Just my take on the aftermath of The Final Problem. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it! :)

Dedicated to Writingwife83 whose awesome Sherlolly fics inspired me after series 3 and helped motivate me to start writing. You're an inspiration lady! :)

Chapter 1

"When can we see her?"

"There's no point."

"How dare you say that?" Mrs. Holmes was staring at Mycroft in outrage.

"She won't talk. She won't communicate with anyone in any way; she has passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now." Mycroft didn't look happy saying it, but it was clear he believed it.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes appealed to her younger son. "you've always been the grown up. What do we do now?"

Sherlock looked at his mother, his mind still working the prior conversation. His eyes flickered to his father and Mycroft, both of whom were waiting on his reply. Mycroft averted his gaze after a moment and Sherlock could read the quiet surrender in that gesture. Mycroft would take his little brother's advice seriously.

Sherlock drew in a breath. "Let me handle it. Mother, you'll have to trust me." He took a step forward to hold her shoulders, a move meant to break the protest he could already see forming and looked her directly in the eyes. "I will let you know the moment I feel the time is right. But I need you to trust me and let me work this out with Eurus alone. To do that, I need a bit of time. Not even sure how long. Do you trust me?"

Mrs. Holmes swallowed the words she'd been about to say. She looked into her son's face, and whatever she saw there reassured her. He looked younger somehow. He looked more like her little boy than he had in years. His eyes more open, earnest and making direct contact with hers. He was finally her sweet little boy again but with the confidence of a man.

She put her hands on either side of his face, a move he would have objected to even a week ago. He said nothing, simply held her gaze.

"You promise?"

His gaze never wavered. "I do."

She gave him a trembling smile. "All right then." She patted one cheek. He winced but didn't protest. "Just please don't take too long dear, it's been far too many years already." She gave Mycroft a pointed look as she collected her husband and purse. Mr. Holmes gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder on his way out.

When they were gone Sherlock immediately turned to Mycroft. "I'm going to need a helicopter to Sherrinford at least weekly, possibly twice a week. Oh and a pass card to Eurus' cell. I don't feel like dealing with irritating guards every time I visit." He was already shrugging into his Belstaff.

Mycroft nodded, but his brows were drawn together in a pinch of concern. "What is it you plan to do?"

Sherlock almost chuckled. "What's the matter Mycroft, don't you trust me?"

Mycroft smiled drily. "Of course I do." Sherlock looked up, surprised to hear such a bald statement of trust from Mycroft of all people. At that, Mycroft's tone went silky smooth. "Mummy says I must, after all."

It was a classic Mycroft response, and yet there was sincerity to it that Sherlock had rarely heard before, if ever. Both men gazed at each other, each one remembering the last task at Sherrinford.

Sherlock gave him a smile laced with rare familial warmth. "Mummy knows best." He headed for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to see what I can salvage from 221B. Have the helicopter ready for me at five."

"Today?" Mycroft twitched a look at his watch. It wasn't even twelve hours since their harrowing experience had ended. They'd spent much of the time since dealing with the authorities, getting Eurus settled back into Sherrinford and alerting their parents to what had happened. Sherlock hadn't even been home in order to change yet, though John had left much sooner to collect Rosie and go home. "Why the rush?"

Sherlock stopped halfway out the door, caught in his own thoughts. It was a full second before he turned back to face Mycroft's desk. "I don't want to be a liar. And we might as well start rebuilding. It won't happen by itself." He headed out the door to his next challenge.

Mycroft stared after him. "Yes, might as well." He collected his umbrella and coat too.

Molly snapped gloves into place and reached for her sharpest scalpel. She took a moment to breathe deeply in order to focus. It wouldn't do to keep being so distracted. Already she'd had to reweigh several organs and fix three filing errors. It didn't help that she kept getting interrupted. Her mind was back in her flat, on the phone with Sherlock and wishing she'd just hung up.

Bending over her latest postmortem, she made a careful incision and laid back a flap of skin. No. If she was being honest that was only partly true. But she was still angry, still hurting, still exposed and vulnerable.

"Molly?"

She started at hearing that voice and sent her scalpel skittering across the floor. But she didn't move to retrieve it, just stood there gripping the exam table. Her jaw clenched as he moved farther into the lab, footsteps slow and measured. She refused to look up, only looked down at the body she was working on. Mr. Williamson. Lucky bastard, she'd be perfectly fine trading places with him right now.

On the periphery of her vision, she could see him move to pick up her fallen scalpel and bring it back to her. Fine. Let him pick up the pieces. Silence reigned until he stopped on the other side of the examination table and held the instrument out slightly, waiting for her to take it.

"It's soiled now. Put it in the sink." Her voice was low but she was proud that it was above a whisper.

