CHAPTER EIGHT

WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT!

Mycroft Holmes, Head of the Secret Police and the Monitoring of the Cardinal Law Security Act waited impatiently for his little brother. His fingers tapping rhythmically on his desk.

He's doing this on purpose, he thought. He glanced at his watch, twenty minutes late. Mycroft knew his brother better than the younger Holmes would care to admit. He derived pleasure from needling his big brother.

Too bad that though Mycroft was irritated with Sherlock, he had nerves of steel.

Finally, after forty minutes of waiting, Holmes the younger was ushered into Mycroft's domain. An underground secret security office where hush-hush mysteries went to die.

Or thrive, depending on who you asked.

Sherlock did not take the seat or coffee he was offered. He did however approach his brother's desk and hold out an expectant hand.

"Can't it wait?" Mycroft asked. But Sherlock only held out his hand, gesturing with his fingers to give it up. The elder brother groaned and removed from his breast pocket a single cigarette and he tossed Sherlock a lighter.

Holmes the younger lit up, he heard the tiny cogs in the walls turning as the air ventilation system kicked into overdrive to billow out the smoke.

"Well, now that that's out of the way, care to report?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock finally sat and leaned back comfortably.

"Mrs. Virginia Harrison was murdering Watchers, got her to confess. Case closed. Can I go now?" Sherlock said cordially. The elder sighed and shook his head.

"Sherlock, you do realize that perhaps there was more than one executioner?" Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Noo-pe. Security footage, places Mrs. Harrison at the scene of all five murders pulling the trigger herself, quite gleefully I might add, announcing the men were guilty."

"Guilty of what?" Mycroft queried.

"Of being men, being Watchers. Suffice to say they very much hated their husbands."

"What of the others?"

"They'll be sent to factories. Mrs. Harrison however will hang."

Mycroft nodded and waved his hands.

"Very well then, as you said, case closed."

"Yes. Bye-bye." Sherlock stood to leave but the door was locked. He groaned loudly.

"It's time." Mycroft said emotionlessly.

"Time for what? I have a case."

"No you don't you haven't even checked in yet."

"Still keeping tabs on me, big brother?"

"Always."

Sherlock whirled about and took another pull on his cigarette.

"You know, I'm starting to think I don't need you looking out for me anymore." Sherlock said with an aggressive smirk.

"What about Cardinal Magnusson?" Mycroft prompted. Sherlock restrained himself from choking on his cigarette smoke.

"That name. I told you not to say that name in front me." Sherlock said dangerously.

"Sherlock, he's out to get you. You need to be careful. Stop blabbing to your little pet about this dysfunctional society we live in." Mycroft warned. Sherlock's trademark smirk returned.

"Oh, so you are listening. I was just joking."

"And yet you're not denying he's a pet."

"He's not but he's useful."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed a leg over the other.

"It's time, Sherlock."

Sherlock finished his cigarette in silence knowing that would frustrate his brother more than if he spoke. The silent treatment, childish but very effective.

The younger Holmes was then taken to another room and subjected to a drug screening. When he was a young man and a young Watcher he had requested to be placed in the V.I.C.E unit- Venality Intelligence Crime Enforcement.

Undercover work, weeding out the worst criminals that were polluting their society with drugs and horrendous crime.

Mycroft quietly took pity on his younger brother. He had been so young, so impressionable. The experience had changed him, left him scared and hollow. The things he had seen... Mycroft didn't have to imagine it. He had seen and saved his brother at his worst.

Sherlock however didn't like to be saved. He saw it as weakness though he knew protection was a necessary evil when it came to his work.

Mycroft's PA, Anthea, handed him Sherlock's report.

"Clean. Traces of nicotine and allergy medication." She said clinically.

"Yes. All the things he'll be expecting." Mycroft commented.

"Sir, I know it's not my place-"

"Then don't say it."

"You know I wouldn't be any fun if I did that." Anthea said with a smile Mycroft couldn't resist.

"Very well." He said giving her permission to continue.

"Sir, when will you tell him?" Anthea asked.

Mycroft handed her back the tablet, he had updated the date but the information stayed the same.

"Hopefully, never."

X

Sherlock exited his brother's dungeon in a foul mood. Last night he had held Janine and woken up in the same position. Besides the numbness he felt in his arm he was pleased to wake up beside her despite the sinking feeling in his gut that he felt when he thought of Molly all alone on the other side of the house. He had nearly gone to see her but stopped himself.

