Author's note: Hi everyone! I am so excited to bring you this story at last. I began working on it in April 2020, but thanks to Covid and my goal to write a series that centered around the pandemic with my real-life Journey characters, this story took a back seat for a long time. In fact, I only completed the writing of it last month.

I need to credit reader ninewood with the idea for this story, after we had a conversation posing the question of what might have happened if Molly had left town after The Phone Call without allowing Sherlock to explain. Would he have returned to drugs in despair? This story explores that possibility. But it also explores Molly in a different way than my usual story. In this one, even upon her return, she feels strongly that God would not wish her to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever, so romance is off the table. Can Sherlock change her mind, and himself?

So, this will probably be a story few people will dare to read, because it has some pretty strong faith elements and talk of why the Bible warns against being unequally yoked. I am aware this could be a controversial subject, but please bear in mind, this is my interpretation and belief. If you disagree, you are entitled to your opinion, and nobody is forcing you to read. I base my ideas on the real-life failed relationships of several couples I know where one was a committed, practicing Christian and the other was not.

Please also be aware that I have given this story an M rating, primarily because of the rather descriptive imagery of drug use. And yeah, I got a rather good education in what it is actually like by reading and watching Patrick Melrose, as well as doing my own research on withdrawal symptoms and the like.

So reader beware! It is going to be a bumpy ride (but with my usual happy ending, of course!)

Sherlock was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Today had been, arguably, the longest day of his life. The three and a half hour journey in a police car from Musgrave Hall in North Yorkshire back to London had not served to improve his mood either.

He had tried to sleep, despite the discomfort of sharing the back seat of a police vehicle with a bedraggled-looking John, who smelled as bad as he looked, but his mind palace kept replaying the events of the day, analysing the choices he had made, examining those choices from every angle. Could he have prevented the multiple deaths that had occurred? Was he responsible for them because he had allowed his sister's games to continue for too long?

Try as he might, Sherlock could not come up with a definitive answer.

His experience at Sherrinford had been far more traumatic than even preparing to jump off the roof of St. Bart's. This time, he had not been the one in control of the situation. He was unable to plan multiple scenarios on how things could play out. Every decision made had to be done quickly, without using his mind palace to guide him by identifying the possibilities. He had been forced to act on instinct alone.

Even now, with the benefit of hindsight, replaying events in his own mind, he did not think there were alternative solutions or outcomes to the puzzles set by Eurus.

He had deduced that Eurus was trying to bring forth an emotional response from him to different types of sentiment. Oh, to hell with it, he corrected himself, different types of love.

First, there had been the governor, who had been willing to die for his wife. Sherlock had felt disturbed by his death, and even more so by the callous way in which Eurus had subsequently shot and killed the governor's wife because the conditions in her little game had not been met. But he felt no particular emotional connection to those deaths. After all, he had only just met the governor, and he had never met his wife.

The next scenario with the Garrideb brothers had brought forth his love for justice to be served in deducing the correct man as the killer. Despite Eurus sending the innocent brothers to their deaths first, followed by the guilty one, Sherlock still did not feel more than a pang of pity for the men, the innocent ones, at least.

And then came the coffin in the room and a shocked realisation that it was intended for his friend, Molly Hooper.

Suddenly the stakes were elevated. He was facing the prospect of losing someone he cared about, someone who had always been a trusted confidante. He'd been angry and desperate that Molly had inadvertently become a pawn in Eurus's game.

Getting Molly to say those words, and the fact that she had made him say them first, though, had prompted a revelation. He'd acknowledged to himself that he cared for her not only as a friend, but as much more. His second, heartfelt declaration of love had come as a result of that revelation. And he had allowed his anger over what Eurus had caused, to manifest itself in the way he had smashed that blasted coffin.

However, he had barely begun to process the truth of it before he was plunged into another life or death situation, involving a choice between familial and platonic love. Unable to sacrifice either his brother or his best friend, Sherlock had been prepared to sacrifice himself. Thankfully, Eurus's intervention had put an end to those experiments, at least.

Thankfully, it was all over, and life could go back to normal. But what was normal now?

Not only did Sherlock have to deal with the fact that Mycroft had held knowledge about his sister from him for so many years, but, with newly restored memories, he also had to deal with the grief of losing a childhood friend. How had he managed to suppress that memory of Victor's disappearance?

