Shattered, but from Molly's POV, as requested. Enjoy!
One questions was all it had taken, in the end, for the sandy foundations of Sherlock and Molly's friendship to finally give way. A phone call out of the blue, asking terrible things, with no context or logic. Something was not right. It wasn't that he rarely phoned, in fact he rang her reasonably often to request results, ask for tests, or to ask after Rosie if he knew she was babysitting. It wasn't even the content of the phone call (to an extent), but the manner in which he delivered it. His tone was strange, the phrasing and intonation of his request was strange, he'd stumbled over his words, and she thought he was almost begging at one point. Another oddity, perhaps that most cruel thing of all, was that she knew she was on speaker phone. It took a lot to surprise Molly when it came to Sherlock Holmes, but asking her to say those words in a public domain was a shock. Maybe it was all his idea of a joke, maybe he was high again, maybe it had something to do with the supposed gas leak at his home that no one had bothered to keep her in the loop with. She was tired, fed up, and unable to work out why he needed her to say something so specific without any other form of game. The only way she could figure out his sincerity in his endeavour was to make him say it too. If she had to humiliate herself, then he could at least do her the courtesy of responding in kind. She hadn't meant to be quite so mocking in her request, but this whole scenario left a bitter taste in her mouth.
The strangest thing of all, however, was that the phone call ended before she'd even said it. She'd coaxed the words out of Sherlock, the epiphany at the edge of his voice when he'd said I love you for a second time had caught her off guard, her traitorous heart daring to believe him, while her head raged at the audacity of his timing. She'd hesitated, not knowing whether her reply would signal the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end for them. Ultimately, it was taken out of her hands when the line went dead, just as she drew breath to reply. A lone tear dropped from her cheek onto the worksurface; she was done with all things Holmes.
It was both surprising, and not, that it had been Mycroft to ring her the next day. She'd held out until the penultimate ring, when curiosity got the better of her, and she picked up her phone, expecting to be given instructions for some sort of debrief. Instead, she simply received directions to his house, and a thinly veiled plea to visit that evening. The sense of wrongness she'd felt in her gut yesterday, returned ten-fold, and all notions of a Holmes-free life went out of the window. It took 45 agonising minutes to cross London, concern mounting up with each passing second. Why hadn't Mycroft sent a car, at the forefront of a long list of questions she needed answers to. Things did not improve when the man himself answered the door, looking uncharacteristically untidy: no waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up, and his emotions almost visible on his face.
She was lead through the property, to a small lounge near the back, where a distinctive mop of curls were laid on the arm rest of the sofa. She could see his bruised hands shaking, and the concern in Mycroft's eyes give way to something closer to cautious optimism, it was unnerving.
"There's someone here to see you brother-mine," He said quietly, before ducking out into the dining room adjacent to the lounge.
Molly frowned slightly, why would did he feel the need to announce her, and not by name? She steeled herself as the detective all but threw himself into a seated position, in his trademark petulant manner. He looked her up, and down, confusion evident in his face, and the next thing she knew she could hardly breathe. He'd engulfed her in an embrace, holding on for dear life, and Molly didn't quite know what to do with herself. He'd trapped her arms by her sides, so she couldn't return the hug, and her face was crushed against his chest, so she would struggle to make herself heard. Then she felt something wet on her scalp, followed by the sound of heaving sobs, and muffled words that she couldn't make out. When it appeared that his brother's hysteria would not be short lived, however, Mycroft felt the need to intervene.
"Sherlock, she needs to breathe," He said gently, trying to prise open his brother's arms to free the pathologist, but to no avail.
"Sherlock!" Molly half-shouted, hoping that she may have more success. Thankfully for her lungs, he startled, letting go of her like she was on fire. His arms fell limply to his sides, and he turned his face in apparent shame at his outburst of emotion. She sighed softly, and took the opportunity to stroke his damp cheek, "It's ok," she said with a smile, placing her other hand on his waist in an attempt to steady his swaying. He gave her a tired, watery smile in return, before gathering her up in a less forceful embrace, resting his cheek on her head. She wrapped her arms around him carefully, not knowing if the state of his hands was indicative of any other injuries, and inhaled deeply. He smelt on the borderline of needing a shower, that fine line between musk and BO. She wondered when the last time he'd slept was, and eaten a decent meal- she doubted it was recent.
Eventually they parted, and Molly ushered Sherlock into the lounge, afraid he was going to collapse on her if they stood any longer. Mycroft joined them not long after, falling into his armchair with a great sigh of relief.
"Would you mind terribly if explanations were given another day?" He asked wearily, allowing the full extent of the last few days to show on his face. Molly shook her head, when all was said and done, the state of the two men spoke for itself.
They sat in a comfortable silence, Mycroft dozing in his chair, until Molly's stomach rumbled; she frowned, checked her watch, and found that it was indeed past her usual diner time. She rose from the sofa, and after convincing Sherlock that she wouldn't be leaving the house, went in search of the kitchen. The state of Mycroft's fridge was a sad thing indeed, she made a mental note to have a word with the elder Holmes about it another time, and ended up ordering take away from the Chinese that her and Sherlock often used. She returned to the lounge, and sent Sherlock up for a shower, while the food was being delivered, and his brother was napping. He was strangely reticent to let her out of his sight, and as endearing as the notion was, in reality, to be the sole object of Sherlock Holmes' gaze was more than a little unnerving.
Not for the first time that evening she wondered what must have happened to make him think that she was going to disappear in a puff of smoke. Then it hit her, like a freight train in the gut. He thought she'd died. Whoever had caused the 'gas leak' at Baker Street had targeted her too, and for whatever reason, he thought they'd been successful. She shuddered, maybe that was what the phone call had been, a final goodbye of sorts. She swallowed a sob, and brushed away a tear that threatened to fall, she didn't know the story yet, and conjecture wasn't going to help. She turned her gaze on the sleeping figure in the corner, maybe big brother wasn't quite as emotionless as he claimed to be.
The sound of the doorbell roused him, and she called for Sherlock once she'd picked up and paid for the food. He shuffled through the door of the lounge just as she was setting out enough containers to feed a small army. It may have seemed an awful lot of food at first, but she knew Sherlock always ate an absurd amount following a case, and given the lack of anything nutritious in his fridge, Mycroft also needed a good meal. They ate in companionable silence, and once Sherlock had eaten enough for at least two grown adults, Molly started to clear away. Mycroft made a point of taking the dirty plates from her, before excusing himself to retire early for the night.
Molly sighed quietly, she ought to start thinking about going home, the light was fading fast outside, and Toby needed feeding.
"Stay," Sherlock said quietly, the word loaded with unspoken apology, an air of uncertainty, his eyes begging.
She nodded, and followed him up the stairs, unsurprised to find a pair of ladies' pyjamas put out in Sherlock's (clearly unused) room. They readied themselves for bed, and although it was a couple of hours before she'd usually consider going to sleep, the emotional upheaval of the last couple of days was catching up with her.
Tucked up against his chest, snuggled into the plush down duvet, she knew she was home.