A/N: Oh, geez, guys, half the reason I posted this little thing was the chance to update you, and then I forgot an author's note. *facepalm* No, it's (sadly) not the sequel to The One Where Sherlock Sleeps With Molly. Yes, I am still working on that, and yes, I will continue it despite whatever occurs in season 4. Happy New Year, Happy Sherlolly-ing, and Happy Season Four no matter what happens!

I'm sorry, I tried. A.

Molly set the handwritten note aside to read what lay under it: a response card for her and Sherlock's wedding.

With Mycroft's regrets.

Her anger flared like a struck match, and she sucked in her breath so sharply it drew the attention of her FY2, working at a microscope on the other end of the lab bench.

"Dr. Hooper? Are you all right?"

Molly stuffed the card and Anthea's note back in their sunshine yellow envelope, wrinkling them in her haste, then shoved them into her lab coat pocket. "Fine. I need to take care of something—finish those slides and select everything you think is normal to review at the multi-head microscope with Dr. Stamford. Tell him I'm taking a couple hours of personal leave."

The young man looked startled but did not protest. "Yes, ma'am."

"Everything normal, Brian," Molly said firmly, already backing towards the door.

"Yes, Dr. Hooper."

She stopped in her office only long enough to shrug off her lab coat, leaving it crumpled inside-out over her desk before heaving her striped satchel over her shoulder and turning back the way she had come. Fueled with righteous anger and busy preparing her speech to The British Government, she made short work of the walk from Bart's to her flat and steamed straight past Toby (who whipped his tail away from the falling satchel) into her bedroom.

Pushing aside the flowered blouses, baggy trousers, and brightly colored dresses, Molly reached deep into the back of her wardrobe for the suit she kept for Important Job Things. A staid charcoal gray with a flattering feminine cut, it had a ruffled lapel and a pink pinstripe (because she was still Molly Hooper, even when she had to fit in with the conservative crowd). She hung this and a silky fuchsia camisole on the bathroom door and began her transformation.

()()()()

Anthea switched windows on her computer when an urgent security notification popped up. Opening the original email, whose subject read simply "someone's looking for Mr. Holmes," she recognized the code for the CCTV cameras in the public foyer of River House. Switching programs yet again, she typed in her username and password and brought up the live feed.

If Anthea had not been trained in seeing through disguises (and if she hadn't already had a sneaking suspicion this confrontation was incoming), she would have passed over the small woman at the security desk. Dressed in a tasteful gray suit that fit her trim figure well, her erect posture aided by a pair of classic black heels, with chestnut brown hair wound into a tight bun and black-framed glasses adding to her professional appearance, Molly Hooper could have been any of hundreds of government workers in Whitehall.

Except for the fact she was obviously arguing with the on-duty security officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

Glancing over her shoulder to ensure the door between her office and Mycroft's was still closed, Anthea clicked a few more times to add sound.

"—no one here by that name," the officer was saying.

"My fiancé refers to him as 'The British Government,' and he should know," Molly retorted. "I know he's here somewh—wait. You mean he's not here right this second, don't you? Well, I know you know where he is, or you can find out. I'll wait." She took a step back and folded her arms over her designer leather handbag.

"Ma'am, I'm not—" Apparently Molly was in rare form, for the officer's voice already had an undertone of impatience.

"Doctor," Molly corrected in a firm tone Anthea had never heard from her before. "Dr. Margaret Erin Hooper to see Mr. Mycroft Holmes, as I've told you three times already."

"Dr. Hooper, I assure you, I'm not trying to trick you," the officer said. "We have no record of Mycroft Holmes working here."

Which was perfectly true—Mycroft's office wasn't in River House. Not that he appeared on the directory of the building it was in, either.

"And you wouldn't tell me if you did. I'm not asking you to take me to him, just call him. Or, I don't know—Sherlock says he never texts, so use your supersonic telepathic radar or Morse-code-emitting implanted microchip."

Anthea giggled at the expression on the officer's face.

"Just find a way to contact him and tell him I'm here. I know he'll see me. I'm about to be his sister-in-law, whether he likes it or not."

It wasn't until she saw two marines enter the foyer that Anthea realized she would have to intervene. A quick glance at the phone confirmed Mycroft was still on with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Anthea watched as Molly ignored her phone blaring the opening notes of "Paint It Black."

"Come on, Molly, pick up, pick up…"

"Would you like to get that?" the officer said with textbook poker-face politeness as the Rolling Stones bemoaned the color in the world.

Pink-cheeked, Molly excused herself, turned her back, and began scrambling in her bag.

Anthea hung up and redialed before it could go to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Molly, it's Anthea. I'm sending you a car before you get arrested, you silly goose."

"Is he in?"

"He is."

"Don't tell him I'm coming."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Anthea assured her.

Molly slipped her phone back in its pocket, returned the bag's strap to her shoulder, and gave the marines one of her bright smiles. "Thanks for the offer of an escort, boys, but he's sending a car. Have a nice day!"

Anthea laughed at the soldiers' shock as Molly walked out of camera view.

