[rp] and was it really how you sing it, dear?

[alwaysmattered]

"I love you."

She whispers it into the phone; one hushed confession, one last secret. Her lips brush against the phone and reality crashes into her so hard her breath locks in her throat. I love you. It sits tight long after the line goes dead and the screen blinks off once more, the overwhelming weight of her words crushing her. She finally lets go of the breath and her face crumples into pain; the phone remains close to her, her fingers trembling.

Something is not right. He said he couldn't explain why but he had asked her anyway. Asked her to admit it, and all the pain of those words swallowed her whole. Yes, she cared for him. Yes, she loved him. Yes, she learned to move on.  Sherlock is her friend and she loves him but that was never to be something she'd admit. There would always be that small part of her that would still love him that way. That was her secret to carry and hers alone. She was fine with that too.

Something is not right and it hasn't been for a long time. Mary died, she looked after Rosie while watching John push everyone away, and Sherlock, of course, Sherlock. Pushing himself towards death with all those drugs, playing his stupid games for his cases.

And yet he'd said it. And he meant it.

What would that mean?

Maybe that was why it hurt so much. Why had he asked her to say such a thing? It was cruel, too cruel. He always used to be cruel to her, but not since Moriarty. Jim. There was so much that didn't make sense. Why now? Why does it hurt? Why... does it seem wrong?

Finally, she puts the phone down, wipes at her eyes and turns her gaze back to her tea. She feels like she's lost something. Something she can't get back. It's gone. Her words sit heavy on her tongue and she swallows thickly, straightening her shoulders. The crushing feeling still remains though. A slow burning humiliation, a hollow feeling in her chest.

Toby clambers up onto the kitchen bench and she reaches for him, burying her fingers in his fur. She's still for a few moments, absently petting him until she finally moves from her spot, returning to her tea.

What would it mean?

Comments

[preferstotext]

It's a while later, when her bell rings. Not a whole day, it was late afternoon when he'd called and it's just before lunch now. He realizes he never really told her that he knew her address. People tend to ask before just dropping in. But he wasn't calling her again. Not this time.

The police had left, John was with Mrs. Hudson and Rosie, Greg had waved Sherlock off without even asking for a statement - Mycroft's doing no doubt, springing back to action upon being freed without so much as a pause, diving into the familiar meddling. John's therapist - the real one, not... well, the real one - she'd say something about finding comfort in routine. He'd deny it, even after today.

He stands before her door, steadfastly studying the cats printed on her door mat as though they hold the secrets to the universe, hands clasped loosely behind his back. She can see through the peephole plainly enough that wherever he's been, he came right from there - two days of stubble, hair a wreck, face pale and gaunt with dark circles standing out against his skin.

His head snaps up when the door opens - too fast, really, like he's surprised she answered at all.

"I've treated you abominably," he blurts out, before she can say anything else.

[alwaysmattered]

Molly wasn't sure what to make of the silence that followed the phone call. She'd thought about calling him but decided promptly against it. No, she wasn't going to phone him. She wasn't going to chase. Her day had continued to be as awful as it had been before he'd even rang her and when she woke up the next morning, the feelings still remained.

And yet she had simply gotten on with it. She had things to do.

She's considering lunch, staring silently at the contents of her fridge when there's the knock at her door. She steels herself before she looks through the peephole and she knows, she knows something is not right. Something still isn't right. And she can't not answer, simply. Any attempt to control herself falters when she opens the door. Her mouth opens slightly and then promptly shuts as soon as he speaks. Her expression crosses from stony to worry to uncertainty. And there's that crushing feeling again, a fleeting pang of love and sadness all at once.

She's at a loss for a few moments, her mind panicking then trying to calm again. She takes a small breath, keeping his gaze, her expression finally settling to quiet concern.

"Are you okay?"

[preferstotext]

Molly. Sweet, kind, caring Molly, the absolute opposite of everything he is, pushing her own feelings aside to ask if he is okay. It's not fair, not right, he can't be the recipient of such things. He shouldn't be, he doesn't deserve it. Sherlock can't help but shake his head at the thought, before realizing what it looks like and bringing his body back under control.

He could tell her he's fine. But that feels too close to lie, another lie on top of dozens he's told her lately, as though lying was any better than being cruel. Lately all he's done is both in equal measure.

"I will be okay," he finally says. "I wasn't... earlier. But it will be fine."

