Smiling through denial, my specialty. I thought that was a good thing for a while. You gave me all your secrets. Were you testing me? How could I do anything but smile?

Reenact your legendary tragedy and do to me what has been done to you. Is that the only point to all this misery? Is there any reason I should cry?

Heal. It takes time. And you gave me all you had. I know in time I will believe that I loved you. Did you love me? Did you love me?

Lou Barlow, "Legendary", EMOH


The line goes dead.

Molly continues to clutch her mobile in both hands as a greasy pressure keeps her from breathing. Hot tears well and slide down her cheeks. She cannot bother to swipe them away, not anymore.

Pulling a shuddering gasp, working the air past her diaphragm, she shakes her head furiously. She'll drink her tea. She'll sit down in her lounge and [clutching the teacup in both hands] turn on the telly. There must be something on to distract at least a few of the shattered pieces of her.

She only realizes she hasn't moved and a half hour has passed since she spoke to Sherlock when she reaches for the cup, brings it to her mouth, and cold tea touches her lips. Still, she swallows, even though she only tastes the bitter tannins that dry on her tongue. She even gulps down the rest and is surprised that the orange citrus doesn't sting, because she could swear she's a series of raw papercuts right now. One for each minute she's spent with Sherlock Holmes. One for each time she's foolishly let a flicker of hope [that he loves her, that his affection for her keeps, that she's finally found the strength she needs to let go] spark. One for each time he's made her sad, angry, happy, and so on. But the tangy sweetness only causes a slight curl of her tongue and no pain.

Robotically, Molly moves about her kitchen, cleaning up the evidence of the minutes before Sherlock broke her heart. Again. Raw and alone, naturally.

Shuffling like an old woman with tired bones, she moves into her lounge and sits heavily on the sofa, promising that she'll only allow one more hour of self-pity. She only realizes she's brought her empty cup with her when she blindly lifts it to her mouth. Frowning, she lowers it and stares at the small puddle of tealeaves on the bottom of the cup.

"Say it. Say it like you mean it."

Though she wishes she could be proud of her small show of defiance—her determination to put Sherlock as off balance as he'd made her—it's a Pyrrhic victory. Maybe for that moment she could pretend she isn't as huge an idiot as she is. Boy, was that ever short-lived. Now, what's there left to do?

He said it twice, a traitorous voice whispers. It is the same voice that suggested she dress up for Christmas drinks, urged her to commit fraud, convinced her that what she was doing wasn't fair to Tom, and bit at her to help him with his drug relapses and withdrawals even as he pushed her away. And where has allowing her eager, lonely heart to make decisions got her? Trying not to cry anymore on her settee and while she is swamped with a morass of pain that goes beyond embarrassment.

Because, sure, Sherlock told her he loves her. He even said it twice and he begged her to say it back to him. He mostly likely had a good reason to require it of her. She trusts him that far, even if it took a hint of desperate cajoling on his part to bring her round to that. But that only makes it more painful. Because it only reinforces to her that he sees her as a friend for the most part, but a means to an end when necessary.

It can't sustain itself.

"He doesn't love me," she whispers to her empty sitting room. Her voice echoes back from the hallway leading to her bedroom.

"He doesn't love me," she says again, louder.

And then she waits for that voice to contradict her. But it can't, so she sits there and swirls the dregs of her tea.


"Say it. Say it like you mean it."

Later, Sherlock will think back on her words and wonder if she knew. She's always seen right through him. Those dark, watchful eyes know him when he only wishes he could say the same for her.


The town car rattles away from the skeleton of the ancestral family home, and Sherlock's mind races with the remains of today. Or is it yesterday? His eyes are too bleary with exhaustion to decipher the digital clock's readout that glows weakly onto a nameless driver's face. He knows it's late, but he can't track anything because nothing feels real right now.

Eurus is safely contained and even his guilt at her incarceration can't quell the bone-deep relief that everyone is safe again. Now, it's a matter of picking up the pieces.

Parsing the aftermath of a trauma into a mental checklist may be his favorite coping mechanism. He's already urged Mycroft to tell their parents and he imagines that reckoning will happen in the next twenty-four hours.

Somehow, he convinced Greg and Mycroft that he should be the one to contact Victor Trevors' family. Somehow, they agreed. All he does know is that, though he does not know what the fallout will be, he cannot pass it off to someone else. He needs to give a final answer to their grief for a little boy who went to play with the Holmes children one day and never came back home.

