Rebel Heart
"…because – it's true. It's always been true."
-Molly, "The Final Problem"
The thing is, they've gotten it wrong.
All of them.
They think she is mad, or devoid of emotion, or unable to feel it.
She feels.
(She feels, very much, but it's been a long time since she's felt anything but the numbness of alone.)
She simply chooses to remove herself from it.
(She's too good at removing herself from it – and not good enough. She will never be good enough to forget what it feels like to be ignored and unwanted and forgotten.)
Happiness is a pop song, sadness is a poem.
Songs can be turned on and off. Poems can be memorized and then shut away.
(In fact, she's so far distanced from her own emotions that she's left them behind on the ground, and she's not sure she can ever find them again.)
She realizes that everyone – every human on earth, sane or otherwise, high IQ or low, educated or not – every human spends the majority of their lives computing. Every human, computer-like brain works round the clock, analyzing data, organizing facts – everyone has that subconscious awareness that keeps people continually adapting and reacting in calculated ways, based off of culture or body language or thousands of other tiny little nuances that very few people ever pay attention to.*
But she knows that every once in awhile, in moments of intense stress or unbridled relief or unexpected sorrow – every once in awhile, people forget to compute and simply react.
It is in those moments that a person is stripped down to their base layer – who they are – pure, and unfiltered.
They forget the image they want to present to the world, and instead, become who they really are.
(She knows who her brother really is. She needs him to see it, too.)
Eurus Holmes has the uncanny ability to strip who she is away from her own mind. She can analyze herself, her reactions, her emotions in real time, and free herself from them.
It started with the assessments.
Question after pointless question, asked to determine the depth and breadth of her intelligence, spanning everything from math and physics to literature and socio-cultural intelligence.
That was when she'd realized it made no difference.
She knew the answers to every moral question. She knew what they wanted to hear, and she told them, but she could tell that most of them didn't even follow the rules they were asking her about. Adulterers, thieves, liars – every interviewer had some vice that instantly turned them to hypocrites.
Even Mummy.
Take your sister, William. She wants to play, too.
And he's said he would play with her, but he wouldn't play, and when she told her mother –
Stop pestering your brother when he's with his friend, dear. Play by yourself for a little while.
It made her angry and jealous and she bit her lip until it bled.
She didn't want to feel that way again, and so – she thought to remove the thing that made her angry and jealous, the thing that distracted her brother and made him cross at her. She'd even turned it in to a game, for them all to play. A treasure hunt – a game of hide and seek.
But he still didn't understand. He still didn't want to play with her, and so – she thought – there must be something else she was missing.
But it was too hard to concentrate when she was feeling annoying things like anger and jealousy and loneliness.
So she told herself that she wasn't really feeling those things – it was just her body tricking her – and after a little practice, it got easier and easier to pretend they didn't exist at all.
She was free from having tedious things like feelings control her actions.
And then they took her away, and since then, she's spent every waking moment with other people trying to enlighten them, as well.
Set them free.
She is free.
(She has never been free.)
She is in control.
She is free.
She might be trapped in a prison cell (temporarily, of course – always temporarily, because there's never been anything she's been unable to free herself from – except one thing) – she might be trapped in a prison cell, but she is free.
She is not, and never has been, a prisoner of her own meat.
(Instead, she's a prisoner of her own mind.)
No – she's not. Haven't you been listening? She's free.
(She insists upon it, so it must be so.)
And she's been trying to set others free for years, though most of them are too stupid to see it. So, like a scientist would with any experiment – she disposes of the failures and begins again.
Doctor Taylor – he was one of the many she'd tried with, until she realized just how flawed he was.
He and his whole family – liars and cheaters and endlessly defective, the lot of them. So she'd very kindly suggested he kill himself, and his family, and take them all out of their misery. They'd had so many problems, so many unfortunate problems – it had been better, more beautiful to just remove them from this life and keep them from contributing to the collective gene pool of the world.
She tells them all what they want to hear until her logic is all they can hear.
Good and bad are fairytales.
And then, years and years later, after a visit from a delightfully brilliant man named Jim who gets it, almost as much as she does - she is truly free. She can come and go from Sherrinford as she pleases, and for the first time in a long time, she feels something other than alone.
It's a bit like observing a hive of bees, or a colony of ants. She's fascinated by the world's culture – its way of communicating, all its funny little rules and lines that must not be crossed, lest society implode and the world end. She spends several days watching people – noting actions and reactions and feelings – and she finds herself smiling for the first time since before all of the assessments, when she was a little girl.
She distances herself from it immediately, because she doesn't trust it – this vague feeling of something other than numbness and boredom.
And she finds herself frowning mildly again, because as she watches, more and more – she realizes that there is an awful lot of gray in her previously black-and-white world.
And she finds Sherlock and his friends, and inserts herself clandestinely into their lives, because it is interesting to her that he seems to be able to analyze the data in his life while maintaining an unwilling connection to his emotions – a connection that he can apparently repress at will, and then reconnect again.
Her confusion lies in the fact that he connects again at all.
Why connect with people who will never understand him, not like she does?
(And more importantly – why did he never connect with her?)
Her original plan, with lovely, entertaining Jim, was to test her brother – to see what made him tick; to try to observe, without directly interfering in events (because Mycroft – dull, oppressive old Mycroft – had told her Sherlock didn't remember her, and so she musn't interfere; she musn't affect the results of her experiment). She wanted to see how he did it – how he could outsmart the world, and still be…not alone.
Not like her, and not like Mycroft.
But – well, he cheated, didn't he?
He was never alone to begin with.
She'd tried to strip him of his support – Jim had targeted John, and the Hudson woman, and the Detective Inspector – and she'd helped him to instigate the media, so that Sherlock's popularity, acceptance, and general positive reputation would be destroyed.
Mycroft couldn't fully help Sherlock when it played out – not in the ways that truly counted - because he'd been the one to bring Jim to her in the first place, and anyways – she knew from experience that their eldest brother could never be relied on for emotional assistance.
But Jim had failed, in one regard.
He'd missed her.
(That's what Eurus got for not doing it herself.)
That strangely dedicated woman – unremarkable in every way - except for her complete, unfailing attentiveness to the life and well-being of Sherlock Holmes:
Doctor Molly Hooper.
Sherlock was never alone, and so her experiment was a complete failure. A waste of time and energy. And she'd had to start again – waiting and watching, and he'd sort of begun, on his own – to realize the value and importance of emotion.
(Because you can't beat something until you acknowledge that it exists and is important.)
And he'd gone and hurt himself in the process – he'd gone and impaled himself on his little collection of broken people – poor thing, floundering around in the mess she (admittedly) helped him make - and so, she decides to help him, again.
Helping someone is the best way to help yourself.
She's found that the best lies always contain just enough truth to make them go down easily.
(Even for her. Especially for her.)
So she's going to help him, and then he will have to help her.
(She's always needed his help. She still does.)
She's been planning this one for a long time.
She'll not make the mistake of having such a thing as a partner, again.
She'll utilize her worker bees like the queen of reason that she is.
She will make Sherlock feel again, and then break him from them – those complicated little emotions that tie his life like so many strings to the broken little people around him.
There is a slight problem – one that her experiment will address is a timely fashion.
He has pretended for so long that he does not have emotions, that he is unaffected by his body's physical reactions to emotional stimuli - that even now, after growing so much since Doctor Hooper helped him - he is unaware of the very real significance his emotions have on him. The truth is, his emotions are entirely significant predictors of his actions in life.
