Molly rubbed her towel on her head and then tossed it over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. She glanced over to her smartphone and saw an insistent red flash. She picked it up from the counter as she slid onto one of the stools and dialed her voicemail.

"You have … two … new messages," she heard the electronic keeper say.

"Imagine that," she murmured.

After a few taps on her touch screen, a familiar deep voice reverberated from the speaker. As always, the first few seconds of hearing his voice were bliss. However, pleasure was soon displaced by dismay.

". . . Mm, um, whut? Oh, yesss, Molly. Mo-olly H-Hoooper. I require your assistance. Very, very important case-"

The sound of shuffling could be heard and then a thump, a click and a beep indicating the end of the message. Molly inhaled quickly and advanced to the next message on her voicemail.

"Right, therissumthing … WRONG!"

She hissed and yanked the phone from her ear as several beeps blared from her mobile's speakers. She shifted on her kitchen stool and peeped over her screen at her clock above her dining table. She was comfortably dressed in her sky blue, penguin patterned pajamas and nearly ready for bed but something told her she wasn't getting any sleep any time soon. She sighed and pressed nine to erase the messages. Just as she was about to exit from her inbox, she heard two subdued pulses indicating someone had left yet another message. She stared down at her cell ruefully with her nose scrunched. An uneven exhalation later, she played the latest message.

"Molly! Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly … Molly … Molly … Molly … . . . Maaah-lly … …Maaaaaahllllllllyyyyy. Hey, it's Shezza. Call me back, m'kay?"

Her lips pulled down at the corners as she tried to prevent them from quivering. Sherlock sounded high, in fact, very high and possibly also drunk. She quickly sent a text off to Mycroft.

Shezza just called. -Molly

After a few seconds, her phone vibrated in her hands from a lightning quick response.

What does he need? – MH

I do not know yet. –Molly

Would you mind determining his location? He seems to have found a way to disable his GPS. -MH

I suppose. –Molly

Unless it is too much trouble? I could send some of my people out to look for him. –MH

Molly chewed her lip as she read the latest message. They both knew that Sherlock would never allow Mycroft to pick him up in his current state. He might be high as a mountain goat in the Andes, but he was still Sherlock Holmes. Even at his worst, he was bloody brilliant. If he did not want to be found, he would not be found. Simple as that.

I will take care of it. Never mind. –Molly

Thank you, Dr. Hooper. You will let me know if there is anything I can do? –MH

Probably not. –Molly

She could almost hear his sigh.

Yes. Understood. Good luck. –MH

Molly thought their conversation was finished but then her phone vibrated several more times.

Please do let me know if he is alright. –MH

I worry about him. –MH

Do not tell him that! It makes things worse. –MH

She smiled sadly and tapped a swift reply.

I won't. Goodnight. –Molly

Goodnight. –MH

Once more, Molly stared down at the screen of her mobile until it dimmed and went black. She then straightened her back and squared her shoulders as she dialed Sherlock's number. Just when she thought it would go to his voicemail, she heard someone answer. However, it was not smooth as the other end of the line was fumbled; several bumps and scrapes could be heard.

"Sherlock?"

Instead of an immediate answer, she was greeted by heavy breathing akin to a dog panting and slobbering into the speaker.

"Sherlock!"

Molly grunted when again, he didn't respond. "Oh, God, fine! Shezza!?"

"Ah, well, hu-llo, Molly. How's my gal?"

She covered her eyes with her hand. "Not your gal."

"My … chick?" He sounded so very Sherlock in the way he said that, as if 'chick' was foreign, hard to pronounce noun.

"No."

"Fine, fine!" He slurred his words, "I know you hate me. You always hate me …"

Molly leaned on her counter on her elbows. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I don't hate you."

He was suddenly articulate. "Great! Can you come pick me up then?"

She wanted to say no but she could never say no to him and Mycroft Holmes knew this very well. After that terrible Christmas when Sherlock had guessed how she felt about him, his older brother had surmised the very same thing days later. He had then pressed upon her to assist in his younger brother's rehabilitation. He had convinced her to become part of what he called, 'a permanent solution'.

"He needs you, Molly Hooper," Mycroft had goaded. "He needs you to keep him straight."

