A/N: This is the cake/Molly 'babysitting' Sherlock scene. I needed some (relative) fluffiness before delving into the beautiful mess that is The Final Problem.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. Sherlolly would totes be no-holds-barred canon if I did.

Let Me Find My Rest In You

"Is that sentiment talking?"

"No, it's me."

"Difficult to tell the difference, these days."

-Mycroft and Sherlock, "The Six Thatchers"

When two of your best friends are a junkie consulting detective and a retired army doctor, choosing a table at a cake shop requires more forethought than you'd think.

For John, the table should be against a wall – or – preferably, in a corner. He likes to have his back to a wall. Less chance for surprises that way. Sherlock sneaking up on John and Mary in the midst of his proposal in the center of a busy restaurant didn't help that at all. He also likes a view of the entrance, to keep an eye on who's coming and going. That rules out the tables immediately next to the entrance, because Sherlock also likes a view of the entrance.

Sherlock, of course, is more complicated. He prefers tables over booths, and likes to have a view not only of the entrance, but of the kitchen door as well. He likes being able to see the cashier, without being so close that people waiting in line to pay irritate him with their 'banal conversations'. Being close enough to either the entrance or kitchen door are a bonus, in case a quick getaway is needed – but he is willing to compromise on that item on the checklist, if he is not actually on a case. Since he's just caught a serial killer, she thinks that she's safe to ignore that condition for the time being.

She does not always cater to this (somewhat) ridiculous list of demands, of course – but today is Sherlock's birthday, and so, today – she chooses a table that she knows will please everyone. It is a table in the corner of the shop, under a window and three tables away from the kitchen door. Both Sherlock and John should have a nice view of the front door, and should Sherlock sit with his back to the window, he will also be able to see the cashier. It is a bonus for her that it is in the back corner of the shop, so that there is as little outside attention on them as possible. She likes her privacy as much as Sherlock, sometimes.

John's texted her that Sherlock was coming with him to pick up Rosie, and that they'd meet at the shop, so there was no need to go to Baker Street before hand. She's already picked up the ordered cake – yellow with a chocolate buttercream frosting – and the plates and silverware, laying them out neatly at the table. Molly is wiping off a high chair for Rosie (she can sit up, now, and though she won't be eating loads of cake anytime soon, Molly knows she'll enjoy playing with a spoon as they eat) when her friends enter.

The monster, Molly thinks, has chewed Sherlock up and spit him out.

Although she knows he was dismissed from the hospital earlier this morning, he has not shaved or showered – he has merely changed clothes, and the stubble on his cheeks is more than a five o'clock shadow, now.

And oh, his face.

She really didn't think Culverton would result to beating Sherlock to death to kill him, but perhaps – perhaps he went too far, before John showed up, and Sherlock fought back? He has a black eye, and as he approaches, the white of his eye is blood-red from the trauma. The shadowy purple-grey of a bruise also blooms across his nose. He walks carefully, tenderly – and she knows that there are injuries she cannot see.

Her face must have fallen, because he gives her an insincere grin – the kind he displays for a second or two, before his face falls back into neutral boredom.

"I'd have thought congratulations were in order."

John steps out from behind him and stands beside them, taking Rosie out of her carrier, and Molly helps him work her chubby little legs through the openings in the high chair. "Congratulations?" John asks.

"Yep. Not every day you catch a serial killer on your birthday. Next year's present will be a bit boring, comparatively, I think." Sherlock looks quite content as he takes the seat beneath the window, and winces only slightly. Most people wouldn't notice at all.

Then again, Molly isn't most people.

"I should hope so," John responds, buckling Rosie in and taking the seat against the back wall. Molly hangs her jacket on the last chair, across from John, with Rosie on her left and Sherlock on her right.

All worries about Sherlock's injuries are filed away for further inquiry at a later time. Molly beams between the two men at the table, heart filling with relief that they are finally speaking again. "Congratulations, Sherlock." Again. She gives him a quick look out of the corner of her eye, and he returns it with a small smile of his own. She means it as more than just a 'congratulations' for solving the case – it is a congratulations on salvaging his friendship – and he knows it.

"Thank you, Molly." His smile falls away and - wasting no time, he lifts the cake knife to cut into his birthday cake.

"Sherlock!" She protests, frowning in reproach. "You need to at least blow out your candles first."