He had so much to think about, but more than anything else, he needed to speak to Molly. The way Eurus had disconnected the call immediately after she had said those three words must have been confusing for Molly. She probably felt used, manipulated, and he needed to set the record straight as soon as possible.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, becoming aware that they had reached the outskirts of the city.

"Sherlock, you had better stay with me tonight," John said softly, looking over at him. "Unless Mrs. Hudson has had the place cleaned up, I'm assuming Baker Street is not really a fit place for habitation right now."

Sherlock suddenly recalled the explosion in his flat that had precipitated the course of events which had ended tonight. Had it really only been a few days ago? It felt like a lifetime. "I need to speak to Molly first, to explain."

"Mate, it's three in the morning. You're not going anywhere but to my flat to have a shower and clean up, although you'll have to wait for me to shower first. You can speak with her tomorrow. Molly will be fine."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I wish they had given me my phone back so I could have at least texted her."

"You'll get it back tomorrow, once we've made our official statements to Lestrade on what happened. I suppose after that, your brother will see to it that the details are kept confidential."

"Probably. If he managed to cover up the way I shot Magnussen, something like this will not be difficult to hide under the rug. Perhaps I'll go see Molly first thing in the morning, before we go to the Yard."

John gave him a curious look. "Why is this so important to you? Molly is used to you acting strangely around her. I'm sure she figured out you weren't trying to hurt her. Once you explain that your sister had forced you into the situation, Molly will understand and things can go back to the way they were."

Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair. "God, John, don't be so obtuse. I don't want things to go back to the way they were with Molly. I need to explain to her that it wasn't a lie."

As passing street lamps illuminated the interior of the police car like strobe lights in a nightclub, Sherlock could see John's mouth drop open in astonishment. "Forgive me for not following, but what do you mean when you say it wasn't a lie?"

Sherlock let out a deep breath. "When I said I loved her. The first time, I thought I was saying it just to get her to say it back, but as soon as I said the words, I knew it was true. I do love her, John."

He could hear the disbelief in John's voice as he said, "You mean in a romantic, rather than platonic way?"

Sherlock folded his arms. "I suppose you could say that. I know I don't want to hurt her ever again, and I don't want to lose her either."

"Well, I suppose if you are ready for a romantic relationship at last, Molly is as good a candidate as Irene."

Sherlock snorted. "Irene was never a candidate for romance in my mind, John. That was your own reasoning. Why you would think I could ever be interested in pursuing a relationship with a dominatrix with no morals, who tried to procure untold wealth through blackmail, and who worked for Moriarty, defies logic."

"Just trying to get you in touch with your human, emotional side."

"Well, I suppose my sister has succeeded where you have failed."

They lapsed into silence until the police officer called back to them, "Detective Inspector Lestrade gave me your addresses. Who am I taking home first?"

"Take us both to my place," John answered. "Sherlock's flat was not in the best condition last time we saw it."

"Oh yeah, the explosion, right," said the officer.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock found himself in John's flat, making cups of tea while John went upstairs first for a shower.

He really was grateful to his friend for suggesting he stay with him. Sherlock had no idea whether the flat at Baker Street was even inhabitable. If he went early enough to see Molly, he could stop by Baker Street to take a look for himself.

He rubbed his eyes wearily as he set John's cup of tea on the table and began to drink his own.

Fifteen minutes after that, John returned downstairs, looking and smelling much better. "Shower's yours. I laid out a towel and spare pyjamas for you, although I think they will be a bit short on you."

"Thanks, John. I made your tea, but it's probably cold by now." Sherlock indicated the cup, then took his own empty one to the sink. He would probably have fallen asleep if he hadn't still been thinking about the day that had just passed. He hoped he could force his mind to shut down temporarily so he could sleep after the shower.

By the time he was out of the shower and dressed in a pair of, as John had warned, too-short pyjamas, Sherlock felt he would finally be able to sleep. John had brought him a pillow and blanket for the sofa..

"I'll be picking up Rosie from Stella and Ted's tomorrow after we go to the Yard at ten o'clock," John said with a yawn. "I'm off to bed. See you in the morning."

"Thanks John. I will undoubtedly be gone before you get up, so I'll just see you at the Yard when we make our statements."

John nodded and headed back upstairs.

Sherlock settled himself on the sofa and was soon asleep.

He woke with a start, feeling perspiration between his shoulder blades and on his chest. What had he been dreaming?

He recalled it had involved Moriarty laughing, then saying, "KA-BOOM" as a timer ran out.