Look at Mrs. Hudson – he repeatedly threw an American agent out of a second-story window simply because she got roughed-up a bit. Look at Doctor Watson – just like with Victor, Sherlock has made an (mostly) unconscious effort to change so many little habits – drugs, smoking, avoidance of major social events – to make room for his best friend. Look at Molly, and the extraordinary humanity he exhibits around that woman – putting dishes away, feeding her cat, wiping his shoes, visitng gravesites – simply to stay in her favor.
His emotions, consciously or not, are an important part of who he is. What - and more importantly, who - make him feel said emotions are the key to helping him understand just how dependent his actions are on them. He has to acknowledge the importance of emotions before she can break him of them.
He will be free, just like her.
They will be free together, and then – she won't be alone, anymore.
(She has not acknowledged this truth, but still, it remains - she needs her brother, but she doesn't need the machine he's made himself out to be. She needs her brother, the pirate. She needs her brother, the best man. She needs her brother – the man who knows what it means to love and be loved.)
"You think it's a trick. You're so unsure. You're not used to being unsure, are you?" Eurus asks, her voice gentle and somewhat amused, holding her hand up to empty space that her darling brother hasn't realized is simply empty space.
She is pleased, incredibly pleased with how well her experiment is progressing, this time around.
"It's more common than you'd think," Sherlock mutters.
It's strange, the feeling she gets with him.
Not alone, her mind sings. Not alone, her heart beats.
Or maybe it's the rush from a successful start to her experiment.
Either way, it's the best day she's had in ages.
"Look at you," she says affectionately, as he raises his hand to meet hers. Her words are languid and easy, and yet – pointed. "The man who sees through everything, is exactly the man who doesn't notice -" She presses her palm to his and entwines their fingers, and she can feel his pulse increase as she lets out a startled little gasp – "when there's nothing to see through."
As they continue their short conversation, (and as the feral, angry part of her escapes and strangles him) - she relishes in the fact that it's not just the nonexistent glass he's failed to see through.
He's lived his entire life, since her, with the idea that he's created a wall between his mind and heart – a whole palace to guard his thoughts, with intricate mazes designed to keep them far from that more emotional organ. He thinks there are walls there – but there aren't. He's been very good at ignoring what's been right in front of him the entire time.
There is no barrier, and it should be obvious, what with all the people he's muttered too while supposedly in his little mind palace – all those people who've been undeterred by his supposed unsociable attitude, who've managed to infiltrate his mind and heart and make a place there, for themselves.
The housekeeper.
The inspector.
The doctor.
The assassin.
The Woman.
The other doctor – the little one. The woman one. That particular woman is the one that fascinates Eurus the most, because Sherlock allows himself to be most transparent with her.
Which is why she's so excited to see how he reacts to the little test she's provided for him. He can't be both transparent for the girl and guarded for his friend and brother. He'll have to choose.
And it will hurt him, but – pain is the predecessor to great beauty, is it not?
She's a bit breathless, a bit giddy at her ruse – going between being the girl on the plane and her present-day self. She's been playing this game since she was five, of course – but now there's an audience and potential playmates, and it's different.
"Poor little thing. Alone in the sky in a great big plane with nowhere to land. But where in the world is she? It's a clever little puzzle. If you want to apply yourself to it, I can reconnect you."
By the time she's done with him, he's going to want to play with her, more than anything else in the whole wide world.
He'll have nothing left to play with, besides her.
(Something tells her it's not a fair choice, and it's not a scientifically sound principle – it's altering the integrity of the experiment to force the outcome she desires – but she ignores it.)
All she's ever wanted was for him to choose her.
Greg Lestrade frowns at the file before him, back at Scotland Yard. The Girard case lies open before him, and something doesn't fit. Something isn't right.
Girard was murdered. Strangled in his own home, though by the looks of it, he wasn't long for the world anyway.
But the fact that the portly old man was shoved indelicately into a rather tight fit for him reminds him of a conversation he'd overheard, day before.
"Airing cupboard…" he mutters.
After a moment, he sighs and picks up the phone on his desk. "Peters," he greets the Detective Inspector as she picks up. "Peters – tell me about the murder yesterday on Thurlow. I think I've got a connection, but I'm not sure."
Mycroft makes Eurus angry.
It's a very mild anger – more disgust, than anything - it doesn't cause her to tremble or narrow her eyes or furrow her brow – but it does make her angry.
He doesn't want to play.
He's always refused to play.
She's witnessed Sherlock and John's teamwork in the Garrideb room and her eldest brother's complete refusal to cooperate in any tasks so far, and it makes her nearly boil when she hears him next.
"She's about to fly over a city in a pilotless plane. We'll have to talk her through it."
Doctor Watson glances at him, confused. "Through what?"
Mycroft answers quietly, his voice barely understandable through the speakers in the room with them. "Getting the plane away from the mainland, any populated areas. It has to crash in the sea."
Doctor Watson's mouth drops open. "Wha – what about the girl?"
"Well, obviously, Doctor Watson, she's the one who's going to crash it." Mycroft hisses in response.
She clenches the remote in her hand so furiously she hears the plastic casing begin to crack.
He wants to crash her into the sea. He wants her to crash herself into the sea.
Rubbish older brother.
And yet, there is Sherlock – still attempting to connect with her, still making an effort.
He will be able to help her.
She just has to remove all the cling-ons, first.
As I understand it, Sherlock, you try to repress your emotions to refine your reasoning. I'd like to see how that works.
His sister's words ring in his ears, and he can't shake them. Not with the Governor, not with the Garridebs, and not now – not with this coffin before him.
Because she knows.
'You try to repress your emotions.' Not that he doesn't experience them – not that he distances himself from them – but the he tries to repress them. Trying implies that there is failure, as well as success.
It becomes clear that she wants him to feel. She wants him to fail at repressing his emotions so that she can see how he reacts. He is at a loss as to why she wants to break him so completely, strip him away to his baser, more human parts – but that appears to be her end game.
It affected him – the governor, the three brothers – and he has no doubt that this one will affect him, too – but he won't give her the satisfaction of seeing just how much.
But then –
It's for Molly.
He closes his eyes and draws in a breath, and it hurts to breathe.
The sign – the sign from Eurus's cell, earlier – MAINTAIN DISTANCE – flashes through his mind as a warning.
Somewhere, in the back of his consciousness, his brilliant mind begins observe the facts at what all of this means – to collect what his physical, mental, and emotional reactions to Molly's endangerment mean – but he's so focused on getting her out of danger that he doesn't have the ability to shut it off and shove it away.
And he swallows it all down, and he will play Eurus's game – as long as it means Molly will live. As long as she lives, he thinks – as long as he saves her – then it will be okay.
Because surely, nothing – nothing in this world can hurt as much as her dying because of him.
Fact 1: Molly's death would hurt him as much – if not more – than Mary's did.
He's lost from the get-go, though he doesn't see it.
"What is she doing?" He asks, stress causing his voice to crack with irritation.
"She's making tea," his brother drawls patiently behind him. It's the voice Mycroft uses when he means to be soothing, but it's anything but.
"Yes, but why isn't she answering her phone?" He snaps impatiently.
"You never answer your phone," John answers unhelpfully.
"Yes – but it's me calling!" Molly is upset, she has been crying – and she's refusing to answer his call. Something is wrong – something was wrong before Eurus even dialed her number, and it must link back to him.
Fact 2: The idea that Molly is hurt because of him, that something he is unaware of has altered her perception of him - makes him want to fix it, now.
But it will have to wait.
It is a small mercy that Eurus tries again, and John's half-muttered prayer for Molly to bloody pick up echoes Sherlock's desperate will for her to do the same.
She answers this time, and it gives him confidence. He can get her to say it – it's just three words, three little words, and if he tells her it's important, she'll surely say it. Maybe he'll even get lucky and she'll repeat them in disbelief – 'I love you?' – and it will be done, and she'll be safe.
She doesn't.
