Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: There came a buzz from Mycroft's phone. The number was unlisted. His screen said: 'Keep Calm and Stop Antagonizing Molly'.
Characters: Molly, Mycroft
Word Count: 670
Disclaimer: Characters belong to ACD, Gatiss/Moffat/BBC, not me.
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall, so Spoilers.
It was two days before Mycroft came to identify the body.
Aside from his height, he didn't look much at all like Sherlock, but from the way he swept in, detached and superior and making everyone he looked at feel as though they had inexplicably shrunk three inches -- in that, the family resemblance was uncanny.
They had the same eyes, too, Molly noticed. She would know.
Masking the nervousness in her gut with grief, she lead him to the viewing room, watching his expression carefully out of the corners of her eyes. He wore the same mask as his brother, too; she didn't know him well enough to tell what he was hiding under it. She pulled the sheet away from the body on the cold steel table, quickly looking away from Sherlock's pale, lifeless face. It didn't matter how many times she saw it or what she knew, the vision still made her heart hurt.
"Miss... Hooper, was it?" Molly looked up, expecting to be asked to give him a moment alone, to find that the elder Holmes was staring straight at her, his too-familiar eyes hard. "Where is he?"
Molly didn't have to fake her surprise. "S-sir?"
"You heard me, Miss Hooper. Where is my brother?" She started to gesture at the body, only for him to stab his umbrella into the linoleum with a sharp crack. "I know my brother."
Molly swallowed, trying not to tremble under the force of those cold, hard eyes. "I-I-I don't kn-know what you're--" The denial cut off with a squeak as Mycroft suddenly advanced on her. She backed away, but he matched her step for step, looming over her in more than merely height.
"Do not lie to me, young lady." He smiled, a diplomatic mockery of pleasantness that was somehow more terrifying than any expression of anger.
"Think hard, Miss Hooper."
Molly closed her eyes. She'd given up trying not to tremble; now it was taking all she had not to start crying. "N-Norbury," she whispered, edged with desperation and fear. "Norbury. Norbury."
Mycroft's smile vanished. "Norbury?" he repeated incredulously. He raised his nose and considered her at the end of it. After a moment, he said, "You're lying." He flipped up his umbrella and pressed the tip under her chin like a sword. She squeaked again. "Do you have any idea what I could do to you? Tell me where my brother is, now, Miss Hooper, or you will live to regret it."
"I-I don't -- I swear I don't--"
She was cut off this time by a buzz from Mycroft's suit, and then another. Mycroft lowered his umbrella and fished the phone out of his pocket. 2 New Messages, the screen informed him.
Keep Calm and Stop Antagonizing Molly.
She doesn't know.
Mycroft's gaze flickered back to the woman cowering before him, coming to rest on the butterfly brooch on her lapel. He snorted. "And she's wearing a microphone in her new butterfly pin." To the pin, he said, "Tell me where you are."
Buzz. So you can pass it on to the next criminal mastermind?
"So I can help you!" Mycroft snapped, his lips pulling back in almost a snarl. Molly whimpered and tried to melt into the wall behind her.
Buzz. Don't yell at her. When I want your help I will contact you. Now leave.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the phone buzzed again. Leave. Mycroft shot a final glare at the pin, turned on his heel, and marched out.
Without his gaze pinning her in place, Molly slid to the floor and hugged her knees tight to her chest and tried to keep from sobbing right in the middle of the morgue. She was less than successful.
Her own phone beeped.
I'm sorry. Please go see John. He's good at this sort of thing.