Control, he reminded himself.

John Watson was waiting in the lobby when he arrived at Station 4. Sherlock had ordered Irene not to rescind his security clearance. And yet the civil Captain still waited for an invitation.

"You've made up your mind then. The answer is yes." Sherlock said as John walked with him.

"How did you-"

"You came in person. Even a man like you would send a message. But because you chose to come here yourself means you're ready to get to work." Sherlock said quickly, firing off his answer like bullets from a gun.

John sighed.

"I should have guessed you'd know." John said defeatedly.

Someone walked into John, shoving him hard as if he were invisible and he made a face at the man.

"Excuse you." John said in irritation. The man in question had a pointed face and a scars on his right side, he actually sneered at John and Sherlock.

"Anderson." Sherlock said, with more than a little ire behind his voice.

"Holmes." The man named Anderson replied.

"Died again recently?" Sherlock prodded. John had no idea what he had just been pulled into but he immediately deduced it was some kind of rivalry. That was much was obvious to anyone.

"No, I'm riding solo now." Anderson said pompously.

"Ah, well that's good for you. I'm sure no one wants to waste anymore bullets."

Anderson attempted and failed to attack Sherlock because John had disarmed and had him on his back before he could contemplate what happened. The lobby went silent as John wrapped his fingers around the man's neck and placed a foot on his chest, crouching over him.

"Enough or I'll snap your rib cage in half." John warned. The creature named Anderson accepted the threat and stopped struggling.

John helped him to his feet and straightened his suit for him. Nothing worse than physically humiliating a man than fixing his attire.

"Off you pop." John said passively.

Anderson limped away, off to clean his wounded scabs somewhere else.

Sherlock smiled and everyone went about their business.

"Did I just make an enemy?" John asked Sherlock nodded quickly.

"Oh yes. He hates me and anyone who comes into contact with me, you would have been guilty by association even if you hadn't assaulted him. You'll have to watch your back." Sherlock said candidly.

"Oh, great."

They continued their journey, along the way John asked about Anderson.

"Philip Anderson is both a menace and a miracle," Sherlock began. "There have been a total of six attempts on his life, all by other Watchers, and he's walked away every time.

The first was a car bomb but it didn't detonate when it was meant to it just threw him fifteen feet. He was stabbed while driving and crashed the car. He's been set on fire, poisoned, and shot three times. But being shot only counts as one because it was one incident."

John gaped. How could a man survive all that?

"You see John, it's always the ones you hate that survive." Sherlock said as they entered his office.

The went on rather boringly. No interesting cases came through Sherlock felt compelled to leave the office for. Mostly he just sent Irene to do the leg work. Meanwhile John grew accustomed to spending time with Sherlock in the office rather than out of it.

A new desk had been added to Sherlock's office for John, there was space enough for it. They were side by side, the curtain on the window drawn. All manner of natural light could not penetrate the room.

"Why do you want to retire?" Sherlock asked out of the blue.

"Just want a new start, a new life."

"There's something terrible about the one you have?"

John ran a hand over his face and scratched his eye.

"No. I just need a change." The Captain replied. "Don't you ever want something else?"

Sherlock wanted to say "more than you could know".

Instead, "Of course not. I'm useful here." It was clipped and short and an answer he had given hundreds of times. He wondered if he sounded practiced to John.

Most likely it did. The Captain was proving to be less an idiot than most people. It's why Sherlock liked him so much. He kept him balanced. John reminded Sherlock that not everyone lived his lifestyle. There were other people, other people who mattered. Other people who had different lives.

People who might be happy in their place in the world where Sherlock wasn't.

The day ended without much of anything important happening.

Once more, Sherlock appeared disappointed and sad that there were no grim cases to be had.

"I was wondering, John, if this weekend you'd like to join my wife and I for dinner?" Sherlock asked as they made their way out of Station 4.

John was shocked. It was the first time Sherlock had ever even mentioned having a wife, let alone dinner. The soldier didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock eat anything.

"Oh, oh of course. Dinner. Yes." John replied, half muted half literate. Sherlock nodded.

"Great. I'll text the details. Goodnight, John." Sherlock said, waving awkwardly goodbye. John began to raise his hand but decided against it.

John made his way to a car. He remembered Anderson's bitter face and just to be sure he checked the car to make sure there was no bomb.

