A/N: Rated T for dark themes because not all prompts turn out light and fluffy. Many thanks to vertual, mouse9 and sherlolly for reading this over at various stages. Day 2 is coming, apologies for uploading out of order but the fake dating story is much longer than anticipated. Stay tuned, and thank you for your wonderful reviews of the first chapter!

Day 3: Locked In A Room/Trapped In A Small Space, etc.

"Molly."

"Mmph."

"Molly!"

There was urgency in Sherlock's whispered repetition of her name. "Le'melone," she mumbled, trying to turn on her side away from him. Why was he crowding her so much, he usually gave her plenty of space when he used her bed to stretch out and think on, now he was practically on top of her and she was so damned tired and she could tell he'd stolen the covers and the pillow and…

The feel of Sherlock's hand on her shoulder, shaking her, startled a gasp out of her. "Molly! For God's sake, wake up! We need to figure out a way out of here!"

The urgency in his voice snapped her wide, wide awake. Her eyes flew open, but she could see nothing. Wherever they were - clearly not in her bed in her flat - there was no light showing at all. And when she tried to move, she found her back pressed up against a hard, flat surface. Raising a shaking hand, she reached up...and met the same hard, flat surface which her fingertips informed her was some kind of wooden structure.

"Sherlock," she breathed out, trying very hard not to panic, "are we...are we some kind of...box?"

"Coffin," he corrected her, much as she wished he'd kept his stupid mouth shut. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, and his hand remained on her shoulder, steadying her a bit. Reminding her that, whatever might be going on, at least they were facing it together. "I estimate we have roughly ten minutes of air remaining." He paused, then added reluctantly, "Seven if we try to break out."

"Okay," Molly said in a small voice. She was trying to breathe very slowly and evenly but it wasn't working very well. "But if we don't try to break out..."

"I have no idea where we are or how we got here, and since you were also unconscious - drugged, as you've no doubt already figured out - I presume the same is true for you. Given that it's unlikely that someone we know did this as a bit of a lark, then I'd say just sitting tight and waiting for rescue is just as likely to end in our demise as attempting to kick our way out."

His words certainly weren't helping her breathing any. Or to slow her racing heart. "Kick our way out," she repeated, trying desperately to focus on Sherlock's plan of action. It was better than doing nothing, that much was for sure, but whether it would do anything other than reduce their breathable air by three minutes was open to debate.

Still, as she'd already concluded, doing something was far better than doing nothing. "So, how do you want to do this?" she asked.

"Roll over and lie on top of me?" Sherlock instructed. "There should be enough room. Then we both kick at the same time, to maximize the amount of force and hopefully crack the lid on our prison. It's pine, you can smell the resin, so it should be fairly easy to damage."

"Good thing it's not a casket, those things are usually made of hardwoods," Molly agreed, then proceeded to squirm around until she was able to haul herself on top of Sherlock's hard, lean form.

Lord, she needed to have a serious talk with whoever had arranged for her to live out one of her favorite fantasies, only to turn it into an absolute nightmare.

Sherlock grunted as she wiggled herself into place, dropping his hands to her hips and shifting her about until - oh God, until her bum was snug against his groin.

Shitshitshit I'm going to die of mortification before the air runs out, Molly thought as she felt a shiver of want rack her slender frame.

"Molly, it'll be fine," Sherlock said, obviously mistaking her shiver for one of fear. "We'll get through this. On the count of three, yes?"

"Yes," she managed, leaning her head back so it rested on his shoulder. "One," they chanted together. "Two. Three!"

On three they both kicked up with all of their might. Molly was thankful that whoever had kidnapped and presumably kidnapped them had left them fully clothed and still wearing their shoes. She was equally thankful that she had on trainers rather than the flimsy pair of ballet flats she normally wore when running her Saturday errands.

Even the solid rubber soles of her trainers, however, weren't enough to cushion the shock of pounding her feet against the pine boards of the coffin. She gritted her teeth and continued the movements, feeling Sherlock moving beneath her in a dark parody of the rhythms of sex and tired her damndest not to cry in either fear, pain or frustration.

"Molly, stop." Sherlock must have said it to her more than once, because he was lightly shaking her shoulder. "It's no good, I'm afraid. Can you feel it?"

She was about to ask what he was talking about when yes, she felt it. Dirt, trickling in from the cracks they'd managed to make in the pine cover.

They weren't just in a coffin; they'd been buried alive.

"Seven minutes left," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sorry, Molly. Whichever unknown enemy of mine did this to us, I am so very, very sorry he pulled you into this."

Molly was quiet, her fingers curled tightly into the lapel of Sherlock's jacket, while she considered what he was saying - and what he was not saying.

