Mycroft Holmes, who occupied a minor position in the British government, found that he had a few minutes to spare. He had just finished arranging for the assassination of a rather dangerous player in the world of Eastern European politics, and was currently awaiting developments in a small crisis on the Pacific Rim, so he was, just at the moment, at loose ends. Mycroft moved his fingers to the button which would summon his personal assistance Anthea to his private office, after taking a moment to brush pastry crumbs from his desk. Since he had nothing better to do at the moment he thought he might try his hand at settling, once and for all, the question of his little brother's love life, or lack thereof.

"You rang?" Mycroft heard Anthea say before he realized that she had even entered the room. My god, the woman moved like a ninja! He looked her up and down with appreciation, thinking to himself that, despite her words, she looked nothing like Lurch, the Addams' family butler.

"Anthea, please summon Dr. Molly Hooper to my office. Send a car right away. It's about time I settled something with the good doctor." Before he had even finished the last sentence, Anthea's thumbs were dancing across the keyboard of her mobile. She also has great thumbs, Mycroft thought appreciatively.

Within thirty minutes Molly Hooper was sitting across the desk from Mycroft, sipping tea which he had served her, and shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Over the past three years she had more or less gotten used to Mycroft's summons, but they often met in less formal venues. He would often come to her flat while Sherlock was away tending to the destruction of Moriarty's network, or they would meet for tea at a small tea shop near St. Bart's. To be summoned to Whitehall usually meant something of a more serious nature.

"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft began, "how good of you to join me!"

The use of her formal title only served to make Molly more apprehensive.

"Mycroft, what can possibly be so important that you take me away from my office in the middle of the work day?"

"My apologies, Doctor, but I consider this of the utmost importance. I wish to discuss your relationship with Sherlock."

"What relationship would that be? The one where he ignores me until he needs something? The one where he breaks into my flat and commandeers my bedroom? The one where he belittles me, insults me, denigrates my work, and then asks for a cup of coffee? The one…"

"Tut, tut, Molly, we all know what that really means. He has become far too dependent on you. He has grown attached. He is an addict, after all. And surely you can see how unsuitable a match that would be…"

"Unsuitable a match? Whatever are you talking about?"

"I think we all know how you feel about Sherlock, Dr. Hooper. But this relationship can go no further. Mummy would not be pleased! The Holmes family is a very old and distinguished one…"

Molly was now beginning to get a sense of where this conversation was going, and she wasn't happy about it! "If you know how I feel about Sherlock Holmes, then you must know that those feelings are in no way reciprocated. However, for you to suggest that I am not good enough for an arrogant, selfish, egotistical arse hole like your brother…"

"I would not have phrased it so bluntly, Molly…"

"No, of course not! You're a politician. Which just makes you a slightly more sneaky and less honest arrogant, selfish, egotistical arse hole…"

"But a wealthy and influential arse hole. I can offers you sufficient funds…"

"I wouldn't take your money when I helped him fake his death. Why would I take it now?"

"Ah, then perhaps you're not interested in my brother for his money…"

"Money, ha! He owes me 65 pounds for cab fare just this month!"

"Well, Dr. Hooper, then I must point out that, as enticing as his physical attributes may be, they will not last forever, and you would be left, in your declining years, with a formerly handsome man with Sherlock's personality. Now, I can arrange for an important professional position in a distant location…"

That was when Molly threw the delicate teacup at Mycroft's head and stormed out of the office, almost colliding with Anthea on her way out. Damn woman moves like a ninja, thought Molly!

Molly was still fuming as she received a text from the world's only consulting detective.

I NEED YOU ASSISTANCE. COME TO BAKER ST ASAP - SHERLOCK

BLOW IT OUT YOUR ARSE, WANKER! - MOLLY

WOULD IT HELP IF I SAID PLEASE? - SHERLOCK

BLOW IT OUT YOUR ARSE, PLEASE! - MOLLY

This not being even remotely the response Sherlock was expecting, he thought it best to head over to his pathologist's flat to investigate. By the time he could tear himself away from his current project, Molly was already into her third glass of red wine. Since she was refusing to answer his knock, he picked her lock and entered her flat to find her sitting angrily on her couch. One might think it would have been difficult to actually sit angrily, but Molly was pulling it off with great aplomb. Her back was ramrod straight, her knees together, and her feet resting flat on the floor, instead of being tucked under her, as was her customary practice. She stared ahead into space, as if judging the distance to a target visible only in her imagination.