His own agonised voice had cried, "Molly, no!"

Sherlock took several deep, slow breaths. It was just a dream, he told himself. Molly's fine, and I'm going to explain everything to her today.

He peered at his watch, which he'd put on again after his shower. In the near darkness, he was just able to make out that it was a little after six. At least he'd managed two hours of sleep.

There was no point in trying to sleep longer; his brain had awakened, and he knew it would be impossible. Besides, he wanted to make sure he got to Molly's flat as soon as possible. It was Sunday, so she should be home. If she had been working this weekend, she would not have been home when Eurus called her using his phone.

As Sherlock re-dressed in his clothes from the day before, he thought about what he would do next. He would just let himself into Molly's flat quietly and wait for her to awaken if she wasn't yet up. She kept a spare key under the doormat, which he had used several times. He'd told her it was a terrible hiding place, but she insisted that nobody would think to look for one in such an obvious place. He had to wonder, though, if that was how those cameras had been placed in her flat.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock had retrieved the key from its usual place and had inserted it into the lock.

Everything was dark and quiet inside the flat. He waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then made his way to Molly's sofa and sat on it.

He remained there, waiting as the room slowly lightened about him.

At seven-thirty, he grew impatient. Why wasn't she up yet? He knew Molly's routine, that she was an early riser. He remembered a conversation they had had years earlier when he had been staying at her flat in that short period between his faked suicide and subsequent funeral.

She had said that no matter how late she went to bed, she found it difficult to sleep once the sun came up.

He waited another ten minutes, then decided to go to her bedroom. Perhaps the activities of the previous day had led to her being emotionally drained, and presumably that could have meant she was staying in bed longer.

Quietly, he approached her open bedroom door. Not wanting her to be frightened into thinking he was an intruder, he said softly, "Molly? It's me. I came to explain about yesterday."

He reached the door and looked towards the bed, then his eyes widened as he noticed it was unoccupied. In fact, the bed was neatly made.

He stepped into the room and looked around. Where was Molly? Had she been called in to the hospital?

He switched on the light, and his gaze swept the room, noting the fact that her wardrobe door was slightly ajar, as was one of the drawers. This was surprising. He knew Molly to be scrupulously neat, not at all the kind of person who would leave things open.

He took another look at her bed and noticed a slight rectangular indentation towards the foot of the bed, as if a heavy object had been placed there.

A suitcase, he realised suddenly.

A tingle of nervousness went down his spine. Why would Molly be needing a suitcase?

He went to the wardrobe and yanked open the door, knowing it was where she stored her suitcase on the shelf above the clothes she hung there. He was distracted for a moment, noting that to one side was a Belstaff and some shirts. He had not even considered she might still have them from the time he stayed with her. He also noticed some empty coat hangers. The suitcase was gone.

He chewed on his lower lip. Where has she gone and why?

He strode out of the bedroom towards her bathroom and scanned the small room. Her strawberry scented shampoo and conditioner were missing from their usual place, as were her toothbrush and toothpaste. He remembered that he had first tried her favourite brand of mint toothpaste when he had been staying with her, and it had prompted him to start using the same brand himself when he returned to London two years later.

He whirled around and headed toward her kitchen. He saw the huge floral cup she had been using for her tea the previous day. It was beside the sink, unwashed, as was the chopping board on which she had sliced the lemon. Molly never left dirty dishes overnight. When he had been staying with her, she had taken his empty coffee and tea cups that he'd left on her coffee table, and she had told him off several times for not putting them in the sink to be washed.

Dammit, he cursed to himself. I wish I had my phone. Then I could at least have sent a text to Molly last night. But no, the Yard needed to make sure his phone hadn't been tampered with.

He still had time to go to the hospital before heading to NSY. Perhaps Molly was just taking a few days off. It was understandable. He had hurt her, after all. He hoped Mike Stamford was working this weekend.

With these thoughts in mind, Sherlock left the flat, locking the door behind himself and replacing the key.

During the taxi ride to the hospital, he tried to tell himself that things were going to be okay. Molly might need a few days away to get over things, but then she would be back and he'd be able to explain. Molly had always been quick to forgive. Heck, once he got his phone back, he could text her and she'd probably forgive him on the spot, especially if he told her he really did love her. He didn't relish the idea of saying it over a text, but he'd do what he had to do.

When Sherlock arrived at the hospital, he checked the mortuary first, just in case Molly was working and his deductions had been in error. There was no sign of her there, nor in the lab where he looked next.

