Author's note: Trigger warning for more descriptions of drug usage.

Eight days earlier

Molly awoke, feeling strangely disoriented. Her bed didn't feel as it usually did. The smell of the sheets was just wrong, somehow, carrying the faint scent of an unfamiliar washing powder.

Then she remembered.

She had fled London after that disastrous, humiliating conversation with Sherlock.

Molly opened her eyes. The room was quite light around her. The sun was well and truly up. That wasn't surprising, seeing as she had arrived at the cottage well after midnight and had explored it a little before going to bed.

What time had she finally succumbed to the exhaustion and fatigue - one o'clock? Two? She hadn't bothered looking at the time. Somewhere in that vicinity, she supposed.

She peered blearily at the handy clock radio on the bedside table next to her. It was past nine o'clock.

Is Sherlock back home yet? Did he read my letter? she couldn't help wondering. Will he even care that I'm gone? Probably not, she concluded wistfully.

Molly slipped out of bed and padded into the cottage kitchen. She picked up her phone from where she had put it to charge overnight and saw there was one new message.

It was from Mrs. Hudson, of course.

Glad you arrived safely. I hope you will find some peace and answers during your time away. Send me a message when you are ready to come back. No hurry.

Molly smiled. Mrs. Hudson was such a kind-hearted woman.

She looked through the cupboards in the kitchen. As Mrs. Hudson had warned, they were almost bare, but there was a box of tea bags and a bowl with sugar in it. Better than nothing.

Molly turned on the electric kettle and went back to the bedroom to dress.

As she drank her tea, Molly thought about what she needed to do that day. Obviously, first, she needed to go to the shops and buy some food staples. She needed to unpack her things from her suitcase. And then she needed to do some soul-searching about her life and what she wanted to do with it. She needed to read her Bible and ask for God to reveal things to her, rather than go her own way.

And that is what she did.

Molly drove to a nearby supermarket and bought what she would need for a few days. She unpacked her things, hanging clothes in the wardrobe, putting her toiletries in the bathroom. She made herself crumpets and another cup of tea for a late breakfast.

Then she took her Bible and went to the dining room table.

Before opening it, she prayed, God, help me get through this. Reveal Your will for me. Hold my hand.

A poem came to her mind that she'd heard years ago, called "Footprints in the Sand."

It talked of a man who had a dream he was walking along a beach with the Lord. He saw scenes of his life flash before him, and there were footprints in the sand for each scene. Sometimes, though, there was only one set of footprints, and he didn't understand why.

He questioned the Lord on why, during his darkest times, it seemed the Lord abandoned him to do things alone.

And the Lord replied that when there was only one set of footprints, it was because at those times the Lord carried him.

Molly loved the analogy of the poem and thought about what it meant.

"I need you to carry me now, Lord," she whispered and went to her Bible's index, seeking passages for comfort.

Molly spent a lot of time reading and contemplating things. As the week wore on, things got a little easier. Her broken heart, though it still ached unbearably at times, was mending.

She wondered what Sherlock had thought of her letter, and if he had even returned home. Had he thought about her words that mentioned the Bible? She'd never been brave enough to admit to him before that she was a Christian. He had proclaimed himself an atheist on more than one occasion, and she had been afraid to speak out, for fear of losing his respect.

Spending time alone, reading her Bible, helped Molly to understand that a romantic relationship between Sherlock and herself, even if he'd been interested, would have been difficult to sustain because they didn't share the same values. She had always been so caught up in her one-sided attraction, she hadn't really considered what would happen if he actually reciprocated her feelings.

God had probably been protecting her from herself, she concluded. Sherlock didn't love her, he never would, and she would not have to worry about being unequally yoked with him. At least she tried to convince herself this was a good thing. But despite herself, she still yearned to speak with him, to spend time with him.

If we ever speak to one another again, I'm going to be forthright about what I believe. I will not be ashamed of my beliefs, she vowed to herself. She had to admit, she missed him, missed the easy camaraderie they had shared. It was a camaraderie they had lost while she had been engaged to Tom, but had rekindled after she broke off her engagement. Sherlock could be sarcastic, rude, even arrogant at times. Early in her days of knowing him, he had even been unkind to her on occasion, but she'd seen a difference in his attitude towards her after his return from those two years away. He'd been kinder, more sensitive. For heaven's sake, he hadn't even tried to sabotage her relationship with Tom, but had respected it. That had been a complete turnaround from the blatant way he had acted in the past to pick apart any potential love interest, most notably Jim from IT, who had turned out to be master criminal James Moriarty.

"You deserve better," he'd said on a couple of occasions, and she had felt like asking, "Who do you suggest - yourself?" Of course, she'd never been game enough to do that.

