Sustain
or
Concerto for the Famished in D Minor

Part Two

Ollie hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time she'd been Hollis, and she'd had a mum and a dad and a home. For a while, she had even had a dog.

That was a long time ago, though, long before her little problems grew up into big ones, and it seemed most days like all that happened to a different person in a different lifetime. Now, she spent her day, or a good part of it, waiting for a lucky break.

She knew she'd hit it when she saw Him coming round the corner. Him. Sherlock, with his long black coat and his long white face. Strange bloke. She'd done some work for him before - nothing fancy, mind, just keeping an eye out. Easy, and paid decent.

She mustered her best smile. "Spare change, love?"

He smiled, nodded once, and handed her two tightly folded notes. 50 quid each. Tucked inside, there was picture of a woman, and an address. In large blocky letters, it said:

THIS IS UNTOUCHABLE. SEE THAT IT REMAINS UNTOUCHED.

"Can do, Hollis?" Sherlock asked.

Simple enough, that. She'd get the word 'round. "Consider it done, love," she replied.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

In Sherlock's experience, sexual partners fit in a few distinct categories: those who behaved as though they were starring in a pornographic film, acting the entire time for an audience that wasn't there; those stunningly beautiful men and women who maintained they'd done their part simply by showing up; and professionals, for whom the entire event was simply another assignment, an exercise in expending no more effort than absolutely necessary.

Sex with Molly, surprisingly, hadn't fit into any of those categories.

She had impressed him by not caring if she impressed him in the slightest. He'd half-expected sex with Molly Hooper to be about as thrilling as a dish of day-old porridge. He was proved wrong to a degree he had seldom, if ever, enjoyed quite as much.

Molly had been enthusiastic, both about giving pleasure and receiving it, which Sherlock found was a pleasant, unexpected surprise. Sexual interaction was so often a tiresome, tedious hall of mirrors, mingled as it generally was with status and image and power and pretense. Molly, it had turned out, wasn't concerned with any of those things; she wasn't concerned about how she looked while riding him; she wasn't concerned with how she appeared with his penis in her sweet, wet mouth; she wasn't concerned with anything but sensation, both experiencing it and sharing it. While she was engaged in sex, she honestly wasn't thinking about anything but the sex. For a woman who seemed to second guess herself at every other turn in life, she was fearless and utterly unselfconscious in bed.

Or so it appeared, he reminded himself. 'One' was hardly an adequately large sample from which to draw any meaningful conclusions. And the only remedy for that was a larger sample. Repeated experimentation.

Put succinctly, more.

The way the encounter intruded in his thoughts continuously in the fifteen hours since the event, Sherlock assured himself, could be explained by the limbic system. "Strictly sexual," Sherlock told the skull. There was nothing more to his perseverating than that. Unless, perhaps, one counted the way the silence in his flat echoed like a bell, or how his habit of speaking aloud with no one and nothing but an archeological artefact to answer him, only made it seem worse.

This was ludicrous. Her skin could not possibly have been as soft as he recalled. Perhaps she wasn't, objectively speaking, as responsive as he seemed to remember, either. Memory was notoriously unreliable, after all, and it had been years since he had vaginal intercourse, much less touched a woman, beyond contact of his penis with the requisite lips, teeth, tongue, and inside of mouth. It was his imagination.

All he needed, no doubt, was a second experience with her to dispel these ridiculous notions.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The great benefit of living on your own was that you could chose to do what you wanted, when you wanted. Which is why and how Molly found herself frying Mars bars in the middle of the night.

It wasn't something she did often - she didn't need the calories, certainly, and it wasn't nearly as easy as it had been when she was younger and had round-the-clock access to a commercial fryer, but still, there were times when nothing else would do. And this, for whatever reason, was one of those times.

She was enjoying herself. She was waiting for the oil to heat and the Mars bars to thaw a little - too soft and they melted into a gooey, formless (but still, quite edible) lump, too hard and they cracked into a dozen or so pieces (again, perfectly edible, if a bit tricky to get out of the oil), listening to radio, singing along with a Beatles tune that had been one of her father's favourites.

She rarely played the radio, thanks to the couple directly below her, who had a penchant for alerting the landlord if she left anything on the landing, or stepped loudly in her own flat after 10 pm, or, it seemed, breathed too loudly. Still, she could hear it well enough to dance a bit as she mixed up the batter, and resolutely did not think about the day before.

Oh, all right, maybe she did think about the day before, just a bit. She wished she hadn't enjoyed it so. She wished Sherlock hadn't been so warm. Or so cold. She wished she had never done it at all and that she could do it again on a regular basis.

She opened the fridge, and decided to fry up every mini Mars bar in the packet, all twelve of them, in one go. It didn't mean she was going to eat them all, only that she had the option.

The first batch of three was draining on a plate and the second batch sizzling away in the fryer when there was a knock at the door.

"Yes, yes, I'll turn it down," she called out, not bothering to walk to the door. She hated everyone in the building in that moment, she truly did. She had no idea what the couple above her did for a living, but it obviously didn't require early mornings. Each and every night they woke her, either shagging or shouting, sometimes both in rapid succession, sometimes, she swore, simultaneously. She didn't mind other people having lives even if she barely had one; she just didn't particularly like having to listen to it day in and day out. Especially when the downstairs neighbor had the nerve to complain about her being noisy.

And then there was a second knock.

"I told you, I'll turn it down!" she shouted, utterly exasperated.

There was a pause and then a low voice called out, "It's Sherlock. May I come in?"

And Molly felt as though she was going to be ill. Or sprout wings. One or the other. Perhaps both.

Not sure what else to do, she opened the door, plate of fried goodies in hand.

"Mars bar?" she offered.

Sherlock, looking askance at the poor little things, lined up on the plate like a row of suspects, asked, "What day of the week is it?"

"For the next 37 minutes, it's Monday," she said.

"In that case, thank you," he said, and took all three. "Your clock's off, by the way," he said absently.

Then, with a terrifying wail, the fire alarm sounded. There was no fire, but her second batch were burned beyond recognition and flat was rapidly filling up with smoke. She had to open all the windows to keep from asphyxiating.

In ten minutes, all that remained was lingering smell of burnt sugar, chocolate, and grease, and Sherlock had eaten all the Mars bars he'd taken from her. Git.

"Was there, um, was there something you wanted?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he said, licking chocolate from the corner of his lip. It reminded her of the day before and she tensed involuntarily.

Molly caught her reflection in the window and mentally groaned. Shapeless polka blue dotted pajamas and a manky yellow dressing gown she'd had since uni, no make-up, her hair in a messy plait, fuzzy lime green slippers that clashed with everything else and that even she knew were ugly. A virtual fashion nightmare.

What did he want, anyway? Why was he at her flat this late at night? Had he changed his mind? Did he want his sperm back? She felt slightly unwell trying to imagine how he would even go about that. Trust Sherlock to find a way if anyone could, though.

Sherlock picked a book on waterborne pathogens off her tiny kitchen table. The place was a tip, she suddenly realized, and Sherlock, always so poised and polished, was probably a neat freak. He'd probably want his sperm back on general principles alone. She looked at the pile of dirty dishes in her sink and decided she probably couldn't blame him.

"It is statistically very unlikely conception will occur from a single act of coitus," he said, not looking up from the book.

At first, she thought he was actually reading from it. Then she realized that no, he really wasn't.

What was he saying? Did he -? Was he -? We're they - ? What?

"Excuse me?" she squeaked. "I - oh."

Sherlock closed the book with a resounding snap, then grinned his scary, thrilling grin at her. "Knew you'd get there eventually," he said, and gestured toward the sitting area. "Shall we?"

It turned out she hadn't misunderstood at all, not even a little. They did it right there on the floor. Twice. She was sure the neighbors must have heard; he groaned with great enthusiasm, and she growled his name at least once. Probably twice. Maybe a third time, too.

She spent the night on the floor where he left her, her hips propped up on a lumpy IKEA cushion, nascent rug-rash stinging her knees, too tired and confused to even contemplate pulling out her sofa-bed.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

An hour after leaving Molly's flat, he paid a whore too much for the freedom to touch her arms, abdomen, thighs, the small of her back, the skin behind her knees. It wouldn't have taken that long, but he had to wait until the girl, a fair skinned nineteen year old at his usual place, was available. She worked for a reputable agency, and he'd requested someone who was both clean and drug-free, and the manager knew better than to try to fool him.

