Prologue - A Narrative (or, in brief, how they got here from there)

At first sight, he'd dismissed her as insignificant - an astonishingly, appallingly dressed insignificance indeed - and thought no more about her. She'd seen him from across the lab, having some sort of verbal skirmish with Sherlock, and dismissed him as a cold fish – attractive, posh-looking and elegantly dressed indeed, but a cold fish nevertheless – and thought no more about him.

At their second meeting, she'd learned how easily someone could be kidnapped off a busy London street with no one noticing, how icy the cold fish's stare really was, and how deep the reach of the British government into her private business could go - but she also emerged from the experience both proud of her ability to stand up to an interrogation intended to make her cower and shocked at the identity of the cold fish. Mycroft Bloody Holmes.

He'd left their second meeting knowing he had underestimated Dr. Molly Hooper and, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, feeling she was to a certain extent a reliable ally in the continuing struggle to save Sherlock from his demons. In the following months, Mycroft was proven correct as he witnessed her ability both to deal with the fallout from Sherlock's bad choices and to provide invaluable assistance with his recovery. She became a continuing, if under-appreciated, positive influence in and on Sherlock's life and, along with DI Greg Lestrade and later Dr. John Watson and Mrs. Hudson, reduced in a small way the constant worry Mycroft felt for his brother and his chosen path.

Not only did Dr. Hooper prove invaluable in the day-to-day madness that was Sherlock's professional and personal life, but she also proved completely loyal, calmly efficient, and unfailingly dependable during the most critical of situations, the most extreme of which was his brother's supposed death and the subsequent stress and pain of keeping their secret for two years.

During Sherlock's long absence, Mycroft felt Dr. Hooper was owed the best protection he could provide against any possible attack – whether by members of Moriarty's network or other potential assailants – but also, on a more personal basis, was due some assurance that his brother continued to survive his long mission. From their initially brief meetings at safe houses or secluded government buildings or a half hour's ride through the city in the back of his car, they progressed eventually to afternoon teas in out-of-the-way teashops or restaurants and very occasionally the alternative of tea at her flat. Over time, their meetings became less a burden to Mycroft and more a welcome break from the usual stresses of his days. Without being aware of it, Molly stopped stuttering and blushing and chattering nervously to fill any silence between them and instead started talking calmly and articulately about her work, the professional papers she was writing, and the big and small events of her life - or simply enjoying her tea in silence without feeling a nervous need to fill any lapse in conversation. Their meetups ceased upon Sherlock's return, but a call from Mycroft two months later to check on her well-being led to a meetup, then another, and the regular, if infrequent, nature of their meetings continued, even during the awful weeks and months after Sherlock's shooting and the security crisis following Moriarty's supposed (but eventually proven to be fake) return. In the process, Mr. Holmes became Mycroft and Dr. Hooper became Molly.

Mycroft became Molly's friend. And Molly became Mycroft's … goldfish?

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Present Day

Just before 4 p.m. on a sunny day in early June, Molly hurried through the door of yet another tucked away teashop and spotted Mycroft sitting at a table in a quiet alcove. The table was situated far enough from its neighbors to allow a discreet conversation.

Just inside the door, Molly stopped abruptly and stared at Mycroft, struck by the air of power and isolation surrounding him. He looked so perfectly cool, so perfectly sophisticated, so perfectly elegant in his oh-so-perfectly tailored suit, his long legs perfectly crossed just so, and what she could see of his face so perfectly impassive. His lips were pursed, phone at his ear. Molly suddenly felt intimated by him in a way she'd never experienced, not even during her "kidnapping." This Mycroft looked the part Sherlock ascribed to him – that of the most dangerous man she'd ever met. The Ice Man.

Molly shivered and was alarmed to feel goose pimples rise on her arms. She suddenly wanted to turn and flee before he saw her. While she was still fidgeting from foot to foot, Mycroft glanced toward the door, gave her a brief nod, then uncrossed his legs and pocketed his phone. He stood and watched as she started toward him, a crease appearing between his brows as he noticed her hesitancy.

