AN: Heyy part two! Finally, right guys? So yes if you haven't read part one, The Walls Come Crashing Down this will probably make little sense. I've had this idea since I started writhing fanfic, and I wanted to explore the Sherlolly territory seeing as how this is one dynamic I haven explored as much.

As always I do not own Sherlock, his cheekbones (sigh) or his awesomeness. That belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC as well as the magnanimous Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. For being dead. And letting us crazies run amok. :D Any and all feedback is welcome, and if you stuck with me since part one, I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

xxHoney

'Tell me what's wrong.'

'Molly, I think I'm going to die.'

'What do you need –?'

'If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?'

'What do you need?'

'You.'

-oOo-

Sherlock Holmes had never looked at her like this before. And Molly was privy to the many shades of manipulation he pulled on her over the course of their acquaintance-ship. But in all that time, he never looked so unguarded, and…frightened as he does now.

He approaches her slowly, his shoulders curled in on himself, and his eyes red-rimmed as if holding back tears. These are real tears; she knows the difference. Sherlock keeps everything real locked away inside, and now his fear and loneliness is trying to break itself free. She wants to hold him together, and be there with a bucket so she can catch everything that pours out. She takes a step toward him, and brings her hand up to his face. She hesitates when his eyes grow wide, but she closes the distance between cheek and palm and looks at him evenly. I will be your strength, Sherlock. You can have me.

"Tell me. I'll do it. What ever you need, Sherlock." The words are barely a whisper, but her eyes are bright.

He is still for a moment, starlight eyes roaming over her face, searching for something. Finally he lets out a shaky breath before he closes them in relief, and allows himself to lean into her touch.

It's only for a moment, a small shift on the balls of his feet, and when he pulls away and Molly isn't sure it even happened. But as he absently adjusts the hem of his coat, she recognises this to be one of the small tells of Sherlock's well hidden vulnerability that he swears not to possess. But she is Molly, and no one has ever spent so much time simply noticing Sherlock Holmes like she does.

Finally he looks up and quirks a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Shall we get started?"

…

"How does this work exactly?" Molly asks, helping him clear the lab equipment off one of the counters that was in the middle of the room. He had been vague in explaining the mechanics of it all. He was nervous and had a floundering quality when he tried, and she realised that Sherlock wasn't one hundred percent positive on his plan either. She notices his hands shake as he carries a rack of test tubes to an adjacent table. They tinkle lightly.

His back is to her as he takes off his coat and suit jacket, and discards them over the back of a chair. Finally, he turns around, surveying the room absently as he shifts his weight, and once again Molly is taken aback at how unsure he looks.

"I am going to attempt to preserve my mind, essentially. Partition it in case something happens to me," he says, and sets about rolling up his sleeves. His hands are shaking harder now, and he's having trouble with the right one. Silently, Molly comes over and finishes it for him. She gently takes his wrist and leads him to the counter. They stand side by side for a moment. "Molly I don't know if this is going to work. It's all in theory really, and nothing like this has ever been done. So if I – if I –"

"Don't," she says. "We'll get there when we get there, yeah?"

"I don't know what's going to happen up here," he says tapping his fingers to his temple. His eyes bore into hers for emphasis. "You have to promise me you won't let me lose focus."

"I promise," she says in a small worried voice. She knows Sherlock's mind is unlike any others, multifaceted and mysterious, but it startles her that even he doesn't know the depth of its many complexities.

"All right?" he asks. She hums and manages a slight smile. He nods sharply and hops up on the counter, reclining until he is stretched out on his back. "Now I need you to stand right behind me, just there," he says motioning for her to stand at the end of the counter near his head. "I'll need a fixed point. Put your hands are either side of my head – yes, like that – hold it steady, and look down into my eyes. The narrower scope of vision I have the better. Like a tunnel." She complies, and tries not to shift anxiously. She's never been this close to him before, her hands cradling his face nonetheless. The intimacy thrills yet frightens her. "Molly, could you try your hardest not to blink so much?"

"Sorry," she says.

"Or talk," he says again with the same level of annoyance. The usual malice behind the tone is absent, however.

