Heartache

SPOILERS! If you haven't seen Season 4 of Sherlock, DO NOT READ! This totally gives away almost the entire ending of the season. DON'T DO IT!

"I love you," Sherlock Holmes breathed out softly, intrigued by the mysterious feeling deep inside him.

Molly Hooper closed her eyes as she clutched the phone to her ear. Sherlock's heart began jumping as Molly hesitated. His eyes moved to the clock counting down in the corner of the television screen. There were only ten seconds left.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked.

Molly looked down at the countertop in front of her. She moved her hand to hover in front of the microphone at the bottom of her phone, as though to prevent anyone from hearing her speak.

Sherlock glanced at the clock again: five seconds…four… He spoke again, begging her. "Molly, please."

Molly's red eyes stared into the void for what felt like forever before she finally took a breath to speak. "I—"

The screen immediately filled with static as the call was cut off. Sherlock looked over at the clock: 0:00.

The entire world froze. There was no little girl on a plane, there was no psychotic sister toying with them, there was no John and Mycroft standing there with him, there was no Sherrinford. Sherlock's entire world had narrowed down to the static now staring him in the face where Molly had once stood and lived. He had known that the clock had been counting down to her death, but he hadn't truly believed it would happen. Of course, Molly would say it in time! Of course, he could be able to save her! But it had happened. She was dead.

Eurus' face suddenly filled the screen. "Well, another one lost."

Sherlock clenched his fists and bowed his head, unable to look at the face of Molly's murderer. He was having a difficult time concentrating on her apathetic voice as a foreign sensation flooded his chest.

"You lost," said Eurus. "Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions. I lost count."

Sherlock closed his eyes in pain, the ache in his chest ratcheting up a notch. His breaths began coming harder as an anger he had never felt before rose within him.

"Emotional context, Sherlock," said Eurus. "It destroys you every time."

Sherlock looked back up at the screen, glaring at it. A flood of hate filled him at the sight of the person who had taken Molly away from him.

Eurus sat casually back in her chair. "Now, please, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy."

The door of the room slid open, revealing their next torture chamber. Sherlock didn't move a single inch; he only had eyes for Eurus.

"In your own time," said Eurus.

The feeling in his chest finally burst, and Sherlock raised the gun, aimed at the screen, and fired a shot straight through the image of his sister's face. He pulled the trigger a few more times, but as the gun had only contained one bullet, it only clicked uselessly a few times. Not satisfied that his anger had not had an adequate outlet, he turned his back on the infernal screen, searching for something to destroy. His eyes fell on the coffin. Molly's coffin. Which was now useless as her body had been blown to hell.

His face contorting in rage, Sherlock stalked forward and swung the gun at the coffin, letting out a yell. The gun in his hand smashed through the head of the coffin, the wood splintering around his skin. He brought his arm down again and again, reducing the coffin to splinters.

When he finally came back to himself from the suffocating cloud around him, he was slumped against the wall, the remains of the coffin scattered on the floor around him. How fitting, that the coffin had shared the same fate as its intended occupant. The gun was lying some ten feet away, having apparently been discarded for his bare hands at some point.

"If someone else had to die, would you really want to do it with your bare hands?" asked Eurus.

Sherlock clenched his fists at the memory, and he winced at the sting there. He glanced down to see that blood was slowly trickling from several scratches and lacerations, the jagged wood having drawn the blood from them. Blood shed for Molly. Molly, who had always had a smile on her face. Molly, who had always had a joke on the tip of her tongue. Molly, who had always seen him through everything. Molly, who suffered through all of his deductions and snide comments. Molly who had always been there for him.

And he had let her down. He had let his enemy take her and destroy her. He had let her die. He had killed her.

A pair of worn shoes stepped into his view, and the person squatted down in front of him. Sherlock's eyes moved up to the person's face, and it wasn't until he was looking at a blurry John that he realized he had been crying. He blinked a couple of times to clear his eyes and found John staring at him in sympathy.

"I am sorry," John told him. "I know it's hard, and I know it hurts. But you have to take that grief and that anger and push it down until later. A little girl's life depends on it."

Sherlock's gaze fell back to the floor, unable to follow the advice. Bottle this up? How?

"Look, I know this is torture—" said John.

Sherlock didn't lift his head. "This isn't torture; this is vivisection. We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats." He breathed out loudly and raised his head to rest it against the wall behind him, gazing upwards.