Getting blown up on the way home, that's all I need, John thought.

X

Janine was already in bed and asleep when Sherlock returned home. As per his usual routine he showered and changed but he wasn't tired.

Molly... his mind repeated the name over and over like a spell. And like some fabled hero in some strange story, Sherlock followed the vocal enchantment to her room.

The light was on which surprised him. The illumination caused him to knock instead of just walking in. Lightly, his rapped his knuckles against the wooden door.

Seconds later the sweet face of Molly Hooper appeared, cracking the door open.

Relief flooded into Sherlock like a balm to a burn.

She was waiting for me, he thought happily. He hadn't felt happiness in days, and before Molly, he rarely knew what the feeling was. She had given him that. And he coveted it greatly.

However, she didn't let him in right away.

She could be angry, he thought worriedly.

"May... may I come in?" Sherlock asked her quietly. She hesitated for a moment before allowing him entry.

Inside her room was glowing yellow with the soft light and for the first time Sherlock took in his surroundings. The walls were sparse but a small picture of a ginger cat hung in a child's frame near her bed. And on a night table next to the narrow single bed was a framed picture of a little girl in braided pigtails smiling shyly at the camera and a man with a protective arm wrapped around her shoulders could not be mistaken for anyone but her father.

Anton Hooper...

Sherlock remembers the man but tries not to. He had mentored Sherlock when he first became a Watcher. Mycroft likes to take all the credit that he was the only one who helped him after his time spent in the V.I.C.E unit. But it was Anton Hooper who pulled him out.

And it was Anton Hooper who Sherlock had murdered.

"I knew this day would come," Anton had said, he had been disappointed. A look of sadness crossed his elder features, but the man could not outrun death and his ruination had taken the form of Sherlock Holmes.

They had been in a car, it was a clear summer night. No dramatic thunder storm, no blizzard to trap them. No, Anton could have tried to run. But they both knew that wasn't who the elder Watcher was.

"Take care of Molly, she had nothing to do with this. A child should not pay for the sins of her father." Anton had gone on, pulling on his leather gloves and fixing his suit. He wanted to die looking dignified. Sherlock couldn't blame him at the time.

Anton had looked at Sherlock, smiling proudly, the look of sadness dissipated.

"Remember what you are, Sherlock." Anton's last words haunted Sherlock to this very day.

"Sir?" Molly said to him, the real world taking shape once more. He drew in a breath and asked if he could sit. Nervously Molly gestured to the bed as there was no where else to sit.

Awkwardly they sat together, she fidgeted with her hands in her lap. He reached out and stilled them gently.

Sherlock took in what she was wearing; a worn out grey nightgown that was a size too big for her, one shoulder was bare due to the size of it and Sherlock wanted to sink his teeth and lips into the flesh...

"I'm sorry I could not come to you sooner." He said softly. Molly wrapped her fingers around his hand.

"I understand. Your wife-"

"Don't, please." Sherlock begged. He reached up and cupped her face and kissed her forehead, then her cheeks then her lips.

It began slow and tentative but before long he could not control the beast within him and he was scooting her backwards until he could lay her down on her back.

"Wait, Sir," Molly protested and Sherlock stopped, much to his own surprise. Especially when he had always told himself he would take her no matter what she said. Now that she actually asked him to wait it was entirely different than in his mind.

Molly pushed him back until they were both upright once more.

"What we do, Sir," Molly began. "It's to make babies." Sherlock was confused, she wasn't making any sense, not to his lust fogged mind. But then he caught up with himself, she didn't know people had intercourse without wanting children. That they had sex for pleasure.

"No, Molly, that's not why all people do it." He told her. She looked bewildered.

"But the Maiden's Citadel and the doctors-"

"Are stupid, backward thinking fools." He snapped at her. She flinched at his words and looked away from him and he immediately apologized and corrected his tone.

"Molly, when I... lay with my wife, it's to produce a child. When I lay with you it's... different."

"Why?" She asked, of course she would ask why.

Sherlock felt like he was talking to a child. But sadly, in many ways, Molly had been raised to remain a child. Stuck in an endless circle of conditioned behavior and thinking.

Because I care for you more than my own wife, he wanted to say. Instead,

"Because I... I want it to be different." Was all Sherlock could say now. He didn't know what else to say-

Wrong, you know exactly what to say... just say it, tell her!

