Wrote this maybe a day or two after "The Final Problem" aired, originally published it on Tumblr. I meant to add it here immediately after, but… life happened. In any case, here it is! Inspired by the pictures on Tumblr of Molly's flat. They say it's a flat, but it looks more like a townhouse (which might still be considered a flat in England, I don't know, I'm American). Seriously, check it out on my blog. Gorgeous. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my log on the post-TFP fire!

He was shaking.

Sherlock Holmes was noticeably, uncontrollably shaking.

That, in and of itself, gave him pause. He never shook, not unless he was high. Sherlock had always prided himself on his ability to stay calm, detached, and steady in the face of adversity. And yet, for the second time in one day, his frame trembled with emotion. Which one, specifically, caused the trembling, he couldn't say. Perhaps it was all of them together, the overwhelming combination.

This lead to another startling realization, one of countless made today.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't just shaking.

He was shaken.

Moving slowly, taking great care in his unsteady state, he approached the home of the person he simultaneously most and least wanted to see. For the most part, her flat was dark, but behind the drawn curtains of the room he knew to be her bedroom, he could just make out a soft, yellow glow. Still not asleep, despite the late hour. He struggled to determine whether he was relieved or disappointed. Either way, he still trembled.

With a shuddering breath, he pressed the doorbell. His finger clumsily slid to one side after the shortest ring he'd ever heard, and he tried again. His hand was more cooperative, but only just. It also hurt, he noted dimly, but he paid no mind to that. After the second ring, it fell to his side, and he waited. He fought the urge to peer through the frosted glass in the door, and hoped she wouldn't turn around the moment she recognized his form through the same windows. He counted every breath — inhale, exhale — as he waited for her answer. Seventeen breaths later, the lock clicked, and his throat closed. He watched the doorknob jiggle slightly, just before the door cracked open.

Tear stains lined ruddy cheeks and her eyes appeared hollow, lifeless, fixed on his scarf rather than his face. She looked broken.

Look what you did to her.

Euros' words taunted him, and he nearly lost his nerve. Every muscle tightened as he forced himself to stay put. His breathing pattern became quick and erratic, but he managed to calm it in only a few seconds — not long enough to be of notice. Or so he thought. In the space of those few seconds, Molly's eyes finally flicked up to meet his, flashing in concern, her brow creased with worry. He must look terrible.

"Sherlock?"

That tiny, whispering voice was his undoing. A strangled sob escaped his throat, and hot tears blurred his vision. He quickly took told of the door jamb with both hands in order to support his weight, just moments before his knees gave out. It wasn't enough. He felt gravity's unrelenting pull, and could do nothing but succumb, humiliating though it was sure to be.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock!"

Her small arm shot around his waist, and to his surprise, she easily supported him, guiding him inside and into the dining room. Stronger than she looks. Ah, but isn't that just Molly? He chuckled at his own train of thought.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked tiredly.

"You're strong," he rasped out.

She let out a short huff. "And that's funny, is it?"

"Not funny, exactly."

"Sit," she ordered, and he promptly obeyed, collapsing onto one of the dining chairs. As he did, he spotted her kitchen, and he flinched, slamming his eyes shut against the memory. Of course, this proved counterproductive, as the actual memory flashed behind his closed eyelids, in all-too-vivid detail. Almost as quickly as he had shut them, he opened his eyes, seeking Molly out. She watched him with a mixture of annoyance, vulnerability, and worry. Even now, she could still worry about him. How? Why?

Because it's true.

"Sherlock, what happened to your hands?"

He glanced down at the appendages, bandaged and bruised and raw. He had counted thirty-eight splinters as he removed them — an impressive number, but he'd had far worse injuries. "I… had a run-in with a coffin."

"A… coffin?"

He swallowed thickly, eyes still on his hands. Gathering the tattered shreds of what remained of his courage, he whispered, "A coffin meant for you."

Molly gasped quietly and stepped back. "What?"

Sherlock looked at her carefully. "Will you allow me to explain what happened?"

Without hesitation, she sat in the chair beside him, and waited. He explained everything, beginning with the (rather cruel, he admitted) practical joke on Mycroft, leading up to the coffin. Here he paused, looking to her for a reaction. Clearly, she had practiced keeping her expression clear of emotion, but he doubted it would last, considering what was yet to come.

"So… it was supposed to be mine?"

He nodded once. "It was the right size for your frame, had a sensible and old-fashioned design… and an inscription on the lid." Swallowing again, he tried very hard to ignore the continuous trembling, and the urge to look anywhere but at her face. He had to see her reaction. "It read… 'I love you."

Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and her breath quickened. "Oh."

"Euros led me to believe there were explosives, though she later revealed there were none, set to explode here… unless I could get you to say the release code within three minutes."

Sharp as ever, Molly understood immediately. Her eyes grew hard, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. "You might have said," she muttered.

"She threatened to end your life if I did," he explained. "I couldn't reveal anything, I just had to make you say it."

Molly looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "Well, good work. Solved another one, saved my life."

"There were never any explosives, remember?" he sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Their chairs now faced each other, and this action put his face within a foot of hers. She backed away almost imperceptibly, her guard instantly up. "It was never really about saving you."

Her brows pulled together in a frown. "Then what was it about?"

"Me," he admitted in a low voice. "Getting me to say it. Forcing me to acknowledge my… feelings."

Her lips trembled, and she shook her head, her eyes falling closed. "What… what are you saying?"

Sherlock placed his bandaged hands over hers, and immediately, the shaking stopped. His body stilled, his mind calmed, and his perspective cleared. Molly Hooper was alive, she was safe, and she was right in front of him. And he had something important to say to her.

"Mycroft got it wrong," he said calmly. "He deduced that the inscription meant it was someone who loved me. But in reality…" he trailed off, even now struggling with the words. "In reality… it's true," he finished, referencing her own reluctance to say it, and fully aware of the cop-out. Coward, John's voice reprimanded.

Eyes glistening, she let out a short, breathless laugh. "No," she shook her head, and for a moment, Sherlock was afraid she didn't believe him. But the smile remained on her face, and she, too, leaned closer. Close enough for him to smell the mint toothpaste she had used. Close enough to see every laugh line and every light freckle on her face. Close enough for his heart to beat significantly faster.

"That's not good enough, Sherlock," she whispered. "You have to say it."

He hesitated, only a moment, rallying his strength. And he felt it, seeping through his fingertips, straight from the source. From the woman who had always been his strength.

"Molly Hooper," he murmured with reverence, opening his heart and letting her see it. "I love you."

She choked out a watery laugh, and Sherlock smiled in return. Molly slid one hand out from underneath his, resting it against the side of his face, and said through her tears, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

They moved in tandem, reaching for each other and pressing their lips together. It was slow in its passion, as if they were savoring each other. Sherlock deftly removed the bandages — they weren't really necessary, after all, just a precaution meant to appease John — and skimmed his bare fingers lightly along the skin of her face, her neck, trailing down her spine, and finally pausing on her hips. His fingers itched to curl around the hem of her vibrant jumper and fling the silly thing off, but he waited. This was new, it was foreign, and though it felt so bloody good, he needed to tread carefully.

Molly, it seemed, had other ideas. Sherlock had scarcely made the decision to take his time, when her hands set to work unbuttoning his shirt. He gasped in surprise, severing their contact. "Molly —"

"Like hell," she breathed. "I've waited this long."

He didn't need to be told twice.