He's not sure what he's here to say. The plan had been to explain himself, to apologize, but now that he's here the words all catch in his throat. Sherlock Holmes has nothing to say.

[alwaysmattered]

She watches him carefully. Her lips purse, becoming a small thin line. Her fingers hold the door a little too tightly, the knuckles turning white. It's worry, she's worried and she only softens her grip when he actually admits to not being fine. The truth. A small, simple fact. And yet it means so much to her.

She doesn't move for a few moments, she doesn't know what to say either. She doesn't know what to do. Why is he here?

Finally, she ends the silence that had fallen between them. She nods, briefly. "Right." her voice is strained, her eyes blinking, almost as if fighting back their bleariness. She wants to know more, what's happened. But as with anything with Sherlock, it is never that easy. "Um."

She steps back a little. "You can come in, if you like."

[preferstotext]

Come inside. That is probably good. It wouldn't be right to explain anything whilst standing outside her front door.

He nods and crosses the threshold, only to come to an almost immediate stop once he's properly inside. This is the proper angle, the way he was meant to see her flat for the first time. Not like...

Toby glares at him from his perch on the back of the sofa. Sherlock's eye moves from the cat, up to a shelf with some small sentimental objects and Molly's diplomas on it. He takes a few steps towards it, pivots on his heel, stares at the kitchen. Not like this.

Before Molly has a chance to ask him what he's staring at the detective is climbing up on top of her couch, driving off Toby in a flurry of hisses and orange fur, and rummaging around behind the items on her shelf. It's the work of a moment before he yanks out a small item and throws it to the ground with such force that it cracks in two before stalking off to another room.

That is definitely her bedroom and she definitely did not invite him in there.

Toby stalks back out and bats experimentally at the object.

It's a surveillance camera.

[alwaysmattered]

Her eyes lower to the floor as he nods and steps into her flat. She's stood there for a few moments long after he's come in, staring into nothing and trying to recollect herself. Breathe, Molly. Just breathe. But it's only when she hears an undignified, soft clattering followed by Toby's angry hiss does she finally move again, turning to find Sherlock balanced precariously on her sofa, raking through her shelves.

"What are you--" There's something in his hand before he unceremoniously smashes it onto the floor, leaving Molly frozen to the spot.

And then he's off again, heading down the short corridor that leads to her bedroom. Oh, god. Startling back into life, Molly moves towards the broken object on the floor and crouches to pick it up out of Toby's grasp. It's small and unassuming. She's never seen it before, nor did she know of it being there until now.

A camera.

Turning the item over in her hands, she frowns at it until slowly, the realisation dawns on her. They've been here a while, they've been here since before yesterday. Yesterday. She's mortified.

Quickly now, she follows the sound of him clattering around in her bedroom and stands in the doorway as he looks for something else on the top of her wardrobe.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock." she half-shouts, her face white and an indignant expression clear as day, her eyes watery. She clenches the broken camera in her hands. He's rifling through her room, looking for bloody cameras and she feels sick to her stomach. "Stop it. Just... stop it!"

She falters for a moment, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she finds her voice again. "What the hell is going on?"

[preferstotext]

Sherlock protests at first. "There's at least four in here, I don't know how long they've-"

No. That's not what she's asking.

He's not going to be able to just get rid of the cameras and apologize for the intrusion and call it a day. If he were honest with himself he's not entirely sure why that had suddenly became the plan. Force of habit, perhaps. Keep Molly Hooper safe while ignoring the fact that he's the biggest threat there ever has been.

"Yesterday afternoon I was trapped in a room with a live video feed of your flat, and given the assurances that if I did not succeed in getting you to say you loved me within three minutes, that a bomb planted somewhere in here would go off." he blurted out.

He drops off the chair and presses another camera into Molly's hand, unable to meet her eyes.

It's shameful, really, that he didn't see through it. That he was too blinded by how despicable the entire situation was that he didn't think of logic.

"I should have called her bluff but in the moment..." he shrugged, suddenly looking lost.

"I didn't want to ask that of you. But I also didn't want you to be killed."

[alwaysmattered]

Her expression changes when he begins his ramble and she barely manages to keep up with him. Three minutes. A bomb. I love you.

Her mouth opens to speak but no words come out. Not even a breath. Her lungs are filled with air but she can't bring herself to breathe. She just stands there, gaping at him. It's not long before she has to look away. She's still mortified and it shows on her face, along with the pain. A trick. A trick to reveal such a painful secret.

