Sherlock: A Case Study (Or; The Seven Deadly Sins, as Experienced by Sherlock Holmes by chibiness87

Chapter 7/7: Wrath (Or; When his emotions know no bounds)
Rating: T
Spoilers: General. Explicit for 4.03 The Final Problem
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

A/N: So here we are folks; the end of this little saga. (I hate endings. I can never get them to sound... right. But I've re-written the ending of this piece about nine times now, and if I do any more I think I might just go insane.) Thank you for your continued support, it means a lot.

I don't want to feel
what everybody feels
I've got more to lose
– Everybody wants a little something; Duke Special

Since he was about six years old, Sherlock Holmes has learnt to keep a tight lid on his emotions. It starts with the death of his best friend in the whole world (but he doesn't know how much he has repressed everything until years later), and is a skill he hones. He needs to. Sentiment is chemical defect found on the losing side. So he locks his feelings deep down in his mind palace, away from anyone who means him harm.

He is good at it too. Even Magnussen got it wrong when assessing his trigger points. Everyone thinks they know where his weaknesses lie.

He is the only one who knows the truth.

At least, he thought he was.

Apparently his sister knows too.

But then, she was always the smart one. Apparently.

The sight of Molly on the screen floods him with worry and dread and anger.

She is in her flat, and he can see her. (There is a part of him that immediately goes into analytical mode. Cameras. Multiple. Obviously small so as to be unobtrusive. He'll need to do something about those.)

The gauntlet thrown down to him is almost background noise, as he watches her move through her tea making routine. There is something in the way she is moving that tells him she is not in a good place right now. He wants, more than anything, to go to her and comfort her and make sure she's OK.

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is to go round to Molly Hooper's flat and tear the place apart until he knows there are no more cameras, no more spying; rip anything suspicious out of the walls until he knows she is safe.

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is to move as far away from Molly Hooper as he possibly can, because now they know what he weakness is, it is the only thing he can think of to keep her safe.

(She will never be safe with him.)

The first thing he is going to do when he gets out of this godforsaken hellhole is find Molly Hooper, hold her tight, and never let her go, ever again.

But first, he needs to get out of this godforsaken hellhole.

And to do that he has to be the cruelest he has ever been to her in his life. He has to break her faith in him.

He has to break her heart.

(And his, though he doesn't know it at the time.)

And then it (the torture, the vivisection) is over, and the screen goes black, and he is left with the voice of his sister's (his sister's) taunts in his mind, and the image of Molly, (dear, sweet, heartbroken Molly, whose only crime in the whole world was to fall in love with him,) etched into his brain.

On autopilot, he picks up the lid of the coffin, places it gently on the base. His hand smooths over the wood, his eyes drinking in the brass plate.

I LOVE YOU

It comes to him in a blinding moment of clarity. This test, this experiment, was not about Molly. It was never about Molly.

This whole day has been about him.

About testing (tormenting) him.

If this indeed was a coffin meant for Molly Hooper, it only follows that the brass plate is meant for him.

The question John and Mycroft should have asked was never, Who loves you, Sherlock Holmes?

It was always, Whom does Sherlock Holmes love?

Emotional context; that is what he was being shown in this room. It is why he jumped through all the hoops his sister threw at him.

It was the only way he could save Molly Hooper.

And he will always, always save Molly Hooper.

He feels an anger unlike any he has ever felt before rush up through his veins. It is more powerful than when he first found out who Moriarty was. More powerful than when John was almost being burnt alive in a bonfire. More powerful than the revelation of having a sister.

Molly Hooper could have died today.

He brings his fist down on the coffin lid with all his might. The wood splinters apart beneath his torment, no match for the anger and the shame and the pain coursing through his veins like a new drug.

It is more than pain.

It is evisceration.

Later, when he has found John and rescued him from his childhood friend's watery grave, when he has given his statement to Greg, when Eurus had been escorted into care, after all of that, he still feels the abrasions of the splinters that litter his hands.

There is only one person who he wants to see.

(There is only ever one person he wants to see.)

He grabs a lift back to London in one of the squad cars.

He knows she is at work (even after what he has done he knows she won't let Stamford down; she's far too selfless for that), but does not go there. Instead, he sits in the hallway outside her flat, waiting for her to come home.

When he sees her, sees her see him and turn around to get away from him, something deep within him breaks.

"Molly." He scrambles to his feet, his legs numb from the amount of time he has spent sitting on the cold concrete. "Wait." Feebly, he throws out a hand to stop her retreat, his words coming out so quickly they almost trip over each other. "I just came to tell you I'm leaving."

That, at least, stops her, and she turns around. His heart aches slightly at the look on her face. He's too tired, too emotionally drawn out to try to deduce what the look in her eyes mean. "You're… what?"

"I'm leaving." He tells her doorstep, unable to meet her gaze. "I just…." He shrugs, and finally meets her confused eyes with his own tired and drawn face. "I needed to see you. To make sure. And I didn't want to go without telling you first."

He knows he's not making any sense. But there is a pressure on his chest that is making breathing difficult right now, never mind actually forming words, sentences.

