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Sherlock woke and was, for a moment, disoriented. Then he remembered. He was in Molly's bed. She had come back to him. He hadn't slept long, he realised, but he felt lethargic and unable to move.
Molly had left the door of the bedroom slightly ajar, and he could hear sounds coming from the kitchen, ones that indicated she was cooking.
His eyes remained closed as he listened. After some time, he was aware of the smell of garlic drifting through the bedroom door. He recognised that smell. She was making pasta.
The sound of her humming as she worked brought a smile to his lips. Molly was always so cheerful, full of life.
He finally got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Molly was concentrating on stirring her pasta sauce as she hummed, confirming his deduction on what she was making. There was spaghetti also boiling away in a saucepan of water. She didn't seem to have heard him exit the bedroom.
He stepped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, causing her to give a little start, then twist her head around to look up at him. "Hi, how are you feeling? Did you sleep well?" How was it he had never noticed before how melodic the sound of her voice was?
His hands caressed her shoulders gently. "Your bed is very comfortable. I slept well." Well, it was half true, her bed was comfortable. He didn't want her to be more concerned than necessary over him not sleeping much.
She leaned back against him slightly, but then pulled away from him, and he dropped his hands. "Dinner's almost ready. There are bottles of water in the fridge, if you want to grab them for us. You need to keep hydrated."
Sherlock nodded and got the water, then sat at the table, watching Molly as she finished the dinner preparations.
A few minutes later, she set a dish of spaghetti in front of him and then sat down to eat her own.
He ate a few mouthfuls and frowned slightly. He'd had Molly's spaghetti before, when she had invited him over for a meal while he was still recovering from his gunshot wound. This spaghetti was still good, but not as good as what she had made before.
Molly noticed his expression. "You don't like it?" He heard the disappointed tone of her voice.
"No, no, it's fine," he rushed to assure her, "but it tastes different to the way you've made pasta before."
He saw colour bloom in her cheeks. "I usually make my sauce from scratch, but I cheated today. I bought a jar of prepared pasta sauce, because I knew I wouldn't have the hours to make the sauce like I usually do. Instead, I just added a few herbs and garlic to add flavour. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Molly. It's still very good. Your cooking skills are excellent."
She gave him a shy smile. "You think so? I'm kind of surprised you even remember what my cooking tastes like."
"Of course I do. You know I don't cook. My experience of home-cooked meals these last few years is generally limited to John's rather poor efforts when he would attempt to cook, and an occasional meal by Mrs. Hudson. Oh, and the annual trip to Sussex for Christmas dinner with my parents. I have to admit, Mummy does make the best Yorkshire pudding." As he concluded, he took a big mouthful of spaghetti to show her his appreciation of her cooking.
"Speaking of Christmas," Molly said, looking at the pasta she was twirling with her fork against her spoon, "have you ever really thought about what it means?"
He snorted. "Yeah, it's a time for Mummy to harass Mycroft and myself for not settling down and providing her with grandchildren."
She looked up at him then, fork poised halfway to her mouth. "No, I meant the true meaning of Christmas, not the holiday it has become for most people." She put the rather large forkful of spaghetti to her mouth, and he almost laughed, seeing her struggle to accommodate it. He realised immediately that she had been pretending to concentrate on twirling the pasta while her real concentration was on what they were discussing.
Instead of grinning at the sight of Molly forcing down a huge mouthful, Sherlock seriously pondered the question. Christmas to him had always meant a time of abundant sentiment, with people around him bustling about weeks in advance of the event, happily chattering about the upcoming holiday, decorating for Christmas, buying unnecessary gifts for one another. There were meaningless platitudes from strangers or acquaintances of "Merry Christmas!" And then there was the Christmas music, the same ones, being played over and over in shops and on the radio. Nauseatingly sweet Christmas films on the television. Christmas was a time to indulge in false sentiment, overspending and overeating.
In the back of his mind, he knew Molly wasn't talking about that, though. There was something else. He frowned in concentration.
A long ago memory surfaced. A church, decorated with a Christmas tree and a display outside the church of a man, woman and baby surrounded by animals. His brain was starting to hurt with such deep thinking. Memories from his early childhood were almost non-existent, and he simply couldn't bring the memory closer. It was veiled in shadows he couldn't dispel. There was religious significance; that was all he knew. He was sure that was what Molly was getting at.
