Chapter Text
“Sign right here, miss, and you’re free to leave.”
“It’s Ms. Hooper,” Molly corrected, “and technically, I was free to leave the moment you —”
“Thank you, Officer McNamara,” James cut in, silencing Molly with a sideways glance. Her lips tightened into a thin line, but she grabbed the officer’s proffered pen and scribbled her signature with acerbity. “Send the invoice over to the house when you’ve got a moment, would you? Give our regards to the missus and the kids.”
“Cheers, Mr. Hooper. See you next time.”
James shepherded his daughter away from the ticket window, tugging insistently on her scarf when she tried to stay and argue her point. “Come along, darling.”
“Really, Dad, I almost had him right there! You saw how he —”
“Didn’t inform of your Miranda rights?” James remarked drily. “You’ve been watching too much television, love. This isn’t the States.”
Molly scowled at him. “Yes, I’m well aware. ‘Give our regards to the missus!’ Was that really necessary?”
James chuckled as he held the door of the police station open for her. “The good lieutenant’s wife just gave birth! Their fourth in as many years. Would be insensitive not to.”
“Dad.”
James shrugged in response. “My dear, if you insist on protesting every possible miscarriage of justice in the city, all of Battersea Station shall be swapping Molly Hooper war stories soon enough.” He paused and flicked an eyebrow at her, with mock gravity. “Come to think of it, they may be already.”
Molly looked over the parking lot moodily as they headed over to the car. She knew he meant it in jest, but no self-respecting working professional wanted her aging father to have to bail her out from jail. “I’ll pay you back this time, Dad.”
James waved his hand dismissively, then reached into the pocket of his weathered wool coat to rummage for his car keys. “What’s a father for if not to bail his daughter out of jail?”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t know, Dad. None of the protests are really doing anything, are they? People are going to just keep doing whatever they like.”
James began to gently coax the car to life. “Well, love, you must remember who you’re dealing with. Holmes Corporation and the like are not people, they’re —”
“Heartless profit machines, I know,” Molly finished, and for a moment they smiled warmly at each other. “I remember what Mum always said.”
James paused, deliberating something, before reaching into the backseat. “I didn’t want you to find out some other way, but their redevelopment deals with the Battersea council are starting to gain traction.”
He handed her a newspaper. Molly frowned as she read the headline aloud. “‘Holmes Corporation to begin work on Battersea Power Station redevelopment – but — they’re... millions of pounds in potential growth expected... God, they want to tear down the Power Station? That’s going to cost millions of pounds, that area has loads of historic value, not to mention it’ll cause all sorts of environmental and health —”
“Yes, I know, dear,” James cut in. “It’s a damned shame, all of it.” As they waited for the signal to change, he cast her a sly sideways glance. “How about you come home and we can discuss it over dinner? I’ll make you a solid fry-up. Your mother always liked a good side of rashers after a day of protests.”
Molly scratched at her neck absently, releasing a cloud of London street dust into the car. “What? Oh, no, thanks, Dad. I’m tired. I think I’ll just go home.”
After her father dropped her off in front of her apartment, Molly trudged up the stairs, dragging her feet sullenly. She couldn’t stop staring at the picture they’d printed next to the headline — a full-color, glossy image of Sherlock Holmes, media darling and Holmes Dispensaries CEO. He was shaking hands with a Battersea Councilman and looked vaguely bored, like he did in all his press releases.
All the papers and magazines — mainly the tabloids rags, really — loved him, though Molly herself had never seen why. Well, she could sort of see why. He was really pretty fit, with a tall, lean figure and sharp cheekbones, and his eyes were a shade of blue that she’d never seen anywhere else. And supposedly he was quite the charmer – he was always getting papped at glamorous film premieres, charity galas, PR events and the like. For something as drab as a power company, the man got around a lot.
Molly jammed her key into her door with no small amount of bitterness. Okay, so she definitely saw why Sherlock Holmes was such a celebrity. But really, was she the only person in all of London who saw right through the act – to the ?
She opened her door into the apartment and tossed her things onto the kitchen table, then glanced around the room balefully. A cramped, one-room studio greeted her eyes, every surface covered in law briefs and paper articles and half-legible to-do lists. Toby was nowhere to be seen, probably off sulking in the toilet like he was wont to do.
