A/N: This story is 90% Mycroft, or what I like to call 'Mycroft-centric', but set to a background of blossoming Sherlolly. It ended up Mycroft-centric because I've always had an issue with the way Mycroft was always made fun of regarding his weight or this rumoured love for cake. I got so fed up that I decided to write this. I love Mycroft and I particularly love writing Molly and Mycroft having a sort of real kindred affection for one another and a deep understanding between them. What can I say, they're my favourite brOTP. :)

Hunger

The cake place, as Sherlock had called it, was a simple cafe that Molly had picked for its low human traffic and of course, its delicious cake. The three of them, Molly, Sherlock and John, were halfway through their little birthday-do for the detective when John received a call from Mrs Hudson regarding little Rosie.

"It seems she's running a fever," said John, returning his phone to his pocket, "Sorry guys but I'd better dash."

After settling his share of the bill with Molly, John rushed out of the cafe and hopped into the first cab he could find. At this hour, the cafe really was quiet. Now that John had left, the number of patrons reduced from three to two.

"So, how do you find this…cake place?" asked Molly, smirking slightly at him.
"I appreciate the lack of humans," answered the detective, "So you've chosen well again, Molly."
"Are you saying I'm not human, Sherlock?" Molly remarked in mock indignation.
"No— No, no, I just meant—"
"Relax, Sherlock," said Molly with a laugh, "I know what you meant."

Sherlock smiled. Of course she would know what he meant. Sometimes, Sherlock was sure she knew him better than he did. He wanted to tell her he particularly appreciated the lack of humans because it meant there was nothing to disrupt his concentration on his time with her. Perhaps he would tell her another time.

"I considered inviting Mycroft," said Molly, taking a bite of cake.
"It's a good thing you didn't," Sherlock remarked swiftly.
"Why? Would he spoil the mood of this invigorating party?" she said with a laugh.
"In a way. For starters, there'd be no cake left," said Sherlock, smirking as he sipped his coffee. "Food has always been my brother's weakness.

Molly stopped to ponder what Sherlock had said and something did not sit right with her.

"Hang on." Molly said, putting her fork down, "Are you implying Mycroft was greedy as a child?"
"Well, obviously. I never imply." said Sherlock. "You should've seen him then."
"I have, actually. He's shown me pictures."
"Since when?" asked Sherlock, frowning slightly.
"Your brother and I have a good friendship, Sherlock," remarked Molly with a smile. "It's what saved you that afternoon of your fall, you know?"
"As you both never cease to remind me," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"You never cease to forget," Molly shot back.

A tricky silence fell between them for a moment. Sherlock, sensing that he had been callous again with what was clearly a very serious subject matter, poured Molly a fresh cup of tea, intending it as a peace offering. He pushed it gingerly across the table to her, softening his expressions slightly to convey his apologies, causing Molly to laugh.

"It's fine," she said, accepting the tea gratefully, "I am genuinely curious though, why would you say that about him? I cannot see Mycroft ever having been that way."
"Are you sure you saw the right photos? Because if you had, you would definitely see why," explained Sherlock, "He was always eating, for as long as I can remember, guzzling everything like his life depended on it. I don't even think he was hungry when he ate sometimes—"
"Ah."
"What?"
"You're absolutely right there," Molly remarked thoughtfully.
"Sorry?"
"That he wasn't always hungry. And certainly not greedy," continued Molly. "Do you know why he was, as you say, guzzling all the time, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused to look at her, trying to see where she was going with this question. He started thinking back on all his memories of Mycroft polishing food off his plate and constantly reaching for food.

"What did your mummy always use to scold you about?" Molly asked quietly, as though coaxing the memory out of Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked hard at the question that certainly was not hard at all. There were many answers to that, but what was Molly driving at?

"The usual, I suppose. Not wiping my muddy wellies from when I would play pirates at the beach… Or dissecting any dead rats I'd find in the traps using her steak knives…"
"You don't remember, do you?" asked Molly, leaning forward with a curious gleam in her eyes.
"Remember what?"
"You see, Mycroft did such an excellent job you never got chided for it ever again."

This was a puzzling statement and the detective frowned in response. Knowing Molly was going to continue, Sherlock stayed quiet, knowing that now was not the time to act smart or make possibly inaccurate deductions. Clearly, there was something she knew, and he did not.