Mycroft pulled a chair out for her, "Good afternoon, Molly."

Molly returned his greeting, then sat and let him slide her chair closer to the table before returning to his own. She stared at her plate, her fingers fidgeting with the cutlery, until Mycroft's hand covered hers. "What is it, my dear?" At Mycroft's gentle inquiry, Molly relaxed a bit and looked up at him. The crease had deepened between his brows and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

Molly gave him a quick smile. "It's nothing – just a bit distracted today." She glanced around the room, which was charmingly decorated, the quintessential English tea shop, then smiled more naturally at Mycroft. "How do you find these places?"

"I have an app."

She giggled at his dry tone.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the tea cart. By the time the server had unloaded their choices, Molly was more relaxed. After having tea together so many times over the last two years, each of them knew the other's usual preferences so whoever arrived first would place their order. They'd also developed a sort of ritual: Molly would serve their plates while Mycroft poured their tea.

They worked their way through finger sandwiches and scones, then started on the sweets, idling chatting but mostly sharing a comfortable silence. Mycroft told her that work had taken him to Athens for a couple of weeks but offered no details (literally: "I was in Athens a couple of weeks"). Molly told him, in probably more detail that he cared for, about the blind date she'd narrowly avoided. Her friend Meena had been pushing Molly to meet "Jared" and finally tried to force a meetup by bringing him to their planned pub evening, without telling Molly beforehand. So Molly had slipped out the back door when she saw them come in, then later texted Meena that she was detained at work.

Mycroft raised his cup to her in a mock salute.

Molly sighed. "I just wish I wasn't so subject to the whims of my hormones." Mycroft's hand stopped midway to replacing his cup in the saucer. Molly glanced his way and saw he was staring at her, an arrested expression on his face. "Oh my god – did I say that out loud?"

Mycroft set the cup down, then stroked his cheek with a finger. "Yes, my dear, you did." His lips twitched as Molly blushed. He took pity on her and looked away.

Molly thought he was focused on the last fairy cake. "Go ahead."

He turned back to her, brows raised. "Hmmm?" He followed her gaze to the tiered cake plate. "No, thank you. I've had sufficient." Without looking at her, he gently cleared his throat. "Are you having a problem, my dear?"

Molly sighed again and fiddled with her fork. "Sometimes I just wish I could consider my body as transport, like Sherlock. It's not as if I'm sex-crazed – in fact, I'm probably a little sub-normal, whatever that is – but I do miss being with someone occasionally." She looked up and blushed bright red. "I-I-I am so sorry, Mycroft." She dropped her face into her palm. "I don't know why I said that." She rubbed her forehead and then lifted her eyes toward him, still red-faced. "It's probably because I think of you as being omniscient – that you already know everything about me anyway, including all the embarrassing bits."

"I'm not sure if that's disturbing or, ah, flattering – possibly a bit of both." He smiled wryly. "I can assure you, however, that I neither read your thoughts nor have cameras placed in your flat." Mycroft touched his serviette to his mouth, then cleared his throat. "Have you not … dated … anyone since Tom?"

"No," Molly admitted. "We've been really busy at work the last six months, and, and – well, it just seems that nothing goes right for me in that area. I'm obviously a failure at relationships, or at least romantic ones." Then smiling at him, "I'm pretty good at being friends."

"Indeed you are, Molly." He poured himself another cup of tea after Molly refused one. He took a sip and set the cup down, then leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and flicked a piece of lint off his knee. Without looking at her, he continued: "You're an intelligent, attractive young woman, my dear, well-respected in your profession, capable of handling an important position with expertise and efficiency, and dealing calmly with stressful situations and stress-causing people, all without compromising your many fine personal qualities. You shouldn't give up on romance." He finally looked at her, a wry twist to his lips. "Obviously, it's not my area –"

"That's what you said about friendships, Mycroft, and now look at you … wasting an hour of your busy day sharing a secret teatime with me." Molly was flustered by his complimentary comments, but his matter-of-fact recitation of them allowed her to respond lightly and ignore her hot cheeks.

