Molly Hooper was not one to be knocked down easily. She may have been small but her character was much mightier than her physique. Had Sherlock humiliated her, lied to her, and darkened a series of already bad days? Yes, that was an undeniable truth. She knew deep in her heart that he'd had a good reason for what he had done. She knew deep down that her sacrifice had probably saved the lives of others in some sort of sick twisted game. That didn't make it hurt any less. But was Molly going to let that keep her down? No, she was not. Sherlock could stay on her doorstep for all she cared but Molly herself was not going to remain on the floor. She sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. She hadn't been crying so much as her eyes were streaming from being open and unfocused for so long. Crying over the actions of Sherlock Holmes and the evil people of this world was pointless now. It wasn't going to bring her anything worth having.

With that thought, Molly clambered to her feet and began to do whatever little odd jobs needed doing. She refilled Toby's cat food, washed a couple of stray dishes, emptied the bins out to the back of her house, and began dusting. She didn't particularly like doing the jobs or working in silence but she didn't want to hear the repetitive soulless tunes of the radio or the interspersed snippets of doom and gloom news that accompanied it. Nor did she want to turn the TV on because anything worth listening too was also worth watching. Molly wasn't in the mood to sit still and numb her mind to the outside world just yet so she opted for silence instead. Well, it wasn't really silence, was it? She could hear the cars out on the surrounding streets, the neighbours' kids playing ball in their garden a few doors down, the gurgles and hums of the radiators in her home. All the little sounds of life were there, all she had to do was listen.

A knock on the door startled Molly out of her distractions, nearly causing her to knock a clock off of the shelf she was dusting. Molly's first thought was that Sherlock was back or was attempting to get her to talk again and so she was inclined to ignore it. Molly carried on dusting but was again interrupted by another knock. Perhaps it wasn't Sherlock. She honestly had no idea whether he was still out on her front doorstep or not. Molly wasn't afraid of opening the curtains and looking for him, she just didn't want to know. She wanted to push Sherlock as far out of her mind as she could so that for once she might find herself at peace. She just needed some Molly-time. No Sherlock, no interactions, and certainly no knocking on the door.

The knocking did not stop though.

With a sigh Molly set down her duster and marched to the front door.

"Sherlock, I-" Molly started in an angry and harsh tone unusual for her but she stopped speaking altogether when she saw who was on her doorstep.

Now, Molly was not the neighbourly type. That wasn't to say that she was completely antisocial to the point that she hated the neighbours she never saw. It was just that she never really offered more than a polite hello to those living around her. They were all married couples with children ranging from toddlers to adults in their own rights. Molly didn't have anything in common with those people and so had no business with them beyond the occasional greeting.

The person standing on Molly's doorsteps was one of the friendlier neighbours from across the street. It was little old lady with a tight white perm who always asked after Molly's cat and whose name Molly had missed the first time she'd heard it and was too embarrassed to ask again years later. She was a lot shorter than Molly, largely because she held herself with a hunched back and a bowed head. It looked a lot like she was trying to curl herself into the foetal position even as she shuffled along the road wheeling her tartan trolley bag. The trolley bag was absent today and clearly her neighbour had come across the road from the middle of doing something in her home as she wore nothing but a plain dress, an apron covered in cartoon ducks, and some fluffy cream house slippers. She was quite the sight to behold, particularly with the most serious and concerned face carved in to her weathered features.

"Now I haven't called the police yet because I didn't want to assume but this man has been loitering on your doorstep for too long for me not to intervene," Her neighbour didn't even bother with the usual friendly hello or chitchat. "Is he harassing you, my dear?"

"I can hear you, you know." Sherlock pointed out, not having moved from where he was leant against the railings alongside the front steps.

"I- Um-" Molly's cheeks flushed red as she stammered. "I didn't realise he was out there. Come on in Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow behind the little old lady's back at Molly. In response she pressed her lips into a tight thin line and nodded as her neighbour turned to look at Sherlock. The eyebrow dropped and Molly nodded, trying her best to hide her displeasure. Had it been anyone else Molly might have responded differently but there was something about older women and how judgemental they seemed that motivated Molly to lie through her teeth.