"Look down at your plate. How many bites of cake have you had?"

The detective followed her instructions and stared down at his plate. Depending on the angle one took to look at it, no one would have suspected the slice of cake had had a bite taken out of it.

"I ate the cherry. And I had a corner of cake. I might have another bite, seeing as sugar is the only high I can afford now—"
"And what would your mother say," Molly interjected, "if she could see your plate now?"

Memories were a funny thing. Sometimes, they remained buried with no chance of recollection whatsoever. Yet, in some cases, they sprang back to the forefront of the mind once the right switch was turned on.

The memory played in Sherlock's head like a perfect piece of cinematography. All the sights and sounds and smells came rushing to him as he suddenly recalled one particular night at the family dinner table. He could not have been more than four years old, but Sherlock was brilliant after all and had a vast store of memories from a very early age.

Dinner had been served and while he had been hungry after a full afternoon playing outside in the garden, he had refused to eat a single morsel of his food. Sherlock's brilliance had a setback, and that was the frequent and immense sensory overloads he would experience. The great speed at which he processed things was directly proportional to the tremendous sensitivity he felt towards his environment.

Suddenly, Sherlock was acutely aware of how repulsed he had felt that one evening at dinner; how the creamed spinach felt too wet; how the boiled potatoes were too yellow; and how the carrots and gravy seemed to merge into the same colour and it just did not feel right. In his attempt to make his food palatable and not disturb him so much, Sherlock had tried prodding at it, rearranging it, mixing the colours or mixing the textures to find a combination that did not send his hairs standing.

Then, a huge sharp pain had interrupted his rearrangement of his dinner when Mummy tapped the edge of a wooden spoon against his tiny knuckles. In an equally sharp voice, she had asked him sternly why he had not taken a bite of his food and chided him for being fussy and for playing with his food. The rude shock of her harsh voice and the slight throb in his knuckles had caused tears to well up in the eyes of young Sherlock. He remembered the tears and the frustration behind them because he had truly been hungry at the time but simply could not bring himself to eat the food before him.

Such a struggle was something Mycroft had also been all too familiar with. After all, were they not of the same make? An infinitely more brilliant mind like Mycroft's had dealt with the same battle of his senses and how they affected his experience of life. Everything that had plagued Sherlock as a young genius had also affected him before, except now, with seven years ahead of his younger brother, Mycroft had learned to manage. Whether it was the noise, the people, the food, the scents - Mycroft had learnt to manage.

As tears had continued to spill from Sherlock's eyes, he did his best to obey his mother, not wanting to risk hearing her terribly hard voice or another rap to his knuckles. Reluctantly, Sherlock had begun lowering his fork into what he perceived as neon yellow flesh of the cut potatoes on his plate. However, just as the silver prongs were about to poke through the powdery cube of potato, Sherlock remembered seeing Mycroft deftly reaching over, switching plates with him. Sherlock had stared in shock at the empty plate in place of his, while Mycroft had begun quickly devouring what Sherlock could not.

"He couldn't have been hungry…" Sherlock murmured as the memories continued playing in his head. Molly merely lowered her heard and smiled. She could tell he had ventured somewhere obscure in his Mind Palace and did not want to disrupt this particular trip down memory lane.

Once dinner time had been over, Sherlock was starving but relieved that his brother had saved him. Mummy had seemed pleased that all her children had finished their meals and had cheerfully cleared their plates. Mycroft, knowing that his brother would have been absolutely ravenous by now, had stolen into the kitchen and nicked a few ginger nuts from Mummy's cupboard.

There you are, Sherlock, Mycroft had said to his little brother. Nice and dry, these. And I picked the least lumpy ones of the lot, just the way you like mustn't go to bed hungry.

It seemed this first memory then triggered a whole deluge of similar incidents. All of a sudden, Sherlock remembered not wanting to eat the honey on toast at tea time one afternoon because the honey had not felt 'ready' and its colour was all wrong and so had refused to touch it. His piece of toast had gotten so cold that the honey spread on top of it had almost turned to glass. Again, Mycroft had swept in and grabbed the toast off his brother's plate, leaving it empty before Mummy could return to the dining room, sparing Sherlock another shelling from her.

