Moll —

Not much good rose out of my choice to do drugs, not much at all.

Greg’s marriage fell apart, Mycroft no longer spoke to him and John left.

He left for Afghanistan. (Or was it Iraq?)

The only person who came through it all, who stayed in London, was Molly.

Molly thrived. Despite the unrelenting shifts at the hospital, despite the quiet, accepted undercurrent of sexism that saw her ignored, despite the impossibility of passing exams, despite everything.

She cried, and sometimes she broke down, but she picked herself back up again in the figurative sense and she was alright. In her words, she managed.

She’s one of the best in her field now.

I called her a lot. I never had any idea what time it was, only that I was between fixes, or that I needed another fix, or that I was high.

I was high a lot.

Her father died during that time, too. I don’t actually know … when. Must’ve been somewhere between the double treatment centre and the hospital.

Her father passed away. John left. Greg stopped taking calls. Mycroft stopped making calls. And I was virtually homeless, wandering in and out of shelters and chewing on morphine patches during 12-step-meetings.

But Molly was resilient. She churned through cups of coffee and boxes of latex gloves and packs of post-it notes. She fell asleep on the bus, on the tube, at her desk. And all those people milling around her on the train or the bus or in the hospital, totally unaware of the strength of her spirit.

I’m sorry, Molly. I was so unkind to you.

You deserve the best out of all of us. You deserve to be happy.

(But can you help me write a letter to John, please? I don’t know where to start.)

Yours,

Sherlock

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