This is taking place after TST. If you haven't seen the first episode of the new season, I would HIGHLY recommend you not read this.

Also, this is NOT a happy fic. I'm sorry, but it just isn't. I'm kind of dealing with something personally and I guess I was using this as a form of catharsis. I honestly don't really know what this is, I kind of just sat down at the computer and wrote.

Trigger Warning: There is a brief mention of drug use, and of course, the presence of death is there throughout.

Grief

Molly was tired. Tired of the grief that continuously wracked her body. Tired of the day to day motions that she was forced to go through. Tired of putting on a brave face for those who were looking to her for help; i.e. John. She was tired of it all, and yet she could not sleep.

As hard as she tried sleep would not come, except for the tiniest littles snatches; minutes at a time. Perhaps it was because of her empty bed. A bed that had been empty for some time now, of a certain Consulting Detective. She had not seen him since the day that she had had to relay John's message. That day had torn her heart in two.

Even though she was not equipped with a Mind Palace of her own, she knew that she would never be able to forget the broken expression on Sherlock's face. She managed to keep herself together, distracting her mind with tending to Rosie, but when she at last got home and was alone in her flat, she allowed herself to break down. It was the first time she had done so since Mary's death, the first time that she fully allowed herself to accept the fact that her friend was truly gone. She cried until there were no more tears, but even then, she still did not sleep.

It was late now, nearly three in the morning. Most nights she would spend a few hours lying in bed, desperately begging for sleep to come, but when it refused to she would get up. If she was going to be awake, she might as well get something accomplished. She would read, or catch up on her shows. She organized her photos on her laptop, deleted ones that didn't need keeping. She shifted through boxes in her wardrobe, coming across things she should have gotten rid of years ago. In a way, it was somewhat cathartic.

By the third week though, she decided to opt for sleeping pills. In the beginning they worked beautifully, her first night of straight nine hours of sleep was glorious. But eventually even those didn't work, and she refused to up the dosage, fearing that she may get addicted to them.

A month passed since Mary's death. A month of struggling from day to day, work being the only thing keeping Molly going, that and the adoring face of little Rosie, who she knew desperately needed her.

John was a shell of his former self; barely speaking, barely eating, and most certainly he too was barely sleeping. He rarely acknowledged her presence. At first Molly tried to get him to hold Rosie, talk with her, play with her, but she soon discovered that this was a lost cause. It appeared that he had retreated inside of himself. The man she once knew, was gone. Upon realizing that he was not fit to tend to Rosie, it became both Molly's and Mrs. Hudson's priority to care for the little girl. They worked in shifts, scheduling around Molly's work at Barts. Stamford was ever helpful, giving her any time off that she may need.

It was a struggle, an adjustment that was not easy to become accustomed to for either one of the two women, but thankfully Rosie was a happy baby; rarely crying or having a fit. Lestrade helped them when he could, and there were brief spurts of visits from John's parents, but they had their own lives, and only showed up when the time worked for them. Harry never once made an appearance.

When the second month arrived, Lestrade pulled some of his accumulated holiday time to take care of Rosie. He had seen how selflessly Mrs. Hudson and Molly had taken care of the little girl, and he felt that they needed a well-deserved rest. He also wanted to try and get through to John, if anything perhaps convince him to return to his therapist.

Molly called in and requested the next three days off, determined to not leave her flat during that time period. She was going to allow herself to be ridiculously lazy, and give Toby as much love as he would allow her. That evening, entering her flat laden with groceries, she switched on the light and nearly jumped out of her skin.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing lying in the dark?"

He was stretched out on her sofa, unshaven, and quite clearly unwashed; his curls dank and limp upon his forehead. She set down her bags and slowly walked towards him.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

He slowly sat up, flinching slightly as he turned his body so that he could place his feet flat on the floor. "I'm sorry, Molly." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'm clean, I swear to you I am, but I wasn't … I wasn't before."

"Oh Sherlock."

"I'm sorry …"

She climbed onto his lap, slipping her arms around him as she pressed her cheek to his neck. He clung to her, pressing his face into her shoulder. They stayed like this for some time, finding comfort in the others embrace.

"You need a bath," she said softly.

He briefly chuckled before humming in agreement. "Join me?"

"Yeah, just let me put my groceries away, I'll be there in a minute." She leaned back and their eyes met as she cupped the side of his face in her hand, her thumb brushing against the scruff on his cheek. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

She slipped off his lap and stood. He stood as well, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he moved towards her bathroom. She watched him for a moment, her heart aching at the sight, thinking to herself how terrible a thing grief was.

Once he disappeared from her view and she heard the water running, she gathered up the bags she had left at the door and proceeded to put everything away. Moving down the hall she stripped out of her clothes, and when she opened the bathroom door she was greeted with steamy warmth.

Sherlock was already in the bath, his eyes closed, but they opened when he heard her enter. He watched her as she moved towards him and he shifted over, giving her plenty of room to step into the water; both of them grateful for the large size of her tub.

She slipped down into the water, letting out a slow sigh. He tucked her close against him, his arm hooked around her waist, with his hand splayed across her stomach.

Neither one of them spoke, they didn't need to. He knew she was disappointed in him, and she had every reason to be, but he also knew that she would not berate him for what he had done.

The warmth of the water soaked into his bones, and the warmth of her body soaked into his soul. If he had one, that is, he still wasn't entirely certain about that. They didn't move until the water grew cold, and after a quick shower they both dressed in their rattiest, most comfortable pyjamas.

Molly cooked for him, just like the old times, and once the meal was made they moved into her sitting room and sat upon the sofa. She switched on the telly and put on Doctor Who. Sherlock briefly made a face, but didn't argue her choice. They tucked into their food, still keeping quiet. Silence was never uncomfortable with them.

When they finished their food she brought their plates into the kitchen, and left them to soak in the sink. The dishes could wait for another day. She sat back down upon the sofa next to Sherlock, and they watched another episode. As the credits rolled she switched off the telly, placed the remote onto her coffee table, and stood. She held her hand out to Sherlock, and without hesitation he placed his in hers.

They made their way into her bedroom, climbing into her bed together. Once they were settled beneath the covers Toby jumped onto the bed and laid down at their feet, purring softly.

Molly tucked herself beneath Sherlock's chin, her cheek pressed to his t-shirt. The slow thump of his heart was lulling her into a state of peace. Sherlock put his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair; the scent of her calming him in a way nothing else ever could.

Sleep at last began to tug at her eyelids, and she welcomed it like an old friend. Surely there was nothing wrong in finding comfort in another.