This chapter is really long, but in my opinion, soooo worth it.

When Sherlock returned to his flat, he felt beyond exhausted. Physically, emotionally, even mentally. He dropped down into his chair, burying his face in his hands. Not only did they not find any clue as to who the murderer was, but he was pretty sure that after this case, whatever he and Molly did have was over. His heart ached at the thought. This was why he didn't do sentiment—not because it was distracting or useless, but because it was always nothing but pain. Mycroft's wise words rang in his head.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

All he ever wanted was for Molly to be happy. Granted, he wished it would be him who brought her that happiness, but obviously, that wasn't the case. Misery is what he brought her. It was killing the light inside of her. He kept telling himself it was for the best, trying to believe that it was. Sherlock removed his pistol from its hiding place and shot at the smiley face painted on the wall. Once, twice, three times. If three kisses suggests romantic attachment, then what, pray tell, did three gunshots suggest?

"Sherlock Holmes, are you defacing my wall again?" Mrs. Hudson reprimanded him when she approached the doorway in her dressing gown.

He smiled wryly at her. "Habit," he told her. Upon noticing how tired his landlady looked, he sighed. "I'll try to keep it down."

She smiled as a silent thank you before leaving, closing the door behind her. Sherlock never slept whilst on a case, but he was beginning to think he should make an exception this time. He made his way to his bedroom, shedding his clothes, only putting on a pair of pyjama pants. He felt dead on his feet, but his mind was restless. Instead of sleeping, he attempted to delve into his mind palace. It was the one place where he felt he could safely lose himself in.

But control was beyond him. In his mind, he was walking through a long corridor full of doors to locked away information. Rather than the one door, there were now two doors labeled with Molly's name. That was new. One looked welcoming, warm, even. The other was cracked and splintered, and painted black. It was no mystery which door he chose, needing a little sunshine on this gloomy night.

He walked through the sunshine yellow door, only to find that it was the complete opposite within it. The room was a lie. That would mean the other one had to be what he was looking for. Sherlock turned to leave, but the door slammed shut, locking from the outside. He was trapped. Cries sounded from upstairs—obviously Molly's—and he ran right up to find her eyes puffy and her face red from all the tears she was shedding.

Carefully, he approached her, not wanting to startle her. "What's wrong?" he spoke softly. She ignored him. "Molly, tell me." She finally looked up at him, her heartache written all over her face.

"You!" she cried. "You're what's wrong!" Her sadness turned to anger all too quickly. "You've led me on for your own gain, you've said such horrible, cruel things, and you hide the truth not only from me, but from yourself!" She jabbed her finger at him with each accusation. "What makes you think you are worth my time? Why do you keep coming back!?" Molly's face twisted in such anger, it was unrecognizable. "You. Don't. Deserve. Me."

Sherlock was now backed up against a wall. He was visibly shaken. "M-Molly wouldn't say these things," he attempted to argue.

"Oh, but she thinks them." In a split second, it was no longer Molly, but himself staring back at him. His own voice echoed throughout the room. "And so do you." He paused for a moment. "Tell me…how could Molly Hooper ever love a man who doesn't even like himself?"

Sherlock's face fell. His counterpart grinned in delight.

"I want you to say it," the figment told him. "Admit it already." He picked up what looked to be a small, handheld looking glass, and shattered it against the wall. "Come on! We both know you're thinking it!"

"I…," Sherlock began, his voice shaky. "I hate myself."

"Louder."

"I hate myself," Sherlock repeated at a higher volume.

"Sorry, can't hear you—one more time?"

"I hate myself!" he shouted. "I hate myself for hurting Molly—for hurting everyone I care about! I am poison. I ruin everything I touch. If I touch her, I will love her to ruins!" Knocking—someone was knocking frantically at the door he had entered this hell through. Sherlock ran toward it, waking up when he turned the knob.

The knocks—they were real. Someone was at his door.

Nightmares plagued Molly's mind. Tossing and turning in her sleep, Molly cried out Sherlock's name. The more she tried to reach out for him, the further away he got. The scene changed to Sherrinford where Sherlock was being tortured through all kinds of body horror imaginable. She could see everything from the other side of the glass. Her throat was raw from screaming, nearly drowning out the voice…Eurus Holmes's voice.

"Now, now, Molly, you need to calm yourself," she told her. "You know what you have to do. Only you can stop this."

Tears poured down her cheeks. "I—I can't!"

"Why not?" demanded Eurus.

"Because I'm scared!" shouted Molly.

"Of what?"

Molly didn't answer.

Eurus sighed. "Of what, Molly? Is what you fear much worse than what Sherlock is going through? Perhaps I chose the wrong kind of torture."