The bodies of the Garrideb men will likely be retrieved, so long as the cutting waves around Sherrinford haven't swept them away. They—yes, even the murderer—are another tick in his ledger of culpability, but he doesn't have it in him to think about yet another family's loss right now.

And then there's Molly.

Molly.

Somehow, though his knuckles are raw from his rage and helplessness when confronted with "her" coffin, he still does not know what to do. What can he do for her? How can he fix it, when every time he thinks back to their conversation—and how much hurt and, yes, heartbreak can be effected in the span of two minutes—he thinks of the hitch in her voice as she begged him not to make her say the words. Even now, pain in his chest revisits as he remembers Molly's soft voice as she said she didn't want to be made fun of, as if he could even fathom doing such a thing now.

How could Eurus know what devastation she'd wreak with "I love you"? How had she known that Molly wouldn't allow herself to be made a heartbroken pawn without turning the tables on him? How had Eurus known that he'd never said those words to anyone except his family and the Watsons prior to that moment?

How had she known that Sherlock would realize….

He shakes his head. He's always been a master at partitioning painful emotions, but it's not working this time and this one is an open wound. Because he may have had a revelation, but he also understands Eurus' purpose for the exercise. He lost it even as he grasped it.

His thoughts had momentarily stopped racing when Molly said, "Because you know it's true," and he had fallen back on some old self-serving habits when he demanded she say the words anyway. Not because he hadn't grasped how hard they could be to get out (though, admittedly, he hadn't).

No, he said, "If it's true, say it anyway," because, unbidden, wanted her to tell him she loved him. Not only to save her life, but because he wanted her love. Something he'd never thought could be a possession before, and the moment he realized its reality, he'd had to have it.

Molly's brittle laugh had sliced at him. "You bastard."

Of course she'd not noticed his stupefied pause. Of course she'd not been able to see the way his face had gone slack with dawning realization.

He is a bastard. He's always known he is, but to have her say it…. nausea rollicks in his stomach as pressure builds behind his eyes. He wants to weep but he doesn't deserve to.

The car comes to a stop and he is pulled from his aching reverie. Blinking, he studies the door to Molly's flat through the darkness.

When Mycroft had directed them to two town cars, John had turned to Sherlock and said, "You're not going to kip on the daybed in Rosie's room?"

Sherlock'd had to shake himself from his thoughts to turn to his friend. He almost mustered up the energy to quip, "And get roped into nighttime feeding and nappy duty? Fool me once."

But he hadn't a chance to respond before John answered his own question, as if finally realizing something obvious. "Never mind." His mouth had twitched into a near smile and he'd clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "She knows by now that something was going on. She'll let you explain."

Sherlock had nodded and rasped a goodnight. Climbing into the dark car, he'd lost himself to thinking and grieving. Now, in a blink, the hour-long car ride is over and he must face Molly and hope that he can salvage something.

He doesn't use his key. It's a boundary he is certain he is not meant to cross right now. So he raps on the door and waits. He almost hopes she doesn't answer, isn't sure he doesn't deserve a night out on her stoop. But of course, as he's toying with the idea of walking around the square to gather his thoughts, the deadbolt is thrown back and Molly Hooper opens the door.

Sherlock can't help it. He stares at her. For god's sake, he can't stop. Because her hair is in a messy plait, her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, her face is blotchy. And she is beautiful. And he may only have this moment to allow himself to realize it. To realize she's his Molly.

All too soon, she grows uncomfortable under his gaze. Her shoulders twitch and she turns her face away. But not to close him out, to his surprise. Stepping back, she jerks her head to urge him in. She keeps her gaze steady once he's in the flat and has pushed the door shut behind him, taking care to lock it. She continues to watch him while he drapes his coat over a wingback chair.

In a sleep-and-tear-roughened voice, she murmurs, "Your bandages look alright, but do you need anything?"

He follows her gaze to the multiple plasters the paramedics had put across his split knuckles. "No. Thank you."

Nodding, she turns around. He only realizes he's meant to follow her when she begins perfunctorily turning out the lights she'd used to light her way to the door, shuffling her way back down the hall. He stands there, watching her move away from him, still at a loss.

"I got rid of your old toothbrush," she calls behind her. "It was disgusting. The green and white one in the holder is yours."

He hurries to catch up to her. Halfway down the hall, he grabs her hand, stopping her progress.

