When he was three years old, Sherlock had become aware for the first time that his brother would be leaving for school. He had sulked and cried and told everyone that there was no need for Mycroft to go back to school, because he already knew everything. Everyone but Mycroft had either patted his head and tried to give him sweets, or had told him to stop being a bother and go play outside. Even though he could read and write, and speak more clearly than many adults he knew, the fact that he was less than three feet tall meant that he was dismissed the way any other three year old would be.

Mycroft had taken him aside and told him that it would be Christmas before they knew it, and that he might even be home for a few weekends before then. He promised to write him.

Sherlock wasn't having any of that. The evening before Mycroft was to leave, he waited until he was put to bed, then packed his small knapsack and snuck out of the house. He had planned to camp out in the ruins of a hunting lodge that Mycroft had shown him in the woods. However, he had gotten lost, and learned the very important lesson that a compass is only useful if you actually know which direction you need to go.

He only had to spend one night crying under a tree. He was found late the next afternoon.

As it turned out, Mycroft had been sent off on the train that morning as planned, because everyone assumed that Sherlock was off sulking in the attic as usual. To top it off, Sherlock was punished for worrying his mother and for keeping people from their work while they looked for him. And he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to his brother.

As Sherlock sat by the fire contemplating the box in his hand, he remembered how sure he had been of his plan, even though, at best, it would only have delayed the inevitable by a day or two.

Mycroft and he had been so sure about Moriarty's goal, and how they would stop him. And he had blithely followed his compass north while Moriarty was wreaking havoc in the opposite direction. Everything—the kidnapping, Kitty Riley's article, destroying his reputation—had been in service of this plan, instead of being the goal. It was all meant to make him desperate enough to go to Molly for help and to leverage against him should he consider escape. It was all because one sweet little pathologist had been largely beneath his notice.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? The truth was that he noticed so much about her that it frightened him, and he had reacted with constant rejection to prove he didn't care. He wasn't sure what he was more frightened of, the fact that he paid so much attention to her, or that she seemed to see so much of him.

No matter, he had failed her utterly. If he had treated her with more regard, if he had let himself really see her, Moriarty would not have had the perfect vessel with which to execute his scheme.

He went to her room and was confronted again with just what a sick bastard Moriarty was. He had arranged her on the bed like a corpse, on her back with her legs together, arms at her sides, her hair fanned out gently on her pillow. He'd had her change into a pink nightgown. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only indication she was alive.

Sherlock picked her up and carried her to his room, laying her temporarily in his bed so that he could strip the bedding from hers. He hadn't slept in that bed in days; the room looked cold and bare. He would have to get used to its austerity again. He changed the sheets and pillow cases on Molly's bed and found an old quilt to put on it while her duvet was being washed. The smell of sex and sweat was still slightly detectable on the pillows, even with the new cases, but at least she wouldn't be inundated with it when she woke up. He carried her back to the bed, laying her on her side, and covered her with the quilt. He then set about dealing with the bags she'd brought back from Dublin. She had never gotten around to sorting them and Sherlock had a feeling that she had been instructed not to deal with them.

His suspicions were confirmed when he began unpacking them. It was an entire wardrobe of maternity clothes. It was all of beautiful quality, even the yoga bottoms and nightgowns. Had she chosen it all as Maggie, then had those memories deleted, or had someone else done the shopping?

He put it all away, organized in the closet and bureau according to size, then color. The clothes were the last thing he wanted her to be confronted with when she woke up. The reality of them was almost too much for him to face. He looked at her and tried to picture her with a swollen belly. She was so small. How in the world would there ever be room?

It occurred to him how likely it was that there was an embryo in her womb. It might not even be implanted yet, but it could be there. Cells dividing exponentially, like a tumor. And he would have to tell her. He couldn't leave any of it out. Funny that not long ago it wouldn't have occurred to him to want to leave anything out, because he believed so surely that the truth was more important than sparing anyone's feelings. That lying only led to greater pain.