Molly heaved a sigh as she replaced the milk in the fridge, which was once again almost empty, save for bottled water, the milk and a couple eggs. She'd been here for a week and had made two trips to the shops for food. Tomorrow she would have to go and buy more supplies. She was getting restless, though; she had never been one for extended periods of inactivity, and she missed the hospital.

Maybe I need to go back to London and face the music, she thought. "God, what should I do?" she asked out loud.

Her answer came in a most unexpected way.

Molly's phone, which had been silent for the week, suddenly began to ring from its position on the counter, and she picked it up, seeing by the caller ID that it was Mrs. Hudson.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson. Do you need your car back, because-"

Mrs. Hudson's voice cut her off. "Molly, it's not the car I need, it's you."

Molly heard the choked sob in the elderly woman's voice and a prickle of apprehension washed over her. "Why? What's wrong?"

She heard Mrs. Hudson take a shuddering breath. "It's Sherlock, Molly. He...he's back on drugs, and I think he's dying."

Molly's mouth opened in horror even as she absorbed the fact that Sherlock was back home. "Oh, dear God. Why would he do that?"

Molly's heart lurched at the answer. "Because of you."

"Because of...me?"

Another shuddering breath. "He said he doesn't care to live anymore when he's lost the one woman who loved him for himself."

Molly's mouth ran dry. What had she done?

Mrs. Hudson continued, her voice pleading. "You have to save him, Molly. If it will make a difference in convincing you to come back, I have to tell you, he admitted that he loves you. His words were that he loves you more than life itself and that life had no meaning without you." Her voice rose in pitch. She sounded almost hysterical. "Please come home. Don't let my boy die!"

Molly felt the burn of tears clog her throat. This time he was dying because of her, rather than guilt over Mary and a need to reconcile with John. She barely processed the words that Sherlock loved her. That wasn't important. What was important was that she get back to London as soon as possible. "I'll pack my stuff and leave right away."

With Molly's assurance that she would come, Mrs. Hudson's voice calmed, and she said. "No, no, if you leave now, you'll only be here very late. Leave in the morning. I asked him to give me twenty-four hours to make it right and pleaded with him to stay clean during that time. He said he'd try."

Molly bit her lip. "Are you sure?" Even as she spoke the words, she knew Mrs. Hudson was being sensible. By the time she packed and drove to London, it would be well past midnight. Sherlock would probably be sleeping, and she would be tired herself, probably in no condition for a confrontation.

"Yes, yes. You try to have a good night's rest and just leave in the morning."

"Alright. I'll do that," Molly promised.

Despite her desire to just leave as soon as possible, Molly knew Mrs. Hudson was right. She took a shower and then made sure everything was packed and ready for her to leave in the morning. She would have one last cup of tea and the remaining eggs for an early breakfast to clear the fridge contents and take out the rubbish before she left. It seemed like God's timing was just right.

She spent a rather restless night of worrying about Sherlock, praying that she would be able to get to him before he killed himself, whether accidentally or not.

"God," she prayed, "I've always believed Sherlock has a higher purpose in this life. You've saved him so many times from certain death. Help me to reach him. Give me the words so that he will be open to learning about the Bible and you."

In the morning, Molly ate her breakfast, made sure the dishes were done and that everything in the cottage was left in the same state it had been before she arrived. Then she began the six hour drive back to London.

For most of the journey, she listened to music on the car radio, so she would not think too much about Sherlock and what he might be up to.

She sent a text to Mrs. Hudson when she reached the outskirts of London and stopped to go to the toilet and fill up the tank of the car. It was already lunch time, but she didn't want to take the time to eat.

Hi, Mrs Hudson. I'm just getting petrol and should be at Baker street within the hour. I can return your car to its parking spot and then walk to Baker street.

Looking forward to seeing you, dear. I've just taken some scones on a tray upstairs to leave for Sherlock. Plenty more for you. You are probably hungry.

Molly smiled as she read the text just before leaving the petrol station and sent one last text herself. She was definitely hungry.

I could eat. Scones sound lovely.

By the time Molly had walked from the car park with her suitcase, which was rather heavy to carry, to Baker Street, her stomach was making protesting noises.

Mrs. Hudson had sent her another text to say she was leaving the door unlocked, and to come right in, which is what Molly did.

She knocked on 221A, and Mrs. Hudson opened her door. "Come in, come in. I checked upstairs and Sherlock took the scones I left for him." Her voice was almost conspiratorial. "Now, you eat some lunch and then you can surprise him. If I were you, I wouldn't even bother knocking unless he has locked the door."

She opened the door further and indicated for Molly to set down her suitcase, then led her to the table, where Molly was once again treated to scones. This time, she did make a comment about them as she ate.

"Mrs. Hudson, you simply must give me your recipe. You could start a bakery with these scones!"

