"I need to do something about Molly," Sherlock says one morning as they're getting dressed. "She's still….pining."

"I would be too if you'd given me that whole 'You've always counted and I've always trusted you' spiel," John rolls him eyes and fishes his shoes out from under the bed.

Sherlock smirks. "If I'd know that was all it took, I wouldn't have waited so long," his hand ghosts across Johns bottom. John slaps it away.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he says. "Anyway, there's nothing you can do about it, is there? The heart wants what the heart wants."

"I'm not so sure it's her heart as much as her infatuation."

"Be nice to her, Sherlock. We owe her a lot. She deserves to be happy. I'd hate to see her become Mycroft, bitter and alone because she gave her heart to someone and they broke it ruthlessly. That would be quite the turn up. Let her down gently, will you?"

"Mycroft…yes," Sherlock mutters, fingers steepled and touching his mouth. "John, you are brilliant! You are amazing! I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself!"

"Cheers. Wait. Why am I brilliant?"

"Mycroft and Molly. It's perfect!" Sherlock is throwing his coat on and tying his scarf on before John can get a word in edgewise.

"No!" John races after him. "Sherlock! Whatever you're thinking about doing, don't."

"Molly, I'm having a small get together tomorrow night. Will you come?" Sherlock's voice is unbelievably sweet and he's smiling at her with such emotion that John is worried she might weep for joy.

"A get together? Where?"

"Cesar's. It's a nice little Italian place not too far from here. Bit upscale, but you'll fit in fine. Say eight o'clock? Perfect. See you then."

He grabs John's arm and they're gone.

"You shouldn't be doing this, you know," John says reproachfully.

Sherlock stares at him. "Why not?"

"What woman wants to be pawned off on her crushes brother?"

"I…don't know. I don't like women. They're needy and annoying."

Hark who's talking, John thinks. He easily remembers the first few weeks of their own romance where Sherlock would go and sulk in his room if John so much as even looked at another man. "Will anyone besides Mycroft be there?"

"No. Why would there be?"

"Christ, Sherlock, you've got no tact," John hails a cab and tugs his thin jacket tighter around him. "If Mycroft is the only one there she'll know she's being set up. She'll get resentful and she'll probably leave. Not that we should be doing this in the first place, but if it's worth doing, it's at least worth doing right."

Sherlock opens the cab door and ushers John inside. "Who else should we invite then?"

"Lestrade. He's off with the Missus again so he'll probably enjoy the distraction. Mike, for sure. Mrs. Hudson and her granddaughter. Sally?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "No, then," John says. Apparently, forgiveness was a long time coming.

They're all gathered around a long table at Cesar's, Mycroft at one end of the table, Sherlock at the other. One seat directly to Mycroft's right has been strategically left open for the lovely, and at the moment very tardy, Miss Molly Hooper.

She arrives forty-five minutes late, windblown and flushed. "Sorry I'm late. Last minute case. The paperwork was dreadful!"

John smiles at her as he stands and gives her a light hug. "You look lovely," he says, because in her light grey party dress she really does. "You're just down there. Next to Mycroft."

"Oh. Lovely. Hello Sherlock."

Sherlock lifts his head from his phone for a moment. "Hm? Oh. Yes. Hello." His head goes back down.

John guides her to the other end of the table, stopping off to introduce her to Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter Mary, before depositing her next to Mycroft.

"Mycroft, you remember Molly?"

Mycroft sets his glass on wine down and rises to greet her. "Yes, of course. A pleasure to see you again, Miss Hooper," he kisses her hand lightly and her cheeks darken. "Please, do sit."

They all chat amiably throughout dinner; the wine flowing and laughter becoming a bit too loud. Mycroft and Sherlock bantered a bit, but John swiftly put an end to it – "No now, boys. We're having fun tonight." – and all was well once again.

"More wine?" Mycroft turns to Molly and smiles.

"Lord, no!" she returns his smile, eyes glittering. "If I have any more I might just wind up in my own morgue dead of alcohol poisoning!"

She giggles, her whole body shaking with mirth, and she places her hand on Mycroft's thigh to steady herself. He stiffens a bit.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock says from down the table.

"Oh, hush up," she says. "I'm having a lovely time with your brother and you're spoiling it!"

Perhaps it's done more than relax her, Mycroft thinks as his brother arches an eyebrow at him.

"Lovely?" Sherlock asks. "Mycroft's idea of a lovely time is a cup of tea and a book. It's quite dull."