In fact, she is angry that he makes the request at all and she nearly hangs up on him.
"Molly – no! Please, no – don't hang up. Do not hang up!"
Fact 3: He will beg her to say those three words. Her life is that important to him.
Eurus chastises him – twice – and in his attempts to get Molly to say the release code, he bungles it up even more by insinuating that she's an experiment.
"No, no!" He corrects himself, eyes wild with panic that Molly will never see. "I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends. But - "
Fact 4: She is his friend. Before he even appreciated what the word meant, before John taught him the value of friendship - she was his friend. She is the most trustworthy, loyal friend he has ever had, along with John.
"-please. Just – say those words for me."
"I can't. I can't – I can't say that to you." She sniffs, and the sound sends fractured splinters through his head and into his chest.
"Of course you can. Why can't you?" Why can't she? Why can't she tell him she loves him? Of course she does, she's his friend, she loves John and John's her friend – she loves her friends, and they're friends, so why can't she say it –
"You know why."
His eyes dart to the timer and his face drops, and his cajoling tone with it. "No, I don't know why."
"Of course you do."
MAINTAIN DISTANCE, warns the sign in his mind. MAINTAIN DISTANCE.
He blinks, and he is aware his desperation is leaking through to his features. "Please – just say it."
She sighs, and her words come with it, carried on her shaky breath. "I can't. Not to you."
"Why?" He asks, and his anxiety is making his voice cold and cutting.
"Because…"
He blinks and steps forward impatiently.
"…because it's…true." If her voice wasn't being broadcast at full volume through the prison speakers, it would be hard to understand her. She leans into the counter, and her voice is almost a sob.
"Because – it's true Sherlock. It's always been true."
Fact 5: Molly Hooper loves him, and has always loved him. Even when he was an intolerable arsehole, even when he said horrible things to her, even when he asked her to lie to the world for two years, even when he let her down with his drug habit, even when his arrogance resulted in the death of their dear friend, even then – she has always loved him.
Later, he will think about how this particular fact has shaped his life, and who he is. But there is no time for that now.
This is followed quickly by the following fact:
Fact 6: Molly's love for him has only ever benefited him. It has only ever made him better.
MAINTAIN DISTANCE. MAINTAIN DISTANCE.
He's too close to the glass, now – far too close to that invisible barrier between his mind and heart, but he won't step back if it means losing her. He will not lose her.
"Well," he says calmly – "If it's true, just say it anyway."
The sound that escapes her lips is almost a laugh. "You bastard."
"Say it anyway." He demands, and he doesn't have time to assess the damage he is doing, because if she dies, the loss will be permanent – and that is entirely unacceptable.
"You say it."
He knows it is a scientific impossibility for time to slow down, but in the few seconds that follow Molly's request – it certainly feels that way.
"Go on," she prods him, and her voice is strong and resolute. "You say it first."
MAINTAIN DISTANCE. MAINTAIN DISTANCE.
"What?" He asks, and he knows his face is slack with shock.
"Say it," she says softly. "Say it like you mean it."
Her tone reminds him of the one she'd used while drawing him a bath – the voice that said, in its timbre and resonance, that she sees something he's hiding, and wants him to admit it. And though his body is riddled with stress and anxiety – the memory of her – of being in that intimate setting with her – his body remembers her, and responds to the soothing tone of her words, though the words themselves are a special kind of torture.
If he's being honest with himself, his body has always responded favorably to the presence of Molly Hooper. That's why he finds her flat such an amenable bolt hole.
Fact 7: He is -
"I – I", he tries, now consciously attempting to avoid that last fact with all the strength he can muster – "I love you," he stutters, and his words are hard and fast. He exhales, having done what she asked.
He is surprised that she smiles sadly, just a bit – and brushes her thumb against her lips – and as she does so, the last fact jumps to the forefront of his mind with resounding clarity and a force that cannot be ignored.
Fact 7: He is physically attracted to Molly Hooper.
The breath he draws in next is excruciating – it would be less painful, he thinks, if he were attempting to inhale Arctic sea water or the tentacles of a man-o-war.
Because all of the facts – all of the facts his mind has accumulated in the background of their two and half minute phone conversation have led to this –
Conclusion: "I love you."
He does not have time to process exactly what that means, because the timer is still counting down, and she still has not said the same words to him.
"Molly?" he asks, desperately. "Molly, please."
She finally presses her mouth to the phone, and very softly answers – "I love you."
A collective sigh of relief fills the room, and Eurus disconnects the call.
Molly stares numbly at the phone on her countertop, chewing on her cheek. She brings her right hand up to her neck and rests it there, thumb fiddling with the collar of her jumper, and blinks in silence for several moments.
She thinks that maybe she should cry, but it seems the shock of that phone call has dried up her reserves, and no tears come.
She moves to finish her tea, and then decides she no longer wants it. Her arms fall limply to her sides. She frowns at her socks, and then looks up and takes a step toward her lounge, thinking that perhaps she'll read or watch telly or take a nap or –
Her shoulders slump, and she realizes she doesn't want to do any of those things.
She wants to confront Sherlock about the cruel idiocy he's just put them through – but she will not call him back.
She wants to get out of her flat.
She pulls on her jacket and shoes, slides her keys and phone and ID into her pocket, and locks the door behind her. She stands on her welcome mat and looks around, mind seemingly running on autopilot, and takes a few steps down the street, where some neighbors have collected around Mr. Girard's front door.
Several of them are shaking their heads and tsking and a few look quite stricken.
Molly makes her way to the small crowd and recognizes Donovan on the scene. The ambulance and other emergency vehicles are long gone, and Donovan is locking up and rolling caution tape across the door.
Molly frowns. Caution tape usually indicates a messy death, possibly murder. That doesn't make sense –
"Sergeant Donovan!" She calls, and Donovan looks up over her shoulder at her.
Sally Donovan makes an exclamation of surprise, and then breaks off the last of the tape, tucking the last little bit of the roll into her pocket. She turns and walks to Molly, and offers her a sideways smile. "Doctor Hooper. Didn't expect you. You live round here, then?"
"Three doors down." Molly gestures with her head toward her front door. "What happened to Mr. Girard?"
Sally frowns sympathetically, and pulls her around the small blockade on the sidwalk, mentioning to a colleague to begin picking it up. She leans forward and speaks quietly. "Sorry to tell you this, but we're suspecting homicide."
Molly's heart starts racing, and her face drops in shock. This doesn't make sense. He was recovering from a stroke – that – that is probably what killed him. That's what she'd assumed had killed him."Are you certain?" Molly asks, her voice low.
"Yeah, pretty certain," Donovan snorts, then grimaces apologetically. "Victim was shoved in the airing cupboard."
"How long?" Molly asks, staring at the caution tape on the door, attempting to make sense of something that is just completely unbelievable to her, at the moment.
"How – long?" Donovan asks, uncertainly.
"How long? How long was he in the airing cupboard? Had rigor mortis set in? Was the body cool? Was there any notable decomposition? Was there any indication of how he died?"
Donovan steps back and blinks, eyebrows raising in surprise. "I can give you a ride to Bart's, if you'd like to see for yourself. Were you close to him?"
"No. I mean – yes, I'd like a ride to Barts, and no – I wasn't close to him."
Sally nods. "Bryan!" She shouts, and the officer cleaning up the blockade looks up to her. "I'm making a stop at Bart's, and then I'll meet you back at the Yard, yeah? You and Nate've got everything covered here?"
He gives her a thumbs up as an affirmative, and Molly slides into the cruiser as Sally gets behind the wheel.
"Thanks," Molly says, taking the time to shake out her ponytail before putting it up again, more neatly.
"No problem. You sure you're all right?" Sally looks sideways at her, and Molly catches her reflection in the passenger side mirror. She certainly looks like she's been through the wringer, today.