She called herself Claudine, though God alone knew why, and she was conventionally pretty, he supposed. While it was obvious she thought him a freak, she also didn't care, which made her perfect for what he had in mind.

While almost a decade Molly's junior, Claudine's arms were rougher than Molly's, even at the wrists. Her thighs had subtle bumps from some sort of depilatory. Her belly was easily more muscular than Molly's but the skin covering it was not even close.

He wondered for a moment if her lips were rougher as well, but on consideration, it was a distasteful idea; kissing a whore smacked of some sort of desperation, even as an experiment. And he was not desperate.

He grazed the small of her back gently with callused tips of his fingers in the way that made Molly come just short of orgasm. All he got from the whore was a fish-eyed stare. Compared to Molly, she might as well have been a lorry driver. When he touched her, his penis didn't even twitch.

He took a cab back to Baker Street, the taste of Molly still on his lips. Without even pausing to consider, he knew he would return to her flat in less than twenty-four hours.

He needed more data, that was all. More data.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

That next night she went to bed early. Sherlock didn't even knock, or if he did, she didn't hear him. He let himself in, though how, she did not know. In any event, she woke up with him standing over her.

"May I?" he asked, his hand on the duvet.

"I - oh. Um." It was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she nodded, and flipped the duvet back inviting him in. She was an idiot.

In thirty seconds, maybe less, he was on top of her, his tongue straight down her throat, tearing at her clothes. Not just figuratively either; she could hear the sound of fabric ripping. It was ridiculous.

She loved the way he had of moaning into her mouth; she loved the way his body felt; she loved the way her body felt when he touched her. It seemed beyond belief that the only reason he was doing this was to give her a baby. What was he playing at? What was she playing at, for that matter, letting it go on and on?

Then he did something that involved his tongue and her left nipple and, oh God. That's exactly why she was letting it go on. He was good at this.

She was a terrible person for using him this way, wasn't she?

Or was he using her? She couldn't quite work it out, especially when he dove down under the covers to lick and suck at her like - Jesus Christ! - like that. He kissed her again and she could taste herself - sour and raw and primal - on his lips. This time he didn't smile at all, the only expression on his face was one of hunger.

"I've no intention of becoming your boyfriend," he whispered in her ear between kisses.

"G - good," she stuttered. It was probably the stupidest thing she'd ever said. She wondered if there would be a trophy.

"I'm not your boyfriend," he said, mouthing first one collarbone, then the other.

"No," she said, clutching him to her as her orgasm ripped through her. "You aren't. Never."

He looked into her eyes. His expression unreadable, unnerving. Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he kissed her, gnawing and nipping at her lips until they were bruised, sore. She was sore everywhere, and tingling, not because he'd been rough, but because he'd been thorough. Very, very through.

After, lying on her narrow fold-out bed, he took her hand in his, exactly as he had done before. If he had been a fighter, Molly's dad would have said Sherlock was telegraphing his punches. She knew exactly what was coming - he was about to turn from steamy hot to veins full of ice water. Again. Then he would put his big black coat over his trousers with the now missing button and be gone. Again. Until he felt like coming back. Again.

They couldn't continue on like this. It was mad. Her heart couldn't take it.

"That ought to do it, Sherlock," she said, firmly but kindly, talking to him the way she would to a dog or a small child. "I don't think you need to worry about coming back tomorrow. Or - or, at all."

Without a word, with barely a sound, Sherlock rose and redressed, his back turned to her. There was semen trickling down her thigh as she watched him go.

He didn't even bother to shut the door behind him.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was used to settling. She was used to disappointment. She was perfectly prepared for her period to come so she could come up with a new, possibly better, plan. Trying again with Sherlock seemed inherently dangerous in some way she didn't quite have the power to articulate. She'd had one chance with him, and now it was probably gone.

So she waited. And then she waited a bit more. She made a point not to think of what could be happening, or what was absolutely not happening, inside her body. She carried on every day as if she was not waiting for the best or worst news of her life.

All the while, Sherlock seemed to make himself scarcer and scarcer, until it had been two or three weeks since she'd seen him. Which wasn't bad really, because since they'd - done what they'd done - well, ever since that, he wasn't the same.

He didn't joke with her. He didn't tell her that her clothes, or hair, or make-up were all wrong and in desperate need of a change. He didn't speak to her if he passed her in the hall at Barts. He didn't come into the mortuary at all when she was there alone, and if one of the other attendants was there with her, he was in and out as fast as he could be with as few words exchanged as possible. And even then, he just glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then turned his head.

She hadn't realized how playful he was with her until he wasn't anymore. Either it was her fault for telling him she didn't need to have sex with him again, or it was her fault for having sex with him in the first place. She wasn't sure which, but clearly, it was her fault.

Then, it hardly seemed to matter, because he wasn't there at all. And even though she still hadn't had her period, it finally seemed safe to brace herself for disappointment and go to the doctor's.

They told her she was pregnant. A child was growing inside her. She was so surprised by her life going to plan for once that she had no idea what to do next. She supposed in the end the answer was the same for good shocks as it was for bad ones; put one foot in front of the other, shower, clean your teeth, go to work, do what life puts in front of you, and the rest will sort itself out.

It had always worked before; she had faith it would work again.

She couldn't be blamed if she lay in bed at night, her hands on her unchanged belly, thinking of Sherlock.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

D.I. Lestrade had long been of the firmly held conviction that firmly held convictions were the number one enemy of a successful police career. The stronger the belief, the stronger the likelihood you were going to start with piles, ulcer, and impotence, and wind up in hospital covered with wires, listening to the erratic sound of your own heartbeat on a machine. Despite his reservations, he was increasingly absolute in his belief that Sherlock-bloody-Holmes needed a fucking-24-hour minder. Or, make that, a new one.

He pulled his car into the space near 221B Baker Street and steeled himself for the coming storm.

"Sherlock?" he called, knocking twice before letting himself in with John's old key. John had handed it to him the night before he left on his honeymoon and told Lestrade to hang on to it, just in case. Lestrade wasn't exactly comfortable letting himself in, but it was more convenient than hoping this was the day Sherlock could be bothered to answer the damned door.

The front hall looked like a building site, lined with boards and paint cans and power tools of all descriptions. A fine layer of dust had settled everywhere. One pair of footprints led up the stairs, but none led down. The pain in the arse was in, then.

Sherlock was in his living room, pacing frantically, swirling up a cloud of dust. He was surrounded by stacks of printouts and photos, some of which Lestrade recognized, some of which he did not. The walls had been pulled into service too, and lurid crime scene shots clashed with the nasty wallpaper that struggled to peek out from beneath them. Green Man case, looked like.

"Sherlock?"

The arse-pain in question looked to be in the middle of some sort of vertical epileptic fit involving strange arm movements and heavy breathing. A moment later Lestrade realized Sherlock was only sneezing. Three times. In rapid succession. Enthusiastically.

"Sherlock!?"

"What? Oh. Lestrade." Sherlock tucked his handkerchief away and crossed to the wall display, running his finger over first one photo, then another, squinting. "Why are you here?"

"You're not answering your-" he began, but was cut off by another sneeze, this one even seeming to surprise the sneezer.

"- phone." Lestrade looked at him. Sherlock was flushed, glassy eyed, agitated. Which, really, pretty much described Sherlock on any given day. The sneezing was new, though. "You all right? Sick or something?"

Sherlock shot him a withering look, but the effect was ruined. "Bloody dust," he said, produced yet another handkerchief, and wiped his eyes "I've half a mind to prorate the rent until the renovation is completed." He sneezed twice more for punctuation.

"Maybe you should go -"

Sherlock, still pacing, gave a growl of frustration. He rubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it in wild disarray. "What am I missing? The facts are right there - right there! - so what is it I'm not seeing?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade moved into the path Sherlock was pacing. "Stop a second, yeah?"

Sherlock did so, but the look he gave Lestrade was lethal. "What?" he bit out.

"Why aren't you answering your texts?"

