"I- I love you."

Just three little words. Eight stupid letters strung together. The product of vibrating vocal cords and millennia of evolution. Order out of chaos. They meant something, simultaneously- nothing at all. It was relative.

They held no real power- not really- not until they did.

"I love you."

Deafening silence- heart pounding in his ears- palm sweating- chest constricting. Panic. Pain. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Hopelessness.

"Molly?"

Silence.

"Molly, please!"

He held his breath.

"I love you," barely audible, but enough.

He could breathe again. Just only, but Molly was safe. He won. Then he didn't: something inside of him broke.

It was more than he could handle- yet, focus- the task at hand. Once it was all over, then he could- if they survived. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to, yet he would- he had to- long enough to see it through. John and Mycroft, for them: for the little girl.

Emotional Context: a weakness, indeed. Yet, a strength. It could be. He knew. He learned. John was his strength and Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft- Molly.

The next task- harder? No, not really. Sherlock observed and he learned. He wouldn't. She caved.

The pieces, all of them, fell into place. Memories no longer repressed, though never truly forgotten- represented so clearly in the man he'd become. The weight of it- his entire world- his reality- shattered: again.

He would never be the same- nothing would- and it wasn't.

The game wasn't as alluring. Victory, not so sweet. Bitter even. He could taste it on his tongue, until there was nothing else- he burned.

There were some things you didn't- couldn't- come back from. Everything you thought you knew- everything you thought you wanted- wrong, in the most devastating way imaginable.

"Say it like you mean it."

And he had, because it was true.

Of all the truths, in all the world- that was the most terrifying. The one he could never have deduced- because he couldn't allow it. The one he could never have fathomed- because it was too dangerous. The one he never saw coming- because he was what he was. The one he felt and knew with every fiber of his being- because now he wasn't.

Molly- what he wanted: what he could never have.

Sherlock wasn't what one would consider a good man, he knew, and he agreed. He didn't deserve her love. He didn't deserve her. She deserved better. She deserved everything. He was nothing- broken- burning all the while.

He couldn't- he wouldn't- it hurt more than he ever could have imagined.

It was nothing less than he deserved.

Eurus. Victor. How could he forget? Knowing the science behind it wasn't the same as knowing. His sister. His best friend. He should have felt it- he hadn't. Now, it was all he could do.

It was too much and not enough. It was suffocating and liberating. It was awful and beautiful. It was a nightmare and a day dream. His worst fear and his greatest desire. A contradiction in every sense.

It was the end of Sherlock Holmes.

A game. A battle. A war. No hope of winning. Winning was losing- something: everything. At least for him. Yet, he didn't matter- not anymore: never again. He was a fraud. A fake. A liar- just in a sense no one ever could have imagined. In a sense, he could never have imagined.

Sherlock Holmes was the lie- one he believed- but a lie non-the-less.

"What in the world…?" it was John, he knew.

He felt it before he heard him. He didn't react. Out of character, he thought. He didn't quite recall. Unsure, he stayed at the window.

"You should see the kitchen," Mrs. Hudson worried. "I don't know what to do, John."

He couldn't recall the state of the kitchen. He would fix it when they left- whatever it was.

"He did that?"

"Well, I certainly didn't."

"This is getting out of hand," John decided, angry- worried? "It's not- healthy. Something needs doing. Anything."

"You mean like an intervention?" Mrs. Hudson sounded skeptical, but not unwilling- was it desperate?

He should know, but he didn't. He resisted the urge to turn around.

"I'm not using," he hadn't really meant to speak, but it was out before he could stop it. "So, there's no need."

"No need?" John questioned exasperated- irritated? "Do you see this place? Have you seen yourself?"

He hadn't, but admittance would probably only make things worse.

"I'll clean it later," he said instead.

"Clean it?" John was getting angry- yes, angry. "It's already clean, Sherlock! Spotless!"

"Then I'll mess it up," his counter offer.

"Y- you'll mess it up?"

"If it makes you feel better, then, yes," Sherlock decided. "I'll mess it up. Later."

"Oh, do you hear yourself, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson seemed unable to help herself. "It's ridiculous! I think I quite preferred the drugs. At least it was- something."

"I can't believe it, but I'm almost inclined to agree," John's frustration was mounting- helpless.

They wanted to feel useful: helpless Sherlock understood.

"You want me to use?" he was not inclined to begin using again after his last: after seeing the anger and hurt in Molly's eyes.

He recalled that frequently as of late.

"No! I don't…" John struggled to reel himself in, a deep breath. "No, I don't want you to use, Sherlock. I do not want you to do anything…"

"Does that include messing up the kitchen?" Sherlock tried to clarify.

"I rather wish you wouldn't," Mrs. Hudson interjected.

"Then I won't," problem solved.

"Sherlock," John seemed to be struggling, and normally he would have thought it was him, but he was doing his best to be cooperative. "Sherlock, this isn't about the kitchen."

"Please, don't dirty it, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson.

"I said I wouldn't," had he not spoken aloud?

"Oh, good," Mrs. Hudson... relieved, yes.

"Not good!" John nearly shouted. "Not good, Sherlock!"

"Why not good?" Being amiable was exhausting.

"Why not? Why not?!"

Sherlock waited. John paced. Then stopped.

"Sherlock," John's tone was final. An answer. Good. "You leave me no choice."

"What?" that wasn't an answer.

That tone- but Mary was gone. He missed Mary. He missed John too, in truth, and Rosie. Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. He missed…

"Molly," John continued. "I'm phoning Molly."

"Molly?" panic swelled in his chest, and he turned unable to stop himself. "No. Absolutely not, no."

"You've left me no choice, Sherlock," John was calm- calculating.

Sherlock knew calculating. His panic mounted. His anger flared.

"No, John, no."

"Too late," John held out his phone triumphantly.

Yet, it wasn't- still ringing: Sherlock didn't think, he lunged.

A/N: So this is my first fic for this fandom, so sorry, probably- but, I couldn't stop thinking about it. The Final Problem wrecked me, and I sort of had to get it out.

Anywho, this bit takes place a bit after the whole ordeal with Eurus, but before the montage. I love Mary and the montage, and Sherlock doing well, but I dunno, I just feel like so much had to happen to get him there. His whole life was shattered- everything that happened. That he forgot. Becoming human again, and I know he's been working on that for years- I am tracking that - but in my experience getting to the root of it- breaking it all down- finally discovering the why, is so freaking disoriented.

Also I Considered Eurus' 'which one is pain' as something that would have stuck with him, and it's why Sherlock questions if his, though admittedly limited, understanding of emotions aren't what he thought they were. Sherlock was cocky and for a reason, but now, he's found out he was wrong about so many vital things in his life- people in his life- he has a damn sister- had a best friend, before John. There's a lot to sort out.

It's a pretty long road. We've seen Sherlock observe and deduce so much about just about everything- everything but himself, really? So that's sort of where we're going- we are also wearing shipper goggles on this ride of yet undetermined length- l Hope you enjoy. Also I apologize for the tittle- I got nothing else