He raises an eyebrow and uses the knife to gesture toward the cake. "There aren't any candles, Molly. Besides, it's an -"

"-antiquated tradition, pointless, waste of matches and breath, we know." Molly interrupts him, and John chuckles. "But I think Rosie would like it."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, but they are light with mirth and good humor. "And what makes you think Rosie would be entertained by watching a wick flare into flame, most likely resulting in dripping colorful wax onto perfectly good icing after I exhale all over the baked good we are supposed to share?"

John snorts, and Molly shakes her head, smiling. "Because it's colorful, and bright, you'll make a funny face when you blow out the candles, and she likes it when you make faces at her."

"I do not make a funny face when I blow out candles." He looks offended, but everyone at the table can tell he is faking it.

"'Course you do," Molly says. "Everyone does."

"Mmm, yeah. Don't think your cheekbones and popped collar can help you out, there," John teases, tilting his head for emphasis - and Molly's smile widens, because it's the first time she's seen him smile since Mary died. It's a small thing – a ghost of expressions past – but it's there, and that's what matters.

Rosie lets out a gurgled, joyful expression, and John and Molly chuckle.

Sherlock makes eye contact with the little girl across from him, and smirks. "Well, we'll just have to prove them wrong, won't we, Rosamund?"

"Oh!" Molly exclaims, and begins digging through the oversized messenger bag beside her. It has everything she needs for the 'party', as well as some pajamas and toiletries for staying at Sherlock's tonight. She pulls out a cigarette lighter, and candles – three thick blue ones, and keeps going. "I've got something for Rosie, too. Something festive."

John smiles expectantly, and raises his eyebrows when Molly pulls out a pink headband with large yellow and white flowers on it. Happy Birthday is written in flowing white script across the fabric of the band.

Sherlock snorts. "That's awful, Molly."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Well, it's not for you, is it? Let's just see what Rosie thinks, mmm?" Her voice changes as she turns to address the baby beside her, rising in pitch and playfulness.

She holds out the headband toward the baby, and Rosie reaches for the flowers, fingers grasping the soft fabric, brushing experimentally over the silk petals – and she bangs it into the table excitedly, squealing happily.

"See, she likes it!" Molly exclaims. "Do you want to try it on, sweet girl? Let's try it on!"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, who shrugs minutely. They both suppress dubious smiles.

"Is that okay with Daddy?" Molly looks to John, who quickly widens his smile convincingly.

He clears his throat. "Mmm. Yeah. Of course."

Surprisingly, Rosie accepts the added appendage with little protest, and Molly, quite pleased, places the candles in the cake and lights them.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing to blow them out, when Molly turns to Rosie.

"See the candles, Rosie? Aren't they pretty? Not as pretty as you, but still – very pretty, mmm?" She takes Rosie's hands, and flashes what could only be described as a devious smile over her shoulder at Sherlock. "And now we sing Happy Birthday."

"No." Sherlock frowns, narrowing his eyes at the woman beside him.

"It's for Rosie, Sherlock," she says eyes wide and mockingly innocent.

"It's not her birthday," he protests.

"But you know she'll like it-"

"Absolutely not," he responds, taking another breath – the wax is starting to melt, and one candle already has quite a large drip sliding down the side of it, and he'd rather not pick wax off of his cake –

-but Molly starts anyway. "Happy Birthday to you," she sings softly – clapping Rosie's hands together as she goes – and Rosie laughs, and the tension around Sherlock's eyes relaxes –

"Happy Birthday to you-" Molly raises an eyebrow at John and gestures toward Sherlock with a tilt of her head. He blinks once, then clears his throat and joins in for the rest of the song –

"Happy Birthday dear Sherlock, Happy Birthday to you!"

Rosie cackles and buries her head in her hands, before gumming them happily and drooling all over herself.

"Finally," grumbles Sherlock, rolling his eyes and muttering something about archaic rituals, his ears turning pink - but Molly did sing very softly, and the only patron who noticed was a kitchen helper who was heading back through the doors, a smile and nod his only acknowledgment of the event - and a smirk plays on Sherlock's lips. When he blows out the candles, he hears the familiar snap of John's phone as the doctor takes a picture.

He winces as Rosie shrieks before blowing raspberries of her own, spit bubbles burbling forth and rolling down her chin, before being caught on her bib.

"She's teething," John explains, noticing Sherlock's grimace.

