Thank you ever so much for the feedback and the follows/favourites, you're all very kind. Couple of points to make, both to do with drug addled brains:

Firstly, I'm writing from experience. I take codeine (morphine derivative) for my condition, and it messes with you. I'm trying to combine how it messes with me, with how I perceive Sherlock. I apologise if the balance is off.

Secondly, due to above reasons, my English for an English person can be awful. I apologise for this too, I try my best to write on days when I'm more coherent.

Again, many thanks, and enjoy!

3

Darkness was falling outside; Molly's stomach rumbled she'd had to have an early lunch to compensate for the drive out of London. She sighed inwardly, having not moved for what must have been at least two hours had left her extremely uncomfortable and really rather hungry. What topped off the whole situation was that she knew Sherlock wouldn't notice if she left, he was probably deep in his mind-palace somewhere, but he had hold of her in such a fashion that she wouldn't be able to move without disturbing him. He held her tightly to his chest, one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist; she could hear him breathing steadily, the soft cotton of his shirt against her cheek. Her stomach growled again, making her wince at how loud it sounded in the silence of the shed.
"Dinner will be here soon," Sherlock mumbled into the encroaching darkness, tightening his hold on her. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to let her go, but his drug-addled mind wouldn't have it any other way. He shuffled on the spot to get some blood flow back into his legs, he felt Molly flinch as he uncrossed his legs- was she hurt? Had he hurt her? She couldn't be hurt, she wasn't hurt when she got here and surely that minor altercation with the coffee table earlier wouldn't cause such a reaction?
"Are you hurt?" He asked quickly, hoping the speed of the sentence would hide the panic behind it. Molly shook her head and manoeuvred as much as she could in his grip.
"Just uncomfortable," She answered, almost falling over when he suddenly decided to loosen his grip on her- he was now holding her in a much more fragile fashion, as if she was suddenly made of glass. Molly stretched her legs out and uncoiled her back, noting that it was now very dark in the shed. She could feel him leaning his head against hers, his breath chasing her hair like the wind often did. This small moment was broken by the sound of three knocks on the window, to which Sherlock jumped up off the floor, dragging Molly up with him by the wrist. She tripped on the blanket nest on her way up, going head first into Sherlock's abdomen and landing them both on the floor with a massive thud.
"Sorry," Molly groaned into his stomach, and tried to push herself up; surprised to see he still had hold of her wrist. Sherlock hated not being in control of situations, it usually lead to uncomfortable conversations with Mycroft about how stupid, and slow, and disappointing he was. Then again, Mycroft was lonely, and he was not. He may not understand why they wanted to be his friends, but he was glad for the company and contrast they provided him. He pondered his predicament, what if Molly was right? She was usually right with cadavers, and when he'd last been caught with drugs in his system, especially when his mind palace version of her had talked him through how to survive being shot, so why would she not be correct now? She'd obviously done her research, and he wasn't one to argue with evidence, even if it did come from the realm of the social 'sciences'. Sherlock wasn't sure why he couldn't let go of Molly's wrist, logically it would make standing up and getting food much easier, or indeed, why having the small woman's face buried in his abdomen was strangely pleasant. He decided it had something to do with her being his friend- not his area, so could easily fall there- he would think this through later.
"Shall we try that again?" Molly asked, she could have sworn he jumped slightly at her words, as if he was lost in his thoughts somewhere. The next attempt was a bit more co-ordinated, and resulted in both of them successfully on their feet, well, Molly on Sherlock's feet. He shuffled out from under her feet, and took her over to the front of the shed; Molly winced slightly at the pressure on the bruises developing on her wrist.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," She put her free hand on the one he had around her wrist, and gently prised it off her, holding the now shaking hand in both of hers. Sherlock was grateful he didn't have a light switch and hadn't turned on any of the lamps, he wasn't sure how he looked right now and if he would be able to hide whatever it was that he was expressing. He took his free hand and opened a hatch in the wall, outside it looked like a letterbox, but it functioned as a way of keeping his mother quiet about his eating habits. He removed the carrier bag and refastened the hatch, the smell of Shepherd's pie diffusing around them. Molly's mouth began to water, and her stomach grumbled loudly.

"I believe I owe you dinner, Molly," He whispered, gripping the hand that was underneath his tightly, and leading her over to the work bench. He lifted Molly onto a stool she hadn't realised was there and lit a gas-lamp, it wasn't quite dinner by candle light, but she'd take it. Molly giggled to herself at the thought and watched his eyebrow arch in response. She shrugged at him, she shouldn't have to explain everything she was thinking- or should she? His eyes were bloodshot and damp, he'd been crying, she sighed and smiled up at him,

"Dinner would be lovely," She noticed Sherlock exhale sharply, as he closed the curtains and dug out some forks; he handed one to her, and a Tupperware container full of mash and meaty goodness.

