Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!

Molly entered the flat quietly. She stood at the door, one hand hovering on the handle as she listened.

A groan came from the living room, and she took the first hesitant steps forward. As Mycroft had said, Sherlock was laid up on the couch, in nearly the same position as he had been at the end of the video, curled in on himself with his back to the door.

There was a small disorganized pile of used needles and a couple small vials. One was empty, but the second had a small amount of heroin at the bottom. Molly picked up both the vial, and the syringes, and walked swiftly to the nearest trash bin. She dumped it all inside. As they clattered at the bottom, Sherlock let out another groan.

"Get out." His tone was rude and condescending, but it was laced with shame as well. He was disappointed, disgusted even, by his own actions. Molly doubted he realized it was her. At least, she hoped he hadn't realized it was her. No matter what, she wouldn't leave him in this state, to whither and die alone like this. She loved him too much. Stupid woman that she was, it should never have taken Mycroft to tell her this.

The video played back in her mind, sending another painful jolt through her.

Slowly, she walked over to the couch, and hovered slightly over him. She brushed her hair out of the way, and reached down to gently lay her hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock... it's me... It's Molly."

He stiffened, and then abruptly he relaxed. "You're not real. You're never real." It came out as resigned.

Her heart broke. She sat down carefully, and ghosted her hand through his hair. "I'm here, Sherlock. I'm real, I promise." She spoke softly.

He shook his head. "No you're not. You're just one of my better apparitions. Molly's gone. I made her go. She's not coming back."

"You foolish man..." She muttered. "Mycroft was right, wasn't he? You really don't think you deserve me..." Molly could have cried, had she not needed to stay together for him. "You deserve a lot better than me, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." She said softly.

"You're not Molly. You have nothing to be sorry for." Still, he gravitated to her warmth. Soon, his head was in her lap, his arms wrapped awkwardly around her waist.

"You feel so real." The words were muffled into the fabric of her shirt, but she heard them none the less.

She swallowed down the pain.

"I know, Sherlock, I know... you should rest, okay? I'll be here when you wake up."

"No you won't." He clung to her tighter though, and she felt him relax again. Soon, his breathing was deep, and he was asleep.

Molly took that time to look over him. His clothes were messy - she doubted he'd changed in at least a week. He looked as though he hadn't showered in that long as well. He certainly hadn't shaved in that amount of time. His face was shallower than usual, his cheekbone's more pronounced, and he was more pallid than she remembered. Carefully, she turned up his elbow, and examined the new track marks laid over the old.

Her heart clenched in her chest. This was her fault.

She gently carded her fingers through his hair as he slept. It seemed to help. She knew once he woke up, he'd be having withdrawals. He'd be miserable, in pain, and that would be her fault too, but she couldn't let him hurt himself. He was a beautiful man, a beautiful, intelligent, stunning, good man, and she would be dead before she allowed him to hurt himself again.

She didn't sleep at all, though he slept through the night, barely turning until he began to wake. As she suspected, his waking was full of grunts and groans and frustrated noises. He sat up, and she let him. He didn't seem to notice her continued presence. He was too busy glaring at the empty spot on the table, where his drugs used to be.

"Damned woman needs to stop taking them, as if I don't have more." He muttered, standing.

He really didn't seem to realize she was there as he made his way over to his Chimney and took out the brick. Molly cursed herself for forgetting to check - not that she would have had a clue how to open the damned thing any way. She stood, and and put her hand on his arm as he held the hollowed brink in his hand. That had him frozen.

He looked at her, his eyes wide and blood shot.

Molly gently pried the brick from his fingers. He let it go without much resistance, and she took what was inside - four more vials of the vile drug - and calmly threw them into the trash bin with the rest of the garbage.

She knelt down and put the brick back into place before moving to stand in front of him. Sherlock hadn't moved at all, aside from following her with his eyes. She looked down for just a moment, then back up to meet his eyes, no matter how much it hurt to do so.

"You're still here."

She nodded. "Yeah. I'm still here. I told you I wouldn't leave you again. I never should have in the first place. I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked. He stepped forward, and put his arms around her. "I'm sorry." He said as well.

He made to kiss her, but she put a hand over his lips. He pulled back suddenly.

She lowered her hand, smiling softly. "You can kiss me when you're back to yourself again." She said lightly, taking one of his hands and kissing the back of it.

Molly could tell he was thinking. She wasn't sure about what, but he was thinking hard.

Eventually, he nodded. "No more arsenic?" He asked quietly.

It took Molly a moment to figure out what he meant. She'd snapped it at him so quickly before running. The fact that she had left her heart aching. Stupid, stupid woman.

"No more arsenic." She agreed simply. How could she ever have called him a poison, when he was life?

She took both of his hands gently in hers, and tugged him away from the chimney, away from what it represented. He let her.

She brought him to the bathroom and stripped him bare. Again, he let her. She'd seen it all before.

She filled the tub, and he sank into the hot water, allowing her to cleanse him. Allowing her to help him. She knelt by his head, and massaged his shoulders gently with soap, urging out the tensions and grime as he laid docile in the water.

She used a generous amount of shampoo in his hair, and he rinsed it all away when she finished.

She emptied the tub, and he stood. He sat down on the toilet seat as she fetched a towel. She dried his hair with it, and draped it over his shoulders before leaving.

She returned a few minutes later with a set of his pajama bottoms and an old, but comfortable, grey shirt. He put both of them on without complaint, and she took his hand again and led him into the bedroom. He laid down, and she did too, right next to him.

He held her close, the stubble on his chin scratching the top of her head, but she didn't mind.

No more words were spoken between them that day, but she was there through his pain. He tossed and turned and kicked and groaned and screamed when the withdrawal fully hit him. She mopped up his messes and comforted him as she could.

Occasionally, he would ask if she was real. Her response was always the same.

"I'm real. I'm with you, and I'm never going anywhere again. I promise."

One possible ending to my "Take Me Away" Series. The other ending is Tear Me Down, so please check that one out as well! I couldn't choose which one I liked more!

Thanks to the reviewers of all of the parts of this story, and to Cumberburch for putting up with me!

Until Next Time! :*