"Let's hope they come in fast," he mutters, then brightens. "Although, strictly speaking, saliva samples could-"

"No." John and Molly answer simultaneously, faces briefly serious before breaking into affectionate grins.

Sherlock smiles to himself. "Worth a shot," he responds, mostly to himself, before addressing the infant across from him. "I do apologize for your father and godmother, Rosie. Their interest in the advancement of the science of saliva is appallingly low."

"Well, Mr. Science, let's see if the evidence from John's photo disproves your previous hypothesis that you don't 'make funny faces' when blowing out your candles." Molly teases.

John quickly keys in his password and opens the photo gallery, and he gives Sherlock a look as he stares at the picture. "Well, I'll be damned," he groans, and hands the phone to Molly.

She raises her eyebrows. His lips are barely pursed – it looks more like he's been caught talking than blowing out candles – and his face is focused and content, eyes wide – even his black, bloodshot eye looks halfway acceptable. It's actually quite a nice picture. She sighs. "You're the only person I know, Sherlock, that still looks like a Greek god while blowing out birthday candles."

John raises his eyebrows at that, and Sherlock looks very pleased.

Molly blushes, and immediately backtracks. "Not – I mean – your cheeks – John said – um…I meant – the statues" she gestures vaguely to her face, as though trying to make a point.

John laughs softly, and puts her out of her misery. "He does, though, doesn't he? Looks like he was carved from stone, most of the time - though all the Greek statues I've ever seen didn't have weeks worth of stubble. Going for a new look, Sherlock?"

"Just didn't want to risk being late to the party," he quips back, and pulls the candles out of the cake. As he takes care of the candles, Molly cuts them each a piece of cake, and the three friends fill their hearts with each-others company as they fill their bellies with cake.

"I'm in recovery. I shouldn't be forced to endure this." It shouldn't be possible for a voice as deep as Sherlock's to sound whiny, but…it sort of does.

Molly grimaces apologetically to the cashier as they pay. "Exactly. You're in recovery. You need something besides leftover birthday cake to eat. I didn't drag you to Tesco's, for goodness' sake. We're at the shop located conveniently beneath your flat. Speedy's is even right there in its name."

Sherlock sniffs. "Yes. Well. Perhaps you should've left me with Mrs. Hudson while you went to Tesco's. Their selection of…everything is better than anything here. And the service as anything but Speedy."

Molly turns halfway to him, tilting her head and giving him a look, eyebrows raised in warning. The cashier piles a quart of milk, juice, bread, a quart of soup, a variety of sandwiches, and a handful of various apples, pears, and oranges into bags, and glowers at Sherlock as he does so.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbles insincerely, clasping his hands behind his back and looking away.

He was very generous with his good humor, earlier – during his birthday celebration. But he has apparently reached his limits of people today, and Molly sighs. It may very well be a long night.

They head upstairs, Sherlock carrying a bag with the box of leftover cake and another that contains the milk and juice, while Molly carries the rest. They both dump the contents on the kitchen table, and Molly looks around, visibly impressed.

Before she has a chance to comment, Sherlock sighs. "Mycroft's people did an excellent job cleaning up, as you can see. Mrs. Hudson was so very grateful." He, however, is obviously not.

"I'm sure she was," Molly murmurs as she begins unloading the groceries. Sherlock sits at the table beside her, stretching out his long legs and crossing his arms over his chest. Molly opens the refrigerator door and raises her eyebrows.

Sherlock frowns. "I know," he laments. "Cleanest it's ever been. They didn't even leave the mildew spores in the butter dish."

"I suppose that's a consequence of turning your kitchen into a drugs lab. Lose your mildew spores, as well."

"Their loss is keenly felt."

Molly smiles to herself. "Hungry, or not yet?"

"Stuffed. No appetite for that, anyway." Sherlock wrinkles his nose as she puts the quart of vegetable soup in the fridge.

Molly sighs. "You need to start replenishing the vitamins you've lost, Sherlock. Best way to do that is through food, not supplements. But here-" she digs through her oversized bag, pulling out the assortment of vitamins she's brought for him. "If you're not hungry, take these for now. And-" she pulls out a bottle and twists the cap off, laying a single tablet on the table before him, before twisting the cap back on and tucking it bag into her bag. "Clonidine. To help with withdrawal."

Sherlock's eyebrows raise, just a bit, as he stares at the pill before him. "Generous forethought, but unnecessary. No benzos?"