Sherlock waved dismissively, sniffed haughtily. It would be more effective, Lestrade thought, if Sherlock's nose wasn't actually running at the time. "Why should I? It's not as if I work for you."

And it's not as if you work 'with' me most of the damned time, either, Lestrade didn't say. "I've had three calls - actual calls, Sherlock - from John -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the name. "How very nice for you, Inspector -"

"He's concerned. You're practically surgically attached to your phone, so yeah, he's worried you might be dead or kidnapped or something since you can't be bothered to answer his texts or emails."

Sherlock sneezed into his handkerchief again. "Surely the good doctor has other things to occupy his time," he replied, his voice flat. "I don't see what concern it is of his, or yours for that matter."

No, Lestrade imagined he probably didn't. As smart as he was, as brilliant, Sherlock often had to have the obvious pointed out to him. Often the pointing out involved a large plank coming into contact with his hard head. "He's your friend?"

"Spare me," Sherlock snarled, but his contempt was tempered by yet another sneeze.

"Sherlock -"

"John Watson used to live here; now, he does not. I am in no way concerned with or for him, and I would thank him to pay me the same courtesy." Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down quickly. "Why are you acting as his errand boy, anyway? No criminals to fail to catch today?"

Not for the first time, Lestrade thought about hitting Sherlock, hitting him hard, very hard. If he actually believed the crap Sherlock was spouting, he just might. "Yeah, well, maybe I was concerned, too."

"Why?" he asked petulantly. "Am I not doing the work? Have I not solved your cases?"

"It's not always about the work."

"It's only about the work! The work is all that matters to me, Lestrade, all that ever has and all that ever will, so you can spare me your -" he sneered, "- concern."

Lestrade let out a long slow breath. Then another. "Look," he finally said, "we've known each other a while, you and me, and near as I can tell, John's the only friend you've got in the world."

Sherlock snorted.

"So now you're behaving like a six year old 'cause he didn't take you along on his honeymoon?" Lestrade said. "Grow the hell up."

With that, everything stopped. Sherlock, suddenly very still, blinked at him once, twice, said nothing. Lestrade waited for the venom, braced himself for the vitriol that accompanied one of Sherlock's tantrums.

It never came.

Instead, Sherlock set his jaw, walked around Lestrade, reached for his coat and scarf, left without even putting them on.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he called after the man's retreating form. "For chrissake, will you -" Lestrade's chin dropped to his chest as he heard the front door slam.

"That went well," he muttered. He could let himself out.

!~!~!~~!~!~!~!~!~

There was only one thing for it.

John would shout if he found out. When he found out, actually; Sherlock would be sure to tell him personally because he didn't want to miss the look on his face. It would be priceless. Surely, John would shout, then become quiet and understanding, then shout again. It would be like he was acting out some script on dealing with the relapsed drug addict. How expected. How cliched.

Molly, if she ever cared to find out - and he supposed it wouldn't be too difficult, someone was bound to mention it, someone who hated him and enough people did - would be horrified. Perhaps she might even weep. Not that it would mean anything to him, either way. Something in him quite wanted to see her tears, actually. Something in him likewise recoiled at that part of himself. Sherlock wished they'd both shut up.

There was only one cure for roiling of brain and belly, and it was derived from the leaves of the coca plant.

Sherlock took the first cab he saw, pulled out his phone, started texting. It took some doing, as all his old contacts were either too wary of him after his long absence and public connection to the police to be persuaded, or they were out of business, but eventually the protege of an old supplier was willing to meet him at a discreet location.

As always, the man with the drugs was late.

Sherlock sat on a bench intended for the elderly and infirm for some time, bristling with anticipation, awaiting that feeling, that glorious sensation, when the cocaine hits the bloodstream and the brain lights up like an explosion. For a brief, shining, nearly unquantifiable stretch, his brain would quit trying to tear itself apart from the inside and the whirring, insatiable, unnamable thing that ailed him would stop.

The trouble, of course, was that each time he got high, the shining moment was a hair's-breadth briefer than it had been the time before, waning a little each time, each time less brilliant, until finally there was no relief at all. None whatsoever. And all one was left with was the ache for more, like a bottomless chasm.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part, he now remembered, was how quickly the whole drug business became boring. That must be what a job felt like; showing up every day whether you wanted to or not, knowing everything you would do tomorrow was some variation on what you had done the day before, stretching before and behind into infinity and monotonous sameness. Sitting and waiting. Waiting and sitting.

And the other addicts were stupid, to a man. And woman. Possibly the only ones more stupid than the other addicts were the dealers. Stupid and smug and holding your antidote in the palm of their asinine, self-satisfied hand. Anderson missed his calling, if you asked Sherlock, but no one ever did unless there was a gun - metaphorical or otherwise - to their head.

And dear God, how he hated the hierarchy of the drug world; the etiquette was worse than tea with his paternal grandmother. Boooooring. Booooring. Booooooring. The very thought made him want to shoot something.

And then there was Mycroft. Speaking of things that needed shooting. He'd need an elephant gun to make so much as a dent in his brother's ego. How he hated him most of all when he was trying to be compassionate. Someone please spare him the pseudo-patriarchal pseudo-concern. He was like some nightmare of a headmaster, trying to convince you that his only motivation was concern. And there was no way, once he got going again, that he could hide it from Mycroft. Or anyone beyond the casual observer, for that matter. He knew that much from experience.

Uncomfortable and boring. The worst of both worlds.

And Mummy. He didn't want to think about her response. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her yet again.

He didn't personally care what Lestrade thought of what he did or didn't do, but the D.I. certainly had it in his power to make his investigations much more difficult. Lestrade would use the drugs against him if he possibly could. He would probably be the one to tell Molly. Warn her off him, as it were. It made him want to snarl.

None of that for him today, thank you.

He turned and walked away just as the dealer was coming into view.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~

In his entire life, he had never taken anyone - male or female - to bed who mattered to him in the slightest. It had been a sound practice, one he should never have given up. The more he walked, the more he thought perhaps the entire dilemma he was currently facing could be summed up in one word: Molly.

Not that he cared. He didn't, not really. He didn't care in the slightest that she hadn't contacted him, even though he had been actively avoiding her. Why should he?

She wasn't especially pretty. She wasn't especially bright. The sex was - good, but still, it was just that - sex.

Ah. Of course. What was needed was an inoculation against the insidious charms of Mary Magdalen Hooper. And he knew exactly what that was. Something she could never be. But what? Which specific jab would render him immune?

Something male, perhaps?

But no. The very thought left him bored and listless. There seemed something stultifyingly predictable about another male body at the moment. Too familiar. Too boring. Too wrong, at present.

Then it occurred to him: Molly would never be gorgeous. Or tall. Or convincingly blonde, for that matter. So, something - something opposite. Something rail-thin and statuesque and magazine-cover lovely. And very, very blonde.

Take that, Molly Hopper.

He punched up his place for that kind of thing on the phone. Hardly any different to ordering Chinese. Did he want to dine-in, take-away or would he prefer delivery? They hardly need ask; Sherlock hated dealing with clean-up. He was a habitual diner-in.

And his selection?

Something in fellatio, he should think; he'd found he disliked anything more involved or intimate now that he was out of uni and off drugs. He preferred being able to shut his eyes and pretend there was no other human being involved, mainly because anything more than simple release was self-indulgent and he had indulged himself far too much of late.

No, that wasn't quite right. He had indulged Molly, and it had brought him nothing but irritation.

F., v. tall, v. blonde, v.v. pretty - he texted with one hand, as he hailed a fresh cab with the other. His eyes were itching like the blazes again, and he could feel his sinuses throbbing with every heartbeat. Mrs. Hudson would regret her renovations.

The cab was stifling, and the building where the brothel was housed was freezing, though by the time he rode the lift to the twenty-third floor, it was hot again.

It went the way it was supposed to go: the proprietor greeted him, ran his credit card, took him to a thoroughly overdone room. There, a woman who looked like she'd just left a photo shoot for a toothpaste advert and was on her way to one for over-priced undergarments, was waiting. He examined her carefully. In her early to mid twenties, she was buxom - artificially so, of course - expensively blonde, improbably tanned, teeth-capped, with her lips, cheeks, and chin, all surgically enhanced if not actually improved. When she turned for him, he noticed that even her backside had been augmented, and that, he thought unexpectedly, must have hurt a great deal. Her height was, perhaps, the only honest thing about her. In her heels, she was just a shade taller than he.

