Trigger Warning: discussion of drugs, dealing with withdrawals. Also lotta angst

Surprisingly, or at least to Watson it was, John settled fairly quickly into the chaotic life at 221b Baker Street. If Sherlock Holmes' behavior was at all disturbing, Watson seemed to take it all in stride. Within months of moving in, it became common-place for Watson, as soon as he got up, to search the house and see what predicament Holmes had invariably gotten himself into (and usually to scold him for performing some ridiculous experiment and making more work for Mrs. Hudson). He barely saw anything of Molly except in the mornings when, having found and scolded Sherlock, set out for a short walk up and down Baker Street. By the time he returned, Molly had taken her breakfast and was off to class. Sherlock, for his part, took no note of his wife's comings or goings excepting when he had need to speak with her (which, Watson noted, was not very often, perhaps twice every fortnight). She was an afterthought, and Watson found himself quite forgetting she even lived there, he saw so little of her.

Molly, for her part, immersed herself in medical school, happily throwing herself into the weary work, glad to have the time now to study. There was always the fear in the back of her mind that Sherlock would go and do something foolish again. It was a constant worry she somehow managed to suppress during the first few months that Doctor Watson had moved into Baker Street. She kept out of his way, and he returned the favor. Not that he was a particularly gruff fellow, but he struck her as the sort who did not approve of women doing the work of men, and she'd have rather kept on his good side than aggravate him. Especially when he was tasked with the burden of minding her husband.

If Sherlock noticed her exacerbated absence, he made no mention of it. Indeed, she heard him speaking to Watson once that he supposed she was in the country! The country indeed! His words, coupled with the fact that he simply took no notice of her, still stung, but Molly forged ahead, pouring her energy into studying and keeping up with the courses set out for her. Life, while not particularly happy, was at least busy, and had its own small pleasures that she savored. She kept to herself, kept to her rooms, avoiding the men of the house as if she were sneaking about, as if she did not truly belong there. There was no hint of a woman's presence in Baker Street, which seemed to be how the men liked it. If it kept the peace, Molly was satisfied, despite her feelings of being left out of her own house.

Mycroft did not make an appearance for the first three months, though he kept tabs on Molly's progress in class and Sherlock's routes about London. When he did finally drop by Baker Street, Watson seemed surprised.

"You!"

"Indeed," Mycroft handed his hat over to Mrs. Hudson, along with his gloves and umbrella.

"You're the one who suggested I rent here!"

"So I am," Mycroft agreed. "Is my little brother in, Doctor Watson, or is he out and about oiling his line of Irregulars?"

Watson, for a moment, was befuddled.

Molly, who had heard the exchange from the stairway, made an appearance. Reaching for Mycroft, she smiled a familial smile, one, Watson noted, that reached her eyes. She looked as if she had not smiled in such a long while, and Watson, while confused as to the stranger now standing in the hallway of Baker Street, suddenly found him wondering if he had ever seen Molly smile in the past months that he had lived there.

"How is my sister in-law?" Mycroft asked, bending to kiss her proffered cheek.

"Well as to be expected. Sherlock is in the parlor, working away on another case. I'd advise you to be brief," Molly said, showing him into the parlor. "He's mad as a hornets nest."

"Hmm," Mycroft nodded.

"Oh," Molly looked between her brother in-law to Doctor Watson. "Doctor Watson, this is Mycroft Holmes, my brother in-law, I had thought you two had already met."

"Yes, but we had not been properly introduced," Watson stuck out his hand, to which Mycroft looked at it with some bit of disdain.

"No." Was all the taller gentleman said.

"He doesn't," Molly interjected. "At least not having just come from the street."

"Far too many germs. Too few Londoners do now know how to wash properly," Mycroft went on into the parlor without another word as Watson frowned at his own hand, looking as if he felt he ought to be insulted, at least on some level.

"He's a good man," Molly said quietly. "He might not strike you as one at first, it's the Holmes way, I'm afraid," she smiled apologetically. "Well, if there is nothing else you need, I have a class this afternoon I must get ready for."

"No, nothing," Watson said, still looking into the parlor, not paying any more attention to Molly.