Molly narrows her eyes at him. "You know those are addicting, themselves."

He smirks. "Just checking, doctor."

He looks up to find her staring intently at him, and his petulant expression softens. "It was for John. More than motivated to be clean again, now."

"I know," she replies softly. "Just checking."

Molly finishes putting the groceries away, folding up the bags and tucking them into the cupboard beneath the sink, and then turns to Sherlock, who is still staring, tight-lipped, at the pill.

"It was just an offer, Sherlock," she says. "You don't have to take it if you don't want to."

He looks up at her, and it is like he's been broken from a deep reverie. He smiles charmingly. "Quite right." He sighs, pops the vitamins in his mouth and swallows, and runs a hand through his hair. "Think I'll take a bath, now."

"All right," Molly says, and walks briskly to the bathroom.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her as he stands. "Molly-"

"Just poking around," Molly calls cheerfully, voice echoing from the tiled bathroom. "You know. Make sure Mycroft's people didn't overlook anything."

"Molly-" he tries again, and his voice is tired and warning.

"Just checking!" She replies, and Sherlock walks slowly down the hallway.

"I mean it, Molly Hooper." He leans against the doorframe, watching her feel around the cabinets and up the sink and tub faucets. He smirks when she lifts up the lid to the fresh water tank of the toilet, impressed – but his voice is gruff as he continues. "I want to be clean, again. Do you think John would let me round Rosie if I wasn't?"

When she is finished with the toilet, she washes her hands, and smiles gently at him. "I know. Which is why I'm checking - for you. I don't want you to be tempted."

Sherlock snorts. His eyes follow her as she takes a towel out of the linen closet and sets it on the vanity before running the taps, allowing the water to run over her hands until it is at a satisfactory temperature. "I am not an invalid. Still capable of running myself a bath."

"Are you capable of getting in yourself?" Her hand is still immersed in the water from the tap, and she darts a scrutinizing gaze at him from beneath her lashes before turning again to stare at the water filling the tub. Her voice is an octave lower than usual, and she chews on her lower lip – not wanting to confront him about the extent of his injuries, but obviously still aware of, and concerned about, them.

It is most likely the sound of the water, and her voice – soothing, and the way his body is beginning to relax after a month of adrenaline, drugs, and stress – because it's certainly not the way she looks at him, or the way she looks - Sherlock feels heat, rushing - up and down his torso, pricking at the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. It leaves him with goosebumps, and he frowns at that strange juxtaposition.

He blinks, and berates himself for consenting to her taking the 'night shift'. He could fend off her enquiries and her careful, gentle, bloody unyielding concern during the day – but it is nearing the evening, now, and his body is crying for rest so desperately that he will have to give in sooner or later. It is both comforting and off-putting that she knows just exactly how to offer assistance in the least – annoying manner possible, but he does not want her questioning his injuries. He knows she suspects something – but he just went through the ordeal of saving John, and he does not have the fortitude to defend him tonight.

Instead, he'll feign defending himself.

"Yes, quite capable. In case you've forgotten, John is also a qualified doctor, and deemed me well enough to venture out for birthday cake, so I should say I'm well enough to lower myself into a bath."

Molly peers at him suspiciously. "All right, then," she says after a moment. "I'll be in the hall if you need anything."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. "Completely unne-"

"Dammit, Sherlock, can you stop for just one second?!" Molly snaps as she clutches the towel she's dried her hands on in her fists. Sherlock pauses, frowning at her in surprise, and Molly closes her eyes for a moment, leaning on the counter for support.

"Sorry," she says after a moment of tense silence. "It's just – I'm a bit" – she swallows, and he can see her throat move – "a bit – tired, too-"

Of course she is – less than seven hours' sleep in the past forty-eight hours, judging from the sallowness of her skin and the poorly concealed shadows beneath her eyes - and she probably will not sleep more than that, here tonight –

Sherlock swallows, guilt pushing its way back into his chest. And here he thought he was done with that, finally.

"-and I – I'm glad it's all over-" she wrings her hands, catching his gaze in the bathroom mirror before picking at the towel before her, then repeatedly smoothing it out.

She has lost over half a stone, and he can very clearly see the way her clavicle extends, peeking out from her jumper, which has slipped to one side on her shoulder, and her trousers lie flatter, now, on her backside –

"But at the same time, it's not really over, is it?"