He headed to Mike's office and knocked, hearing a voice within. "Be right with you," came Stamford's voice.

A couple minutes later, Stamford called, "You can come in," and Sherlock entered the office.

Stamford looked surprised to see him. "Well, hello, Sherlock. What brings you here on a Sunday? I heard there was an explosion at your flat last week. Everything okay?"

"I've been out of town on an investigation pertaining to that explosion, and it is resolved," responded Sherlock. He hesitated, feeling slightly embarrassed that he needed to ask about Molly. "I...I was wondering if you know where Molly is?"

Stamford regarded him thoughtfully. "Funny you should ask about her. She called me yesterday, late in the afternoon, to say she needed some time off, that an emergency situation had come up. She said she had some soul-searching to do about her future and whether she needed to make some changes in her life." He furrowed his brow. "I got the impression she might be thinking of leaving the hospital. She wouldn't tell me how long she needed off, either. I could hardly say no. She's my best pathologist, and she has always been the first one to fill in when someone else is sick. I'd hate to lose her."

Sherlock could feel his hands clenching as Stamford spoke, and he forced them to relax. "Thank you for letting me know."

Stamford gave him a shrewd look. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea on what's going on? I know the two of you have worked together and developed a friendship." Then he said, "But then why would you be asking me where she is?"

Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I may have an idea what is going on, but it is nothing I feel ready to discuss. If she does happen to contact you, can you please tell her I need to speak with her urgently?"

"Sure, although I doubt she's planning to be in contact for a while. You're a detective, though. I'm sure you'll figure out where she is."

"I hope so."

Sherlock left the office and checked his watch. He needed to go to Baker Street, but he didn't really have time before he was due at NSY. He felt so lost without his phone, isolated without the ability to send a text.

Bearing in mind the thought that he should soon get his phone back, Sherlock took his third taxi of the day to NSY.

"You're early," commented Lestrade when he knocked at the detective inspector's open door and entered. The receptionist had already let Lestrade know he was on his way to the office.

Sherlock shrugged. "Places to be, people to see. I wanted to get my statement out of the way. And of course, I'd like my phone back."

"I have it right here," said Lestrade, pulling at a drawer and extracting Sherlock's phone, and holding it out to him. "It's clean. We did not check any of your private correspondence, of course, merely checked for any viruses or tampering."

"Thanks, Greg," responded Sherlock. He noted the pleased smile, and realised he had now said Lestrade's first name correctly, twice. Guess he had actually cemented the name into his brain at last.

Sherlock took a moment to unlock his phone to check for messages, in case Molly had left one. Nothing. He couldn't help feeling disappointed. As soon as he left, he was going to have to send her a message.

Sherlock spent the next thirty minutes explaining the events at Sherrinford, and answering questions as best he could. It was just as well he had arrived early, otherwise he or John would have been spending a long time waiting for the other to be done.

With fortuitous timing, Sherlock had just concluded his statement when the receptionist buzzed Lestrade to let him know John had arrived.

"We're just finishing up here," said Lestrade. "Tell him to come on down."

"If we are done, I am going to head out now," said Sherlock.

"That's fine. If I have any more questions, I'll contact you later, but I think I have a pretty clear idea of what happened. Your brother has already told me this information will have to be kept confidential."

"Of course." Sherlock stood.

John knocked and entered at Greg's invitation. "Oh, you're here already," he said, looking surprised. "Did you speak to Molly?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn't really wish to share this in front of Lestrade, at least not until he could resolve the situation. "Not yet." He kept his tone casual, then changed the subject. "I need to go to Baker Street now and see if anything has been done to the flat in my absence. I'll text you later, okay?" He held up his phone to show John he had it once again.

John nodded, and Sherlock left the office as John seated himself in his vacated chair.

For the fourth time that day, Sherlock summoned a taxi. During the journey, he sent a text to Molly.

Molly, I know you must be hurt and upset about everything that transpired yesterday, but I can explain. Please contact me as soon as you get this text.

There was no response.

When he arrived at Baker Street, he was able to see that the front windows to his flat had plastic sheeting over them. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson had not got to having the place cleaned up.

He entered the building and, with some uncommon sixth sense she seemed to have where he was concerned, Mrs. Hudson opened her door and came to him.