"Something about a man, woman and baby?" he guessed, looking at Molly and seeing that while he had been deep in thought, she had successfully finished her mouthful of spaghetti. A tiny bit of pasta sauce clung to the side of her mouth, and he was tempted to wipe it with his finger so he could touch the softness of her lips. Instead, he added, "You have a bit of pasta sauce right here." He pointed at the side of his own mouth.
"Oh." Self-consciously, she rubbed the side of her mouth with the heel of her hand. "Better?"
He smiled. "Better."
She picked up the thread of their conversation. "You're on the right track with your man, woman and baby comment, although I'm a little sad you don't really understand it. The true meaning of Christmas, at least for Christians, is in the word itself - Christ. Christmas is when we celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Jesus is the baby you are thinking of, and Mary and Joseph are the man and woman, his parents. The Christmas story is told in the book of Luke, in the New Testament."
As she said the words, he knew they sounded familiar. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He supposed he should have known that the word Christmas had Christ in part of the word, but really, it wasn't pronounced the same, "Criss-mas". He did, however, feel woefully ignorant. Come to think of it, John had a tendency to use the words Jesus and Christ, or both together, as a way of expressing exasperation. It seemed a little irreverent to use those terms if they were supposed to have a religious connotation. "I suppose I should read this Christmas story, then," he said.
Molly's delighted smile sent warmth through him. God, she was beautiful.
And that was when his stomach began to protest while he felt a wave of nausea again. So much for feeling better. The withdrawal was not going to let go of him that easily.
Abruptly, he stood. "Don't take this as a criticism of your food, Molly," he said, before he strode towards the bathroom.
Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, shaken and weak. He was relieved that he'd had the foresight to put his toiletries in there so he could brush his teeth. He craved another hit so badly to release himself from this torment. He felt bloody awful and just wanted it to stop already.
Molly looked over at him sympathetically. "I think you're not going to be eating anything else for now. Go and sit on the sofa."
He stumbled towards it, feeling the whole body ache that was part of the withdrawal. When he had gone through withdrawal after the Culverton Smith case, it hadn't been this bad. He'd been using cocaine, for the most part, and the withdrawal had consisted more of the chills and muscle aches, rather than nausea, vomiting and this awful diarrhoea. The last time he'd been suffering from heroin withdrawal, shortly after he'd finished his postgraduate degree at uni, Mycroft had sent him to rehab. He groaned as he sat. He felt even worse than he had earlier and closed his eyes, trying to access his mind palace to escape.
He was unsuccessful. He kept his eyes closed, hearing Molly move about, the sound of plates being scraped and put in the sink. The sound of water running. Not enough to wash the dishes, just to rinse them.
And then he felt her walk past his legs, the dip of the sofa as she sat beside him. A cool hand slipped into his and squeezed gently. "I brought your water bottle if you want something to drink, to get rid of the bad taste in your mouth. And another Imodium tablet."
There was indeed a sour taste in his mouth, and he opened his eyes, flashing her a grateful look. He used his free hand to take the bottle from her other hand and the tablet held between her thumb and forefinger. He swallowed the tablet and took several gulps of water. The water didn't help as much as the comforting presence of Molly beside him.
"Stay with me," he pleaded. She was his anchor in the dark, malevolent storm of withdrawal, his lifeline.
"I'm not going anywhere." She took the bottle from him and placed it on the coffee table, then touched his face tenderly. "How can I help you? Would a massage help at all?"
He gave a shuddering breath. "I guess it wouldn't hurt." He welcomed her touch in any way possible.
She withdrew her hand from his. "Then turn your back towards me."
He did so, closing his eyes again, and felt her fingers, strong and supple despite their small size, kneading his shoulders. He concentrated on the feeling of her hands working at those aching muscles, easing away the tension.
He had no idea how long she worked on his shoulders, but he could feel his body relaxing. Surprisingly, he felt sleepy, his brain becoming unfocussed as she continued her ministrations.
It was a surprise, therefore, when Sherlock came back to consciousness and realised Molly's massage must have lulled him to sleep. He was awkwardly sprawled on the sofa, and his head was resting on something soft, which he realised was Molly's lap. He felt her fingers gently brushing at the curls on his forehead.