"Molly," he begins, but she cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

By now, the only light remaining is the dim glow from her bedside table lamp, its weak light barely reaching them outside of the room. She is backlit, so he can only make out those large, brown eyes by their slight glittering.

"Please," is all she says.

Helpless to do anything but what she wishes, he nods, and she pulls her arm free, walking away from him.

He is still unsure if he's meant to sleep with her. They've done so plenty in the past, but now… now, he's not sure he isn't meant to go curl up on her sofa. When he finally reaches her room, though, she's already lying down on the far side of her bed, as she always does when he spends the night.

Again, he wrestles down an urge to weep.

He moves quietly into the bathroom, closing the door so she can fall back asleep. It's startling, that he doesn't look much different than he did when he shaved and dressed some twenty hours ago. Yes, there's some stubble and he has bags under his eyes, but he isn't fundamentally changed. At least, not outwardly.

Shaking his head, he uses the toilet and brushes his teeth. He stares at the shower for a long moment, weariness making each molecule of him heavier, but decides he can't soil Molly bedsheets with a day of blood, sweat, splinters, dirt, and water. Still, he is amazed he doesn't fall asleep when he finally makes it under the hot spray. He has to brace his hands on the cold tiles, let the water sluice over him for a full minute before he sets to washing.

When he exits the steamy bathroom to a blackened bedroom, he is certain Molly is asleep. He tiptoes over to the bedside table with a drawer full of his clothes and carefully pulls out a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Dropping the towel that he'd wrapped around his waist, he quickly pulls the night clothes on, not allowing himself the mawkish urge to smell Molly's detergent on the worn, soft cotton of the shirt.

He doesn't allow himself the bone-weary desire to collapse onto the bed. Instead, he mindfully refolds his towel and replaces it in the bathroom and, returning to the bed, lowers himself gently on the mattress and carefully pulls the duvet up around him.

And then he lies there for who-knows-how-long, staring at the silhouette of the woman there with him in the dark, poetically feeling like the foot of space between them is unspannable.

It's only after a long while that he realizes she's not asleep. Her breathing isn't deep and even. No, she's as very much awake as he, and not even pretending otherwise.

Pursing his lips, he carefully, carefully shuffles across the bed until his chest is flush to her back. She doesn't tense in surprise, so she's expecting it. She makes no argument when he slithers an arm over her, tracing up the delicate bones of her wrist until he can find where she clutches the bedcovers. He pries her fingers loose and replaces that corner of duvet with his hand.

Her fingers tighten on his, and he lets himself relax, burying his cold nose into the thickness of her plait. Allowing the full weight of his arm to settle on her, he closes his eyes and thinks he might be able to fall asleep now.

It lasts only a moment, because she draws in a shaky breath and whispers into their darkness, "I'm giving my notice at Barts tomorrow."

He goes still. A dull thudding takes up residence in his brain and chest.

"I—" she croaks, clears her throat, and tries again, a quaver in her low voice only betraying a hint of tears. "I am going away. Not because of today," she hurries to clarify, though he doesn't have the wherewithal to respond, "Or not just because of today. But I've been thinking it for some time. I need to do this."

He can't breathe, or if he is breathing, he can't feel his blood moving with any new oxygen. Everything has gone still, waiting for Molly's absence.

"I'm going to let my flat and maybe take up one of my classmates' offers of a post in York or Edinburgh." She shudders against him. But, somehow, he knows he isn't supposed to argue. She even relaxes slightly when, after a moment, he remains quiet.

He doesn't let himself beg like he wants to. He doesn't say, "No. Please, don't leave. Don't leave me." Because he won't torture her like that. It is cliché and tired, but he has well learned the lesson that Molly will only be happy away from him.

Still, even as he jerkily nods his understanding, his arms tighten around her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead to her back, and tries to think around something he suspects is heartbreak.


AN: To be continued. OR IS IT? Nah, I'm just kidding. OR AM I?!

(Second and final chapter will be up tomorrow.)

Lou Barlow's "Legendary" has been from the start and forever will be my Molly Hooper Song of Choice. I can't even begin to describe its beauty and heartbreak, and it's all the more poignant after yesterday. I guess I could apologize for quoting almost the entire song at the beginning, but folks, if I ever felt obnoxious enough to write a song fic, it'd be around that one.

For the Ka(i)t(e)li/yns of my acquaintance.