SPOILER WARNING: If you haven't watched The Final Problem, the third episode in Series Four, then don't go any further! But if you have, then by all means, continue. Please enjoy! :)

"This is an immensely delicate situation."

Sherlock Holmes was pacing-no, prowling-around the chair in the hopes that the constant movement would add the further emphasis that his client obviously needed. No doubt they were getting more and more daft these days, but to offer up only silence in the face of this crisis was taking it too far.

"In order to save the individual's life, a certain pass-code had to be verbally uttered. The subject's life was spared, of course, but there is a particular-erm-price I have paid."

Still the person in the chair said nothing, and Sherlock let out a long, low sigh. "Don't just sit there like a John, you know perfectly well what I mean!" The client merely peered up with innocent eyes, reminding him so much of John Watson that Sherlock could only be frustrated with himself.

Footsteps intruded upon the clarity of his focus, the familiar sound so disruptive that it could only be the father who had made the challenging visitor that refused to talk; John in the flesh.

"You sod," were the first words out of his best mate's mouth as a pink rag materialized to wipe away the drool that was dribbling down his daughter's chin. "Not only do you interrogate my daughter, but you use her own father's name as a swear?"

John's mouth was grim, but Sherlock knew it was only him poking fun. He was doing that more and more these days, good John, and not in the way of a man who had to weave a cloak of lies to keep the bald face of grief from screaming out his hidden agony. His eyes were no longer constantly gone with the searing pain of loss, and this was a good step. Sherlock did not consistently feel the need to always puzzle him out anymore, to wonder, to truly know if John Watson was managing. It was what it was.

"Not a swear," Sherlock corrected. "A derogatory adjective."

John only rolled his eyes and scooped up Rosie with an oomph.

"Don't really think a child of one will be able to help you with this."

"She's a girl."

"Child of one." John repeated, nodding at the baby's cheerful attempts to pull her papa's ear off with a pudgy little hand. "Why not, I dunno, talk to Mrs. Hudson if you're so eager for female advice?"

"That'd be awkward."

Sherlock let himself imagine that particular scenario-dear Mrs. Hudson with her too-kind eyes, offering to discuss his 'lady trouble' (her own words, no doubt accompanied with a consoling pat that would make the tips of his ears burn) over a cup of tea. No, there was no way in a bloody thousand years he would be desperate enough to take that route.

As adored as the woman was, it wasn't exactly as if she could always be counted upon to keep her trap shut, either. One wrong word uttered to the nosy postman, and who knows what sort of rumors would be buzzing in the paper.

To his astonishment, John had begun to guffaw.

"You do realize how absurd you're being, don't you?"

Sherlock knitted his brows. "I don't see a single thing absurd about this. This is a completely serious matter."

And it was. When the Sherrinford Incident had occurred, as Mycroft referred to it-often making a face associated with drinking liquor too strong for one's taste-tragedy and trauma had struck with staggering impact. Lives had been taken, ripped away, as Eurus had had her little game. Those who hadn't perished remained behind in the world of the living, shell-shocked, in the aftermath.

People like Molly Hooper.

Even though Molly had been nowhere near Sherrinford itself when Sherlock, John, and Mycroft were being forced to play a little game of hell with the darling Holmes sister, for a fleeting moment, she had appeared.

There were many moments about that day that came back to Sherlock unbidden, but the most unwelcome and frequent was perhaps the plain wooden coffin on its pedestal. The blazing look of glee on his sister's pallid face. Molly in her kitchen, angry that he was ringing her because he never answered when she rang. His chest practically cracking open from how damn hard his heart was pounding and-Molly answer the phone just ANSWER-

"...But seeing as we've got the whole day off, I think I'm heading out. That alright, Sherlock? ...Sherlock." John was saying something. Yes, he tended to do that, didn't he?

"Sorry, what?" Distracted, Sherlock went back to his pacing. Movement helped the mind; sitting there like a lump accomplished nothing.

John was eyeing him in a way that was exasperating. He was trying to deduce. Sherlock loved the man, but really, one day that hair was going to catch fire from the strain written so obviously on his readable face.

"I said, Rosie and I are going to head out now. That alright with you?"

"Oh. Of course, I'm sure it's…" He peered out the window, trying to get some indication of what the world was doing outside of 221B. "I'm sure it's an excellent day to be a baby."

"Every day's an excellent day to be a baby," John replied as he gathered up the last of what had inevitably spilled from the child's diaper bag. "But of course, you'd know all about that, eh Sherlock?"

If John had not banned cursing in front of Rosamund, colorful language may have followed him out the door. In its place, Sherlock merely gave him a withering look (All these baby jokes, really? He was a man of forty!) and bid him farewell.

