"Molly...?"

"Molly, please..."

As far as days went, thus far, this one was complete shit. It had started the same as any other, she woke up, fed Toby, got the Sundays, and sat down for coffee and toast. Molly always liked to read the announcements, enjoying the vicarious romance of others through reading about their dramatic engagements and fairy tale weddings. However, one particular posting caught her eye and the day went downhill from there. Tom Birch, her previous fiance, had successfully wedded a lovely woman from Sussex, where their ceremony had taken place. Seeing as how Molly was the one to break off their engagement, she had thought she'd be happy for him. But instead, she felt wretched. A perfectly good man, who loved and wanted her, and she turned him away... for the most arrogant ass of a man ever to walk the earth.

Sherlock Holmes had been the bane of her existence since the day she met him. But as much as that, he was also a boon. She knew that he truly and deeply cared for her in his own unique way, despite all his pomp and circumstance, but more often than not, Molly was convinced that it wasn't enough. And on a day like today, when she saw a future she could have had now closed to her forever, it was most certainly not.

It was in this cascade of self-pity that she found herself when her phone began to ring. She had been making herself some tea, hours of sobbing had her feeling raw and tired, and she had just taken a moment after putting the kettle on when she heard her mobile behind her. She knew it was him. She didn't know how she knew, other than, of course it fucking was. She turned, glancing at the screen for confirmation before setting about her original task and ignoring the call. She wasn't in the mood for his demands, his manipulations, his insane machinations where she was always a helpless, but willing cog. As selfish and irrational as it was, she felt justified in blaming him for her misery today. She had earned it, after all these years of falling over herself, being tied into knots in order to please him, with no reward for any of it but the occasional smile. She felt equal senses of relief and guilt when the call went to voicemail. Both of which painfully transformed into aggravation when the ringing began anew. Exasperated, and well aware that if she didn't answer his call he'd likely break into her flat with his demands and reproach, she caved.

"Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent? Because I'm not having a good day."

The entire conversation thus far had been an exercise in pain. Without a word of explanation or even salutation, he'd asked for her unquestioning help. Demanding of her the last thing that was hers, and hers alone. Sherlock had asked her to say the words, the words that hung above her every interaction with him. The words whose perpetual silence were the last remaining threads of the emotional tapestry she'd spent her life weaving, that had been slowly unraveling over the years, ever since Sherlock Holmes exploded into her morgue and caught a snag. Now, here he was pulling the strings yet again. There'd be nothing left after this, she felt, she feared, because when those last strands fell she'd be naked, exposed entirely, no longer the cat in the box - both dead and alive. There would be no return from this.

She made him say it first. It seemed like a reasonable, albeit childish, request, seeing as how it was something she felt confident that she would never hear from his lips otherwise and that, the moment she said it, all would be lost. But then, he did say it. "I... I love you." It was forced, but he had tried and she was satisfied, well as much as she could be, all things considered. It was while she was allowing herself the briefest fantasy in the wake of it when he turned everything upside down.

"I love you..." he suddenly breathed and she stopped breathing.

Her head swam. She looked at the phone. Who was she talking to again? Something had changed dramatically from a moment ago, and she wasn't certain she had had anything to do with it. She looked down at the phone, as though she could see his face on the screen. She remembered to breathe. Her heart was pounding in her throat, the words trying to force their way past it.

Quid pro quo. You say it first.

He had.

Her turn.

"Molly?"

His voice hollow and quiet. Her heart was still holding back the words. She could feel them, the pressure building in her chest like a geyser. Lightly, she brushed her fingers against the microphone, as though she were tracing his lips, slowly, reverently, drawing it closer to her mouth.

"Molly, please..." He sounded desperate. Breathless. Afraid.

Why is he afraid?

She was afraid, then. She was suddenly struck with the feeling that she absolutely had to force them out. Push past the pressure and the pain, because Sherlock needed her. He always needs her. Barely breathing, her mouth opens, a pregnant pause as she shudders them through, the words are ash in her throat, "I love you..."

Then nothing.

Silence.

She doesn't know when she comes back to herself.

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

Her eyes are filled with tears and she feels as though she should be angry, furious, broken... but she's not. Molly is very, very confused. Sherlock Holmes can make Molly Hooper feel a great many things. A broad, blinding spectrum of emotions, but never confusion, not like this. She collects herself, looking at her phone.

Something wasn't right. Which meant...

Something was very wrong.