[It's longer than he wants to cry himself out, a good few minutes of just clinging to Molly and wishing he weren't doing this. His chest unclenches by degrees, metaphorically, and once the worst of the storm has passed, John lets himself rest against her for a little longer, just breathing, pulling himself back together in a way that doesn't feel nearly as fragile as before. Every piece of him just waiting to break and the dam to burst.]

My big sister's dead. [It's said with a sort of finality, John's voice is rough, muffled against Molly. He lets her go and pulls back with a wince. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffs.] I want to go see her grave when Sherlock's out of the danger zone. She liked daisies. I can bring her those.