221b Baker Street was silent. On occasion there could be a violin being played into the wee hours of the night, or, on one particularly strange afternoon, a gun being fired (no deaths nor injuries were reported, but neighbors did wonder). One particular evening, long after midnight, a fine black carriage pulled up outside of 221b, the occupant bounded from within, dashed up the steps and rapped noisily on the door. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, rose with a yawn, gathered her dressing gown and candle and went to see who it was.

The footman (Jimmy) beat her to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but putting on a show of being larger than he was (a lad all of seventeen, and a slight lad at that).

"I am sure it is only Mr. Holmes forgetting his key," Mrs. Hudson said. Before either could open the door, again someone pounded on the other side.

"Hurry up in there, it's a matter of life and death!"

"Merciful heavens!" Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door, stepping back just as Mycroft Holmes entered, thrusting his umbrella into Archie's hands.

"Is my sister in-law at home?" The elder Holmes demanded.

"Yes of course, where else would she be, I should like to know!" Mrs. Hudson blustered. "I'll go and wake her-"

"I'll fetch her myself, thank you," Mycroft was already halfway up the stairs.

"It's not fit- oh do as you please…" Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands, annoyed.

Molly had heard the door downstairs, by the time Mycroft knocked on her door, she was already buttoning up her grey walking dress.

"Just a moment," she called tiredly. Seeing she was decent, she opened her door. "Where is he this time?" she asked, weary, already guessing where her missing husband was.

Mycroft, somewhat out of breath from taking the steps two at a time answered, "Doss house, up Commercial Road."

Her shoulders sagged, but she nodded. "Let's go then."

Two years ago, Molly never would have guessed she would be making monthly visits to the East End to fetch her husband from opium dens or whatever other form of awful drug he decided to put into himself. She never would have thought these low spirits could be so wearing, that a marriage could be so dreadfully unhappy, nor a body so unloved.

Molly Hooper, now Holmes, was part of an arranged marriage. Sherlock Holmes of no particular employ, nor any care to, was the son of Lord Sigurd Holmes, was her husband, and did not seem at all keen on being any sort of husband. He had performed his husbandly duties at least thrice, the third time being quite recent. A child had resulted, but Molly had been unable to carry it to term, the strain of worry for her husband seemed the most likely cause. Whether or not her husband knew of the loss, she could not say. He'd been higher than a kite the day she lost the child.

Mycroft, for his part, kept constant tabs on his brother, often Sherlock's Irregulars would inform Mycroft's men if the younger Holmes was taking part in a nasty habit. Sherlock did not trust anyone to help him down from his highs but Molly. Why Molly was accorded this privilege, no one could say. Molly's life was…chaotic, in an eerily calm sense. She went about her daily routine, but always with a niggling fear in the back of her mind. How would she find her husband? Would she even see him? Would he be away for days on end, supposedly doing a favor for Scotland Yard as he sometimes did? Or would he merely be sequestering himself away in some doss house, indulging in dreadful poisons that he seemed hell-bent on filling himself with.

No, Molly Holmes' marriage was not a happy one. There were times that Sherlock could be quite nice. Of course, that is not to say he was ever cruel to her, not with intent to be so, at any rate. Sherlock Holmes had not wanted to be married, not in the slightest. Mycroft Holmes had hoped the marriage might settle his brother somewhat. Despite his opposition to the match, Sherlock did not go out of his way to make Molly miserable. He was simply doing what he'd always done before they'd been married: solve a crime here and there and when Scotland Yard had had enough of him showing them up, would dally off to find a discrete drug den and see what was being passed about.

Mycroft waited for Molly to pin her hat on. "You're sure you'll come? Ought you be out so soon after…" Mycroft trailed off, glancing at her. Only he knew of Molly's awful loss, and he'd done his best to see that she was kept comfortable.

"It's been over a month now," Molly shrugged. "It's all right. Anyway he wouldn't come if it were only you."

"Very well then," he gave his arm, and they started downstairs.

Doss House, Commercial Road

Sherlock's world was blissfully calm. With the exception of the rank smell (why were doss houses so awfully stinking?), and the half-flattened pallet he laid on, Sherlock had not a care in the world. Morphia did that to a person. It kept his otherwise too-busy brain calm, it made everything slow and peaceful and absolutely marvelous.

"Sherlock,"

A soft voice was calling him, a familiar one at that. Opening his eyes, he lifted his head with a grunt.