"I love books," Molly says, adding a bit more wine to her cup. "Love is a book and a light to read by! And tea, of course. I like chamomile."

"Boring."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John hisses. He's by far the most sober person at the table, next to Mycroft.

Mycroft discreetly switches out Molly's wine for water with lemon. "What sort of books do you enjoy, Miss Hooper?"

"All books!" she says enthusiastically. "I love mystery books. And classics. Lady Chatterley's Lover is a favorite of mine. I adore how, where Tolstoy pushed his heroin towards death, D.H. Lawrence pushed his towards life."

Mycroft chuckles a bit. "My thoughts exactly," he says.

"Course, Mycroft was around when the book was written, so he's had lots of time to become familiar with it," Sherlock says.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Molly sips her water, looks at it, frowns, then sets it back down. "Older men are nice. They're stable, more mature, and they don't have to go out with the boys and get pissed to prove they're still a real man."

"That's very true, dear," Mrs. Hudson chimes in. "My Artie was twenty years my senior and he was just lovely."

"Murder, subsequent conviction, and execution aside, I assume?" Sherlock asks.

"Well no one's perfect. You should know that. Lord knows how John puts up with you," Lestrade comments.

Sherlock has the gall to look offended.

"Oh, but I need to get back," Mrs. Hudson says. "My old bones are wanting my bed. Come along Mary, dear."

Mary casts a longing look at John as they leave and Sherlock scowls at her. "Goodnight, Mrs. H," John says. "See you in the morning. Do you suppose we should be popping off too, then? I've got surgery in the morning and I know Molly has to work."

"I don't know why you persist in the infernal job, John. Jobs are so…"

"Boring? Yeah, well, the bills need to be paid. Besides, if Molly, Lestrade, and I didn't work, who'd you bribe into letting you into St. Bart's and on crime scenes?"

Molly giggles again. "No one and that's the point! He just likes being moody," she says, watching John and Sherlock stand and prepare to go. Lestrade rises next, stumbling over to pay his drink tab, leaving Mycroft and Molly alone.

"Shall I send for a cab, my dear?" he asks.

She laughs outright. "It's been a long time since anyone's called me that!"

His head tilts to the side and the corner of his mouth twitches down a bit. "Has it?"

Molly sobers up instantly. "You know it has," she says. "I might not be a sharp as you or Sherlock, but I'm not a fool either. I know you're smart. I know you're better than Sherlock at deducing people, so please do pretend not to know I'm single and have been for a while now."

He places his hand on top of hers. "I was not trying to deceive you," he says. "I have a bit more…tact…than my brother. Just because I can see something does not give me the right to comment on it, or to use it against you. I was not trying to insult your intelligence. Forgive me."

Molly bows her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It was the wine, no doubt," he waves a hand, dismissing the whole event. "Come, I'll call you a cab."

He helps Molly into her coat, noticing how lovely her legs were and how her hair smelt of mint and berries. They stand by the road together, watching the yellow cabs zoom by, the wind whipping around them. One finally slows and Molly steps towards it.

Mycroft places a hand on her arm.

She turns and looks at him, lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised.

"I was wondering if you would like to join me for dinner, Miss Hooper. Just the two of us?"

She radiates happiness. "I'd love that," she climbs into the cab. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He watches the cab drive away.

"Christ, Sherlock, you almost ruined the whole thing!"

"Did I?" Sherlock pulls back the covers on the bed and climbs in.

"You know you did, you bloody wanker!" John climbs in next to him and sits up straight against the headboard.

"I thought I was subtly letting them know they were compatible."

"Ok. Explain."

Sherlock smirks and scoots closer to him. "I pointed out their mutual love of books and tea, indicating that they share an interest in literature and quiet nights at home, rather than wild night out. That got them talking. Ice breaker, you might say."

"You made fun of his age!"

"I made her conscious of the fact he was older, yes, and she disregarded it. She extoled the virtues of older men to me, mad woman."

"Why would you do that, though?"

"She's thirty-two. He's forty-four. It's much better for her to think about it now and draw a conclusion instead of getting involved with him and backing out because people frown at the age gap. It would have hurt my brother deeply."

"So…you did that for Mycroft's sake?"

"Yes, John. Despite what you think I do care for him a little."

"That was brilliant," John wraps his arms around Sherlock and together they snuggle down under the blankets.

"Yes. It was."

Smug bastard.