Her shoulders slouch, though not from uncertainty – she has made peace with everything that has happened – she is just, as she plainly said, fatigued. She is in need of rest – and not just sleep, but rest – time that does not include waiting on him to live or die, time that includes grieving for the friend she lost, in Mary – because she's done – not enough of that, Sherlock realizes.

"And I'm sorry that I'm…sort of…mothering you. I didn't mean to. Forget it."

She is trying very hard not to be sad in front of him.

He closes his eyes, because he suddenly feels…sad, now, too. But it is strange, because it is not…bitter, or overwhelming, or lonely. It is just…there. The euphoria of cheating death and celebrating his birthday as a sort of slap in the face to the killer who wanted him dead twenty-four hours ago has seeped away, eaten up by a nervous system greedy for relief from constant agitation.

The agitation is gone, now, too.

Why does he feel sad, just because she does?

Her emotions should have…little effect on him.

But they do. They matter. She matters.

And because it worked so well, earlier, on John – he steps up beside her, and touches her shoulder so that she turns toward him. She looks up and gives him a brave smile, and almost of their own accord – funny how it gets less difficult as he goes – his arms wrap around her, pulling her slowly to his chest. She stands there for a moment, pressed against him, the side of her face resting on his shirt – he can feel her forehead wrinkle in surprise as she realizes what he's doing.

Something that might be a smile ghosts on his face as she wraps her arms very softly around his torso, and she takes a deep shuddering breath in. And then, because it feels – right – he has no logical basis for this, it is just his Transport doing what – Transports do, apparently – he rests his cheek on the top of her head, and closes his eyes.

Interesting.

He can feel the tension in his muscles drain, almost in sync with Molly's, and he marvels, again – at how comforting someone he cares about – someone who matters – seems to be beneficial to himself, as well.

"It's all right," he mumbles, after a moment. "I'm sorry. I'd blame my behavior on the withdrawal, but I don't think that would earn me any points in my favor."

He feels her smile against his chest, and her arms fall away. He releases her and takes a step back, and her smile is less brave and more…grateful, now.

"That was – nice. Kind, I mean. I…needed it. Thank you, Sherlock." She steps around him to leave. "I'll just – grab you some clothes, and set them inside the door, then?"

He knows she is going to poke around his room, just to 'check', but he doesn't argue. He can be gracious to her. He supposes she deserves it, and really – surprisingly – he doesn't mind as much as he thought he might - Molly poking around his room. He's been in hers often enough, it doesn't seem all that wrong for her to be in his.

"Thank you." He responds absent-mindedly in the affirmative, and sets about undressing for his bath.

Sherlock lets the water run until the bath is almost overflowing, but the sound of it is almost as calming as the feel of it. The heat of the water stings at first, but quickly numbs and then warms his abrasions and cramping muscles.

It feels good to wash. He's impeccably clean, except when he's high, and washing off the grime from the past three and a half weeks parallels the fresh start he's making in life, as well. He allows himself to soak until the water is no longer turning his skin red from the heat, breathing in the steam as though he can clean out his lungs as well as the rest of his body. At some point, Molly cracks the door open and slides some clothes in before closing it again. He's not sure if she stays in the hallway or moves to the living room, but he really doesn't care.

He saves his hair for last and slides down under the water to rinse it out. His hands tug at the tangled curls, enjoying the few seconds of immersion in the water – cocooned in warmth and muffled silence. Satisfied that his hair is fully rinsed, he braces his feet against the end of the tub and grasps the sides to pull himself up, but his back and bruised ribs choose that exact moment to spasm and clench, and he is nearly paralyzed with pain.

Logically, he knows it will subside in seconds, and that he will renew his grip on the bath and sit up with no trouble – he is in no danger - his mind does not panic, but his body does. He exhales sharply at the pain, air leaving his lips and nostrils in a stream of bubbles, and it is as though the water that was so welcoming and comforting moments before is now Culverton Smith, keeping him from breathing, and his limbs thrash unnervingly in instinctive protest.

One second,

two seconds,

three seconds -

Molly must have been sitting in the hall, because she is in the room in seconds. She takes one look at Sherlock in the bath, and in one fluid motion – jerks the stop up so the water will drain and plunges her arms into the water, pulling him up so that his back rests against the side of the bath.