She doesn't say anything, and instead trains her gaze back on those silver pools. The scowl fades from his face, and he begins to regulate his breathing, drawing in deep breaths through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. This goes on for some time. She's not sure exactly how long, seeing as how utterly mesmerising he is, before he speaks once more, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you have your Word?" She doesn't want to shatter the silence, so she nods her head never tearing her eyes away from his. "Good. Don't say it yet. I can't know it. You'll know when, just like we talked about." She nods again, and watches him breathe a few more times before he suddenly stops, his chest deflating and his mouth slackening. This alarms her, and for a moment she stops breathing too. She almost tears herself away to check his pulse. Almost. Then, in an instant, everything changes…

Everything, everything is collapsing, circling in on itself and condensing into a small black point. Black hole…all of it is failing. All of it – his mind palace – is being ripped apart, and thrown out of order. Chaos isn't a word that could describe this utter destruction taking place within his skull. There is no word. All of his senses are exploding outward and inward simultaneously; grappling with the sudden absence of category and logic as external stimuli crashes into him like lightening.

Cold. It's cold. Back. Arms. Cold air. Cold cold cold. Rough clothes. Hot. Burn. Pain. No it's not pain but it feels like it. Loud. His breathing. His blood surging through his veins. Heart throwing itself against his ribs. Pounding pounding pounding. It's too much, too much, too much…

Suddenly, Sherlock's hands fly up and grab her forearms, and Molly cries out in shock. His back arches off the counter, and he draws in a shattering breath. His eyes slam shut, and his legs kick out wildly. A single ragged scream escapes his lips before his jaws clench, and his head thrashes from side to side trying to break free of her hands. She holds on tighter.

"Sherlock," she says, surprised at how steady she sounds even though she is breaking inside. Everything in her is telling her to make him stop. She can't bear to see him like this, but she knows this is vital. His fingers dig into her arms even tighter. "Sherlock you need to look at me. You need to focus. I'm right here." His body convulses again, and another strangled gasp makes its way through his teeth. "Open your eyes. Please."

The glacial irises manage to find their way back to hers again…

Big brown orbs with honey flecks. Wide black pupils. He is falling, falling into them. He has no purchase. It's all wrong. They look so wrong. He needs – he needs –

"I can't it – it's too much." Sherlock groans as another convulsive wave shudders through him. His eyes threaten to roll back into his head, and a sudden panic grips Molly. She gives his head a sharp shake, and they snap open wide again.

"Look at me, Heart. Focus. Focus."

"It's all wrong it –" He gasps suddenly, and his back arches off the counter once more as another scream rips through him.

Molly doesn't think. She just heaves herself up on the counter with him, and straddles his waist, pressing herself against his chest to stop him from falling off as spasm after spasm violently arc his spine. She grabs his head again to keep it from slamming against the cold ceramic, and her eyes collide with his once more.

"Please," she says. Dimly she's aware tears are streaking down her face. "Stay with me."

Brown eyes. Scared. Pleading. Full of stars and universe. It's no longer wrong. He can finally see. The expanse of dark in the center isn't terror. It is velvet. It is hallow. It is sky, and ocean, and night, and super nova all at once…

His hands come up to grasp her shoulders, and he fights to keep his eyes open. Molly can see the familiar determination in them, a spark that tells her that what ever she's doing is on the right path. She leans her head down and their foreheads touch.

"Breathe with me, Sherlock," she says, and starts to inhale and exhale the way she saw him do before. Eventually their breathing becomes synchronised. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. One, two, three. Inhale, exhale…

It's working. His heart no longer seems to be galloping out of control against her own. She keeps breathing.

The spasms have almost stopped, only small tremors rack his frame now, and his eyes are hooded under heavy lids. They finally slide shut, but just before they do, Molly presses her lips to his ear. "Altamont."

There is darkness. And Pandora's own box of pure obsidian…

Sherlock's body slackens as he finally slips into unconsciousness.

Time resumes itself, and Molly lets out a shaky breath. She's not sure if Sherlock's plan worked or not, but at least he's not writhing in pain anymore. His chest rises and falls with peaceful ease, and his face is completely serene. He looks younger this way, exposed and vulnerable. She still has her hands in his hair, absently stroking his temples with her thumbs.

"Please. Find another way out of this," she whispers. A tear falls from the tip of her nose and lands on his pale cheek. "Please don't die," you are my "Heart."

After a few moments more, she gently makes her way off the counter. It's probably best if she leaves before he comes to. She grabs her things, and with one last lingering look, prays this isn't the last she'll see of him alive.

Later that night she receives the text that shatters her world.

Be ready. It's tomorrow. I need you. –SH

If you recognised the beginning of this from my little 221b I did ages ago, here is the inspiration for it! It's been on my computer for ages and it is glorious to get it up here. Thanks for reading!