Work Text
After months of meetings, presentations, discussions, concessions, achievements, and the unprecedented constitutional manoeuvrings of the last 72 hours, the British Government had finally collapsed-- onto the full-length leather couch in his office.
Anthea glasses on, hair twisted up into a bun held in place with a pair of clean chopsticks leftover from the takeout lunch she had yesterday, sat behind Mycroft’s desk reading the latest negotiation position paper. Their next flight to Brussels left in two hours.
With a sigh, she raised her gaze to look at her sleeping boss— wondering when she should wake him. As if he could read her mind a smile appeared on his face.
It was difficult for Anthea to keep her jaw from dropping open due to shock. For months the only expression on Mycroft’s face had been a furrowed brow of concern.
And then, when his voice tenderly uttered the name, “Molly” followed by “I’ve missed you,” she damn near fell off his chair.
In a breath, Mycroft fell deeper into sleep, the brief insight into his unconscious was over.
Anthea knew in seven and a half minutes Mycroft would snore so loud he would wake himself up.
She didn’t have much time.
//
It was an utter shambles. The journey to Brussels had served only to confirm three advisors were well and truly alcoholics and to highlight the frayed mental state of another.
Mycroft’s eyes were closed while his long elegant fingers rubbed his throbbing temples.
An unfamiliar knock on his door disturbed his quiet contemplation and caused his stomach to clench.
This was his private office in the Diogenes Club. ‘Disturbing’ and ‘unfamiliar’ were most unwelcome.
“Yes?” His reply was both weak and unenthusiastic.
The door opened and he could feel someone enter the room but make no sound. He dropped his hand and opened his eyes, blinking a few times, not trusting what he saw.
Dr Molly Hooper stood before him bundled up in an oversized wool coat with an inordinately long scarf. She was nervous.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” Molly was holding a plate with six mince pies covered in cling film.
Homemade this afternoon
floated through his brain.
“You wanted to thank -- me?”
“I’ve been watching the news,” Molly took a deep breath. “ It must be very hard. I don’t know exactly what you do but you stopped coming to my lab every Wednesday afternoon to check on Sherlock right after the Brexit vote happened. So I figured you are working on this. And according to everyone on the telly, it’s a complete mess. And it must be so hard what with it being Christmas and all. So -- anyway. I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work. I remembered you liked the mince pies I made for Sherlock’s party last year.” A shy smile settled on Molly’s face.
In his mind Mycroft sees himself stand up, take the plate from Molly and set it on the small table by his chair before his arms slip around Molly and his lips touch hers. He lets himself drown in the kiss-happy to forget anything he ever knew about Brexit.
“Well, I’m sure you are busy. I should be going. Sorry to bother you.” Molly nervously looks for a place to set the plate.
With sinking dread Mycroft realises he has been silent for too long. Taking to his feet urgently Mycroft closes the space between them.
“Apologies. I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”
He forces a smile and hopes she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t and her smile reaches her eyes as he takes the plate from her. His heart begins to melt and his smile becomes real as he removes her coat and gestures to the chair next to his.
After eating a mince pie each, while the steward was reviewing the dinner options to Molly, Mycroft excused himself for a few moments to take a call from Anthea.
“I finally managed to get you something you wanted.”
“You should be fired.”
Anthea’s response was to giggle.
“But instead, I shall thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my guest.”
“Merry Christmas Mycroft.”
“And you Anthea.”
Turning his phone off Mycroft took the seat next to Molly and sighed happily as he settled back into his chair.