She shrugged and went on upstairs, glad at least that Sherlock and Mycroft were not bellowing at each other. Life was busy, and Molly was glad for it, but she could not help but feel that she was on the precipice of a terrible decision, and she did not like feeling that some awful thing was about to happen. Whenever she felt this way, something usually did.

Some Weeks Later…

Unfortunately, the feeling in the pit of her stomach proved she'd been right. She returned home one evening quite late to the sound of shouting.

"Answer me, you bleeding idiot! What was it?"

"Deduce me, Watson, you need the practice."

The heavy tones of her husband, the slight slurring of his speech had Molly heaving a tired sigh. She set her things down by the door under the coat rack and pulled off her hat and scarf. She felt her lower lip tremble with the beginnings of a hysterical, exhaustive bout of sobbing she desperately wanted to give way to. She was so awfully tired of these days. Tired of Sherlock giving up and giving in. Unwilling to change for anyone, not even himself. And there she was, ready to pick up the pieces and sort him out and get him back on his feet as if she were put in the house just for that purpose. If he would not change, then something else would have to.

Watson, having heard the door, muttered: "You wait there, and don't you dare move!" he appeared, looking quite stormy, coming to stand before Molly in the hallway, hands on his hips. "Your husband has taken something."

She only nodded, looking absolutely enervated. "Morphia or cocaine?"

Watson goggled at her, clearly shocked. "You knew he-"

"Was it morphia or cocaine, Doctor Watson?" Molly persisted, unbuttoning her cuffs, she rolled her sleeves up. "Time is of the essence if it is cocaine. While methodical in his intake with morphia, my husband often forgets how much in-between doses of cocaine, his highs are not the same."

"I am uncertain, he will not tell me," Watson replied.

"What, in your medical profession, would you say he took?" Molly asked. "Is there a strap by the table? He puts away his needles, but he always forgets the strap, if it was morphia. If it was cocaine, there won't be a trace, he's always careful."

"Cocaine would suggest a manic state-"

"My husband takes either to…" Molly sighed heavily again. "It calms his mental state, or so he says. The usual effects of cocaine do not appear in him. Only when he has withdrawals." She made to enter the parlor, but Watson quickly stepped in front of her.

"Perhaps you should-"

"He won't deal with anyone but me when he's in this state," Molly replied, pushing past him.

In the parlor, the window curtains had been thrown open, so Molly went straight away and shut them. Sherlock, for his part, blinked owlishly at her in the dim light.

"Molly…where have you been?"

"Out,"

"No, silly woman, I mean this week…month…thing…" he waggled his fingers, trying to think of the correct word.

"I've been here," Molly answered, tugging him to an upright position, placing a pillow behind his back to make him sit up. "Come on," she picked up the newspapers and books scattered across the coffee table, careful not to disturb the order they were in, and seated herself across from him. "Now, Sherlock, listen to me, look at me," fingers under his chin, she forced him to turn towards her. Glassy eyes stared back. "What did you take?"

He reached forward, fingering the curls at the nape of her neck. "Your hair today, s'pretty," he murmured.

She batted his hand away. "Stop it. Tell me what you took."

He looked at her somberly. "You're upset."

"Yes," she answered, (Watson was astonished at her calmness). "Now tell me what you took."

He looked at her, the wheels of his mind slowly turning, and a smile spread across his face. "You guess."

Watson, arms folded across his chest, looked just about ready to punch Holmes. "Sherlock Holmes, you do this to yourself, and then force your poor wife to-"

"She's used to it, Watson, now shut up!" Sherlock barked irritably, then faced Molly again. "If I am here, Mrs. Holmes, what might you deduce that I took? Obviously I acquired it myself-"

"You can acquire any number of things for yourself," Molly interrupted him. "Doctors hand morphia and cocaine out in medicinal form as if it were sweets,"

Watson looked affronted, but glanced at his medical bag in the corner. He had, at one time, wondered why Mrs. Holmes did not keep medicines of any sort in the house, indeed if one had a headache or any sort of ailment in 221b Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson would be sent off to find some herbal remedy, rather than a good English Doctor and the bottles of medicine or powders.

