The next three days were a complete whirlwind for Molly with Sherlock breezing in and out of the flat at all hours, stopping only to tack new information to the wall above the fireplace. He neither ate nor slept, stopping only once on the second day to shower after a particularly nasty run-in with a member of his homeless network.

On the third day with no word, John and Mary decided to head to 221B in the hopes of new information, and it was with them that Molly found herself worrying about Sherlock on a completely new level.

"He hasn't eaten or slept in three days, maybe longer. He won't listen to me, it's like I'm not even here," she told John since Mary had disappeared briefly to lay Abigail down for a nap in Molly's old bedroom. She had continued sleeping in Sherlock's bed even with his absence, hoping that he would at least get his head down for a few hours, but her efforts to coax him into sleep were met with irritation and well-placed insults.

Now, Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, every now and then stopping to glance at a file or photograph provided to him from either Bill Wiggins or Mycroft. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face sporting a heavy stubble unlike any Molly had seen outside of his most recent relapse. The sling for his shoulder had long-ago been discarded against medical advice and lay forgotten on the desk.

"I haven't seen him like this since he was on drugs," Molly confided in John quietly.

"For god's sake Molly, can you stop your insipid ramblings about my well-being?" Sherlock spat sarcastically as he flopped himself into his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

"She wouldn't have to if you weren't acting like a toddler," John spat back, starting to rise from his chair but lowered back down with a calming hand from Mary, who had returned downstairs.

From downstairs came the sound of the outside door opening, Mrs. Hudson having long-since gone to visit her sister when the yelling from upstairs became too much for her to handle.

Mycroft and Lestrade stepped into the room, taking in the sight of the extremely bedraggled Sherlock and instead greeting the rest of the group.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "You have news," he stated rather than questioned.

"We have tracked Moran's location to the Mandarin Oriental in Hyde Park," Mycroft stated, watching Sherlock stand and approach him.

"Brilliant, I'll get my coat," he made to exit but was stopped by Lestrade's hand firmly placed on his chest, pushing him back.

"Now, come on, you can't be serious. I can't bloody-well let you go barging into a fugitive's bolt-hole," Lestrade commented, gesturing wildly toward the door in indignation.

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," Sherlock narrowed his blood-red eyes, straightening himself to full height.

"Now, now, children, calm down," John began, "Sherlock, sit down and let's figure this out."

"Please, John, do stick to doing what you're good at-though considering you haven't been to the surgery in nineteen days you're probably just trying to decide how to tell Mary you were fired," Sherlock said without turning his head.

"He did tell me actually, now why don't you sit down before you hurt anymore of the people you need," Mary added, trying to calm the tense room.

"I don't need anybody," Sherlock asserted acidly.

The room was silent as Sherlock's words lilted in the air. Molly stood and quickly walked into the kitchen, trying her best to not betray any emotion.

"Molly," John called, starting to follow her, stopping directly next to Sherlock, forcing him to look down.

"Not good, mate."

"I don't have time for this petty drama, John," Sherlock spun on his heel and returned to his place near the wall, studying his collage of materials.

Stepping into the kitchen, John found Molly putting the finishing touches on the tea tray, picking it up and heading back out into the sitting room.

"Are you all right?" John asked, placing his hand comfortingly on Molly's shoulder.

"As well as I can be," she joked half-heartedly, sniffing and using her shoulder to wipe her eyes.

"He's being a complete git, but you know he doesn't mean it."

"I know," she answered, giving John a weak smile. "I'm just ready for it to be over."

John returned her smile, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Tea?" she asked. John went to pick up a mug just as Molly swept the tray out of his reach handing him a mug herself.

Re-entering the living room, Molly made a circuit around the room, passing out tea and coffee to everyone's liking, saving Sherlock for last.

"Thought you could do with a coffee," she said softly, handing him the last remaining mug. He accepted it without a word and drank from it deeply, wincing at the taste and practically snarling back at her.

"You know I only take two sugars," he spat, cringing as he took another drink, more dependent upon the caffeine than the taste.

"Silly me, thought it was four," Molly set the tray down and crossed the room, taking her spot on the sofa.

"Well, the obvious choice is to confront Moran outside the hotel, so he will lead us to his informant's location," Sherlock turned to address Mycroft, completely ignoring Lestrade's huff of disapproval.

"It'll be easier to take him down inside the hotel," Lestrade started, stopped by Mycroft raising his hand.

"This information was not acquired neatly. Moran could very-well know we have his location and lead you into hostile territory. You cannot take him down yourself," he lowered his gaze at his brother.

"Then you shouldn't have told me where he is," Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the door.

Molly sprang up from the sofa, shouting. "You can't go!"

Sherlock dramatically turned toward her, his expression hateful. "What, is this some sort of desperate plea for me to stay here? Some wild declaration of love to stop me from riding out on my white horse to save the day? Save your tears, Molly, I really don't have time for it."

Molly's lip quivered slightly, but she stopped it quickly and stood straighter. "Our…relationship has nothing to do with this. It's a stupid plan and you know it."

