A/N: Thank you to all those who left lovely reviews and sorry for making everyone wait so bloody long. S3 really messed with my emotions, and for those who haven't watched it yet, there are some really precious Sherlolly moments. :p
Anyway, just something I need to tell you guys. I've had this one user who left 2 somewhat mean reviews. I honestly don't mind constructive criticism at all, but please don't leave reviews saying that my story is "stupid" and "ridiculous" without offering any advice. It hurts, and I think I have enough stress irl without having to deal with such comments online. So if you have nothing constructive or nice to say, I'd rather you not leave a review. Sorry if this comes across as rude.
Ok, enough rambling! Hope you guys have a nice Sunday!
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Molly woke up to the now familiar sound of Sherlock retching loudly. She scrambled out of bed groggily, making her way to the bathroom and preparing herself for the painful scene that was sure to greet her.
It was already the fourth day since she'd arrived to this godforsaken two-storey safe house, but the image of Sherlock hunched over the loo still sent a sharp twinge through her chest.
If the file Mycroft had given her about Sherlock's withdrawal history was still accurate (that man had files for everything), then today would mark the start of his symptoms peaking. She was dreading it.
The past few days had been an emotional turmoil. The physical pain he was in was almost unbearable for her to witness, and his preferred defence mechanism was to hurl a bunch of horrible insults at her. She had quickly learnt to let them slide, but she'd be lying if she said they didn't hurt. He would always offer a quick apology after, when the worst of his withdrawals had passed. The utter remorse in his eyes was supposed to make her feel better, but she only felt worse.
Her jaw tightened when she reached the bathroom. Sherlock was lying on the cold, tiled floor with his eyes squeezed shut. His breathing was ragged, and his face was lined with a thin layer of perspiration. His brows were set in a tight crease, the skin under his eyes red and sore. A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed hard. There would be no crying, she'd sworn that to herself.
Sherlock's eyelids opened a fraction and he groaned softly, attempting to get up. She went forward and steadied him with her arms, allowing him to place his entire body weight on her. Once, he would've been too heavy for her petite frame, but not anymore.
His knees were weak as she helped him off the floor, and he grabbed onto her wrist, signalling her to stop for a moment. She started as his fingers closed over her skin. They were ice cold.
"You should take a warm bath," she murmured, rubbing his arms, which were raised with goosebumps. It had been two days since he last bathed. Sherlock shook his head, a small pout forming on his lips.
"Come on," she coaxed. "Remember how good you felt after your last bath?"
Sherlock huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes a bit. He looked so much like the old Sherlock that a faint smile appeared on her lips. She cupped his left cheek, running her thumb across it.
"You'll feel better, promise."
He shut his eyes, licked his chapped lips, nodded.
It hadn't even been two minutes when a loud thud issued from the bathroom. Molly's eyes widened with fear as she rapped loudly on the door. She had been waiting outside in case he required anything. She was too afraid to leave him alone anyway.
"Sherlock!"
There was no reply.
"Sherlock! Open the door!" she cried, rattling the doorknob. She pressed her ear to the door, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She heard some heavy shuffling. The door opened.
A sheepish-looking Sherlock with a towel wrapped around his waist stood before her. He refused to meet her gaze, eyes casted toward the ground. She saw that his hands were trembling, and the beginnings of a purple bruise were forming on his left kneecap. She winced internally at the stark contrast it made against his pale skin.
"I fell," he mumbled. "Nothing to worry about."
Molly released a sharp breath she didn't know she was holding. It was obvious he was encountering some trouble despite the simplicity of the task. She made a quick decision, and felt her cheeks starting to burn.
"I'll help you with your bath."
Sherlock's lips parted and he stared at her. A pink tinge appeared across his cheeks.
"You need help," she said quietly, promptly pushing her nervousness away and descending into her professional persona.
"No, I can do it on my own," he said stubbornly. He attempted to close the door but she held onto it firmly. He shot her a glare.
"Sherlock, just see me as a doctor, and think of yourself as my patient. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"No," he snapped.
She suppressed a sigh. "Your hands are shaking, and you can hardly walk steady. You don't want to injure yourself further. The faster we do this, the quicker you can take your meds and get back to bed."
Sherlock lifted his hands, experimentally opening and closing his fingers. They were still weak and shaking. He lowered his head.
Sherlock sat in the bathtub, trying his best to focus on the texture of the water against his skin rather than the feeling of Molly's nimble hands.