He could see John nod once. "Then fight back."

Sherlock lowered his head to look at him.

John held his gaze, a soldier's fire in his eyes. "For Molly."

That was it. Those two words triggered the strength in his heart, and he clenched his jaw as the vengeance rose within him.

Sherlock gave a firm nod to his friend. "For Molly."

John stood and held out his hand, which Sherlock took as he pulled himself to his feet. As he did so, he swept a long, sharp piece of wood into his other hand. After all, the gun was useless now. Sherlock took a deep breath and then led the way through the open door into the next room.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, unable to think, unable to care about anything but the friend he had lost this day. He tried to tell himself that, had he been unable to reach the humanity deep inside Eurus, he could have lost John as well, but it did little to comfort him. Molly was still dead.

He glanced down at the scabbed over abrasions on his hands. They were the only thing he had left of Molly, the only reminder that she had been in his life. That, and the memories that he vowed to never let himself forget.

Molly smiled over the recently flogged corpse. "So, bad day, was it?"

"I've seen much worse, but then, I do post-mortems," said Molly with a playful smile.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need—anything at all—you can have me." Molly flinched and looked away briefly. "No, I just mean…I mean, if there's anything you need…" She shook her head. "It's fine."

Molly stood by the door of the lab, staring at him. "What do you need?"

Sherlock stepped closer to her. "You."

Molly opened her locker door, spotting Sherlock in the mirror inside it. Spinning around, she smiled at him.

"Should I be making notes?" asked Molly as she sat next to his chair. "It's just that that's what John says he does, so if I'm being John—"

Sherlock sat down in his chair. "You're not being John—you're being yourself."

Molly smiled proudly.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer of a flat, and instead of a bell, it played a recording of: "Mind the gap. Mind the gap." Molly giggled quietly.

Molly smiled up at him at the foot of the stairs. "I had a lovely day."

Molly stood next to him at Rosie's baptism. "No idea why people think you're incapable of human emotion."

Sherlock gestured towards Molly's hair, desperate to get access to the bodies. "It's good. It, um, suits you better this way."

"Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the front lines, those tired clubber's eyes," Sherlock listed off as he deduced Molly's date to pieces. "Then there's his underwear. Visible above the waistline—very visible, very particular brand." He reached for the metal dish that Moriarty had knocked to the floor. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here—" he showed her the card that had been left under it, "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain." He smiled slightly but then frowned as Molly turned and ran out of the room.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock told her.

Molly gasped quietly. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always."

"And then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville," Sherlock told Molly. "For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation," said Sherlock, not even looking up from his microscope. "It's really not your area."

"I don't count," said Molly.

"Clean?" said Molly, stalking over to Sherlock and slapping him in the face several times. "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you're sorry!"

"Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring," said Sherlock, rubbing at his face.

"Stop it," said Molly angrily. "Just stop it."

Molly's voice got tearful as she spoke. "If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks." She stood up. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, it's not a game!"

"Oh, God," sighed Molly. "Is this one of your stupid games?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" Molly demanded. "Why are you making fun of me?"

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock," said Molly.

"Because it's true, Sherlock," said Molly, starting to cry. "It's always been true."

"Well, if it's true, just say it anyway," said Sherlock emotionlessly.

Molly laughed in disbelief and sighed. "You bastard."

All the pain he had put her through—the manipulations, the deductions, the ruined relationships—and for what? Why had he needed to do it? Molly would surely have helped him if he had just asked nicely. Why had he always resorted to hurting her?

You always hurt the ones you love.

Sherlock's eyes widened in realization and shock.

Sherlock felt a pang in his chest as he realized what he had said to Molly. "I am sorry. Forgive me." Somehow feeling that this was still an inadequate apology, he stepped closer to Molly. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He leaned forward and gently kissed her on the cheek.

"I don't count," said Molly, and Sherlock's heart screamed at this statement, although, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

"You're wrong, you know," said Sherlock, needing her to understand. "You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." He turned and slowly approached her. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—would you still want to help me?"

Molly gazed up at him as he stepped closer to her. "What do you need?"

Sherlock stepped even closer, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. "You."

Molly opened her locker door, spotting Sherlock in the mirror inside it. Spinning around, her face lit up with a smile as Sherlock felt something swell within him at finally getting to see her after two years.