"Your case." she utters finally, her voice small in her throat. "That was your case you mentioned." she grimaces, "Who-- who else heard?"

She stares down at the second camera in her hands. Whatever bomb in her flat hadn't gone off but something else had exploded in its place. In one moment, she'd had power over him; she'd asked him to say he loved her and she'd been right to in exchange for her own secret. But at what cost? And for a game, for a stupid game. Stupid Sherlock and his stupid games. She had already told him once, still so very recently, that it wasn't a game; she was not a game.

But the game was over.

"I told you." she says finally, utterly devastated. "It's not a game, Sherlock. It's not--"

Three words that had meant her life and yet three words that had destroyed her anyway.

She still can't quite look at him. "Have you any idea what you've done?"

[preferstotext]

That hurt. The dismissal, the absolute conviction that whatever had happened was clearly his fault, that he'd set her up as some part of a case for his own amusement, used her as a plaything. It hurt that she believed it, it hurt that when it first met that would have been the truth, that probably up until about a year and a half ago it might have been the truth.

He'd been trying to do better, he really had, and even as he heard himself react with a raised voice and sarcasm he knew it was wrong.

"Oh yes, it was clearly a game. When my sister locked me up in her cell and started making me dance to her tune it was all a game, we had such lovely fun while she killed five people in front of me then started on you!"

Sherlock realized he'd started pacing up and down her bedroom and forced his body to stop, dropping into the nearest chair and pressing his fingers over his eyes while he took deep breaths to bring himself back under control. Don't take this out on Molly. Never take this out on Molly.

"She knew already, that's why she did it. Mycroft and John were in with me."

[alwaysmattered]

What else could she believe? How he'd been acting lately, nearly killing himself for the sake of cases, his games. Everything seemed to be going wrong ever since Mary died; ever since she stood on that doorstep, Rosie in her arms and told him that John didn't want Sherlock anywhere near him.

Every-- she pulls in a breath as he starts his rant, her mouth screwing up and eyes still watery. Her jaw sets for a moment until one word surprises her more than anything: Sister.

Molly looks dumbfounded for a moment. "You have a sister?" She knew plenty enough about Sherlock. And yet... not that much, it seemed, after all.

She cringes when she hears John and Mycroft were there too. Not only was their conversation not private and as painful as it was - it was public to John, Mycroft and... this sister. That hurts. More than she can put her finger on.

She pulls in a breath, straightening up a little and pushing her own feelings to the side for the time being despite them running too high. She sits down on the corner of her bed, watching him carefully. Sherlock's emotions are high, she can see that as plain as day. Throwing insults won't work here, it's not practical.

When she finally speaks, there's a calm steadiness to it. "Tell me what happened." she says, "From the beginning."

[preferstotext]

Sherlock nods, not taking his hands away from his face. He doesn't want to look at her. Not yet.

"I blocked her out. What she did to me, I don't remember it. Well, hardly any of it, besides what she wanted me to figure out as part of her little experiment. Mycroft kept it from me until now, testing my memory, watching me - I don't know for what."

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"I wanted to see her and see if I could make sense of any of it. She'd broken out of the prison Mycroft kept her in, visited me under the guise of a client, revealed herself to John but chose not to kill him - why? I wanted to know what she was after."

It was a strange tale then, of a false prison, Euros' "games." It sounded absurd, unbelievable, if not for the fact that he was so clearly in front of her, free of drugs and obviously having been through the wringer.

[alwaysmattered]

Molly, for the best part, remains perfectly still. Her hands in her lap, curled into small fists, as she listens to the story. There's much to take in, too much, but she's patient enough and she makes sure to take in each word, measuring up everything in her mind.

The colour slowly drains out her face the more he speaks but her expression doesn't change from the silent intent, not interrupting him until he's finished. Her lips purse for a moment and she looks down at her hands.

It made sense. It didn't make it hurt less, but knowing it wasn't really his fault eased it a little. She felt angry to have used by his sister, humiliated a little - to have her love broadcast to publically, that crushing weight still pushing down on her. But it wasn't Sherlock's fault.

"That's just you though, isn't it?" she says quietly. She smiles as she speaks but there's something pained in it. "You always have to know, you always--"

She stops, shaking her head. Something has still been broken, something precious and secret and safe. Neither of them can undo what was said - and the aftermath before them... Molly didn't know what to think.

She takes a breath closing her eyes. "It's-- it's not your fault." she says finally. "I'm not saying that means it's your fault."