Molly pulls her mouth back into a facsimile of a smile. "Fine. I'll be fine." Changing the subject, she asks – "There was only the one body, then? Have you contacted his granddaughter?"
Sally frowns. "Yeah, just Girard. What are you talking about, his granddaughter?"
Molly gives her an incredulous look. "Trish. His granddaughter. She moved in a few weeks ago to help after he'd had a stroke. She was planning on leaving a few days ago, said he'd improved a lot. Has anyone tried to contact her?"
Sally's grip tightens on the wheel. "Are you sure about that?"
"Of course I'm sure! I saw her outside plenty of times – she had tea with me, once – gave me – gave me this bracelet-" Molly holds up her hand and waves her wrist lightly.
Sally gives her a serious look before refocusing on the road. "Dr. Hooper," she says tightly. "Molly-"
Molly looks at her in confusion, and her heart sinks. Something is not right. This isn't right. Nothing is right, right now.
"Molly – we spoke with Mr. Girard's immediate neighbors, and no-one mentioned a granddaughter."
Molly opens her mouth to protest – of course there was a grand-daughter, of course they'd seen her – Trish came out to meet her all the time, she seemed friendly and a little nosy – how could they not notice? But Sergeant Donovan continues.
"And – I don't know how to say this -" Sally gives her another concerned look. "But – we've been trying to contact next of kin. Closest we could reach was a cousin in Caen. There aren't any children listed-"
Molly's mouth drops open.
"-Molly – Mr. Girard didn't have a granddaughter."
Sherlock pedals backwards from the revelation in his mind, retreating from everything he now knows and does not want to face.
MAINTAIN DISTANCE.
He ignores Mycroft's attempts to sympathize, and instead focuses on his sister.
His sister.
"Eurus. I won, I won."
She doesn't answer at first, and he rubs his hand over his face, gesturing at the camera with his gun. "Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her."
Eurus tilts her head and gives him the most sympathetic gaze she can muster, marveling at the scene before her.
So many emotions – so many complicated little emotions.
He almost understands.
He almost understands what it feels to be alone.
Without.
With no one.
"Saved her, from what? Oh, do be sensible, Sherlock. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost."
He hurt her for nothing, just like Eurus hurt Redbeard for nothing.
Now they've both the lost the game.
Now Sherlock can play fair.
"Look at what you did to her. Look at what you did to yourself."
He cannot hear her, anymore.
He cannot hear her, or John, or his brother. He cannot see them.
All of his senses are focused on that coffin.
He is aware of a weight leaving his hand, and then he is standing before the lid – I Love You engraved onto a small metal plaque on the smooth wood.
It would have been different if he'd realized it of his own volition. The confession. The I love you. But of course, that's not Eurus's way. Her way is scientific. Precise. Unemotional. Variables presented in such a way to elicit extreme outcomes. And so the realization that he does indeed love Molly Hooper is cut from him along with the confession, hacked from his chest and throat.
He moves the lid to rest on top of the coffin, and runs his hands over the smooth surface.
Before he even knows what is happening, his thoughts of the events of the past few minutes have carried his love through that stupid, nonexistent barrier between his heart and mind – and his heart is resting in the casket designed for Molly, and he doesn't know how to save it.
How fitting, he thinks – that he must now bury his emotions – bury his heart - because the game is not over, and he is still a player in it. So he must bury them, bury his heart once more so that he has a chance to escape and explain to – to Molly –
But no – No.
He tries, but he cannot bury them, cannot pretend that this did not just alter his entire world as he knows it.
A monster is eating him alive from the inside out. He is raw and bleeding, though no wounds are visible.
He is grieving, and the realization that he feels what he felt when Mary died – but worse – it is worse because he hurt Molly, he purposefully, methodically wounded her – for nothing - makes him furious – absolutely furious.
It is worse, because he wounded her with the truth, and she doesn't know it. He's not even sure he knows it fully, himself.
And it's not even just his grief, his pain – when he thinks that now, at this instant, Molly Hooper is feeling all that he is and more, staring down at a phone that is playing a dial tone, her own confession swallowed up in cold indifference – he feels the anger and sorrow and regret well up, undeniable - all the more.
Her grief was tangible on the phone, on the cameras - and he tastes it now, and it is a salty, bitter, hard thing. Strangely, he wants to swallow it whole – he wants her there (not there of course, not with him in the hell of Eurus's design) but he wants to be with her - he wants her to see and to know and to understand. He can't stand for her not to know the truth. He wants to swallow her grief whole, to swallow up and absorb the pain and take it away from her – but he can't - and the knowledge that he may never be able to – that he may never be able to explain, even if he solves every puzzle Eurus puts to him – because how can he explain that his sister knew how much Molly meant to him, before he did? – that knowledge tears at his mind and chest.
Even if he does escape – at what cost, at what cost – Molly may never speak to him, again.
And even if she does listen to him, again – she may not forgive him.
And even if she forgives him – things will never be what they once were.
He may have to spend the rest of his life grieving for someone who is still alive.
The fact that she is alive is not nearly as comforting as it was before – it is a fool's consolation, because she was never in any danger to begin with.
No – the only one she was ever in danger from was him.
He cannot bear it, and his outer actions mimic the warfare on the interior – the coffin splintering into thousands of pieces that can never, and will never, be put back in their proper place.
"Here – just – stop here," Molly commands, and throws open the door in front of Bart's before Sergeant Donovan has it fully in park. "Thanks for calling Greg. I'll be in the morgue."
She nearly runs down the corridors to her locker, pulling on a lab coat and flinging her things into the locker haphazardly. She makes it to the morgue in record time, and impatiently washes her hands and pulls on her sterile gloves.
Mr. Girard's mysterious death (and his mystery not-granddaughter) has her on guard, and throwing herself so fully into solving her neighbor's murder also conveniently distracts her from that…conversation with Sherlock, earlier.
(She'll never admit it, but she's a lot like Sherlock, in that regard – if she's avoiding something uncomfortable, her work is the surest candidate for distraction.)
"Sorry, Chris," she apologizes for startling her co-worker, giving him a brief smile in greeting as she pulls the last of her glove down below her wrist.
"No, it's – fine," he says, up to his elbows in a young woman. "I – er – isn't it your day off?"
"Something's come up," she says tersely. "Where is Adrien Girard?"
"Um, just came in an hour ago? Second drawer from the left," he nods towards the correct cooler.
Molly snaps the drawer open with a ferocity that surprises even her.
Strangulation, she notes immediately, observing the bruising on his throat, and she sighs. Time of death between two and three days ago. She shivers.
Trish. Adrien Girard was most likely already dead when Trish gave her that bracelet – the one that now neatly sits in an evidence baggie in Sally Donovan's patrol car.
Murderer sat on his chest – she notes the bruising on his upper arms – and held his arms down with his or her knees, or…feet? Probably knees, and probably a her, she notes, as the bruises on the forearms are close to the shoulders, indicating a narrow frame and smaller legs, and the fact that the murderer had to sit on the victim to get enough force to strangle him.
She inspects the rest of the body carefully, and when the doors to the morgue bang open, she only blinks in mild surprise. She looks up, and there are Greg and Sally.
"Everything all right?" Chris asks leisurely, though his skin is puckered slightly above the eyebrows.
"Just fine," Molly replies, nodding to the two Yarders. "Greg, he was strangled-"
Greg walks to the nearest countertop, holding two files in his hands. "Clean?" He asks, inclining his head toward it.
"Go ahead," Molly nods, and waits. He deposits the files on the counter, and flips them open.
"There's another one," he sighs, and rubs the back of his neck, before looking at Molly intently.
"Another-?"