"I don't do 'relationships,' Molly. Not really my area."

A collective gasp issued from Lestrade and Mary, the former looking like he was ready to pummel Sherlock.

"You'll be sorry you said that later," Molly said, pursing her lips and continuing to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock scoffed and turned to the door again.

"Mycroft," Molly said, "could you take about one step to your right?"

Furrowing his brow, Mycroft looked to his right and without question sidestepped closer to the door, causing Sherlock to bite out a short laugh. He turned around to face Molly again.

"What? You think my brother is going to stop me?" He swayed slightly on the spot, his angry demeanor slipping slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

"He won't have to. I just did," Molly looked at him with a sad smile. Sherlock screwed up his face in confusion before swaying once more on the spot.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Molly picked up her hand and gently pushed on his forehead, watching as Sherlock's eyes completely glassed over and he fell backwards, directly into Mycroft's unsuspecting arms. Mycroft gently led him to the floor, a look of alarm on his features.

Molly turned slowly and addressed the four stunned faces staring at her. "Don't drink out of the blue mug."

John was the first one to speak. "You two were made for each other."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The silence in the room was somewhat interrupted by Sherlock's loud snoring, his head awkwardly bent as if using Mycroft's shoes as a pillow. Everyone looked down at him for a moment, one by one returning their stares to Molly.

"Oh, for goodness sake, I didn't kill him," she crossed her arms in front of her, walking over to pick up the suspicious mug. "He'll wake up in a couple hours," she peeked into the mug. Seeing that it was mostly drained, she gave an uncertain smile. "Or…it might be closer to tomorrow. He'll wake up tomorrow."

"What did you give him?" asked John, trying not to make a spectacle of the fact that he was casually leaning down to check Sherlock's pulse.

"I am a doctor, John," Molly said flatly. "I gave him some Lorazepam. God knows he could use it right now, anyway."

"Well, not that I'm trying to argue, but there is a difference between the dosage for a normal man and the dosage for an elephant," he pulled open Sherlock's eyes and listened to his breathing, finally sitting back on his heels. "I suppose he's fine, but he's totally out of it, he'll have to be carried to his room."

"I'm sure Mycroft and I can handle it," Molly said, quickly catching the surprised eye of Mycroft, who instantly wiped the expression from his features.

"Indeed, Dr. Watson. Though it has been many years since I last had to carry my little brother to bed, I'm sure the information hasn't been lost entirely."

John, Mary, and Lestrade left, comically stepping over the still-snoring form of Sherlock in the doorway.

"Well then," began Mycroft, having removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, "I suppose we'd better move him before he begins drooling on the carpet."

"Sorry about this," said Molly, moving to Sherlock's feet. "I just thought he'd never forgive me if John had to put him to bed. And I promised myself I wouldn't let Greg film it."

Surprising even himself, Mycroft let out a soft chuckle. "It wouldn't be the first time for either of those occurrences, I assure you."

Mycroft slid his hands beneath Sherlock's arms and lifted his upper body, careful to not let his head snap backwards or to jostle his injured shoulder. Molly moved him and grabbed his legs, the two of them picking up his lanky frame easily.

"I know I shouldn't be, but for once I'm thankful he's so skinny," Mycroft grunted, carrying the majority of Sherlock's weight toward his bedroom. Sherlock, meanwhile, was completely dead to the world, his eyelids not even fluttering at the movement. Together they managed to guide his unconscious form into the bedroom and onto the edge of his bed.

"He's going to be furious with me when he wakes up," Molly put her hands on her hips as she watched Sherlock's deep and even breaths.

"I think you misunderstand my brother's aptitudes for emotion," Mycroft had moved to Sherlock's bureau, opening the top drawer and closing it when he realized it did not contain pajamas.

"Third drawer down," Molly added helpfully, grinning slightly when Mycroft turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Another shining piece of evidence toward my case."

Molly looked at him in question as he drew out a plain grey t-shirt.

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and helping Mycroft wrestle it off of him.

"I simply mean that never in his life has Sherlock allowed himself to become close to another person. I thought perhaps he had some sort of romantic feelings for John Watson, but obviously I was wrong on that front."

"Many people on the blog would disagree with you there," deadpanned Molly as they struggled to get the t-shirt over Sherlock's lolling head.

"I think this was actually easier when he was a baby," Mycroft snorted as Molly unceremoniously unzipped Sherlock's trousers before leaning down to remove his shoes and socks so she could pull them off of him. Once he was in just his t-shirt and shorts, the two of them hefted him to the center of the bed and covered him with the duvet, all while Sherlock made no movement whatsoever.

"What I'm trying to say is that he cares about you more than he has ever cared about another person in his life. Whether he has made that clear or not, I have doubt, but trust me when I say you've made him a better man," Mycroft straightened himself and walked out the door. Molly heard the door shut a few seconds later, leaving her alone in the room with the sleeping Sherlock.

She smiled slightly as she tucked the blanket in around him, his face turning ever-so-slightly toward her hand as she brought it gently across his cheek as he slept.