This story is dedicated to Team7Extra on youtube who created a Sherlolly music vid to the song "Evermore" from the new "Beauty and the Beast" film, and it inspired me like mad. I hope you enjoy it.

I use lyrics from "Evermore," "If I Can't Love Her", and "Beauty and the Beast."

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Why did Eurus "vivisect" Sherlock in order to force that particular release code from both their lips—without even planting explosives in Molly's house? Could it be that Moriarty had his own separate agenda—and decided not to make the same "mistake" twice?

VVVVV

Evermore

Chapter One

I was the one who had it all

I was the master of my fate.

I never needed anybody in my life.

I learned the truth too late.

John nearly broke the door of his house down as he charged inside, feeling Sherlock soundlessly follow him. Instantly, John's gaze darted through the small entryway and warm-colored sitting room. The lights were on, the furniture seemed to be in order—

"Mrs. Hudson?" he shouted, out of breath. "Mrs. Hudson, where's Rosie?"

"Oh, my goodness—right here, dear!" Mrs. Hudson came scurrying down the hallway, wearing her dressing gown and packing Rosie on her shoulder. The baby wore her pink pajamas, her wispy hair tousled—and at the sudden racket, she burst into howling screams.

It was music to John's ears.

"Oh, good God," he gasped, reaching out and pulling her from Mrs. Hudson and into his chest, even as the baby shrieked. "Oh, dear, my dear, dear…sweetheart…" John sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head against her, then bouncing her as he stepped through the room. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Shh, don't cry. Daddy's here."

"What on earth happened?" Mrs. Hudson cried. "John, your hair's all wet! Sherlock…Sherlock, you're completely white. Come sit down!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I'm quite well," Sherlock said faintly.

John's eyes opened and he turned to find his friend.

Who in fact did not look well.

Sherlock, wrapped in his dark coat, stood just inside the doorway, staring down at nothing, his lips grey. He held his phone limply in his right hand. John stopped pacing, though Rosie still cried, and frowned.

"Sherlock, I think she's right," he realized. "You ought to sit down."

"I don't need to sit down," Sherlock answered, though no more firmly, and glanced toward the kitchen.

"You you…want something to drink?" John asked, carefully starting that direction. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

The edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but he didn't look at John. And he didn't answer.

"Okay, c'mon," John ordered. "I normally wouldn't offer this to a drug addict, but at times, an old remedy is best. I've got some brandy in here. Give us a minute, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh…all right…?" Mrs. Hudson stammered, but she didn't follow. John strode through into the little kitchen and pulled open a cupboard, still holding the tearful Rosie tight to his chest. He pulled down the bottle of brandy and two glasses and set them down on the counter with noisy clinks. He heard Sherlock's slow tread trail after him onto the linoleum. Rosie finally quieted to a whimper, sucking on her thumb, and leaned her head against John's neck. John didn't say anything as he opened the bottle and poured just a little into each glass. Then, he picked one up, turned around, and held it out toward Sherlock.

Sherlock stood on the other side of the table, as if studying its surface, his brow dully knitted. And he still held his phone.

John's grip on the glass slackened and he lowered it.

"What's the matter?"

Sherlock just swallowed.

"What is it—what's happened?" John asked softly. "Did you get a text? Did Mycroft text you?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John put the glass down on the table, his heartbeat starting to pick up again—though his pulse had pounded so frantically all throughout today that one more adrenaline rush might make him sick.

"Is it Eurus again?" he whispered through his teeth. "Is it? Because if it is, I swear Sherlock, I'm going to—"

"It's Molly."

John stopped. Sherlock's dark voice had barely been loud enough for him to hear.

"Molly?" John repeated. "Molly—is she okay? What happened?"

Sherlock swallowed again, lifted the phone just slightly and tapped it open, then held it out toward John.

John's heart did hammer against his breastbone now. Trying not to wince, he reached out and took it, and turned it so he could read the text.

I can't seem to get hold of John, or Mycroft.

So please tell John that I've talked to my mum, and she's

invited me home for a bit, so I won't be able to baby-

sit Rosie. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Maybe

a long time, I don't know. I've had vacation time piling up.

I'm leaving tonight. Tell Mycroft too, even though he

probably already knows.

John read the text three times before lifting his eyes to Sherlock. But again, Sherlock avoided his glance.

"Is this…a bad thing?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock shifted, reaching out to barely touch the back of a chair with his fingertips.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Do you think it is?"

"I don't know either," John said frankly, shaking his head. "Depends on if you meant it or not."

Sherlock's head came up.

His grey gaze shot through John's. A thousand things flashed through Sherlock's eyes and his mouth tensed before he ducked his head again and stared at the table.

"I'm right, then," John said quietly. "I knew I was. Eurus actually did get the truth out of you."

Sherlock closed his hand around the back of the chair. John watched his friend carefully.

"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been like that? Since you've known me?" he guessed. "Longer?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. Otherwise, he didn't move. John took a step closer to the table.

