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Molly: mousy pathologist with a penchant for loving the wrong sorts of guys. Let's face it, her last boyfriend was a criminal mastermind pretending to be gay pretending to be straight in order to get closer to Sherlock. Her last boyfriend was essentially dating her for another man. Way to kill a woman's ego.
But the sweet, squeaky little Molly wasn't quite what anyone expected. Yes, she was mousy, nervous, a bit morbid in a bizarrely saccharine way, but she was so much more than that. She took pride in her work, and she did it well. She was dazzlingly bright, even if certain consulting detectives could leave her in a pile of inarticulate mush on the floor. Sometimes, though, she was able to cut right through the swaths of ego and genius and aloofness and dig right into the heart she knew he had. Molly Hooper was frighteningly perceptive sometimes, which made her a valuable asset.
After she and Sherlock meticulously planned his fake suicide (in less than six hours, mind you), after she helped him to recover from the emotional and physical pain as best she could, after she stoically nodded in response to Moriarty's death (secretly sagging with relief), Molly began the difficult work of being Sherlock Holmes's eyes and ears.
She checked up on John as often as she could manage. It was wretched, seeing him so distraught over his friend's supposed death. The limp had come back with a vengeance. He hardly slept, for fear of nightmares, terrible flashes of memory that were so much worse than anything Afghanistan could throw his way. He was thinking of leaving Baker Street.
She started a friendship with Greg, and found herself enjoying his company more than she would have thought likely. During their occasional meetings, he told her about his day and she read little bits and pieces in his countenance and between the lines. He resented many of the officers at NSY fiercely, passionately. He spoke of Sherlock like he was a martyr, which was especially touching, since he had no idea. He was wistful and nostalgic for a good friend, a good man.
Mycroft was another story altogether. She wasn't watching him or anything of the sort. No, with him, she became Sherlock's messenger.
On that gloomy afternoon, her first day off in ages, she was sent to the Diogenes Club with a mission, a letter, and a piece of cake. It took her twenty minutes of stammering (which slowly evolved into a clear, raised voice), flashing of various forms of ID, and subtle lying to get in at all, let alone find the vast and stuffy office the detective's brother was in. He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows in surprise. But she knew better: he'd definitely seen her in the CCTV. His surprise was a courtesy for her, but it was a joke.
"Good afternoon, Miss Hooper," he said in that precisely plummy tone of his. He put down the file he was studying and folded his hands on the desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Um, if you're not too busy..." She raised the small plastic box, drawing his attention to the piece of cake. Now he was crooking only one eyebrow. He waved to the seat on the other side of the desk in a gracefully calculated manner.
"Please, sit."
She took the seat gratefully. It would be easier to tell him what he needed to know this way. Gently, she placed the cake on the desk, and then slid the letter beside it, just as Sherlock had instructed. Mycroft Holmes's eyebrows were currently knitted together in open confusion, an expression she doubted he ever showed.
"You--you need to read it," she mumbled. She blinked a few times, owlishly, before sitting up straighter. No need to be nervous, she reminded herself. This is his brother. He needed to know, and she needed to be the one to tell him. It was all in the plan, the one that Sherlock had trusted her with. She would walk the Earth for him if he needed it. She would do anything.
Slowly, the man's hand reached out to take the letter. Using a lethally sharp letter-opener, he slit the envelope open and slid out the admission. Or perhaps it was a confession.
It took him ten minutes to read it twice. Within the first two seconds, his eyes flashed from sorrow to rage to confusion to...resignation? Molly wasn't quite sure what it was, but it wasn't any of the first three, and it certainly wasn't happiness. She watched his face morph slowly to showcase each emotion as he read on. Sometimes, there was a sort of fond annoyance as he read what was doubtlessly a dig at his weight or his job. Once it was a sort of bitter glee as he read something sweet, or funny, or both. Maybe it was a happy story from their childhood, something that only Sherlock would remember, something he had included to both comfort his brother and to prove his own survival.
Mycroft did not cry. He did not shout, or tear the letter up, or smile, or anything. His fingers had tightened convulsively, creasing the paper slightly, and the corners of his mouth had curled downward sharply, but the only real shows of emotion were in his eyes.
When he finished reading, he folded the letter neatly, slid it back into the envelope, and put it back on the desk. He inhaled deeply, eyes trained on the ecru paper, before looking back at Molly.
"I will help him in any way possible," he said after a few long, tired moments. His eyes flashed again, with something akin to determination. His mouth set stolidly. "Take me to him."