The End of Her Tether

A mildly angsty post TFP one shot I've been working on for a while. Apologies for being absent on the writing front, I've been in hospital for 3 weeks in a pain clinic.

It had been a long, quiet fortnight for Molly, she'd had no contact from Sherlock, John, or even Mycroft since that phone call, and it was starting to become a little unnerving. At first, she'd been left a little hollow, full of ifs and buts and maybes, waiting for context, and when that never came she'd become anxious. It was unusual for Sherlock not to contact her at least once within a 48-hour period, and even more so for John to ignore her, given she was one of Rosie's primary care givers. The anxiety soon gave way to hurt and irritation, which blossomed into full blown rage when she received an inconspicuous brown envelope, whose contents she never would have guessed in a month of Sundays.

It was a conventional A4 sized brown envelope, the address was typed and stuck on, not giving anything away. It could have been from anyone. She considered asking Greg to take a look at it first, just in case it turned out to be related to Moriarty, or someone similar – she still wasn't sure what the verdict was on the broadcast all those months ago – but relented, in case it was just Mycroft, or worse, her pension provider. She opened the envelope carefully, taking out the letter, and the secondary envelope enclosed. She read the covering letter with some level of confusion, a stark, clinical document riddled with redacted text. On the back, someone had sketched a crude caricature of a large male vaguely resembling Mycroft, eating cake. Stapled to the covering letter, was a short hand-written missive, filling in all the blanks of the previous page. The handwriting was Sherlock's, she'd recognise that scrawl anywhere, which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Even with the redacted words replaced, however, the letter gave very little away, the non-encoded contents boiling down to a set of delivery instructions, and locations.

She took a deep breath, and opened the second envelope. The document was instantly recognisable, and her trepidation was quickly replaced by a peculiar mix of anger and curiosity. She threw herself down into her armchair and pulled the entire contents onto her lap. An hour had passed in a blur, as she turned the final page and hurled the offensive object across the room. She wiped a lone tear from her face, took a moment to steady herself, and put the now scattered pages back in the envelope before marching off to Baker Street – she needed answers.

Sherlock's day was already off to a bad start. He'd had John berating him over not talking to Molly, Lestrade trying to be kind and withholding cases until he had the Sherrinford situation sorted, Mycroft being conspicuous by his absence, and to top it all off, an impromptu visit from his parents. He was sat in his chair, listening to the two rabbit on, trying to make some sense of what had happened. The news of Eurus' antics had hit them nearly as hard as it had him, and with Mycroft working around the clock to clean up the fallout, the only place for them to vent was at Sherlock. The consulting detective sighed and slid further into his chair, counting down the seconds until he could insist they leave his flat, and get some lunch.

The soft click of the lock captured his attention first, before the almighty bang of the front door slamming shut made all three inhabitants of the room flinch. The steps on the stairs were determined, angry, and owned by someone petite. It seemed John had gone through with his threat of talking to Molly. Sherlock jumped up from his chair, grateful he'd chosen to get dressed that morning, with a sudden desire to make a cup of tea. Mrs Holmes followed him across the room, taking the dirty mugs with her to refill, and all but dared her son to try and hide in the kitchen. As Molly got to the top of the stairs, the sight of Mr Holmes sat on the sofa was enough to quell her ire for the time being, and make her settle for storming into the room, standing slightly too close to Sherlock, arms folded, eyebrows raised – she could slap him later if the need arose.

"Molly, these are my parents," Sherlock said tentatively, trying, and failing to subtly hide behind his mother. He was in trouble, and not beyond using his parents as a deflector shield. The older woman gave him a warning look, leaving him feeling exposed in the middle of the room.

"Nice to meet you," Molly said to the couple with a polite smile, before turning back to Sherlock, the smile now decidedly sinister. "Would you like to explain this?"

He frowned momentarily, taken aback by the large brown envelope being thrust at his face. His eyes widened almost comically as he realised what she'd received.

"You weren't supposed to see that." He stated quietly

"It's addressed to me." She said flatly, "Has my name on it, and everything,"

"I know that, I wrote it." He snapped, before sighing heavily. He turned to his parents, with every intention of dismissing them, but with one glance at the look on his mother's face, thought better of it. He fidgeted slightly before admitting softly, "I wasn't to be the one to send it."

"Then who was?" Molly asked, trying to quell the tempest of emotions swirling around her head.

"Mycroft." He muttered, "Stupid fool."

