Wow guys, this is going down much better than I ever thought it would!

I own none of these characters, only the storyline (which I have loosely based around Moffat's canon).

The next month was hell, for both of them.

Sherlock had thrown himself into cases to distract himself from the feeling of loss he felt every time he so much as thought of Molly, and to remind himself that he had always been perfectly fine on his own. The Magnussen case was tricky, and he didn't want to blow it. So he'd "reverted" back to his drug habits.

Molly's sickness, that sleeping with Sherlock had helped abate somewhat, had returned forcefully, resulting in almost no sleep and a heavy reliance on painkillers to get her through the day. Her flat seemed endlessly empty when she was there, so she had begun spending inordinate amounts of time in the morgue, just filling her time with work.

Today, however, she was furious. Sherlock had been found in a drug den high as a fucking kite and hadn't even the decency to look guilty.

She knew he knew she was angry. She could also tell that he didn't expect her to slap him, the second and third times.

"How dare you. How dare you!" Eyes narrowed menacingly, she stood close to him, anger lending her courage. He'd disappeared for weeks! He'd given no explanation for his actions, and was allegedly sleeping with the maid of honour. She had every right to be angry.

She slapped him again, demanding a response with her eyes, whilst verbally reprimanding him.

"Say you're sorry." Her world had narrowed down to him and her; she was completely oblivious to the surprised and faintly approving looks the others were giving her.

"I'm sorry..." He paused, venom leaking into his voice. "For the break up of your engagement. Though I am really rather glad for the lack of ring..."

"Stop it. Stop this, now." She forced his gaze up to hers, startled by the emotion they held. His eyes seemed to swirl with bitterness, anger, and acceptance. She hated it.

He pushed off the work bench, brushing his shoulder against hers as he did so, causing a spark to shiver up her arm. Her hand tingled from slapping him, and his face had a vibrant red mark spanning his cheekbones.

They stared at one another, neither flinching, both unwilling to break first.

John cleared his throat behind them, going unnoticed by both.

"You left. You went back to him! What, wasn't I enough for you? You played me." Sherlock's eyes flashed with anger as he spat at her.

"I left to tell him it was over! You are so bloody wrapped up in yourself, that you assume you're right, all the bloody time. It's so frustrating! If you'd JUST BLOODY WAITED AT THE WEDDING, YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN ME BREAK UP WITH HIM!" She paused, face flushed and chest heaving. "You know you mean more to me than anyone else ever could. I'm sorry. But you are not without blame here."

Sherlock blinked rapidly. His eyes, usually so icy, seemed almost childlike as he blinked at her, hurt and relief warring within them.

"You ... mean a lot to me too." Swallowing thickly, he turned to go, finally noticing their audience.

"Sherlock... Wait. Let me get an ice pack for your cheeks..." Resting her hand carefully against his tender flesh, she turned his face back to hers. Running it smoothly into his hair, she whispered into his ear.

"Want to give them a shock?" She giggled softly as his hands came to rest in the small of her back, pressing her gently against him, turning his head to capture her lips in an almost hungry kiss.

"Molly, you might not want to do that, he's a bit dirty. And high... In fact, you know what? Maybe I should go." Lestrade looked around the lab awkwardly, before half running, half skipping out.

"No need. We'll go..." Sherlock lifted her into his arms, noting how frail she seemed. She'd lost even more weight in the past month, and a part of him couldn't quite help but blame himself.

Once in a cab, he studied her as she sat beside him. Her face was gaunt, her delicate cheekbones jutting sharply from her face, her eyelids appearing thin and translucent. Her skin itself seemed papery and dry, cracked around her lips and on her knuckles. The only part of her showing some true sign of life were her eyes, though they seemed dazed and realised she was taking painkillers; he presumed that the pain had come back stronger than before and felt even worse for not letting her explain.

"You look awful." She glanced at him warily as he turned fully towards her.

"And you look like a drug addict." Her chin had risen defiantly, unafraid of insulting him. Well, it was true, he mused idly.

"Part of a case, Molly. If it could have been another way, I wouldn't have gone near the place." Sincerity written over his face, she raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"It's for a case involving Magnussen. I want him to believe I am vulnerable and come after me, so I can expose him."

Molly sighed.

"You do know that he can quite easily not only discredit you, but me, Mycroft, John, Mary... Everyone! You're putting everyone at risk! How fucking stupid are you?" Unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

"Oh bugger. Molly? Don't cry. Please?" Drawing her into his arms and resting her head beneath his chin, he mulled over what she had said whilst rubbing soothing circles on her back.

