Hello everyone! This little story will be in three parts. The first chapter is dialogue heavy from the episode: The Final Problem. I wanted to get a little insight to what Sherlock was feeling during that phone call with Molly. This story will be spoiler heavy so please read at your own risk.

The next two chapters will be up soon. Enjoy the Sherlolly feels - I'm a hopeless romantic!

Hope you enjoy and all mistakes are mine!

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the show. I'm just using them for my own entertainment.

Chapter 1: I Love You

I love you. Three syllables. Three simple word; profoundly unique when used separately yet, when used together, could change a person's whole concept of love forever. Sherlock Holmes was no different, despite previous allusions to the contrary.

Say it like you mean it, she had said. Did she know what it would do to him if he said those words to her? Did she know what he would realise, what he would feel, when he uttered those words to her? Knowing Molly Hooper as he did, Sherlock was fairly certain that she knew. As he had struggled the first time saying the words a sense of calm had settled over him, a stillness blanketing his mind as the words flowed through him, and he found himself repeating those three words, softer this time.

I love you.

After the words left his lips the second time, Sherlock understood what she meant when she said they were true. He had never wanted to acknowledge it before, the change in his attitude towards her, his behaviour towards her since his return well over a year ago. She had always counted to him, he had always trusted her. She mattered. He had just never realised how much until that moment.

To come to the realisation that he meant those words concerning her, that they were true, at this crucial moment where her life hung in the balance, had him wanting to tear his hair out at the irony. What was supposed to be a profoundly beautiful moment between two people admitting their feelings for one another was sullied by the sound of Moriarty's obnoxious imitation of a ticking clock as the countdown in the corner of the television screen flickered away the seconds Sherlock had in securing Molly's response. It was sullied by the game his manipulative sister Eurus was playing with all of them, wanting to understand how they worked in an emotional context, how he worked.

The calmness that he had felt at uttering the words faded as the seconds ticked by and Molly still hadn't answered. Panic, terror, rushed through him in its place and Sherlock found himself struggling for breath.

"Molly?"

She stayed silent and Sherlock's eyes burned with tears. He had said the words, just like she asked him! He had said the words like he meant them, no, not like, he did mean them, and it was more than just hoping to save her life, it was to save himself as well. His throat constricted around the lump that had suddenly risen and lodged itself there.

"Molly, please!" He gasped and his voice shook, pleaded, with her to answer. He waited, heart racing, lungs straining, as he watched her lift her phone to her lips. A beat passed and everything fell silent, as if the world too was holding its breath for her answer. And then, her voice, barely above a whisper:

"I love you."

Profound relief, as well as a shard of joy ripped through him at her words and it almost felled him. He sucked in a shaken breath as he dropped his head back, his eyes closing tightly as tears threatened to fall. She had said it, she was safe. Everything would be alright now. But his mind, his brilliant mind that had never forgotten a thing when is concerned Molly Hooper, called up the sound of her voice as she uttered those words, how broken she had sounded, and then the sound of his own voice as he had said them, the sense of wonder colouring his tone as he realised his own truth, and his chest constricted. He had hurt her in making her say it, by making her play Eurus's game, and he didn't know if she would listen long enough for him to explain, listen long enough to forgive him.

His breath hitched and he hunched forward, pressing his hands hard into his eyes, the butt of the gun he held digging into the flesh of his cheek as he struggled to get himself under control. How did people do this every day? How did people feel like this every day and not be destroyed by it? How did John stand it, now that Mary was gone? He scrubbed hard at his eyes before he straightened and dropped his hands to his sides, feeling drained and emotionally exhausted, his blue-green eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. He heard footsteps behind him, the rustle of an expensive suit reaching his ears.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started softly, clearly not want to startle his rattled brother. "However hard that was for you – " Sherlock cut him off, not wanting his brother's rare sympathy in this moment when he was finding it so hard keep it together. All that mattered was that Molly was safe because he had done what his sister had told him to. He needed to push through this, see it to the end. He couldn't allow his emotions to get the better of him, not now when they were too close to the surface and everything was riding on him to solve his sister's puzzle. He jerked his head up, looking at the camera sitting in the corner of the room.

"Eurus, I won, I won," he declared, keeping his voice even. It was silent for a moment and Sherlock swallowed heavily to stem the sudden fear that he had missed something. Not wanting to show how anxious he was to his sister and the two men in the room with him Sherlock sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes to appear nonchalant.

"Come on, play fair," Sherlock griped, frustrated that Eurus was stalling when she had got what she wanted. "The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her. I won, I saved Molly Hooper." His eyes darted to the television screen when his sister's face appeared, her expression curious.

"Saved her? Saved her from what?" She sounded confused and Sherlock felt that panic rising again and clenched his hands into fists. Eurus's lips quirked and she gave him a look as if she were speaking to a dimwitted child. "Oh, do be sensible. There were never any explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win, you lost." Sherlock blinked rapidly, his jaw clenching. He swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat as he looked away. Lost? He'd saved her, saved Molly Hooper. It didn't matter that there were never any explosives as long as his sister's attention had moved away from his pathologist. She would be fine, he would talk to her after all this had ended, explain things –

"Look at what you did to her," Eurus continued, her voice soft, curious, marvelling over how utterly lost Sherlock looked. "Look at what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotion context, Sherlock, it destroys you, every time," she said matter-of-factly, her wide blue eyes watching him intently as he turned away from her. His gaze was drawn to the coffin and he walked beside it, pausing to place the gun on the stand holding it up. His eyes were burning and his head pounded with his sister's words. He could feel John's and Mycroft's eyes on him as he walked towards the lid of the coffin, propped against the wall in front of him. His hands shook and the shaking travelled up his arms, causing his shoulders to tremble. His eyes filled as he looked at the inscription on the coffin lid, his jaw clenching as his sister's word repeated over and over in his mind - you lost, you lost, you lost.