He opened his eyes and looked up at Molly. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."
Her expression was so full of love for him that he drew in his breath. "That's okay. The more you sleep, the more time will pass for you to get over your withdrawal." Her fingers stopped moving, but she kept her hand on his forehead. "At least you aren't burning up right now."
Sherlock was aware that he'd never felt so content and protected, which was a very strange sensation. He was used to his independence, to thinking only of himself. Sure, his parents and Mrs. Hudson took care of him, loved him even, but this was different. This was Molly, and his heart now lay in her keeping. He never wanted to leave the circle of her warmth. But he knew it would happen, sooner of later, if she remained steadfast in her determination that they could be nothing more than friends unless he came to acknowledge and share her faith. That thought mobilised him to sit up. He needed to learn more, and he knew what he needed to learn about next.
"Molly, tell me the Christmas story."
She looked surprised, but nodded. Her Bible was still on the coffee table and she picked it up, flipping through it, then began to read.
"In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world."
Sherlock listened intently as Molly continued to read about the birth of Jesus, about shepherds who went to see the baby and angels who sang about the birth.
Sherlock's memory flashed back to the shadowy scene he had thought of earlier. The scene expanded in his mind to include men holding shepherd's crooks and an angel with wings, but who were those other people in the scene? They looked like royalty. Suddenly, a snatch of a Christmas carol came to him. "We three kings of orient are."
He interrupted her narration. "What about the three kings? Didn't they visit the baby too?"
She looked up, a pleased expression on her face. "I guess you know a bit more than you thought. Yes, in nativity scenes, quite often you see three kings presenting Jesus with offerings of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but actually this gospel doesn't talk about them. Hang on, I'll find where it talks about them. She continued to speak as she flipped through pages once again. "Actually, the idea of them being kings is a misnomer. The Bible merely says they were magi, or wise men, from the east. They didn't visit Jesus as a baby in Bethlehem either, but later, when he was probably close to two years old." She turned a couple more pages and said, "Here it is."
Sherlock was impressed with her knowledge, and he listened again as she read about the wise men following the star, finding Jesus and bowing down to worship him.
"A very interesting story," he said, when she had finished reading.
"It's not a story, Sherlock, it really happened. I believe the Bible is the inspired Word of God." Molly's voice was firm. "When you are feeling better, you can read the rest of the gospel, learn about what Jesus did here on earth and also how he died on the cross to save humanity once and for all from our sin. He reversed the sin that resulted from Adam and Eve's original sin. But we have to accept it as truth in order to receive the inheritance of everlasting life in heaven, rather than everlasting separation from God."
Again, Sherlock was struck by the passionate note in Molly's voice. She looked up at him and said, "I want you to know the truth, Sherlock. I want you to understand you are here for a reason, and that this life on earth is only temporary." Tears formed in her eyes that confirmed her sincerity, and he was moved that her love for him was so great.
"This is a lot to take in," he said, raising a hand to brush at a tear that escaped, "but I am willing to keep listening."
She gave him a wobbly smile. "I understand that. Let me ask you something. Have you ever considered why you are still here, why you have escaped near-certain death on several occasions?"
Sherlock ruminated on this for a few moments. Certainly, he had escaped death many times. There had been times in the field when he'd been an MI6 operative, where his own ingenuity had made the difference between life and death. But there had been times when outside forces had come to his rescue. Mycroft had undoubtedly saved his life in Serbia. John had most likely saved it when he shot the cabbie, because Sherlock was almost certain he would have been goaded into taking that pill. John had definitely saved him from suffocation at Culverton Smith's hands, and of course, Mary had saved him by sacrificing herself. In a way, even Molly had saved him by increasing his chances of survival when he was planning his faked suicide. He suddenly needed to know what Molly thought. "Why do you think I've escaped death so often, Molly?"
Molly drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sherlock, I've thought about this for a long time. You already possess many of the qualities we are supposed to exhibit as Christians. You have honour, integrity. You've made a positive difference in people's lives with your desire for justice. I've also seen the lengths to which you will go to protect your friends, as you did when you jumped off that roof." She gave him a small smile. "You could easily have died right then, but you took a leap of faith that things were in place to save you."
