Chapter Text
Molly had planned to go straight back home after work, but instead she had been whisked away by a black car with barely any notice. It dropped her off outside a posh white building in Pall Mall. In her hand she held a plain business card, which had waited for her in the back seat. She was to go inside, not speak to anyone and show the card to whoever approached her. The reason for the visit was still unclear. Mycroft Holmes had given instructions rather than explanations.
There was a plaquer on the door:
THE DIOGENES CLUB
She had not gone many steps inside before she was stopped by a doorman. He was dressed like a period drama actor, but had the bulk and bearing of a security guard. Feeling like a hopeful teenager trying to get into a nightclub where she did not belong, she showed him the business card and hoped for the best. After a quick glance, he nodded and gestured for her to come along.
As promised, Mycroft Holmes waited inside a spacious room. He stood with his back turned to her as he was currently on the phone. Molly had no other choice than overhearing it as the doors slid shut almost soundlessly behind her.
“I understand if you do not wish to talk to me. You may call my assistant on the number I am about to text you if you would like to forward a message. Naturally you will receive a written invitation and I hope to see you at the ceremony. I wish you all the best.”
Mycroft Holmes proceeded to type on the phone in silence and Molly wondered whether or not she needed to announce her presence. “Do come in, Dr Hooper,” he said, as if he had anticipated her train of thought. Without turning around, he gestured towards a pair of leather armchairs. He had already claimed one of them by leaning his umbrella against it. Molly dumped her striped bag and overcoat on the floor next to the other one and sat down.
Putting the phone back into his pocket with a smooth motion, Mycroft finally turned his full attention to her. Molly was not entirely sure that this was a good thing. His icy blue eyes, similar to Sherlock's but nowhere near as energetic, were dispassionate and probing. “Would you like a drink?”
“Some tea would be nice, Mr Holmes.”
“Ah… of course. I’ll see to it.” Mycroft pressed a button on the wall and proceeded to pour up a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. Wait… that was the kind of drink he meant? On a Wednesday afternoon?
“I’m glad you could come, Dr Hooper,” he said once they were both seated and an elderly gentleman had carried in Molly’s tea.
“I hope it’s not bad news?” It had to be something concerning Sherlock, as the two of them had no other reason to talk to one another.
Mycroft Holmes smirked and took a sip from his glass. “No, not as such.” He leaned back and looked off into the distance, trying to collect his thoughts. “I have run into difficulties of a kind that I am not used to dealing with. Only you know the whole truth about what is going on. You are also familiar with death and so I assume you have experience of the various ways humans can react to it. I would like a sounding board. If I may?”
Molly was astounded that the British Government was turning to her with a problem. “Of course! I hope I can be of help.” To be fair, she spent a lot more time around the deceased than their bereaved kin, but she had seen enough to understand that mourning was never a predictable path.
“My brother’s supposed death has stirred up strong emotions, as you are probably aware. Some believe that I betrayed Sherlock and that my actions are to blame for the tragic outcome. While there are some incriminating circumstances, some of the things I did were done for reasons I cannot reveal until this sorry business is all over.”
Molly was relieved to hear that he seemed to believe that it would be over one day. "It's awful now, but hopefully they will understand when that day comes. Maybe I can be more of help if we deal with them individually? People react so differently."
Mycroft Holmes looked down into his glass, swirling the liquid slowly. “Well, there's John. He will not speak with me at all. The last time we met, things didn't go well. That was before the ‘suicide’. He blames me for it now, I am sure.”
“Maybe he does. Or maybe not.” Molly had not heard much from John lately either. He seemed to want to put a lid on everything. Mrs Hudson had told her that he was already looking for a new flat, no doubt desperate to get away from the reminders of the life he shared with his friend. “John seems to have closed himself off to everyone. Some people do that when reality is too difficult to take in all at once. He needs time.”
“Thank you, Dr Hooper. You are probably right. But I worry about the funeral. We will all need to meet there and it cannot be postponed until everyone has sorted out their feelings.”
Molly tried to wrap her head around how he was thinking, but failed. To her, the funeral was one of the first steps to processing a loss and moving towards getting closure. “It’s always messy. Grief isn’t just one emotion. It's all over the place and everyone reacts differently. But most know to behave themselves during a funeral ceremony, regardless of how they feel inside.”
He nodded and seemed relieved. “If you choose to come to the funeral - which is entirely optional of course - we will find ourselves in a similar position, so I’m going to let you in on some of the prerequisites.” He put away the glass, which was already half empty. “Our parents of course know the truth, but they have opted out of attending the funeral. Young relatives have died tragically in the past and they do not wish to tear up old wounds unnecessarily. I realize that people might think that our parents do not care about Sherlock, but that is very far from the truth”
“I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?” Sherlock had never mentioned this to her. But to be fair, they were not as close as she had liked to imagine. Was this why he had seemed so uncomfortable when she talked about her father’s death?
Mycroft Holmes froze and avoided the subject entirely. “In the absence of other close relatives, the planning of the ceremony has been left to me. My dear brother has been kind enough to pick a headstone for himself, but other than that he has been mostly disinterested. He pointed out that this is more help than one usually gets from the dead, so I should be grateful. Since the ceremony serves no purpose for me, my goal is to make it as meaningful as possible for those who need it, but this is hard when they don't particularly like talking to me."
“If there is anything I can do to help, just ask. I don’t mean just the funeral." Molly remembered how her father's death had almost been overshadowed by practical matters, even though he had done his best to make things easier. "What will happen to the flat?” With Sherlock officially dead and John moving out, the contract would technically be void.
“I offered to pay the rent in order to keep it as it is, but Mrs Hudson would not hear of it. She intends to do so anyway, without getting paid for it.” He smiled. “Somehow Sherlock has a knack for making friends who are fiercely loyal and unbribable.”
Molly smiled back. “I don’t know how he does it. He isn’t trying very hard to be liked.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, I’m late again,” Molly told Toby, who ran up to meet her at the door. “It could have been worse, though. I nearly came home drunk.” Living alone, she had made a habit of talking to the cat. Not because she thought that he understood her, but rather the opposite. She could tell him just about anything and it did not matter at all. Lately she had not been entirely alone with Toby, though, and it was hard to get used to that fact.
“Molly, the alcohol you keep at the morgue is not for drinking,” Sherlock’s baritone came from somewhere inside. Ever since his official death, he kept coming and going completely unannounced. He was using her flat to sleep, think and change in and out of various disguises.
“Sherlock? If I had known you would come I would have shopped for groceries.” Molly was fairly sure that she did not have enough food left for both of them, but dreaded having to go out again today. It was already well past dinner time for her.
“No one is supposed to know where I am and where I’m going. Not even Mycroft.”
Molly opened the fridge, finding an empty spot where she had left the pasta that would have been tonight's dinner. She closed it again with a sigh and walked up to the open bedroom door. Sherlock sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed and the rest of it was covered with papers. She leaned against the doorpost and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you feeling comfortable?”
“Quite. As delusional as it was of you to get a king sized bed, it's giving me an ideal working space.”
I don't know how he does it. “Did you like the pasta bolognese?”
“It was adequate.”
Molly turned to leave. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I’m thinking. Can’t digest more.”
“Okay, good.”