Sherlock is deducing out loud, but Mycroft puts it together first.

Molly Hooper.

Without a word, with hardly a thought, he crosses the room towards the coffin lid, praying for what might be the first time in his life. Not her. Not her name, anyone but her—

It is not her name; it is worse.

Listening to Sherlock's deductions is unbearable; he doesn't see because he doesn't want to see.

Caring is not an advantage.

"Or we could just look at the name on the lid." Mycroft spins it round, holding it like a shield between his brother and his heart, for Sherlock holds the fatal arrow, even if he hasn't realized it yet … for either of them.

"Somebody who loves somebody?" Watson asks.

As Sherlock always says, he sees but does not observe.

"Somebody who loves Sherlock." But not me. "This is all about you, everything here."

Why? Why is everything, always, about him?

"Irene Adler?"

Mycroft ignores why Watson thinks a woman long dead is in need of a coffin. As it is, he feels more like vomiting than he did when the governor died, and it's all he can manage to keep his emotions hidden. He rather suspects if Sherlock were not so affected, they would not be hidden at all.

"Unmarried, practical about death, alone…."

Watson sees it now. "Molly."

But all Mycroft sees is Eurus: Eurus refusing to tell where Victor Trevor is, Eurus threatening little Sherlock. Eurus's brilliance, her pathology, her utter genius in using Molly Hooper, for she is Sherlock's greatest weakness, far more so than any drug could ever be.

Mycroft has known it for a long, long time.

Euros is talking now, explaining her rules for this "game," and as Mycroft hears them—of course she doesn't have explosives in the flat, she can't possibly have explosives in Dr. Hooper's flat—even at Baker Street she flew them in by drone, and Molly—Dr. Hooper—

(His brain is isolating, compartmentalizing, protecting itself from the blow to come, so well-trained in the process it doesn't need his conscious will to do so)

But Euros has always been unpredictable, half-a-dozen steps ahead, and if Mycroft is wrong….

Damn.

She is still talking, and the same training that processes speech while his thoughts run along a different track keeps the swear word out of his mouth as his sister reveals the seemingly limitless depth of her depravity yet again. Sherlock does not have to reveal his feelings; he must manipulate Dr. Hooper into revealing hers.

Damn, damn, damn.

For not only does Molly Hooper love Sherlock Holmes, but now Mycroft must stand here, listen, and watch as Molly Hooper admits she loves Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock—Sherlock loves her, she is his emotional Achilles heel, and Mycroft knows better than anyone that Sherlock and emotions do not mix. Eurus knows it too, she has been testing him since the beginning, escalating with every puzzle, every room, until they arrived here—the one place, the one pressure point, the only crack where you can drive one wedge and shatter both Holmes brothers.

Mycroft watches with baited breath as Molly turns away from the sink at the first ring, but she ignores the call when she sees whom it's from. Sherlock's arrogant confusion at her refusal to answer makes Mycroft's fists clench. Sherlock has her but takes her for granted, assumes she'll always be there, always forgive him, always love him.

Maybe not after today.

The thought gives no comfort at all, for surely if she cannot forgive Sherlock, she will not forgive Mycroft his much more damning role in this debacle either.

Molly continues to ignore the call and Mycroft turns away, his desire to know what happened between her and Sherlock in that ambulance climbing with every unanswered ring. Eurus disconnects before Sherlock has to come up with a convincing message. She redials and the tension rachets up, all three men well aware of the time wasted. Under his breath, Watson urges Molly to "pick up, just bloody pick up!"

It is pointless, stupid, but they cannot save her life if she doesn't answer the phone.

More unconscious brainwork as Mycroft finds himself analyzing her automatically. Slicing lemons with a steaming mug nearby; making tea, and with that amount of lemon, for a sore throat or cough. She is wearing a brightly striped jumper and jeans, her ponytail sloppier than the tightly slicked-back one she uses when working. She looks more than under the weather; her expression is tight and pinched, her posture defeated, and Mycroft suddenly remembers another medicinal use for lemon….

When she dries her hands on a yellow (of course) towel the deductions stop abruptly; this conversation is too important to multi-task. Hand to face, Mycroft chews unobtrusively on his cuticles.

"Hello, Sherlock, is this urgent? Because I've not had a good day."

"Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why."

She sighs impatiently. "Oh, God, is this one of your stupid games?"

Mycroft can't help the twitch of his lips; she knows Sherlock well.

"No, it's not a game. I … need you to help me."

"Look, I'm not at the lab."

"It's not about that."

"Well, quickly then." Another sigh. "Sherlock?"

She really is impatient; as impatient as Mycroft has ever seen her. In a blink, Molly and her kitchen are replaced by a close-up of Moriarty chanting "tick-tock, tick-tock!" Eurus's deploy of psychological torture techniques is almost admirable.

Perhaps if they weren't directed at him.