"Sherlock, you're back! Thank God! Where have you been for the past week? I've been beside myself with worry! Cleaners are coming tomorrow, and new windows are to be fitted as well. I would have seen to it earlier, but I didn't know if there was anything salvageable you wished to keep. I was too afraid to go up there and look for myself. So I thought I'd give you a week to come back. I expect you've found out what caused the explosion? Oh, and Molly stopped by yesterday evening. Poor girl, she looked very distraught. She left me an envelope for you. I wonder what all that's about?"

Sherlock had hardly been listening to Mrs. Hudson's chatter, but he caught the last words.

Ignoring her questions, he asked his own. "Molly left you a note, for me?"

"Yes, dear, isn't that what I just said? Let me just get that for you."

Sherlock waited impatiently as Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat and brought back an envelope with his name on it.

He took it from her. "I'll take this upstairs."

"Aren't you going to tell me where you've been?"

"Long story. I'll tell you later. But don't worry, the case of the grenade in my flat has been resolved. There will be no further attempts on my life."

He left her staring at him open-mouthed and bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

He opened the door and looked at the devastation.

Oh yes, the explosion had demolished almost everything in the sitting room and kitchen. Surprisingly, his chair, though upside-down, looked as if it might have survived. His eyes alighted also on his violin. Everything around it was in tatters, but, aside from some dust that had settled on it, his violin looked none the worse for wear. That was extraordinary, he thought. How on earth had it survived?

He didn't have time to think about that now. The envelope was burning a hole in his hand.

He walked through the mess, picking his way carefully, until he reached the passage beyond the kitchen. Nothing was on the floor there, which was a good sign. Had his bedroom escaped the blast radius?

He pushed the door open tentatively. It looked the same as usual, aside from the periodic table which usually hung on the wall. That was now on the floor, thankfully undamaged. He picked it up and replaced it on its hook, took off his shoes, then sat on his bed cross-legged and looked at the envelope for a minute.

Molly's handwriting was usually as neat as she was. On this occasion, he saw his name had been written hurriedly, and he saw a smudge that looked suspiciously as if a tear had splashed onto it.

With fingers that trembled slightly, he pulled up the flap of the envelope, took out the folded piece of paper within, then began to read.

Dear Sherlock,

Do not try to look for me.

The "not" was underlined twice.

It wouldn't do you any good anyway, because I don't even know yet where I'm going. I just know I have to get away from London, from you.

For years, I've kept my true feelings for you a secret. You probably suspected them, but while they remained unsaid, I could still have a sliver of hope that maybe one day you'd notice me as more than a friend and confidante.

Sherlock paused in his reading, pressing fingers to the bridge of his nose. "But I have noticed you, Molly," he said to the note. "I just didn't know before that I loved you."

He turned his gaze back to the words on the page.

What happened today was the last straw.

I'm sorry I made you say the words first. It was the only way I could think of, to make saying them back a little less humiliating. I shouldn't have done that. But I'm tired of these games, and I don't want to play them anymore. I can't pretend anymore that we can be just friends. You know the truth.

I almost felt as if you were sincere when you repeated those words the second time. Did you know that? That was until you hung up on me without another word after I said them back.

Now I know for sure there will never be anything between us. I need time to lick my wounds, to pick up the pieces of my broken heart, and I need to figure out what I want to do with my life in the future.

I've blocked your number, so don't bother trying to call or text me with some platitudes about how sorry you are for hurting me. We all have our breaking point, and I've reached mine.

The Bible says we should forgive one another. I want you to know I do forgive you. I don't think you really understood how much you were hurting me. But I can't forget what happened, either.

I guess what I'm saying is: this is goodbye, Sherlock. At least for now.

Molly

She hadn't even ended the note with a "Love, Molly" Sherlock thought dully, as he refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

He knew he deserved every word she had said to him, even though he'd been surprised by her talk about the Bible. That wasn't something he'd been aware of, that she had some kind of religious belief.

He didn't know her as well as he thought he did, apparently, and now it looked like he never would.

He set the envelope beside him, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Yesterday, he had mourned the loss of a childhood friend. Now, he mourned the loss of the woman who mattered most to him.

Author's note: So, a rather angsty and sad start, I know. Do I have you intrigued?

Please remember that your follows, favourites and reviews really help to affirm my calling as an author. By supporting my work in this way, you can hopefully bring others to my stories, which I very much appreciate. I love to hear from people, with theories, opinions. Just don't be rude about differing opinions, please.

Feel free to hypothesize on what comes next.