He blinked in surprise that Molly would mention his plunge off the roof when he had just been thinking about it himself. But he felt a little embarrassed at Molly's high praise for him. Was he really that special? "I did what I had to."
"I believe that God saved you for a purpose. He's not done with you. He wants you to know Him. But it will take a leap of faith, because belief is something intangible, a conviction of the truth even if we cannot see it physically." She pressed a hand to Sherlock's suddenly quickening heartbeat. "You need to feel it in here, in your heart. I know it's too soon for you to understand and believe, but if you are open to it, the Holy Spirit will convict you of the truth." Another tear slid down her face.
He desperately wanted to assure her that he understood, that he believed. It would make things so much easier, but he needed to know more first. He needed to read, to sift through the information he was hearing, then make a decision.
But getting through this uncomfortable withdrawal process was his first priority. He had to feel mentally alert. "I do want to hear more, but I think it best to do a little at a time. Right now, I think my mind palace is operating less efficiently than usual. I need time to recover and to absorb all this new information."
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Of course you do. Let's talk about something else for now, shall we?"
He knew what else he needed to tell her. "I think I should finish telling you about Sherrinford." He hadn't even explained about smashing that coffin.
Molly's eyes opened wide. "Oh, you're right. Of course, the phone call couldn't have been the end of the story."
He told Molly about his anger over what he had done to her, and how he had destroyed the coffin with the "I love you" plaque on the lid. Then he went on to tell her about Eurus's next test, to choose who to kill, Mycroft or John, and Mycroft's ridiculous attempt to make him angry enough to shoot him.
He noted the way Molly's face drained of colour when he explained how he decided to kill himself instead, to end Eurus's game.
Her hands flew to her mouth in horror. "How did you survive?" she whispered.
"Apparently, my sister anticipated my possible response, because she had tranquiliser darts at the ready." He looked at her keenly. "You're going to think God intervened again, aren't you?"
Molly returned her hands to her lap and pursed her lips. "I do think that."
He had to concede that things did seem to be leading in that direction with his own thoughts as well. Perhaps there was a higher power at work.
He related the rest of the events that had happened at Musgrave Hall and felt tears gathering in his own eyes and falling when he talked about his childhood friend, Victor, who had been the victim of an enraged young Eurus. "I think," he said slowly, "that my mind replaced my friend with a dog named Redbeard because I was too young to deal with the emotional turmoil caused by losing my friend. And I suffered the consequences of the rewriting of my memory. I think that is why I have been unable to understand or embrace more positive emotions, like romantic love. It was a defence mechanism." Unable to help himself, he reached to touch Molly's wet cheek, uncaring of the tears on his own. "That is, until Eurus forced me to confront my true emotions, including my love for you."
She seemed mesmerised by his words, and he followed the impulse to lean in and press his lips to hers, hoping she would allow it.
He felt that same delicious tingle spread through him, the sense of absolute rightness of being with Molly.
He was gratified when her initial stiffness melted, and her hands reached to curl around his neck. He wished the kiss could go on forever, had no idea when it would have ended if she had not given a little gasp and pulled back. At least she didn't slap him this time.
He could see the flush on her cheeks, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her voice was tremulous when she said, "I shouldn't have allowed myself to get carried away like that. Oh, dear God, I'm so weak. This is just wrong."
His stomach plummeted at her words. "Why is it so wrong? Doesn't it feel right? My lips feel like they were made for yours, Molly. Why does a difference of belief have to be of such concern? Do you really want us to both be miserable? Wouldn't you rather we be happy together?"
She sighed. "Being happy isn't enough, Sherlock. Happiness is temporary. I want you to share the joy I have in what I believe. That joy sustains me even through hard times, and it is unchangeable." She bit her lip and lowered her gaze. "But now I have a better understanding of the Bible verse that says the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."
"That's an actual Bible verse?"
Her eyes lifted again to meet his. "You'd be surprised at how many of our idioms originate from the Bible."
"Alright then. Tell me why you think it is wrong for us to be together if we love one another, yet have differing beliefs. Show me in your Bible." He gestured at the Bible, which was once again on her coffee table.