"So why exactly have you treated her like rubbish all these years?" John narrowed his eyes and put the phone on the table. "Or did you just find out this afternoon, like the rest of us? Because if you didn't, Sherlock—if this has been there since the beginning—then you've bloody well done your best to convince everyone otherwise, even me."

"That wouldn't be so difficult," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, apparently not," John shot back. "Because that's not how you treat people who matter to you."

Silence fell—and John felt Sherlock hesitate.

"I didn't want anyone to know," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry, what?" John pressed, leaning forward. "Know what?"

Sherlock rubbed his thumb back and forth on the top of the chair.

"That she mattered," Sherlock muttered. "I didn't want anyone to know." And again, Sherlock didn't move his head, but he looked up at John. Open and bright—with some sort of fear flickering like a distant candle.

"Including her, I suppose?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I did tell her."

"Yeah, when?" John demanded. "Before today."

"When I came back from dismantling Moriarty's network." Sherlock's eyes blinked open and his mouth tightened again. His tone quieted. "I told her that Moriarty had overlooked her entirely. He thought that she didn't matter at all to me—but in the end, she'd been the one who mattered the most."

John just stared at him, then let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Wh—and what's the poor girl supposed to do with that?" he wondered. "You didn't exactly follow it with a marriage proposal!"

"She was engaged," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh—and if she hadn't been, you would have," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock twitched away and let go of the chair.

John's mouth fell open.

Rosie whimpered.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John burst out. "I don't care what emotional complexes you Holmes siblings have given yourselves, but no matter what your brother or your sister say, this kind of thing is not a weakness, it is not a disadvantage, and it certainly is not as complicated as you're making it out to be."

"I can't…" Sherlock started—and his voice shook.

John instantly calmed. He waited, gauging the other man—then tilted his head.

"Can't what?"

"I can't…" Sherlock took a trembling breath. "I can't lose her. John." Sherlock openly met his eyes once more, his eyebrows drawing together. "I can't."

John paused, then nodded.

"I know," he murmured. "I saw."

Sherlock gazed at the phone on the table. Said nothing.

"But the fact is, Sherlock," John said carefully. "You've made life fairly intolerable for her these past months. So, I dunno." He pulled Rosie closer. "You're right. It might not be good."

"So…" Sherlock ventured, slowly sliding his hands into his coat pockets. Still fixedly studying the tabletop. "What's to be done?"

John's eyebrows went up.

"Are you asking me?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yes, of course I'm asking you."

John snorted wearily and shook his head.

"Look…I'm really the last person you ought to be asking," he confessed, shifting his hold on Rosie. "Just a bit ago I was telling you to phone Irene Adler, remember?"

The skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened. John looked at him evenly. But the back of his throat hurt.

"And I'm also…" He paused, then took a steadying breath. "…not quite the best authority concerning the treatment…of a woman."

Sherlock's brow knotted, and he found John again. John felt that strange, terrible pain start gnawing at his breastbone again. Rosie let out a tired, choking sob.

"All right, I cannot bear it," Mrs. Hudson suddenly burst into the kitchen, her slippers slapping against the tile. "You told me to wait, and I have, but I've overheard so much—and not a bit of it make sense, John!" she cried. "What's gone wrong? What's happened to Molly?"

"A lot has happened to all of us, Mrs. Hudson," John answered, trying to draw a deep breath. "It's been the day from hell, without exaggeration. And it'll take some working through, that's all."

"I'm going to Baker Street," Sherlock suddenly announced—picked up his phone and started toward the door.

"What? Wait—why?" John jumped, then tried to head him off, but he'd already passed Mrs. Hudson and entered the sitting room.

"I can't think here," Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he made for the door.

"You can't think there, either, it's blasted to bits!" Mrs. Hudson called after him.

"Don't follow me, John," Sherlock ordered.

"Look, I am not leaving you alone right now," John barked after him, handing Rosie off to Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock answered, opening the front door. "Because as your friend, I ask you to."

"Not a chance—not with what's just happened—"

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft, and he leaned against the half-open door, his head down. The street lights outside caught on his profile. "What if I promised to be back here by two a.m., or you'd be free to call Mycroft?"

John stopped, grinding his teeth.

"Why do you want to be alone in a blown-out flat?" he demanded.

Sherlock's head lowered further. He gripped the doorknob.

"Please, John," was all he said.

John glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who fervently shook her head. Bracing himself, John faced Sherlock again and pointed severely at him.

"Two a.m.," he stated. "One minute after that, I'm bringing Mycroft and Scotland Yard down your throat."

"Agreed," Sherlock answered shortly, swept through the door and shut it in half an instant, leaving the other three standing alone in silence.

I'll never shake away the pain.

I close my eyes, but she's still there

I let her steal into my melancholy heart

It's more than I can bear

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I've completed this story, so I'll keep posting chapters if you like it and you want me to keep going! Let me know!

-Alydia