A/N: Well, this took longer than I had expected. Was suffering from some writer's block, and I'm not too happy with this chapter. Anyways, Christmas is coming, which means that the mini-episode is about to be aired soon! Yay!
And in case you're not in the loop, do not watch the Finnish Sherlock trailer if you're staying away from spoilers.
Disclaimer: You lovelies should know that I don't own anything except these words.
It was war. Or at least, it felt like one.
A flood of sensations battling inside him, all eager to claim victory. His desire for the drug grew and ebbed continuously, gradually exhausting his resolve to triumph over his craving.
He'd been clean for almost eight years, but he knew an addiction never truly disappeared. It was only asleep, patiently waiting for a crack to slip through. And Ahern had effectively created a gaping hole.
He'd panicked upon discovering the substance. His history with drugs had been dreadful, and what made it worse was that he'd done heroin before, making his body more susceptible to it again.
His relationship with drugs had started during his university years, when everything was much too loud, too vibrant, too fast. He hadn't yet learnt to control his mind, and every minor thing proved to be a distraction. His brain had been an uncontrollable racing engine, and out of desperation, he'd sought the only thing which could calm it, allowing him some precious sleep at night.
His need to satisfy his mind had eventually led to him adding cocaine to his drug use after a very boring night, and it didn't take long before he turned sallow and thin, fingers constantly shaking and always in need of more cash.
It'd been a cold, autumn evening when he met a kind, old lady who offered him her cup of tea while he was waiting for his dealer at a park. She'd seen him sickly and alone, dark shadows bruising the under of his eyes.
Much too cold to care about his dignity, he'd accepted her offer, sipping the beverage silently as she attempted to make some small talk with him. He'd quickly deduced that she was a retired nanny who frequently got abused by her unemployed husband, whose favourite hobby was drinking until he couldn't recognise his own wife.
Her sweet demeanour had been endearing, and he found himself liking Martha Hudson, despite his original intention not to. They'd spent the next few months meeting occasionally in the park, whenever his need for drugs brought him there. Mrs Hudson had gone there every evening though – it had been something like a sanctuary for her, just a few hours of peace.
It took a near death experience near his twenty-sixth birthday before he finally agreed to enter rehabilitation. Even then, he'd relapsed a few times, only succeeding in curbing his addiction after Mycroft had promised to acquire him a job with Scotland Yard. Once clean, he even managed to track down Mrs Hudson again, helping her get rid of her useless husband by proving him guilty of a murder charge.
And it was just going to take a momentary lapse on his part for him to fall right back into the trap. Fuck Ahern. Years of hard work were close to coming to naught.
It didn't help that he was haunted by misshapen images of Annie at night; they were like splinters in his damn brain. Some part of him felt responsible for her death, and he couldn't shrug off the guilt that plagued him whenever he closed his eyes.
He was drained, and he longed for a brief respite. Heroin could give him that…
"Sherlock?"
He turned away from her gentle voice, aggressively arranging the cushions before burying his face into them. If he kept up this childish behaviour, then maybe she'd leave him alone.
"You haven't eaten in two days," she said, tentatively moving closer to him (he had yelled at her two hours ago for being nosy, almost making her cry). "What's wrong?"
He covered his head with his blanket, muffling whatever else she said next.
He counted till twelve before he heard a sigh and the shuffling of her feet as she left him.
Something was terribly wrong. He looked maniacal, desperate, disconcerted. He seemed to slip in and out of concentration, and it scared her.
Not to mention the fact that he'd turned up at her doorstep with light purple bruises on his face just three days ago. Even Irene had been slightly alarmed, sneaking glances at him until she was ordered by Mycroft to travel to god knows where. It was getting more secretive as the months passed.
Molly tossed around her bed restlessly. Her mind was inundated with so many thoughts, it was impossible to fall asleep. She reached for her phone, thinking of playing some ridiculous game when she heard a moan.
She stiffened, sitting up on her bed. The seconds seemed arduously long. Just when she'd decided that she was imaging things, she heard it again. She scrambled out of her bed.
Sherlock was curled in a foetal position on the sofa. He was sweating profusely, his face twisting into a grimace. Another moan escaped from his lips as his eyebrows furrowed deeper. Horrified, she shook his shoulder.
"Sherlock!"
His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her arm roughly, strong fingers digging into her skin. She winced.
He panted heavily as his eyes darted about. Realising that he was safe, he turned his attention back to her, pulse still fluttering in his neck.
He released her arm from his vice-tight grip, looking embarrassed. "Sorry," his voice was hoarse, and she could've sworn that it trembled a little.
"Are you alright?" she whispered, rubbing her arm.
His eyes flickered to her arm in concern before he nodded, turning away. She was tempted to enquire further, but he obviously needed some privacy to regain his composure.