The landlady gave a broad smile. "Thank you. Tell you what, you get Sherlock back on track, and I'll gladly give you the recipe as well as make them for you and him anytime."

Molly's lips tilted upwards. "You seem to think we will end up together."

"Of course I do. You love one another, you've both told me that."

Molly smiled, then sobered, remembering her plea to God and the challenges that lay ahead. "I wouldn't count on it. There are certain things that would have to change for us to be together," she said.

Mrs. Hudson, who had been sipping her tea and watching Molly eat, said confidently, "If anyone can convince Sherlock to get clean, it's you. I suppose there will always be challenges in being with an addict, but I have a feeling he'd do anything for you."

"I guess we'll see." Molly didn't bother illuminating the elderly woman about her desire for him to become a believer, that it was the only way she would agree to be with him. There was the very real possibility that he would never be turned from his atheistic ways. Only an openness to the leading of the Holy Spirit could change his heart. She knew now, though, that she wouldn't run away again. The fact that Mrs. Hudson said he truly loved her convinced Molly that whatever had happened just over a week ago had not been something of his choosing. She would allow him to explain.

She finished the last of her second scone and her own tea and stood. "Guess I'll head up now," she said. "Wish me luck."

Mrs. Hudson stood as well and rested her hand briefly on Molly's arm. "I don't think you need it. I think he is going to be very happy and relieved to see you."

Molly ascended the stairs, feeling nervous. Where would Sherlock be? Would he be in his chair? Would he be in his bedroom? If he was in his bedroom, she would certainly be too embarrassed to look for him.

Taking a deep breath on the landing and steeling herself, she turned the handle of the door and, finding it unlocked, opened it quietly.

Her first impression was that the place looked very odd, devoid of furniture. Undoubtedly, the explosion had destroyed almost everything in the room. She looked automatically in the direction of Sherlock's chair and gave a sigh of relief. The chair had apparently survived, as had one dining chair which was positioned directly across from it, and he was sitting in it. But then her eyes widened in horror at what he was doing. There was a tourniquet around his arm, and he was holding a syringe, in preparation for injecting himself.

Suddenly, she felt furious. How could he abuse his body this way again? Did he value his life so little? So much for his telling Mrs. Hudson he'd try to stay clean for twenty-four hours. "Don't do it." She heard her voice come out, much too weak, and he looked up, staring at her in what seemed to be disbelief.

Determinedly, while his thumb was still against the plunger of the syringe, but not moving, she stormed towards him. Without even thinking about it, she snatched the hateful syringe from his hand and threw it on the floor. Then she glared at him.

What she didn't expect was for Sherlock Holmes to stand up, put his arms around her waist and lower his lips to hers.

Warmth stole over her at the sensation of his lips on hers, coaxing her to respond, threatening to obliterate her best intentions to hold him at arm's length.

Molly had dreamed of Sherlock kissing her, imagined what it might be like to feel his full lips cover hers, but the reality was so much more intense than any encounter that had occurred in her mind.

It was only when she suddenly felt the tourniquet that was still on his arm, through her blouse, that she realised this was not the time to let her emotions run away with her, and her anger at what he'd been doing to himself returned full force.

She pulled back and used the method she had used once before when she had been irate about his drug usage. She lifted her hand and slapped him.

Even as he raised his hand to his stinging cheek, she saw the slight smile on his face and was even more irate. Was this some sort of a joke to him?

Angry words tumbled out of her mouth as she reached to tug free that horrid tourniquet that was priming his veins for the easy prick of a needle.

"How could you do this to yourself, Sherlock? How could you have so little regard for your life, that you would be willing to risk killing yourself again after all you've been through?"

She was almost undone by his words and the way he gave her a genuine smile that contrasted with the red mark left by her stinging slap. "Life has no meaning without you, Molly."

How was she to respond to that? Give me the right words, God, she prayed silently. "Even if you don't value your own life, think of how many people would be hurt if you ended it, Sherlock. There are your parents, Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and of course, me."

She wasn't sure if he was really paying attention as one of his hands lifted to caress her cheek. "You're really here. You came back."

She pursed her lips, noting the way his hand trembled slightly. She didn't know if it was emotion causing the tremble or withdrawal.

"Sherlock, are you paying attention? I'm not leaving until I know you are not going to do this," she indicated the syringe on the floor, "again."

"Then don't ever leave me again, Molly. I need you."

She sighed, feeling the way she desperately wanted to just fling herself into his arms and kiss him over and over, make him forget his addiction by offering herself as a prize. Instead, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "I think we need to talk. Sit."

He followed her instructions and sat back in his chair, while she pulled the lone dining chair a little closer. When she sat on it, their knees were touching.

The smile he'd been wearing faded away as he said, leaning forward and pressing his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together, "I went to your flat the next morning, after the phone call, to explain, but you were gone."