Oh, the Holmes! They had a way of pushing one's buttons. Of course she had agreed to regularly test Sherlock and as their relationship developed and they had become friends, she had taken on the role of his sober coach as well. Her dedication to the detective had cost her dearly, though. She was alone again after being deserted by Tom.

"Molly? Mo-o-o-lly, you have to help me. I do not know where I am."

"Truly, Sherlock? How can you not know?"

She heard a snort and a round of hacking. "Well, you see, it is very simple. I am intoxicated."

Molly let out a noisy groan. Mycroft's voice echoed between her ears.

"Of course, you appreciate that this won't be easy. You will have to be strong. You will have to be stronger than Sherlock because he sees emotions as weakness. He abhors weakness. If you at all allow yourself to appear too emotionally compromised, he will not let you hold moral authority over him. He will be out of your reach."

Little help that advice had been. They had failed him. She had failed him. The best she could do at that point was try to minimize the damage he inflicted upon himself.

"Can you at least describe your surroundings?" She asked.

"I am in London! I am sure I am. Though, it might be Birmingham. There are townhouses. I can see a church!"

"Yeah, Sherlock, that really narrows it down," she mumbled. "How about a street sign or better yet, a crossroads?"

She heard the beginnings of a yawn. "You know what, I'm bored and sleepy and … sssooo tired. I'm going to sleep. There's a lovely thick bush near this intersection …"

No!" Molly jumped from her stool and stomped her foot on her tiles. "No, tell me where you are!"

"Buuuuut …"

"Sherlock Holmes, Shezza, tell me where you are or so help me I will drive around until I find you and … and then run you over because I am that unhappy with you."

She heard the rattle of a tongue stuck out and air blown past it. "Whatevs, fine, come rescue me if you must. I will be under a fern near … erm, Connaught and Portsea. Yeesss, thatz what the sign sayzzz."

"Sherlock," she said sternly, "Sherlock, do not go to sleep. I am coming to get you."

There was no answer.

"Sherlock?"

She could still hear his breathing.

"Shezza?!"

He gurgled. "What? Are you here already? Can you see my hand? I'm waving it."

"No, I don't, I-"

"I'm waving it faster. Here, now I am waving a piece of the fern …"

Molly chose not to linger another second. She threw on a sweater, slipped into her shoes and flew out the door still wearing her pajamas.


An hour later, Molly pulled her little Vauxhall Astra up on the curb near the intersection of Connaught and Portsea. She looked around the dark streets. There was a bit of a green space aptly named Connaught Square. She knew Sherlock had to be in there somewhere. It didn't take her long to find him. Almost the moment she stepped thought a break in the black iron fence, she saw a pair of trainers with white soles poking out from under a bush and onto the path. She hurried over to the prone male form and leaned over him. Sherlock had collapsed on his stomach, his arms underneath his torso, and snored into the dirt. His wild curls were shiny and matted as if he had not bathed in days, He wore a loose, grey tracksuit. She sighed as she kneeled down and brushed a lock from his forehead. He was fortunate he had not been discovered and hauled off to a sobering center.

"Ahem, Sherlock," she poked him

He grunted and shrugged her off. Another snore rattled the air.

"Shezza!" She smacked him on the cheek.

He jerked awake. His eyes shot open.

"Molly?" He sputtered into the dirt.

"Uh, huh."

He flipped on his side and held up a hand.

"Come to join me?" He wagged his brows.

"Definitely not, come on now, up with you."

He sniffed. "Meh."

Sherlock closed his eyes and promptly passed out again. Molly growled and whacked his cheek several times until he swatted her hand away.

"Thatz vera rude," he mumbled. "You're not nice. I don't think I like you."

Molly tugged at his arm. "Get up! Get up and get your arse in my car right now or I am calling Mycroft."

That threat seemed to penetrate his addled mind. Of course, she still had to help him to her Astra. He leaned on her so heavily, she almost buckled under his weight but managed to get him into her car. A few minutes later, they were underway with Sherlock's chin resting on the half-open window. That was how Molly's night wrapped. In her passenger's mirror, she watched the lights of the shops whip by while a trail of Shezza's puke was sucked out and down the side of her little, red coupe.