"Mrs. Holmes," blearily, he blinked at her. Even in this state, he was deducing her. Her dress was one of her walking gowns, one she could put on herself without any assistance. Dark circles were under her eyes, "Did M'croft wake you up?"

She slipped the handle of her purse onto her arm, reaching for him to help him sit up. "Yes. I'm glad he did. Sit up for me, please."

"Don't want to," he grunted.

"Sherlock," that was all she said, but her tone said it all. There was some strength in her voice, despite her exhaustion.

He sat up then, slowly, blinking. "S'hot in here."

"I know it is," Molly nodded, despite the fact that her teeth were chattering. "What did you take, and when, and how?"

"Morphia, about…eleven I think…needle. What time is it now?"

"Half-past three," Molly replied. "Come on, we've got to get you home before you start feeling the withdrawals."

"Easy way to remedy that, my pet," Sherlock straightened to his full height, tapping the end of her nose as he swayed. "Just get another dose."

"I think you've had enough," Molly said, taking him by the arm. "What good would you be for me if you were always high?"

His stumbling steps faltered, and he looked at her, half-leaning against her. "Am I good for you, Molly?"

She paused, glancing at him. "Sometimes," Molly replied at last. "Sometimes you can be quite nice."

He studied her, his expression was a rare one for Molly, when she could see the beginnings of understanding in him, that what he was doing was bad, bad for him, bad for her. The moment was broken when he grinned at her. "Was good to you a month or so ago…wasn't it? That what you meant, Mrs. Holmes?"

She didn't answer him, the subject still painful. Instead she hefted his weight, getting him moving again.

Together they made their way out of the building and up into the carriage where Mycroft was waiting.

"Brother dear!" Sherlock immediately scowled. "What brings you here to ruin my lovely evening?"

"My concern for your wellbeing, and the extreme worry for my sister in-law at your hand."

"Nonsense," Sherlock snorted.

"I thought you were going to be working for Scotland Yard," Mycroft changed the subject.

"Did. Case was awful. Solved it as soon as I saw their 'spiders web', if you want to call it that. God, I am so bored!" Sherlock roared, then threw himself against the seat, slouching low. He pushed his hat low over his forehead, shutting his eyes. "Wake me when we get home."

Mycroft looked apologetically at Molly, who simply turned her head to watch the passing scenery.

221b Baker Street

"This cannot continue."

Mycroft looked up to the doorway of the parlor where his sister in-law stood. She'd removed her coat and hat, and wore an apron now, her sleeves rolled up.

"I know."

"I mean it, Mycroft," Molly insisted.

She stood terribly still, where she got her strength from, Mycroft wished he knew.

"We will be careful-"

"I don't want to be careful, I want him safe!" Molly cried. "I know we say it every time 'it can't keep happening', well it is, it's happened again. I am tired of you trying to sort this out. He needs to work. Not for the sake of money," Molly held up her hand, seeing her brother in-law look startled. "I mean for himself. His mind cannot sit idly by, just the same as you. Scotland Yard was promising. Make him a detective there."

"No," Mycroft shook his head. "He would not stand for it. Too many rules, too many regulations. They'd sack him in a week."

"Then find him cases," Molly pressed. "This is London, for pities sake, there must be people who the police cannot help, cases that have gone cold. Get him something interesting. A murder…a-a- missing persons file…I don't know! There must be someone at the Yard who can put up with him, who needs him. He's good, he's very good, you know he is, but these little bits and pieces that come his way aren't enough. He just needs to get a foot in, and then…" Molly threw up her hands, helpless. "I don't know, maybe people will start coming to him for help."

"He is not a Robin Hood, Molly," Mycroft warned.

"I know he isn't," she insisted. "But he does care, despite what you think. He likes helping people, he likes puzzle solving more, and he likes solving cases faster than Scotland Yard best."

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. "Place an advertisement in the London, stating Sherlock Holmes is available for cases, missing persons, the like."

"What sort of hire?" Molly asked. "He's got to be saying what he's being hired for."

"Oh I don't know, make something up. And put a consultation fee in as well, or else you'll be swamped with every Tom, Dick and Harry missing a cat."

A cry from upstairs made them both turn.

"Withdrawls," Molly said. She looked at Mycroft. "I'll see to him, don't worry. I'll place the advertisement in the morning."

"I'll leave you to it then."

As he was heading for the door, Molly suddenly grasped his arm. "Have you given any thought yet? To what I asked?"

