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Many things had changed and gone topsy-turvy since The Fall, but one thing remained absolutely constant.
Molly reported to Mycroft twice a week so she could stay caught up on Sherlock's life, at least in the vague terms his brother offered. It wasn't necessary, really, but she needed it. She needed to know how Sherlock--Linus--was coping without, well, anything. No John, no violin, no London.
He must be going mad, she thought.
Mycroft, in turn, passed messages to Sherlock for her. Information about John and NSY and everything. She was certain that Mycroft was passing on information about her, but what did she mind? Surely he missed her as well, as a feature of London, as stationary and integrated into the landscape as Big Ben. She doubted that he missed her as much of a friend. He'd barely said goodbye.
It didn't bother her, though, it really didn't.
It didn't.
Over the weeks, she and Mycroft slowly warmed up to each other. Not significantly, of course, but enough that she felt comfortable asking him little things like how his day was going. He asked about how work was, she asked how the antique Ming vase restoration was going, and slowly they became the unthinkable: friends.
Yes, it was strange to everyone. It probably spoke volumes about Molly's quiet charm that any of this happened. Mycroft was a man that did not have friends. It was as impossible as, say, defying gravity. It just didn't happen. Except it did.
It wasn't a profound friendship, by any stretch, but it existed. It was a solid foundation for them to rest their weary selves. The only rock in either of their lives, now so unsteady because of Sherlock. They did little more than chat quietly over tea in his office, but from time to time, Mycroft would use his strange CCTV powers to make her day a little better. Forgot lunch? No problem, here's a sandwich in the fridge with Molly's name on it. Missed the bus? Worry not, there's a black car waiting for her. Small, easy things.
In return, Molly listened quietly and faithfully whenever Mycroft spoke about anything even remotely personal. He told her about his childhood with Sherlock, his reasons for going into politics, his opinions on bespoke vs. ready-to-wear suits.
There was no telling if this friendship might live when Sherlock returned from the grave, but for now, neither party minded. It made them feel anchored. She got on well with Mycroft's PA, Anthea, which was especially nice. Everyone called him the Ice Man, and he did have a chilly demeanor, but she had seen him speak with sincerity and warmth. She had seen him laugh, well, not heartily, but with heart. He was covered in a thin layer of ice, but he wasn't made of it.
It was a friendship born of necessity, but borne with grateful hands. It was a place to rest their weary heads.