She went into the kitchen to get him some warm milk, and was hit with a strong sense of déjà vu. This happened months ago, when he was still having nightmares about Moriarty. She wondered what could have possibly made those monsters appear in his dreams again.
He was staring blankly into nothingness when she returned. He accepted the drink silently, moving over to give her some space on the couch. He drummed his fingers rhythmically on his knee as he drank.
Molly wasn't prepared for the look in his eyes when he finally averted his gaze back to her. His eyes held the same vulnerability they did on the night he came to her in the lab, except now they were pleading as well, a silent request for her not to ask him anything. He wasn't ready.
She laid her hand on his arm to let him know that she understood, and she wasn't going to push him to tell her. He looked so relieved that she was swamped with the desire to embrace him. With the glass of milk in his hands and his damp, messy hair, he looked so much like a frightened child, the genius detective a hidden shadow.
"Do you want to share the bed?" she blurted, once he'd set down his glass.
His brows knitted together and he shot her a sharp glance. She went crimson.
"Sometimes having someone beside you helps," she mumbled, wishing that a hole could swallow her up. "You might sleep better, and you need that," she pointed out.
Sherlock pondered, looking conflicted. He shook his head after a while. Molly leaned in to kiss his cheek, feeling his tensed body relax a bit.
"The door's open if you change your mind," she said, patting his knee before returning to her bedroom.
She was curled on her side, the duvet pulled over her head. She was trying to stay awake, hoping that he would change his mind and accept her offer. She didn't know what she was thinking when she'd uttered those words, except that she couldn't bear to see him alone, fear staining his features.
It certainly wasn't decent("Molly Hooper, you tart!", her mother's shrill voice echoed in her head) to be sleeping on the same bed with a man who wasn't even close to being her boyfriend, but it wasn't like they hadn't slept together before. The circumstances had been different then, but still…
The side of her bed dipped and Molly held her breath. The duvet moved and a cool draught swept across her feet. She shut her eyes. If she gave any indication of acknowledging his presence now, he would leave straight away.
She could feel him shifting on the bed, gradually inching closer to her until finally (finally), his left arm was flush against her back.
After a torturous wait of what felt like eternity, he rolled his body sideways, pressing his head gently to the nape of her neck. Her pulse raced at the damp coolness of his skin on hers. His warm breath touched the sensitive skin on her neck, making her shiver.
She turned to face him, and her breath hitched. Their faces were merely inches apart, and he gazed back at her intently. His eyes bore into hers, and he seemed to be studying something, because a minute later, his serious expression softened. He moved his right hand to cover hers, placing his thumb over the area where her pulse beat lightly against her skin.
Molly frowned, before realising that this was his way of finding a centre, something stable to hold onto. Her pulse was soothing him.
For reasons unknown, it broke her heart.
His breathing soon became deep and even, thumb still resting lightly on her wrist. She moved her left hand to his forehead, fingers gliding across it as she smoothed the taut crease between his brows. Sherlock stirred slightly and edged closer to her, mumbling something incoherent.
His steady breathing soon lulled her into a dreamless sleep.
They spent the next week in this arrangement, and every day, he would move nearer to her. She didn't think that it was deliberate though, merely an instinctive gesture while he was sleeping. But he didn't display any surprise at the intimacy, nor did he comment on it.
He started to eat again, just little bites of whatever she bought or made. It wasn't much, but at least he was getting some calories in. He would spend hours plucking on his violin strings, immersed in his own world. He went back to plastering nicotine patches on his arm, sometimes up to four patches at once.
Molly wondered if she should inform Mycroft, but it felt like a betrayal of sorts, so she remained hushed on the subject.
She woke up one morning to find his arm draped across her waist, his face buried in the crook of her neck, warm breath tickling her skin.
This was the closest he'd ever gotten. Not too surprising, seeing how he'd suffered from one of the worst nightmares she'd seen the night before, moaning a name which sounded like "Annie". He'd looked defeated and glum when she had woken him, sighing before staring absently at the ceiling. She had felt his thumb ghosting across her wrist just before her stone-heavy lids shut again.
Molly tried to disentangle herself from his hold without disturbing him. She failed spectacularly, of course. He was a disturbingly light sleeper. It didn't take long before he stirred, eyes fluttering open.
He frowned when he saw his arm around her waist.
"Is this too close?" he murmured, immediately moving to leave a gap between them.
It was actually, but she didn't mind (it felt horrible to admit that she liked it), so she shook her head. Sherlock attempted to give her a small smile before getting up, quickly turning into his moody self once more.
Another assignment soon came along, taking him away from her. He didn't wake her when he left for Germany.
She wished she'd been able to bid him goodbye though, because three days later, Mycroft Holmes visited her at Bart's with the news.