He knew there was a challenging note in his voice, but she tipped her chin upwards. "No problem. I'll show you."
She took the Bible onto her lap, and he saw her fingers gliding along an index of words. Ah, apparently she wasn't all-knowing when it came to the Bible; that was some relief, at least.
Finally, she found the word she sought and turned pages in her Bible.
"Are you ready to listen, Sherlock?" she asked.
He nodded. "I'm listening."
"This is from Second Corinthians six, verse fourteen. It says, 'Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common? Or what fellowship can light have with darkness?'"
Sherlock's lips tightened. "I thought you said I have honour and integrity. Those words you read imply that anyone who doesn't believe is pretty much evil."
Molly looked uncomfortable. "Sherlock, we are all born into sin and separation from God, because of Adam and Eve. Effectively, that means we are all walking in darkness until we accept Christ as our Saviour. I stand behind what I said. You are a man of honour and integrity, with an innate desire to see justice done, but you need Jesus just as much as anyone else. I believe you have the potential to be an even greater detective than you are currently, and I'm going to keep praying for you to have your eyes opened by the Holy Spirit."
Well, Sherlock thought, this conversation has been so deep it has sufficiently distracted me from the withdrawal. Even as he thought it, he could feel it setting in again, like an insidious serpent winding its way around him and squeezing. But Molly had certainly given him food for thought. He was going to have to ask her about the Holy Spirit, what exactly that meant, but he didn't feel like it right now. He was already feeling as if his brain was about to short circuit. Yes, those bloody drugs really had done a number on his mind palace.
Thankfully, it was Molly who changed the subject. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for us to get back to a theological discussion. Would you finish your story on what happened after you found out that Redbeard was Victor? How did you save John?"
Good, talking about Sherrinford again would distract him from the craving to use, to get rid of that feeling of being suffocated. "I contributed to that discussion, Molly, and asked questions. It was not your fault that our conversation went on a tangent," he said, needing to reassure her he was not cross with her.
Then he explained the rest of what had happened that night, continuing to the events of the next day and his discovery that Molly had left London.
Finally, he leaned back. "And that's the whole of it." As he had been speaking, the nausea and cramping of his stomach had been increasing, and he knew he couldn't ignore it any longer.
Hastily, he stood and made a dash for the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time to expel the water he'd been drinking periodically during his conversation with Molly. At least the Imodium seemed to be working. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands, then brushed his teeth again.
He exited the bathroom to find Molly nearby, holding a towel. "Why don't you take a shower and go to bed? It's getting late, anyway."
He took the towel. "I'll do that."
It was only when he'd finished his shower that he realised he should have retrieved a fresh pair of boxers and pyjamas from his suitcase.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked to the spare bedroom, but his suitcase was no longer there. He supposed Molly had moved it to her bedroom, seeing as she had offered to let him sleep in her room.
He walked to Molly's bedroom, only to bump into her as she emerged, carrying what was presumably her nightwear, some bright pink, silky thing. Her eyes widened when she saw him only in a towel, and he saw her visibly swallow as she glanced at his bare chest. "Uh, sorry, sorry," she said, blushing, and he shook his head in amusement at the way she was acting as if she had done something wrong.
"No need to apologise, Molly. I'm the one who bumped into you. I presume you took my suitcase into your room?" He gave her a rather sheepish smile. "I forgot to get my pyjamas from it before I took my shower."
She nodded. "It's on the bed. And the bag with your violin is in the bedroom too. I also put another bottle of water on the bedside table for you."
He smiled at her thoughtfulness. "As usual, you think of everything. Another thing to love about you."
His hand came up to lightly caress her cheek, enjoying her shy smile. "I'm going to take a shower now," she told him, "and I'll pop in to check up on you, to see if there's anything else you need, before I go to bed." She paused, then added, "Feel free to hang your clothes in the wardrobe. I also cleaned out the top drawer of the dressing table for you to use temporarily."
"Thank you." He dropped his hand and allowed her to move past him, seeing the way her eyes once again glanced at his chest as she passed him.
He went into Molly's bedroom and extracted his pyjamas and clean boxers from the suitcase, putting them on. He removed his other clothes and put them away also, noting that the duffel bag containing his violin was on the floor next to the wardrobe. Perhaps he would play it tomorrow.
