AN: Sorry for the lack of updates. A few things happened some of them happy, some of them not as happy, that prevented me from writing this story. Just to clarify some confusion, the chapters are alternating in chronicity. Odd chapters are their current situation, even chapters are their past. I want to juxtapose their current situation to their childhood/past experiences. If you've ever seen Blue Valentine, I think you'll understand what I mean. If not, I hope it will become clearer with later chapters. Anyways, enjoy!

3. (No) Peace of Mind

It calmed Molly to know that the stars could not be moved. That despite the inconsistency in all the other aspects of her life, she could gaze at the swarthy blue-black of the sky each and every night and pick out a specific star or a constellation. It would be there, on time, according to its set schedule. During the summers, she could rely on Vega's bright light to guide her eyes to the other constellations. Ursa major, Ursa minor. Lyra. Scorpius. Cassiopeia. She would spend hours outside with her eyes turned heavenwards, the ice-cold water she sipped as calming as the balmy night wind.

But on this winter night, a thin layer of stratus clouds covered the sky, just barely letting the crescent moon shine through. It was the morning after her disastrous phone call to Sherlock, just before dawn. Molly quietly climbed the staircase up to the roof of her Brighton flat, careful not to wake the other tenants.

She had barely been able to sleep. Her unbidden anxiety and the warm confines of her duvet only made her feel sweaty and sticky. She needed air. Smoothing a quilt on the frosty rooftop, Molly lay down.

The town was quiet at this time of day. Only the occasional hum of the dustmen truck, collecting the rubbish from the bins below, broke the stillness of the morning. The crisp air was bitingly cold, her breath puffing out in little clouds in front of her. But it was rejuvenating. It made it easier to not think about Sherlock. Or London. It was easy to focus on the number of breaths she was taking when she could see it. She could focus on drawing her coat tighter around her, on keeping warm instead of possibly meeting Sherlock again. Not that she would plan to, of course. But it could happen.

London was by no means a small city. She didn't expect to randomly bump into him in a coffee shop or pub – Sherlock? In a social situation? How laughable. – but she was taking a position at St. Barts. And from the last thing she had heard of him, he was doing some sort of private investigating business. And maybe private investigators worked with hospitals? Molly shook her head. No. Barts is a large hospital. The universe couldn't be so cruel.

"That's a lovely piece dear, but would you mind not playing at four in the morning?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped shut in annoyance. He made himself count to five in his head before wheeling around, violin and bow lowered. His elderly landlady stood at the top of the steps. She clutched her terrycloth robe tightly around her and wore an expression of annoyance and worry on her face, slippers on her feet.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said tersely. "You know it helps me think."

"Yes, but Sherlock, could you wait till it was daylight? I've an appointment to get to in the morning," Mrs. Hudson replied. She stepped into his flat, noticing a half empty plate of toast and beans on the coffee table and moved it to the sink.

Sherlock tossed his violin onto his couch with a huff. He knew from past experience that she wouldn't let up until she got what she wanted. She was pesky and persistent and was capable of absolutely wearing him down. Dealing with his sleep-deprived landlady was not at the top of his list of priorities at the moment. He had more urgent things to contend with.

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," he sighed. "Good night."

She smiled and patted his arm affectionately before bouncing back down the stairs, closing the door gently behind her.

The click of the doorknob triggered something inside of Sherlock's head. He slumped into the black leather chair in front of the large windows, his head in his hands and elbows on his knees. He felt infinitely weary.

Molly Hooper was coming back to London.

It only took one phone call and a quick search of hospital registers to determine where she would be working. The prestigious Barts hospital. Well that was fucking perfect. He already had an arrangement with Mike Stamford, and he highly doubted any other hospital would accept his unorthodox – but effective – methods. Or grant him access to their laboratories. He wasn't going to me moved out his hospital just because she was coming back.

There were two possible outcomes to this situation:

1. He would have to face her, possibly on multiple occasions. This would result in extremely tense and awkward encounters. Perhaps she would be civil, or she would ignore him completely. He didn't know which was worse.

2. He could avoid her at all costs. And pretend to not know her. But that was unnecessarily childish.

He was the one who fucked up so he couldn't be the prat in this situation. He shouldn't even be thinking about her as much as he was. She was the past. It does not do to dwell. An angry, wordless cry of frustration escaped him and he jumped to his feet. She made him so frustrated and angry and helple- no, not helpless. Never helpless. He was Sherlock Fucking Holmes and he is not a fucking helpless child. But he was restless, his body unable to stay still. He needed to unwind. Now. He needed a fix right now.

No no no. You quit you stopped you are clean you are done. Alternatives. Think.

Trembling fingers lifted the top of the packet and fished for a cigarette to place between his lips. He took a deep breath and steadied his hands to light it. A deep drag, his eyes closed, and he let the nicotine flood his system.

Not as good, but this will have to do.

He needed to get out. He needed to walk, to run, to move.

Quick as he could, he shoved his arms into his coat and feet into a pair of shoes. He took the steps two at a time, nearly running down the staircase. The flat was becoming stifling. He needed to get out. Get away.

But Molly Hooper was coming back to London.

She was making him come undone again.

Why did he ever think he could get away from her?

AN: Shorter chapter, I apologize. But I just want to say a genuine, heartfelt thank you to those of you that have followed, favorited and messaged me about this story. And to those of you that reviewed, Rocking the Redhead, Xarkastique, Renaissancebooklover108, Empress of Verace, Musical FANtasy, nowsusieq, louvreangel, Bella Cuore and my mysterious Guests, if I could hug you or paint you a picture of thanks, I would.

Also, I'm really, really, really sorry Tenshi, about spoiling The Hobbit for you. :(