There was a momentary pause. "Right," his voice was also quiet as he moved to do so. He placed the item in the sink tray with perfunctory exactness and when he came back to his same position there was silence once more. Molly managed to stand it for about three seconds.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" her tone was sharp as she lifted her head to give him an angry stare across the late Mr. Williamson, almost daring Sherlock to pretend that nothing had happened.

But it was clear that something had happened. He looked less sure of himself than she was ever used to seeing him. It was like he was in mourning. She could practically see him attempting to pull himself together, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the straps of the black bag he carried. She was certain she saw his Adam's apple bob before he spoke.

"I only came to apologize for—the phone call. I am sorry. I believed I was saving your life."

Her look softened ever so slightly, but not by much. "I know."

His face went blank. "You do?"

"John came by my flat before work."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes skittered away as he processed that information.

"And Mycroft visited me here an hour ago."

"Oh." There was an awkward pause. Of course they would come and try to speak for him, to fix it. The problem was, it didn't look like it was something that could be fixed. Sherlock swallowed again.

"How much…did they tell you?"

"John mentioned a bunch of things that made no sense, a secret prison and a well and a red beard and how you were forced to call me. Mycroft was a bit more understandable. Apparently, you have a deadly and smart secret sister?" Sherlock nodded but didn't offer to elaborate. Molly sighed. "Of course you do."

"I was told the bomb would explode if the release code wasn't spoken from your own lips. It was only afterward that she told me there had never been any explosives."

Molly diverted from that topic immediately. "But there were in your flat. Did it really blow up?" Sherlock nodded. "Can anything be saved?"

"I'm afraid it's nothing but ashes, mostly. Still trying to find what can be…reclaimed." He looked at her the same way he had said goodbye in the hallway after they spent the day solving crimes, but this time with much more desolation. And she knew why. However much he had known about her feelings for him over the years, he had never made her acknowledge them out loud. Forcing her to say it, even under duress, had brought it out into the cold glare of daylight. Nothing could go back to what it was. And part of her hated Sherlock and his sister for it. She couldn't work with him again, couldn't be his friend. She had worried about him and cared for him and worked alongside him, but the phone call had pushed far past the boundaries she needed to be able to do so. Her friendship with Sherlock, however it could be defined, was over.

It was a minor consolation that she had asked him to say it too, and say it like he meant it. It had been the only thing that made it bearable. However under duress it was, she still treasured hearing those words from his lips even just once. Now maybe she could move on.

Sherlock shifted the bag in his hand, uncomfortable in the silence. He tried again. "I would never have asked that of you if it hadn't been for Eurus."

"So you're saying you're sorry it ever happened?" That stung. She'd known from the strangeness of the call that something was off somehow. But she had still had hope that perhaps there was something besides sheer cruelty behind his request. And there was, but in the end it didn't change anything. He didn't love her like that. She had known it couldn't be true, no matter how convincing he had sounded. He should have gone into show business.

"No, not sorry it happened." The answer was immediate and unthinking, as if pulled from the deepest depths of his mind. A crinkle appeared between his brows as he tried to analyze it. Molly waited, confused. Surely the threat of his body parts supply dwindling would make his wish Eurus had never forced him to call?

"What then?" her impatience was showing.

"I'm… just sorry it hurt you." He looked her in the eye.

Molly averted her gaze and looked at a fixed point on the body between them. As apologies went, it was a bit lacking. Also somewhat bewildering. But for Sherlock, it was quite an apology. Molly swallowed. She appreciated his effort, but the truth was all of this had hurt her. This morning she had been prepared to tell him to never contact her again and she would have meant it. Still, he was trying. She could see that. But it didn't fix everything.

The moment was interrupted by a ping on Sherlock's phone. And even though he didn't move to look at it immediately, it was enough to make up her mind.

Molly nodded and met his gaze directly. "Thank you for that, Sherlock, truly. But now I really need to get back to work." She cleared her throat and went to a table for a new scalpel.

It was a clear dismissal and Sherlock understood it as such. He also understood the rift that was now between them, and it appeared to be growing ever wider. His hand clenched into a fist on his bag and he had to resist the urge to break something all over again. He didn't know what else he had expected.

He fished his phone out of his pocket.

HELI WAITING

-MH

His gaze flicked up to Molly, torn. But her back was to him and she was purposely busying herself.

"Of course," his voice was barely a murmur. He pocketed his phone and strode quickly out the door.

Molly forced herself not to look back at him.

I that am lost, oh who will find me…

The helicopter moved steadily across the sky, but Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the churning waves below. Their roiling chaos, whipped by the wind, was attractive and terrifying at the same time. There was something to be said for emotional detachment, however unhealthy or scary it too might be.

So much had changed in such a small space of time Sherlock was having trouble digesting it all. In between looking through his burned out apartment and finding that his violin was beyond repair, thus necessitating his rush to the nearest music store for a suitable replacement, small memories of Victor popping up at odd moments now that his memory of him was restored, and the emotional fallout of Eurus, his parents, and Molly, he had not stopped moving and thinking or feeling since he first woke up on a table in a makeshift room.

