Philip Anderson was bored. Nothing of particular excitement had been happening in his life. Whilst he was pouring himself another cup of coffee at the station, a woman stormed in, shouting at Lestrade for some reason or other. Anderson took no interest in it, taking a large sip of coffee, only to spit it out in surprise as he realised the angry woman was, in fact, Molly Hooper. Not one time in all the years he had known her had he ever seen her in a rage. This was exciting.

"It's against protocol, Molls!" Greg argued. "We cannot take civilians into a risky situation; his sister has psychosis for cryin' out loud!"

"I don't care! I am not just going to sit here and do nothing! I have been through emotional hell tonight with Sherlock, and I'll be damned if I allow you to force me to sit this out!" Molly's face was red; her now frizzy hair was in a high ponytail, cascading just past her shoulders.

Greg looked at her sympathetically. "Look, I'm sorry, I just can't." He looked over at Philip. "Anderson, you're with me."

Molly laughed in disbelief. "No," she shook her head. "Why does he get to go? There aren't any dead bodies…are there?"

"I was informed that there were casualties at Sherrinford," Greg explained. He noticed the fear in her eyes. "Look, Molls, I'm sure that Sherlock is okay, but we really need to get going."

Her head perked up. "We?" With a nod from Lestrade, Molly followed after them, knowing full well she would have found a way there before he gave in. After all, she did have Anthea's personal number.

A rescue squad had been sent ahead of them to Musgrave Hall whilst Anderson, Molly, and Greg headed to Sherrinford. This decision did not sit well with Molly, but after finding out that Sherlock was alive, the relief was plain on her face. She figured she could wait just a bit longer to see him. If Anderson didn't know any better, and he really did know better, he'd say that Sherlock and Molly had been in a deeply loving relationship underneath everyone's noses. As much as he'd like that to be the truth, he knew they had been dancing around each other for years.

Sherrinford came into view, and as soon as they landed, they were rushing toward the entrance. Greg's job was to search for Mycroft whilst Anderson and Molly found and examined the bodies. The first bodies they came across were the governor and his wife, both shot, but one appeared to be self-inflicted.

Anderson noticed a video tape titled 'Emotional Context,' and beneath it, Molly's name was written. "Molly," he called out to her. "I think you better come see this."

She looked down at the tape, her brows furrowing. Curiosity getting the better of her, Molly shoved the tape back in and watched as Sherlock went from room to room. She and Anderson gasped audibly when they watched the governor take his own life, both knowing why Sherlock's sister—Eurus—had shot the governor's wife. The next room was a matter of accusation. The three Garridebs had all been dropped into the deep water, inevitably left to drown.

"What in the hell are you two doing?" Greg asked. "That's evidence."

"It is property of the British government," Mycroft spoke up, a shock blanket around his shoulders. "I do not want this tape getting out, but I believe Miss Hooper deserves to see this."

As the footage continued, the coffin puzzle intrigued them all until Molly realised it had been meant for her. A lump rose within her throat as she relived the phone call from earlier, her hand covering her mouth.

"I…I love you," Sherlock had clumsily spoken. Then, a look of clarity came over him so brief that you could have easily missed it. "I love you." The second was more an admission to one's self than to the one you love. Silent tears slid down Molly's face.

Anderson's jaw dropped. "Holy—"

"Hell," Greg looked on in surprise, running a hand through his silver hair.

Nobody said a word as they witnessed Sherlock's breakdown whilst he smashed the coffin to bits in such anguish. Anderson could tell that it physically hurt Molly to watch as she clutched her chest where her heart resided.

"I can't watch anymore," Molly sobbed, "I can't." Despite her protests, she continued to view the footage with the others. The moment she saw Sherlock aim the gun at himself, Molly felt she was going to be sick. She ran right out of the room, only stopping until she was outside in the fresh air.

Anderson followed after her, concerned about her emotional state. When he made it outside, he found her down by the water with her knees pulled in toward her chest. "Molly?"

"I knew something was wrong after that phone call." Molly sniffled wiping her tears with her delicate fingers. "I just—I never would have imagined that he went through such…" she faltered to find a word.

"Torture?" Anderson suggested, sitting down beside her.

Molly considered the word, and then shook her head. "Vivisection. What happened to him tonight…it was vile. And to make matters worse, I forced him to say the words that I so desperately didn't want to say myself."

"He sounded like he meant it," Anderson remarked, hoping it would make light of the situation.

"Does it matter if he did or not?" Molly laughed softly. "I twisted the knife that his sister buried in his heart. Even if he did mean it and wasn't opposed to a relationship, do you really think I made a good case for myself? I've hurt him so much since he returned to London." Her voice was thick with emotion. "So much."

"Anderson, Molls, we're heading to Musgrave," Lestrade informed them, exiting the building with Mycroft. They climbed into the helicopter, everyone ready to meet up with the others—everyone except for Molly. She was beginning to think that coming along was a mistake. After all, she doubted that Sherlock would even want to see her after tonight.

It was all a blur of chaos when they arrived on the scene. Musgrave Hall was once a grand home, but it was now a simple reminder of the trauma Sherlock Holmes had faced tonight. They had been informed that John Watson was rescued from a well that had been steadily filling with water, intending to drown him. Sherlock's estranged sister was being led out of the house by two officers set to take her back to Sherrinford. And then there was the detective himself, visibly shaken from the events that took place here.

Lestrade was talking with Sherlock all whilst Molly hid behind Anderson, peering around at Sherlock every now and then. Because she hadn't been paying attention where she was going as she followed Anderson around, it struck her they were within hearing distance of Sherlock after they had heard him tell Greg thanks. He had even gotten his name right, which shocked everyone.

"You okay?" John asked his friend.

"I said I'd bring her home. I can't, can I?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, soft.

"Well," John began, "you gave her what she was looking for: context."

Sherlock looked at John. "Is that good?"

"It's not good, it's not bad. It's…" John searched for the right words. "It is what it is."

Anderson looked around at Molly. "Stop hiding and go to him," he encouraged her.

"I probably shouldn't," she tried to reason. "He doesn't want to see me." Molly attempted to leave Sherlock's vicinity, getting out from behind Anderson and trying to reach Greg, but she was stopped before she could get that far.

"Molly." Sherlock Holmes breathed out her name in relief.

With hesitance, Molly turned around to face him, her eyes locked on his. He looked as if he were haunted, plagued with resurfacing memories. "Sherlock." It was the simplest of acknowledgements. There was no getting out of this now, she realised as he approached her in just a few strides.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised to even see her at all.

"I knew something was wrong," she replied simply. "You'd never say those words unless someone's life was on the line, and now I know that life was mine."

Anderson couldn't help but eavesdrop. He wanted it all to work out so badly.

Sherlock ran a hand through his disheveled curls. "Molly, I meant every word."

She hadn't a clue what possessed her to say what came out of her mouth next. "Well, I didn't." Sherlock's face fell. Molly's heart shattered. Why did she just say that? Anderson was wondering the same thing. He waited to see if Molly would tell Sherlock the truth, but instead she walked away, her face twisted in pain.

Anderson muttered to himself. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

Author's Note: I've absolutely no idea where I'm going with this, except I intend it to be fun as hell lol!