"It depends entirely upon the grade you felt you required, the amount, and what you were craving this time," Molly studied her husband. She took his hands in hers, looking carefully at his neatly trimmed nails, then turned his hands over, pushed up his sleeves and looked for the mark a strap would have left, and a mark of a needle. Finding none on either arm, she looked at him, then turned to Watson. "Cocaine, by powder form I think. He's talkative, he isn't usually so on morphia. Cocaine leaves him with most of his senses intact, just slowed down somewhat." Taking a seat by her husband, she put his arm around her neck, getting him to his feet. "We'll need a bowl of warm water, and a bowl of cool water, and clean flannels for both. Can you start a fire?"

Watson, somewhat taken aback that this quiet woman was suddenly giving him orders, did not know what to say at first. "Yes," he answered at last. "Yes I can, shall I put one up here?" he moved to the parlor fireplace, but Molly shook her head.

"No, my husband's room, he'll have withdrawals soon enough, cocaine does not seem to bring him quite as high, and they never last long. How long has he been like this?"

"Most of the day I suppose, I had not noticed something was wrong until I realized it was past four and he had not stirred," Watson took Holmes other arm, helping Molly bring him upstairs.

"Took sometime in the mid-morning then," Molly said, half to herself. "Has the case not been going well?"

"He hasn't had any cases," Watson replied, getting the door to the room open. "He finished up whatever case that Inspector gave him to tinker with days ago."

"And you never thought he might require something else to do?!" Molly cried, having deposited her husband onto the bed.

"I didn't know he got like this!" Watson shouted in reply. He quickly lowered his head. "I'm sorry," he had the decency to look ashamed, though still quite angry. "When I was offered a room to rent here, I did not realize the master of the house was a drug addict."

Molly, arms folded across her middle, chewed on her bottom lip. "Very well then," she went to the basin where Mrs. Hudson had delivered a jug of warm water. She washed her hands, then dried them on a towel. "If you are unhappy here, we will not hold you to your lease. You are of course free to go at any time."

"Mollyyyy…" Sherlock croaked from the bed, half on his side, facing the opposite wall.

She crossed the room, seating herself beside him. She looked to Watson. "I trust you won't speak of this to anyone."

Watson did not know what to say at first, he certainly had not expected Mrs. Holmes to offer him notice, and yet he did not blame her. There was a knock on the door, startling him from his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson was there with a large tray, two bowls of water, one steaming hot, both with flannels draped over the sides. Without another thought, Watson took the tray from the elderly woman and requested she shut the door when she left.

Setting the tray on the bedside table, he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

"Which flannel do you want for him first?" he asked.

Molly looked at him with some surprise, then the bowls of water. "The warm first, please, I'll wash his face while his temperature is still somewhat normal. As it elevates, we'll treat him as we would a patient with a fever: cool flannels on his forehead-"

"And a roaring fire to sweat it out," Watson finished with a nod. He handed her the warm washcloth and then set to work starting a fire. As he gently blew the embers, encouraging them to catch hold of the kindling, he marveled at the strength of Molly Holmes. Here was a quiet, determined woman who would not sit idly by. There was sorrow within her past, he was sure of it, and yet she did not seem to let it swallow her up. She moved staunchly onward, and he admired her for it.

Slowly, Sherlock's high wore off, and his moods quickly moved from irritably demanding more of anything to take, fury at Watson and Molly's flat refusal, and finally sullen resignation. The tremors did not begin until after midnight when there was nothing to be done for him but keep him warm and ply him with water.

"You know the after-effects of cocaine, I wonder at your ever deciding this is not worth the high."

"Forgot, obviously," Sherlock grunted, deathly pale, drenched in cold-sweat. "Molly, do promise me you'll remind me."

"Since when have you ever made public when you were about to use anything?" Molly replied. "Let alone to me?" she wiped her husband's face. "I'm only ever called for the aftermath." She was quiet a moment. "That's what I'm good for, Sherlock. Cleaning up in your wake. It's a wonder you didn't keep me as a maid rather than a wife. Might have saved you a good deal of trouble."

Sherlock, despite feeling abominable in the truest sense of the word, looked with alarm at his wife. There was a bitterness to her words, a sharpness in her tongue he had not known her to be capable of. Yet thinking on his past actions, he did not blame her for saying what she felt.

