Chapter Text
Back at home Mycroft rolls up his sleeves, glances at the writing on his left forearm— and realizes that Molly Hooper is his soulmate. He traces the words (Who is she?) with his right forefinger, lost in thoughts. It’s a simple deduction, really.
Closing his eyes, he retreats into his mind palace and replays the events of the evening, starting from stepping into the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
“The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here—your home from home.”
Mycroft didn’t even bother with a simple ‘Good evening!’ to acknowledge Miss Hooper’s presence. It was Sherlock who had made an effort to show her some basic courtesy.
“You didn’t need to come in, Molly.”
“That’s okay. Everyone else was busy with ... Christmas,” she answered, her unease palpable behind her words. Miss Hooper was wearing an ugly Christmas sweater (ugly in the sense of ‘someone thought it would be a good idea to put a reindeer on Colin Firth and start a Christmas trend’) under her lab coat but her face wore the traces of recently removed make-up. Obviously, she’d had high hopes for the little gathering at Baker Street that had been ditched by now. Still addressing Sherlock, she gestured to the body, “The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult.” before pulling the sheet down to reveal the face.
“That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Show me the rest of her.”
Miss Hooper pulled back the whole sheet, so Sherlock could get a look along the full length of the body—which resulted in Sherlock walking out of the morgue with a simple “That’s her.”
Before going after him, Mycroft passed a quick “Thank you, Miss Hooper.”
And for the first time that night she turned to him, “Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from ... not her face?”
Too busy with worrying about Sherlock, he chose to ignore her questions and only reacted with an empty, meant-to-be-polite smile.
According to the romantics, his first ever conversation with his soulmate should have been earth-shattering. Life-changing. World-turning. Instead he didn’t even recognize it— and judging by the lack of reaction on Miss Hooper’s part, nor did she. But of course, she had probably heard her share of ‘Thank you, Miss Hooper’ s in her life.
Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, his thoughts swirling in his mind. This discovery came at a really inconvenient time. Not that he had ever felt excited about the prospect of having a soulmate but there used to be a time when he had tried to imagine what kind of a person would ask him ‘Who is she?’ as a conversation starter. He assumed that they might be prone to jealousy, or that they might be interested in a third person (that certain she ) at the time of meeting Mycroft. In a way, he was proven right. Molly Hooper is interested in someone else (namely, Sherlock) and shows signs of jealousy towards Irene Adler (who also happens to be dead, but why would that ever bother a pathologist?).
Constantly worrying about Sherlock and his antics, Mycroft doesn’t feel the need for the complications of a romantic involvement. And he definitely, definitely doesn’t want to compete with his brother for Miss Hooper’s affections. So, the question is, why would the Universe throw at him a soulmate now? Unless, of course…
Half an hour later he is ringing Molly Hooper’s doorbell with a bottle of wine in his hand.
“Mr Holmes,” she stutters in surprise. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
This time Mycroft makes an effort to appear as polite as possible.
“Good evening, Miss Hooper. I apologize for once again disturbing your Christmas Eve but I felt this couldn’t wait.” He pauses, but not for dramatic effect. Well, not entirely. “After careful analysis, I came to the conclusion that we are platonic soulmates. I hope you like red wine.”
“Umm, excuse me?”
Mycroft tries not to show his dissatisfaction. He is used to slow people but he wishes that his soulmate was quicker on the uptake.
“May I come in? I should shed a few layers to explain myself better.”
Miss Hooper blushes at his words and Mycroft reproaches himself for sounding like he wanted to flirt. Way to confuse his very platonic soulmate. However, she gestures him inside, and soon they are standing in the tiny foyer and she is inspecting the words written on his forearm.
“I presume you remember them from earlier this evening.” She nods, her eyes fixed on his arm. “But of course, I might be wrong, so,” he goes on, absolutely sure that he is not wrong, “may I see your words?”
Silently, Miss Hooper pulls down the neck of her sweater, revealing the writing above her collarbone: Thank you, Miss Hooper. Transfixed, Mycroft eyes it for a whole minute, hit by an unexpected wave of greed. He realizes with some surprise that he wants to reach out and touch those words. Touch the proof that he found her, his very own soulmate.
Miss Hooper clears her throat and he lifts his gaze to her face. “I think you should call me Molly.”
Mycroft bows a little. “Only if you will call me Mycroft.”
That earns him a small, shy smile, which is quickly replaced by a frown as she asks, “But why platonic?”
Anticipating the question, Mycroft came prepared with an answer.
“In my current situation in life I’m afraid that I’d be underperforming as a romantic partner. I don’t think I could provide all the necessary gestures of passion that would make you feel loved and happy. Also, I suspect that I’m not your man of dreams either. We didn’t exactly fall head over heels in love tonight at the morgue.” He hopes that Molly doesn’t take it to heart that he isn’t attracted to her. “However, what I can offer you is protection and that I’ll always take care of you.” Although he has just warned Molly against expecting grand gestures from him but now he feels like he should take her hands. Or kneel down and vow friendship like some medieval knight. “I truly believe that we share something rare and special.”
This time Molly’s smile shines brighter and Mycroft wonders when was the last time she got called special.
“I like red wine, thank you.”
Mycroft wonders how little he knows about his soulmate. When Sherlock started frequenting the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s, Mycroft did a basic check on the staff but didn’t interview Molly or anyone else. At that time it simply didn’t seem important. Now he, who likes to arm himself with information, doesn’t even know her wine preferences.
“If you don’t have other plans for tonight,” Molly says, hesitating, clearly knowing that it’s past ten on Christmas Eve, “maybe you could come up and chat?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Mycroft nods, then follows her up the stairs into her flat.