"This is delicious!" She exclaimed through her mouthful, Sherlock smirked.

"Don't talk with your mouthful, Molly," He chided softly, she almost choked on her dinner that tone of voice was unexpected.

"How much did you take?!" She blurted out; Sherlock stopped eating and looked at her as if she'd sprouted purple horns. "I mean, you've been quiet, you've not deduced anyone to the point of them wanting to hit you, you've only just let go of me! This is nothing like the reaction you exhibited last time- different drugs, different dose, what is it Sherlock?" Her voice got higher and higher pitched until she realised he was just standing there as if she was trying to lecture him on astronomy- confused. She sighed,

"It's just unnerving, you being not you…" She began to explain, when he turned sharply on his heal, and took his dinner into the blanket nest facing the wall. Molly sighed and looked at the door of the shed; there was no way she could leave him like this. She scooped the last of her dinner into her mouth and deposited the Tupperware onto the workbench. She slid down off the stool and walked over to the heap of blankets in the back corner of the room that was essentially a Sherlock chrysalis. Molly picked up his surprisingly empty dish from in front of the blankets and put it over on the worktop, shaking her head: here went nothing; she might even get a butterfly out of it. She crouched down next to Sherlock who was lying on the floor, back facing her with the covers over his head.

"We love you just the way you are, it's always unsettling when someone steps out of character, regardless of whom. I don't think any less of you for it Sherlock, we're all scared." She sat down facing the front of the shed, and attempted to dig his head out of the duvet. For a small person, she put up a good fight, but couldn't get him to relinquish his cocoon. She stood over him and examined the bundle in front of her, trying to work out the best way to address the situation. She decided that the least intrusive on him would be to sit down between him and the wall and wait until he needed oxygen and had to unravel himself a little- then she could try digging him out again. Molly placed her hand on the covers on top of Sherlock's head and hummed a tune to herself quietly. After half an hour of silence she got up and turned off the gas lamp, plunging the small room into darkness. She fumbled her way back to the blanket nest, taking extra special care not to trip, and placed her hands on Sherlock's waist. She felt him stiffen, even under the thick blanket, but clambered over him regardless. Once she had returned to her position in between him and the wall, she tried to find his air-vent, there was no way he could be buried under there and getting enough oxygen. Well, she thought to herself, you've finally found yourself fumbling around in the dark with Sherlock. Of course fumbling in the dark with Sherlock would mean checking if he's breathing. She sighed heavily and continued on her quest, eventually managing to fit her hand in between some of the less tightly bound covers around where the lower half of his head was. Molly wriggled her hand about, making a reasonable sized hole. She retracted her hand, satisfied that he would now be a little less likely to suffocate himself, and wondered what to do next.

"You are impossible," She sighed at the blanket lump.

There was another knock at the window; Molly got up to turn the gas-lamp back on and investigate what had been put in the hatch so late. She smiled to herself, a thermos of tea, two cups, and some biscuits. Mrs Holmes was a lovely lady, how with sons like Sherlock and Mycroft she'd never know. Molly took the tray of tea and biscuits down to where she was sitting before, and poured herself a cup to sooth her frayed nerves. She picked up a biscuit to dunk in her tea, when suddenly a memory of feeding Toby cat biscuits under her blanket on the sofa hit her. She grinned to herself, Sherlock was in many ways like her cat, only wanted you when they needed something, they both liked chasing things, and they both seemed rather fond of biscuits. Molly refrained from dunking her biscuit and instead put her hand holding said biscuit into the air hole she'd created. She managed to get in far enough to brush the back of her hand against his cheek. Sherlock flinched at the contact, he was unused to any sort of physical contact as most people could see he wasn't one for it, and here he was being fed biscuits by Molly Hooper, another situation he filed away to analyse later. His mother had always had a strange telepathy with respect to when tea and biscuits were required in the shed, and this wasn't the first time he was grateful for it. He made a mental note to thank her more often, he knew she'd appreciated it and seeing as he was doing the caring thing now, he might as well- in for a penny in for a pound as they say.

"I highly doubt you'll answer this, you're probably miles off in your mind palace, if you're not just plain ignoring me. But there's tea here if you want it, if you don't want to talk that's fine. I won't force you. I'll still be here when you're ready to, whenever that is," Molly gabbled a couple of semi-coherent sentences into the silence, and was surprised when he sat up, and shook the covers down off his face, to around his waist.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked Molly, moderately confused. She shrugged,

"That's what friends do for each other, they don't abandon them," Molly said quietly, handing him a cup of tea and another biscuit.

