Author's note: After getting a glimpse into how Molly dealt with the ramifications of Sherrinford, let's go back and see how Sherlock is doing, shall we?

Trigger warning for descriptions of drug usage.

A banging on his bedroom door roused Sherlock from his misery. How long had he been lying there? He remembered nothing beyond reading the letter from Molly that had broken his heart. He uncurled himself from the foetal position in which he had been lying, noting that the envelope with his name on it was still on the bed next to him. It was so typical of his landlady to walk into the flat as if she owned it. Oh yeah, she did. "For God's sake, Mrs. Hudson, can't you just leave me in peace?" he bellowed through the closed door, thinking he must have closed it at some point after he'd read the letter. At least Mrs. Hudson had the grace not to enter his private sanctuary uninvited.

"Don't you take that tone with me, young man!" came her voice clearly through the door. "John is here. He told me you haven't responded to his texts, so he came over to see what's going on. He also told me what happened, and I'm very sorry, but you can't just lay in bed feeling sorry for yourself. You have friends to help you through it."

"Except Molly," he muttered, feeling again a wash of pain flood through him. In a louder voice he said, "Very well, I'm coming out."

"Good, now speak to your friend. He's waiting in the sitting room. I'm going back downstairs. Don't forget, the cleaners are coming today. I'm expecting them in about half an hour."

He heard her retreating footsteps and waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he opened his door and walked to the sitting room, where John was picking up a pair of headphones that had survived the blast. Almost automatically, Sherlock took up the intact bison skull from the debris, and John set the headphones in their usual place on the skull's head.

As Sherlock held the skull in one hand and righted his miraculously intact chair,, John said, "So, what's going on, mate? When we spoke yesterday, you were heading off to see Molly. What happened?"

Sherlock put down the skull and walked to another chair that had survived the blast, setting it upright and indicating for John to sit.

He took his own seat before answering. "She's gone, John."

John gave him a confused look. "What do you mean, gone?" Then an expression of horror crossed his face. "You don't mean your sister lied about there being no bombs, and she detonated them after all?"

Sherlock's own eyes widened. The thought of that was even worse than what had actually happened. At least he knew she was out there somewhere. If she had been dead, on the other hand, well, that didn't bear thinking about.

He blew out a long, calming breath and thrust a hand through his hair, trying not to think about what could have happened. "No, John. Gone, as in left London. She wasn't at her flat, and her suitcase was missing when I went over there yesterday morning. I went to the hospital afterwards, and Mike told me she's taking an indeterminate amount of time off. Then I went to the Yard, after which I returned home. Mrs. Hudson then presented me with a letter that Molly had left for me." His fingers flexed convulsively, remembering the dread that had filled him as he read her words.

"Where has she gone?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and threw up his hands. "How the bloody hell would I know? She told me in the letter she didn't want me to look for her, that she didn't even know where she was going." He blinked furiously, cursing himself for this new inability to hold back his emotions. "She thought I was just playing games, and I don't blame her."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm sure she'll come around, mate."

"I don't think so, John. Not this time."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Why don't you text her, now that you have your phone back?"

Sherlock blew out a breath. "I would, except that she informed me in the letter that she was going to block my number. So there is no point."

John furrowed his brow. "That doesn't sound at all like Molly. She must have really taken things hard."

Sherlock sighed. "How would you feel if you were in her position? To all intents and purposes, I forced her to confess that she loved me, and then I just disconnected the call once I'd made her say the words. Of course she would have thought I was playing a cruel game." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Well, she hasn't blocked my number, I shouldn't think. How about I text her, explain what happened?" suggested John.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. This is my fault, and quite frankly, I don't deserve her, anyway. In fact, she probably hates me now."

"Love doesn't operate that way; it doesn't just disappear because you want it to. Surely if I let her know what happened-"

Sherlock glared at his friend. "Just drop it, John. It is what it is. I hurt her, I lost her. End of story. I recognised my feelings for her too late, and I will suffer the consequences for my folly. I'm getting what I deserve."

John huffed. "Act the martyr then, Sherlock. If you want to wallow in self-pity, I won't stop you."

Sherlock didn't respond, merely crossed his arms. He knew John was annoyed at his obstinacy, but this was the best thing. Molly deserved better than him, anyway. Even so, he felt hollow inside, as if someone had extracted his heart and dissected it, even as Eurus had done with her little tests.

They sat in silence for some time, until they heard the sound of two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs. Sherlock roused himself. "That'll be the cleaners."

Sherlock and John didn't really bother participating in the cleanup, and eventually, John stood to leave, saying he had handed Rosie off to Mrs. Hudson to go downstairs with her, just before Sherlock had come out of his bedroom earlier. "Do you want to see her before I leave?" he asked. "I can bring her up."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not in any state to visit with my goddaughter right now."