He turned, recalling then her query some months ago.

"I have," he nodded, turning to face her entirely now. "I will admit plans were set in motion, then paused since the incident last month but…" he studied her. "Are you certain?"

"Yes I am. I need to do something. Once I am sure that Sherlock is set up and safe, I can start."

"Very well. I shall tell Doctor Stamford to expect you. The paperwork will be sorted in the morning, you'll have to meet with the board of university, but it seems to me that you shan't have any trouble attending."

"Yes, but getting a position afterwards?"

"Doctor Stamford has promised me we shall be pushing at an open door, when the time comes," Mycroft promised. "You were wise, sister-mine, choosing your profession."

Molly smiled, somewhat pleased. "I simply decided that the jobs men are least likely to want, a woman ought to have a better chance of securing."

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded. "But are you certain that pathology is the correct-"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I am sure."

"Very well," he nodded. "Let me know how he gets on," he said and touching the brim of his hat to her, went down to the waiting carriage.

Molly turned and headed upstairs to where Sherlock was waiting for her.

In his bedroom, he was sprawled across the bed, bedclothes strewn here and there. Molly rolled him onto his side, covering him up again. He began to tremble and shake. '

"That you, Molly?"

"It's me," she wiped his damp brow, carding her fingers through his hair. "It's going to be all right, I'm here with you now."

"I'm cold…"

Hitching up her skirts, Molly climbed up behind him, looping her arms around his middle, she curled against him, bringing the covers up over them.

"There's a bowl on your bedside table, if you're going to be sick."

"No," he shook his head, still trembling. "Just cold…was careful with the solution this time…" he scratched at his flesh, feeling the scars on his forearms. There was an itch, a constant need after the morphia wore off to get more. Just a little more. But Sherlock knew he'd had enough. If he had any more, he'd be very ill. He sighed heavily. "Did I ruin your evening?" he asked tiredly through his tremors.

"You always ruin it, when you do this," Molly answered softly.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Her cheek was against his shoulder, her body pressed against his back, sharing body heat to keep him from shaking. This was not the first time she'd done this. In fact she had learned very early in their marriage what to do when he began to suffer withdrawals. Not that he indulged a great deal…just…whenever he needed to get the world to shut up. Sighing heavily, he patted her hands on his waist.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

Quiet then, and for a moment, he thought she'd fallen asleep. Instead, he felt her take a shuddering breath.

"That's the trouble though," Molly said at last, her voice watery. "You're never sorry enough to stop."

He had no answer for her. There was always clarity in his withdrawals. Always the moment, as if between asleep and waking when he wondered what in God's name he was doing to himself. It was troubling, being subject to an inanimate object. He felt a stab of guilt then, remembering (as he often did in these moments of clarity) that Molly was the one to suffer for his using. At first he did not understand why she took it so personally, and he rolled around the facts that he was aware of, trying to come up with an answer that made sense. He delved deeper into his mind-palace, pulling out everything he had on his wife. He recalled the day they met, she was all in pink (clearly her mother's choice, as if anyone would suspect she was anything but a blushing virgin). The three-month courting period. She'd begged him to tell her all about the few local cases he'd solved at his family's estate. Stolen goods, one murder, nothing terribly stellar, but her eyes had danced when he told her. He had mistaken her happiness during their courtship for blind infatuation. But infatuation is put to the test soon enough. A wife that is neglected or abused swiftly falls out of the idea of loving her husband, and would go about her own day, not caring what happened. But Molly was always there, always ready to assist. Molly would come for him no matter what time, no matter where he was, even if he was in an unfit state.

Sherlock realized that he knew very little about the woman who so clearly loved him. That was the only fact he was in possession of: that she loved him. It is jarring, to suddenly realize the woman who you have married, bedded, and share a home with is a stranger to you. Sherlock blinked again. Indeed, Molly was someone he barely knew, yet here she was, arms wrapped around him, an embrace more deserving of perhaps someone who earned it, Sherlock most certainly felt he had not. In a little while, he'd fall asleep, and he'd not rise until long after breakfast, probably near luncheon. Still, as he felt himself drifting off that he regretted the distance between himself and Molly. He regretted that by his actions he had been the one to do it. It was like a great river he could not cross, and there she was on the other side, waiting for him to come and meet her. Sherlock wasn't' certain he wanted a wife, but he was sure of one thing at this very moment: he wanted to keep Molly as his friend, if only he knew how to start.