Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or anything you may recognise from the BBC series or the works of Sir A.C.D.

Rating: M. It contains feelings that might be triggering for some readers and suicide is slightly hinted at.

A/N: First Sherlolly fic published on this site, also not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

Wandering a lonely road, that had become of his life. Pulling through life as if nothing was wrong when every single breath ripped through his chest like a knife. Life no longer had meaning. He could try and get high, but the sole thought of her disappointed eyes held him back. He was a failure of human being, a shell after all, that to the outside world, was incapable of loving. How wrong they were, and yet, how he wished they were right. Going back to being a sociopath sounds so alluring. His feet refused to move any more, having taken him to the place he hated most on this earth.

A place I know all too well.

John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, even his parents had encouraged him to accept the pain in the hopes that it would subdue eventually, that someday it wouldn't hurt too much.

Futile hopes of people that had a reason to keep breathing. He didn't have one. Not anymore.

John had lost Mary, but he still had Rosie, little, beautiful Rosie. His goddaughter, his… and Molly's.

Moving forward, he kneeled near the tombstone, not paying attention to the tears that rolled down his face. He touched his fingers to the letters engraved in marble, following the soft curves and sharp corners.

Fancy how life throws your words at you, when the poetic truth no longer makes sense. Sentiment. Running away from it, afraid of the lose it would mean in the end, because there always was an end. It was the only irrefutable law of life: every life comes to an end.

Although the socially accepted truth is that only the elderly see death as the next and unavoidable step of their existence, it can affect every living and breathing person. No matter age, gender… nor romantic attachment.

The marble was cold to the touch, as clean as the day it was placed in the soft hill under the willow. White stone, engraved in gold, and covered in flowers. Sherlock hadn't bring any flowers. But his Molly wouldn't mind. He could already picture her in his mind palace, looking at him with an arched eyebrow, and that beautiful, amused smile that spelled "My forgetful wonderful man".

Her gorgeous features fixed in a smile, as the last time he had seen her, open, welcoming and the most special human being he'd had the joy of sharing his life with.

Life is really unfair. It gives you a taste of what real, genuine happiness looks like, allows your heart to swell with every 'good morning', every glance and parting kiss. The thrill of life when every moment is unpredictable, and yet the most amazing surprise.

And then it rips you apart. It takes the one thing that matters to you the most, the reason you wake up in the morning, the person you love with all your heart, away from you. The moment his sister's words made sense to him, was the moment his world turned on its axis. So many days not lived, so many words unsaid. I love you, three little words, so underrated, so meaningful. What he wouldn't give to be able to whisper those words to her, prove to her that there was nothing on Earth capable of diluting the depth of his feelings for her.

Molly Holmes

17 August 2017

You can see me, I love you.

The irony of the epitaph didn't escape from Sherlock's slow mind. And the cruelty of Eurus' little game multiplied tenfold. The words in the coffin. Those messages were not from the deceased, but from those they left behind. Those who loved them with all their hearts and were left with a void impossible to fill.

Sherlock had made sure, in the moments that followed the worst day of his life, that the coffin that would hold his Molly was nothing like the one in Sherrinford. John had said it was beautiful, but Sherlock, oh, Sherlock had despised it.

And why wouldn't he? He could not destroy this one, for it was for real this time. The reality of loss was real. And the casket wasn't empty. As it descended into the tomb, the coffin took the woman he loved away from him.

Sherlock had been trembling as a leaf, crying his eyes out and not caring at all that all their friends and family had seen him fall apart. John had wanted to touch him, to give some comfort but Sherlock wouldn't have any of it. No words could reach him now. When everything was said and done, he raised a bloodied hand, squeezed his eyes shut and said his goodbyes.

He would be there not two hours later, sitting next to the stone, telling his Molly how, in blind rage, he had beaten the man who caused her death into a pulp. Lestrade had arranged for a meeting, behind closed doors, between Sherlock and the runaway thief that had crushed into Molly's new car as she left Bart's. When Lestrade had returned to the cell, the thief was as good as dead.

It became a routine, Sherlock woke up, or stopped lying down, drank Mrs Hudson's cup of tea, left Baker St, and would wander around until he ended up with her. Every single day.

But that day, there was something different.

After a couple of weeks isolated in his flat, not wanting to face anybody, a letter, addressed to his Molly had arrived.

The pain he thought he had felt up until that day was nothing compared to the pang of disbelief that ran through him when he opened the envelope. A DVD and a letter. In Molly's handwriting.

My dear Sherlock:

I love you, have I told you already today? Being your wife is the most challenging and wonderful job I could have signed up for. But I think that our roles in this marriage are about to change.

What do you say Daddy, a boy or a girl?

I always loved the names William and Elisabeth, in case you have a hunch.

My dear consulting detective, let's see if you can deduce this one.

Love, Molly Holmes.

PS: I'm pregnant! In case you hadn't realise it yet;)

With a lump in his throat, sherlock took the DVD to his desk and once it was all set, he pushed play. The first thing he heard was a strong heartbeat, along with a rushing sound. His child. His William.

Mrs Hudson had called John when he was about to enter the local surgery. The urgency I'm her voice told him that something was wrong, and John didn't waste a second, flagged a cab and was in Baker St in a matter of fifteen minutes.

The door to 221B was open and a very disheveled Marta Hudson was fidgeting in the entrance. She had been crying.

"He left, John. He didn't sound human! He is suffering so much!" She said, tears filling her eyes again, and pointing to the upstairs flat.

What he found broke his heart. The only thing standing, untouched, that hadn't been broken in the room was the yellow small armchair next to the fireplace. Resting on it were Sherlock's laptop and a letter. The rest of the room was unrecognizable. The wallpaper was ripped to pieces, the mirror on top of the mantle broken and bathed in blood, Sherlock's Stradivarius laid open in half next to the window, and the lab in the kitchen had been swept from the table.

As soon as John saw what the computer was displaying, his heart broke again for his friend. Sherlock and Molly Holmes were a match made in heaven. It takes someone rare to understand the eccentricities of the world's only consulting detective, and Molly not only understood him, but loved him for who he was.

When she was killed, John though that it was it for Sherlock. If he had lived this long, through loss, pain, and Eurus, it had been thanks to the support of his brother and John himself. But John was truly afraid that losing Molly would be to much for his brilliant mind, it would be the proverbial last drop in a glass full of water.

He finally found Sherlock, curled up next to his wife's tombstone, a trembling mess. Not wanting to approach him, John waited patiently until he heard a second set of footsteps. Mycroft stood silently next to him, watching his brother shout hoarsely at the top of his lungs two names.

"What set him off?" Asked Mycroft, sadly. It was a matter of time before Sherlock truly lost his mind to sorrow.

"Molly was pregnant. I saw the ultrasound when I arrived at Baker St." answered John, in a soft, barely audible whisper.

Mycroft's face contorted in shock before he schooled his features back to his now usual frown.

"She was everything to him. Her loss killed him, and now this. I'm afraid, Doctor Watson, that my brother is far gone down a no return path."

None of them said anything. They stood twenty feet away from Sherlock, allowing him the freedom of grieving for what could have been.

Later on they would take him back to 221B Baker Street, but both of them knew deep down, that it wouldn't be long before they returned to the hill under the willow with him.