John gave him a concerned look. "Are you sure? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Just give me time to myself. I need to process everything that has happened."

John rested a hand on his shoulder. "Take whatever time you need. When you're ready to get back to work, just text me."

"Will do."

Sherlock watched his friend leave, then observed with disinterest as the windows were replaced and the debris removed into big rubbish bags.

One of the men commented on the undamaged violin. "Wow, not a scratch on this, it's a bloody miracle. Where would you like it, sir?"

"I'll take it." Sherlock took the violin and also undamaged bow. He tucked the bow beneath his arm and plucked the strings absently as he took the instrument to his bedroom and set it on the bed.

He then returned to the sitting room and watched with disinterest as the men concluded their cleaning. The room looked decidedly bare afterwards, with his chair and the one dining chair the only objects that had been salvageable.

A short time later, Sherlock closed the door after the departing men and threw himself into his chair, ready to be alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, his phone rang almost immediately, and he withdrew it from his pocket. He looked at the screen. Mycroft.

He answered, feeling annoyed. Couldn't he have any solitude? "What do you want?"

"So testy, brother mine. I merely wish to inform you that the hidden cameras have been removed from Miss Hooper's flat. Please let her know so she is not alarmed if she discovers anything out of place."

Sherlock frowned. How ironic that Mycroft would think he would be the first to see her. He wished to God he had been. "How did you get in? She's left town."

"She has? I assumed she was at work. My men can pick a lock with ease, you know. Does that mean she is not aware of the circumstances of your phone call?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff. "She never gave me a chance to explain. She was gone before I went over there yesterday morning. Mrs. Hudson gave me a letter she left for me."

"Oh, Sherlock, your pathologist is a reasonable woman. I'm sure she'll understand when she returns and you tell her what happened, that you were forced into it."

Sherlock's free hand balled into a fist. "No, you don't understand, Mycroft. I broke her heart, and I'm paying the price because I do love her, dammit, and now I can't even tell her."

He heard the surprise in Mycroft's voice. "You...love her? As in," a slight pause and a tone of disbelief as he stressed the next word, "romantically?"

"Didn't I just say so? Now leave me alone, Mycroft. I need to be by myself."

Mycroft huffed. "I was going to ask if you'd come to my office tomorrow and help me talk to our parents. I decided it was time to let them know Eurus is still alive."

"Take care of it yourself, Mycroft," said Sherlock without a trace of sympathy for what his brother would undoubtedly have to face. "You were the one who got us into this damned mess, so you can deal with the consequences." He knew he was being rude, but he was not in any kind of mood to act as a go-between between his brother and their parents. He had wounds to lick.

"Very well, brother mine. Oh, and...I apologise for what happened."

Sherlock heard the sorrow in Mycroft's voice and forced himself to respond in a more gentle tone. "I'll get over it, but I just need time."

"Then you shall have it. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

Once he was alone again, free from distraction, the weight of sorrow pressed around Sherlock. He thought about his friend Victor, who had been an innocent pawn in a game gone wrong by his sister. He thought about Eurus, kept away from her family for over thirty years. Then there were his parents, also kept from knowing the truth. Finally, he couldn't help thinking again about Molly.

Molly, with the ever-ready, dimpled smile; Molly of the fathomless brown eyes he could lose himself in; Molly, with her terrible taste in men; Molly, with her awful jokes; Molly, who said she had always loved him; Molly, Molly, Molly. Molly, whom he loved and had now lost.

He held his hands to his head, trying to break out of the memories eddying in his brain, but he couldn't. He'd hurt her one too many times, and now she'd left him. What was the point in going on? He needed to do something, anything, to forget, well, at least to try to forget.

And then he remembered his stash, untouched since the Culverton Smith case, hidden in the fireplace of 221C, bags of cocaine and heroin.

There was his answer. Heroin would distract him. God, this excruciating pain in his heart, he simply couldn't bear it anymore. He'd lost Mary, a friend who had understood him, because of his own folly and arrogance. But that was nothing compared to losing Molly. She'd always been there for him. Even when she had been engaged to that guy who insisted on wearing his hair the same way as himself, Sherlock had known she would help him if he needed her. But this - this was just torture, worse than the vivisection he had endured at his sister's hands, worse even than the physical torture he had endured in Serbia. Without Molly, life had suddenly become meaningless.

Stealthily, he opened his door and crept downstairs. He did not need Mrs. Hudson, with her sensitive hearing, knowing what he planned to do. She would not approve, but right now, he didn't give a damn. It was his life, and if he wanted to throw it away, it was his to do with as he wished.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he heard his own words to Faith Smith, who had not been Faith Smith, but his sister in disguise.

"Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it."

Determinedly, he pushed those thoughts aside and continued downstairs, unlocking the door of the basement with the key he had secretly had made during the Carl Powers investigation. That flat had been a great place to hide his drugs when he had begun using again during the Magnussen case. One never knew when his brother might decide to institute a drugs bust as he had done that day John had found him in the crack den. Mycroft hadn't thought he might actually keep his supplies elsewhere. Not always the smart one, apparently.

Sherlock searched the fireplace and pulled out packets of white powder and a couple syringes with several unused needles, plus the length of rubber he used as a tourniquet. He replaced the cocaine in its hiding spot. He didn't need a stimulant for a case, he just needed escape. He shoved everything else into his pocket and returned upstairs, thankful that Mrs. Hudson hadn't popped her head out of her door.

He locked his flat door, then went into the kitchen to gather the equipment he needed. There was enough heroin to ensure he wouldn't have to go out and find a dealer for at least two weeks.

Echoes of Molly in his head fought for dominance with his desire to forget her.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with, and how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you're sorry!"

"Sorry, but you aren't here to be my conscience anymore, Molly." He muttered the words, longing to sink into the oblivion that would turn Molly's persistent voice into white noise.

He tied the length of rubber around his upper arm and flexed to find a good vein. He then braced himself for the prick of the needle and pressed the plunger on the syringe. The rush was almost instantaneous, and he fell into an abyss where pain could no longer reach him. It was bliss, the numbness and euphoria, even though it didn't last anywhere near long enough.

Days passed, in which Sherlock sought relief from a needle repeatedly. He ignored texts that came in from John and Lestrade except to say "Piss off." They weren't from the one person he desperately wished to hear from, so why did he care?

Mrs. Hudson obviously sensed he needed time to himself, or perhaps it was the "Leave me alone!" he had yelled at her when she had knocked at his door the first time. He didn't dare tell her to piss off. Since then, he had found meals on his doorstep after a tap at the door. Without them, he probably would have stopped eating completely. He really didn't care anymore.

At last, on Sunday evening, at least his addled mind thought it was Sunday? a stronger knock came at the door, and he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice say, "Come on, Sherlock. You need to pick yourself up and take care of yourself again. It's been a week." She undoubtedly noticed he hadn't touched the food she'd left for him at lunch time. He'd been too lethargic to bother opening the door to take in the lunch tray.

Why must she bother me so? he thought savagely, unlocking the door and flinging it open.

He knew he was being rude, but it had been a few hours since his last hit, and he was feeling the need to indulge again. Idly, he noted that his fingers were trembling. "Mrs. Hudson, if I wanted your company, the door would not be locked!"

She paled. "Oh my God. You're high."

"Not high enough. So would you kindly leave me be so I can escape once again from this cesspool of humanity that is my life?"

Tears trembled on her lashes. "Why are you doing this to yourself again? I know why you did it last time, that you were feeling guilty over Mary, and that you were trying to get John's attention, but why now? I think I will give him a call so he can talk some sense into you."

Sherlock ran a hand through his greasy hair. When was the last time he had showered, anyway? He had no idea. Actually, he smelled pretty bad too, come to think of it. "John can't help me this time. I don't want to climb out of this hole. I've lost the only woman who ever truly understood me, loved me for myself. What's the point of going on? I might as well be dead."

Her eyes widened in horror. "This is about Molly?"

He turned away from her and stalked to his chair, suddenly feeling deflated and despondent. He closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead on the heels of his hands. "She never even gave me a chance to explain. She left, Mrs. Hudson. She left me, and I'm a shell of a man without her." He looked up again, unable to disguise the anguish in his voice and agony on his face.

She pursed her lips and gave him a look of determination. "Please, don't kill yourself, Sherlock. I'm going to make this right. Just give me a day or so."

His brow furrowed. He had no clue what she was talking about. How could she possibly help him? "I'm not making any promises, Mrs. Hudson. Whatever happens, happens."

A tear trickled down her careworn face. "I just need to ask you one question, Sherlock, and I want the truth." She paused and looked at him, waiting for his response.

He gave a curt nod.

"You said you've lost the one woman who has always loved you for yourself. How much does she mean to you? Are you in love with her as well?"

He tilted his head back in his chair, feeling the burn of tears suddenly rise to the surface. "God help me, I love her more than life itself, and that's why life has no meaning without her." He gave a shuddering breath. Why was she bringing this up now? All it was doing was bringing back the pain of losing Molly tenfold. He closed his eyes.