“You know,” she said, aloud, “they said being a public interest lawyer would be hard. But I’d be satisfied with my work. I’d have achieved something.”
She paused.
"Still waiting on the satisfaction bit."
No one answered her – which was, if nothing, at least a familiar feeling. She sighed, then trudged over to her ancient landline and hit 1 on speed-dial.
“Hi, Mr. Chatterjee. It’s Molly Hooper... oh, I’m fine. Let’s see, it’s been a long day, so… I’ll have a chicken korma, one veg biryani, and a — hmm, hang on, let’s make that two biryanis, and — what’s that? Um, spice level medium, I’d say? So I’ll probably need a raita with that, too. Then… one, no, two matar paneers, and a side of naan, and that all comes with rice, still?” Pause. “Yes, that’s all. And — wait! Do you have those paneer pakoras that your wife does? Okay, then an order of that, as well.” Pause. “Yes, it’s… for one. Thank you, Mr. Chatterjee. See you soon.”
She placed the phone back in its cradle, then turned to look over the apartment again. It was the same one she’d lived for years; back then, she’d lived with her friend Meena, fresh out of uni and high on youth. Both of them had joined LawWorks, determined to tackle London’s problems head on, and maybe one day even open up a law firm of their own. Hooper and Patel, the foremost names in the legal world, crusaders for the just and the right. Take back the law from the hands of money-grubbing barristers. Do what Gandhi said — be the change they wanted to see in the world, one protest at a time. Make Molly’s mother proud.
But the years wore on. The protest signs had piled up. Meena had moved out a few years ago to get married, and she’d left Molly behind here, alone, with no plans for a law firm in the foreseeable future.
Molly chanced a glance at the newspaper again. Sherlock Holmes gazed back at her, looking like for all the world he didn’t care whether she lived or died. She allowed herself a moment of self-pity before she trudged into her bedroom, waiting for the blissful release of curry and sleep.
Across town, Sherlock Holmes squinted into the bright lights of the Savoy’s most luxurious ballroom. The best and the brightest that London had to offer — or at least, Sherlock mused, the most-monied — milled about the massive room, gathered for some smarmy benefit or another, as part of Mycroft’s latest attempt for the company to seem ‘human’.
“John,” he said, casting a bored glance at the remaining liquid in his champagne flute. “Remind me, why am I here again?”
His chief counsel, John Watson, glared at him, before smiling widely at the passing businessman giving them an odd look. “For God’s sake, Sherlock —”
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. “My, my, no need to bring Him into it. It’s a simple enough question.”
John closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “One more week,” he muttered to himself, “and then Mary and I are off. Done. No more Sherlock Holmes.”
Aloud, he said, “It’s to honor your contributions to the pediatric wing of St. Bart’s, Sherlock. You just gave a rather winning speech about it and everything. You’ve got to remember these things, I won’t be here to keep your notes prepped next time.”
Sherlock scowled at him, then deposited the champagne flute onto the tray of a passing waiter. “Well, and whose fault is that, precisely? Who said you and Mary have to go on sex holiday —”
“Honeymoon,” John hissed, glancing around furtively. Thankfully, no one seemed to have overheard, and his shoulders slumped in relief. “Honestly, Sherlock, there are children around! Keep a tame tongue!”
“My point stands,” Sherlock said, completely unperturbed. He crossed his arms and looked down at his much shorter friend, his brow furrowed. “You know, if you must get married, which I’m still not sure you really have to, you could do what I suggested. A nice, quick court wedding would save money and time, and it would be the best thing for all parties involved.”
John scoffed in response. “You mean you, Sherlock. Since when have you given much thought to the general welfare?” Sherlock made an indignant noise and opened his mouth to argue, but John waved him off and began corralling him to the other side of the room, where a gaggle of reporters hung around a refreshment table, looking bored. “Come on, then, you big old philanthropist, time to make your rounds. Let’s go toss a bone to your waiting admirers.”
Sherlock tossed him one last glare over his shoulder, then pasted his public persona smile onto his face and strode over towards them. As he approached, a murmur ran through the crowd, and the reporters dispersed from their tight huddle to clamor for his attention.
“Look alive, you lugs! It’s him!”
“Over here, sir!”
“Question from the National Enquirer, Mr. Holmes!”
They surged and pushed against each other, sound equipment and cameras clinking, to try and get to him first. Like a pack of dogs. God, humanity was disappointing.