He stared resolutely ahead. Neither of them had spoken since he removed his pyjamas. The silence was heavy, and he could sense Molly quickening her pace as she washed his back, applying the lavender soap which seemed to successfully soothe his nerves.
She had seen him naked before of course, when he was lying on her slab half-dead after the fall. But this was wholly different. He'd never been so dependent on anyone for everyday tasks before, and he felt disgusted with himself.
Still, he couldn't deny that it actually felt nice to have someone bathe him, as ashamed as he was admitting it to himself. It was comforting and relaxing, and the light pressure of her fingers reminded him of the past few nights he'd been spending with her.
They hadn't discussed much about that. They didn't talk about how she was on his bed even though Mycroft had another bedroom prepared for her. They didn't talk about how he'd given up all pretence and would hug her as he slept. It wasn't even an innocent arm around her waist anymore. He had taken to spooning around her, convinced that if he didn't hold onto her tight enough, she would just slip away like everything else in his life. Sometimes, he would push her hair aside, pressing his lips to the soft skin on the back of her neck. He wondered if it was the drugs which turned him more physically needy, or something else altogether. There was probably some overlap. Molly never objected to his touches.
When he'd woken up sweating feverishly and unable to sleep after a particularly awful nightmare of John dying, she had wrapped her arms around him, weaving her fingers through his curls and murmuring words he couldn't remember now. The pain and panic had culminated in one of the strongest wave of cravings he'd ever encountered, and in his half-hazy state, he'd turned his head and kissed her while she was mid-sentence, desperate for a distraction. The hormones that flooded his brain had made him forget for a while. Molly had returned the kiss, but she looked conflicted when they pulled apart. She probably thought that he was only using her. Was he? He supposed a part of him was. He wished she could see him for who he was and run far away, but he was selfish and wanted her to stay too.
He kept telling himself that he would be the old Sherlock Holmes again once the withdrawal symptoms passed. He would go back to work, take down Moriarty's network and return to Baker Street. He would turn back into that machine people saw him as, return to his crime-solving life. But with each passing day, that thought seemed like a far-fetched dream which would never materialise. His barriers were slowly cracking and crumbling because of Molly; he was never going to be the same again.
"Done," the pathologist's soft voice broke him out of his reverie. She was right – the bath really did make him feel a whole lot better. He was warm again (at least for now), and he felt clean. His face was still covered in light stubble, but he couldn't be bothered about that now. Maybe he would shave tomorrow.
He cleared his throat. "I think I can put on my clothes by myself."
Molly looked to object, but finally relented, nodding her head.
"I'll be outside," she murmured, kissing the top of his head before leaving. He closed his eyes after she left, searing the feeling of her touch in his mind.
Sherlock was languidly smoking a cigarette by the window, the Subutex he'd taken giving him some much needed relief from his abdominal cramps and nausea. Nicotine was definitely not the best substance for him to be using now, but at least it temporarily kept his heroin cravings at bay.
He watched the surrounding trees sway in the chilly wind. Grey clouds were forming overhead. He wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders.
He sat up straighter when he spotted the familiar black car pulling up in the driveway. Eyes narrowing, he went to the front door to greet the one person he absolutely didn't want to see at this point.
"Try not to smoke so much, would you?" Mycroft said as he came in. His eyes swept over his frail form like a hawk, making Sherlock feel rather uncomfortable.
He rolled his eyes and ignored his brother, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction, knowing that it would irritate him. Mycroft shook his head at his childish behaviour and invited himself to the living room, where Molly was reading. He gave her a curt nod, and she took his hint.
"I've received some vital information from my agents," he announced once she'd left the room. "It seems like Moran only has eleven people in his inner circle," Mycroft said, a smug look on his face.
Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it out of an open window. "We've already caught eight."
"I am well aware of that, dear brother, seeing how I found four of them."
Sherlock glowered at him. "Are you sure there are only eleven?"
Mycroft arched a brow.
"Good. So you'll handle one, and pass the other two profiles to The Woman and me."
Something flickered across Mycroft's face. "That's what I came here to talk to you about, Sherlock." He paused. "You won't be receiving anymore assignments."
Sherlock stilled. "Pardon?"
"You heard me."
Sherlock felt something akin to panic rush inside him. "Why not?"
"You're clearly unstable right now. I will not have you compromise the whole operation."