In these memories, Mycroft was still always eating, always stealing biscuits and cake and stuffing his face with tremendous speed and almost with a sense of desperation. Except, it was neither hunger nor greed which motivated those responses.

"You've spoilt my appetite now, Molly…" muttered the detective, as his recollection of his childhood slowly began to clarify.
"Because now you remember how much Mycroft loves you?" teased Molly.

There came coughing and choking sounds as Sherlock reached for his coffee and took a big dramatic sip, as though it could wash the thought away. Molly suppressed a chuckle but continued to speak.

"I know it's hard for you, but I just— could not sit idly by and have you think he was some greedy, food-obsessed child," Molly began. "He merely wanted to protect you. And still does."

Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow before taking another slow sip of his coffee.

"Are you about to suggest I do something about this?" he asked, eyeing Molly suspiciously. "I know that look in your eyes."
"Well, you could just call him, tell him you love him," joked Molly.
"Are you trying to kill me?" asked Sherlock with a smirk.
"Would it?" Molly asked swiftly in return. "Would it actually kill you?"

Her question was a weighted one, and it made Sherlock sigh quietly. He picked his fork up and took another bite of cake, chewing it slowly and thoughtfully.

"Maybe you should practice," said Molly with a gleam in her eyes.
"Practice?" he asked.
"Hello, Sherlock," she began, smiling at him.
"Uh, hello…Molly," answered Sherlock instinctively but a little unsure.
"I would do anything to protect you," she declared, "Because I love you. Now, what would you say in return?"

He glared at her incredulously, amazed at how she was able to say such words so easily. How did she make something so heavy appear so light and effortless? Sherlock shook his head and chuckled softly.

"He would never say that to me, you do know that right?" said Sherlock with a laugh. "It'd kill him."
"That is true," Molly replied, "But you never know, Sherlock. One day, you or Mycroft might find yourselves literally at gunpoint and you'll wish you'd done something."

Sherlock paused to reflect on her words. He certainly could not deny that his memory of Mycroft had been incomplete, resulting in the present-day misjudgement of his brother. Mycroft had never been greedy, had never enjoyed the taste of honey, and would have never taken more than he was allowed to. It frightened Sherlock that he had gotten something so fundamentally wrong about his brother, about his own history. He shook away the even more terrifying thought that there might be more he could have missed about their childhood. Sherlock made a note not to delete things from his memory too impulsively anymore.

"I think you're right, Molly," said Sherlock at last, looking up at her.

Molly smiled and gestured to his plate.

"You going to finish your cake then?" she asked.
"Yes, I think I will," Sherlock replied, smiling as he picked his fork up.

The air was cold and daylight had yet to break. Sherlock stood outside the large mahogany doors and waited. Right on schedule, the doors opened and out stepped Mycroft, decked head to toe in his black running gear and wearing a look of surprise on his face.

"What are you doing here?" asked Mycroft, "Has something happened? And why are you in running clothes?"
"Same reason you're wearing them," answered Sherlock.
"What, you're here for a jog? At five in the morning?" Mycroft exclaimed, still somewhat in shock at seeing his brother, "Aren't you usually at the morgue trying to show off to Molly Hooper or something?"
"She does the day shifts now," Sherlock answered without missing a beat.
"And then you take her out to dinner in the evenings?" joked Mycroft.
"On occasion, yes," Sherlock replied unflinchingly, secretly relishing the look of surprise in his brother's eyes.
"Well, good for you…and good luck to her," said Mycroft, "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Mycroft."
"Yes, Sherlock, what?"

Suddenly, Sherlock could not articulate why he had come to see his brother. Perhaps it had not been clear to him either, but after everything Molly had made him realise, he knew he had to do something.

"Mind if I joined you?" he asked.
"We won't have to chat, will we?" said Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. "These grounds are quite large and I should like to concentrate on conserving energy for my run, if you don't mind."
"No chatting, just running," said Sherlock with a nod.
"Then I don't see why you can't," Mycroft replied, nodding in return.