He got into bed and waited for Molly.
He had not closed the door completely, and a few minutes later, Molly poked her head in. "Is there anything you need?"
His lips quirked, and this time he spoke his thoughts aloud. "A goodnight kiss would be very nice."
She hesitated, and he knew she was considering what to do.
He was pleased when she opened the door and came in, and he was treated to the sight of that short pink nightie, which did nothing to conceal the sweet curves beneath, causing his breath to hitch and heartbeat to accelerate. Molly was not one to flaunt her figure. The last time he remembered actually seeing it clearly beneath an outfit had been when she had worn that black dress for the Christmas party years ago. It still bothered him to this day that he had treated her so callously, and yet she had forgiven him, because that was the kind of woman she was.
She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching to put her hand on his forehead. "At least you aren't feverish right now."
Not outwardly, but definitely feverish on the inside, he thought, catching a whiff of the delicate jasmine vanilla fragrance he always associated with her. His body was definitely responding in a way he had not experienced before, and he longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, drag the straps from her shoulders and her breasts. But that kind of behaviour would undoubtedly merit another slap, and he didn't want to breach the boundaries she had set.
Instead, he waited and allowed her to lean forward to initiate the goodnight kiss. It was merely a quick brush of the lips, but better than nothing.
She stood and said, "Sleep well, Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Molly." He watched the sway of her hips as she walked away, turning off the light when she reached the door and closing it gently behind her.
He tried to sleep, but he could not force his mind to shut down. He replayed the day's events over and over, thinking about all of what Molly had been telling him about the Bible. There was the creation story, the birth of Jesus, her talk about him being the Saviour of the world. It was so much to comprehend, and he had so much yet to learn. And then, there was also his love for Molly, the physical ache he felt to hold her, kiss her. He yearned to explore these emotions fully, and yet he might well be denied the opportunity to do so. He tossed and turned, his mind too alert.
It was about three in the morning when he was once again plagued with nausea and the chills. It seemed he was not going to get any sleep at this rate.
He switched on the lamp, got out of bed and went to the bathroom, feeling the need to be sick again, feeling the aching emptiness of his stomach as he dry heaved and trembled violently.
Again, he brushed his teeth to rid his mouth of that smell and taste, his hand trembling the entire time; it was almost like having an automatic toothbrush, he thought ruefully to himself.
He paused in the doorway of the bathroom, suddenly remembering that he had been able to sleep for a little while when Molly had been with him, when she had soothed him with her massaging fingers.
He also remembered her words from long ago, "If there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me."
Making a decision, feeling somewhat dizzy, he turned in the direction of the spare bedroom. He needed her.
Author's note: Poor Sherlock is certainly suffering through his withdrawal, but he has also been given some food for thought. How long will it take for his spiritual eyes to be opened?
I received some lovely wisdom from JustWriter2 through a Bible passage that very much explains how the Holy Spirit gives us discernment. This is what I believe, that the Holy Spirit actively works on the hearts of those who are open to what the Bible teaches. My prayer is always that my readers either already have the Holy Spirit dwelling within them as believers, or that the Holy Spirit is working on their hearts to convict them of the truth of the Bible.
"What we have received is not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words. The person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit" (I Corinthians 2:12-14 NIV)
So there was some pretty deep theological discussion in this chapter, and the passage that Molly shows Sherlock, that convinced her that she shouldn't be in a romantic relationship with an unbeliever. I know, it's difficult to understand this clearly, but I am a firm believer in guarding your heart. I've seen too many relationships fall apart because of differing views when it comes to belief.
I know people have varying opinions. This just happens to be mine. I think it is difficult enough to maintain a healthy love relationship today without the added stress of differing beliefs and values.
Well, friends, what are your thoughts on this chapter? I know Molly stumbled a bit. She loves Sherlock so much, but she is trying to honour God, despite the temptation to just give in to her long-held love for Sherlock. I wouldn't want to be in her position!
Your responses mean a lot to me, and they keep me motivated to write stories with these Christian themes and the values that go along with living the life of a committed Christian, as opposed to just "identifying" yourself as a Christian while you don't really follow what the Bible teaches. Calling yourself a Christian is more than just saying the words, it is living a life that shows it.