"Problem, Molly?" Sherlock really did not want that venomous gaze turned in his direction, but he saw no choice.

"Your brother," she started, the word dripping off her tongue like sulfuric acid, "has informed me that I am not good enough to associate with the high and mighty Holmes clan!"

"What?!"

"He has warned me off, tried to buy me off like some slutty chorus girl in a Victorian novel!"

"You must have misunderstood, Molly. Even Mycroft isn't that much of an…"

"Arse hole, Sherlock? Because I assure you he is!"

Sherlock was beginning to be amused by Molly's anger. Her eyes were shining. Of course, that may have been from the alcohol, but still, it was attractive. "I can assure you, Molly, the Holmes family has nothing against slutty chorus girls. I have two great aunts who danced in the Follies Bergere. And a cousin who is currently on tour as one of Miley Cyrus' dancers in the States. So…"

Molly was trying to absorb this new information, but thought it may require another glass of wine. "He also pointed out that the Holmes family was a very old one…"

"And victims of considerable inbreeding, I must say. Have I ever told you about all my web-toed cousins, Molly. And the excess nipples to be found in the Yorkshire branch of the family! Good lord! Some of them could suckle sextuplets without a problem!"

Molly could tell that he was just trying to make her feel better, and began to smile a bit. "Doesn't he make you just the tiniest bit angry, Sherlock?"

"I've been angry at Mycroft for one thing or another for over twenty years, Molly. But I understand my brother better than you do. He just trying to…"

"He said your mother wouldn't approve. I like your mother. Why doesn't she like me, Sherlock?" The pathologist sounded really hurt. Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion of what his interfering brother was trying to accomplish, but perhaps he had gone to far. He didn't like to see his Molly hurt. Regretfully, he had hurt her himself more than enough for a lifetime.

"Mummy is a brilliant mathematician, who married a brilliant chemist, who happened to be a Holmes. But she is no snob, Molly. She's a shopkeeper's daughter from Brixton. And if my brother told you that she would not approve of you, then I know he was lying…"

Molly took another sip of wine, and fired her last shot. "He also said you would get ugly!"

"I probably will. Mycroft certainly hasn't improved with age!"

"I'll still love you when you're ugly, Sherlock," Molly said a bit woozily. Sherlock smiled at her, and cupped her chin in his hand. "I believe you will, Molly Hooper," he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes and studying her face. And he really did believe it, for the first time. After all these years, and all the crap he had put her through, she still did care for him. And he was finally ready to make her believe how much he cared for her.

"Do you know what I think we should do, Molly, just to show Mycroft?"

"Yeah, let's show the arsey shellfish egopitical git!" Molly still sounded angry, if more than a bit confused.

"Yeah, right, well, we should get married and live happily ever after," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Yeah, that'll show him," Molly looked up at the man she had been in love with for ages, and really wanted to plant a big sloppy kiss on his lips, but she couldn't seem to focus on her target. Giving up after three aborted tries, she settled for resting her head on his shoulder. "Sherlock, you're not going to get ugly anytime soon, are you?" As her new fiance carried her into her bedroom to tuck her in, he heard her mutter, "Promise not to lose your hair?"

After a few moments, Sherlock finally had a free hand to ext his brother.

THANK YOU MYCROFT, BUT YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE - SHERLOCK

NO PROBLEM, BROTHER MINE. I TAKE IT YOU HAVE SEEN THROUGH MY PLOY - MYCROFT

OF COURSE, BUT MOLLY IS REALLY ANGRY. I WOULD AVOID HER FOR A WHILE - SHERLOCK

I WILL APOLOGIZE TO HER AT YOUR WEDDING. - MYCROFT

Mycroft Holmes was now whistling "Rule Brittania" as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He was suddenly feeling very confident. Perhaps he should tackle that unpleasant situation in the Middle East. If his luck held, he could possibly earn the Nobel Peace Prize. It couldn't be any more difficult than marrying off Sherlock Holmes!