Greg nods. "Brought the files. Several similarities. I'm just glad I overheard the lead Inspector yesterday – I want to get a lead on this ASAP, if there's a connection. Both victims strangled, bruising on upper arms as well-"
"She sat on them, and used her knees to hold them down," Molly interrupts.
"-She?" Greg asks.
"I'll have to see the other report to confirm, but the spacing of the bruising and balance of probability indicates a female-"
He nods. "-and both victims were shoved rather unceremoniously into their respective airing cupboards."
Molly nods. "Where was the other victim?"
"Other side of London. Pretty little neighborhood. Address was…" Greg looks at the file on the right. "…1242 Thurlow, near Burgess Park."
Molly freezes, and her face pales several shades.
"Whoa!" Sally exclaims, and moves to stand by the pathologist. "You all right? Need to sit down?"
Molly shakes her head, taking a few sure-footed steps to the counter, and Sally steps backward. "Are you sure?" Molly asks, and Greg looks at her, concerned.
"Yeah. Here," he says, pointing to the address on file. "1242 Thurlow. Why?"
Molly blinks, and her mouth snaps shut as she looks her two colleagues in the eye.
"Because that's the address of John's therapist."
"Ten…" The muzzle is cold and hard against his throat, and he uses both hands in order to keep them from trembling.
"No, no Sherlock…" Eurus chides – but he can hear the concern and mild surprise in her voice.
It's a calculated risk, but this whole thing has been all about him – so even if he's overestimated his worth to his sister, it is worth it.
He will not destroy what is left of his heart by shooting Mycroft in his.
"Nine…eight…"
He studiously ignores the panicked looks his brother and best friend exchange.
"You can't!" Eurus says, and her voice is cracking now.
"Seven…"
"You don't know about Redbeard yet!" It's a desperate bid to pique his interest enough to continue playing her game – but it stopped even remotely resembling a game the last round, and he's done playing.
He shifts his stance so that he uses only one hand now, and continues the countdown. "Six…"
"Sherlock!" Eurus cries.
His hand isn't trembling anymore.
He would rather die than hurt anyone else he loves tonight.
"Five…"
"Sherlock, stop that at once!"
He is suddenly hit with a sharp prick to the back of the neck. Keeping one hand steady on the gun at his neck, he reaches around and pulls the dart out.
"Four…"
Tranquillizer. Same as the one she used to hit –
John flinches and reaches behind his head where a dart has hit him.
"Three…" Sherlock continues, but his voice is low and quiet, now.
Mycroft goes down before him, and Sherlock sees John fall out of the corner of his eye as he falls backward, himself – muscles turned to jelly and loosing all ability to maintain control of his system.
"Two…" he mutters, but his is out before he even hits the ground.
"It's not a coincidence," Molly insists for the third time to Sally Donovan. "There are no coincidences when it comes to Sherlock Holmes."
"Donovan," Greg says gently, intervening. "Whether or not this is related to Sherlock – and it very well may be, given that he, his brother, and Doctor Watson are missing in action after his flat blew up this morning – it won't hurt to have her call in some help and go over things. Because even if it's not related to Sherlock – we've got two very similar murders in one weekend, and it looks to be by the same person. I'm not gonna have a serial killer break out while Sherlock's not around to help stop him."
"Her," Molly corrects. "It's a woman, I'm nearly positive. Actually, I'm pretty sure I've met her. I'm pretty sure I've had tea with her. I just don't understand why…" her voice trails off, and she frowns at the files in front of her.
"Right, then," Sally sighs. "I'll call Detective Inspector Peters and ask her team to collaborate? We can go over the crime scenes and search the residencies again. And we'll need you to give us a detailed description of the suspect."
"Good," Molly nods, and both Greg and Sally raise their eyebrows in surprise. "I'm calling in some favors, myself. Where is the body from Thurlow?"
"St. Thomas's," Greg answers slowly.
Molly smiles. "Excellent. Rikin owes me one."
As Greg and Sally work with DI Peters in attempt to glean any extra information from the crime scenes about the suspect, Molly calls in some favors.
She's accumulated a lot; given how well and how frequently she works.
She gets the therapist's body from Rikin at St. Thomas's, and asks Bonnie and Meena to come in to help with the paperwork and the two autopsies. Once Chris finishes his current autopsy, he helps as well.
The four of them work well together, intently focused on the task at hand.
"Based on bruising patterns on the throat, left hand and right forearm were used in the strangulation of both victims," Bonnie notes. "Suspect had to lean forward and use the force of gravity and their body weight to assist in the killing."
"Bruising patterns on both victims' upper arms indicate the suspect's knees were used to hold them down." Meena awkwardly brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with her shoulder as she makes her observations, confirming Molly's from earlier. "Width, distance, and depth of bruising patterns indicate that we are looking for a strong middle-aged female, weighing between sixty and sixty-eight kilos and measuring between 1.72 meters and 1.77 meters in height."
"Which matches the description of the suspect, alias Trish Girard," Molly confirms, going over Girard painstakingly, attempting to collect every clue she can from his dead body. Chris does the same with the therapist.
He finds skin under the therapist's nails that matches the skin under Girard's based on simple microscope analysis, and though they send samples for further enquiry to the Yard with instructions to run them ASAP, they know it could be days before the results come in.
Molly finds a hair on Mr. Girard that belonged to a wig.
Chris finds a hair on the therapist that is not from a wig and not from any of them, though there's no guarantee it came from the murderer.
They place both in evidence baggies for further study later, and the four coworkers begin working together on the autopsies themselves.
They are nearly finished with the autopsies when Greg comes through the morgue doors, face as stormy as Molly's ever seen it.
He presses his lips together and nods in greeting, and Molly steps away from Girard's body. "Can you finish this up for me, Meena?"
Meena nods in agreement and takes over, and Molly heads to the sink to wash up.
"What is it, Greg?" She asks, giving him a concerned look as she scrubs vigourously.
"What did you find?" He asks instead, inclining his head toward the bodies on the slabs.
"Confirmation that the killer of both victims is most likely the woman who brought me a goody basket and had tea with me last week," Molly says, and it's almost a joke. "You can tell Sally to circulate that police sketch, now."
"Bloody hell," he mutters, and runs a hand over his face before eyeing her seriously. "Are you okay, Molly?"
Molly pauses for a moment, thinking about it. She's not okay, but that has more to do with the uneasy feeling that a certain phone call from a few hours ago may have had more behind it than a bored arsehole detective than it does with the fact that she may have had tea with a serial killer last week. "No," she says honestly – "but I'm not dead, so I'll be fine."
He takes in her expression for a moment before nodding brusquely himself. "Right. Well…" he looks like he is about to say something else, but Molly doesn't want comfort right now. She wants answers.
"What did you find, Greg?" She asks again.
He presses his lips together. "Can you come to the Yard with me? We found something. It might be nothing – but – I think-" he shakes his head after a moment. "Just – come with me."
"Okay." She finishes drying up and her colleagues assure her they can finish the bodies and the paperwork.
"So…no evidence that links anything from the murders to Sherlock's flat blowing up, though I haven't actually been able to get access to Sherlock's flat. Mycroft's agents are still in charge of the place." He walks briskly to the elevator and hits the button for the ground floor.
"But we were able to get a couple extra volunteers to come in and go over the houses with fine-toothed combs. Didn't find much at the therapist's house, a few fingerprints -but those've been put in and didn't come up as anything – so while they might be useful if we can find Trish, they're a bit of a dead end at the moment."
"All right…" Molly prompts him as the elevator doors open, and they both keep stride as they make their way to Greg's cruiser.
"We did find something…odd, in your neighbor's house. Fingerprints, a few other things par for the course, and then…that one odd thing."