The tone of almost tender affection with which Sherlock insulted his brother caught Molly off guard. She took a look at the scene she'd walked in on, and a good look at Sherlock himself. He was drawn, thinner than he should be, with dark circles under his eyes. Mr and Mrs Holmes were watching cautiously, Mr Holmes' face showing open concern for his son, the both looked like they hadn't slept in days. Molly placed the envelope down on the side table next to John's chair, before hanging her jacket up, and sitting down in Sherlock's chair. The room was still for a moment, but for Molly's fingers drumming on the arm of the chair, expectant, but patient. Mr and Mrs Holmes shared a look, as Sherlock stood, unblinking, with an almost imperceptible twitch in his left hand. Mrs Holmes finished making the tea she'd started, while Mr Holmes left the room to call Mycroft to send a car for them. They swiftly, and silently departed, leaving just Sherlock and Molly in the room, teetering on the edge of a precipice they'd been dancing around for years.

Molly took her eyes off Sherlock momentarily, to pick up her tea, and smiled faintly at the addition of two gingernut biscuits next to her mug. The absence of the tapping brought attention to the oppressive silence, and the weight of what had to be said.

"Fourteen days." She stated, more calmly than she felt, keeping her eyes fixed on her tea. In her peripheral vision she saw him take a seat in John's chair, ignoring his own tea. "Fourteen days with no contact, Sherlock, and then out of the blue I receive that." She pointed at the envelope now sitting to Sherlock's right. "Would it have arrived before the news that should have preceded it? Or would that have been my notification?"

"I wouldn't know," He replied honestly, staring at the envelope, both his hands twitching now. Molly put down her tea.

"I waited patiently for you to explain, Sherlock, two weeks of radio silence after a phone call that would have made for a very poetic ending – and then this, your bloody will, arrives. The only indication I had that you weren't dead was that Greg would have said something." She said icily, keeping her voice even, drumming her fingers against the chair again. A moments silence passed before she chuckled darkly to herself, and continued in the same chilling tone, "I should have known better, I should have known that believing you the second time was foolish, the sincerity nothing but wishful thinking. You can't even look at me. Goodbye, Sherlock."

She stood to leave, refusing to shed anymore tears over the matter, unwilling to be made a fool of further. She silently wondered if he had fallen off the wagon again- it would explain many things.

"No, Molly, please…" He said quietly, just on the cusp of being audible.

She stopped suddenly, and turned to look at him, temper flaring. She would not have him make a mockery of begging for her attention with such little heart. Her words died in her throat, however, the moment her gaze settled on his face. He looked forlorn, heartbroken even, ready to fall to his knees in resignation; this was not the face of addiction. His eyes flicked from hers to her mug of tea, fleetingly, inviting her to sit back down, and at least finish the beverage. It was a very simple thing, harmless, a momentary truce. If he didn't feel like one wrong word would send her out the door forever, he may have quipped that his mother wouldn't appreciate them leaving the tea to go cold, but now was not the time. Molly gave him a wary look before sitting down again, and picking up her tea. Back to square one. The board reset.

He took a long gulp of his cooling tea, placed the mug down, and sighed heavily. Culverton Smith had been right about one thing: once you open your heart, you can't close it again.

"When I was 8 years old, my younger sister murdered my best friend by drowning him in a well on the family estate." He began, sparing her none of the details of Eurus, his childhood, and Sherrinford, until he was shaking so violently he could barely talk. He got as far as describing the room the phone call had taken place in, before he completely broke down into dry, heaving sobs.

Molly tentatively moved over to the arm of Sherlock's chair, taking one of his hands in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked up at her through bloodshot eyes, searching her face for signs of rejection, and pity. Finding none, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into her shoulder, holding her tightly, as if she may disappear into the ether if he didn't.

"I thought you were going to die in front of me," He said after several minutes, the sound raw and jagged against the silence that had fallen. Molly shuffled a little, putting one arm around his shoulder, and pulling him closer, her free hand running through his unruly curls in a soothing motion.

She felt him relax a little against her, and after a few deep breathe, he finished the story. Clutching her tightly as he revealed how close he thought she'd been to death, then how close John had been in the well. He spoke candidly of the aftermath with various government individuals, as well as his parents, Victor's parents, and other victims' families. He went on to explain how the contingency plan for his will should have been carried out, buying himself some time before he had to admit out loud, why he'd done it, and bring the conversation full circle. Once he'd finished, he untangled himself from her, and simply placed her hands in his, resting them lightly in her lap.

"Everything was already yours, should have been yours, much like I am. I was too much of a coward to do more than put it on paper," Sherlock stated, bitter with the wisdom of hindsight.

"Say it," Molly whispered,

"I love you,"