Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. There is one more chapter to this, methinks. And thanks for their reviews go to incomprensibile, likingthistoomuch, Emma Lynch, Bekah1218 and Aphraelsan.

- PRO RE NATA -

Sherlock's already there by the time Molly finds them.

He's standing, swaying, his hair tussled. The knuckles of his right hand are bloodied and grazed. He's staring at the bed before him and its still occupant, his shoulders hunched, his face turned away from her-

Molly takes a step forward into the hospital room. Makes for the bed.

She wants to take Tom's hands in her own, to touch him while she can. While he's still breathing. (She knows he won't be doing so for long, Moriarty's bullet saw to that).

Sherlock hears her coming in. Turns, sees her. His skin is grey and clammy, his eyes bloodshot, the irises mere pinpricks. There's a tremor to his hands and his expression is wild. Lost.

He's high, she realises. He's completely bloody stoned.

Is that why she couldn't get through to him when the threat came through to her phone? she finds herself thinking. Is that why he's been missing all bloody day?

Molly stares at him in shock, in anger, unable to quite handle the ball of fury which rises within her- unable to quite understand why it's even there-

"It was supposed to be Janine," he says, and his voice is slurred. Slow. His tone suggests that Janine's presence in that hospital bed, rather than Tom's, would make it all ok. He shakes his head as if he's trying to clear it but it does no good, it merely causes him to slip, makes him catch himself on the bedside locker.

"I set it up," he's saying, "they were supposed to believe- They were supposed to look away from-"

And he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, curls in on himself.

He keeps muttering about how this wasn't supposed to happen. How it wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I saw to it that Janine got protection," he's babbling, "I made sure you weren't important. I made sure you were kept clear. I knew Moriarty would target a woman I was close to, I made sure it wouldn't be you-"

"But it was me, wasn't it? It was me he targeted- by proxy."

And Molly knows her voice is cold. Harsh.

She can't help that and to be honest right now she doesn't bloody want to.

Because Tom- her Tom- the man she was going to marry- the man whose heart she broke- He's lying before her in a hospital bed, only breathing because of machines, only alive in the barest of terms and she can't do this. She can't take care of Sherlock and his feelings. She can't, she can't, she can't-

The thought comes and suddenly, without any warning the tears well up, her breath snatching jaggedly at her throat. Squeezing it. Raking it. Suddenly her chest is tight with sobs and a horrible, voiceless sorrow and she doesn't know why, she doesn't know why she's doing this, she doesn't know why this happened-

Oh God, oh God, she thinks. Tom, Tom darling. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

Arms come around her, Sherlock drunkenly trying to hold her, to soothe her. His balance is shaky, his body trembling with the force of the chemicals running through it but he tries. She can feel him trying. Their combined upset and weight is too much though, they stagger and land against the edge of Tom's bed, Sherlock barely staying upright, Molly splaying against him. He's murmuring to her, telling her it's alright, it's alright, he's got her, he's got her-

She pulls back, about to tell him she's ok but when she looks at him something… Something catches in him.

She hears his indrawn breath, sees him freeze. Grow still.

She's about to ask what he wants- what he's realised, even- but before she can she feels his arms tighten around her, one hand fisting the fabric of her trousers even as he dips his head towards her.

His balance is totally shot and he's pressing against her, his body loose and lax.

And then, then his mouth is on hers, his touch his lips bestow too hungry to be called a kiss, too harsh to be anything else. It burns. It freezes.

It's not like anything she's ever wanted, and certainly not now.

Molly's body jerks, anger and bewilderment moving through her as he sighs and pulls back. Smiles drunkenly at her, as if this one thing has made everything alright. As if that one sloppy, stoned kiss has made everything right between them.

"You're okay," he's whispering, his tone almost happy. Honeyed. He's cupping her face, staring into her eyes. "You've survived, you're still here. You still don't matter, not to anyone else…"

His words act like a switch. The turn of a lock.

Without any warning Molly pushes him away, steps back. She stumbles and her fingers brush against Tom's pale, warm, hand.

Revulsion rises in her, making her startle back. Jerk away. Still high, still smiling, Sherlock follows after her and as he does she feels it again, that ball of rage and hurt and, yes, she recognises it now, disgust at what is happening before her.

With one hand he grabs for her but she dodges; when he tries again she braces both hands against his chest and pushes him away, hard.

He blinks at her, his expression hurt and she can't help it, she can't explain this to him-

"No," she snarls. "No, no, you're not doing this to me, Sherlock. You're not doing this in front of him, in front of me. Being stupid and high doesn't make this bloody ok-"

And she scrambles to the door, takes off to the end of the corridor. She's already pulling out her phone, ringing Meena and asking can she stay at hers tonight.

She thinks Sherlock tries to follow but she can't be certain. She doesn't look back and she doesn't want to.

She curls up on Meena's couch, her heart breaking, trying to keep her sobs quiet so her friend can sleep.

When she returns to her flat the next morning she finds Sherlock curled up and asleep, blocking the way to her front door.