It was selfish of him to wish that John would stay, but solitude was hard lately. Normally, the concept of being alone would not have daunted Sherlock Holmes; there were cases out there, murders, victims, thievery, and all manner of hand-dirtying matters that made his blood pump day after day. He was not content to sit in his flat and be mundane like most of the population-he needed tasks, tasks that were thrilling, tasks that many that people would find impossible.

Lately, though, his mind would not stick to a case. (Mostly because they were all boring-had nearly losing his life at Sherrinford done that? Dear, dear.) But that wasn't all there was to it. He couldn't concentrate on it. Even on the cases he took, his mind flung itself back to that prison at regular intervals, like his body was in the now but his brain was still there, lingering, sluggish.

"Oh, God. Is this one of your stupid games?"

"No, it's not a game. I...I need you to help me."

She was never going to do it. The time was moving so quickly and she was never going to say it, she would die in a billion grisly pieces in her flat, alone, thinking that he was pulling some cruel joke-

"Look, I'm not at the lab."

"It's not about that." His voice was going high in pitch with desperation, he was starting to sweat. You are going to die. You will die and I will have failed you.

"Sherlock, what is it? What do you want?"

Why?

Why was he being forced to come back to it, over and over, to see its very molecular structure as one views cells through a microscope lens? He did not fancy this, being a man who dwelled. Nor did he particularly enjoy remembering so vividly, multiple times throughout the course of his waking moments, the crumpled face of Molly Hooper.

I'm trying to save your life! He so wished he could have screamed it at her. Maybe then she would have understood. Maybe it would not all be so dreadfully confusing now.

Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly intelligent man-anyone who had met him could tell you. But could they claim that he was not an unfeeling monster? Only a precious few would vouch for him in that category, and Sherlock was unsure if Molly was one of them. Very unsure indeed. Perhaps that was why his texts went unanswered, and why he suddenly felt very much like he was on the opposite end of the tentative relationship he'd once had with Irene Adler. He felt that stabbing thing again and cursed it, knowing its name-guilt.

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his trousers, Sherlock unlocked his phone and thumbed out a text at breakneck speed.

We need to talk about what was said. Please. Can meet you when your shift ends at 6.

-SH

Obviously he knew her shift ended at six because when it was her turn to watch Rosamund, John was always showing up to her flat two hours later than he normally did. This meant that her shifts now lasted from 8 am to 6 pm-ten hours instead of the usual eight, indicative of Molly asking for and receiving more work time. This could mean one of two things:

Money trouble, or

An emotional issue she wished to avoid by diving headfirst into work.

The latter option was far more likely.

The text went ignored for an hour, two hours, three. It would sit unanswered, Sherlock knew, just like the other dozen that had frustrated him. Though many would claim that he had the emotional capacity of a very shallow mixing bowl, this did not leave him entirely inept; Sherlock realized that Molly needed space to process what had been said.

But how much was too much, and had that amount overflowed into a range into which he might seem more unfeeling and cruel than he already appeared? Or perhaps, even, he was not giving her enough time. Was that true? It had been a month, how much could she possibly-well, that being said, he had not even the slightest as to where he stood.

He had just wanted to save the life of a dear friend. It wasn't supposed to become...this. Eurus had been right; so many complicated little emotions that they couldn't even be kept track of. It would be so much easier to forget it had happened, to continue living his life as he'd always lived it. But with Molly concerned, that did not seem to be happening.

"To hell with it," Sherlock murmured to the empty flat, glancing at his phone for the time. Just past five. This was already absurd and painful and awkward. What could a little more harm do?

Groping for his coat-it had half-disappeared over the edge of a chair-Sherlock debated over the deerstalker before finally shutting the door of 221B behind him. The way to Bart's was a well-walked path, but taking it now felt overwhelming. Why would visiting Molly Hooper in her lab, of all things, make his stomach churn? God, how things had changed. Before she would have barely piqued his interest, and now, she had been a hurricane in his thoughts for days upon days.

These thoughts, as demanding as they were to his addled brain, had to be put aside. He had a mortuary to visit, and for once, he was not interested in the dead.

Hey everyone! If your heart was as broken as mine was after The Final Problem, then you'll know why I had to spin this from my fingertips. I hope that this properly emulates the feel of Sherlock, as he has always been a character very dear to me. And I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know how you felt about it in the reviews.

See you later! Stay wicked.

-WickedScribbles

I must give special thanks to Ariane DeVere, who took great care to write out the transcript of The Final Problem and from whom I borrowed some lines for this work. Link to her very precise transcript here- .