It was all true. He had tried to ignore it, as though not thinking about those possible circumstances would stop them from coming to fruition. However, hearing her say it out loud made the entire operation seem even more fool hardy than it already was.

"And.. And you didn't stop to-to think th-that maybe I- we would miss you. I have missed you, Sherlock." She continued to sniffle into his chest, as his heart seemed to contract and overflow and perform somersaults in his chest, completely surprising him.

He'd convinced himself they wouldn't even notice his absence, Molly occupied with Tom, John with Mary... Her saying that she had missed him made emotions long suppressed raise their hopeful heads in anticipation.

"I... Am a complete idiot."

She chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and making him laugh lightly too.

"Yeah, you are. But I love you anyway." Again his heart performed acrobatics in his chest as he hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head.

"Thank you."

"Dammit. Mycroft's here." His face scrunched into a petulant scowl as he surveyed the front door of 221 Baker Street.

"How do you know?" She was tired, the afternoon having sapped most of her energy.

"Door knocker. He always straightens it, OCD and he doesn't even notice he's doing it." Sauntering up the stairs with Molly in his wake, he pushed open the door of his flat to be accosted by the sight of seven people rifling through his accumulated...possessions... whilst Mycroft sat like a queen bee in the middle of the ruckus.

"What's going on?" Molly marched over to where Anderson was rummaging through a drawer in Sherlock's desk.

"Drugs bust. It's for his own good, Molly." Anderson grimaced apologetically, hands splayed open in surrender.

"And this lot? Who the hell are they?"

"Uh they're, uh-"

"My.. Fan club, Molly. Anderson here created the group and it's still as popular as when I was... playing dead."

"Okay. You lot," She gestured widely to the assembled teenagers and Anderson. "Out. I have this under control, we really don't need you here. Sorry, Philip"

A girl with straight, dyed black hair jutted her chin out defiantly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I ain't going nowhere. Besides, who are you tellin' me what to do?" The girl's strong welsh accent coupled with her youthful voice made then entire situation even more ridiculous than it already was.

"I am Molly Hooper. An.. Associate of Sherlock's. We have a matter of some importance to discuss with Mycroft Holmes," At the mention of his name, Mycroft lifted his head and smiled sardonically, "And we need to do this in private. Which means no fangirls. And I mean NO fangirls."

The girl opened her mouth as if to argue further, then shut it angrily at a look from Anderson. One by one, they trickled out of the room and down the stairs, Molly following to ensure they all left.

"Mycroft? Do you finally have those results? It's been two months, surely you must have found something by now. Provided there is something to be found, of course." Sherlock trailed off, cursing the course of action that had resulted in his mind being so fuzzy. The drugs always did that. It had been part of the appeal.

"Sherlock, about the results..."

"Results for what?" Molly had slipped back into the room, looking completely exhausted.

"Nothing, miss Hooper. Why don't you go to the bedroom and get some sleep?" Sherlock was out of his chair in an instant, blocking the hallway.

"Or you could sit on my lap. That's..." He searched for a word she would appreciate. " Cosier. Isn't it?" Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he steered her to his seat, sitting and drawing her slight frame onto his lap where she curled her legs beneath her overly large t-shirt.

"You were saying about the results?" Sherlock fixed his gaze onto his brother, feeling Molly's breathing start to become regular and deep, despite her best efforts to stay awake.

"I really don't think we should discuss this in front of her, Sherlock. She might hear and do something irresponsible."

"Mycroft, she's out cold. I'd say she hasn't been getting regular amounts of sleep for about a month," his insides twinged slightly with guilt, " and I think that after a month and a half of regularly sleeping beside her I can recognise the her different levels of sleep. She won't wake up for another couple of hours at least."

"Sherlock, we found high quantities of Cyclophosphamide, Aristolochic acid, Ethylene oxide, Azathioprine, Vinyl chloride and... a trace amount of plutonium in all of the samples. I took the liberty of sending a radiation specialist to her flat. Someone has gone to great lengths to cause Molly's death; you know what these chemicals do, Sherlock. I'm sure she does, too. Christ, high enough amounts of just one would be enough to cause her mutations, but all of them..." Mycroft trailed off, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching the steady rise and fall of Molly's shoulders.

"What do we do?" He tightened his grip on the sleeping woman as the reality of their situation sank in.

"Honestly, Sherlock? There's not a whole lot you can do."

.

Sorry. Bit of a cliff hanger, and all will be revealed about Molly's condition in time.