They climb in and buckle up, and Greg puts his sirens on to avoid the worst of the evening traffic.
"Really?" Molly asks, concerned.
"It's not that pressing, the evidence-" he assures her – "but this is one of the few perks that comes along with keeping the DI position over a higher-up desk job."
"Right," she smiles, and settles back for the short ride.
It's several shoeboxes of what could only be described as family pictures.
Many of them are torn in half, or into pieces, but there are a fair amount that remain intact.
Greg and Donovan and another officer that Molly recognizes, but whose name she can't recall, stand to the side, give her a pair of gloves, and let her look through the lot of them.
The two officers are in the process of sorting them, grouping shots with similar people or scenes together, attempting to place some sort of chronological order to them.
There are some of a man – tall and thin with a warm smile, and of a woman – shorter and curvier, with light hair and eyes and a sharpness to her features. They appear to be parents, as either of them is occasionally holding an infant or child.
Most of the pictures, however, are of various combinations of four children – three boys, and a girl.
One boy is obviously the oldest. He is rather chubby, with a shock of dark hair and dark eyes. In almost every picture, from apparent toddlerhood to approximately ten years old, he has a very serious expression on his face.
The other two boys are similar in size and, presumably, age – one is very thin and has a mop of curly dark hair and light eyes, and the other is shorter, with straight, limp hair, dark eyes, and a perpetual grin at the side of his mouth.
The girl is about the same size as the boys, with dark hair and light eyes. Her face, like the eldest boy, is more often than not either glowering or screwed up in some sort of expression of distaste. There are a few, however, where she is smiling prettily, and she looks almost elfin.
It appears that the eldest boy, the boy with light eyes, and the girl belong to the parents, as the five of them are occasionally all together, posing for the camera.
The other boy – the smiling one, he is usually in pictures with the younger boy in the family.
"You found these in my neighbor's house?" Molly asks, and Greg nods in confirmation.
"Under the kitchen sink. Odd spot for family mementos. And none of them looked a thing like Adrien Girard, so we thought we'd bring them in."
"Cousins, or a friend?" Molly asks softly, pointing to a candid shot of the two young boys wearing pirate paraphernalia and brandishing wooden swords.
"Not sure, but that's our best guess, as well. We think these," Donovan gestures to a picture with the family of five, "are immediate family, and that that boy -" she gestures to the smiling child "- is, as you said, a friend or other sort of relative."
Greg looks at her closely. "Do you…" he starts slowly, and she looks expectantly at him. "Do you…y'know…recognize anyone in the photos?"
Molly studies them again, closely, for a moment. "Well," she responds. "I mean – that boy-" she points to a photo of the boy with curly hair – "he sort of reminds you of Sherlock, doesn't he? With the hair and eyes. And I suppose that the older one with dark hair could be Mycroft. The bone structures in the faces are close enough. I'm not certain, though," she says apologetically. "I've honestly never seen any photographs of them as children, and I've never met his parents. John has," she adds, frowning. "But that doesn't help us, does it?"
Greg shakes his head. "What about the girl?" He asks, turning the largest photograph they've found of her toward Molly.
Molly stares for a moment, and her stomach twists, knowing what he's asking. "I'm not sure," she says slowly, and then lifts her eyes to meet Greg's intense look. "I mean – I suppose the girl could be Trish grown up, it's possible. But I can't say with any confidence that she is. And…there's a - girl? If these photos are of Sherlock's family…I've never heard either of them ever mention a sister. And there's an overabundance of pictures here of that boy…" she points to the one who's not part of the family of five.
" – Like he's been torn out of more pictures than the rest? Yeah, odd." Sally nods.
The three officers and Molly stand staring at the photos spread out before them, frowning and occasionally moving scraps from one pile to another.
"This is the fifth time this house has clearly been in a photo," Sally says suddenly, spreading out five photographs. The group collects around her to observe.
A large country manor-type house sits comfortably in the background of the photos. In one, the family of five poses in front of it, seemingly during the winter – perhaps around Christmastime. In the rest, one or more of the children squint into the camera and the house fills in the remainder of the frame. There is a small pile of photos beside the five that contain photos of people next to the house, too close to see how large it truly is – but close enough to provide detail that is missing in the pictures that frame the whole home. It is obviously very old and well-kept – and yet – not as imposing as one might expect from a house that size. Perhaps it lies in the fact that though the grass is neatly cut, there is very little landscaping, making it seem more of a ridiculously sized country cottage than an estate home.
A sudden loud ringing from Lestrade's mobile interrupts their focus and causes most of the group to jump slightly.
Greg frowns at the number on the screen, and silences it, then tucks it back into his pocket. Not three seconds later – it rings again.
This time, he mumbles a soft 'excuse me', and steps away from the tables strewn with evidence. "Hello?" He answers.
Greg stands up a bit straighter at whoever is on the other line. "Mycroft's Anthea? Anthea, slow down." He says, frowning - and Molly's head snaps up toward him, lips parted in surprise.
His brows furrow further, and he shakes his head just a bit. "What – what fingerprints? What are you-"
He pauses, and listens, and Anthea must be using her deadly quiet I-mean-business voice, because Molly can't hear a thing from the other end.
He turns so that his back is to the group, but his voice is clear and quiet when he answers her. "The fingerprints we ran an hour ago were taken from a home on Thurlow near Burgess Park, where an anonymous call alerted us to a potential crime. The owner of the home, Ms. Anna Fischer, was found murdered and stuffed in her airing cupboard."
Another pause, and then – "Yes, I'm certain. And we're fairly confident that same person those fingerprints belong to is a woman who's also suspected in murdering Adrien Girard, and we've-"
Molly has given up all pretense of studying the photos, and instead turns to fully face Greg, listening intently to his end of the conversation.
He stretches his shoulders and tilts his head back as he listens to Anthea. "Well, Molly-"
Another interruption, and he sighs.
"She's here, looking at some evidence we've found at the second murder scene. Weird pictures; we were hoping she might recognize – "
Greg shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, Girard lived a few doors down from her, and Molly's pretty sure she's met the suspect-"
He turns now, his eyebrows raised, and meet's Molly's gaze. "Right. Right. Are you-? Okay. We're-"
The doors to the conference room open, and there is Anthea, ending the call and looking sharply around the room. Although Molly has only met the woman a handful of times, she has never seen the woman look frazzled – and she still looks perfectly put together – but there is something fierce and determined in her movements that Molly has never seen before.
Her calm is gone, Molly decides.
"Out," Anthea commands, nodding at Donovan and the other officer in the room.
"What?!" They protest simultaneously, but two very official looking men step into the room behind Anthea, and her face leaves no room for argument.
The men flash credentials their way, and again, Anthea commands – "Out, please. This is a matter of national security, and I must see the evidence and speak with Doctor Hooper and DI Lestrade alone. Depending on what I find, you may be briefed shortly. Or, you may not. Thank you," she adds firmly at the first sign of dissent, "for your excellent police work and service to your country."
After they leave the room, the two men that arrived with Anthea leave as well, closing the door and standing on either side of it. Anthea nods toward Greg and Molly, and steps briskly toward the conference table and photographs. Her face is all business, but as she sees the first photographs, her lips part and she blinks in surprise. She actually sets her mobile down on the table beside her and presses her palms into the tabletop, letting out a long sigh. She quickly recovers, however, and presses her lips into a thin line as she skims through all of the pictures.
When she is done, she turns to her companions, who have been watching her curiously the whole time.
"Where did you get these?"
"Murder scene on Hill Street." Greg responds, firm and factual.
"Where, exactly?"
"In those shoeboxes, stacked underneath the kitchen sink."
Anthea nods, and turns her attention to Molly. "Tell me everything. And I mean everything."