Sherlock stepped closer and spoke softly. "Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible. I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"No?" asked Molly.

"No." Sherlock stepped closer to her, giving her a beautiful smile, and then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, feeling a twinge in his chest. As he turned to head for the door, he was just able to hear her response: "Maybe it's just my type." It made him smile.

"You look…well," said Sherlock, trying to change to subject so he wouldn't insult her. "How's…Tom?"

"Not a sociopath," answered Molly. "And we're having quite a lot of sex."

Sherlock froze, unable to comprehend that statement beyond the strange screaming in his head.

Sherlock nearly gave a laugh or possibly a cheer when Molly jammed her plastic fork down into Meat Dagger's hand.

"You say it," said Molly. "Go on. You say it first. Say it like you mean it."

Sherlock fumbled over the words, knowing it was the only way to save her. "I-I…I love you." Something released inside of his chest, as though a weight had suddenly been lifted. He breathed a breath of fresh air and repeated it. "I love you."

Sherlock closed his eyes in pain, the ache in his chest ratcheting up a notch as he listened to Eurus taunt him over Molly's death.

Sherlock gasped as it all came together. The feeling in his chest from the moment the footage of Molly had been cut off: heartache. He had loved her, actually loved her, and he had never once realized it, had never told her. All that time, lost.

Oh, my God. What have I done?

John Watson was just climbing into bed after his shower to wash away the mud and filth from the well when his mobile phone rang. Sighing from his seat on the edge of the bed, he glanced at the screen to see that it was Mycroft Holmes calling. He hesitated a moment and then picked the phone up from the nightstand, answering it.

"I'm tired, Mycroft, and I have to pick Rosie up in a few hours," John told him. "What do you want?"

"Get to Baker Street, immediately," Mycroft told him in a stern voice.

"What, why?" asked John.

"Molly's alive," Mycroft told him.

John's jaw dropped, unable to believe it. "What?"

"My people went to retrieve her body, but her flat was perfectly fine," Mycroft told him. "Eurus played us. She's alive."

There was a rustle over the phone before another voice spoke.

"I am, John," came Molly's voice. "I'm alive."

"Molly?" asked John, but she was already gone.

"Get to Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Tell him she's alive."

"Haven't you tried his phone?" John asked as he scrambled to change one-handed.

"He's not answering," replied Mycroft. "John, you know what happened the last time he lost a friend."

He did remember: Sherlock had almost killed himself with drugs. And while it had all been a plan to help John, he was sure some of it had been real grief for Mary. And it was definitely too soon after that incident for him to relapse even once.

"Got it," said John. "On my way."

"As are we," said Mycroft, hanging up.

John finished hurriedly getting the rest of his clothes on and darted out the door, hailing a cab as he reached the street.

"221B Baker Street," John called as he dialed Sherlock's number and waited. "Come on, come on, pick up." The phone finished ringing and went to voicemail. "Dammit."

Please don't get to the drugs before I get there, John silently begged.

When they reached Baker Street, John threw the fare up to the cabbie and hurried to the door, unlocking it and rushing inside.

"Sherlock!" John called, pounding up the stairs. "Sherlock, you all right?" He turned at the landing and went up the last of the steps. "Sherlock, answer me!" He pushed open the flat's door and breathed out a sigh of relief.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his back against the coffee table as he stared at the fireplace. His legs were drawn up to his chest, and his left hand was clenched in the fabric of his trousers, his knuckles white. But, there was no sign of a needle anywhere, and Sherlock was not one to clean up after shooting up.

"Thank God," said John from the doorway.

Sherlock had not moved an inch since John had arrived, which was understandable. Sherlock thought he'd just lost a friend; obviously, he was still grieving. Oddly enough, though, Sherlock seemed tense, like every muscle in his body was prepared to spring into action.

"Listen, there's something I need to tell you," said John, moving over towards his armchair and turning to sit down. "Mycroft called, and—" He froze, every ounce of breath leaving him in an instant as he saw the reason for Sherlock's tension.

Sherlock's right arm was raised up next to him and in it was a gun. John had just walked in on Sherlock Holmes pointing a gun at his own head.

John's jaw dropped, his voice nearly a whisper. "Sherlock…"

"Leave, John," said Sherlock in a low, shaky tone. He was so tense that he was trembling, his gun hand wavering next to his head. He was staring into the fire, refusing to look at him. "Please just leave."