She could see the hurt in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Perhaps I should have stayed, waited for an explanation, but you hurt me, and all I could think of was getting away from you."

His eyes narrowed suddenly, and his expression sharpened. "So, where have you been for God-knows-however-many days? What made you come back?"

Molly bit her lip, wondering if Sherlock would be angry that Mrs. Hudson had aided and abetted her "escape". "When I brought the letter over for you, I told Mrs. Hudson what had happened, and she offered me the use of her cottage in Cornwall for as long as I needed it. She even let me borrow her car."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Mrs. Hudson has a cottage?" Then he frowned. "Why didn't she tell me where you had gone?"

"Don't be angry with her, Sherlock. I asked her not to tell you. Besides, she's the one you have to thank for calling me yesterday and asking me to come back. So here I am."

Unexpectedly, he reached over and took one of her hands, which had been resting on her lap. He raised it to his lips, then turned it to kiss her wrist. "Promise me you won't leave me again."

Molly couldn't help the tiny quiver that went through her at the touch of his mouth on her skin. She knew her pulse was racing at his nearness. He'd never been so openly affectionate with her, and it highlighted to her that Mrs. Hudson had been telling the truth. He did love her, and not just as a dear friend. You didn't press a kiss to a woman's wrist if you didn't have romantic intentions. "I won't leave London again, if that's what you're worried about. I've had enough time to myself to know what I need to do. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you get clean and stay clean."

He nodded solemnly. "You've given me back my reason for living. I'll get clean again, I promise you."

She swallowed, mentally asking again for the right words to say. "Sherlock, there's something I need to say. You might not like it, but I'm going to say it anyway. Aside from the people you know who care about you, God loves you too. You need to get clean not only for them, but for God too."

"Molly, why are you bringing a fictitious deity into this? You know very well that I don't believe in God," a crease formed between his brows, "but apparently you do, judging from what you said in your letter to me."

She pulled her hand away from his. "Yes, I do. I've seen too much evidence of God in the beauty of creation to ever dismiss it as something that got here by chance." She gave him a challenging look. "Give me a good reason why you don't believe in God."

He blinked, obviously surprised at the question. "There's no proof."

Molly felt frustrated at his glib answer. "There are many things in life we accept without having physical proof. Do you believe what we read in the history books? In those books there is a lot of it we accept and take for granted without having been there to see it for ourselves. I know you like researching for cases. Have you ever bothered to pick up a Bible and research it for yourself, to consider it a history book?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Well, no. Why would I bother? If God was real, why is there so much hate and evil in the world? Why would He allow it to happen?"

"God allows things to happen because sin entered the world through Satan in the Garden of Eden when he tempted Eve, and she and Adam ate the forbidden fruit. They disobeyed God and were cast out."

Sherlock snorted. "You really believe that nonsense?"

Molly flattened her lips into a thin line. "As a matter of fact, I do. I believe everything the Bible says is true, and I don't appreciate the way you are dismissing it without having all the facts." Again she challenged him. "Read the Bible for yourself before you make fun of it." She crossed her arms.

He looked surprised at the fervent tone of her voice, and she hoped he would at least try to understand and respect her beliefs.

He grimaced suddenly, and Molly could see beads of perspiration on his forehead. Then his face paled. "Oh God, I'm going to be sick." He stood hurriedly, swayed slightly, as if the action had prompted dizziness, and Molly gave him a concerned look. She'd been through this before with him not too long ago. Nausea and chills were par for the course among other symptoms of withdrawal.

"Do you need my help?" She stood, ready to assist him.

"No, I can make it." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Guess I'll be feeling lousy for a while. I forgot about that part when I started using again." His next words chilled her. "But then again, I wasn't expecting to want to detox."

Molly watched Sherlock walk unsteadily towards the bathroom, silently thanking God that she'd accepted Mrs. Hudson's offer, so that the landlady could contact her. By what Sherlock had said, she was sure he'd planned to keep using until he killed himself, and if she had stayed away longer, he might have succeeded.

Again, she found herself praying. Help me save not only his life, but his soul too.

Author's note: Well, Molly is back, and she has a mission. What do you think about her feelings?

I referred to the Footprints in the Sand poem in my initial story, and I thought it would be a good place to use it again. I, for one, am very glad that God carries me through difficult times.

If you are someone who is not familiar with the Bible yourself, I am issuing a challenge to you - try reading it before you dismiss what Christians believe.

We are living in a time where it is important to not just accept the narrative of what we are told by others, but to do our own research as well.

I am looking forward to hearing the thoughts of my readers on this chapter. If you disagree with Molly's thoughts, feel free to say so. I do not mind differing opinions, as long as they are expressed kindly with your own reasoning behind them.