The smell of exhaust beaten to the pavement by unrelenting sheets of cold rain, hung limply beneath the astringent glare of street lamps. 5:00 am flashed on the display. Sherlock cursed at his phone as he brought his forehead to rest against the door. Frigid streamlets dripped from damp curls to run beneath his heavy wool collar, drawing him upright and urging him forward. The decision to knock or let himself in found immediate accedence. Knock. Definitely knock. He spilled his apology quickly, pressing through the opened door, then fell immediately silent.

Molly stumbled backward grasping for the sofa, groaning, "Oh, no. Not you. Please, no. I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't." Apprehensive, red rimmed and glassy eyes stared back at him. Her hair hung oily and unkept, despite several attempts to smooth it away from her face. The stench of whisky was overpowering. She continued stepping backward as she fell against the counter sending the cat's water bowl clattering across the floor at her feet. Sherlock noticed the dried crust of cat food slopped against the wall and floor. Hastening toward Molly, he snatched her phone from the table, scrolled notification of missed calls and unread texts, and asked ridiculously if she'd been drinking.

Abruptly she squeaked and ran to the toilet vomiting. Sherlock chased her, grabbing hold of her hair just before it fell forward as she emptied her stomach. Gently, he removed the tangled elastic and replaced it securely. Scowling, he pulled a clean cloth from the basket and began soaking it with cool water.

Startled by Molly's strangled scream, Sherlock dropped the cloth into the basin, turning as her arm slipped sending her face crashing into the porcelain. Molly threw out her other hand in a delayed attempt to catch herself, but it splashed into the bowl instead. Before her situation worsened, Sherlock caught her from behind, pulling her free of the filth. Stretching forward with one arm to retrieve the cloth, he clutched her weakened frame desperately close to himself, wiping first her contorted face then when it warmed, her dirtied arm while she dry heaved in agony fighting to scream with every breath. Such perverse betrayal spent with implacable violence left her body broken against him. In time the screaming dulled to sobbing and the heaving stopped.

Sherlock buried his face against her, as his arms and back began to ache from the awkward position. He found he couldn't let go. So together they slumped to the cold tile floor and lay there. Recoiling from the intimacy, he tried to sit up to help her out of her soiled clothes. Molly whimpered, "I can't," and passed out.

She woke still wrapped in his arms on the floor. Her mouth felt hideous and her face hurt. Sherlock lifted himself away as Molly shifted out from beneath him, her pain clouded eyes meeting his with uncertainty.

She shrunk defensively from his damaged fingers against her bruised cheek. He looked down, and mumbled, "I'll make coffee."

Molly stood, and with some difficulty, found her balance and turned on the bath. Sherlock watched from the doorway until she safely tugged her stiffened shirt over her head and slipped into the water. Almost immediately she stood, way too fast, and then sunk to her knees. Gripping the tap, she turned on the shower ignoring the curtain. Hiding her eyes against the soft flesh of her forearm, she waited for the pain to dissipate.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, hands pressed hard to the worktop staring at the floor. Rising to stretch sore muscles, he removed the emptied bottle, noting the label with contempt, and pitched it in the bin. Shaking hands removed the remnants of her tea and wiped the surface clean. He put the coffee on and washed up the dishes along with the cat bowls. Toby watched silently from a chair beneath the table.

Chewing her lip and gripping her towel, Molly said nothing as he crouched low beside fresh food and water speaking to the cat but stepped into her bedroom and quietly closed the door. Safe in quiet solitude, she collapsed onto the softly worn comfort of clean sheets. Dry eyed, her gaze drifted around the room. The front door opened and closed again. She heard the bolt slide into place. With a sigh, she dressed.