Disclaimer: I own nothing but this fanfiction. All characters belong to their respectful owners.

Warning: Implications of drug use, nothing graphic. A little dark in the beginning, goes lighter towards the end. Read at your own risk.

A/N: I asked for an idea or a prompt on my tumblr blog Lovesherlolly for a new fanfiction I wanted to write, because I had promised myself that when my story "Hideout" made it to 70,000 views, I would write a new fanfiction for my beloved Sherlolly. badwolflock on tumblr suggested this: "Sherlock is broken, litteraly broken, on the floor, dead inside, has nothing left, and molly finds him like this, slowly stitches him back together, mends his wounds. She doesn't ask what happens, as weeks go by, just helps him recover and feel again. He doesn't really talk durring this time, a word here and there, mostly just looks out the windows or watches her work. This happens, and slowly their bond grows, slowly Sherlock loves agian and maybe he even opens up to her about what happened". I made a few changes with it and created this. Hope you enjoy it and thanks for the idea! xo

He was in a very bad state when she had found him on her sofa in the living room, lying there motionless. She almost had a heart attack when she found a dark figure in her living room sofa but then recognized him immediately. As she kneeled beside him, checking for his pulse with fear in her heart, she prayed that he was alive and okay. He was alive, yes, but okay wasn't a term that could be used for him at that moment. He had scars all over his face and she could only imagine the rest of his body. There was blood on his white shirt, his famous trenchcoat drenched from the rain outside.

She sighed and shook him gently by the shoulders. But he was already awake, he was just too tired to open his eyes. "Whatever happened to you Sherlock?" she asked with a whisper. Her voice firm but full of concern.

The only answer she got from him was silence. So she brought her first-aid kit from the bathroom and patched him up, as throughly as she could. She took his shirt off of him, with a little from himself and saw there were broken glasses all over his back. He was bleeding very bad and he definitely needed to go to a hospital for professional help. Yet, when she uttered the word hospital, his eyes snapped open and he told her a flat No. That was enough to shut her up so she said nothing further.

She pulled off every piece of broken glass off of his back, five pieces to be exact and stitched his wounds up, trying to keep her hands as steady as possible. She couldn't afford trembling hands at that moment. Thank Goodness she was a professional pathologist and she was very good at stitching people up. She did everything she could to him; stitched him, applied oinment on his wounds to heal him a little more quicker and gave him painkillers. He said nothing in the meantime, his eyes closed, hissing here and there when feeling the pain a little too much. But her hands were gentle, he noticed, she was being extra careful not to hurt him. How beautiful her hands were, so small, so petite... He wasn't looking at them but he knew them, because they worked together before. She didn' know but he was always observing her. He was always aware of her. She had a soothing effect on him and he quite liked it actually.

When she went to the kitchen and threw away the pieces of glasses, she took a deep breath and tried to soothe herself. She wasn't an idiot. The minute she kneeled beside him and got close to him to take his pulse, she noticed how slow it was. Then he opened his eyes to tell her no to hospital and she saw how dilated his pupils were and he had bloodshot eyes. He had been using again.

She returned to the living room and saw him sitting on the couch, his head barely standing up. The room was dark, she hadn't turned on the lights when she entered the house because she saw a man on her couch and immediately went to his side. Only the shining light of the moon was beaming into the room from the window.

His face was pale and she sat beside him, not looking at him but fidgeting with her fingers. They sat there in silence for half an hour and then she had enough. The silence was driving her nuts so she decided to go to bed. She went to her room, made the bed for him and brought him to her bed. His arm was wrapped around her shoulder, stumbling while walking. When they finally reached her bed, he fell down onto it and she had to remove his shoes for him. He was barely conscious and that was worrying her. Nonetheless, she left him there and went back to the living room and slept on the couch. She didn't check him during the night because she was way too tired to do that. No matter how many times people around him told him to stop doing drugs, he never took them seriously. It was going to cost him his life at one point and yet he still didn't give a damn. So be it, she thought as she drifted away to a sleep full of nightmares.

It was morning when she woke up from her nightmare of Sherlock dying in her arms and decided to check up on him. When she saw him sleeping—she of course checked for his pulse—she sighed in relief and started to prepare breakfast. She had to redo his stitches but he needed sleep too.