Through the glass, the scene changed to the phone call, but with one major difference. This time she did not pick up and the telly turned to static. Sherlock's anguished cries over her death shattered her. What would she do with such a splintered heart?

"I'm waiting, Molly. Be a brave girl, now," Eurus coerced her.

Sherlock was falling to a million pieces right in front of her, his pain so unbearable, he reached out for the pistol that fell to the floor amongst the smashed up bits of the coffin.

"No!" Molly screamed, digging into her chest cavity with her bare hands. She continued to call out to Sherlock as she dug deeper, eventually pulling out her own beating, battered heart. The glass disappeared and the relief on his face was apparent. She held out her heart to him, cracked from the grief and heartache. "It isn't what it used to be; it's so broken. What would you even do with it anyways?"

Sherlock held her hands that still held her heart. "My darling, I would mend it together again."

Molly woke in a cold sweat, the meaning of her nightmares now obvious, but she was visibly shaken by the experience. Something needed to be done.

Sherlock Holmes was awoken to the frantic knocks at his door. He didn't bother with a dressing gown, walking to the door in only his tartan pajama pants. On the other side was Molly, her eyes red and raw from crying—not unlike his own—and still in her own sleep clothes.

"Molly, what—" Not another word came out when she threw her arms around him, and she rested her cheek against the warmth of his skin. Sherlock held her close with one arm, shutting the door with the other. He could feel tears rolling off of her, and he stroked her hair with a gentle touch.

"I love you," she whispered hoarsely. "Don't ever leave me." Molly pressed her lips ever so softly to his chest, lingering for what felt like hours. "I'm scared, Sherlock."

"Of what, Molly?" he asked, his fingers now running up and down her back.

"Losing you," she admitted. "I can't lose you—not to drugs, not to criminals—I need you to take care of yourself when I can't."

His heart ached for her. Reluctantly, he released her, leading her to the sofa. His nightmare re-entered his mind. "I know I've hurt you so much in the past," he told her. "I hate myself for it. But, I promise to not be so reckless on my cases, Molly. I used to get a thrill from it, but I found a better thrill in loving you." Sherlock took her hands in his and he pressed kisses to each one. "As for the drugs, I'm through with them. I've been in a rehabilitation program for weeks now of my own accord."

Keeping a hold of her hands, Sherlock squeezed them affectionately as he leaned closer, his forehead now resting against hers. "I love you, Molly Hooper. I know your heart is broken, but I will mend it for you." I will love her to ruins. The words echoed in his mind, but he ignored them. His lips caressed hers, his tongue dancing with hers. The soft moans escaping him had Molly nuzzling her nose against his. She could feel her pain lessen as he kissed her tenderly; she felt she would cry tears from the happiness welling up inside her.

His lips traveled all the way down to the crook of her neck, and back up to the sensitive area below her ear. "Let me take care of you," he whispered. After placing a kiss to her temple, Sherlock brought her up onto his lap, and held her close. Molly's arms were around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. They remained like that for a while in comfortable silence until Sherlock realised that Molly had fallen asleep. He carried her to his bed, setting her down carefully as to not wake her. Slipping in the bed himself, Sherlock held onto her from behind, only falling asleep after pressing one last kiss to her shoulder.

When Molly woke early in the morning, she adjusted her eyes to find she wasn't at her flat. She was at Sherlock's, and in his bed, no less. In fact, she had been sleeping with her head on his chest. She lifted her head to find he was awake, his eyes lighting up when she met them with her own. Everything came back to her from the night before—the dinner party, the kiss that nearly ended them, taking a cab in her pyjamas at two in the morning after that horrid nightmare, and the kiss that brought them closer together.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock's voice brought her back to the present. He was brushing his fingers through her hair gently, concern for her written plainly on his face.

Molly thought a moment as she hovered above him. Despite the headache—probably from all the crying last night—she felt fine. Her heart was no longer aching, and she felt as if a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders. Overall, she felt blissful. "So very happy," she answered him. "You make me very happy."

He smiled sweetly at her; his eyes flickered to her lips that were so close he could hardly contain himself. The small gasp of surprise that left her mouth as he kissed her brought him joy. Everything about this woman in his arms did. He slid his hands from her hair, down to her back, pressing their bodies closer together. Their lips met again and again as if their lives depended on it, as if they were breathing life into one another.

Her lips left his, trailing kissed down his neck. Sherlock groaned at the newfound contact. Molly reveled in his reaction. A whimper was elicited from deep within her as Sherlock turned the tables, flipping them over, and began peppering kisses below her ear and down her neck. He brought their mouths together again, taking her bottom lip gently between his teeth, leaving Molly breathless. Their hearts were aching again, but in the best way. It was as if the love they had for each other could barely be contained by the organ beating in their chest.