"Sherlock…" She sighs, before stepping around him (so close it feels like she's stepping through him) and opening her door. When she doesn't immediately slam it in his face, he risks looking in her direction. She is standing, leaning on the door as if using it to prop her up, and he immediately feels like an arse.

"Come in." He does so, sinking onto her sofa when she points to it. There is a moment of surreal normality as she goes about fixing them both a coffee, and he sits in silence until he has a steaming mug held between his hands.

"Explain."

He draws in a deep breath; lets it out slowly. "It's the only way. Don't you see?"

She sighs, joining him on the sofa, placing her untouched mug on the coffee table in front of them. She is both too close and not close enough. "Not really. What…?"

He can't look at her. Instead, his eyes stay trained to the mug of coffee held in his hand. "I have to keep you safe. That's why I… And I can't…"

He trails off, unable to find the words.

"I don't…"

The timid tone to her voice makes something in him catch. Turing back to her, he catches her eyes with his intense stare. He needs her to see his truth in his next words. "I thought you were going to die today. Because of me. Going to have your flat explode around you."

He sets his mug of half-drunk coffee down on the table next to hers, before reaching over and grasping on of her small hands in his. "And there was nothing I could do. Nothing, except play her game." He sighs. Looks away for a moment, before meeting her gaze once more. She deserves the truth.

"You…" he pauses. Tries again. "You deserve… And I can't…." His free hand waves around his head, trying to show her what he means, even if he doesn't know what that is. "So I'm leaving."

She pulls her hand away, and he feels his heart cry out in despair. "But…"

She is reaching for him with both hands, he realises dully. It wasn't a pull away, but a reposition to pull towards. It's too much. He can't allow it. "No, Molly, don't. I'm doing it for you."

(Doesn't she see that this, that all of this, is tearing him apart?)

"I don't…"

He can't meet her gaze any more. His voice has become softer, almost a whisper. "You'll be better off this way. Safer."

There is a catch in her voice that makes him look at her. Tears are brewing in her eyes, one traitorous drop beginning to crest over her cheek. She has never been more beautiful. "What if I don't want you to go?"

His own voice stutters over her name. It is all he can manage. "Molly."

"What if…"

She is still defiant in her gaze. It's too much for him, and he breaks. "You can't die because of me!"

She gasps. "Sherlock…"

"No." He pulls his arm free of her grasp, turning instead to hold her head, cradling it gently between his palms. "No, I won't let you. You are…" he pauses, looks down, takes a deep breath before meeting her eyes earnestly once more. "You are the only good part of me that's left in this world. And I won't let anyone destroy it. Least of all me."

The tears she has been trying to hold back have won, and they glide soundlessly over the crest of her cheeks and his fingers in earnest. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"Molly…"

"No. NO!" She pushes his hands away from her face, swiping at the tears that, even now, continue to fall. "You don't get to… to say that to me and leave." Her hands come up to his face, fingers stroking over the stubble forming on his chin. "Why would you do that? Why would you…"

There are tears in his own eyes now. Today has just been too much, and he cannot keep his emotions in check. Not anymore. "You know why." He pushes her hand down, but she is stubborn, and doesn't let him escape. He sighs, knowing after everything, everything he has ever done, she deserves this one truth. "You've always known. Ever since that day in the car. I looked at you, and you saw me. You saw my deepest, darkest secret."

"I…"

"And I tried. I tried so hard. But I can't anymore. You want to know why? It's because I love you, Molly. I have always loved you."

There is silence for a moment, his declaration echoing loudly in his mind. It is only the second time he has admitted to loving someone out loud. Both have been today, both have been to her.

He thinks back over all the years he has known her. All the times she was there, standing with him, defiant against the world and never asking for anything in return. She has always been the strong one, who has chosen to love him unconditionally. How could he do anything but love her in return? (And oh, it hurts. It hurts. Is this what it feels like to be on the losing side? Why would anyone want this pain? This agony?)

"Sherlock…"

He slides to his knee of the floor in front of her. "Forgive me. Please, Molly, please, forgive me. For everything. I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve it. Just please. This one last time. Forgive me. Forgive me forgive me forgive me…"

Eventually, he feels her hand as it strokes through his matted hair, her voice trying to soothe him. "Shhh."

He risks a glance up, and is met by her clear gaze. His voice chokes over her name once more. "Molly…"

"Hush. I will always forgive you anything." She gives him a small timid smile, before it falls and her face becomes serious once more. "Well, maybe not anything. I'll never forgive the drugs. But anything else." And again she smiles at him.

He is utterly bemused. "Why?"

She gives a small bark of laughter, shaking her head at him slightly. "You stupid, amazing, brilliant idiot. You know why." Leaning down, she brings her mouth to his ear. Gently, reverently, she whispers, "Because I love you, too."

Later, Sherlock explains everything. And even as he talks through one of the hardest days of his life, he cannot help but love his sister, just a little.

Because she has given him the greatest gift of all.

She has given him Molly Hooper.

He has won.

Sentiment being a chemical defect of the losing side be damned.

(Oh. That's why.)

End

Final thoughts?