"We're going to die," she concluded after a few seconds. Oddly, she felt a sense of calm descending over her. "This isn't some clever trap we're supposed to find our way out of. We're going to die."

His response should have panicked her, but she remained in that strange bubble of calm as he said, "Yes." Well, her heartbeat did pick up a bit when he added, "Roll over onto your stomach, you'll be more comfortable."

She wiggled her way into position, biting her lip as her head came to rest on his chest. This really was fantasy-turned-nightmare, even moreso when he wrapped his arms around her.

"Seven minutes left to live," she mused, doing her best to ignore the throbbing pain in her feet. "Not the way I expected to go, I'll admit. Kind of thought I'd keel over while doing an autopsy in my 80s. Or die in bed with my cat eating my toes off before someone found my body." She giggled a bit as she tried to picture Toby - or whichever cat she eventually got to replace Toby - spitting out her red-painted toenails.

"Molly," Sherlock said warningly. "What have I told you about making jokes?"

"Well, would you rather I was screaming and crying and having hysterics? Because frankly that's the only other alternative," she snapped. "It's there, the panic, and the fear, and the denial, I know it's there even if right now I'm not actually feeling any of it. And don't worry," she added bitterly, "I know you'd much rather be in this predicament with anyone but me-"

"Bullshit." She blinked at his unexpected use of a curse word; she'd never heard him swear before. "If I had to be trapped in a confined space with someone, I'd much rather it was you than, say, John or my brother. John would have strangled me by now, rightfully blaming me for this mess, and Mycroft would be so unbearable about the whole thing that I'd wish John was strangling me just to put me out of my misery!"

Molly gave a snort of laughter. "Look at you, being funny during the last few minutes of your life! Who'd have thought you had it in you?"

They fell silent again, Molly listening to the thrumming of his heart beneath her ear, feeling a sort of contentment as he continued to hold her in his arms. He was even stroking her upper arm a little, absently, probably not even realizing he was doing it, and she was damned sure not going to point it out to him and have him stop.

In fact… "Sherlock, I need you to do something for me," she whispered before she lost her courage.

"What?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that absolutely did things to her limbic system. And the warmth of his breath on her ear - heaven. Absolute heaven. "What do you need?"

"I need you to say three words for me and not ask why." She closed her eyes, which was exactly the same as keeping them open, but it helped her continue speaking even though she knew it was the worst idea possible. But she had to hear it, even if it was a lie. The question was, would he do it for her?

"What words?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost as low as hers.

"I. Love. You."

There. She'd said it. "Say it like you mean it," she added.

He was silent for a long time, so long that she decided he wasn't going to do it, that he wouldn't lie even in their last two minutes of life together.

Just as she opened her mouth to tell him it was all right, she understood, he spoke.

"I, I love you," he said, slightly stammering the phrase. Then, with more certainty, "I love you."

One hand slid up from her hip to her arm, then gently cupped her chin, tilting her head up so that she could feel his breath on her lips. "Molly Hooper, I love you," Sherlock breathed. "I'm just sorry it took something as insane as this to make me admit it." Then he kissed her, a tender, loving kiss exactly as she'd always longed to feel from him, and she kissed him back, knowing that this was exactly how she wanted to spend her last, precious breaths.

The kiss went on and on, and Molly swore she could feel the earth moving - and then she and Sherlock broke apart as they each realized at the same time that the earth was, indeed, moving.

"What the f-" Molly started to exclaim, feeling the coffin start to rock and hearing the grinding of heavy machinery, dirt falling, the creaking of a chain. Then a swaying sensation; the coffin was being lifted, they were saved, but by who?

With a crash the coffin dropped back down to the ground, splintering apart around them while Sherlock held her in his arms, shielding her from the worst of the damage. She let out a muffled scream as they rolled out of the smashed remains and down a slight slope, ending up hard against a stone surface that was, when Molly finally caught her breath and was able to look around, a headstone of some sort.

She sat up with Sherlock's assistance, staring around in bewilderment. It was night-time, which was good because if it had been daylight out they'd both have been temporarily blinded. The faint light of the moon and stars was more than enough for her to see that yes, they were in a small graveyard, and that they'd tumbled down a mound of dirt behind which she could just make out the outline of what looked like a backhoe with chains attached to the bucket.

Chains which still appeared to hold the remnants of a wooden coffin, the wreckage of which lay scattered over the dirt mound.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, are you?" Molly asked, rather breathlessly as Sherlock helped her to her feet.

"Fine, we're both fine, now let's see just who's behind this farce." Sherlock's voice was fierce, angry and even in the near-full darkness Molly could tell his expression matched his tone. She watched as he scrambled back up the small pile of dirt, grabbing one of the swinging chains and peering into the backhoe. "No one," he called down to her, sounding frustrated. "There's some sort of remote control on the seat."

