A/N: My sincerest apologies to readers who've been waiting for an update to this story. Real life and six other one-shots got in the way. But anyhow, I fortuitously finished the chapter on this date, of all days––the first year anniversary of the beautiful scene from "The Final Problem" this story revolves around. I cannot believe it's been one glorious year of fangirling. Please enjoy!

"I won," Sherlock repeated. He tried his best not to notice the fleeting triumph in his voice had reluctantly given way to desperation, even as he said it. "I saved Molly Hooper." He looked squarely at his sister's face on the screen as if he were talking directly to her, searching for some sort of reprieve, knowing none was in store.

She let out a scornful laugh. "Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost. Look at what you did to her." His heart dropped then. But Eurus, her voice a barely contained combination of derision and delight bubbling just beneath the surface, continued, "Look at what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."

He blocked out what she'd said after that. What had he done? And more importantly, why hadn't he seen this coming? He drifted to the opposite side of the room, away from John and Mycroft. Setting the handgun down somewhere, he paused in front the lid that leaned against the wall. His eye caught the three words for a moment, and his jaw clenched. The image of Molly on the screen, cradling her mobile against her cheek with tears she thought he couldn't see running down her lovely face, glowed like an afterimage whenever he closed his eyes.

Moving deliberately, he picked up the lid and placed it on the open coffin. He brushed his hand over it, stubborn and solid under his fingertips. For the moment, it was the only thing he could wrest his control over, and he wanted nothing less than to shut the world out to what he dared not imagine it might have contained. He wanted to erase, to obliterate every molecule of the offending thing from existence.

Instead, he settled for shattering it with his hands.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

She turned his words over and over in her mind, like one of those Boomerang things on social media that looped video into eternity, but in her case, Sherlock's tinny voice over the phone was replaced with surround sound audio. I love you… I love you…

John said he meant the words… but what did that even mean? She wavered back and forth between possible answers to that question. The only thing she decided was that she had never been more cruel to herself than when she taught herself to hope.

"Dr. Hooper?"

Molly looked up to see an intern with worried, questioning eyes, and a rather intimidating-looking stack of files in her hands. "Sorry, did you want these lab reports now... or I can come back later?"

"Oh, sorry, Semah. I'm afraid I'm a little distracted..." she said, clearing some space at her work station. "You can set them down here."

When she was alone again, Molly talked herself into keeping busy. Idle hands… and so forth. But when she found she had been rereading the same in-patient/discharge form––for a patient who wasn't even hers––for the fifth time, she threw her readers off and pushed her chair back. With a roughness not normally associated with retrieving her keys, she swiped them from where they hung on the wall and made her way toward the ladies' locker room.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

"What happened here?"

He looked up at the sound of her voice, not realising there was someone else in the room until she spoke. For a fraction of a second, he thought his weary mind might have conjured her up, but there she stood.

"Molly," its namesake already on his mind, her name slipped from his tongue like a reflex. He stood abruptly from his sunken chair, ignoring the soreness of his recovering muscles and for keeping those muscles in the same attitude for a bit longer than the few minutes' break he granted himself from tidying up. "This wasn't one of my experiments, promise." For some reason, he felt the need to recuse himself of fault, at the very least, for the physical state of his flat.

"It looks like a bomb exploded in here."

"More or less..." he faltered. The doubtful look she threw told him that she wasn't in the mood for any dissembling. "It did," he declared succinctly.

"You weren't home when it happened," she said, her inflection rising at the end to something halfway between a statement and a question.

His non-response was enough of an answer.

She gaped in astonishment. "But how did you...?"

"There was a window… of opportunity…" he said, and his eyes drifted northeasterly to where flimsy cardboard screened them from the rest of Baker Street below. "John and Mycroft were here, too."

"Oh my g––! Are they okay? No, I mean, yes... I just saw John today."

"They're both fine."

"What happened?" she repeated.

"I had hoped not to involve you in any of this..." This being just the beginning of his many apologies. "But circumstances couldn't be helped. The fibres of the web radiated farther and more intricately, more tangled, than I imagined."

Her brow furrowed, and she mulled this over. "Moriarty?" she ventured.

He shook his head. "My sister."

Her eyes widened at this. It was one of the few times in his life he took no pleasure in a dramatic reveal. "What?" she exclaimed in a kind of hushed disbelief.

"I... have a sister." The words felt foreign on his tongue, even after owning the knowledge for nearly a week now. He surveyed what this knowledge had already dredged up. In a weary voice, he said, "It's a long story."

Her reply was simple, resolute. "I've got time."

