A/N: I'm waiting for s3 to start now, so I'm an emotional wreck. This may be crap - proceed with caution lol. And I'm a little upset that I didn't manage to finish this by the UK premiere. Will finish by the US premiere though!

Thank you to all those who reviewed!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Molly's eyebrows creased when she walked into the hospital ward. Mary was still by John's bedside, despite the pathologist's advice for her to get some rest. She had not gone back home for close to two days.

The blond was holding onto John's hand, her head nodding dangerously as she dozed on the uncomfortable chair. Molly felt her chest tighten at the sight. Mary obviously loved John deeply – she was extremely affected by his accident, refusing to eat much and sleeping for only a couple of hours at a time. Her face had gone paler and the shadows under her eyes were much darker. There was a perpetual frown on her otherwise sweet face.

Molly squeezed her shoulder gently. Mary awoke with a start, opening her eyes groggily.

"Sorry," Molly murmured.

Mary shook her head. "It's alright. I've slept enough anyway."

The pathologist raised her eyebrows.

"Ok, not enough, but enough," Mary said, trying to stifle a yawn. She looked so fatigued that Molly decided it was time to put her foot down.

"Go home Mary," she urged. "You can't do anything here, and you really need the rest."

"I'm fine."

Molly suppressed a sigh. "No you're not. You're completely exhausted. Please go home and sleep. I promise to call you if there's any progress."

Mary looked away, running her thumb absently over the back of John's hand.

"You don't want to fall sick," Molly said gently.

The blond worried her lower lip while staring at John. She turned towards Molly after a pause. "Promise you'll call?"

"Yes. Even if it's something small, I'll still call."

"Al…alright," she relented.

Molly plonked herself gracelessly on the chair once Mary had left. It had been three days since John was admitted, and he still wasn't showing any signs of recovery yet. Coupled with the fact that Sherlock hadn't answered any of her calls, she was riddled with worry.

As if on cue, her phone rang with a text alert.

There's a fire. - SH

Molly blinked twice and rubbed her eyes, wondering if her appalling lack of sleep was finally affecting her.

I just extinguished it. Maybe I'll set another one soon. –SH

Set another one soon? What was he on about? She was tempted to call him, but she knew she had to tread lightly. He hated phone calls with a vengeance. She had an inkling that he was against it partially because his brother preferred calling.

What do you mean, there was a fire? –Molly

There was a fire in my hotel room. Didn't you understand me the first time? – SH

Molly bit on the inside of her cheek.

Didn't the smoke alarm go off? –Molly

Don't be absurd. I disabled it. –SH

She could imagine him rolling his eyes dramatically to the ceiling.

Why do you want to set another fire? –Molly

Bored. –SH

You do have small lips and breasts. –SH

Her fingers froze. She couldn't for the life of her understand what was happening to him.

But there's nothing wrong with that. –SH

Your lips are quite kissable actually. –SH

Why are you talking like this? –Molly

They are facts. I like stating facts. –SH

Stop asking stupid questions. –SH

She was musing over how to continue when he beat her to it.

I think I'll set my sheets and my hideous shirt on fire now. –SH

Molly was utterly perplexed. Why was he behaving so strangely? He seemed so unguarded and relaxed, much chattier than usual. It was so unlike him. It was as if he –

"God no," she whispered. He couldn't have been this stupid, could he?

Her stomach flipped at the possibility. She dialled his number quickly, her heart sinking when it went to voicemail.

Well, it looked like he could.

"He what?" Mycroft hissed.

"He told me he was going to set some things on fire," she said, barely able to keep her voice from trembling. "Do you think he injected?"

The older Holmes was silent for a moment, before releasing a harsh breath. "I'm going to find him."

He hung up before she could say anything else.

There were only a two times in his life when Mycroft Holmes experienced genuine fear.

The first was when Sherlock revealed to mummy that their father was having an affair, in front of a large crowd at a party.

The second was when Sherlock almost died of an overdose. The brothers have taken to labelling that incident as the night.

Despair was mounting within the stern man as he got off the private plane, curtly instructing his driver to the hotel where Sherlock was residing. Under his fear was a chorusing wave of anger, because he had been stupid to have trusted his younger brother. He thought that Sherlock was smart enough to understand the consequences of succumbing to his desires. His brother had betrayed his trust.

"Sherlock!" he rapped sharply on the hotel door.

He heard a loud, dramatic groan before the door swung opened.

Sherlock was completely nude, grinning like an excited child on Christmas. He pouted a little when he saw Mycroft.

Fragments of memories long since buried of Sherlock as a playful child flashed through Mycroft's mind. His throat tightened painfully. Sherlock gave him a smirk.

"What brings you here, brother dear?"

Mycroft frowned, noticing the usual signs of his brother's drug high. How could he forget? He pushed Sherlock into the room with uncharacteristic roughness, hoping that no one had been a witness to his brother's nudity.

"What have you done?" Mycroft demanded once the door was close, throwing a sheet in Sherlock's direction. His brother ignored it, letting it fall to the ground.

"Make a deduction," he crossed his arms childishly.

"This is not a game, Sherlock!" Mycroft's eyes roamed around the room, quickly settling on the syringe on the bedside table. He closed his eyes.

"How could you be so stupid?" he asked him, voice strained. He should have known, he should have sent someone to check on him. He shouldn't have left him alone after the news of John's accident. This was partially his fault…

Sherlock glared at him. "You're stupid," he muttered.

"I'm sending you to a safe house in Scotland," Mycroft said gravely.

"I'm not going."

"You'll detox there."

"No!"

