Rated for non-explicit drug use. The flow in this one is a little off, but that's because I wanted to reflect the feel of the drug-addled mind. Ah, Sherlock.

He's started taking it again.

The cocaine, at least. Not the morphine – not yet, not now - no need. But the cocaine – ah! – what a wonderful delight, a long lost friend come back to visit him again. It's been years since he got clean (at the urging of his brother, and then, more effectively, his mother), but now, with his self-imposed exile and permanent enclosure in Molly's modest (and that's putting it generously…) flat, he found himself growing less and less sane. There was nothing for him to do, nothing to stimulate him – nothing to keep his mind interested or to keep him from considering doing something rash.

To be fair to himself, he didn't just turn in his sobriety at the drop of a hat. He'd attempted other things – the violin (which had proved too noisy and attracted too much attention), then medical experimentation (again, too much attention – Molly couldn't keep bringing random body parts home), then as a last resort, reality television. He'd enjoyed that, for a little while – yelling at the telly during self-help programs, pointing out their inadequacies and flaws from the comfort of his own chair.

But that wasn't enough.

So one day after Molly had wandered off to work (well, he'd assumed that was where she'd gone – he'd turned around after calling out for her repeatedly to find out she wasn't there), he cobbled together a disguise and wandered down to the city, making contact with some of his homeless network and locating the best – and most discrete – place to procure his poison of choice.

Ah, the Erythroxylum leaf, the mother of all beautiful things. How he loved the feel of it in his veins, rushing through him like a tide of euphoria, filling his heart with pleasure and his mind with untapped worlds of new thoughts and new ideas. It freed him from that demon called boredom, letting him finally feel fulfilled, even if just for a little while.

He takes it just once a day, right after Molly leaves in the morning. That way he can hide if from her, hide it from her pesky prying eyes and avoid her absolutely irritating "Sherlock-I-Am-Concerned" tones. He knows that Mycroft had warned her about his little "problem" – Mycroft had an infuriating tendency to make that fact known to everyone he ever met for more than five seconds. He wasn't a child, he didn't need them to make his decisions for him. What did they know, anyways? They were ordinary. So… ordinary.

But then he starts to take it in the afternoon too. And then he starts to take it whenever he feels like it, really, because the boredom comes back faster and faster after every time, and he couldn't have that. Wouldn't have that. Not when he could avoid it.

He's lying on his back on the rug in Molly's sitting room one afternoon, blissfully content, when he hears the sound of a key in the lock. He doesn't panic – not right away – it could be the sound of the key in the lock across the hall. Molly isn't here. Molly is at work. So it can't be Molly's key.

But then the doorknob turns and his muscles tense, and he looks up to see her step through the entryway, her hands keeping a tenuous hold on all of her bags as she kicks the door closed with her foot.

"Why are you home?" he asks her suspiciously, looking up at her from his place on the rug. Such a nice rug. Such nice fibres. Like satin on his skin. But it wasn't satin, no, no – it must be olefin, satin's not a fibre. Right. Olefin.

Molly's speaking to him. He tries to pay attention, but he's really only watching her mouth. Such a small mouth – well, smallish. But she does have quite nice cheekbones, doesn't she? Yes, yes, nice cheekbones – and nice ears, and soft skin, and the way she touches her chin when she's confused, all nice things. He stands up.

"Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?" she asks him, sounding exasperated.

"No," he answers honestly, and he steps over to her in three great bounds. She looks up at him, surprised.

He pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear and studies it for a moment. "Yes, that's right," he says, mostly to himself. "You have nice ears, Molly. You should show them off more. Compensates for your mouth, makes you seem more even."

She looks lost. Silly girl. "Th-thank you…?" she replies quizzically.

But he's not even in front of her anymore. He's rooting through the bags, looking at the things she's brought home. Fruit. Soup. Crisps. Biscuits. All boring. Food is so boring. Just like Molly.

"Are you alright?" she asks him, slowly, just staring at him.

He waves a hand at her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? Now put away the food, you can't let the milk get warm. Quick, quick, quick!" he tells her, and she picks up the bags and moves to the kitchen, sorting out her purchases, while he watches her all the while.

He can't help but stare at her bum. Hmm. He'd never really noticed her bum before. Well, he never really notices anyone's bums, not in a long time. He supposed it was at uni that he'd last stared at a girl's behind, back when all he could do to stop himself from dying of brain failure was to get high and hang out in pubs. Pulling had been a game then, a game he played with those ordinary people, where he'd analyse their wants and desires from one single look and tried to reel them in based on that alone. He'd gotten good, really good, but then the game had become boring, ordinary, and he'd given it up.

A smile crosses his face. Ah, but a game would be fun! A game like that. Yes. And now he's grinning, grinning to himself as he stares at her, watching her move in the kitchen, reading her like an open book. Oh, Molly, dear sweet boring ordinary Molly.

He's behind her in a flash, and she turns to him, with her mouth parted in a shocked like "o". She doesn't get a chance to say anything before he's running a finger down the side of her face, looking down at her, his eyes meeting her eyes.

"Molly," he says softly, roughly, and he knows he'll get her this way. It's all so simple. So easy. Ah, Molly.

"Y-yes?" she stammers, caught like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, unable and perhaps even unwilling to change her fate.

He takes her by the waist with his free hand. He sighs, just staring down at her, and he can see her fold, and he knows he's got her. He pulls her close and she gasps at the movement, and honestly, it's all he can do to keep from laughing, laughing at how easy this all is, how simple it was to win this game.

He cups her cheek and leans down, pressing his lips against hers. He can feel her press back, eager and hungry, all wanton desire and fervent hope. She's opening her mouth and he opens his in return, and if he wasn't otherwise occupied he'd have smiled, utterly fascinated by how quickly he'd triumphed.

But then a little nagging voice at the back of his head starts to murmur. A soft, almost inaudible sound, whispering to him from deep, deep inside himself. Molly, it's Molly, it seems to whisper, and he wants nothing more than to brush it away, like an irritating bug on a hot summer day.

Molly, meanwhile, just leans into him more, her eyes still closed, her body still pressed up against his.

And that voice gets louder. Louder and louder, now, fully audible and comprehensible. Molly, Molly, it's saying to him, Dear, sweet, tender Molly. He wants to ignore it. He wants to push it away, to put it back down from where it came.

And then, in one moment, clarity comes back to him. Don't hurt Molly.

His response is immediate, instantaneous. He pushes her away from him, breaking their kiss and causing her to stumble forward from the sudden loss of balance. He can only stare at her, while she stares back, her eyes full of confusion and concern and – worst of all – pain.

He blinks hard, trying to clear his mind. "I-I… I am sorry, Molly," he tells her, breaking off his gaze. He can't look at her. Not right now. Not with that look in her eyes, that look of total and complete agony.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she whispers, and she looks so helpless, so alone that he wants to slap her, annoyed that she is making him feel this way.

"I'm sorry," is the only thing he can say, and he steps back, back and away, grabbing his coat and a hat and sweeping off towards the door, towards freedom and away from the pain in Molly Hooper's kind eyes.