He coughs, and it takes him several minutes to regain his breath – not because he'd inhaled any water, but because his ribs are making it difficult to draw in a full breath.

He blinks, and realizes that the water level is now at his waist, and Molly's palms are pressed against the back of the tub, her forearms just below his armpits. The arms of her jumper are soaked, and the fabric feels both soggy and prickly against his bare skin. He blinks again, and realizes that the water wicked up her jumper to past her elbows. It is dripping, irritatingly so.

His eyes travel further upward, and - his thoughts disjointed – his breath catches in his chest when he sees her face.

She cannot seem to look him in the eye. She is staring at his left shoulder, eyes rimmed red and blinking rapidly to dispel unshed tears, jaw clenching and unclenching in an effort to keep her lips from wobbling.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable with the sudden onset of emotion, both from Molly and from himself. The drain makes a sucking sound as the last of the water drains from the bath, and the tension melts just enough for them to move, slowly, again.

" I think-" his voice is too broken for his liking, so he takes a breath – steady, this time – and tries again. "I think I'll take that clonidine, now."

Molly lets out a shaky breath that is not really a laugh – it is more like sound coinciding with an exhale – and turns, so that she moves from her knees to her bottom, pulling her wet arms from around Sherlock and out of the tub, one hand still gripping the edge of it. She rests her forehead on her hand, seemingly oblivious to the water from her jumper dripping around her. Her breath is ragged and exaggerated, as if she is trying very hard not to burst into tears.

While it was – unsuspected, and he can understand – frightening, for her – her reaction is more than he would have predicted.

She lifts her head suddenly, blinks briskly, nods to herself. "Right. I'll get that. Now." She stands abruptly and walks stiffly out the door, leaving it open.

He frowns, his mind whirring, on the edge of discovery.

Molly's reaction – physical aggression, anger, betrayal - when he appeared to be using, for the Magnusson case – very uncharacteristic, though understandably within the realm of normal human reaction to a close friend perceivably being under the influence.

She'd never found out about the one-time overdose on the plane - but Molly's reaction when he was using again, for John – again, anger, betrayal, deep hurt – willingness to walk away and leave, until she'd understood the reasoning behind it, though she hadn't agreed with it – was stronger than he'd predicted. He'd been able to work around it – through it? – but still, for her - there was more emotion tied to his drug use than he'd first anticipated.

Her knowledge of what he needed, in terms of aiding his recovery – there was a hint of something more there, than her pure medical knowledge – it was more like – experience?

Sherlock stands, muscles spasms over for the time being. The pain in his ribs is now dull and throbbing instead of sharp and twisting, and he groans as he hoists himself up. He steps gingerly over the side of the bath and grabs the towel, drying himself off half-heartedly before wrapping the towel around his waist and sitting carefully on the closed toilet.

He quickly scrolls through his knowledge of Molly and her history – mother died in a car accident when she was twelve, father of cancer when she was twenty-seven, no living grandparents, has one living – aunt, or uncle? - in Lancaster, exchanges Christmas and birthday cards, phones twice a year – aunt, then, or their wouldn't be the cards - and has…an older sister, married – lives in Edinburgh - one child, relationship strained but not entirely estranged, spends every other holiday with them, but no more than three per year – older sister tried to become a mother figure to Molly after their mother died, and Molly resented her for it, though she tries not to, now – finally – a younger brother, less of an age gap, they were closer – but fully estranged, now – it was his choice, as Molly still displays photographs of the two of them on her bookshelf –

Sherlock frowns. That must be it, then. Molly's experience with drug addicts – comes from her younger brother. Could have been a close friend in school, but unlikely, given that it would have only affected her to this degree if they'd died. Given her proclivity for visiting her parent's gravestones at least twice a year, he'd have noticed if she also visited a third. So not dead, but for all intents and purposes dead to her – younger brother, then, and he has not made contact in – Sherlock closes his eyes, brows drawn together, picturing the photographs on her shelf and straining to remember any hint of a call, change in her demeanor, or communication that would have been from her brother – no contact in the past four years.

How had he missed this?

"Here," Molly says softly, and he looks up at her. She's taken off her wet jumper and wrung out the wet sleeves of her blouse, pushing them up past her elbows. She holds out the pill and a glass of juice, and he quickly obliges her, not removing the glass from his lips until he's finished the whole thing.

