Sherlock lost track of time. Completely. Between the travel and time zone changes and the amount of time he spent sleeping, he had no idea what day it was or how long Sébastien had had him. Every new place played out similarly to Curacao, though sometimes they just made an on camera appearance somewhere without any displays of violence. Sometimes there was a bank account to empty, sometimes not. And very often, he was given to Aisling as a reward for following Sébastien's instructions.

The few times she made him come, it felt like a betrayal.

Aisling was sent away when they left Madagascar, a separate private jet taking her back to Curacao for the time being, according to Sébastien. Now the narrative would read that Molly Hooper was presumed dead.

Sébastien was playing with the authorities, dangling Sherlock like a cat toy, sometimes coming within minutes of capture before pulling away. He slept less than Sherlock ever had, and when he did catch an hour or two, there was always a silent specter of a minder making sure Sherlock behaved. He sometimes tried to engage them in staring matches, but Sherlock nearly always nodded off.

In Rio, Sébastien kept his word and gave Sherlock a glimpse of Molly in Ireland. They were holed up in a corporate apartment in a high rise after having barely escaped the police. Sébastien was waiting for things to calm down before going to the airfield. Sherlock was riding a pleasant buzz, not completely zonked and not quite needing another hit.

"What did you tell her?" he asked, as Sébastien pulled up the feed. Molly was curled up on the sofa. Even on the small tablet's screen, everything about her body language broadcast misery.

"We thought about telling her you'd taken up James on his offer to let you leave, but you know, too much stress isn't good for the baby. So we just told her I needed to borrow you for a minute."

Sébastien swiped the screen to zoom in. Her eyes were red and puffy and she kept scrubbing at her nose. Suddenly, her face changed and she put a hand to her belly. Sherlock leaned in, concerned. She sat up and her look of confusion melted into one of wonder, then joy.

"What just happened?" Sherlock said.

"I don't have any kids," Sébastien answered, "but I got five sisters. And I might be wrong but I think she just felt it move for the first time."

Sherlock peered at the small screen. Molly had gone still, her hand on her belly, focusing inward. Every few seconds a smile would flutter across her lips. From what Sherlock had read, she was feeling something like air bubbles in her uterus, or like someone tickling her with a feather from the inside.

Eventually her smile died away completely. She put her head in her hands and cried.

"That's enough," he said. He went to the window and looked out over the city. The tracers from the cars and streetlights blurred his vision. He leaned his forehead against the glass. There was not enough of any kind of intoxicant in the world to blunt what he felt

In a moment of lucidity, about a week later, it became clear to Sherlock that he wasn't following Sébastien's orders to ensure his friends' safety anymore. He was doing it to ensure his next hit. For the first time since this all started, he thought it might be best if he got himself killed. Or did it himself. He smiled when he imagined the wrath that would come down on Sébastien's handsome head if Sherlock overdosed. He monitored the detective's usage carefully, doling out just enough to keep him strung out and malleable, but with a little sleight of hand he might be able to draw out thirty milligrams instead of ten—

What was left of his rational mind slammed down on the thought almost as soon as it formed. He couldn't leave Molly to fend for herself in this situation. Though it wasn't guaranteed he would ever get back to her, or what shape he would be in if he did.

In the end, Sébastien kept offering and Sherlock kept taking, more and more, until one night he fell asleep in Ibiza and woke up on the doorstep of the farmhouse, shivering and covered in a fine dusting of snow.

His joints were stiff as he climbed to his feet. The lights were out but thankfully the door wasn't locked. He stumbled inside, the heat from the dying fire making his skin sting.

"Molly?" he called out. His mouth was dry, his voice rough. Her bedroom door opened and she ran down the stairs. She stopped when she saw him, catching herself on the bannister to keep her feet from skidding from under her.

"Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock what's he done to you? How long have you been out there?"

"I don't know," he said, teeth chattering.

Her shock dropped away and was replaced with professional efficiency. She rushed to him and helped him out of his damp clothes, sat him next to the fire, and added more logs. When those had caught, she turned on every lamp in the room and inspected Sherlock for signs of exposure. She gasped when she saw the injection sites on his left arm, looking up at him with growing horror. He always became more careless the longer he used. He didn't always untie before injecting, and he'd gone through his vein a few times due to shaking hands. The result was that the inside of his arm was mottled with bruises, from dark purple to yellow, a backdrop for fresh track marks.

"Right," she said. "I'll deal with that later. One thing at a time. Sherlock, we have a shower now. Do you think you can stand long enough to take one? It will help warm you up faster. But I can also run a bath."

He looked at her blankly. She had shadows under her eyes, but her hair was thick and glossy and her skin was absolutely glowing. She couldn't really be this beautiful, could she? This had to be a dream. Or maybe he had died, either from an overdose, or outside in the cold, and it was all over.

"Okay," she said. "I'll run a bath. And I'll make tea while we wait and I'll get your—arm cleaned up." She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

"Molly," he croaked as she started to stand.

"What is it?"

"I—I missed you."

She put her lovely soft palms on his cheeks and kissed his forehead. "I missed you, too," she said, and hurried down the hall.

Once he was in the bath, and the situation wasn't quite a dire, she became shy about his nakedness. It was perplexing at first, but then he remembered. She had never actually seen him naked. She focused on his arm, looking for signs of infection and thoroughly cleaning it.

"Molly."

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever helped someone who was going through detox?"

"I know the physiology. But no—I haven't actually witnessed it. Or helped anyone."

"It's not going to be pretty, and it won't be long before it starts. I have no real idea when my last hit was, but I know the signs."

"You're talking like you're going to turn into a werewolf."

"In a way, that's what it feels like. Like my bones are changing form and breaking through my skin."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Most of it, yes. And I'll tell you. But I—I can't yet. This is going to be awful, and I will probably say things to you that I will never forgive myself for. And I'll understand completely if you just want to leave me be and check on me every few hours to make sure I'm breathing."

It was so hard meeting her eyes, because they were so damnably full of love and concern, and he didn't deserve any of it.

"I wish I could kill him," she said.

"Which one?"

"Both of them, actually."

"I'm not worth it."

"Shut up. I'm the one who gets to decide that. And you're not going through this by yourself."