Inspired by the song "Shine" by Vienna Teng. It gave me Molly-feels, in Mrs. Dizzy's words, and so here it is. This is the sequel/opposite piece to "My Medea," and is told entirely from Molly's point of view here. There are things she's aware of that Sherlock is doing, and there are things she is in the dark about because of reasons. It also jumps around a little bit on the timeline for her, going from their past together and some of the events of My Medea while also taking a closer look at the aftermath of Sherlock's faked death for his family. I hope you give the song a listen to a few times as you read this fic, too :)

There will be 21 chapters to this fic, and it IS completed at the moment. I'm just editing some of the chapters before I put them up here. And I'm thinking of doing the gimmicky thing of calling the sections 'patients' but am torn. I did the gimmicky thing with My Medea and am unsure if I ought to do the same here.

Well, without further ado, let me unveil the sequel to My Medea, Shine With All The Untold.

Enjoy!

In this desert land I know some rain must fall

Mavis Leonette cried herself to sleep in Molly's arms as she sat on their bed that night. It was still a shock, remembering Mycroft's men take Sherlock away—to a funeral parlor, the paperwork said—on the gurney. He'd been so still, so still that he'd almost convinced Molly and she had been the one to help him do this. And then the sudden shock that he'd not actually said goodbye to her, and that there was no guarantee that he would ever come back, had been enough to force her into the tears expected of a woman widowed in an instant. She had cried into Mrs. Hudson's shoulder for several minutes, away from the children, before taking them up to 221B to try to explain that Papa was gone.

Visitors had come and gone, trying to comfort her—and all Molly could think was that Sherlock would just hate it that people were touching his things without his permission, let alone moving them. She may or may not have shrieked at a few of those coming to show her a bit of sympathy, and she'd had a fresh appreciation for Sherlock's incredible tolerance of those who bothered him. He was always in a fragile place in his mind, a place that needed routine and normalcy from those around him. He would have been shouting and deducing people to tears by the end of the night, had he been there. But he couldn't be there, Molly thought as she tried not to cry again. He was gone so that they could live.

Because he loved them—though that is not what he had said to her. Molly knew that Sherlock would never forsake his own life for something as silly as pride. They would have dealt with it as his name was dragged through the mud, but that wasn't all that would happen if he didn't kill himself—the people who were after them were threatening to kill Molly, and Mavis Leonette, and Brinley. Pride was not the reason he had chosen to fake his own death. Her husband groused and complained when his pride was hurt, questioned, or damaged. He would never kill himself to save face—but he would sacrifice himself for the things he loved. The game, the chase, the hunt, and somewhere in there his family too. He could pretend all he wanted that he didn't really love them, just cared for them and their wellbeing in a scientific, biologic sense, but Molly knew he would never pretend to kill himself for something he merely cared for.

She had taken refuge in their bedroom, leaving John to sort out the well-wishers and turn away the gawky ones.

Their bed was the same one Sherlock had had since she'd moved in with him. A bit bigger than a twin, but not quite a full—it was long, but small. Sherlock rarely slept the full night in it, but when he did he wanted to stretch out and he was quite tall. Tonight Brinley was curled up in a ball where Sherlock normally put his head. The infant was wailing and sobbing and couldn't be comforted. Mavis Leonette had attached herself to Molly's front, crying as well but also alternately pleading as best she could for Mummy to bring Papa back, for Papa to come play songs, and where was Papa?

Molly had no answer, and knew she wouldn't have one until either Sherlock returned or Mycroft called her with sad news. As her heart broke for her children, Molly wondered if she herself would ever recover from Sherlock's absence. Though he was rarely very demonstrative, she ached to spend the night as she usually did with him. She would be laying back on the bed, reading or writing—a book about her adventures with Sherlock, something she and John were collaborating on—and he would come in after putting Mavis Leonette to bed. Brinley's laugh would signal his entrance, and Sherlock would pause with a brief smirk at the boy's crib—pick him up, lay a kiss in his head, hold him until he dozed, put him back down—and then turn to the bed and curl up next to her until she slept.

Or he would stand and play the violin, songs he personally arranged for them or composed on the fly, wandering around the flat in the dead of night with the melodies trailing after him.

The silence around her in the flat now was deafening despite how loud Brinley and Mavis Leonette were being with their grief. They weren't old enough, really, to truly miss the force that was their father. Molly, however, was more than able.

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