()()()()

Molly leaned her head against the cool leather of the sedan's backseat and took a deep breath. She had deliberately made a scene, hoping her obnoxious behavior would be enough to flag some notification that would reach Mycroft or Anthea, but she hadn't expected them to sic the Royal Marines on her! Reminding herself why she was here, and certain Sherlock would appreciate her antics (if not their cause), renewed her courage. Mycroft was being petty and rude, and although Sherlock would never admit it, it would hurt him deeply if his brother did not attend their wedding. Molly had no intentions of allowing anyone, least of all Mycroft Holmes, to hurt Sherlock.

She'd practically made a career of it.

The car pulled to a stop almost as soon as it had started and Molly got out, teetering a moment as her heels met the uneven pavement. Entering the glass door ahead of her which had no identification other than its street address, she found herself in a well-appointed atrium complete with tinkling fountain. Anthea was nowhere in sight, so Molly crossed the polished floor to introduce herself to the receptionist.

In a refreshing change from her last encounter, the woman smiled in welcome. "Yes, Dr. Hooper, he's expecting you. Go right up." She passed a small white card across the desk and indicated the gleaming bank of lifts behind her.

"Thank you."

Molly waited until she was in the lift to look at the card. Third floor. Turn right, then right again. Last door on your left.

With one final deep breath and a straightening of her suit jacket, Molly punched number three.

()()()()

In an unexpected but not unprecedented breach of protocol, Anthea opened Mycroft's office door without knocking or announcement. Except it wasn't Anthea.

Innate good manners had Mycroft standing at the arrival of a woman before he registered who it was.

"Miss Hooper," he drawled. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Not for long," she said shortly.

Now Anthea appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Margaret Hooper here to see you, sir."

"Yes, I can see that, Anthea, thank you." Nor did he miss her use of Molly's full name and formal title. "That will be all," he added when his assistant lingered.

Anthea was not so crass as to slam the door, but the simple fact that he heard the latch click in place was evidence enough of her displeasure.

"Do take a seat," he said, indicating the chairs in front of his desk as he resumed his own.

But Molly did not take a seat; instead, she stalked across his office (Mycroft would have never guessed her capable of walking in heels, much less stalking in them) and slammed something offensively bright on his desk.

"Change it," she snarled.

Mycroft leaned back and placed the tips of his sprawled fingers together. "Well, well, well, the kitten has claws."

Molly rolled her eyes in a gesture eerily reminiscent of his little brother. "Of course kittens have claws, Mycroft. Any fool knows that."

His expression hardened subtly. Not many people called Mycroft Holmes a fool and lived to tell the tale.

"No."

He did not need to look at the paper to know what Molly wanted him to change. Not only was the yellow envelope a unique assault on the eyes, but he had declined his RSVP to his brother's wedding "with regrets" (a lie, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft understood the necessity of social lies to smooth interpersonal relations) only yesterday.

"Mycroft."

Her tone was distinctly scolding, like one used with a child, and Mycroft's expression dissolved into a scowl.

"Sherlock adores you—"

He snorted.

"He does, and you know it," she insisted. "He adores you, and I know you love him—"

He scoffed, steeling himself for the obvious next point in her predictably emotional argument.

"And he'll be very disappointed if you don't at least attend. No one is expecting you to host the stag party—"

Mycroft made a valiant effort to hide his shudder.

"But you do have to attend the ceremony and at least make an appearance at the wedding breakfast."

That's what Anthea had said, but he was far from convinced.

"No."

"Why not?" She sat down, as if they were having a reasonable negotiation, not conversing on the surreal topic of his brother's wedding.

"The Cameroon economy is collapsing that morning."

"A tragedy, I am sure," Molly said dryly. "Give me a reason your mother will accept."

Ignoring the flutter in his midsection (Mummy's disapproval was the main weakness of his position and he knew it), Mycroft said, "Mummy knows I have a Very Important Job." Emphasis on the capitals.

"You occupy a 'minor role in the British government,'" Molly said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Mycroft dropped his hands and narrowed his eyes. So, she wanted to play it like that, did she?

"Does Sherlock know you're here?"

"You know he doesn't."

"Wouldn't that be an interesting little dispute."

"No, Mycroft, it wouldn't, and I may as well disabuse you of that notion right now. You will not interfere in my and Sherlock's relationship like it's some—some—third world economy."

Mycroft examined his fingernails (impeccable, of course). "Why not?"

"Because the three of us can make your life miserable."

"Three of you?"

"Me, Anthea, and your mother."

Mycroft looked her up and down, wrinkling his nose for good measure. "I see the mouse has dressed for battle today. You almost look … presentable."

Most unexpectedly, Molly sighed. "I'm marrying Sherlock. Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?"

Hmm. Fair point.

"Look, Mycroft." Molly slid forward in her chair, her expression disgustingly earnest. "We both know you're going to attend my wedding. So, change the form—" She pulled a blank response card from her handbag— "and I won't tell your mother you initially refused, and you won't tell Sherlock I was here. All right?"

Mycroft looked over his desk at his soon-to-be sister-in-law, considering her offer. Perhaps friendly relations were in order. There was no reason he had to extend them to Sherlock.

"Fine." He reached for the card and picked up his pen, ticking "accepts with pleasure" with none whatsoever and signing his name. "But I am not bringing a—what's the phrase—a plus one."

Molly laughed. "Of course you are. Anthea's already bought her dress."