"Now, please, pull yourself together," Eurus told him, her voice emotionless. "I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy." A wall shifted, revealing a door.

"In your own time." The television filled with white noise and, after a pause, John and Mycroft started towards the door. Easy, she had said. How had any of that been easy? Sherlock was sure that his relationship with Molly Hooper would be forever changed after that phone call. He'd heard it in her voice – she had been fed up, tired by the way Sherlock and others had treated her, had taken her for granted. Would she even want to see him after this? He blinked rapidly to control the stinging in his eyes, his vision blurring slightly as he read those three simple but devastating words.

Sherlock picked up the coffin lid and moved back to the coffin, gently laying the lid down to seal it. As he did so he wondered over why he was doing it. Was he trying to hide what had just happened, what he had just revealed to his best friend and older brother by closing the lid on the coffin? Was he just going to bury the feelings that had been brought crashing to the surface, those feelings for Molly that he had been suppressing, ignoring, for years, just so he wouldn't have to deal with them?

His eyes again caught on the golden plate at the top of the lid, reading the words inscribed there. I love you. His hands brushed against the wood and he shuddered. Eurus had made this for her, for Molly. Had intended this to be Molly Hooper's coffin and the thought caused bile to rise in Sherlock's throat. His eyes filled and he released a shuddering breath, the reality that he almost lost her, had been made to believe he would lose her, overwhelmed him and he could barely breathe. He looked up, his eyes catching John's across the coffin, his expression raw, wounded, lost.

"Sherlock?" John called softly and the compassion, the understanding, in John's blue eyes broke him. Sherlock looked away, his gaze once more drawn to the coffin and rage, unlike any he had ever known, filled him, boiled over, and he lost it.

"No," he muttered, his voice low, guttural, he gaze narrowed with revulsion as he stared at the coffin and what it represented. He wanted nothing more than to destroy it, to break it apart, because it shouldn't exist, not when the woman it was intended for was safe, alive. Molly Hooper was alive and she would never be in that coffin. Never, never, never, never, never

With a roar Sherlock exploded, lunging forward and smashing his fist into the lid of the coffin, splintering the wood. Again and again he bashed his fists in to the wood until the lid split apart and he picked up a broken piece and began smashing it against the base, screaming and yelling in rage, in pain, over and over until his voice grew hoarse and broken, until the coffin intended for Molly Hooper was nothing but a pile of wood shards, brass pieces and scraps of white silk littered across the stone floor.

He stood among the wreckage, his whole body shaking as he breathed heavily, sweat soaking his skin and hair, his hands bruised and scraped as they hung limp by his sides. With a choked breath he swayed and then stumbled to the wall, pressing his back to it before sliding to the floor in exhaustion. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed away the wetness from beneath his raw eyes, sucking in deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had never felt like this before, so manipulated, so lost, so tortured. Moriarty had tried but Sherlock had figured him out in the end. Now, against Eurus, his sister that he had had no memory of until now, was using her genius mind to utterly destroy him and he didn't understand, didn't know why she was so focused on him. He didn't know how much more he could bear.

The scrape of wood against stone had him lifting his head and he saw John bend to pick up the gun that had been forgotten in Sherlock's rage, the gun that Eurus told him he was supposed to use soon, the victim not yet specified. His throat closed and he looked up at John, his eyes watering.

"Look," John began quietly, firmly, the voice of a man who had seen too much, who had lost too much. "I know this has been difficult and I know you're being tortured...but you have got to keep it together." Sherlock's jaw clenched as he dropped his gaze to stare at his shaking hands hanging over his knees.

"This isn't torture, this is vivisection," he spat out, his voice shaking as much as his hands. "We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats!" John remained silent and Sherlock lifted his head, dropping it back against the wall behind him, sucking in a steadying breath. The adrenalin from earlier was draining and Sherlock just felt exhausted, wrung out. His gaze flicked to his brother in the doorway, the older man watching him quietly, his arms crossed, a pensive expression on his face. He turned his head to meet his best friend's steady gaze, gathering strength from him. He sighed.

"Soldiers?"

"Soldiers," John confirmed and held out his hand for Sherlock to take. He did so, standing slowly, stiffly. He straightened his jacket, finding some comfort in the action. John walked at his side as they made their way to the door, Sherlock carefully taking the gun from John's loose grip, the ex-army doctor releasing a slow breath as Sherlock moved in front of him.

As he went to step through the door, Sherlock steeled himself, banishing any thought of Molly and their conversation to the back of his mind, locking it in the room where he kept all of his deeper emotions tightly secreted away. If he was going to see her, talk to her and explain what this had all been about, he needed to be completely free of distractions, completely in control of his emotions so he could get through this. He wasn't too sure he managed it completely as sad brown eyes flashed across his mind and his hand tightened on the gun. He shook his head slightly and, with a deep breath, Sherlock entered the next room, ready as he would ever be to end this.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for chapter 2!