Victor had played penny whistle suitably enough for his age and had thought it was fun to play along with Sherlock's violin practice. It ensured Sherlock wouldn't waste time so they could go outside and play. Spotting one in the music shop had brought that little fragment back and he realized anew how far he'd gone to protect himself as a child.

Molly Hooper could barely look at him, and he'd had so much more he wanted to say but couldn't figure out how to say it. Looking back he could see now how he had boxed up his emotions, fought them and tried to pretend he never had them, tried to pretend he was a high functioning sociopath. But he wasn't one. For a huge part of his life those emotions had come out intermittently and usually with aggression or violence of some kind. He didn't know how to deal with them now without screaming and smashing something.

But he was determined to try. It wasn't aggression that had saved John the night before, it was love given freely to Eurus. As a child he couldn't have foreseen the damage his coping method would do to him emotionally as an adult, but now that he had all the pieces he felt he had a stab at fixing it. The tricky part was figuring out how to handle the raw pulsating emotions and channel them into something more constructive. It was frightening to contemplate, but he felt it must be done. For the sake of his family and his friends, maybe even himself a little.

In some ways he would miss being a high functioning sociopath. After all it allowed him to get away with so much more. But that wasn't who he really was, he knew that now. He wanted to find out who he truly was meant to be. No more making choices in his life without really knowing why. He owed that much to the child he had once been. He owed it to Mary, who seemed to think he was valuable enough to risk her life.

The helicopter began its descent, and Sherlock tried to clear his head for this next step.

It took longer than he would have liked to get everything settled, considering Sherrinford had just come back under government control and had all new staff members that could be trusted figuring out their first day. But finally, he was moving deeper into the prison and suffering through layer after layer of security leading to his sister's cell.

The lighting was green as the doors opened, and he wondered if it was at her request. When he carefully stepped in, the lights came on fully and he couldn't help remembering what had transpired here last time. He waited for her to speak, but she didn't. She didn't even turn her head from where she sat with her back to him. She looked so small to him now.

He placed his bag on the floor and removed his new violin, checking it quickly to tune it before he started. He didn't even know if this would work, but Eurus needed someone to help tether her to the ground. John Watson had done that for him, he would do it for his sister.

He played the first line almost as an experiment, hesitating after to look for some effect. But Eurus was still. He wondered if she was back on the plane. He took a breath and began to play in earnest.

It wasn't a composed piece or a memorized tune. It wasn't recorded or written down. It was pure musical improvisation and only his years of playing and sporadically composing made him able to do it without jarring notes or miscalculated intonation. The melody rose and fell, occasionally repeating with variations, drawn by whatever whim Sherlock felt was right at the moment.

He'd long since realized that playing the violin was a helpful vent for his emotions, but it only did so much since he refused to beat it against any available piece of furniture. Playing it was most helpful for purging excessive sad or melancholy emotions. He found it quite helpful for that. But this time he was also trying to make contact in the only way he could think of.

The minutes passed as he played and Eurus never moved. But he'd known it might take some time. He put everything he had into it, allowing the notes to communicate for him, to truly display emotion and even some vulnerability. To tell her about remembering Victor and the crippling grief that came with it, almost as bad as realizing that his sister needed him and he had failed her for years. But he was here for her now. He related the last hours and how much their parents cared about her, how angry they had been at the deception. He even slipped in a thank you for not killing Mycroft, although he assured her he understood the temptation. He told her how the first time little Rosie held his finger in her fist he had realized how very fragile life could be, and how harsh a man he had become. That line of thought led him to Mary and so he talked about her. Brave, wonderful, smart and caring Mary and how her loss still grieved him.

As he felt himself coming to a natural end, he found himself talking about Molly. Molly, who barely looked at him now. Molly, who was done with him. Brave, smart, beautiful, sees through his crap and he knows it Molly.

Molly, who he never thought he'd say three little words to and yet once she had pulled it out of him he'd had to say it again. Because it was true. And he had never acknowledged it before that moment.

The last sustained violin note quivered through the air as he held it, and then faded away. He lowered his bow and looked at his sister even though he had never really taken his eyes off her since entering the room. She still hadn't stirred. His eyes stared at the back of her head, intense and deep. Nothing.

Finally, he packed his violin away and left. The guard outside the cell door peered at him closely. "You must be tired."

"How so?" Sherlock was adjusting his coat.

"You've been in there almost two hours." Sherlock gave the guard a startled glance. He hadn't even realized the time.

Once he was back on the helipad he texted Mycroft a single phrase.

ONCE MORE INTO THE FRAY

-SH

He never could resist a touch of drama.

And we're off! I'm not sure how many chapters there will be but I know where I'm going with it and it should be somewhat obvious lol. Hope you liked it and feel free to hit the comments. :)