"But I'll be fine in a few days!" he protested. He only took about a week to detox the last time. Surely he would be alright soon?
Mycroft fixed him with a look. "No you won't." Sherlock opened his mouth but his brother cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. "Will you be able to concentrate with Doctor Watson still in a coma?"
Sherlock's mouth went dry. "Yes."
"You've never been very skilled at lying to me, Sherlock."
A heavy feeling settled in Sherlock's gut. "How is he?" he asked, voice strained.
The expression in his brother's eyes said everything. A sense of dread crept up on him.
Mycroft sighed, "The doctors are predicting that he'll most likely remain in a permanent vegetative state if he doesn't regain consciousness within three days."
"T-Three days?"
Mycroft nodded, eyeing him warily.
Sherlock licked his lips and sniffed. "I want to see him."
"That's not going to happen," his older brother said immediately. "Mary Morstan knows exactly who you are. John has talked too much about you to her. It'd be too risky. You can't do anything even if you sit by his bedside."
"So you expect me to sit here and just wait?" Sherlock snarled.
"Yes. And you will do that," Mycroft said sternly. "In fact, I want you out of Britain as soon as possible. If Adam Ahern can recognise you, others might too. But not everyone outside of Britain is familiar with the detective in the funny hat."
"No."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly.
"I will not be treated like a child, Mycroft," Sherlock sneered. "It was just one man who recognised me. And he was clever."
His brother gave him a tight smile. "It's not a risk I'm willing to take. This is my final word."
"Mycroft –" He heard the desperation in his voice and was disgusted with himself, something that was becoming increasingly common.
"No." The older Holmes was resolute. "I'll give you a few more days here, and then you have to leave. I'll handle this." Sherlock blinked a few times, willing his mind to think of a retort.
"You're fighting a losing battle, Sherlock," Mycroft continued, softening his tone. "Just leave it."
Sherlock glared daggers at his brother. He clenched his fists, trying to reign in his burgeoning temper. He hadn't been the most controlled person for the past few days. He could lunge at his brother now if he wanted to. And Mycroft knew it – he took an instinctive step back. A frown suddenly appeared on his face.
"You might want to talk some sense into him, Miss Hooper."
Sherlock heard a soft sound coming from behind the wall. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Molly emerge from behind, her cheeks flushed crimson. Sherlock closed his eyes. His faculties were so poor now, he didn't even realise she'd been there the whole time.
"I…I didn't mean to –" she stammered.
"Of course you did," Mycroft said briskly. "But no matter."
"You're not angry?" she asked, not daring to meet his brother's cold gaze.
"No, since I think you have an idea of what I require from you."
"You want me to follow Sherlock out of Britain."
Mycroft nodded.
"But my job and –"
Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Your position at Bart's will be safe until you return. As for your flat, I will handle your rent. And your cat is perfectly fine with your neighbour right now. You have nothing to worry about."
Molly frowned. "This isn't a choice, is it?"
Mycroft flashed her a reptilian smile, making the insides of Sherlock's stomach crawl. He felt an overwhelming urge to vomit.
"I'll be off now," his brother said calmly, as if nothing significant had transpired. "A storm is coming, don't want to be caught in it on the way back."
Sherlock watched his retreating figure in disbelief. The moment Mycroft's car left, he dashed into the bathroom, throwing up heavily. His stomach clenched painfully, and he gripped onto the toilet bowl, his knuckles turning white.
Molly tried to help, but he pushed past her roughly before slamming the door in her face. There were no locks on the bedroom doors (Mycroft had them removed just in case), but he knew she would never just barge in. He ignored her pleading voice, burying his face under a pillow, trying to relieve the painful tightening of his throat.
His best friend might never wake up again. He no longer had any work to do, nothing to keep his mind occupied. He had lost control of his life.
Moriarty was buried under a pile of soil, his body rotting and cold, but why did it feel like he was the one who had won?
Molly ladled some of the chicken soup she'd been making into a bowl. Sherlock had barely eaten at all yesterday, and she was going to put her foot down. He needed to get some nutrients, even if it was just soup.
A loud clap of thunder rang across the skies then, and she jumped. She'd always hated storms, and one was certainly arriving soon.
She carried the bowl up the stairs, hoping fervently that the past three hours would've calmed Sherlock down a bit. She opened the bedroom door tentatively, peeking in.
A strangled sound issued from her throat.
Sherlock was gone.