What Does She Need?

Explain

Molly froze.
She could feel his chest rising and falling hysterically and with no rhythm and her cheek was still pressed against his shirt, the apple of her cheek meeting the cool of his upper chest that was exposed from his sole open button.
She supposed that was almost a metaphor for him; he was all done up as a person, completely guarded and unexposed, but there was always the undone top button. Always the little crack from which his genuine emotions would thaw their escape.
It was when he shuddered once more and she felt another wet droplet fall upon her scalp that she squirmed free of his warm - and admittedly, although slightly awkwardly, comfortable - embrace.
"Of course I'm alive, those people outside the car earlier didn't stand a chance against you really, did they?" she little more than whispered. Not because she didn't want to be heard, but she was so afraid to break such a fragile moment before understanding what he was trying to tell her.
"It was not those people whom I had been referring to," he muttered, also in a hushed tone. They understood each other perfectly in that of their mannerisms.
     He turned around and sat on the edge of the bed, his face appeared strained and fatigued.
     Molly took the chair by the desk, positioning herself sideways upon the seat so as to face him.
     She still felt the anger and hurt bubbling up inside from the pit of her stomach, yet it only took one hasty glance to see that Sherlock was also experiencing a great deal of inner conflict. She'd always loathed his being too hard on himself. He was a man. He should allow himself to make mistakes and not dwell upon such mistakes when they had been made.
     "There's stuff you haven't told me, then," she stated, still unsure as to his seemingly relieved attitude to her being alive. She couldn't comprehend it.
     Then again, she rarely comprehended a lot of what he had to say.
     "I ... yes. Yes, there is," he gulped, elevating his gaze to hers.
     His eyes wore cloaks of sadness, as though his earlier tears had drawn a veil of melancholy across the flecks of turquoise.
     "Molly," he started. "I-"
     There was an abrupt tapping upon the door and the shared gaze broke off immediately, both of their heads whipping towards the tall oak frame.
     Sherlock gave a slight groan and heaved his figure upwards, pacing to unlock the latch and swing the door open.
     Susan greeted him with an overly enthusiastic grin and presented him with a tray of food.
     "Ah, thank you," he responded, his voice resigned and without much intonation.
     "No problem! Sleep well!" Susan chirped, still looking far too happy. Sherlock gave a brief nod and went to shut the door.
     "Scone?" He placed the tray on the bed and this time sat with his back straight against the headboard.
     "Um, sure," she nodded. She wasn't in any state to deny food, she could feel hunger thrashing against her stomach.
     "You'll have to come over here for it. I'm not one for passing the jam back and forth," he instructed, picking up a hearty looking scone from the pile and slicing it in half with one of the flimsy looking butterknives they had been given.
     Molly gave a small nod and, somewhat unwillingly, moved her way over to perch on the end of the bed, tucking her legs underneath her, facing both Sherlock and the mountain of scones between them.
They both helped themselves to the food in front of them without saying too much. Sherlock shot Molly a perplexed expression as his teeth sunk into his scone.
"You put your cream on before your jam? Were you raised by wolves?" His face was one of absolute disgust, the corners of his mouth curving downwards in horror.
"You don't put your cream on first?" she questioned him, her eyebrows raised judgementally. "Shame on you, Holmes."
"You're wrong, Hooper. There's no alternative. The jam comes first," he chuckled, his head throwing back a little bit. She thought he looked a bit more at ease now.
     Typical man, she thought. All he needed was a bit of food.
"So," she started, not looking directly at his relaxed frame. "You were going to tell me."
"Yes, I owe you an explanation."
"Explain away."
     Where to start? He asked himself, raking through the depths of his mind.
He usually found conversing with Molly to be as easy as respiring, she was second nature to him now, yet no longer could he find the right words to say.
"I have a sister," he blurted. His face an expressionless visage.
"You do?"
"I do. Her name is Euros, she is younger than myself and I only found out about her a few days ago," Sherlock began. He continued for the next twenty or so minutes regaling to Molly the story of their childhood; how he had completely written her out of his memories, how he had not had a dog but a best friend, how Euros had found a way to end that friendship forever, how Euros had to be taken away, how her life panned out after her isolation from society.
All the while, he watched as Molly's face twisted into uncomfortably pitying shapes. He thought she looked beautiful even as she wept at the truth of Redbeard, as her hand rose to cover her mouth in shock at the news of Euros' imprisonment.
"Sherlock," she whispered once he had finished speaking. She scanned his face, trying to scrutinise it for any speck of hurt or upset. His face was straight and unfeeling. Although, she knew better than to trust the façade which he could so easily decide to present. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."
His face finally changed to some form of expression. Confusion. "Why are you sorry? You've got nothing to be sorry for."
"No, I'm sorry that you've had to experience all of this. I'm sorry that you never knew," she soothed, her eyes wide and with the appearance that forgiveness was maybe not too far away.