Molly takes a deep breath, and begins.
They end up at one end of the conference table, and Greg pokes his head out a few minutes in to Anthea's interrogation to request coffee from one of the two intimidating men outside the door.
They sip their drinks as Anthea asks question after question – mostly to Molly, and occasionally to Greg.
After Anthea is apparently satisfied with their answers, she does something that shocks both of them to the core.
Anthea – who has only ever been known by either of them by that one name – who rivals Mycroft in her ability to keep her emotions out of play, while she's on the job – Anthea places her elbows on her knees, and her face in her hands, and groans.
Greg and Molly sit there, eyes wide, looking between the woman before them and each other. The sinking feeling Molly has been feeling since she realized that the murders may be connected to Sherlock suddenly seems infinitely heavier. She's afraid to breathe.
After a moment, Anthea rubs her face vigorously and looks up, and pats a stray hair back into place. No one would ever guess she'd just spent several moments with her face buried in her hands. "Assume that everything I say from now until the Holmes brothers are back in London is classified."
They nod silently, eyes not moving from her face.
"To say this is bad would be a gross understatement." She eyeballs them, face hard, until they nod hesitantly in understanding at just how bad it is.
"The fingerprints you recovered from Ms. Anna Fischer's house belong to a very dangerous criminal, who has been secured in an island facility – more of a fortress – known as 'Sherrinford' since she was eight years old."
"Eight-?!" Molly exclaims incredulously.
"Eight." Anthea repeats firmly. "And apparently, she has escaped." She shakes her head and stands, retrieving her phone from the table and beginning to text almost as quickly as Sherlock.
She doesn't look up for a few moments, and Greg and Molly exchange looks, concerned.
"Er – Anthea-" Greg asks, and she bobs her head just a bit, to indicate that she is listening – though she doesn't look up from her phone.
"Does this have anything to do with Sherlock?"
Goosebumps break out on Molly's arms and the back of her neck as Anthea snorts in response. "Oh, this has everything to do with Sherlock."
She doesn't tell them how.
She doesn't confirm or deny that the people in the pictures are the Holmes family, though both Greg and Molly are pretty much sold on that point, by then.
She doesn't say anything about who the girl in the photos or the woman Molly met actually is.
She doesn't tell them exactly how it relates to Sherlock – just that it does – that the explosion at his flat, and the murders, and her friends' disappearances are all definitely related, and that the brothers will debrief them as necessary after the suspect is in custody once again.
"Our immediate priority is to locate the suspect, and based on the fact that I've received no response from inquiries to Sherrinford since late this morning – I'm assuming the prison has been compromised, and that means that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson are now officially missing persons."
Molly bites her lip, knowing how important it is for Anthea to know Sherlock phoned her this afternoon, but baulking against the level of her embarrassment at the contents of said conversation.
Of course, Anthea notices. "Is there something else?" She asks tersely. "Because we need to know everything if we're going to contain this disaster and save our three men. Assuming they're all still alive, of course."
Molly purses her lips and exhales. "Sherlock phoned me this afternoon."
Greg and Anthea both focus on her, surprised. "Really?!" Anthea frowns. "I've been trying to contact them since we've had radio silence -" she shakes her head. "Their mobiles were all out of service. I thought it might be because of a storm out that way – until Lestrade ran the fingerprints, and I was notified of the results and realized something was very wrong. What did he say?"
Molly can't help the flush on her neck, equal parts anger and embarrassment. "He…was a bit of an arse."
"Did he ask for anything? Tell you anything? Relay in any way where-"
"No." Molly shakes her head.
After a sparse three seconds of silence, Anthea tries again. "What did he say?"
Molly sighs and stares at her feet for a moment, before looking the woman in front of her in the eye.
"He asked me to tell him I loved him." She says in a rush - and quickly looks away from the look of shock on both of their faces.
After a moment of silence, Greg peers at her, confused. "Re – really?"
"No, Greg, it's another of my awful jokes." She snaps.
He takes a step toward her, and shakes his head. "No – I mean – this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. He asked you to tell him you loved him and you didn't think that was a sign that something was seriously wrong?!"
Molly crosses her arms and narrows her gaze at him. "Not terribly, no, not – not at the time, because he said it was an experiment for a case – a case Anthea-" she gestures toward the secretary with a nod "-assured me they were all – all fine and dandy on, this morning, and that they didn't need me, or you, or anyone else's interference!"
There is silence after her outburst.
"Sorry-" Greg rocks back on his heels and rubs the back of his neck.
Molly's face and tone soften. "No – it's – I'm sorry. He was just – an utter arsehole about the whole thing, and-" she presses her face to her hands and groans. "Apparently, he -" she cuts herself off abruptly.
"Molly," Anthea says firmly. "Do you remember anything specific from the conversation? Any strange phrases, unusual emphasis…"
"I've been unwillingly replaying it in my head all evening," Molly admits after a moment, defeated.
Anthea hesitates. "Do you think you could tell me – just me, if it's too…personal – exactly what you remember of it? Just in case there is something relevant-"
"Okay," Molly agrees softly.
Greg steps toward her, holding his hands awkwardly at his sides, looking as though he wants to clap her on the shoulder, or hug her, or perhaps even salute her – but he's not sure which one. "Molly-"
"If I had access to the facility where he most likely made the call, I could pull a recording and save you the stress, but unfortunately-" Anthea continues.
"What choice do I have?" Molly laughs, and there is a bitter edge to it. This will be the second time today she's had to reveal something deeply private for the sake of Sherlock Holmes. "I can't exactly put them, or anyone else at risk to save my own pride, can I?"
Greg hesitates a moment, and nods. "I'll be outside, then."
Unfortunately, there's not much to be learned from what Molly remembers (and she remembers nearly every word) of the phone call with Sherlock.
Anthea slips easily back into the roll of indifferent, professional secretary, and Molly is glad for her lack of response to the details of her conversation.
"Thank you," Anthea says politely, when they are done. Molly stands and turns away, feeling at once exhausted and sick to her stomach. She's quite positive now that Sherlock will have an excellent excuse as to why he put her through that special kind of torture, but at the moment, everything is still raw. She wants him to be safe, but she's almost terrified of seeing him again – of what it will do to her wounded heart.
As Anthea collects some of the photos for her own use, her phone rings. She answers and listens for several long moments, and then – "You are positive? Because I don't need to remind you that there is no room for error. Excellent. Thank you. I'll alert the Yard and assemble a team for Musgrave, just in case it relates. Keep the ship on course for Sherrinford."
Molly turns back to the secretary, and Anthea offers her a small smile before crossing the room, opening the door, and asking for Greg. He arrives shortly, and Anthea informs them that a sleeper agent has reported an unusual shack recently erected just outside of the burnt down remains of Musgrave Hall.
"Sleeper agent," Greg confirms flatly, and his expression is one of unfazed acceptance.
"Well, sleeper agent isn't exactly the correct phrase. More of a retired…colleague, who promised to keep an eye on the place as a favor. Mycroft took every precaution with this…particular case. Unfortunately, it seems it wasn't enough. A carrier ship from Her Majesty's Navy is en route to Sherrinford as we speak, ETA fifty minutes and counting - but I'm willing to conjecture, based on the evidence of these photos, that this unusual sighting outside of Musgrave Hall does relate to today's events. As such, we are requesting the Yard's cooperation." Anthea continues typing instructions on her mobile, even as she fixes Greg with a steady gaze.
"Musgrave Hall…that's the one in the pictures, then?" He asks.
"Yes. I'm texting you the address."
His phone pings with the incoming text, and he loads it into his phone's GPS. "What do you need?"
"Everything you've got."
"Bloody hell."