It had been a quiet run, the two brothers side by side as they made their way around Mycroft's entire estate. They returned, panting slightly as they stepped into Mycroft's equally palatial kitchen. The older Holmes brother opened his refrigerator where its only contents was a single glass decanter of freshly squeezed juice. He poured himself a glass, knowing his brother would not be interested in any. To his surprise, his brother came to join him, pouring himself a glass too.

"I brought you something," said Sherlock, after he had downed half the glass of juice thirstily.
"Whatever for?" asked Mycroft with a laugh.
"Here," said Sherlock, tossing a dark brown packet to his brother.
"What's this?" asked Mycroft.
"Breakfast," said Sherlock.
"They're ginger nuts," said Mycroft.
"Exactly," Sherlock said with a quick smile. "I used to have them for breakfast, remember?"

Mycroft paused to look up at his brother carefully. His puzzled frown soon softened into a small, warm smile. Mycroft looked away and stared out of his kitchen window into the green of his estate.

"The bacon looked like twigs, you'd said. And the eggs were like 'monster eyes'," Mycroft recalled wistfully, "You were so small and frail."
"And you were the opposite."
"Yes, I was," said Mycroft.
"Mycroft."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."

Both brothers turned away, both unaccustomed to any such displays of emotion, but were smiling secretly in the knowledge that the other was not looking. Their silence was interrupted by the crackling sound of a plastic packet being opened.

"Fancy a ginger nut?" asked Mycroft, holding one out in his hand. "For old times' sake."
"Seeing as I haven't had any breakfast…" answered Sherlock, taking the biscuit from his brother. "Yes, I will have one."

Mycroft reached into the packet and took one for himself too. The two brothers stood where they were in the kitchen, quietly crunching on their biscuits.

"Remind me, will you, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, suddenly.
"To do what?" he asked, gesturing for his brother to pass him another biscuit.
"To thank Molly Hooper," answered Mycroft, hunting for a ginger nut with a texture agreeable to his younger brother.
"Of course."
"Maybe I'll take her out to dinner," joked Mycroft, eyeing his brother.

Sherlock stared back icily at Mycroft, inciting a laugh from him.

"I jest," said Mycroft, offering his brother another carefully selected biscuit.
"I certainly hope you are."
"Well, I wouldn't want to undo what's she's managed to accomplish."
"Hmm. Yes."

Mycroft smiled as he put the packet of biscuits down and walked casually to the sink to wash his hands. As the sound of running water filled the quiet kitchen, Mycroft thought about everything that had transpired that morning and could not help but smirk to himself. When he was finished, he turned the tap off and the kitchen went quiet again.

"That said, brother mine," Mycroft remarked, sauntering over to dry his hands on a small towel, "While it's taken you about thirty years to offer me biscuits, I don't recommend you take the same amount of time regarding Molly Hooper."
"What, to offer her biscuits?" said Sherlock, scoffing slightly.

Mycroft laughed. Sherlock really was the idiot.

"I believe it is words you have to offer her," Mycroft said with a knowing half-smile. "Say them while they still mean something to her."
"Are both of you trying to kill me?" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Believe me when I say, Sherlock, that if you didn't," Mycroft explained, "That might kill you first."
"Are you speaking from experience?" asked Sherlock, scoffing.
"Perhaps," Mycroft answered coolly.

Sherlock stared at his brother, perplexed at his words. What frame of reference did his brother have that he did not? Was there more that he had missed from their childhood? Their adolescence?

"It was from my time at MI6," said Mycroft, answering the question in his brother's head, "I'll tell you another time when you feel like we need another…breakfast."
"Hmm, yes."
"Now, please, just take my word for it and go," said Mycroft, waving his little brother away.

With a smirk, Sherlock stole one more ginger nut and turned to leave his brother's colossal home. With his free hand, he took his mobile phone out and began to text. To his surprise, she had texted him first.

How did it go? - M

It was fine. - SH

Oh, that's wonderful then. - M

Where are you now? - SH

On my way to the Bart's refectory, why? - M

Mind if I joined you there? - SH

What? For lunch? - M

Yes. Lunch. - SH

But you never eat. - M

It seems I have to once in a while. - SH

What made you change your mind? - M

My brother said it might kill me if I didn't. - SH

He's right, there. - M

So, the refectory? - SH

Yes. See you soon then. - M

See you. x - SH

! - M

:) - SH

END