Fifteen minutes later the breakfast was ready and she heard the door of her bedroom open. He came to the kitchen with very slow steps and for the first time since the day before, she saw him for real. He was a mess. He looked like a ghost and his stitches were torn, bleeding. She took care of him immediately and then forced him to eat some sandwich with some tea but that ended up with him throwing up. He mumbled a low Sorry at her before passing out on her kitchen floor and she had no other choice than to bring him to a hospital. But she just couldn't do it. She had no clue of what happened to him and it could be something dangerous and the police could come to the hospital to question him.

She prayed the Lord for a little more patience and took care of his wounds once again, cleaning him up and her kitchen floor carefully. Then she put him to her bed and watched him sleep all day long.

Three more days passed with him saying nothing but he got better. At least his wounds were healing up a little and he could eat finally without vomitting. He also was now able to walk without stumbling, his pupils were turning back to normal. She wasn't talking to him at all, she was just taking care of him like a babysitter and he wasn't talking to her either.

It was on fourth days dinner that she snapped. It was enough. She saved his life a second time and deserved to know what to hell was going on. He owed her a bloody good explanation.

"What happened to you Sherlock? And I swear, if you keep your silence again, I swear I'll—" she couldn't finish her threat when a big lump sat on her throat. She felt the tears coming and tried to hard to hold them back. No, she wasn't going to cry, not now, not now...

"I overdosed," Sherlock, for the first time in days, finally responded and she looked at him from across the dinner table. "And then an angry customer, whose wife had come to me before to prove him guilty of cheating on her, attacked me on my way to... here. I don't know how they knew where I was, I was being followed I guess but I hadn't caught up on it because... I was high," he explained. "One of the henchmen pushed me to the ground and there were pieces of broken glass lying, probably from a broken bottle of wine and I fell on them."

He went silent then, having told her everything. She swallowed and tried to find her voice to give a response but nothing came out. Her mouth was opening and closing, trying to come up with anything.

"I am sorry, for everything," he then said, when he saw she was struggling to answer him. "I mean it."

She nodded at that, knowing her voice had left her and was not coming back anytime soon. When his hand took hold of hers on the table, not just her voice but all her senses left her. Idiot, her brain screamed at her, even after all these years this damn man still could make her feel like a teenager. She withdrew her hand slowly then, letting him know she didn't forgive him for anything. It was going to take a lot more than just a sorry and a hand holding.

Then something hit her. Why was he... "coming here?"

"Pardon?" he asked and she noticed she asked what was on her mind out loud. She mentally slapped herself and noticed she couldn't back up now.

"Why were you coming here?" she asked hesitantly, afraid he was going to say something snarky.

"To see you," he said with a blank expression on his face, his voice flat and cold.

"Oh," she whispered and blinked a few times. That was the only answer she was going to get from him, she knew that.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity to Molly and she stood up from her chair, started clearing the table as they had already finished eating. Sherlock sat there in silence, watching everything she was doing. Then he thought it was rude of him and decided to help her. Molly frowned when she saw him trying to help her. "You need to rest Sherlock, go to bed, I'll handle the kitchen," she said coldly and returned to her dishwashing.

"Will you be coming?" he then asked, a hand on her shoulder.

Her hands stopped working at that and she looked up at him with confusion in her features. "Coming where?" she asked.

"To bed. You've been sleeping on the couch for the past three nights Molly. I am better now, thanks to you, you can come to bed," he explained with a soft voice, looking guilty for having invaded her bed all this time.

"You need the bed, Sherlock. I'll sleep on the couch," she said dismissively and got back to work.

"Sleep with me."

At that the plate on her hands dropped into the sink and she gaped at him. "What?"

"I mean—beside me. We can sleep on the same bed together. It's big enough for both of us to fit in."

She kept gaping at him, not believing her ears. He had to be joking. Didn't this man know what that could do to her? That would damage her forever. She would see more vivid dreams of him and her fantasies would grow bigger and better. Jesus, even the thought of it was frightening. "No—no, I—I don't... I can't..."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Don't worry Molly, I won't touch you," he said and took her hand, leading her to the bedroom. They were both so tired and they both needed this sleep. He knew that she hadn't been sleeping because of him and he was feeling guilty. Dark circles were under her eyes and she looked like hell, a hell he put her through. He owed her so much and getting her to finally sleep was such a small step to pay his debt.

"Not unless you want me to," he then added as they entered the bedroom and it took her a few minutes to register what he had meant. Then she gaped at him again.

She could swear a smile played at the corners of his mouth and she felt happy to see him like this. Well, he wasn't forgiven, no, but she could scold him later on. After a good night's sleep, of course.

Yelling at him and scolding him could wait a couple of hours, right?

Thanks for reading!

xo louvreangel