A short pause lingered between them until Sherlock, realising that there was nowhere for Molly to sit among the wreckage, extended his hand in a gesture indicating his bedroom. It remained untouched by the explosion, the shock from which was absorbed mostly by the living room and kitchen.

He followed her down the hallway, and his hand went automatically to shut the bedroom door as habit dictated. He stopped himself in time, thankfully. He certainly did not want to endanger this truce by seeming untoward. She went to sit on his bed, placing her handbag on the floor next to her feet, and looked up at him expectantly.

He drew a nervous breath, and he told her: about the woman who claimed to be Faith Smith; about John's therapist (though he left out John's relationship with "E"… not his story to tell); about his forgotten sister, who spent most of her life in a high-security prison; about her connection to Moriarty; and about her elaborate cry for help by carelessly subjecting him, and complete strangers, to various tests.

"Those poor people…" she murmured, a hand clutched at her chest.

"The phone call…" he finally admitted, unheeding of his complete lack of grace. He let the words tumble out, spilling from himself like he should have when he saw her earlier that morning, as though there was a very real danger that his listener could be taken away. He told her about the coffin, and Eurus' threat if he didn't get her to say the release code. "You know the rest." He gave her sad look in recompense. "Turns out there were no explosives in your flat. It was a test," he bit out, but his tone was one of penitence. "I am sorry for my part, for what I did to you…"

He tried to discern the grave expression on her face. It was one of schooled composure marred only by the underlying gravity in her eyes. He knew her well enough to know that she did it for his sake. His insides ached for her even more, feeling unworthy of what he had not realised he had been longing for, of what he was about to ask for.

"I have always imagined––feared that my work would end up hurting the people that I cared about… the people that I loved. I already let that happen with Mary," he swallowed, pushing some of the guilt down. "And still I thought that if I got it right, maybe someday, I could deserve someone like you…" No, that sounded wrong. "Deserve you." He felt a sharp prick behind his eyes, and he noticed Molly's eyes had become watery, too. "Moriarty had no idea. Magnussen, Smith. None of them. But Eurus knew. She exploited a part of me that I've kept hidden away, even from myself. And now I fear I––I've spoiled everything."

Molly remained silent for several moments, but it didn't hold the same satisfaction for Sherlock as it usually did when he rendered someone speechless. She swiped a hand quickly at her cheek. Her reply, when it came, was much like its owner––quiet and reassuring. "You haven't spoiled anything." He would have rushed to her then, but she wasn't done. "We don't deserve the people in our lives, Sherlock. The universe doesn't work that way. At least, I don't think so. We just…" she offered, with a little shrug and an even smaller smile. It gave him hope. "We do the best we can," she finished.

Another silence sat between the two. Sherlock could only stare at her, wholly awed. After a few moments more, Molly stirred, and picked up her bag from the floor and looked as though she was about to rise.

"Wait," he pleaded, hoping the decibel of his voice hadn't reached a shouting level. "Please," he said, softer. "There's something I need to show you."

He slid his violin case from underneath the bed. He tuned the instrument before placing it under his chin, his other hand poised with the bow. And he played him––he played simply, himself.

He played for her, a sweetly sad song––fragile, yet certain. He played for her as if from memory, though he had never played it out loud before, nor had he ever put the song to paper. He played for her, giving sound to a measure that has been playing on loop inside his head since before his fall. Or maybe even before then. He played for her until the wounds on his hands cried out. He played for her with nothing between the notes and his heart.

"It... it's beautiful," she breathed.

"It's for you," he offered without pause.

"Why?" Her voice was low.

He blinked. "You know why." She must know, after everything... There was something faintly familiar about the course of the words they exchanged.

"Well... if it's true," she said slowly, as if reading his mind, "then say it anyway."

Say it? he thought. He wanted to stand on the steps of the National Gallery and proclaim it for every stranger in Trafalgar Square to hear. The compulsion almost rivaled his desire to whisper it to her in the quiet aftermath of night, her limbs tangled in his that neither of them knew where the other began. But his brain had run away from his body again. He silenced them both, and let his heart speak.

"I love you, Molly Hooper. Really, and truly."

A choked laugh escaped her lips, and though there were tears in her eyes––he imagined his were no different––she smiled. She said the words he knew he would never tire of hearing, "I love you, too. Always."

Right, so we've obviously not got to the kissing (and other stuff) yet, but trust me, they're coming. I'm very confident you won't have to wait too long for an update this time round.

Thank you for reading, and bearing with me! Feedback is greatly appreciated, as always. Happy First Year (and many more to come)! Cheers xo