Anthea sighs. "Not everyone. Everything. Bomb squad. SO19. Helicopter. Special Rescue. Armored transport. Ambulance. At least two units. And we are going with suspected terrorist. No mention of the connection to the Holmes family. Are we clear?"
Greg's cheeks puff out as he exhales. "Clear. You do realize, even with immediate approval, this will take two hours, minimum, to prepare."
Anthea focuses her attention from her mobile to the DI in front of her. "Then we best get started, then." She gives him a small, insincere smile.
He turns to Molly. "You…you going to be all right, then?" He asks, quietly. "What are you going to-?"
"Actually," Anthea interrupts – "I was hoping you could assist with the issue of Rosamund Watson, Dr. Hooper."
Molly straightens immediately. "Of course – what's wrong? Has something-"
"No, nothing has happened," Anthea reassures her quickly. "She is with her usual caretakers. Given the circumstances, however, I think it best she stay with a more known and trusted source – her godmother. I have taken the liberty of sweeping John's flat and placing some subtle security outside the premises. No matter what happens tonight, that child will sleep safely in her own bed."
Molly nods, a grim, uncertain smile on her face. "Yes. That's – that's probably for the best. I'll pick her up. And John – if he – well. He'll probably want to see her, after everything he's been through today."
"I'll be having agents sweep your flat tomorrow, as well," Anthea informs her.
"My flat?" Molly asks incredulously.
"Your flat," Anthea confirms, and her voice leaves no room for argument. "It would be tonight – but – bigger fish to fry, and all that."
Molly swallows. "Right."
Sherlock is in survival mode.
He is alive, and alone – the voices of his best friend, sister, and the little girl on the plane intermingling in his head until they all merge to the one big truth that nearly destroyed him, once.
I am lost…help me brother. Save my life…before my doom.
I am lost…without your love. Save my soul…seek my room.
He does not have time to dwell on Eurus's design.
Later, he will have time to wonder, horrified, at how specifically Eurus designed all of her tests to prove to him that he feels – and that more than that, he loves; and that the love he has felt (and the love that has undeservingly been given him by others) is an important part of who he is – and how he functions.
But now, now – he has to seek her out – this vindictive, sad, lonely, psychotic sister, and somehow use that part of him he's been repressing for years to save her.
She is curled up in her old room – now a shell of what it was before - her hair a veil around her face, clinging to herself – alone and trembling.
"I'm here, Eurus," he says soothingly.
"You're playing with me, Sherlock. We're playing the game." Her voice is childlike and weary.
Despite all she's done to him today – despite all she's done – his newly realized heart constricts, just a little, at how broken his sister is. "The game, yes – I get it now."
His voice wavers, and he thinks, briefly, that emotions are so like the patience grenades – waiting, lurking, until you've almost relaxed around them – and then they explode in your face. Loving Mary, loving Molly, loving John, loving Mycroft – and feeling – compassion and sorrow for the woman before him, the woman he ought to have loved, before, but never really got a chance to. "The song was never a set of directions."
"I'm in a plane, and I'm going to crash…and you're going to save me." She hugs her legs tightly to herself, and her eyes are screwed tightly shut as Sherlock crouches down before her.
His breath comes out as a strangled laugh. "Look at how brilliant you are. Your mind has created the perfect metaphor. You're high above us, all alone in the sky, and you understand everything except how to land." He sits, cross-legged in front of her. "Now," he licks his lips anxiously. "Now, I'm just an idiot, but I'm on the ground. I can bring you home." He reaches out, tentatively touching her hands.
His heart freezes in panic as she pulls away.
"No," she says flatly. She shudders, and her voice breaks a bit. "No, no – it's too late now."
"No it's not!" He insists desperately, and then blinks. Everything, all day – all month, for who knows how long - everything has been about him. Even Eurus's instructions about Molly – 'don't let her know anything is wrong, it will end her'. It all relates back to him, and to her – to them. He tries again, more softly. "It's not too late."
She sniffs and gasps, just a bit, shoulders slumped and shivering from cold. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm on the plane. I'm lost…lost in the sky, and no one can hear me."
Sherlock shifts so that he kneels in front of her, and he reaches out again. This time, she does not pull away from his touch. "Open your eyes," he says softly.
Slowly, tentatively – she raises her head and opens her eyes. She blinks, and her tears fall freely.
"You're not lost anymore." He holds his arms out to her, and she lurches into them, wrapping her arms around him and letting out great silent sobs.
Sherlock closes his eyes and strokes her hair, allowing her this moment of comfort – this small moment of unconditional love, born of so much hate and fear and isolation. He swallows, and pushes forward. "Now, you – you just went the wrong way, last time, that's all. This time – this time, get it right. Tell me how to save my friend. Eurus," he pleads softly, pulling her gently away and framing her tear-stained face with his hands – "- help me save John Watson."
Molly draws the shades to the windows at John and Mary's flat, thought it's still an hour till sunset, and sits down for a moment. She hadn't even had time to go back to her flat, after everything was said and done. The shadows are soothing, calling her to lose herself in the darkness of sleep – to forget, however temporarily that may be.
She picks up her phone to see if there is any news from Greg, and she has one text.
They've got Mycroft secured. He's okay. Almost to Musgrave. Looks like that's where John and Sherlock will be. – GL
She closes her eyes, and her lip wobbles, just a bit – tears that haven't come since Sherlock's call are threatening to well up and spill over, now.
They don't really get the chance, however, as the baby monitor emits a restless crackle of static, and then a loud, familiar wail. Molly stares ahead for a moment, frozen with exhaustion, before slowly making her way to her goddaughter's room.
She picks up the baby, and checks her nappy, and then walks to the lounge, bouncing and shushing gently and rubbing small circles on the inconsolable infant's back.
After ten minutes go by and Rosie is still wailing in her arms, Molly's eyes are tearing up again in shared stress and sorrow. She plops herself in the recliner by the fireplace, shifting back so that the baby is nestled on her stomach and chest, and she sways tiredly side to side, still patting her back.
"Shhhh, Rosie. Shhhh. Everything will be all right." She attempts a smile, so that perhaps her words will sound cheerier and more convincing. "Ev – everything" – her voice drops to a whisper now, finally cracking from the weight of the day. "-everything will be all right. It'll be – it-" she sniffs – "it-"
And Molly Hooper is finally undone by the heartbroken cries of Rosie Watson.
Great silent sobs wrack her body, and she holds Rosie gently to her chest, her stress and sorrow intermingling with Rosie's until their anguished weeping and shaky breaths lull them both into unhappy slumber.
A/N: Well...*crawls out from under a rock*. It's been a bit longer than I anticipated. I blame the Great Midwestern Wind Storm and subsequent week-long power-outage of 2017. If it's not one thing, it's another, right? *shakes fist at universe*. Jehoshaphat trigger, put that pea-shooter down! (Robin Hood reference, there.)
*This paragraph (at the beginning of the chapter) is actually paraphrased/inspired from a chapter out of a MOPS devotional called "Becoming Starry-Eyed", of all things. It just...described so beautifully what I think Eurus's thoughts were at that moment I had to borrow the idea from it.
Much thanks and kudos to ariane devere's livejournal transcripts of Sherlock's The Final Problem. I wouldn't have been able to get the dialogue for this chapter right without her amazing resource! Unfortunately, fanfiction won't let me link to her site, but if you google 'arianedevere' or even 'sherlock transcripts' it's pretty much the first result.
Also, it took me forever to write this chapter because I got tired of writing such depressing angsty stuff and started writing the fluffier ending chapters instead. Hopefully that means the next break between updates will be just a little shorter (though the next chapter is still pretty angst-y.)
Thank you again for all of your reviews, follows, and favs. I really appreciate them - the reviews especially keep me going when I'm struggling with writer's block.
