If you asked Molly Hooper what her most memorable moment of the past year had been, it would be the time Mycroft Holmes came to her rescue. Not John, whom she would have expected without a doubt, nor Sherlock Holmes (equally so), but Mycroft. The one with his hands in all the governmental pies so to speak and who hated leg-work and therefore sent his little brother on all his unwanted errands. Mycroft Holmes, who was never seen without a starched collar and a pressed suit, an umbrella firmly grasped in hand. He was a posh who disliked dirt and grime and almost always wore a permanent scowl. Molly was fairly certain he could arrest her simply because he didn't like her. Or so she thought.

It was bleak and dreary outside St. Barts that cold February evening, Molly simply wanted to get to her flat and have a hot bath. She didn't worry too often about having to walk home (who could afford cabs these days?) it was two in the morning, nobody noticed the little pathologist scurrying through the ever-growing snow storm. Not until a man grabbed her by the ponytail, yanking her hard onto her back. She felt the air knocked out of her and she gasped, trying to catch a breath enough to scream. She felt herself pulled up, dragged out of the light of the streets, into the abandoned car-park.

"No, no-" Molly croaked, her legs kicking furiously, trying to trip her attacker. Finding purchase she managed to elbow him in the gut, gaining distance as he doubled over, but he proved to have the upper hand. She felt her head strike something, did he trip her, or had he forced her into the wall? She didn't know. She saw the world blur and felt something sticky trickling down her face. She was aware that she was crying, hands fumbling clumsily to keep the man away from her. She'd flung her purse onto the sidewalk as he grabbed her, thinking he was after her wallet. Just as she felt hands on her skirt, the man jerked back, a soft gurgle escaping his lips. Flattened against the freezing cement wall, Molly stared as her attacker dropped to his knees, groaning. Behind him stood a thin, tall, unmistakably posh man brandishing what she had always assumed to be a harmless umbrella. The villain made to stand and face his attacker, but Mycroft struck the back of the villain's head with such force that it ended any altercation before it began.

"Miss Hooper," said the elder Holmes, somewhat winded, though trying rather hard not to show it. He let out a decisive gust of breath. She stared at him, watching him slide the rapier back into the sheath that apparently doubled as an umbrella. He stepped over her attacker quite easily. "Hasn't anyone told you it's dangerous to walk these streets at night? I would have thought your acquaintance with my baby brother would have been enough for you to call a cab, regardless of the expense."

"That's not an umbrella," she managed dumbly. She peeled herself from the wall; Mycroft set the tip of the umbrella down, both hands resting on the bamboo handle. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I think I can see myself home now," her knees wobbled and she felt him catch her. She cleared her throat, trying to smooth down her hair. He coughed, glancing at her skirt, and then at the ground. Her hands shook, fumbling and clumsy as she tried to straighten her skirt and blouse. She was suddenly shocked to see she'd lost a substantial amount of buttons, good heavens; she'd just flashed Mycroft Holmes- good grief! She tried to close her blouse as best she could. Perhaps she was concussed, everything seemed to not want to work properly, her feet scuffed the floor as she tried to turn around and fix her clothes. Suddenly she felt a weight draped over her shoulders, and she turned to see Mycroft placing his overcoat on her.

"My car is here; I will see you to Baker Street. I believe Doctor Watson should have a look at that."

"I'll bleed on it," she murmured, still looking at his overcoat on her small frame. He shrugged.

"Don't concern yourself with it. If Sherlock knew his favorite pathologist was exposed in public and I had not done anything to prevent it I'd never hear the end of it."

Mycroft gave his arm, and did not comment when she stumbled. He helped her into the car, retrieved her discarded purse and then directed the driver where to take them.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, after he'd given his kerchief to wipe her face. He didn't answer her, so she let the question go unanswered. Perhaps he felt it his duty to look after Sherlock's acquaintances.

The car pulled up outside 221b Baker Street and Mycroft stepped out, helping her after him.

"In answer to your question," he poked the doorbell with the tip of his umbrella, ringing it four times at three second increments. "You saved my brother's life. For that you have my eternal thanks." He smiled at her, and Molly had the suspicion he was not used to smiling with real meaning behind it. It came off as eerie and a little wicked. Footsteps on the stairs within could be heard, the hall light flicked on. The inner door, and finally the outer door opened, and John stood there in his pyjamas. He gaped, blinking at Mycroft and then Molly, who seemed barely able to keep herself upright, not to mention the blood trickling down her cheek.

"Oh my God, Molly! What happened?!"

"Man attacked me, John," her speech was slurring more. "Mycroft helped," she paused, frowning. "Helped me I mean, not man who attacked me,"

"I'm afraid Miss Hooper was struck over the head, she'll need to be looked after. I trust you can take care of that, Doctor Watson?" John was already pulling her inside, "Goodnight, Miss Hooper," Mycroft called, already heading back to the car leaving John to wonder as he tended to Molly.

Sherlock of course knew right away who had saved Molly and deposited her at 221b that evening after just one look at Molly (if the overcoat was not enough of an indication). He confronted his brother about it, but Mycroft only smiled at his baby brother, confessing he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. Mycroft smiled to himself. Sherlock would know of course that he had CCTV feeds on all of his acquaintances and friends. Why Mycroft had stepped in at that moment, when his driver easily could have overpowered Molly Hooper's attacker…that was one to puzzle over. Perhaps Mycroft liked to play the hero, just once in a while. Perhaps he felt he owed Miss Hooper some kind of debt for her services to his brother. Whatever the reason, Mycroft found himself fighting the urge to smile as the car pulled away from 221b Baker Street.