise and careful. In short, everything I am not."

Molly's brow furrowed, but she did not interrupt him. Sherlock's mouth worked for a moment before he found the words to continue.

"In the very brief time I had available to concoct a plan for my death and disappearance, I did everything I possibly could think of to also secure your safety and anonymity. Mycroft discouraged your involvement, citing your inexperience and your naiveté, but I knew how vital you were and that I had no chance of success without you. So I had to insist—in spite of the danger. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and everyone else were safe in their ignorance. But if Moriarty or any of his henchmen learned that you were the chief cog in my machinery, your life would be forfeit."

Molly's bones turned to ice. Sherlock still wouldn't look at her.

"And so I set the most powerful watchdog in Christendom at your doorstep," he murmured. "A man purposeful, consistent, conscientious, fastidious and ruthless enough to destroy any possible threat. A man second only to myself in capability and willingness to bring the very hand of God down upon anyone stupid enough to come near you. And…all throughout my absence," he said, even quieter. "Upon the third Thursday of every month, I would contact my brother to see that nothing had…happened to you."

Molly tried to swallow, tried just to keep breathing. He shifted, as if something sharp was sticking into his side.

"He failed to inform me of your engagement, however. And when I returned I confess that things seemed…off-balance. As if I were a stranger to you who…might not be welcome. In fact, all of London seemed..." He took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. "But Mrs. Hudson was alive, and John was alive, and you…you were alive. So I could carry on, in spite of the changes. I could keep working. Because…"

And finally, he looked at her.

Bright. Painful.

It cut through her heart.

"I…I would have difficulty breathing. Molly. If you had somehow been misplaced," he said. "But…when I'm in London, and you are in London, I worry so little because you're always here." He gestured helplessly. "It doesn't fit in my cognizance…your not being here." He gazed at her a moment, then gave a weak, crooked smile. "I know you've heard me talk to John even after he's left the room for twenty minutes, but John can attest to the fact that, while staring into the microscope, I have delivered whole paragraphs to you about my discoveries, right into the empty air, and when I finally realized you were not, in fact, standing next to me…" He stopped. His nervous gestures stilled. He gazed into her eyes, and his eyebrows drew together.

Then, he turned his head, let out a shattered laugh—and tears spilled down his cheeks.

"I cannot…I cannot do without you," he shook his head, and looked at her with a broken, brilliant earnestness, more tears tumbling. "I've…I've been without any sort of…my entire life—my schoolmates found me unpleasant and offensive, and anyone superficially interested would tear themselves away from me the moment he or she heard me talk for more than five minutes. My parents could never understand me and their trying to was painful beyond reason; my brother could have been my equal and even my...But he enjoyed his own company more than anyone else's, and in fact anyone else's—especially mine—was the height of annoyance. I only had a…I had a dog." He paused, and gulped, tears dripping from his chin. "His name was Redbeard. I could talk to him about whatever I wanted. Until he got cancerous ulcers and my father took him away and had him killed." He met Molly's eyes. "I had to be alone, Molly—don't you see? I didn't have…They didn't want me. You were the first…You. Brought me coffee and…" He drew in another shaking breath. "Stayed."

Molly couldn't speak. Sherlock watched her for a moment, hesitating—

Then his brow twisted, he took half a step back and turned his head away. He sucked in a swift breath, then stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled something out.

"Sorry. I stole this, I think." He sniffed loudly and held it out to her, eyebrows raised expectantly, tears glistening on his cheeks. She stared at what he held.

A piece of blue yarn. The very piece of yarn she'd saved from his scarf, the day he'd come into the lab according to plan, covered in blood, his eyes flooded with sorrow, his whole bearing silent with resolve. Right before he'd disappeared for two whole years. The piece of yarn she'd wrapped around and around her ring finger, day after day after day, in an absent, aching rhythm, while she waited for results to load on her computer…

She stared at it in his hand. But she didn't take it.

He tried to fix that expectant expression onto his face. But his breathing unevened, and his tears still made his eyes vivid.

His fingers began to tremble.

And when he took his next tight breath—Molly felt it hurt him.

"No, no, no—stop," she gasped, tossing down her phone.

She stepped in and frantically caught him around the neck—wrapped both arms around him and pulled him down to her. She buried her face in his collar and gripped him as tight as she could.

"Stop, stop. It's all right," she whispered.

Then she kissed his neck—pulled back and kissed him all over his tearstained face, tasting warmth and salt on her lips.

He gasped—it tore raggedly through him, and he staggered. She backed up a little and took his head in her hands, feverishly stroking his hair back, and nodded through her own blurry tears.

"It's okay," she whispered brightly. "I love you, all right? It's fine."

And she kissed his lips. Three times—each time more fervently than before, her heart swelling to breaking.

He leaned into her, clumsily trying to wrap his own arms around her. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her lips to his cheek again and then held him fast, curling her fingers through his hair and feeling the thunder of his heart against hers. She ducked her head into his collar again, whispering.

"It's okay. I'm not going anyplace. It's fine."

His quivering arms finally encircled her, and squeezed her—and his own head rested in the crook of her neck. For a long moment, they stood there in shivering silence.

"You kissed me," he murmured.

"Mhm," Molly said, muffled by his coat.

He paused.

"You love me."

Molly lifted her chin, just a little.

"Yes."

"Promise?"

Molly's throat choked and she closed her eyes. But she nodded.

"Promise." And she squeezed him tighter.

He drew in a deep, deep breath…

And let out a fathomless sigh. He melted into her—relief poured from him. And then he settled into her arms, saying nothing, as Molly Hooper smiled into his collar.

FIN