He recalled all the ways in which he had violated her body in the past week. He cursed himself for still being able to derive pleasure from those memories. He went back to his room, lifted the mattress, and removed the straps that held the restraints. He threw the whole thing under the bed.

Back in her room, he took a good look around and decided that it might not be best for her to wake up in what was essentially a shrine to a dead girl. He carried her downstairs and laid her on the sofa.

He sat in her chair, which was closest to the sofa, and went into his mind. He went through everything since he had gone to her for help, and filtered out only what was essential to tell her. The details of all their sexual encounters were shoved into a closet. He couldn't delete them just yet, but he had to isolate them so he could reclaim some objectivity. Dawn was just breaking when he finished. Twelve hours left. He tried to occupy himself with mundane tasks, not wanting to get too deeply involved with anything. He did the laundry and hung it outside. He scrubbed the kitchen and even the bathroom. But he kept finding himself back in the sitting room, staring at her sleeping form. He repositioned her every few hours to prevent any pressure sores. As far as he could tell, she never entered REM sleep, even though she was out for almost twenty hours.

At six, he was again sat in her chair. She opened her eyes just as the mantel clock was chiming. At first she stretched, just as though she were waking from a nap. Her brow wrinkled when she didn't recognize the ceiling. She sat up and looked around, taking in the room, the fire, and Sherlock. Again she startled when she saw him, her mouth gaping. At least she was somewhat dressed this time, and not covered in his bodily fluids.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Where are we?"

"Molly, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Sherlock—"

"I'll tell you everything, but I need to know where to begin."

She looked skeptical, but she closed her eyes and concentrated.

"When you came to me, in the lab and asked for my help. You were explaining what Jim Moriarty had done, and what you needed me to do. But I only remember the first part."

"Do you have any periods of lost time earlier that day?"

Her eyes moved back and forth as she reviewed her day. "After you and John left the lab to go to Scotland Yard, I was cleaning up. My phone rang. And then the next thing I remember, I was sitting in my office."

"He must have programmed a trigger, something he knew I'd say when I talked to you again," he muttered.

"Who? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

He looked at her a long while before he could speak. She was so beautiful in the firelight, and still unscathed. She was confused and nervous, but she still trusted him and-this was the most damning—she was concerned for his wellbeing.

So he told her. Everything that had happened from when he left Bart's for Scotland Yard until his conversation with Moriarty the night before.

As he talked, her eyes got bigger, but physically, she seemed to get smaller and smaller. She hugged her knees and started rocking slightly. When he got to the end, she didn't say anything.

"Molly."

"Stop it right now," she said.

"What?"

"If this is—some kind of experiment, like you pulled on John in Dartmoor, I swear to God, Sherlock, I will never forgive you."

"Molly, I wish I could say it was an experiment."

She looked at him. Her eyes devastated him.

"What did I ever do to anyone to deserve you in my life?"

He got up and went to her, kneeling in front of her, but she recoiled into the corner of the sofa.

"Don't touch me."

"Molly, please."

"No," she said, as tears started to spill. "God, why do you always have to show off? Why do you have to act like you're so above everything, like you don't care? He'd never have noticed you otherwise, or else he wouldn't be so hell bent on breaking you down and taking everyone else down with you. He'd have just put a bullet in you the first time you irritated him."

Her thoughts mirrored his earlier ones so thoroughly that he wondered if this was how other people felt when he appeared to read their minds. He sat back on his heels.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't. Not ever again. Those words are so pointless—I just—Just don't." She took a deep breath and raked her hair back from her face. She was trembling, biting on her thumbnail and rocking again. He wanted to hold her, but obviously that was wrong. What would John do in this situation?

John would never have gotten himself into this situation.

"Molly," he tried again. "I need to know what you'd like me to do."

She shook her head again. "There's nothing. You lost, Sherlock. You can't help me any more than you can help yourself. Just leave me alone."