A/N: Phew, after such a long time without writing anything for Sherlock, I feel kinda blue. Thank you for every review, fav and watch for this story so far! I'm really glad so many people have enjoyed it so far and I'd love to see some more activity from you. Hope this chapter will live up to your expectations, cheers!

Blue now is the colour

Love the drug I'm needing

Got to keep this feeling

With the headlights burning

We're looking up for something

Answers on the ceiling

Watching out the windows

Watch the way the wind blows

Soon it will be morning

Still the question lingers

I twist it round my fingers

Could you be my calling?

The Slow Drug, PJ Harvey

chapter XI

warmth

It's not that hard to spot him across the room, a shadow of a man reflected in a looking glass, when Lestrade comes a few hours later to some deserted seedy pub round the corner. He sits at a desolate table covered with frayed wax cloth at the back, a few steps from the other door. He is surprised at coming his way this easily but seems beggars can't be choosers these days. Sherlock is sitting at the other side of the room, looking through the windows at the street. His shoulders are hunched down, pressed to the glass side-ways and bangs come in his half-shut swollen eyes constantly. He fixes his hair nervously every other minute, a half-finished glass of whiskey in front of him.

Lestrade tries not to stare at him for too long, flickering his gaze to the newspaper he's snatched from the hospital's hall. He orders another black coffee and fish & chips while Sherlock continues to fidget on his sit like an naughty child looking for treats. His hands are shaking when he checks a watch Lestrade hasn't seen him wearing before, a cheap black plastic bracelet hanging loose on his bony wrist. The hour of some meeting must be coming close and as if hearing the man's thoughts the door behind Sherlock's table open with a bell's ring.

"Hello, Sherlock." It is a girl in her late twenties clad in her best clothes it seems. She's got bright eyes and coral glossy lips that could crack her face open such a big her smile is upon seeing the man. They greet briefly and in the formality with which she is being treated Lestrade thinks he might have met her before. She seems to have worked with them over some cases before, doing medical researches or something akin of that nature but with her back facing him, Lestrade cannot be sure.

She moves her head for a bit round the pub before Sherlock taps the table loud enough for the move to ring in the room. "Molly, do focus for once, for God's sake. " A spasm of pain seems to go through his face upon saying the words as he rubs his hands over the face tiredly. He looks at her for a long moment and then, as if a thought stroke him, moves his eyes momentarily towards the darkening outside rush and flickering of colours. He brushes a hand over his lips while muttering ashamed, not moving his sight from the pane,"Sorry, I didn't mean it."

"I understand, don't mind me." Molly doesn't seem too shaken at his changes of attitude. She browses for a moment through a purse she's holding on her knees, sighing the moment she emerges something from within its folds. She puts it in front of herself and upon her nod Sherlock snatches it quickly. She touches his hand briefly, whispering "Should do for a week or more if you economize."

"Thank you." There is tension, as if he wanted to say some more but Sherlock seems to stop himself just in time. He doesn't shake off her like he would do with other people, in fact Lestrade does not really know what to think upon seeing him squeeze the offered flesh eagerly if not a bit perplexed. He stutters while looking her straight in the eye, "I... Is is there anything I ought to-"

"No." Molly shakes her head, a few stray strands going loose during the movement from her high chignon. Sherlock glances at her blankly, the grip on her hand turning his fingers white. She cups his other hand with hers, bringing them both to the centre of the table. "I'm sorry, Sherlock but no." She sounds regretful, the man's sadness encircling her voice and space as she moves a bit closer, "Would have told you straight away if I had anything, you know that."Sherlock's eyes seem much too bright in the light for a moment but the next second Lestrade looks at his face, the look is gone.

They talk to each other some more, the troubled expression on Sherlock's face not wavering for a moment. Molly's teeth shine in the pub's lamp as their talk stretches on, the quiet ramble dying out a bit in the noise emerging itself upon the arrival of sweaty men, poor-tailored businessmen and energetic tomboyish girls. The place fills itself while the two caress each other's hands and only snatches of their conversations can be heard now. Lestrade has read the newspaper thrice by now and memorised every picture and their pages' numbers. He has learnt enough for today to now where to look for Sherlock next time. Besides he truly doesn't look ready to talk whatever Lestrade might have on his mind to ask him of anyway. He'd like to come up to them and say something but the inspector does know he may not be all that welcomed. It's reassuring at least to know that Sherlock hasn't die of hunger or anything like that so far. He'll manage while Lestrade is trying to keep his wits about him and try to fix as much as he is able at the moment. Yes, the best possible solution for the time being.

As Lestrade is gathering his coat and heads off to the same exact exit he's come through, Sherlock looks around finally. There's a familiar silhouette in the dark section of the pub that he felt watching him throughout the whole evening but the walk is different and the coast as well, he does not recall anyone of such a taste or handling. He moves his eyes at Molly, silly childish Molly who seems to be the last one helpful left, just like Ms. Hudson. Her pupils are diluted, the Scotch left half-untouched by her elbow. They've been holding hands together for more than an eternity but he sure does not feel like moving his anywhere. He does not want to come back to the hotel, he does not want to think about muttering Moriarty or Lestrade banging at the door, saying that they must talk. Sherlock, you cannot live like this, the man would say, you have to snap out of this and deal with it. You have to go on, there is life after everything that has or will happen.

It might sound immature but Sherlock doubts there is any hope left in him by now. Months have gone and passed, announcements faded away as well as the money for hundreds of subscriptions on various internet platforms. There is nothing to look for, maybe a bunch of bones or a piece of clothing. There is nothing, nothing written in bold fat letters and its sound in his head. Nothing at Baker Street, nothing at hospital, nothing at Angelo's, nothing in the back streets and nothing at Yard.

NOTHING. NO ONE. NO THING.

When he gazes at the girl, the buzzing sound of talks emerging round them once again, Sherlock wants to believe what he is telling himself. That it's no use to fool one self any more, that nothing better can happen now, that only meds can fix something. After them he can sleep without waking gasping in the middle of the night chasing ghosts, crying himself to sleep other days. Everything is bearable with them, the morning tiredness, the evening itch for something he cannot even name any more. They make it bearable to breathe, to look at things such a way as not to trip over them constantly, to manage the torture of having to walk, eat, drink and wait. Wait. Wait. Wait an eternity and a lifetime.

"Molly." He rasps and he touches her brows, he touches her forehead and cheekbones, these being half-way between low and high ones. He touches her soft lips, smears her gloss over the corners and she just lets him, looking neither mad nor ashamed. She waits for him just like he has yet to wait, a minute, an hour, whatever will be needed. A lifetime of waiting. "Molly, I-"

"Sherlock, shhh." Her mutter grazes his fingertips as she tangles her fingers in-between his locks, Molly bringing his head closer. Their noses are nearly touching by now and he can see himself being reflected in her eyes, blue something mixed with grey. "Stay with me tonight. Do not go to the hotel."

"I can't."

"Shhh. You can sleep without the pills." Her lips move once again and she moves the knuckles against the side of his face. Sherlock gazes at her, tries not to blink as she grazes his cheekbones, his chin and mouth. "You can wait without them. You can wait with me, you know." She smiles underneath his fingers, the movement sending warmth suddenly searching through his body whose source he cannot comprehend for the time being.

It's fine for the time being though. It's all fine.