"Would you do this for John?" He asked, Molly let out a short laugh,

"He's got Mary for this sort of thing, that's a whole other level of caring. You'd do anything for the one you love, to make sure they don't get hurt." She mumbled into her cup, trying not to cry.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows furrowed, he disliked the social protocols associated with sentiment. Molly smiled a small smile, not looking up from her tea,

"If John was ill or upset, then Mary would stroke his hair, hold him close, talk nonsense to try and make him smile. It's just different, I don't expect you to understand," She took a mouthful of tea to calm her down, trying not to think about how she'd never have anyone to care for her like that. Something John had said to Sherlock flashed across his mind momentarily: "People protect people, Sherlock." The memory vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he caught himself staring at Molly. She was still too absorbed in her tea to notice, so he took the opportunity to observe. In short, she looked sad, overwhelmingly so. The sight, for reasons he wasn't quite sure of, made him feel sad. Why was she so sad? He surmised that it must be to do with talking about Mary and John when her own attempt at marital bliss hadn't even made the church. He groaned inwardly, it was his fault, again. Why did he always end up hurting the people he cared about? He made another mental note to address this problem later; his present focus should be aimed at making Molly less sad. That was something a friend should do. He untangled himself from the blankets and transferred all the tea related items back onto the tray; he peeled the tea mug from Molly's grip, and took the tray over to the work surface. Upon his return to the blanket nest he saw she had brought her knees up to her chest, and was resting her head on them, staring blankly at the front wall of the shed. Sherlock sat down next to Molly, unsure of what to do- she had said that hair stroking was a tool to be used by people with intimacy, but it was obvious to him that she would appreciate it. Perhaps he should try a different method.

"What do you need, Molly?" He asked softly, she blinked twice in surprise at both the question and tone in which it was asked.

"I'll be ok, don't worry about me," She replied, the quiver in her voice betraying her.

"You once said to me, that I looked sad. You were willing to offer anything to help. You risked your job, one of the most important things to you. It's about time I at least tried to repay that, even if only in part. I'm not good at this, Molly; all the caring stuff is new to me. I don't want to upset you anymore than I already have done." He surprised himself with what he'd said, did that mean she'd see it as insincere and drug induced? He wasn't sure about the latter, but he was certainly being sincere. He wouldn't blame her if he didn't believe him, he'd used her often enough.

"It's ok, Sherlock…" She began,

"I'm being sincere," He interrupted, "I mean it, and I meant it before, I want you to be happy and you deserve to be so." Sherlock finished softly. Molly couldn't hold it back any more, she burst into tears. Sherlock froze, what was the protocol for a crying female? He had no idea; he racked his mind-palace for a reasonable solution to the problem. The weather in there wasn't so great, thick mist had descended over the space, he ran to the heavily chained door labelled 'Childhood' and let the chains fall off the door. He took a large breath and went through the door he never thought he'd visit again. A strong memory of his mother holding him to her chest, enveloped him, she was stroking his hair after he'd been on the end of a more stinging attack from his brother, he was only nine years old at the time. He retracted back to the real world, and saw Molly had gone. He got up and saw that the 'bathroom' door was shut, thankfully it had no lock, so Sherlock knocked on it lightly he could hear her crying on the other side.

"Come out Molly, or I'll come in, the door doesn't lock," He tried to sound as unthreatening as possible. He stepped back to allow her to come out, should she choose to do so, and thirty seconds later he wasn't disappointed. A forlorn looking Molly shuffled out, tissue in hand. She couldn't bring herself to look up at him, this wasn't the first time he had made her cry, and she didn't want him to be able to read that off her face. Much to her surprise he didn't say anything, just enveloped her in a hug, and a proper hug at that. This minor show of affection was enough to set her off again and she sobbed into his chest. Sherlock was perplexed at her reaction, hugs were supposed to make things better, not worse. Maybe she needed something more? He wasn't quite sure what he meant by more, but decided that he would comfort her like his mother had done for him all those years ago. After all, that was all he had to go on. He picked her up with relative ease and carried her over to the blanket nest, putting her down gently so she was sat on the floor. He sat down beside her, lifted her onto his lap, and took the scrunchie out of her hair. Molly wriggled into a comfy position, with her face buried in his neck; she could feel his breath on her cheek and his hand running through her hair. The whole scenario was too good to be true, she knew the probability of this ever happening again was very slim, and the thought of that started her off crying again. Sherlock twisted his head round a little and whispered in her ear,

"Please stop crying Molly; I don't know what else to do,"