He hands it back to her, and she turns to walk away. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, messily – he hates how messy he is, with these things – because he hadn't realized the depth of the hurt he had caused her, by pulling her into his drug use, reminding her of a relationship that was ruined by it. In saving one friend, he has strung out the other.

And yet, she stays.

He marvels at her, and is intimidated by her, because he still doesn't fully understand her. He seems to be spending that precious currency Mary bought him very poorly.

Molly pauses in the door frame, and shrugs with one shoulder. "It's fine. I'm fine. It just – scared me-"

"No," he corrects softly, in that gentle voice he reserves only for her. "I'm sorry about your brother. I – didn't realize. Until – now."

She turns sharply and looks him over, searching him through. He was right, then. She seems satisfied that he is not trying to hurt her, not trying to gloat over some distant fact he managed to dredge up to explain her emotions – he will always, always be grateful for her insight into his intentions - and she swallows, head nodding minutely.

"I-" and it is not a promise, but it will have to do, because it is all he can give her – "I shall really, truly endeavor never to have to ask you to do this again."

She smiles to herself, and it is painful. "I'd rather you ask than die, since rehab doesn't seem to be an option for you. But – thank you."

Molly changes into her pajamas shortly after Sherlock finishes dressing and shaving, and they eat quietly. Sherlock swallows as much vegetable soup as he can stomach. Molly seems lost in herself, but it is fine with Sherlock, as he has much to think about, as well.

Molly drifts to John's chair and takes out a book she'd brought, and Sherlock opens his laptop to sift through the nearly hundred emails he's received in the past three weeks, while he was focused on the much larger, more difficult case of Culverton Smith. It distracts him enough to prevent him from focusing on the withdrawal symptoms, though they still force their way to the forefront of his attention more often than he'd like. Luckily – exhaustion means that his body will force him to sleep through some of the worst of the symptoms, made less so by Molly's forethought and experience. He does not often feel shame, but he has felt it today – and though his body craves a high, it turns his stomach to think of submitting to the urge. He has never hated his addiction as much as he does tonight.

He and Molly talk periodically about the cases he finds interesting enough to devote breath to, but there comes a time when he asks her a question about the likelihood of a feline's urine masking the scent of an airborne poison, and she does not answer.

He looks up and Molly is sleeping awkwardly in John's chair, neck crooked and book splayed across her lap. He rubs his own tired eyes, and contemplates leaving her and stumbling into his own bed. But he knows that tonight – he will sleep just as well on the couch, and if she were to wake, later – and he were not visible – she would be distressed. He's caused her enough of that, lately.

So he retrieves two pillows from his bed, and props one carefully under Molly's head. Her head lolls to one side and he tries to move it into a more comfortable looking position, but she keeps rolling it back, and he gives up after a moment. He marks her place in her book and sets it on the floor beside her chair, and pulls a throw over her.

Satisfied that he has done his good deed for her for the night, he lowers himself into the couch, turns onto his side, and is promptly hit with a wave of nausea and cramps, again. He groans, and flops to his other side. He attempts to focus on any number of distracting things, but nothing seems to help. He is exhausted, but he cannot sleep.

After running through an inventory of new supplies he will need to ask Molly for to restock his fridge and makeshift chemistry lab, he reaches for his phone. He scrolls through twitter and news feeds, bored with the current unoriginality of criminals.

Finally, he opens his text messages. There, at the top – the latest message from The Woman.

Birthday Dinner? I'm on the Continent until next Tuesday.

He blinks, eyes straining from looking at screens in the dim light. His fingers hover over the message, contemplating a reply, thinking over John's words from earlier in the day – a romantic relationship – will complete you as a human being – who you thought I was – is the man I want to be –

And his eyes catch the message line just below Irene's – and his lips twitch at the corners. It is Molly's, and he clicks on their latest exchange, instead.

Success, on both accounts. –SH

Thank you. –SH

You are welcome. Don't ever ask me to do that again. –xMH

Congratulations. –xMH

He smirks, and turns off the screen to his phone, tucking it onto the top cushion of the couch.

Why would he need a romantic relationship to 'complete' him when he's perfectly content with what he's got, right now?

John obviously doesn't know what he's talking about.

Something warm and ambiguous pokes at the edges of his consciousness, but he is already half-asleep.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

And thank you, thank you generous anonymous readers who leave such kind reviews! I truly appreciate them and wish I could thank you in person.