"It's not a secret – we're in a public place ..." He looked around, grimacing, "… where anyone could walk in."

Molly changed her mind about more tea and reached for the teapot. As she filled her cup, she said thoughtfully, "What I really need is a Friend With Benefits." Mycroft arched a brow at her. "Surely you've heard the phrase ...?" He kept arching that brow, then scowled when Molly wrinkled her nose at him. "You know, a friend you can ring up for a booty call when you're going through a dry spell?" Mycroft's expression remained unchanged. "Sex, Mycroft! Sex without strings but with someone you like, someone you trust but have no romantic feelings for. Recreational sex, so to speak."

She'd looked away from him during that last bit, but turned back suddenly and found him staring at her fixedly, a strange look in his eyes. "Hey – do you know any field agents who'd be suitable for, and make like, such a no-strings setup?" Then she deliberately widened her eyes. "Or maybe you could assist me, Mycroft!" Molly laughed aloud when his expression changed to one of utter horror.

"I am not a pimp, Molly," he said after a moment, looking affronted.

"And I am not a pro, Mycroft," looking equally affronted. Molly huffed, then reached up to pat his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I don't know what I'm saying." She dropped her hand. "Besides, a no-strings arrangement with a nice, non-pervert, un-needy, trustworthy man is obviously just a fantasy." Molly sat up straighter and sighed. "My teasing went too far. Forgive me, please? I didn't mean to be indelicate." She cleared her throat. "Actually, that was a bit vulgar, yes?"

Molly quickly changed the subject without giving Mycroft time to respond. "So, are you leaving the country again soon – assuming you can tell me?" She took another sip of tea then carefully placed the cup in the saucer.

Mycroft's features had settled into their usual cool impassivity. "No immediate plans, but the unexpected trip is always to be expected." He gave her a small smile. "On a more volatile note, how's Sherlock behaving these days?"

"He regularly sweeps into the lab or morgue with his usual dramatic flair, coat swirling, collar turned up – then demands my assistance or expects body parts or" [laughs] "orders coffee and/or insults my intelligence … you know, the usual. He appears to be doing well, though, in Sherlockian terms."

Mycroft pursed his lips, brows raised. "You certainly seem to be handling his dramatics better these days."

Molly kept her eyes focused on her fingers, which were again fiddling with her fork. "Sherlock is Sherlock, and I'll always do whatever I can to help him and keep him on as even a keel as possible." She looked sideways at Mycroft. "You do know I'm not in love with him, right? I love him as my friend and find him and his work infinitely interesting, but I have no romantic hopes for him."

Molly turned fully toward Mycroft and found him staring at her with an intent look in his eyes. He blinked a few times, then cleared his throat. "Duty calls." He touched his serviette to his lips, placed it by his plate, then pushed his chair back.

Molly quickly finished her tea and wiped her mouth. "Yes, of course."

Mycroft pulled Molly's chair back, then dropped a large note on the server's plate. Molly made no comment. She'd stopped arguing about paying her share early on after Mycroft told her he would not meet her if she insisted on paying as he couldn't feel free to choose their meeting places if she'd be the one out-of-pocket. Besides, he'd said with a gentle smile to lessen any potential offense, he wouldn't notice the cost. Molly didn't know the extent of his wealth, but she knew that was the truth. She settled for providing tea and homemade treats on those occasions when they met at her flat.

Mycroft's car arrived just as they left the teashop. Molly declined Mycroft's offer of a lift, but waited until the car departed before turning toward Bart's. As she walked, Molly thought about what she'd said to Mycroft. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He'll probably never call me again. How could I have said such things to HIM of all people? She felt as if her entire body was flushed with embarrassment, but she also felt sick at the thought of losing his continued company.

Molly arrived at Bart's and went straight to her office, resisting the strong urge to sit at her desk and have a good cry - not only at the thought of losing Mycroft's friendship, but also because the ache of loneliness she'd joked about was real. Instead, she quickly donned her labcoat, smoothed her hair, and headed for the morgue.