There were days that the world seemed too large and too small all at the same time. There were days that it was too loud and too quiet, too. There were days when he would prefer to crawl out of his skin than endure the tedium of life.

At times like this, he had believed only two things could solve this problem: either a case, or a rather unsavory habit that many frowned upon him taking advantage of. He had refrained from dabbling lately. But the old feelings still remained: the obsessive hatred of boredom, the inability to distract himself. He had successfully avoided his illicit drug habit for almost four months. One day he found himself rooting through 221b, in all his old hiding spots for something. After three thorough searches of the house (each hiding spot long emptied by John and Mary months and months ago) he lay on the floor of the living room, staring up at the ceiling willing the world to either stop spinning or spin faster, (he wasn't sure which at the moment), twirling John's handgun on his finger. It wasn't loaded, or at least he didn't think it was.

The door opened and closed.

"Hello? Anyone home?" a bag was set on the table. "Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson said you were up here-" Molly's light footfalls stopped halfway through the house. Whatever she'd brought was dropped to the kitchen floor. He listened as she took down the blanket from the back of John's chair.

Suddenly, he felt the weight of her as she laid down next to him on the floor, drawing the throw over them. Carefully, she withdrew the gun from his hand, emptied the chamber, and set the bullets and gun out of reach.

He felt himself release a breath, realizing his heartbeat was returning to normal. His overloaded senses began to slow to normal. Molly leaned herself against him, arm thrown over his middle.

"Tell me what's wrong."

He licked his lips, staring at the ceiling. "Everything. Nothing. I want…" he felt her stiffen only briefly. He curled an arm over her, squeezing her gently, she returned the gesture. "It doesn't make any sense."

"The world never does," she answered softly. "Tell me what you need tonight."

Again, he was quiet, he glanced up at the mantle, a little jar half-full of colored plastic coins from rehab, marking how long he'd been clean. Again, he squeezed gently. "You. I need…I think…"

When he trailed off, Molly lifted her head, looking up at Sherlock. His expression was pained, ashamed, and he didn't meet her gaze. She rolled onto her stomach, resting on her elbows so she could look at him properly. "Sherlock,"

He glanced at her before quickly averting his gaze.

"Look at me, please?"

Not one to deny Molly, he obeyed.

She bent her head, pressing the corner of his mouth. Then she sat up onto her knees, taking him by the hands, and helping him sit up. "Tell me what you need."

He looked at her this time. "I don't think I should be alone tonight." In the quiet admission, Sherlock felt a little pride slip away. No one ever said an addiction was healthy, and he was certain there were many people who would tell him his pride needed a few good knocks. Still, it was difficult, saying such a thing to someone he truly did admire.

Her eyes were shining at him, and tears threatened to fall. She nodded, her smile brave and gentle. "Okay," she said softly. She squeezed his hands, nodding again. "Okay." She brought him up onto the couch, pulled him close, drawing him up between her legs, with his back and head against her chest. They channel surfed until they found the most rubbish show on the television, which engaged both of them. After which they watched terrible infomercials and mocked them until Sherlock realized they were missing potentially interesting experiments regarding the knives that could supposedly cut through a coin. The set of knives were ordered, and experiments were planned.

Molly's love was not a bitter pill to take. She gave of herself willingly. Sherlock accepted it as such. What he had once viewed as annoying, merely a means to gain what he wanted, was now a balm, soothing his overworked brain and body. Molly was safe, for Sherlock. She wouldn't tell others when he was having a rough go of things. Soon, he felt comfortable enough to text her when he felt he was in danger of giving in. It didn't seem to matter what time it was. She always came, oversized bag on her shoulder, sometimes toting a bag from the shops, knowing he would be out of everything Sometimes he needed the comforting weight of her leaning against him. Sometimes he needed his hands as well as his brain occupied, and so she brought board games, crafts, experiments, anything to ease the tension in his shoulders and the throbbing in his head.

One day, she brought a large paper bag. Curiosity piqued, he looked inside, then at her, horrified.

"You don't mean- with me?"

"Yes you, I've heard it's really good for the brain, it'll keep you occupied, at least for a little while, you've got to admit that."

"I doubt that." He toed the bag, frowning. "What if someone sees?"

She shrugged. "We'll close the blinds."

"I've got a better idea." He took her by the hand, grabbed the bag, and led her into his room.