Exactly as requested.

He was, however, completely unmoved by her. In fact, despite her unquestionable beauty, she was, possibly, the most horrid female he had seen in his life. And with his head pounding and his brain swirling and the stifling ambient temperature, no effort of will - on his part or hers - was going to change that perception. There was no way he was letting her anywhere near him.

He tipped her generously and left without so much as touching her.

And went straight to Barts. It was well past midnight, now. He could glower at his recalcitrant cultures in peace. He would be safe from Molly for hours.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had come to work exactly on time, fixed herself a cup of horrid decaf tea, and was about to check on some cultures she had going in the lab, when she saw him. He was hunched over a microscope, in his usual place, the place he'd been conspicuously absent from for almost seven weeks. His eyes flicked over her like a pass from an airport scanner wand.

"Oh," she said. She suppressed the urge to apologize - what did she have to apologize for, after all? - turned on her heel, and headed back to the relative safety of the mortuary. She could check on those cultures anoth-

"That was inconsiderate of you, not to mention ungrateful," his voice, lightly hoarse, boomed behind her. "Why didn't you let me know I'd been successful?"

Despite her best intentions, she spun around. "Excuse me?"

"I help you get what you wanted and now you treat me like yesterday's news," he said, primly clearing his throat.

"Ah. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm pregnant," she said. "Thank you for your, um, help."

He folded his arms across his chest and made that noise in his throat again, but said nothing. His eyes, however, spoke volumes. Many volumes, a whole encyclopedia's worth. If looks could kill, she'd be really impressively dead.

He wanted a fight, she realized. Why on Earth he wanted a fight, she couldn't imagine, but he wasn't going to get one, not in the middle of a hospital corridor, deserted or otherwise, and not from her. It was difficult enough, just standing there, having to talk to him with her heart racing and her mind churning. For God's sake, she could hardly look at him without imagining his naked body.

"What exactly do you want, Sherlock?"

"Some consideration," he replied, as if it was patently obvious that that was his due, and she was being nothing but difficult.

Molly exhaled with more force than she'd intended. She didn't reply because, what could she say? What exactly did she owe him? He'd taken her to bed on three separate occasions and given her perhaps a dozen orgasms. He'd badgered her into allowing him to father a child he wanted nothing to do with. What did he want from her?

He was scowling at her with a perfect pitchfork drawn in the crease between his eye brows.

Molly took a deep breath. "You've done your part. You've made it clear you aren't interested in the child or in me -"

"So what? Is that what this is about? Love?" Sherlock said 'love' the way other people said 'scabies.'

Molly blinked. Actually, she could not have been more surprised if he 'had' said 'scabies.' "What?"

"Do you know what romantic love is, Molly? It's the fraud human animals use to dress up some of their less attractive urges. It's the lie they use to gild the unappealing truth that they want to chain some lucky woman to a cooker so they can have a shag or a fry-up at their beck and call."

Molly was baffled. Sherlock always made sense, even if it was only the very strange Sherlock kind of sense. But just then, Sherlock was not making any sense at all. She shook her head, hoping to clear it, but it didn't help one bit.

Sherlock pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed exuberantly. "It's a pretty fiction. Lies built on deception built on deceit, and nothing more."

"I - what? Why -?" And then something occurred to her. "When I was seeing Stephen -"

"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes which somehow set off a coughing fit.

"No," Molly said, "No. When I was seeing Stephen, and come to that, Paul from accounting and Brian - every time I was seeing someone, you felt like you had to ruin it, didn't you?"

"Don't lay that at my doorstep," he said with another cough. "You would have rid yourself of them on your own, eventually. All I did was speed the process along. If you're going to blame anyone, blame Quick Eddie."

Molly suddenly felt as though her face was on fire. "You leave my father out of this - this - whatever this is, Sherlock."

"Thus illustrating my point," he said, grinning that horrid grin. "None of the mealy-mouthed specimens who came sniffing round here had a chance at measuring up to the man who brought you up single-handed. And the sacrifice, to go from being a moderately successful if moderately shady prize fighter to running a chip shop -"

She couldn't help herself. She hit him. With the flat of her palm, as hard as she could, across his stupid, smug face.

And Sherlock didn't block her. He didn't even try to block her. She'd seen him snatch falling beakers mere inches before impact without even looking. He had some of the quickest reflexes of anyone she'd ever known. And he not only let her slap him, but he looked completely stunned.

And then he looked pale. Even paler than usual. He seemed unable to muster a scowl or a sneer or any expression at all. He inhaled sharply, then coughed like he was trying to expel a lung.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, horrified. She moved forward, not sure if she was going to hug him or hit him again, in all honesty, but he pulled away from her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sor- "

"Oh please." He coughed again. "I've had - I've had more painful paper cuts." Sherlock - beautiful, stupid Sherlock - stood there, her hand print rising red on his cheek, coughing and sneezing and trying to drive her mad.

Molly sighed. It was futile. It was hopeless. She was a fool ten times over to have thought there was any way she could have had such a delicious cake and eaten it, too. Stupid, stupid Molly.

"Sherlock," she said, as kindly and evenly as she could, "I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to be yelled at. And frankly, I don't want to endure any more of this, this, rubbish. I need to know exactly what you want from me."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

Molly shrugged. "You know everything. It never occurred to me I'd need to tell you. I assumed you knew. I assumed that was why you were avoiding me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and shook his head. "No."

He looked so dear, and sad, standing there. The slap had done no damage, but she'd managed to hurt him, anyway. She felt awful. Gently, she reached up and pressed her hand against his cheek.

Good God, he was burning up.

"You've a fever," she said, moving her hand to his forehead.

"It's dust," he replied. "Allergic reaction."

"It's not dust," she said. "Allergies don't cause fever." She looked at him with a clinical eye. The skin around his eyes was dry and discolored. His eyes were literally fever-bright. "This is probably the flu half the staff seems to have gone down with."

He shrugged. "Perhaps."

Molly pinched his wrist. It took longer for the colour to come up than it should have done. "Sherlock, when is the last time you slept or ate? Have you had any fluids lately?"

"Don't know, Wednesday, I think," he said. He looked at her, glassy-eyed. "Can you do something for me?"

Molly didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"There's a sandwich in your locker, the one you brought yourself for lunch. May I have it?" he asked.

"I? How-? Never mind," she said. "You need fluids and paracetamol, and you need rest. Come back to mine and I'll see if we can't rehydrate you."

Sherlock frowned so exuberantly is was nearly a pout. "Your bed is awful, like you've stuffed the mattress with half-bricks and hand guns," he complained. "I want to sleep in my own bed."

"Then I'll take you to yours, then." She sent a quick text to her department head, telling him she was not at all well and that she would see him on Monday.

Sherlock swayed slightly from side to side. "There's nothing to eat at my flat," he said. "Unless you're a cannibal. You aren't, are you?"

"Not yet," she said. She took him gently by the arm and directed him toward the lift.

He coughed again. "I think I'm ill, Molly," he wheezed.

"I know you are," she answered. "And yet, I still seem to put up with you."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Why did Molly have to bring him home on the Tube? Was it some form of punishment? Was he not suffering enough? Sherlock's head was churning with each lurch of the train, swimming. Or, or drowning was more the thing. The last time he felt this wretched, John had had to force a lungful of the Thames out of his chest.

In desperation, he shut his eyes and laid his head on Molly's shoulder. It was tiny and bony and utterly useless as a pillow. Could she do nothing right?

"Here," she said, and guided his head toward her lap. That was better, or, at least, no worse. He should have been annoyed by Molly's fingers toying with his hair, but he couldn't muster the energy. And it was not unpleasant. His only real complaint was that he would like a bit more. She needn't be so stingy with her touch. He curled up tighter to get more of himself on her lap.

He did not want to be her boyfriend. And he did not want her to be his girlfriend. But that didn't preclude her taking on certain functions normally assigned to a girlfriend. For instance, it was nice to have someone look after him when he felt as though he were going to die.