Nevertheless, Sherlock continued on, smiling genially and waving, as they expected him to do. He could positively smell John’s relief, wafting over from behind him.
One particularly dogged TV reporter managed to get there first. She was young — a new hire, judging by the state of her cufflinks. Eager. She yanked a cameraman out of the still-clamoring crowd of press and thrust her mic out towards Sherlock, panting. Her lipstick was smeared a little from fending off the competition.
“Mr. Holmes! Pleasure to meet you, I’m Eloise Minton from BBC One. Would you mind answering a few questions for us?”
Sherlock inclined his head regally. “Of course, Ms. Minton.” His smile never wavered. As the cameraman set up, he debated internally which Holmes to bring out today — smooth and suave, maybe even a little flirty? Or a little lighthearted and charming, playing on his devil-may-care press reputation?
Eloise reddened a bit, muttering, “Oh, Eloise will do!” She stuck out the mic to him, still slightly red as she asked, “Well, tell us, Mr. Holmes, in your own words: why do you think pediatrics are so important to Holmes Corporation?”
Hmm. Lighthearted and charming it was. Sherlock pretended to think for a moment, before saying breezily, “Well, I think feet are very important, aren’t they?”
Eloise gawped a bit, but Sherlock chuckled and tapped her shoulder lightly — she jumped in response. “Oh, I’m just teasing, I know there’s much more to pediatrics than feet.” He winked at her, allowing a bit of a rakish grin to break out. “Right, well, thank you, Eloise, very nice to meet you.”
He gripped her shoulder again, a little tighter this time, and swooped away, leaving her dazed.
As he made his way through the crowd, shaking a few hands here and waving at a few fat cats there, tossing out an occasional wry comment, he wondered, not for the first time, what the point of it all was. The press greetings, the flashy parties, the speeches peppered with anecdotes, all designed to make the public fall in love with him. What good did it do, to feel like you knew the head of a corporation?
And a power company, at that. Sherlock was not blind to the fact that they were not the most clean-cut company of all time, if ever there was. He knew that Mycroft’s hands were not wholly clean when it came to the deals that kept them all well-fed. But if people were stupid enough to think that all of this, the parties and the pandering, Sherlock’s pretty face and handsome manners — if they thought it meant that Holmes Corporation had a soul — well, then, it just proved what he knew about the world all along.
Humanity was hardly worth trying to save after all.
A tap on his shoulder distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced over to see a tall, grizzled-looking Italian man, dressed in black. “Ah, Angelo. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Evening, Sherlock. Your brother wants to see you.”
Sherlock frowned at Angelo, who was currently shoving a plate of eclairs down his throat. “What? Now?”
Angelo nodded, trying to get a proper hold on a cream puff. “Hmm. Sounded — hmph — pretty urgent.” He paused thoughtfully. “Though it can be hard to tell, seeing as he’s…”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock finished. “Yes, he has that effect on people. Right, well, nothing for it, I suppose. Shall we?”
“45 minutes,” Mycroft wheezed, “6.5 miles an hour, at an elevation of three.”
He sucked in a breath, then rolled off the elliptical machine. “It’s extremely invigorating, you know. Very relaxing. Anthea does an hour a day too.”
Sherlock snorted and swirled the liquid in his brandy glass, watching Mycroft as he collapsed onto a grey yoga mat and began contorting himself into a variety of positions. “Yes, you both seem incredibly relaxed. Could cut the relaxation with a knife.” He paused. “And how is my dear sister-in-law Anthea?”
Mycroft sent him a withering glance, but its effectiveness was dulled by his rather poor imitation of a yogini. “She’s quite well, thank you for the concern. Didn’t you just see her coming in?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I asked her if there’s another little Holmes on the way, or if she’d just fallen off the wagon on her diet. She threw a book at me.”
Mycroft bent into a downward dog position, speaking to the floor. “How apt. But I didn’t ask you here to trade insults with my wife.”
“And what did you ask me here for, brother dear?” Sherlock intoned, making no effort to hide his boredom. He sprawled over the armchair with abandon and eyed Mycroft over the top of his glass. “I hardly think an update in your exercise routine necessitated a visit in person.”
Mycroft got up and grabbed a file off the side table, which he tossed to Sherlock. A cursory glance inside revealed a personnel file for John and a wealth of newspaper articles, all of which featured Sherlock himself in one way or another.
