Warning: mention of miscarriage

Mycroft could recall every assassination attempt on his life. Granted, they were so few and far between, he could count on his hand the number of times someone had attempted such a thing. The first had been out of the country, no one was hurt. Security had caught wind of it and dealt with it. The second was a grander attempt (the jet blew up just as the car approached the airport, some fortunate mistake with the wiring of the bomb had caused it to detonate too soon, and saved his life). The third was some knife-wielding Englishman frustrated with life who decided to stab the very next man to walk out of parliament. Naturally, Anthea was at his side and quietly rendered the assassin unconscious. Mycroft had looked at her with no small degree of fondness then, admiring her not only for her quick reflexes and timing, but also the fact that she was his wife. One can't boast too often that their life-partner is the world's greatest spy/PA, can they?

Now, Mycroft Holmes found himself staring into the eyes of Molly Hooper, specialist registrar of St. Bart's. His arms caught her under her arms, holding her upright as her knees sagged. She stared back at him.

Outright terror

Pain

"Get out of here-"

Mycroft could hear his personal security returning fire from the direction of where the shot had come from.

Barely seconds before, he'd caught sight of the red dot, like a laser pointer just out of the corner of his eye. Then suddenly Molly Hooper had grabbed him by the lapels, slamming him against the brick of the building, chest-to-chest, her back exposed to the assassin.

The sound of people running past them faded into the distance as he sank to the ground, Molly still in his arms. He was aware he was in shock, and chastised himself for it, despite not being able to do anything about it. Shock less that someone tried to shoot him, more at the fact that Molly had thrown herself in front of him. He barely knew her. He suspected she would have done the same regardless of who the bullet was intended for.

"All clear, sir,"

"Get an ambulance," he disliked the weakness in his voice.

"It's on it's way," Anthea said. She knelt beside them, shedding her new jacket and pressing it over the bullet wound. "Mycroft, look at me, look at me-"

He obeyed.

"Hold this here, keep the pressure there, yes?"

"Yes." She moved his hand over to the balled up jacket, pressing his hand over it. It was alarming how much blood there was.

"No exit wound, keep her on her belly,"

"I won't move." Anthea got to her feet.

"I'll call the specialist that handled your brother's wounds-"

Mycroft was listening, knowing she was talking him through whatever it was she was doing. He stared down at the pathologist. He was aware of her feelings regarding his brother, even praised her pivotal role in her assistance in the faking of his death. Mycroft Holmes had never considered how good of a person Molly Hooper truly was.

The ambulance came and he found himself, though knowing the logic of letting professionals take over, loathe to release Molly.

"The pressure-" he murmured. The paramedics nodded, understanding, though Mycroft wasn't certain they did. "It must be maintained, there is no exit wound,"

"Yes sir," they nodded, still gently trying to remove his grip from Molly.

"Mycroft," Anthea's soft voice broke through all the noise surrounding them. "It's all right." He nodded, seeing his foolishness, and once the paramedics had a firm grip on Molly, let go.

The London Hospital

They tried to look at his forehead, scratched from when he hit the wall, but he waved them off. What on earth was a doctor doing trying to help a little scratch when Molly Hooper clearly needed attention?!

"I'm fine, what on earth-"

"Mycroft," again Anthea stepped in. "Let Doctor Watson fix you up." Apparently it was more than a scratch. Mycroft blinked, suddenly realizing it was Watson.

"Sherlock is on his way," the short Doctor promised.

"It wasn't my fault," Mycroft blurted out. He disliked the swimming thoughts that were so driven by emotion. Being in shock was a terrible thing for him. It made him say things he wouldn't ordinarily say.

"Of course it wasn't," John said, dabbing at the gash. "No one thinks it was."

"She shouldn't have jumped in front of me," Mycroft said. John smirked, Mycroft found it in poor taste and managed to frown.

"Try and stop Molly Hooper from doing anything she puts her mind to," John said. "There, you don't need stitches, just a bandage."

Sherlock appeared, doing his best to appear stoic, but the pain and worry in his eyes told Mycroft enough.

"I never knew she was your lover."

John looked between the brothers.

"Sorry, what?"

"Only just..." Sherlock answered Mycroft.

"How long?"

"About two months." Mycroft nodded.

"Does mummy know?"

"No...I wanted it a secret until spring for them to meet her. Molly didn't want to wait..." Sherlock blinked. "I should have listened to Molly. She usually knows best."

John, glancing between the two of them, closed the first aid kit.

"I'm going to go see what's happening," he said. "I'll be right back." Anthea got to her feet.

"I'll go with you."

Silence settled between the two brothers.

"Anthea told me Molly jumped in front of you." Mycroft looked up to see his brother staring back at him, his expression unreadable.

"Yes. I suspect she'd do so for anyone."

"She knows your importance to...the country," Sherlock sounded as though he'd changed thought mid-sentence, but Mycroft decided not to question it.

"She is far stronger than I gave her credit for." Sherlock looked up at his brother, suddenly accusatory.

"Why didn't you increase her security like I asked?" Mycroft felt helpless. Sherlock had asked two years ago, just after he faked his death, to look after Molly Hooper. If he had increased her security, she would not have been shot. Extra security for Molly would have meant plainclothes officers on constant watch as she went about her day. Six faces in a crowd would have spotted her jumping in front of him and blocked the bullet.