It was also very easy to get food from Molly, much easier than it had been with John, because Sherlock didn't have to ask first and listen to the put-upon sighing and the lecture about something-or-other before the food appeared. Molly fried things. She made him sandwiches. She made terrible coffee, but, she was a clever girl and she could learn. She'd probably be willing to make toast. When one was sick, there was porridge with brown sugar and toast and weak tea. There was a rule or ordinance or something.

Right before his mind began to wander again, it occurred to him he hadn't even begun to explore the number of things Molly Hooper could do for him.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had overcome Sherlock's urge to wander in his semi-addled state, coupled with intermittent knee-buckling and dizziness, and herded him to the Tube. He had his head on her shoulder and then in her lap most of the trip, but it was purely out of necessity. She felt as if she were being half-smothered by a tall, miserable furnace.

Sherlock's part of Baker Street was clean, quiet, and seemed free from all the homeless that had recently started migrating into her neighbourhood. His flat was in a well-kept white brick Victorian above a sandwich shop. The hallway was practically an obstacle course of construction materials, but when she opened the door to his flat, what she saw was a palace.

It was huge. It had big, bright windows. It had more than one room.

It also had quite a few gruesome crime scene photos pinned to the walls, but that was to be expected; Sherlock lived there, after all.

Sherlock lurched to the sofa and collapsed into a fit of long, wet coughing. His condition had deteriorated rapidly. His eyes were glassy and so bloodshot now that they looked like they were on fire. She couldn't be certain by touch alone, but it seemed as if his fever had risen, too.

"Paracetamol?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"No, Sherlock, I meant, do you have some here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Dunno. That was John's purview . Cupboard, perhaps. Or in the slippers under my bed."

"Why would -? Oh, never mind. Your fever has to come down," she said, feeling his pulse.

Sherlock looked at her through one slitted eye. "You're a pathologist," he said sniffling.

"I'm aware of that," she answered. "I think maybe we should get you into a lukewarm bath first."

"Say please," he said. "And keep firmly in mind I am not, nor do I wish to be, your boyfriend." The declaration was followed by a rattling cough.

"This conversation is getting old, Sherlock," she said. "Can you sit up?"

"Of course I can." He coughed violently. "I'd just rather not."

"Doctor's orders," she said. "The bath will cool you. I don't think you want to have a seizure."

"You have no idea what I want," he mumbled into the cushion beneath his head.

Molly couldn't argue with that. She genuinely had no idea, and doubted he did. "You're right. I don't believe brain damage is high on your list, though." He looked awful, and consequently, she felt awful. That made no sense, even to her, but there it was. "Please Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine." He rose imperiously, staggered a few feet, and swayed like a birch in a gale. "Um, Molly," he said.

"It's okay, I'm here." She looped his arm around her shoulders. "Do you have a stethoscope?" She'd suspected pneumonia by the listen she'd taken at Barts, but she wasn't used to live people with solvable health problems, and he hadn't exactly co-operated.

"Kitchen, possibly," he choked out between coughs.

"Of course; where else?"

"John was listening to the walls."

"Was he?" she asked the same way she would ask a two year old to explain a fairy story.

"Don't patronize me, Dr. Hooper," Sherlock said, a fresh wave of irritation in his voice. "He thought we had mice, so he was listening to the walls."

"Silly me. Bath tub?"

Sherlock gestured with his chin and she helped him stagger down the hall.

His kitchen was almost larger than her entire flat. And a complete tip, filled mostly with hazardous waste and lab equipment. Though it took some doing, she found two stethoscopes; one in the knife drawer, missing its ear pieces, and the other, missing the diaphragm on the chest piece, under the kitchen sink. She cannibalized them to create one functioning unit.

She returned to find Sherlock still sitting fully dressed on the closed toilet, exactly as she'd left him.

"I'm going to open your shirt so I can hear what's going on in there," she said too brightly, fumbling with the buttons. This reminded her of her brief, horrible pediatric rotation. Thankfully, Sherlock hadn't decided to make life too difficult. But with Sherlock, it was always a possibility.

He was trying to work the rest of his buttons from the bottom up but having little success. "I seem to be in need of some assistance," he said, interrupting the awful sound of something thick and wet sloshing about inside his lungs with every breath. She might not have treated a live person in years, but she could still recognize pneumonia.

"With?" she asked.

"My clothes."

Ah. Well, that was reasonable, considering what a mess he was. Still she wasn't entirely comfortable with the notion. She reminded herself of Hippocrates and nodded bravely.

"Right. One second. Let me -" Molly started the water.

Watching him try to help her, it was evident he was as weak as a kitten, and she felt a little guilty for being anxious at all. Shoes, socks, trousers, pants, and shirt fell to the tile floor. He was too feverish and ill to look even slightly sexy, which was both a relief and a worry.

He made a pained noise the moment he stepped into the water. "That is not lukewarm!" he railed. "That is ice cold! You are trying to kill me!"

"Don't be such a baby," she scolded. Taking a flannel from the airing cupboard, she soaked it and squeezed the water onto his back and shoulders. He hissed in discomfort and began to shiver. She added a bit more warm water to the mix and ran the cloth over his chest and neck. "How's that?"

"Miserable," he said, leaning into her touch. "Awful."

"You really aren't well, are you?"

"I don't like this," he groused. "I am never sick."

"Apparently, that's not true." She wiped his forehead with the flannel and was distracted to see his hair instantly spring into a mass of curls. His hair was nice. She wondered if her-

She was brought back to attention by Sherlock's right hand on her left breast.

"What're you doing, Sherlock?" she said trying not to squeak.

"Manipulating you?" he said, then paused as if searching for a word. "From the Latin, manipulus, meaning handful. That was meant to be a joke." He squeezed once. "Not good?"

She moved his hand away. "Not especially good, no."

Sherlock sighed. "John usually tells me when I'm getting these things wrong. Or, rather, he used to tell me. I wish he were here now. Well, no, I don't. That would be bloody uncomfortable, as John's straight as a die and he would probably throttle me if I grabbed him by the breast, even as a joke."

Molly decided to ignore whatever it was Sherlock was going on about. She applied gentle pressure to his shoulder, noted he was still too warm. "Can you turn a bit this way?"

He complied. "Am I doing this wrong? If I am, you are going to have to tell me. I'm not a mind-reader. You're going to have to tell me when I'm getting it wrong or we'll never come to an agreement."

She ran the flannel over his back and across his nape. "What sort of agreement is that?" she asked.

"One in which I am not your boyfriend," he said definitively.

She shook her head, wondering why he kept harping on this particular topic. "You are not my boyfriend," she said. "I am not your girlfriend. Can we leave it at that?"

"That doesn't mean -" He stopped. "Whenever I'm not working on a case, you could - visit. Or perhaps, I could visit you?"

Molly paused. "Why?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "To watch telly?"

That - that didn't sound right. "You enjoy watching telly, do you?"

"I despise watching telly," he said. "It's a euphemism."

"Yes, I thought it might be." She dipped the cloth into the tub again and wrung it with extra zeal. 'You're ill, Sherlock, this is the fever talking."

"And you're blushing, so you're considering it, at least," He bent his knees suddenly and slid silently beneath the water.

She waited for him to re-emerge. He did so, coughing furiously. "Bad idea, that."

"You won't even remember this conversation when you've had a good night's sleep."

"Want to wager?" he asked her, no trace of a smile on his face.

Molly sighed. "Stop it. I don't like being manipulated, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand rose slowly, deliberately from the water, moving inexorably toward her breast.

She slapped his wrist lightly. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."

He grinned slightly, then his expression turned serious. "People manipulate each other almost constantly," he said. "A child wants a sweet, so he says his 'pleases' and 'thank-yous .' A husband wants absolution, so his wife receives a lovely diamond bracelet. A politician wants power and privilege, so he lies and lies and lies." His eyes narrowed. "You want me to father your child, so you tell me over and over that I may not."

"That's not exactly what happened," she countered.

"That is exactly what happened. You know how I love a challenge," he replied. "Or you want someone to make tea and go to the shops and tell you you're amazing, so you stupidly take a flatmate you neither need nor really want. And then he bloody shoots someone to save your life the day after you meet, and you decide that's a valuable service, more valuable, perhaps, than the tea and the shopping combined, so you only ask him to pay a fifth of the rent because you know that's all he can afford. Then he decides he wants you to hate him until the end of time, so he marries a perfectly dull little doctor and buggers off to Africa."