Sherlock kissed her again and she kissed him back. He pulled her close to him and asked her to sit in his lap. She blushed at his request but granted it anyway, straddling him and whimpering softly when he pressed her down onto his hard cock. He gripped her hips as they kissed and showed her how to move against him.

Molly was growing bolder as their encounters increased and she reached down to slide her hands under his shirt and eventually pulled it off him.

Molly didn't know why she found his body so appealing but she did. Maybe it was because it was just another part of him, another part of the mystery that lurked behind blue eyes that seemed to luster and turn to green.

It was the first time she had fully seen him without a shirt on in the light, and it was beautiful.

Passionately, Sherlock claimed her mouth and she willingly parted her lips for him, kissing him back with as much vigor as ever.

Timidly she moved her hips against his without his supervision and he groaned deep in his chest, so hard that she felt it against her breast. He pulled the short sleeves of her nightgown off and pressed his mouth to her shoulders and neck and she held his head in place, all the while rocking her hips down to meet his.

"Sir... it hurts again." She whispered in his ear. He gazed up at her and stroked her red face, her cheeks burning.

"I'll make it better." He said deeply and she pressed her mouth to his as his long arms twined around her small form, pulling her hard against him so he could feel every inch of her.

"I'll always make it better." He promised. He reached down and lifted her nightgown and pulled her panties down until they were at her knees. She scooted back to take them off for him and he hardened further at how far she had come, how comfortable she was becoming with him in their intimate moments.

After divesting of her underwear she sat on her knees between his legs and he let her do whatever she wished to him.

First, she kissed his neck and then his face and his lips once more, all the while her hands roamed over various parts of his arms, shoulders and torso.

"Do you hurt too?" She whispered breathlessly. Sherlock wondered if she knew how provocative such words were to him. He was sure she wasn't aware of her own sexuality. Her own lack of experience made her even more alluring. That he could teach her, mould her and model her to his every liking thrilled the dark, hidden beast within himself.

But isn't that why you hate the Citadel and doctors?

"Yes, yes," he panted against her mouth as they hotly kissed once more. He took her hand and laid it against his throbbing cock, still confined in his night clothes. She moaned and gripped his length through the material without much suggestion and soon his hand fell away and he glanced down between them, in the small space where her hand held him, and he watched in a drunken haze as her petite hand stroked him.

It was one of the most erotic things he had ever witnessed. He bit his lip and leaned his head back against the wall where the bed was pushed. His eyes half open, half closed. She was learning quite quickly. Without instruction she bravely reached inside and pulled his hot manhood forth and it twitched greedily in her hand when it met the cool air of her bedroom.

Her hands stroked his cheek and he turned his head and took her thumb into his mouth, taking great pleasure in her moan.

Sherlock stifled a gasp, he only gripped her arm as she resumed her stroking. After a moment, he took her hand and licked her palm, she made an alarmed face but he reassured her, and then returned it to his cock.

Molly seemed to understand why he did it.

He shivered when her moist palm met him once more.

Sherlock felt his orgasm approaching and stopped her. He lifted her nightgown off her body entirely and pulled back to sit on his lap, her hot moist center inches from the head of his prick.

"Like this?" She questioned nervously and he nodded.

With one hand on her hip and the other guiding himself into her, her mouth dropped open in a gasp as it always did when he filled her empty cunt.

She gripped his shoulders and rested her head in his neck. He had never been so deep inside her before. She felt so utterly, deliriously full. It wasn't painful it was just surprising.

Sherlock took a moment to relax, he knew if he began too soon it would be over before he knew it. He needed to calm down. Molly, however, had other ideas.

He didn't know what prompted her, he surely did not, but perhaps it was just pure animal instinct, but she slowly began moving her hips against him.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and couldn't help but the groan that escaped his lips.

"Please, Sir," she whispered to him and he felt something inside him snap. The beast took charge.

Molly watched as a dark look came over his face, his eyes seemed to change, his lips curled back almost in a snarl and he sat up, yanking her hard and fast down onto his manhood. She gasped in surprise and held onto him tightly.

Sherlock did not spare her, not this time.

He thrust hard and forcefully into her and she cried out in pleasure. Her fingernails raked his back, against scars and old wounds.

"Si-sir..." she whimpered through her own passion. He stopped and removed himself from her. She put her hands over her mouth as her body convulsed and twitched at the loss of him. And all the sudden he was behind her.