"You didn't think she was worth the effort," Sherlock stated simply, his voice dripping with hatred, shock, hurt. Mycroft winced at the truth in the words

"I was wrong," he murmured, he looked square at Sherlock then. "I was wrong and I am sorry, Sherlock." Suddenly his brother was small again, frightened and there was nothing he could do to make it right.

"Will she live?" He stared at the double doors, willing them to open.

"She is very strong, Sherlock," was all Mycroft would say. She was strong, and he hoped that would be enough.

Hours later

Watson had not returned, but Anthea had, informing them that he had been recruited into the emergency team performing the surgery on Doctor Hooper.

"The doctor operating knew Watson was in the war," she said, as if that explained it. Sherlock knew Watson had probably muscled his way in. Mary Watson had come, bringing food that no one felt like eating. Greg Lestrade came, bringing soggy flowers and shaking off the rain that had not stopped falling since that afternoon.

Finally, the doctor appeared, and everyone was on their feet. Mary took Sherlock's hand, and he squeezed hard.

"How is she?" Mycroft did not recognize his brother's voice, the hunger in it, the willing for anything other than a bleak outcome for Molly.

The doctor seemed to take an age to respond. He was tired, but his eyes were sharp, some spark of hope in them. Mycroft understood immediately.

"She's going to be fine," Mary sank to the couch, covering her face with her hands as she sobbed in relief. "We extracted the bullet, it is amazing it didn't do more damage than it did, it missed her spine entirely. We stopped the bleeding as well. There is something we need to discuss, is her next of kin here? Can they be contacted?" Everyone looked at each other, and then at Sherlock.

"I-I'm her uh...fiancé, she has no family to speak of."

"May I speak with you in private?"

The group watched as Sherlock slowly made his way across the waiting room, walking a ways from them with the doctor. Watched as he received whatever news the doctor wanted him to know.

Mycroft, for the first time, hated his powers of observation. He heard Mary whisper:

"Oh my god..."

The doctor squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, and Mycroft moved towards them.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," the doctor was saying. "I promise you though, you'll be able to try again, it was the shock of the situation that did it, not the bullet. Doctor Watson is with her right now in post-op, you can come through in a few moments." The doctor was gone then, and Sherlock was left standing, quite in shock. Mycroft approached him.

"Brother-mine?" He asked cautiously. Sherlock looked up, eyes red-rimmed.

"There was a child." He confirmed, blinking. "She didn't tell me..." He explained. "The shock of...everything. She miscarried. I didn't know...I didn't know..." Mary was at his side, tugging him close to her and Mycroft backed into the wall, staring. How had he not known? How had he not seen Molly and Sherlock together? How had he not guessed? Was he so blind?

In a few moments a nurse came.

"Mr. Holmes, you can come and see her now, and then the rest of you, one at a time," Sherlock hurried through the double doors.

"Go on," Mary said, she sniffed, wiping her eyes. "You need to see her next, I can wait. But you need to talk to her first." Mycroft looked to Mrs. Watson, respect and relief apparent in his demeanor.

Post-op room

Molly was pale against the sheets, barely conscious. John Watson fussed around her as Sherlock spoke softly to her. She had guessed already that she had lost the baby, tearfully apologizing that she'd never told him.

"We can try again, the doctor said," Sherlock answered soothingly. "It's not your fault Molly."

"Is Mycroft ok?"

Mycroft waited just outside of the door, feeling an ache in his chest. Shot in the back, just suffered a miscarriage, Molly Hooper was asking if he was unharmed.

"I'm fine," he said, stepping into the room. Sherlock looked between them, and Molly smiled weakly, squeezing his hand.

"I couldn't very well let your brother get shot before I've had a chance to get to know him," she said, attempting some kind of humor.

"Molly has this idea you're nothing like your nickname," Sherlock explained dryly.

"Birds of a feather, you both think you're heartless," Molly replied tiredly. "M'cold, Sherlock."

"I'll ring for blankets," John answered, stepping out. Molly tugged Sherlock closer, saying something to him and he glanced from her to Mycroft, then nodded. He kissed her gently.

"I'll go tell the others," he said quietly to her before straightening. "Molly wants to talk to you," was all he said to Mycroft, though his expression said quite a bit more.

Be nice. Be gentle. Don't upset her or you'll deal with me.

Mycroft waited until his brother was out of earshot before approaching the bed.

"Why did you do it?" He asked quietly. Molly looked at the far wall.

"So many reasons," she said quietly. "Because I love Sherlock, and no matter what he pretends to not feel for you, he cares very deeply for you," she hesitated then. "Because I want you to be a part of our lives, not just the 'we need governmental assistance on a case' but the brother in-law who stops for tea, even if the two of you bicker. You're important, Mycroft. I wanted you to be a part of the baby's..." her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard. "I want you to be a part the lives of whatever children Sherlock and I have, whenever we have them." She looked at him finally. "I don't have family anymore, Mycroft. Just Sherlock. Sherlock and his friends, and that includes his brother and parents. I'm marrying him because I love him. I want to be a part of his life, and that includes you. I want you to promise me that you'll be a part of that life." Her hand opened to him, just her fingers, still too tired and weak to reach for him. He closed the distance.

"I could never refuse family," he murmured, and finally covered her hand in his. "I promise," the smallest, warmest of smiles graced his face. "Sister-mine."