I should be updating something else, but then this happened...
The clock was ticking, and with five seconds left, before Molly had said those crucial words, the screen turned off. Eurus had ended the call early.
Sherlock blinked twice in disbelief, Molly was gone. He could hear voices around him, he suspected Eurus was mocking him in some way, and John was trying to console him, but none of the words registered. He brought his hands to his face, the cold metal of the gun sharp against his skin, and ran his hands through his hair. After all these years, after everything they had been through, and everything he had done in an effort to keep her safe from him and his life, she had finally gone the way he had dreaded most, permanently.
He couldn't hear Eurus trying to explain her game, he couldn't feel Mycroft or John shaking his shoulders, and taking the gun from him. He had been numb when Mary died, but now, he was empty. He turned away from the screen, walked to the back of the room, and picked up the coffin lid. Shaking slightly, he placed the lid on the casket, and reverently ran his hand down its length, choking back a sob. He would make sure whatever was left of her to bury was put in something that befitted her place in the world, rather than the non-descript, no named box he had his hand on. She deserved better, she always deserved better. He couldn't bear for the reminder of her untimely exit to remain in his presence any longer, and as soon as he felt the wood shatter under his hand, he felt something: that sweet sting of pain. He tore the coffin to shreds, and when the destruction had run its course, he slid down the wall, body trembling, eyes shining with unspilt tears.
John and Mycroft looked at each other, neither knowing quite what to say as Sherlock shattered before their eyes. John sighed heavily, and with the memory of his late wife playing on his mind he knelt down beside Sherlock, and placed his hand on his shoulder,
"She'd want you to save the little girl on the plane. Do it for her, Sherlock, and for my Mary, they'd both want you to." He said quietly, his voice cracking slightly, before standing and extending his hand.
Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly and took John's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He dusted himself down, not flinching at the splinters in his hands, and took the gun from his brother before striding into the next room, as if the last five minutes had never happened. The next room was empty, save for a screen, and he was instructed to shoot either John or Mycroft. Having just lost Molly, he wasn't in the mood for any more death, and before anyone could get a word in to complain or otherwise, he held the gun at his own head – before everything went black. He awoke in another cell, one with pictures on the wall, and no sign of John or Mycroft. He'd find them, and save them, whatever the cost. Shortly after their ordeal was over, however, he realised that the price had already been paid, in the shape of a petite pathologist with too big a heart.
John returned to his own flat, where Mrs Hudson was staying while Baker Street was renovated, and looking after Rosie. He was thankful in some ways that Molly had said she was unable to care for his daughter today, otherwise they would have lost her too. Sherlock went to his brother's house, where he would wait for Mycroft to be discharged, as they had much to discuss. They said nothing that night after Lestrade dropped him off, each others presence enough, but after a long night of decompressing and the odd wink of sleep, Mycroft told Sherlock the whole story, piecing together memory fragments and clearing the haze. Sherlock spent the rest of the day between his mind palace and sleep, his brain trying to recalculate and recover. He was kept under the watchful eye of his big brother, who was receiving phone call after phone call to deal with the fall out of his sister's games. There was one call, however, he could not make until his brother had at least partially processed the events of the last couple of days, and that was to their parents, who were going to be furious. He'd tried his level best with what he'd been given, but yet again, it hadn't been good enough. Mycroft sighed as his brother awoke from his most recent slumber, his eyes hollow, and stubble on his chin, a shell of himself.
They drank coffee with the 6 o'clock news, and as the weather forecast was being broadcast, Mycroft rolled his eyes– there had been no reports of any explosions in London, and thus, there was a good chance Molly Hooper was still alive. He took the now empty mugs back into the kitchen, and once he was out of ear shot he made a phone call he hoped would put the light back into his brother's face.
Molly was snuggled up on her sofa, one of her favourite films on the tele when her phone rang. She was unsurprised to see Mycroft's name across the screen, after the stunt his brother had pulled yesterday, she'd been expecting an explanation from anyone other than the detective himself. Her money had been on John popping round a couple of hours later to apologise on the bastard's behalf, but for Mycroft to be calling meant that the explanation could have security implications, although why remained a mystery at his moment. Curiosity got the better of her, and despite promising herself yesterday that she was done with all things Holmes, she picked up on the penultimate ring, and would swear that she heard a sigh of relief on the other side. It was a peculiar phone call, with Mycroft simply requesting she come to his house this evening, none of the usual arrogance she associated with the man, no car being sent or offered. It must be something serious if Mycroft was giving her his home address, and she hoped that Sherlock wasn't using again, or worse.
It took her 45 minutes to get across London to Mycroft's characteristically extravagant home, and she took a deep breath before knocking, half expecting to be greeted by a butler. What she did not anticipate, however, was the usually impeccable Holmes to be without his signature waistcoat and tie, with his shirt sleeves rolled up. He placed a finger to his lips, and indicated silently for her to enter his house. He then shut the door quietly, and lead her to a small lounge at the back of the property where she could see the top of a head of curly black hair resting on the arm of the sofa. She stiffened, but carried on walking, they'd have to talk this through at some point, so now was as good a time as ever she supposed. As they got closer, she could see his hands, bruised and trembling, this was not the encounter she had played through one hundred times in her head. She'd visualised what she thought was every eventuality coming from that phone call, from Moriarty turning up and kidnapping her, to Sherlock never speaking to her again, but a trembling Sherlock and a caring older brother? That had never crossed her mind. Mycroft clearing his throat had brought her out of her head, and re-woken Sherlock,
"There's someone here to see you brother-mine," He said quietly, ducking out into the dining room adjacent to the lounge.
Sherlock sighed inwardly, he didn't know who his brother could be allowing to bother him, and he wasn't in the mood to deduce it, so he sat up and turned around petulantly, his scowl vanishing the moment he saw her. He blinked twice, a look of confusion crossed his face, before he leapt up out of the chair and engulfed her in a tight bear hug. The damn broke when he breathed in the scent of her shampoo, large sobs wracking his body, as his tears fell into her hair.
She was alive, and he was home.