"No," was all he managed to say, he made to take her hand and she let him, though she did not smile, nor did she take any pleasure in his touch. "What can I do?" he asked softly. "What will you have me do?"

Molly knew these rare moments of sincerity, almost always during withdrawals, always ready and willing to do something to please her. She often ignored him at these instances, finding she would not and could not change him. Sherlock would have to do that himself. Still, she looked at him now, and without another thought, answered him: "You may forget me, if you wish."

Watson looked over his shoulder from the basin, surprised.

"You never wanted me to begin with," Molly continued. "And I am little more than a burden. Don't call me 'Mrs. Holmes' or 'My Pet' or 'Dearest' anymore."

Sherlock blinked at her, through the haze and pain and feverish delirium, was shocked, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "What am I to call you then?"

She drew a breath, needing no time to think. "I am Molly Hooper, and I rent my room from you for four shillings a week. You need not refer to yourself anymore as married, should you not wish to, nor will you impress upon me wifely duties any longer. I am your lodger, and you are the landlord. At this moment, I am helping you through a bout of illness. Doctor Watson, your friend, is here as well to assist."

Sherlock did not know what to say. He was confused, weary, still trembling with fever and cold-sweats. He had suddenly got what he once wished so dearly for at the start of his marriage: freedom. But he found the idea of Molly keeping him at arms-length suddenly distasteful. He realized that she would no longer at times crawl into his bed and put her cold knees on his back, nor embrace him when she received particularly pleasing news. Yet, this was what he wanted, wasn't it? And here, she was asking for it as well. She must have truly wanted it as well then.

"Well then, Miss Hooper," he did not miss the clench in her jaw, she was biting the inside of her cheek. His vision blurred somewhat, though he was certain she was blinking too. "I thank you, for your assistance. Doctor Watson can tend to me very well; you needn't trouble yourself on my account."

She woodenly set down the flannels, smoothed her skirt, and turned to Doctor Watson. "Mr. Holmes should be looked after for the next day and a half. He'll sleep most of tomorrow, more than likely. He should be woken up by luncheon, and given something fortifying to eat, something hot and filling, not just a sandwich, and a strong cup of tea, though he'll demand coffee. If he demands coffee from you, and Mrs. Hudson is not to be found, he takes it black, with three sugars, tea with cream, plain. He will need cases, Doctor Watson, continually. If he's to be kept from this, he will need to keep his mind busy, the seasons do not matter, as long as there is something to keep him from becoming bored to the point of using. I trust now you'll look for the signs."

"If I need anything, I'll know who to ask," Watson answered quietly, meaning her.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson is quite adept at knowing what Mr. Holmes needs," Molly replied.

Watson shook his head. "No I meant-"

"Goodnight, Doctor Watson, goodnight Mr. Holmes, I trust you will be back to your usual self in the morning." With that she gathered her skirts and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Every step up to her own room she felt her resolve bending. She was mad, absolutely mad! A woman must be mad, to give up a husband, any husband. Molly knew herself, knew her limitations, and this last instance was too much to bear. She was tired of it. Shutting the door of her room, she went quietly to her desk and set about writing a short note.

Creeping out of her room once more, she moved swiftly past Sherlock's room, hearing only muffled voices, noises really, as if someone within was quietly weeping. She shook her head, deciding her ears were playing tricks on her.

Finding an Irregular was no tricky thing, indeed there was usually one lingering around the kitchen steps of 221b. Molly called down: "Hello, there,"

In a moment, a teenage boy appeared. Seeing it was Molly, he quickly removed his cap, revealing his bright red hair.

"Hello missus," he said. "Anything the matter?"

"No nothing, Henry," Molly shook her head. "I am not a 'missus' any longer, will you please inform the Irregulars that I am 'Miss Hooper' now?" The boy stared at her with a critical eye, Molly knew well enough when she was being deduced. At the moment, she could not bring herself to care. "Will you deliver this to Mr. Holmes, the elder?"

"Yes…Miss," he replaced his cap, taking the note and waited for her to retreat into the house before setting off at a steady jog. No matter what Miss Hooper said, something was most certainly amiss at 221b Baker Street.