"That's all I needed to know. Please stay alive for me, Sherlock. Don't overdose, whatever you do. Things will get better, you'll see." He felt her hand on his shoulder. "If you care for me at all, try to restrain yourself from taking any more of those terrible drugs. Give me twenty-four hours." Her voice, which had held a pleading note, suddenly took on a sterner tone. "And for the love of God, please take a shower and shave. You look absolutely dreadful."

Oh, what the hell. He supposed he owed her that much. She had been there for him for many years. What difference would one day make, anyway? "I'll try."

"Thank you."

Sherlock watched her leave, closing the door quietly behind her.

He fought the urge to immediately take another hit and decided instead he would take the suggested shower. At least it would provide a temporary distraction.

The shower and shave did help, somewhat, he thought afterwards, as he felt his now smooth chin, marvelling that he had managed not to cut himself, despite the tremors in his hand. It made him feel vaguely human again. He tried to distract himself by making a list of furniture he would need to replace. Perhaps he could pull back on using, just take the occasional hit when he felt particularly despondent.

His resolve held until he went to bed. He tossed and turned, reliving that damned phone call. Could he have done things a different way so she wouldn't have been hurt? Perhaps he should have said yes when she asked if it was another of his stupid games. He could have told her he was doing a game of opposites and asked her, "What's the opposite of I hate you?" No, that was utterly ridiculous. Try as he might, he still couldn't think of what he could have done, even with the benefit of not being pressed for time now.

"I can't say that to you."

He turned onto his other side in the bed.

"It's true. It's always been true."

He turned over restlessly again. How had he never seen it?

He threw off the covers. Her voice was filling his head again. It was no use. He wouldn't get any sleep if he didn't have a fix.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock staggered his way back to bed and was asleep within moments, blissfully aware that he had silenced Molly's voice again, at least temporarily.

When Sherlock woke, he was resolved to keep away from the heroin, at least for a few hours. He had told Mrs. Hudson he'd try, after all, and he didn't want to disappoint her. Bearing that in mind, he dressed in a dark blue shirt and trousers, not bothering with his suit jacket. He hadn't worn one in days. It hampered him in his efforts to roll up his sleeves.

A discreet knock at lunch time yielded scones with jam and cream, which he devoured in a few short bites. He hadn't eaten anything since the last meal she had set before his door; was that yesterday? He was rather grateful for it. He didn't deserve her sympathy or her motherly kindness.

He felt the withdrawal coming on strongly after lunch and fought it. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, although he wasn't yet at the point of having nausea and chills. That would come next. He knew that from past experience.

"I'm a user, not an addict," he told himself. But he knew it was a lie.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. Molly's voice was echoing once again in his head, clamouring for attention.

He was too weak to fight it anymore. Hadn't 24 hours passed, anyway? He'd lost track of the days, even the hours. He prepared the syringe, even as Molly's voice from the phone call begged him, "Don't do it. Just...don't do it."

He sat in his chair and applied the rubber tourniquet. The needle was against his skin, vein prepared to take the poison.

"Don't do it."

God, her voice sounded so real, so close. He looked up and turned his head, then was still. Was he suffering from hallucinations now as John had done after Mary's death?

He stared, transfixed, at the vision as it came towards him, and then he felt small hands pulling the syringe away from him and throwing it on the floor.

Not a hallucination.

Molly Hooper stood in front of his chair, and she looked furious.

But he didn't care. All he knew was that the woman he had despaired of ever seeing again was here.

Forgetting everything, he stood and wrapped his arms around her waist. Then he did what he'd been wanting to do ever since he had realised he was in love with her.

He kissed her.

Euphoria washed over him, and he wondered if he had actually pressed the plunger on the syringe, and he was hallucinating after all. It was exquisite. But her lips felt so real against his own, very warm, soft, and very responsive. Their mouths moulded as if their lips were made for one another. Molly was sweetness and light and everything that was beautiful and good in this world, and he exulted in it. That was, until she pulled her head back, raised her hand and slapped his face.

Even as he lifted a hand to his stinging cheek and rubbed it, he smiled. Molly was here, and she was utterly magnificent.

Author's note: So, there you have it. Honestly, I didn't want to drag out Sherlock's drug dependency for chapter after chapter, so I moved things along a bit.

I'm sure you are curious about what has been happening in the meantime to Molly and why she appeared when she did. Have no fear, dear reader, the next chapter will focus on Molly from where I left off in the previous chapter, and it will intersect with the timeline here, then move beyond it.

Am I tugging on your heartstrings? What did you think of that kiss and the slap? I had a lot of fun with that!

Looking forward to hearing from you all (or at least some!).