"Get on your hands and knees." He ordered darkly and she did, afraid but eager. He took hold of her hips and pulled her close to his groin and without warning slid himself back into her. The new position caused her to cry out and she gripped the sheets tightly in her little fists.

Sherlock resumed his mad thrusting, using her, using her body, using her devotion. He was lost, consumed by her. Consumed by his own desire. He knew he would burn for it.

Each thrust knocked her torso closer and closer to the bed until she was lying at an angle, letting him have his way with her.

He felt like an animal, he felt powerful, he felt primal. He felt like he owned her.

He reached down and pulled her back against his chest so she had to sit on her knees as he fucked her. He wrapped an arm around her chest, his hand squeezing and massaging her small breast. She stared ahead, not knowing where else to look, her mouth open, her tongue darting out every now and then to lick her lips.

"Does it feel good?" He whispered into her ear, letting his teeth graze the flesh of her neck, his voice didn't sound like his own. Molly nodded.

"Tell me you like it." He ordered her and it took her a moment to find her own voice again.

"I... I like it, sir." She whimpered shyly. He smirked and kissed her neck.

"Do you like it when I fuck you?" He asked, when she didn't answer he stilled and ran a hand down tummy and between her legs, flicking her little clit and causing her to jerk against him.

"Please, sir, I can't..." She said weakly, out of breath and sweaty from his rigorous, aggressive rutting.

"Shh, yes you can sweet girl. Tell me you like it when I fuck you and I'll make you feel better." He said into her ear, like a devil.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I like it when... you fuck me." She said and Sherlock forced her down again, thrusting harder than he had before. Molly lay flat on her stomach with his body crouched over, his arms trapping her in a fleshy cage as he moved against her in wild abandon.

Sherlock didn't care who heard them. If Mrs. Hudson burst open the door right now he wouldn't give a damn. All that mattered was this moment, this moment in time with Molly Hooper. The rest of the world could go to hell.

He saw her little fist gripping the sheet and he reached his own sweaty hand out and interlocked their fingers together.

Sherlock felt her cunt contracting around him.

Just a little longer, he thought.

When he felt Molly thrust back onto him and then witnessed her bury her face in the pillow to stifle her cry he knew she had come. He swore he could feel it, her release oozing onto him and down her thighs.

Sherlock reared back onto his knees, holding her hips in a bruising grip and fucking her hard until his release ripped through his body causing him to feel boneless. The greatest high he had ever felt was when he was coming, buried inside Molly Hooper.

Through clenched teeth he cried out, pumping his come into her, filling her quim.

Sherlock nearly collapsed on top of her but stopped himself. He could feel her shaking. He turned her over, cradling her in his arms, and he pulled back the covers and tucked them both underneath.

Molly was half awake half knocked out. She made little whimpering noises when he ran his hands overs over her body. Her breasts were swollen and he touched them and ran his knuckles across her hard nipples, leaning down and taking one into his mouth, keeping her fire burning hot. Making her yearn for him once more.

Sherlock pressed a hand over her stomach, soothing her, gently rubbing and for a moment, one that he could not explain in the moment or after, he wanted a child to take form inside Molly.

Sherlock had never had such a thought with Janine or any woman he had ever slept with. But for some reason he imagined Molly with a little bump in her belly, a child tucked safely within her. He almost felt himself become overwhelmed by the notion.

He... wanted that.

Molly moaned softly and as she came back to herself and she smiled up at him and he returned it. She leaned up and kissed his jaw, running her hand down his sweaty muscular chest. He felt himself growing hard once more, the sensation was almost too much.

Did she understand- even comprehend- the power she had over him?

No, how could she?

"Do you love me?"

The words seem to replay in slow motion. He watched her lips as she said them once and a thousand times in his mind. Immediately he tensed, the moment evaporating like Mrs. Harrison's cigarette smoke.

Do you love me... do you love me... do. You. LOVE ME!

Coldly he turned his face away from her, awkwardly her hand lingered on his arm, unsure now whether to continue touching him or not.

"Sir?" She said meekly, almost fearfully.

"Molly," He he said curtly, still not looking at her. "This... this is not... love."

LIAR! His heart roared to life. But he closed himself off from it, slamming it shut like a disappointing book and throwing it across the room into a fire.

"I don't understand." She said sadly. He could hear the timber in her voice change, tears were seconds away.