"If you're sure dear," Molly's neighbour pursed her lips and gave Molly a meaningful look down her nose.

"I am, thank you." Molly nodded earnestly, desperate to get rid of the old biddy.

"Next time ring her home phone." The little old lady rounded to snap at Sherlock.

"My fault. No phone." Sherlock forced a grin that showed so much teeth it forced his eyes to squint.

"Well," The old woman blustered but Molly cut her off.

"Thank you, again. Have a nice day," Molly gave a curt nod and promptly shut the door before rounding on Sherlock. "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing but once she's gone back into her house you can leave."

"Molly, please-" Sherlock reached out to his friend but she swatted his hand away.

"No more Sherlock. I know you had your reasons, 'noble' or otherwise, but I am done. I don't want to hear it. Not right now." Molly's voice waivered as she quivered with pent up rage.

Sherlock could feel the ruins of the bridge trembled beneath his feet. Time was of the essence but at the same time, one wrong move and Molly would send the wreckage of their relationship tumbling mercilessly in to the abyss below.

"When then?" Sherlock strained to keep his voice at the regular tempo and pitch.

He was the one to push people away. He didn't need anyone else, Sherlock knew this from past experience. Cutting people out – at least by choice – was painfully simple. Well, as long as it wasn't John or Mrs Hudson. Mycroft was questionable but who really needs big brothers anyway? Losing Mycroft wouldn't exactly be a tragic loss. Losing Molly on the other hand, that was a travesty. Sherlock had never even entertained the idea of pushing Molly away. She was far too useful.

That said, Sherlock was nowhere near as useful to Molly as she was to him. What did Sherlock ever do for her other than cause her emotional turmoil? Though he had never extensively considered it before that moment, it dawned upon Sherlock that Molly might indeed be better off without him dragging her down. If she realised this then it was entirely possible she would remove him from her life permanently. Molly unknowingly held explosives in her hand; explosives she could throw at Sherlock and detonate whilst he still ran across the bridge. All she had to do was say one small word and their entire world would go up in apocalyptic flames.

How had he let this happen? Sherlock wanted to beat himself. Kind, sweet Molly... Caring Molly. Clever, brilliant, brave Molly. Sherlock had ruined her when it came to their relationship. It was too late to make himself indispensable to her. He had failed her in every way and yet in spite of this Eurus had targeted her anyway. Sherlock had failed his friend and whatever she said next, he almost definitely deserved.

"I don't know. Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow, although I doubt it will be that soon. Whether you meant to or not, you hurt me Sherlock. I need time to grieve. I will hear what you have to say when I'm good and ready. Until then all you're doing is making things worse by being here." Molly replied curtly. She had no intention to sugar coat the truth. She was too drained for that in the moment.

"I see," Sherlock's mind was reeling as if she had dealt him a mental blow. "I apologise for... for making things worse. I only wanted to fix things between us. I guess..." Sherlock trailed off.

Molly stared him down, arms folded tightly across her chest. Sherlock opened his mouth to finish his sentence but decided better of it. As instantly as he had wanted to run to her, Sherlock found himself consumed by the desire to run far, far away from where he was. Without so much as a final "sorry", Sherlock swept past Molly and swiftly exited her house.

Molly stood in the middle of her empty hall, conflicted. Part of her wanted to hear him out, to yell and scream and be justified in her anger at him. Another part wanted to apologise to him, not because she was unjustified but because now she was hurting him back. Two wrongs don't make a right after all. More than anything though, Molly simply felt drained. It might have only been early afternoon but at that precise moment Molly had no fucks to give, it wasn't as if anyone was there to judge her. With this thought in mind she ascended the stairs to bed, praying she might finally get some piece of mind in the form of sleep.

Outside Sherlock turned his collar up against the chilling breeze and shoved his hands deep within his pockets. He surveyed the street, his head following his gaze. Upon spotting an idling unmarked car at the corner of the street, Sherlock purposefully strode towards it. Of course he knew Mycroft was still keeping tabs on him. Had he been hurting in regards to another matter, Sherlock would not have thrown himself into the backseat of the flunky-driven vehicle but Molly's rejection had caused his blood to boil and it was all Mycroft's fault.