"I don't think that's why John married Sarah," Molly answered.

"Same outcome," Sherlock assured her. "People complain about me manipulating them, but that's not really the problem, is it? The problem is that I sometimes forget to manipulate them, that I forget the 'pleases' and 'thank yous' and the lies, lies, lies that everyone expects. And then, when I do remember them, I'm sneered at and told my behaviour is vile."

"Sherlo -"

"Look, I do better when I have someone around. Someone to talk to and argue with and to tell me what I am doing wrong and remind me not to be quite so constantly horrible. I had a skull for company, but Mrs. Hudson keeps hiding it. Then I had John and -" he growled in frustration, "Oh hell, forget I said any of this." He bounced the back of his head against the hard rim of the old tub.

"Hey! Don't do that!" she said, putting her hand between his head and the cast iron bath. "Stop it. You'll concuss yourself."

"Oh, don't be such a girl, Molly."

"I'm not being a girl, I'm being a doctor."

"A girl doctor, then," he said "John Watson would let me bash my brains out if I took a mind to."

"You miss him a lot." It wasn't a question.

"Not when I aim carefully," Sherlock replied. "And yes, that, too, was a joke. John would have liked that one. He likes jokes with shooting. Really, he just likes shooting." He sobered. "John didn't think I was vile. Usually."

"Budge up," she said.

"I'm fairly certain my breath is terrible at the moment or I'd kiss you. Then you'd be certain I was vile."

"You're not vile." She reached in and pulled the plug from the drain. "Not entirely so. Let's see if we can get you into bed."

"You remind me of Evie, you know," he said as he climbed unsteadily out of the tub. Even with a towel wrapped around him, he was shivering, and his body was covered in gooseflesh. "She liked me even when I was unspeakably vile. And I was. Often."

She wrapped a second towel around him, rubbed his upper arms trying to warm him. "Who is Evie?"

Sherlock gave her a puzzled frown, then coughed. "Will you make toast?"

Molly nodded. "Yes, of course." She wondered who this Evie might be. Some minor saint, if what he said was true.

She tucked him under the duvet, and refused to be jealous of the simple mention of a name. It wasn't as if Molly was his girlfriend.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

For the next twenty-four hours or so, Sherlock was miserable and confused and inhabited that fitful realm between sleep and delirium. Molly dosed him with antibiotics and expectorants and rehydration drinks that tasted bad and left a gritty residue and turned his tongue ridiculous colours that made Molly grin when he stuck out his tongue, awaiting her thermometer.

After that, there was weak tea and porridge and toast in bed. And Molly came each time he called, finally leaving the bedroom door wide and confining herself to the kitchen, so he wouldn't lose track of her and feel the need to call out again. It was pleasantly like being small, like having a nanny again, like having Evie back.

And then he slept.

He wasn't sure when he had last slept so deeply or for such a long time. When he finally came to and stumbled groggily toward the shower, the first sight that met him was Molly, asleep on his sofa, her head under her arm much the way a sleeping bird will block the light with one wing. She looked tired and drawn. He hoped she -

He hoped nothing, he told himself. Stop it.

Unsure what he should do, he laid his dressing gown over her in place of a blanket, and took a very long, very hot shower.

By the time he emerged somewhat more hygienically acceptable, she was gone.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock was uncertain but he had the feeling, itching like an uncomfortable shirt, that there was something he ought to say to Molly. Unfortunately he had no idea what that was. Thank you, obviously, because that was the done thing, but beyond that -

He knew there was something.

Later in the evening, feeling more like a human, but not quite like himself, sprawled on the sofa, reading, he stumbled onto a strange bit of information. Well, that was interesting. Like a dawning light, it occurred to him Molly would find it interesting, as well.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was 3 a.m. when Molly's phone twittered like a bird. What made her think that was a pleasant ring tone, again? She nearly knocked it off her nightstand trying to get it.

It was a text.

From Sherlock.

A text from Sherlock. In the middle of the night. He must have had a relapse.

Molly snapped awake and read the message.

IN THE LYMANTRIA DISPAR MOTH, THE MALE OF THE SPECIES IS ABLE TO SMELL AN UNBRED FEMALE FROM A DISTANCE UP TO 12.8 KM AWAY. APPARENTLY THIS ABILITY GRANTED THEM FROM SOME EVOLUTIONARY ADVANTAGE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SOME VARIETIES OF THE SPECIES ARE FLIGHTLESS.

-SH

Molly blinked at the screen, then blinked again. Either he'd sent it to the wrong phone, or he'd lost his mind. Whichever it was, Molly had no idea what it was supposed to mean or what she was supposed to do about it, so she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When Sherlock was five years old and Mycroft was home for the summer, exercising the prerogative of every older brother, Mycroft spent his time tormenting his much younger, much more highly-strung brother as much as he could. It reached the point where any other small boy might have been moved to tears of frustration. But Sherlock, ingenious even then, found his retribution right at hand. The cheeky little twerp peed on Mycroft in front of a house full of people.

It had been the thirty-five year old Sherlock's equivalent to bring some little bit of stuff he had picked up in his travels and cavort like a rutting hyena in Mycroft's own bed. Stuffing her knickers in the biscuit tin was a bit 'de trop', though. It was more like the sort of behaviour Mycroft had witnessed when Sherlock was at uni and having sexual congress with anyone, male or female, student, faculty or scout, who expressed a faint interest.

In a way, it had gone full circle. A strange and lonely boy, Sherlock had always been alienated from his peers, and yet Mycroft was fairly certain he longed for some degree of acceptance. At uni, he seemed to find some measure of pride in initiating sexual congress with all his prettiest classmates, regardless of gender or mental capacity, more as evidence of his ability to pull than anything else. Still, it kept him occupied for a time.

After that came the drugs. It was a terrible period for all of them.

Sometimes Mycroft wasn't sure if his brother's 'consulting detective' phase, with its death-defying danger seeking, wasn't the worst of all.

He had expected some sort of acting out on Sherlock's part on the heels of John Watson's marriage; truly, they all had. Mycroft had been on metaphorical pins and needles since John's engagement was announced, waiting to see what form his brother's outrage would take. The knickers-in-the-biscuit-tin business was something of a let-down considering all it might have been.

Sherlock hadn't shown up for Christmas dinner coked out of his mind in years, and he was no longer violating pieces of cored fruit in the dining hall, so what did Mycroft have to be concerned about?

As it turned out, quite a bit.

Sherlock had, quite recently, done something far more unnerving; he'd gone to see his solicitor. In that tiny bulldog of a woman's office, Sherlock had made preparations for, of all things, a child.

For years, he had been trying, but Sherlock had finally succeeded in utterly shocking his elder brother. Mycroft was hard pressed to imagine any pursuit his brother was less suited for than parenting.

It went without saying this potential child was no accident. Sherlock made mistakes, yes, but he did not have accidents. As far as Mycroft was aware - and Mycroft was aware of quite a bit, thank you - Sherlock hadn't had sex with a woman who wasn't paid for her services since uni. Depending on whom you asked, Sherlock either couldn't be bothered with relationships, or lacked the capacity to maintain one. Mycroft fell into the former camp on most days, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, on all of them

Sherlock wasn't exactly discriminating, but no one could say he wasn't careful. Mycroft was certain, if there was a child coming, it was because Sherlock had planned it that way.

But what on Earth for? In a lifetime of terrible decisions, this looked to be the worst Sherlock had ever managed.

The knickers in his biscuit tin were clearly those of the poor unfortunate woman he had used for the purpose, but who was she? How did it all fit together?

It took some leg work, not on his part, of course, but they found an interesting candidate for the coveted title of Ms. Biscuit Knickers. It appeared a doctor in Barts mortuary had been looking into artificial insemination, then cancelled her appointment at the fertility clinic, though she had made two visits thus far to her obstetrician.

This same female doctor had been observed entering 221B Baker St last Friday morning and not leaving until late Sunday afternoon.

A careful review of camera footage revealed Sherlock had made two nocturnal visits to the doctor's building in the days following his fouling of Mycroft's nest, and since then, had made several late night visits to stand across the street and ponder her building. Or perhaps to admire the architecture; with Sherlock, one could never be entirely sure.