"Sherlock—" began John, raising his hands and taking slow steps into the space in between their armchairs, "don't do this."

"Please go," whispered Sherlock, clenching his eyes shut.

John lowered himself to the floor, kneeling in Sherlock's line of sight. "Sherlock, you need to listen to me—"

"I killed her," Sherlock whispered.

John frowned. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes opened, but he was staring at the floor now. "I killed her. If it wasn't for me, she'd still be alive."

John's frown disappeared when he realized what he was talking about. "Sherlock, she isn't—"

"Why didn't I see it before?" Sherlock muttered, and John wasn't sure if he was talking to him or to himself. "All this time…I couldn't see it."

"See what?" asked John.

Sherlock raised his gaze to look at John. "I loved her." Tears fell from his eyes, which looked so lost that it took John's breath away. "And now, she's gone." His eyes fell to the floor again. "And it's all my fault. I killed her." He clenched his eyes closed, tightening his grip on the gun.

"No, no, wait!" John told him, easing forward a couple of inches but not daring to approach a suicidal person. "She's alive, Sherlock! She's alive!"

Sherlock kept his eyes shut tight, breathing sharply. "Get out, John. Get out before I get you killed, too."

"We never saw the actual explosion, did we?" John told him quickly. "Eurus cut the feed off to mess with you. She's alive."

Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to believe it.

"Mycroft called me," said John. "I heard her voice. She's alive. She's on her way here. Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and looked up at John, his brows drawn together in indecision.

"She is alive," said John firmly. "I swear it. She is alive."

Sherlock stared at him a moment before the gun slowly moved away from his head. "Alive…"

John nodded, holding his gaze. "Alive."

Sherlock let the gun fall to his side. "You're certain?"

"Positive," John told him.

The front door downstairs opened and closed, and Sherlock's head moved in that direction, his entire body tense again—not with angst and fear, but with barely contained hope.

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice called up the stairs.

Sherlock's jaw dropped as his eyes widened almost in disbelief. "Molly…" He dropped the gun on the floor and pushed himself to his feet, rushing the few steps to the door and stopping, his hands on the doorjamb either side of him.

Molly was hurrying up the stairs, pausing at the top when she saw him.

Sherlock stared at her, his whole face lighting up. "Molly." He strode forward and met her in the middle of the landing, enveloping her in his arms.

Surprised by the fierceness of the hug, Molly wrapped her own arms slowly around him, trying to calm him down.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock told her. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh," Molly told him, running her hands over his back to soothe him.

"I never meant for you to get pulled in to all of this," Sherlock told her. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," Molly whispered.

John, who had stood and moved to where he could see out onto the landing, glanced over as Mycroft, who had apparently entered the flat through the kitchen door, stepped through to the sitting room and joined him. John held up his hand to stop him from saying anything and looked back at his friends.

"I love you," said Sherlock suddenly.

Molly's arms froze in their movements, and she frowned. "What?"

Sherlock pulled back, looking her in the face. "I love you. And I am so sorry that it took me this long to see it."

Molly's brows drew together as she reached up, no doubt wiping the tears from his face. She smiled at him and pushed herself up onto her toes, giving him a kiss. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her again, kissing her for another minute before hugging her close once more.

"He seemed rather shaken from her death," stated Mycroft and was silent another moment. "How close was it?"

John hesitated a moment before simply holding up the gun he had picked up from the floor. "I reckon if I'd been just five seconds later, he'd have pulled the trigger." He glanced at Mycroft, who was staring at the gun in mild alarm. He lowered his hand and looked back at the embrace in the hallway.

No matter what had finally snapped Sherlock's heart into action, John was beyond grateful that it finally had. And he was sure Sherlock and Molly were as well.

THE END

For those of you who are wondering, the scenes after the Molly's Coffin room with the resolution of Eurus' "game" played out exactly the same way, except for small changes. Obviously, since Sherlock used up the bullet by shooting the screen, he was supposed to kill John or Mycroft with the shard of wood he had picked up in the coffin room. Instead, he chose to stab himself, and the rest is history. And, yes, Sherlock did still "save" Eurus at Musgrave. But this time, it wasn't because she was his sister and in pain (and 'cause he wanted to save John). Eurus had killed Molly (or so he believed), so he hated her. However, he knew that if he didn't try to befriend her, John would die, and he couldn't have that.