As soon as he was declared physically unharmed by those deployed to Sherrinford to let him out, Mycroft went directly to Molly Hooper's house, calling Greg Lestrade on the way. He knew his brother wouldn't – couldn't go yet, and she deserved to know why she had been put through that ordeal. He probably should have faced his parents, but that could wait until he'd spoken to Sherlock, who would need time to decompress from the horrors he was about to unearth, so naturally he found himself doing the next logical thing, fixing loose ends. Molly needed the thing that Eurus had spent all those hours torturing them with: context. Sherlock needed her in his life, and without intervention there was little chance that she would be able to reconcile with him. He'd known for years that there was something between the two, and it had taken a metaphorical gun to his brother's head to make him realise it. The swarm of repressed emotions would take time to settle, but he couldn't let Sherlock lose Molly, not like this.

He knocked lightly, it was almost midnight after all, and was relieved to hear her fumbling with the chain on the other side of the door. A bleary, red-eyed pathologist stood in front of him, her face gaunt, her jaw set firm in irritation, but she moved aside to let him in. There was no greeting, no offer of tea, or some of her lovely cakes that she usually had on hand for visitors.

"You know why I'm here," He said, a tired but blunt statement.

"Is he alive?" Molly asked tentatively, taking in the dishevelled state of the usually immaculate man.

"Yes," He replied, a slight furrow in his brow, there should have been no indication that anyone was in any danger.

"I'm not stupid, Mycroft, the explosion at Baker Street, that horrid phone call, your loosened tie, the bloody time! Something has happened. Tell me." She demanded quietly, ready to leave the room at the faintest whiff of bullshit

"This is a very delicate family matter-" he began in his politician's voice, trying to keep a grasp on something he could consider normality, but the glare he received told him it was best to change tac. "We, my brother and I, have a younger sister. Her name is Eurus, and she has been in a high security facility for almost thirty years after killing Sherlock's best friend, and setting our childhood home alight. She was only 6 years old at the time. In exchange for her help with certain matters, I would give her treats, one year it was a violin, five years ago it was a meeting with Mr Moriarty. Unsupervised. She was behind the phone call you received today. She was giving Sherlock, myself and Dr Watson a series of trials to explore emotion and morality in context, and your call was one of these. The three of us were in a room with a coffin, one built specifically for Sherlock to deduce you from. Instead of a name, the placard on the lid simply read 'I love you', and we were all under the impression that unless he got you to say those words without alerting you to any signs of peril, she would detonate explosives in your house. Once the conversation was over, we were instructed to move on to the next room, but Sherlock didn't. He destroyed the coffin. I have never seen him in such a rage. Regardless of the situation, he cares for you Dr Hooper, please remember that should he come to call, and even more so if he doesn't. He didn't know he had a sister until two days ago, or that his best friend from childhood was murdered, he only discovered that a mere hour ago. Please be gentle with him." Mycroft told the story quietly, not omitting anything for her own sake, and stood up to leave.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Molly asked quietly, trying to process the information she'd just been given. Mycroft nodded and the two shared a pot of Earl Grey in companionable silence, Molly thinking over what had been said, and Mycroft enjoying the silence, before the inevitable fallout kept him busy for months. Upon finishing his cup, he thanked her for her hospitality and made his way to the door.

"If he contacts you, please at least hear him out. If he doesn't contact you within the next week or so, please let me know." He asked quietly, one foot out of the door. She nodded, words not forthcoming, and waved him off.

Sherlock and John were sat with Greg Lestrade and Lady Smallwood, recounting the events of the day briefly, with little emotion. Until he had discussed it with his brother, Sherlock had to make sure that the five murders and threat to Molly's life were to remain without any detail.

"You should go and see Molly, check if there are any explosives or recording devices in her house," Greg remarked casually as they were leaving the government building, John gave him a cautioning look, but Greg continued undeterred, "Besides, your brother is there, and I need to pick him up, so I could drop you off at the same time."

Sherlock nodded in assent, not saying a word, he would have to deal with this at some point, so why not now. John accompanied them as far as Mrs Hudson's alternative living arrangements, where he would pick up Rosie and get a cab home. The journey was spent in silence, until John's parting words to Sherlock, to tell her the truth. It was vague enough that Lestrade would think that John was simply scolding him, and making sure Molly was kept in the loop, but strong enough for the consulting detective to understand the weight behind those words. Tell her the truth, or she may never speak to you again. Mycroft was waiting on the pavement outside her house, hands in his pockets, looking exhausted.

"Sherlock, she thought you were dead," The elder brother said softly to the younger, as he passed without looking at him. Sherlock stopped, nodded, and continued to her front door. He watched Mycroft and Greg drive off, before turning back to the front door and knocking lightly.

"You've been crying," He said softly, unsure as to how to start this conversation

"No shit, Sherlock." She snapped, her relief at his continued existence replaced by anger at her humiliation at his hands. Her anger quickly ebbed however, as she remembered what Mycroft had told her, and worry set in. "Sorry," she said quietly, stepping aside so her could enter her home.

"No. What I made you do was inexcusable." He said just as quietly, eyes fixed on the floor, fists balled by his sides.

"Mycroft told me why. Come in, I'll make coffee," She sighed, this was going to be a long night. She took two steps towards her kitchen before turning around again; he wasn't following. He stood still, trembling slightly, on her doorstep. She made her way back to the door tentatively, two steps becoming four, and looked at him closely, there were scratches and bruises on his hands, as if he'd punched a door. She remembered back to her conversation with Mycroft, those wounds weren't from a door, they were from the coffin, her coffin. She was torn, her heart both bled for him and was broken by him. He could have found another way to get those words, a poem, a song lyric, anything other than making her say it outright. She'd made him say it first out of spite and hope, and now with the context Mycroft had given her, felt both justified and regretful. It was a strange dichotomy of feelings to have, but loving a man like Sherlock Holmes was never going to be easy. She could shout at him later, right now, he looked like he needed a bath and a stiff drink.