She smiles, and it’s a heart broken affair. ”Yes. You failed this time, Sherlock. The most important time. John can’t save you from yourself, from your own mistakes. Mycroft won’t look at you after this. Lestrade won’t trust you. And me?”
"Molly," he chokes out, hand lifted, outstretched for her. For what? He can’t tell.
She goes on like he said nothing. ”I’m just dead.” Her smile is bittersweet and resigned.
Sherlock takes a step. ”Please,” he says, and if it sounds like a sob, he will deny it later, if he can. ”Take me, not her.”