Sherlock makes the request directly. But Molly is no longer the morgue mouse and wastes no time in telling him off, obviously about to hang up. Mycroft gasps and Sherlock panics, reaching towards the screen as if she can see him, and Eurus, mechanically calm, reminds Sherlock of the rules.

Molly must not know her life is in danger; must not know there is any urgency at all.

But there are only sixty-eight precious seconds on the clock, and as gratifying as it would normally be to hear someone else berating his little brother, Mycroft wishes Molly would just shut up.

Sherlock tries again but only insults her further. Mycroft stares at his shoes as his brother insists he and Molly are friends, irrationally jealous of the ease with which that word rolls off Sherlock's tongue now.

I'm not lonely, Sherlock.

How would you know?

And now she is begging, begging Sherlock not to hurt her, and Mycroft doesn't know which is more painful … Molly's vulnerability or Sherlock's obliviousness. Moriarty again, and Mycroft crosses his arms and steels himself for the inevitable. Either way—whether she says it or not—this is going to hurt.

But not the way Mycroft expects. With the pluck and grit that enable her to remain cheerful and kind in the face of death, Molly flips the tables and demands he say it first. Eurus announces the final thirty seconds, and Mycroft's mouth drops open in horror, certain all is lost. Sherlock will never say it—maybe given more time, time to absorb the idea and pass it off as a flirtation, he could fake it but—

"I love you." Then again, "I love you."

Holding the phone with both hands, Molly brings it in front of her face, to her mouth, as if to kiss it. Kiss him.

But she is heart-stoppingly, paralyzingly silent.

Sherlock calls her name once … twice … and Mycroft's fear expands, not just for Molly, but for Sherlock. If she doesn't say it—if Sherlock confesses what he has always refused to admit and she still doesn't say it—

Well. There will be no bringing his brother back from that fall.

Less than ten seconds now, and Mycroft steps forward—to do what, he has no idea. And then the words are barely out of her mouth when the timer beeps.

A collective whoosh of breath from all three men, and Mycroft drops his arms, head back. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that she said it to Sherlock, and not to him; it doesn't matter that Mycroft's limbs have turned to water, his insides to jelly.

For she is safe, and that is all that matters.

()()()()

Sherlock has his face in his hands, and Mycroft steps forward to comfort him. To thank him.

"Sherlock, however hard that was—"

But Sherlock pays no attention. He turns to Eurus, insists he won and demands his prize. She looks confused … puzzled, and Mycroft has a twinge of foreboding. This isn't over yet.

She explains the other layer to the game. (There's always another layer with Eurus.) Mycroft turns away from her face on the screen, away from Sherlock. He was right; there were no bombs in Molly's flat. (Yes, Molly. After witnessing the bravery of her transparency just moments ago, Mycroft owes her the courtesy of first-name familiarity. She asked it of him long ago.) It was too big of a risk to take, to assume Eurus was bluffing and refuse to play the game … but Sherlock fell for it without question.

He always did let his emotions rule his head.

Mycroft can't face his brother's reaction right now, needs just a minute (why can nobody ever give him just one minute for himself?) before he tries to limit the damage, to pick up the pieces. Sherlock will implode—all that emotion, all that honesty, all for nothing. After Victor disappeared, Mycroft had tried—oh, how he had tried!—to teach him. All lives end; all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

But sometimes it's not voluntary, either.

Eurus twists the knife, digging at Sherlock's sore spots, at Molly's, then abruptly directs them on, and a door in the far wall opens.

Only John is behind him as they move into the next room, and Mycroft turns, intending to chivvy his brother along. He stops when he sees Sherlock's hand on the coffin, stroking it as if it were her face.

The sentimental gesture gives Mycroft the same sense of foreboding as Eurus's puzzlement, but before he can act on it, Sherlock turns and drives his fist into the coffin lid with such force that the fittings bounce out of their holes and the wood splinters. He hits it again and again, picking it up and throwing it when it doesn't shred fast enough for him, beating pieces against the supports, smashing it to smithereens. It is a luxury Mycroft doesn't have, all this messy release of emotion, this cathartic energy.

No one knows he cares for Molly Hooper and no one ever can, least of all Eurus. She has been focused on Sherlock, and hopefully (since when did he, Mycroft Holmes, resort to hope?) any emotion he has displayed will be attributed to his general humanity or his love for Sherlock. Despite his treatment of her, Eurus has never considered him the Ice Man. She knows him too well.

So Mycroft leans against the doorway, arms crossed and mask on, waiting for Sherlock to calm down. Carefully watching as Watson gives the lecture Mycroft cannot. Silently agreeing as Sherlock describes their sister's game as "vivisection." As the former army doctor pulls his brother from the floor and the two agree to carry on as soldiers, Mycroft marvels, not for the first time, at the immense dedication and self-sacrifice exhibited by members of the armed forces. It is a duty and a responsibility that never completely ends, even when their service is over.

Mycroft uses it as inspiration for what comes next.