Molly giggled as she felt Sherlock's fingers trace her side. Amused at finding where she was ticklish, he broke their kiss, purposefully tickling her sides, causing her to scream and giggle until she swatted his hands away. "No fair," she laughed.

"I believe all is fair in love and war, darling," he quipped, lying beside her, their hands just barely touching.

She rolled her eyes playfully, taking his hand in hers. Something that he said to her last night crossed her mind. "I don't want you believing you're not good for me, Sherlock."

The abrupt change in her mood told him to listen to her words closely.

"You said it as if it was an inevitable truth, but it's not," she continued, turning over on her side to face him fully. "The culmination of the guilt you felt is what's telling you that. It isn't true." Molly brushed his curls back with her nimble fingers. "Don't you see? It was never about trusting you with my heart. I already trusted you. The issue was that I was scared of giving up my heart completely for fear of losing you."

Sherlock visibly relaxed, relief crossing his features. He had truly thought his presence in her life was toxic, sucking the life out of her. Now, here in his bed, he could see it was the opposite. She was practically glowing—vivacious, even. In fact, it was clear to him that keeping their distance from one another was the culprit of their pain. "So, I'm…not unworthy of your love?"

"Far from it, darling," she smiled, reassuring him. "You are so deserving of my heart."

"How can you love me if I don't even like myself?" he asked. This haunted him from last night's adventure into his psyche. "How can you forgive me for all that I've done?"

Molly closed her eyes as to keep the tears filling her up at bay. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she struggled to speak. "Sherlock," she spoke his name like a prayer. "You aren't a bad man. You've struggled with bad things, but that doesn't mean you should hate yourself for it. Look how far you've come. I love the man beneath the façade—the one who is kind and loving. The one who shoots at a wall when he's frustrated or hurting." She laughed at that. "I love your flaws and the scars that you bear. You need to forgive yourself, Sherlock. Whether you like it or not, you're only human."

"But—"

"No," Molly spoke firmly. "You don't get to argue this. Do you want to know something? I have flaws too regardless if you see it or not." She carded her fingers through his hair. "There were a few times I hated myself in the past two years. I felt I should have waited for your return instead of going out and getting myself engaged. When you did return, and we had that lovely day together, I knew then how you felt, though I hadn't a clue how deep those feelings ran. But I felt so guilty, I hid my ring from you as best as I could. Tom was the other man in that situation. I felt I had been unfaithful to you, and we hadn't even been together. How silly is that?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "Quite," was his quiet reply.

"I hated myself for not going after you when you left the wedding, which only added to the loneliness you so clearly felt. I eventually hated that I slapped you, and then realised you only allowed me to do so because you felt you deserved it." Molly seemed to have lost against the tears as they slid down her cheeks. "And I hate that I have hurt you so much since the phone call. I hate that I told you I didn't mean it, and that I lied to you at all." She was crying again, and Sherlock somehow felt it was his fault, though he knew it wasn't.

"Molly," Sherlock spoke in a reassuring tone. "Darling, it's okay." He sat up, bringing her small form against him, holding her as she cried for the second time in less than twelve hours. "I didn't realise you felt there was so much you had done wrong, but I forgive it all." And just like that, Sherlock understood how she forgave all he had done. His heart felt even lighter than it had last night.

"We're a couple of right messes aren't we?" Molly suddenly laughed, and Sherlock laughed with her. "God, look at us," she added, wiping her tears with her hands. He was doing the same, their laughter finally dying down.

"We needed this," Sherlock realised.

"We really did," she agreed. "But now we need to put all of our focus on this case." Her voice was serious. "How does the victim of the first murder connect to Blackwood as the intended second victim?"

Sherlock just stared at her, his mouth agape. Just like that, Molly was getting right down to business. Nobody understood him the way she did, and God, did he love her.

"Sherlock." She brought him out of his thoughts. "Are you going to just stare at me all day, or are we going to catch a killer?"

"Right," he replied, getting up out of bed. "We need to figure out what Blackwood has in common with the previous victim."

"Wouldn't Mycroft know?" Molly asked. "I mean, he knew both of them, and worked with them for years."

Sherlock considered this. "I have to see him about last night anyways. It wouldn't hurt to ask."

Both Sherlock's and Molly's mobiles started ringing. They answered their phones, speaking quietly so the other could hear. Turning to each other, they spoke in unison. "Blackwood's been murdered."

Author's Note: Sherlock and Molly had a real conversation about their fears, and those nightmares were not pretty at all. Don't worry, Anderson will be coming into play next chapter, and you'll find out what the victims have in common. We still have a case to solve, after all!