"I don't deserve you," he said before he could really think about what he should have instead said. Molly's cheeks turned a blazing shade of pink. "What I mean is that you concern yourself with my wellbeing, far above your own involvement or the truth or reasoning of the situation or any curiosity-"
"I have an involvement?" she almost squeaked.
"Oh ... yes, normal person ... slower deduction rate ... obviously," he said as he batted his hand in the air and then paused a moment to reconsider. "Actually no, not normal at all. Yes, you do have an involvement."
"Do I get to know this involvement?"
"You said you wanted answers," he quipped, analysing her face, despite the fact she had turned it away from him slightly.
"I do," she responded, closing her eyes for a moment. She knew how the answers could hurt her again. Perhaps even worse than every other time before.
     Yet she still needed the answers, as though they would put her struggling thoughts to rest -despite the fact that those thoughts could be unsettled by the raw and merciless truth.
     "Her mind, as I'm sure you've realised, it's intricate and complex ... but extremely conflicted. I suppose it's a family trait," he smirked, although Molly lacked amusement and instead gawped at him, fervid to know more. "So in return for her correspondence in order to help the government, she demanded five minutes of unsupervised visit ... with Jim Moriarty."
"Really? Oh my gosh," she exclaimed in horror and a small shriek of disbelief.
"Together, in such a short space of time, they determined a way - many ways, actually - to tear me apart."
     "So what happened?"
     "Well, it's quite simple ... I tore," he said in disgust and self loathing, yet his eyes found their way back to hers and he composed himself. "But only after your involvement. That was the thing that pushed me over the edge."
     "The phone call ..." she whispered, somehow knowing that it must have had something to do with it.
     "Yes. There was a room, empty bar a coffin. Your coffin, only it had no name on it and I had to deduce that it would be for you," he murmured, his voice timid and raw.
     "How did you deduce it?"
     "I knew straight away, but never before had I wished so much to be wrong. The words on the coffin read 'I love you' and I just knew."
     "Oh," she whispered quietly, rapidly averting her gaze from his and feeling a new level of embarrassment and, if not for her pity, anger. "So you didn't even need me to tell you."
     "Actually, I thought Euros had chosen those words in accordance to my own feelings ... not to yours."
     She froze. Her brain yearning to speed up but finding that it was merely trudging towards his words' intent.
     "That's how you knew it was for me?" she finally stuttered, feeling her cheeks burn and her head spin relentlessly.
     "Well John and Mycroft were with me, it was obviously not Mary, doubtful to be my parents, could have been Mrs Hudson but we had seen her to safety before we left, the coffin clearly wasn't for Rosie and Lestrade would be too hard a target," he rattled on, still with a pained face.
     She'd misinterpreted what he'd meant. Of course he loved her like he loved John or Mrs Hudson - how foolish to think anything more.
     "But," he said, now catching her eye and his tone growing in strength. "I also took account of the fact that the way I feel about you is different to how I feel about everyone else. Euros would have known, hence why she exploited it. I can't tell you what that feeling is, for I do not understand it myself. However, I would not have been able to say what I said to you if not for the existence of such a feeling."
     "Right," she nodded, trying to rationalise it but not being able to tell one whizzing thought from another. "So why did you say it? What did she do to make you say that to me?"
     "She told me that your flat was rigged to explode. She gave me minutes to save your life by saying those words when it had taken me years to understand how I might relate them to you in the first place."
     "I'm still alive," she gasped, feeling so violated and frightened. Her shoulders had tensed up and she felt her back become rigid.
     "Yes and I have never been so thankful in my life. Two seconds you had left, when you said it. I ... I don't know what I'd have done if I lost you ... if I knew that it had been my fault," he choked and his eyes were bulging, threatening to spill their sadness and dwelling.
     "I can't believe she did that to you."
     "It undid me, in so many ways. I smashed the coffin, Molly. To pieces. I knew I'd saved you but she'd tricked me; there were no explosives in your flat. She'd just wanted me to hurt you and to hurt myself ... and she got what she wanted."
     He wept.
     His face was scrunched in horror and remembrance as little streams trickled down his smooth skin.
     Molly gawped at him. Never before had she seen him show such emotion. He looked frightened, as though the ordeal was still ongoing in his mind.
     She gently scooted herself forward and picked up his hand with her own, giving it a comforting squeeze.
     His vision finally engulfed her: she wore a brave expression but underneath she looked emotionally drained. And pitiful.
     He allowed his thumb to rub the side of her hand before sitting up and wiping his face with his free hand.
     "I'm sorry," he soothed, his voice woven with sincerity.
     "You had no other choice. I understand now," she nodded, taking note of the faint press of his thumb against her hand.
     "I have a problem now - one which I did not have before."
     "What is it?"
     "She knew how deeply I cared for you before I even realised that I did feel this way. So my problem is whether or not I kill this feeling to spare us both, or I find out just what it is," he sighed and removed his hand from hers, instead bringing it to sit upon the side of her tear stained face. "What do you think I should do?"