Remain cold, remain in control- LIAR!

"Shut up." He snapped before he could stop himself from the saying the words. He realized he was no longer holding Molly, that she was back up against the wall where the bed met, blankets pulled up to her chest, she was shaking.

That's it, hate me, fear me... LIAR!

"This is simply a release." He said clinically, he still hadn't risen from the bed. He couldn't bring himself to yet.

Molly's chest was heaving, she felt sick, she felt trapped, she felt suffocated. Like an invisible force was suddenly sitting on her chest. She didn't know how to speak. She was mute, small... stupid.

You stupid, foolish little girl, she berated herself.

"No need to cry." Sherlock said calculatedly. "I'm married."

"You... you said it was... different." Molly found her voice through the trauma.

"It is. A different release." LIAR!

This is it. Lose her. Make her hate you. No, make her fear you. You're ruined, you've ruined her. What's one more broken heart in the long line of hearts and lives you've destroyed? Go on. Make her FEAR you.

Molly felt the shift in the mattress, her eyes downcast. His fingers gripped her chin firmly, not gently or warmly like he had in the past. There was something in his grasp that made her attempt to back away even more. But she had nowhere to go. The feeling of being trapped escalated. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest, as a weak little form of protection, but his other hand grasped her knee.

"Stay still, Molly, I thought you enjoyed this." He whispered darkly, crudely.

Molly didn't know how to describe it. Before when he spoken such things to her it had excited her, thrilled her, soak her from the inside out. But not there was something dark about his voice, something hidden and unseen. Something that was devoid of passion, devoid of compassion, devoid of humanity.

"Please, don't hurt me," she found herself begging through sobs and tears.

Why? What have I done?

Sherlock wrapped a hand around her knee and pulled, extending her leg and forcing them apart, settling himself between them. He wouldn't have to go too far... he wasn't even aroused anymore. Perhaps she wouldn't notice.

Sherlock gripped her wrists and held her down, hard. Hard enough to hurt, hard enough to scare her.

"Now, now Molly stop fighting." He said with a queer smile that frightened her even more. His face was changing, warping into something that didn't recognize it. She didn't know him anymore- not that she truly did before- but this wasn't him. Something in her gut was telling her this wasn't him. But the fear of being wrong, the doubt that perhaps it was sunk even deeper into her.

"No, no stop, just stop it!" Molly said struggling harder against him. Her hands pushed against him and he felt her nails scrape against his chest, he bit back at the pain.

You deserve worse!

"Stop it, Molly! I'm going to fuck you hard whether you want it or not. Wet or dry, I don't care." He said lethally to her.

That seemed to do the trick because the next thing Sherlock knew her hand came swinging across his face, he saw stars, not thinking the small woman had it in her. The strength and ability and the courage. He could fire her for it and send her to a factory.

Molly didn't seem to be thinking about the consequences and slapped him again. Sherlock backed off from her little barrage. Yes, it was the fear and reaction he had been hoping for but it was like reality had become a fist and that first belonged to Molly Hooper.

A third slap resounded in the room, he felt her nail scrape his cheek.

"How... how dare you!" She hissed at him and began shoving him away. Away from her, away from the bed that stunk of their love making. Away from anything that was hers.

"Get away. Don't come back for... for this." She ordered him, gesturing between the two of them with a shaking hand, a hand that was now beginning to burn with her brutal slaps.

Sherlock stared threateningly at her for a moment. She felt held her breath, unsure of what he would do next.

And that was the moment he knew she began to realize what she said. Her eyes dropped for a moment before bravely returning to his own.

She's standing her ground, good, I'd be disappointed if she didn't, he thought sadly.

Sherlock stood, dressed and left the room, leaving Molly breathless, angry and heavily unsure of what her position would be in the morning.

Until then, Molly stripped her bed, redressed it with new sheets and turned out her light. Wrapping her arms around herself, crying until she was exhausted and passed out.

Sherlock dressed and left the house behind as he drove out into the night. It was still early in the night. He wanted to be far away. He didn't know where. Just as far away from everyone as he could possibly get.

Sherlock knew where he wanted to go but it wasn't where he should go. It wasn't even where he needed to go. But what he wanted and needed were two very different things.

Or perhaps they're the same...

It wasn't healthy, he'd be clean for years. But not after this night. No, for the first time in five years, Sherlock Holmes, was going to get high. And he didn't really care if he came back or not.