Surely he hadn't had his head turned by a pretty face? Not Sherlock.

Perhaps it was a matter of personality, but Mycroft doubted it. Would Sherlock even be able to identify a personality if he came across one? Chemical components, yes, complex calculations, without a doubt. But charm, allure, charisma - these tended to sail past him the way crows fly over a wheat field.

There was only one thing for it; speak to the woman, explain what a terrible idea she had been sucked into, offer a substantial amount of money to ease her way into a solution, medical or otherwise.

When Anthea ushered a tiny grey sparrow of a woman into the busy cafe, Mycroft's first thought was that his brother was playing a very strange game. She had to be one of the least memorable women in central London. Utterly plain. Mycroft had taken it as granted that the woman his younger brother chose for himself would be beautiful, but this woman was - not.

His second thought was that she was no John Watson; she was frightened out of her tiny little brain.

He rose reflexively "Dr. Hooper?" he said, taking her hand gently. "My name is Mycroft. Please, won't you join me?"

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Mycroft." she said nervously.

"No," he explained enunciating carefully, "Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's elder brother."

That did something interesting to the little doctor. She flushed at the mention of his name and made a little wringing motion with the edge of her blouse. "Ah, I see. I was told Mr. Holmes wanted to speak with me, and naturally I thought Sherlock was being - peculiar. He's - I mean, he can be, can't he?"

"He most certainly can," Mycroft replied. "Please, Dr. Hooper, don't be afraid. I'm here, for you, really. I'm here to help you." He was as reassuring as he had it in him to be.

"I don't understand what's going on here, Mr. Holmes," she said.

How peculiar. The more he studied her, the greater was his impression that she had no artifice to her whatsoever. Most people, in an awkward situation, will try any number of techniques for seizing control, or, at least, protecting themselves. Dr. Mary Magdalen Hooper did not attempt a single one of them.

Why did she strike him so strangely, this little person he could have passed on the street a thousand times and never noticed? She was like a piece of landscaping, an extra, a bit player in her own life. So what was it about her that was sticking in his mind like a thorn? What was she?

This had the potential to be far worse than he had imagined.

Then he recalled something. Anthea had reported, that Moriarty, prior to his spectacular end, had toyed with Dr. Hooper's affections as a slight to Sherlock. Mycroft had dismissed the information immediately as highly suspect, but he could see now something different, something that would appeal specifically to his brother, hovering about Dr. Hooper like miasma. Was it just that she was a good, honest person?

Oh, this was very bad.

"Dr. Hooper, I believe you to be a person of singularly pure motivation. As such, it would be difficult to appeal to your baser nature, so I am forced to be direct. What will it take to induce you to end this?"

"This?" Dr Hooper asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"All of it, Dr Hooper. Your dalliance with my brother- " He would have gone on but she interrupted him.

"There's no dalliance," she insisted. "I'm not, um, we aren't -"

Oh, so she could lie. That was reassuring.

"Really? Oh, I am so sorry," Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket. "It must be some other woman's underthings my brother left in my biscuit tin, then."

They were the new, white, Marks & Spencer cotton bikinis, worn only once, and it was as plain as day she had bought them specifically for the encounter. Mycroft set them out neatly beside the salt and pepper.

"Ah. So that was your flat," she said, blushing furiously.

"Quite."

Dr. Hooper shut her eyes tight, but confessed easily. "Yes, those are mine. But you've misunderstood, Mr. Holmes. I wanted to have a baby, and Sherlock, um, volunteered. That's all there is to it. We're, uh, friends."

"My brother doesn't have friends."

Dr. Hooper's frowned. "Yes he does. I'm his friend."

"Just his friend?" Mycroft asked. "Is my brother aware of that?"

"Yes, quite aware." Dr. Hooper nodded, but there was something in her expression - regret? Or no, perhaps that was guilt; Mycroft did not know her well enough to say for sure, but certainly is was one of the two. Interesting.

She wasn't lying in this, at least. She genuinely believed that there was no affair, no dalliance, no relationship between Sherlock and herself beyond a friendly one. But clearly, too, she was wrong.

"Have you any idea what you've got yourself involved in?" Mycroft said. "If you're wise, you'll start this - project - over again, with someone else."

"This project?" She hadn't like the way he'd phrased that one bit, but there it was.

"Your effort to have a child, Dr Hooper."

Dr Hooper's eyes narrowed. "How - how is this any of - of your concern, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am trying to explain, in as gentle a way as I have at my command, that there is no way this can end well for any of the parties involved. It would be best to nip this venture in the bud. Medically, if necessary."

She gaped at him like an idiot. "Excuse me?"

He took a sip of his tea. "I am, needless to say, willing to offer considerable compensation for any inconvenience."

Dr. Hooper stared at him, opened mouthed, a few moments longer. Good, he was getting through to her.

"This is the most - most - horrible thing I've heard in my life. You claim he's your brother -"

"Oh, I assure you, he is," Mycroft answered. "Ask me anything. I know Sherlock Holmes better than any man alive."

She narrowed her eyes. "Who is Evie, then?"

"Evie? How should I know?" Mycroft said. "Historically, my brother treats his sexual partners with the same concern he shows for his loo roll. Would you like to know about his criminal record? I can tell you anything you'd like about that."

"His criminal record?" she asked. "Are you serious?"

"Quite," he replied. "My brother has multiple arrests, mainly for possession of Class A drugs, but, being a doctor, I am sure you realize this is what one expects with an addict. Most of the breaking and entering charges were eventually dropped, as were most of the assault charges. Not all of them, though."

Dr. Hooper said nothing, which Mycroft took as his cue to continue.

"To be fair to him, though, he was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder when he was nine years old. In your association with him, you've probably noticed he's a bit, how shall I say? Off? He prefers to style himself a sociopath, of course, but none of that makes him 'Father of the Year' material, wouldn't you agree?"

The waitress appeared with their tea, then. Dr. Hooper's hand was shaking as she poured sugar into her cup and stirred longer than was necessary.

"And have you noticed more homeless lately? Near your flat, on the route to work, where you shop? It's not your imagination. My brother has a network of paid informants throughout London. Through them, he is watching your every move."

She blinked. "Sherlock barely knows I'm alive most of the time. If I am not standing directly in front of him, I'm not sure he remembers I exist. Why would he be watching me?"

"I can't say, Dr. Hooper. I can only tell you that he is. In this entire matter, I find his motivations - opaque. Whatever feelings my brother has, he does not have the means of expressing them appropriately. Would it surprise you to learn you're the first amateur he has had a sexual encounter with since leaving university? You must realize that if you do continue to carry his child, his fixation will only grow." Mycroft put a third sugar in his tea. His dentist would never let him hear the end of it.

"Mr. Holmes -" Dr. Hooper began.

Mycroft cut her off. "Speak of the devil," he said. Mycroft was strangely reassured to see Sherlock race through the door in high lather.

"Molly!" Sherlock ordered from the door of the cafe, like the spoiled child he was. "Don't listen to a word he has to say. Every syllable is a lie."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

"So, he's not your brother?" Molly asked. Her brain was absolutely reeling.

"All right, not every syllable," Sherlock conceded, fuming. He pulled out a chair and all but threw himself into it. He turned to Mycroft. "What right have you to interfere?"

"As always, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in the even, modulated tone he'd used throughout, "I am concerned about you."

"Oh, spare me your bloody concern, Mycroft," Sherlock replied. "My personal life is, and should remain, eternally, of no concern to you. I can manage Molly quite well on my own."

Molly didn't like the sound of that. "Manage me?" she squeaked.

"Like you managed her knickers?" Mycroft gestured toward them with his cup.

Sherlock's smile was feral. "Ah, yes. Thanks for the use of your flat."

"Wait, wait," Molly tried to interrupt, "manage me? What do you mean-"

"By the way," Mycroft continued, "which among the many conquests of your misspent youth was Evie?"

"Evie? Why in God's name are we discussing Evie?"

"Dr. Hooper said you'd mentioned the name, presumably in the throes of, um, well, is passion the right term?"

"Wait, I didn't say -" Molly said.