Drawing the curtains, he gestured for her to sit on the bed, where he joined her as soon as he had removed his shoes.

All in all, Sherlock didn't mind knitting, as long as Molly promised not to tell. And it was soothing for his head, he had to admit.

There were days when experiments, when her reading to him, or vice-versa, when board games, or even knitting in secret did nothing, and something was inevitably flung across the room making a terrific mess. His last bout ended in him flinging an entire bowl of fingers and sulfuric acid against the kitchen wall. Molly leapt back with a shriek, avoiding getting splashed, and then looked up at him, angry. She ripped off her goggles, peeling off her rubber gloves and slamming them onto the counter with a 'smack'.

"Sherlock!"

When he didn't have the decency to look ashamed, more like a sullen child who didn't get his way, she marched right up to him. "Look at me," she ordered gently.

"It doesn't work," he mumbled. "It doesn't work tonight, Molly, nothing works, nothing-"

She gathered him in her arms, stepping right up to him. She felt him take a sharp intake of breath. She rose up on tiptoe, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Breathe with me," she murmured against him. "Come on, in…two-three-four…and out…two-three-four...in…two-three-four…and out…" her head rested against his shoulder, forehead against his neck warm breath on the space where his top two buttons were undone. Round and round the breathing game went. When she felt him relax in her arms, she turned her head, looking up at him. "Now, tell me what you need?"

"You," he answered hoarsely. "Just you." With that he lowered his head, kissing her gently. Carefully, she stepped back, looking up at him, almost a pained expression in her eyes. He felt his heart lurch. What had he done?

"I'm not a crutch, Sherlock," she said, quiet and unwavering.

He looked right back. "I know."

"Then why…" she gestured to her mouth before dropping her hand to her side.

"Because…" he shrugged helplessly. "Because you make the world…quiet…but not…the bad sort of quiet," he sighed frustrated. "You make me…better. Every time I feel as if I'm losing my mind, if I don't get a fix, if I don't give in and then you're…you, you're there and that's better than a fix because…" he gestured wildly, again frustrated he couldn't find the words. "Because it's you, Molly Hooper. You make the world bearable, you make it…happy. You got me to knit, for God's sake."

She sniffled, wiping her eyes. "Well, I was running out of ideas at the time."

He took a step forward, hands in his pockets. "Can I…" he gestured between them. "Is it all right if we keep holding each other? That's rather nice."

Molly laughed, stepping up to him again. "Yes, it is nice." This time she kissed him. In his arms, she gave a small sigh, arms tightening around him. "I mean it, Sherlock," she said after a moment. "I won't be your crutch. I'm not a means to an end."

"No," he agreed, chin resting on the top of her head. "No, Molly, and while I do want you in my life, I do not want you as a crutch."

"What do you want then?"

So often she had asked what he needed. It wasn't very often, never, in fact, that she asked him what he wanted. Probably because he usually just told her what he wanted.

"I want you," he answered honestly. "Timing is probably bad,"

"It always was for us," she looked up at him, smiling bitter sweetly. "But I think, if you wait a little bit longer, if you give yourself a little more time, I think we just might make it."

It was Molly's gentle way of telling him he wasn't ready yet, and perhaps she was right.

In the end, of course she was right. The road to recovery is never easy, but now, Sherlock had a goal in mind, a real goal worth striving for. It was almost a year before Sherlock was clean, and while Molly was always on call for his difficult days, she made sure things never went beyond good friendship between them, which in the end, Sherlock was grateful for. He would not have been able to bear it if he only ended up using her as yet another means to an end. At the end of the year, clean, and his usual waspish self at people congratulating him on being clean (he did not like it being pointed out at all, really), he caught sight of Molly hanging back, on the fringes of the small group that waited at 221b to celebrate his being clean for a year. He stepped through the group, making a beeline for her. He held up the plastic coin with 'One Year Clean" printed in bold letters on it.

"You reached your goal," she said, doing her very best to hide her smile.

"I did." He nodded. "Doesn't feel as good as a needle, I'm honest," he shrugged.

"Stop it," she scolded gently, laughing at him. "Ask me."

His smile fell. "What?"

"Ask me," she said again, quietly.

He glanced at the group that had dispersed around 221b, busy with their drinks or the game on the television and idle chit-chat. "What do you want?" he asked, softly.

She stepped up to him, slipping her arms around his neck. "You," she said against his mouth before closing the distance between them.