Molly, who had stooped to examine something glinting in the coffin debris, stood back up with her prize - the evidence - held carefully in her hand. "Sherlock, I found some sort of electronic device, maybe a camera, I think?" She hated the uncertainty in her voice, but this really wasn't her area of expertise.

Thank God there was no need of her particular expertise at the moment; she shuddered to think how close they had come to dying, and knew reaction was starting to set in.

Sherlock bounded back down, snatching the little tangle of plastic and wires out of her hand and holding it up closely to his face. "Microphone," he said, sounding quite sure of himself.

Molly's face flushed red with renewed mortification. Oh God, someone had been listening to them? Had heard her ask - beg - Sherlock to say he loved her?

Had let them go immediately after he'd done so.

Coincidence?

She shivered and shook her head. No, that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Their mysterious abductor couldn't possibly have predicted that was what would happen, could they?

Before she could even attempt to articulate her confusion, Sherlock spoke. "Whoever did this knew what was going to happen. They knew you'd ask me to say those words, when we both thought it was hopeless and we were going to die." He clenched his fist, the twisted bits of wiring sticking out from between his fingers. "Someone deliberately put us into this situation, forcing us to confront our feelings for one another. But who?"

Molly's head was reeling. "Our feelings for one another?" she repeated. "But, but I'm the only one, I mean, I'm the one who has feelings for you, not the other way round!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," Sherlock snapped, turning to face her. His dark curls, still in disarray from their confinement, shone with a silvery halo in the moonlight. "Of course I have feelings for you. I just told you I love you, didn't I?"

"Because I told you to say it," Molly reminded him. "I told you to say it like you mean it, and you did. But I know it was just because you thought we were going to die, and you were being nice, and-"

"When have you ever known me to do something just to be nice?" Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair, standing his curls further on end. "Even though there was a chance we might not make it, I wouldn't have said what I said just to be 'nice', I thought you knew me better than that."

"I'm beginning to think I don't know you at all," Molly said wonderingly. "Are you saying that you actually did mean it?"

"I thought that kiss would have made my feelings abundantly clear." He sounded sulky, and all Molly could do was laugh and pull him close, pressing her lips to his for another kiss, which he willingly returned for a few seconds before pulling away. "We have a criminal mastermind to catch," he reminded her. "We'll have to put all this-" He reached out and trached his thumb over her lips, "-on hold for the moment."

"That would probably be for the best," a new voice interjected dryly. Molly startled, but Sherlock's arms simply tightened around her, allowing her to keep her balance.

"Ah, Mycroft, I was wondering how long it would take you to find us," Sherlock said, just as dryly. "Unless you're the one who kidnapped us and buried us alive, I presume our actual abductor clued you in as to our whereabouts?"

Mycroft, rather to Molly's surprise, simply let out a small sigh. "You recognize our whereabouts, then?"

"Musgrave," Sherlock replied, rather cryptically. At least to Molly; both Holmes brothers seemed to know exactly what they were talking about. "Our family home, burned in a fire when I was six or seven," he added, causing Molly to blink in surprise. He usually didn't bother to explain himself, certainly not when he had his brother to snipe at!

Huh, maybe he really does love me.

"So, bro, care to tell us why Molly and I were kidnapped, drugged, buried alive and then snatched from the jaws of death at the literal last moment? Because the location and your involvement tell me this is personal. A family matter of some kind, am I right?"

Mycoft's shoulders slumped, just a fraction, before straightening. "Yes, Sherlock, a family matter. One that I will do my best to explain to you on our way."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded as they heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. "And before you say it, wherever you're taking me, Molly comes too."

Mycroft dipped his head in acknowledgement; Molly couldn't swear to it, but there seemed to be an air of defeat about Sherlock's brother that she'd never - in her admittedly limited exposure to him - ever seen in him before.

Then Sherlock looked down at her, and her knees practically melted when he added in a low voice, "That is, if you want to come with us. If you'd rather have someone take you home or to hospital or fly you to your mother in Australia-"

She couldn't help it; she flung her arms around him and hugged him, kissing him as if there was no audience even as she heard Mycroft give a huff of disgust. "We may not have started this but I'll be damned if anyone keeps me from seeing it through to the finish." She turned to face Mycroft. "So. Where are we going?"

He looked at her for a long, assessing moment before giving a short nod. "Have either one of you ever heard of a place called...Sherrinford?"

A/N: Yes, I'm evil to leave it there but you can imagine the family reunion that's about to take place! Hope you enjoyed this very belated Sherlolly Appreciation Week fic!