Sherlock growled. Molly couldn't believe it, but he actually growled. It was shocking. "I am an adult, Mycroft," he bit out.

"And are you planning to behave like one any time in the near future?"

"What? Shall I follow your shining example, brother dear? Always interfering, always sticking your bloody great nose in where is doesn't belong? 'Bored today - where shall I start a war, tra la la!' Please."

"No, of course not. I think you should go on playing detective and living off your trust fund for the rest of your days. Gainful employment is beneath you, after all. Mummy must be so proud."

"But -" Molly kept trying, but she couldn't get a word in edgewise. Sherlock was snarling now, and his brother had moved from on smirking to outright sneering. The two of them were trading barbs so rapidly she could barely follow, let alone interject.

She could hardly believe the words that were coming out of Sherlock's mouth. She could hardly believe the way he was leaning over the table like an animal ready to pounce.

She could hardly believe two men their age still referred to their mother as 'Mummy.'

She wanted to shout at them, say something pithy and cutting and walk away with her head held high like a character in a film. That would show them both.

"Enough." She rose.

Sherlock turned on her. "Sit," he commanded.

"I -"

Sherlock reached out and pressed on her shoulder with surprising force, dropping her back into the chair. "I. Said. Sit."

Mycroft wiped the corners of his mouth, not really trying to camouflage an 'I told you so' twitch of the lips. Sherlock glared at her as if he could nail her to her seat by sheer force of will.

Molly rose again. "No." She dug through her purse and tossed two pound coins down beside Sherlock's flexed fingers. "That's for my tea."

It took every drop of self-possession she could marshal to keep from running through the door.

"Look what you've done!" she heard Sherlock spit out as the door closed behind her.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

She managed to get all the way to the corner before her phone started vibrating in her pocket. She didn't need to look to know it was a text from Sherlock. Molly kept walking.

She didn't get too much further before she recognized the gait behind her. He didn't say anything to identify himself, just kept pace with her, practically breathing down her neck. The bastard.

"Molly," he finally said, as she turned the corner. "Molly, wait."

She surprised herself. "Fuck off," she said in a voice so bitter and venomous, she almost didn't recognize it as her own.

"What did he tell you?" Sherlock demanded. "Why do you believe him? You don't even know him. You know me!"

That did it. She turned so quickly that Sherlock actually ran into her. "I know you? I KNOW you, do I? What do I know about you, exactly?"

"What did he tell you?"

"That you're a drug addict? That you have a long history of arrests? That you'll shag anything that doesn't get up and run away? That you regularly pay for sex?" she said. "Any of that sound like information I had?"

"Why would you need to know any of that?" he asked, sounding genuinely astonished.

Molly blinked at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, of course I am. What business is any of that of yours?"

"Sherlock, I had unprotected sex with you. Repeatedly."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I was there, I do recall."

"I asked you about drug use. I asked you about your STI status. I asked you about your general health."

"You did, yes."

Exasperation was about to overwhelm her. "You led me to believe there was nothing for me to be concerned about."

"Oh. Oh! I see," he said. "Oh. Right. Drug use, strictly past-tense. I've been clean five years, I don't even really drink any more, it slows me down. I've quit smoking, too," he said. "No STIs. Except for a recent bout of pneumonia you know all about, my general health is fine. Why are you upset about this?"

"You might have told me, Sherlock. When I asked a direct question, you might have given me a direct answer."

He frowned. "To what end?"

"What do you mean, to what end?" Molly said, boiling over with frustration. "I was consenting to have unprotected sex with you. I should have been told if there was any risk involved."

"And had there been, I would have told you," he said. "I do know the difference between right and wrong, you know. I don't commit murder. I don't steal. I don't poison cats, and I don't blow up buildings full of people for the hell of it, like, oh, who would fit that description? Did you ask him about his sexual history? His use of drugs? Did you, Molly? And what pretty lies did he tell you?"

Molly was nearly physically thrown back by the malice in his words. "Sherlock -"

"I gave you no false information," he said. "I did not lie to you. I did nothing that would put you or your potential child in danger."

"And the psychiatric diagnoses?"

"Ah. That. Another reason to love my dear brother." Sherlock actually seemed to deflate, which was unnerving. "Fine. Seven different opinions from seven different doctors over the course of approximately three and a half years. The gist of all of them being that Sherlock is not quite right, which will not be news to you. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Mycroft said autism spectrum disorder."

"So did six of those seven doctors."

She nodded. "And the seventh?"

"Settled on high-functioning sociopath, which I prefer."

"You prefer to be considered a sociopath? Why?"

Sherlock leaned in very close. "Because no one holds fundraisers for sociopaths, Molly. There are no fun-runs or telethons. There are no special sociopath schools."

"But -"

"If I were simply autistic, my life's work would be reduced in the minds of most to a parlor trick, a freak ability, rather than an innovative problem-solving methodology. Which, I might add, it is," he said. There it was, his pride, shining through.

"And what's the truth?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Something is - not right - with me. I am not quite like other people. I can, as they say, 'fake it,' when necessary, but it often takes a great deal of effort and concentration. And often, if I am very busy on another problem, or distracted, I forget."

"Oh," she said. "I see."

"Don't," he snapped.

She hadn't done anything. "Don't what?"

"Don't pity me. I don't need your pity. I don't want your pity."

"That may be," she replied, still feeling stung by his earlier behaviour, "but you don't get to tell me what to feel, Sherlock. That's a decision I get to make."

"Oh. Of course. Yes." He nodded once. "My work," he said. "It's valid. My methods are valid."

His statements sounded more like questions, but there was no question in Molly's mind. "You get results," she said.

"I do," he said. "And I am nearly always right."

She nodded. "But - "

"Oh, spare me the platitudes. Yes, yes, we're all individuals, special shiny snowflakes, et cetera, et cetera. I've heard it all. Humans are primarily water and a bit of protein; most people are as individual as tins of soup."

Molly frowned. "How did you know I was -" she started.

"That was not good, wasn't it? What I just said?"

"No, it wasn't. Boring, normal people, the ones who aren't you, do not like being told they don't matter."

"Don't be obtuse," he said. "People matter. I know that. I know it intellectually, and I know it personally. There are people who, as individuals, are very important to me. But I can't fit each and every person in the whole world into my head all at once. There isn't room. And frankly, there are some I just wouldn't want in there, taking up space, in any case. I'm not - not -" Sherlock gave up, obviously frustrated.

Molly didn't know what to say. Not a rare condition for her, but this time she was at such a loss she felt in danger of bursting into tears. More than danger, she was crying. Dammit! Why did she have to cry at a time like this, when she would have traded anything for just one moment of real eloquence?

Sherlock produced one of his ever-present handkerchiefs and handed it to her. "You're going to take his advice and terminate, then?" he asked, coldly.

"What? No." She wiped her eyes and wondered how he'd drawn that conclusion. "Of course not. I never even considered that."

"Really?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yes, really," she answered. "This is my baby, the baby I wanted. Your brother can go - go start a war, or whatever it is you said he does for fun."

"He enjoys border skirmishes and currency crises, too," Sherlock supplied helpfully.

"I'm sure he does," she replied, dabbing at her nose. Some other time, she was going to have to ask what Mycroft actually did for a living.

"Molly," he said, looking past her to something far in the distance. "I am aware that there is some speculation that autism is heritable. But the data are very far from conclusive, and I haven't been impressed with some of the methodologies employed. The risk is almost negligible, in any case, and I didn't think it needed mentioning. I see now I may have been mistaken about that."

So the truth was out; if anyone knew which doctors had been right, Sherlock would.

Autism.

The thinnest slice of autism, but still. It explained so much about Sherlock. And it didn't really explain anything.

"Millions of things can be transmitted genetically," she said. She offered to return his handkerchief, but he waved it away. "There's colour-blindness and weak arches in my family. This is just another."

"So you wouldn't mind if your child were to be like me." His intonation was completely flat, but it somehow still felt like a question.

"It's not a question of minding, Sherlock. Whoever he or she is, however they turn out, I'll love this child," she said. "That's all there is to it."

"Fair enough." Sherlock nodded once. "Right. Good. Well, I'm starving. Rowing with my brother always does that to me." He raised his arm to flag down a cab. "Do you like dim sum?"