Someone mentioned that it sounded as though Sherlock is dead. I don't want to give things away, but I can say for certain that Sherlock is most definitely NOT dead. I thought I'd been clear in the text by having John and Molly speak about him in the present tense, but I may have been too vague or subtle. My apologies. Thanks for reading!

Part I: Kicking the Habit

Chapter 3: Warmer

"After all that, you still went back?" John was clearly baffled. "Why? He was a complete arse!" He was leaning forward on the park bench, long-empty coffee cup dangling in his hands. He looked at Molly sideways as she drained the last cold dregs of her own coffee.

"I thought about not going back. I wasn't, at first. But I thought about it a lot. And I decided he needed a distraction. If it really was as bad as he said, he needed something to clear his head. Just until he was through with the withdrawal symptoms. Just for a little while."

"What did you do?" John asked. They stood and made their way to the rubbish bin to dispose of their cups. Molly gave John a conspiratorial smile.

"I brought him board games. Cluedo was his favorite, but we never did play it again."

John let out a barking laugh. "No, I imagine not."

Molly sat stock still, staring down at the overturned board. Game pieces were still rolling around on the floor, and the small deck of cards was upended in Molly's lap. She frowned at Sherlock.

"Lovely," she murmured, looking down at the cards in her lap. She picked them up gingerly and set them on top of the overturned board. "Next game then?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock rubbed a hand down his face, over his stubble. He sounded both bored and annoyed, something Molly would come to realize was his signature mood.

"I'm trying to help you—"

"I don't need your help."

"No, you don't need anything. But you're getting it from me regardless. Now grab Operation or I'll set up Cluedo again."

Sherlock looked at her from where he was slumped in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. His thin frame was clad in a dark blue dressing gown, gray shirt, and checkered pajama pants. He was looking a little better; still a little homeless, but at least he'd showered. They stared at each other. Sherlock's usual look of distaste was on his face and Molly's lips were pressed into a thin, stubborn line.

After a long impasse, Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached over to his side table. He grabbed the Operation box and held it out to her. She took it from him and began setting it up in Cluedo's place atop the overturned box they'd been using as a table.

As it turned out, Operation wasn't such a good idea. Sherlock was still wracked with tremors, which made him angry, and he became so violently ill halfway through that he couldn't even keep crackers and water down. Molly sat on the edge of his tub, damp cloth and bottled water in hand, as he wretched into the toilet. She gave him the water and rag between heaves so he could rinse and wipe his mouth. After a series of dry heaves, Sherlock slumped back against the tub next to her legs, rag held to his mouth.

"You don't need to be here. Or come back," he told her.

"Don't let me hurt your pride," she responded.

She didn't have to be looking at him to know he was rolling his eyes.

"You're in need of a shave. You'll feel better if you shave." This was a leap of faith; Sherlock didn't look like the type to keep a beard, but she had no way of knowing for sure. Sherlock held his hand up flat in the air, and they watched his fingers shake.

"I suppose you'd have me slit my own throat," he grumbled. Now it was Molly's turn to roll her eyes. She pushed herself off the edge of the tub and opened his medicine cabinet. His straight razor was on the bottom shelf. She held it up to him, eyebrow cocked.

"Nonsense," she said. "I've never given a man a shave, and I work with the dead more than the living, but I can give it a go."

Sherlock was dubious, to say the least. Within ten minutes he was sitting in his one dining chair, dragged into the bathroom from the kitchen. Molly had draped a towel around his shoulders and lathered him up with shaving cream. His head was tipped back, and she was all too aware of his startlingly bright eyes watching her warily. She held his razor poised at his neck. Her hand was steady (it always was; she didn't get through med school on hard work alone) but she was nervous. She never did work with the living, only the dead.

"If I cut you, I am so, so sorry," she said just as she began slowly scraping the blade up his neck. Sherlock tensed beneath the blade, and she was fairly certain he was holding his breath. She paused to wipe the blade with the towel in her left hand. There was a clean swath of pale skin on his neck, disappearing under his jaw. She smiled down at him.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Sherlock closed his eyes, eyebrow raised, as though it pained him to listen to her speak. Molly flushed right up through her ears and lowered the blade to his skin again. "I'll just hurry along then, shall I?"

Molly's expert hands made clean work of his shave. She uncovered his jawline, so square and masculine for someone so thin. She carved out the angles of his face, the delicate bow of his lips, until the man sitting under her hands was ten years younger than the man who'd been there fifteen minutes before. He was so devastatingly handsome; she was at war within herself, fighting the urge to stare at him.

Sherlock sat up and dabbed his face with the towel, removing the last traces of shaving cream. Molly leaned forward and wiped at the hollow space under the right side of his jaw, catching a bit of shaving cream that he'd missed.

"Don't you feel much better?" she asked him, probably a bit too brightly. She folded up the towel in her hands, suddenly not knowing what to do with herself. Sherlock ignored her.

"I'll be better tomorrow. The worst of it is done," he said, refusing to look at her directly.

They were silent for several long moments. Molly knew what she wanted to say to him. The questions were burning holes in her tongue, but she didn't know how to phrase them.

"Your ... your mind. You were high at the morgue. But you were still able to solve the murder." She said it stiffly, haltingly, unsure of her words as they forced their way through the confines of her teeth. She meant it as a question but couldn't find the words to really ask it. Sherlock looked at her, questions in his eyes. Molly looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

"I just mean—you said you take the drugs to quiet your mind. But in the morgue—"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. They keep me occupied. Or they did."

"Why don't you find something less ... desctructive?" she queried. "Surely there's something—"

"I have, Miss Hooper. Found something. Now if you don't mind, I need to be left alone."

Molly wound her scarf around her neck as she pulled the door to his flat closed behind her. She'd left him sitting on that chair in his bathroom and she hadn't looked back.

Sherlock Holmes was clearly a troubled person. Molly cursed herself as she glanced up briefly toward his living room window. She cursed herself for being a fixer, for wanting to solve people's problems. For sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Sherlock made it clear from the get-go that he didn't want her there, but she just didn't listen. So why were her feelings so hurt?

"You're too old for this," she chided herself aloud. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, gripping the strap with both hands, as she kept on walking.