Sherlock chortled as he paged through it, stopping to admire one deftly manipulated photograph of him and John that made them seem as though they were about to kiss passionately. The headline accompanying it read, ‘Deputy CEO of Holmes Corporation Resigns, Amidst Homosexual Rumors!’
“Well, Mycroft, looks like the truth has finally come out. John and I are, in fact, gay lovers. We’ll be leaving for San Francisco to start our lives together in peace. Wish us bonne chance!”
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “You may laugh, brother, but John leaving like this to get married only adds fuel to the rumor fires. It makes for a very poor company reputation, all this gossip.”
“Oh, not the company!” Sherlock gasped, arranging his features into a careful pantomime of horror. When Mycroft merely lifted an eyebrow, Sherlock sighed and settled back in his chair, mildly disappointed at the lack of a reaction. “What does it matter, Mycroft? Being gay isn’t a crime. I should think that the public would eat this kind of thing up, in fact. The CEO of a major company, in love with his chief counsel. Isn’t it — ugh — romantic?”
Mycroft ignored him. “You’ve been dithering around for months, Sherlock. Own up to it: John is leaving. You need to hire someone to take his place.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, please, Mycroft. You know perfectly well that John isn’t going through with it. He loves the work far too much.”
Mycroft regarded him with something like sadness, or perhaps pity, in his gaze,. “It isn’t like you to ignore the obvious, Sherlock.”
Sherlock shifted in his seat. The words hit harder than he would willingly admit. “Out with it, then. You obviously have someone in mind for the job.”
Mycroft reached for a towel to wipe off his sweating forehead. “Anyone, Sherlock. Anyone who is competent and can do what we need them to do, and most of all, anyone can put up with you.” He paused, and then said, with an air of forced nonchalance, “Like, perhaps, Philip Anderson.”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “That complete moron that works for Lestrade? Oh, don’t be absurd.”
“Why?” Mycroft said, his eyes glinting. “Because he won’t run around with you to play detective?”
“ No . Well, yes. But also because it would make you and Father far too happy.”
Mycroft looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes, as if in prayer. “Sherlock, Father has been retired for ten years.”
Sherlock sniffed delicately as he got up to leave. “Yes, well, being retired is no reason for him to start enjoying himself now.”
He put his hand on the doorknob, but Mycroft blocked the door with his rolled up yoga mat. Sherlock rolled his eyes — ever the dramatic, Mycroft Holmes — then turned back to look at him. “Yes, brother?”
“I don’t care who you hire, or where they’re from, or even if you go on to have a torrid love affair with him, as unlikely as that is,” Mycroft said, trying and failing to sound intimidating. His balding head reflected the light, as if he’d polished it. Knowing Mycroft, he might have. “Hire someone good, Sherlock, and soon. Very soon.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you being such a prat about this? Beyond your usual stick-up-the-arse act, I mean. It’s strange even for you.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitched, and his eyes darted involuntarily to the side. Sherlock followed his gaze to the file with the newspaper article. He looked back to Mycroft, comprehension dawning. “So that’s it. Your precious corporation isn’t doing too well, is it?”
“Which you would know,” Mycroft snapped, his eyes flashing, “if you ever bothered to show up to the shareholder meetings. Our stock options are not looking too promising. We need all the positive press coverage we can get.”
“World has finally wizened up to your snake oil act, has it? Peddling clean coal when it’s anything but?”
Mycroft waved his hand in irritation. “Sherlock, this is not the time for your typical infantile tantrums. For some reason, the public pays attention to you. When they like you, our stock rises, and when they don’t, it plummets. I know you couldn't care less about the future of our company, given your little detective games —”
“They are not games, they are cases, ” Sherlock snapped, but Mycroft paid him no heed.
“But you know as well as I that the company’s success is very much tied to your own — in more ways than one. Do I make myself clear?”
Sherlock scoffed and turned back to the door, wrenching it open. “Good God, Mycroft. At least have the decency to threaten me outright, wouldn’t you?”
Nevertheless, he glanced at his brother and nodded once, his lips twisting in displeasure. “Have it your way, then. But I’ll hire whomever I choose, and rest assured they’ll be the farthest thing from Anderson on this planet.”
With that dramatic statement, he surged through the door, and was off.
He tried to kid himself that it was in triumph.