"This is all your fault!" Sherlock yelled, slamming his fist down on Mycroft's desk.

"Calm down, brother mine. I fail to see how this was my responsibility whatsoever." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, adopting a stance of innocence even though he perfectly understood the reasoning behind Sherlock's accusation. Had he been in the right mood Mycroft might have even been inclined to agree with his younger brother. As it was, Mycroft was not exactly in the most cooperative of moods for reasons he was contractually obliged to keep undisclosed. Being in such a state didn't exactly endear Mycroft to his younger brother's temper tantrum.

"Don't play games with me Mycroft!" Sherlock snarled. His eyes flashed dangerously but Mycroft wasn't moved by his younger brother's primal display of emotion.

"She said she understood you had your reasons and that she would forgive you in time. Just be patient." Mycroft shrugged. His head tilted to the side ever so slightly as his thin lips pressed together in a wonky smile that he had intended to be sympathetic. It was really just hard to look at and came across to Sherlock as patronising and taunting more than anything else.

"She won't forgive me." Sherlock muttered, retreating to the wall. Sherlock leaned back and had half a mind to swat the ugly looming painting beside him off of its hook. Nothing would be gained from an irrational, childish move like that but Sherlock felt the burning desire to lash out and do it anyway. Only pride and the thought of Mycroft lording it over him stopped Sherlock from indulging in his wish.

"Why do you think that?" Mycroft raised a dismissive eyebrow.

"I have never treated her the way she deserves. Even someone who was blind and drowning in infatuation would know better than to let me back in to Molly's life. I am not worth the- the-" Lost for words, Sherlock swatted out angrily at the painting beside him. Much to his dismay the damned great thing didn't so much as budge an inch.

"I had to have that stuck down. For some reason, those petty enough to be prone to emotional outbursts seem to like knocking that painting off of the wall. I quite like that painting though so I had to take preventative measures." Mycroft looked so smug as he managed to slip an insult at his younger brother in to the conversation. Sherlock found himself tempted to fly across the room and punch his brother square in the jaw. He resisted though, wanting help more than the adrenaline rush accompanied by physical violence.

"You have to help me." Sherlock insisted through gritted teeth.

"I don't have to do anything." Mycroft replied snarkily.

"Yes, you do," Sherlock insisted. "This is all your fault."

"Once again," Mycroft began with a sigh. "I fail to see-"

"Eurus is your fault," Sherlock cut his brother off, anger crashing through his veins. "You knew what she could do and you gave her every opportunity to do it. I don't even need to explain how because you know. I'm not an idiot Mycroft. Not only is your guilt visible from a mile away but there's evidence of it everywhere. The notes on your desk with her victims' family details like addresses and phone numbers are the most glaringly obvious example but I don't need to go on. You may be in denial but your agitation and attempting to blow this off is simply laziness. You may be tired from trying to make amends and put things right but you are not done yet. Molly was hurt too and you owe it to her to fix the damage that you are responsible for!"

In the wake of his rant, Sherlock was left in the middle of the room panting heavily. He glared at his brother, head statuesque in its stillness as his chest heaved up and down. He was right and both brothers knew it. Mycroft was not inclined to admit this though. He looked his younger brother up and down, leaning back in his chair to give a false air of relaxation.

"Take my dear brother home." Mycroft spoke around Sherlock to address his lackey waiting in the doorway.

"What?" Sherlock growled.

"You're dismissed Sherlock." Mycroft seemed so blasé which only served to further infuriate Sherlock.

"You can't dismiss me! I'm your brother, not some underpaid employee!" Sherlock shouted.

"Actually, you'll find I can." Mycroft nodded to one of his said underpaid employees who walked forward and placed a firm hand on Sherlock's arm.

With an incredibly rude comment, Sherlock jerked his arm out of reach and stormed off out of Mycroft's office. Even though he was out of sight Mycroft could still hear his brother's verbal abuse as well as several distinct crashes. With a sigh, he waited until the sounds of Sherlock's chaos had faded into a ringing silence before pulling his mobile phone out and dialling one of his more frequently contacted numbers.

"I need your help fixing a Sherlock problem."