"That's my final word, Sherlock," Mycroft said through gritted teeth. "We are leaving now."

For the first time that night, Mycroft saw a gleam of fear in Sherlock's eyes. They both knew his dreadful track record with withdrawal symptoms.

"I'm not going," Sherlock reiterated, backing away from him.

"You are going to listen to me, Sherlock. Or for god's sake, I'll make you go." Mycroft glowered at his brother, fists clenched tight. He was gradually losing his composure, something that rarely happened. Sherlock must have been clear-headed enough to notice as well, because his eyes flickered to his face with surprise.

Sherlock blinked. "I've disappointed you."

"Wouldn't be the first time it happened." Mycroft regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. He saw his brother flinch slightly.

"Listen," he said, trying to make his voice gentler (oh, the things he did for his younger brother). "I know why you went back to drugs. You were helpless and angry, and you craved a distraction." Sherlock looked to the ground, moving his toes. "But I need you to stop right now, before your addiction worsens. You know the consequences. We don't want a repeat of the night now, do we?"

Sherlock shook his head, still not looking up.

"How is he?" he asked after a moment of heavy silence.

"Still unconscious, unfortunately. You don't want him ever knowing that you relapsed Sherlock. Or you'll disappoint Doctor Watson as well."

Sherlock sighed deeply, rubbing his bloodshot eyes as he pondered. "Ok, I'll go to Scotland."

Molly awoke to the sound of her phone ringing. She groaned softly at the stiffness in her neck. She bit on her bottom lip when she saw the name.

Another call. Another problem.

"Hello?"

"Pack your things. Someone will fetch you to the airport."

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to Scotland, Miss Hooper."

"Whatever for?"

"Your guess was correct. Sherlock did inject."

Molly couldn't breathe.

"I need someone I can trust to be with him," Mycroft continued.

"Yes…yes of course," Molly answered, struggling not to cry. Oh god.

"My man will come in an hour," Mycroft said. He paused, and Molly took the opportunity to dab at her tearing eyes. "Miss Hooper?"

"Y-yes?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock was lying on a bed in an isolated house somewhere in Scotland when he heard her voice. Mycroft had told him that she was going to be here as his handler of sorts, keeping an eye on him when he was going to struggle (it wasn't even a question of if) with suppressing his cravings. She had never dealt with addicts before, but as a doctor, she understood the physiology well.

He sat up, arranging his features to one of indifference despite feeling cold and weak. His last shot was six hours ago, and the symptoms of withdrawal were starting to surface, and fuck it if he'd ever admit it, but he was scared.

He didn't want her to see him like this, but was too tired to object to his brother's plans. He had been clenching his fists the entire journey to Scotland, fighting the desire to punch Mycroft and get off the plane somehow.

He saw her draw in a breath as she took in his form. He must be looking a right mess, his face pallid and unkempt with stubble. He felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed. How was he ever going to face her again? Even John had never seen him so damaged before.

She attempted to give him a small smile. Trying to be nice, reassuring. It annoyed him. She should be turning away in disgust.

"Go away," he grumbled, wrapping the duvet tighter around his trembling shoulders.

She sat next to him on the bed, eyeing him warily.

"Leave!" he snapped.

"No," her voice trembled, but her expression was unyielding.

He groaned internally. Why did she have to be stubborn? Normally he found it endearing and god help him, attractive. But right now, it only made him more frustrated with everything.

"Why do you want me to leave?" she asked softly.

He remained silent.

"Sherlock?" she prompted.

"Because I'll say something to you that I'll regret later," he replied brusquely, glaring at her. There. She wanted the truth, didn't she?

He remembered hurling insults at the rehabilitation centre workers ages ago. Except he didn't care if they had been affected by his verbal abuse.

But Molly was different. He didn't want to wound her. He was well aware that he'd ripped her apart many times before, but none of those incidents had been intentional on his part. They were merely evidence of his lack of tact and social skills.

Her lips parted at his words, and she looked on the verge of tears. She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Mol -"

"No." She gripped his hand.

Sherlock frowned and lowered his eyes to the bed, knowing that it'd be a futile attempt to convince her. He flinched when he felt something warm on his face.

Molly watched him intently as she grazed his cold cheek with her fingertips. The warmth from her fingers ignited the nerves on his skin, making him shiver. He unconsciously held his breath, raising his eyes to meet hers.

There was no judgement, no revulsion at what he'd done reflected in those dark pools. Instead, they held so much affection and tenderness, it made his chest ache.

As always, she was beside him, unselfishly offering her help. It dawned on him that he didn't only disappoint two people by relapsing - he had disappointed a third as well. His throat tightened, and he inwardly cursed the heroin. It always made him more emotional.

The light kiss she pressed to the back of his hand snapped him back to reality. The feeling of her lips was familiar and calming, reminding him of the nights when she would sometimes kiss his forehead or cheeks when she thought that he had fallen asleep. It seemed so long ago.

He suddenly realised how exhausted he was. If he could, he would escape into a deep, dreamless sleep, fall into a dark pit and shut everything out.

"You should sleep," she whispered, moving her hand to push his curls away from his damp forehead before threading her fingers through his hair. How had she found out that he liked that?

It was fascinating, how she managed to uncover parts of him without him needing to inform her. A spasm of shiver rippled through his body then, and Molly's grip on his hand stiffened.

Too fatigued to care, he dropped his head to her shoulder, tucking it at the crook of her neck. It wasn't very comfortable since she was so tiny, but he found that he was contented enough, surrounding himself with her heady scent. His long arms encircled her waist, gripping tightly as if she was his last anchor to sanity.

And maybe she was.