Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

Note: Written for the following prompt on the Sherlock kink meme:

Nothing she does is good enough, and not just for Sherlock, for anyone. Her parents, her teachers, her bosses, her boyfriends, Molly has lived her entire life in criticism stew.

One day it's all too much and she snaps. How badly she snaps - from yelling at someone before bursting into tears to unleashing the zombie hordes upon the world - is entirely up to the filler.

Yes, I know I just posted a story for this prompt, but you see, I really did want crack.

Molly Bloody Hooper

"This is my fault?" Sherlock's voice, from where he was crouched down behind a gurney was indignant. "How is this my fault?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock." Lestrade's answer didn't just drip sarcasm, it sloshed bucketfuls at all comers. "You could have been nicer to her for a start." He counted the shotgun cartridges he'd gotten off the guard earlier (poor bloke, he wouldn't be needing them anymore). He swore. "I don't have much to work with, John."

"Well. Neither. Do. I." John Watson had somehow managed to procure an old hunting rifle from somewhere, and was busy determining if it was still serviceable. It was amazing what you could find at Bart's. "We'll have to do the best we can with what we've got. Sherlock, you take the Browning. If you run out of ammo, you've only got yourself to blame. You still haven't paid Mrs. Hudson for the wall."

"Given the situation, I think payment would be immaterial at this point." Sherlock genuinely liked their landlady, though. He hoped that she was keeping herself safe. Or suddenly decided to visit her daughter in Florida. Or something like that.

John carefully placed ammunition in the outside pockets of a satchel he had picked up from somewhere. Easily accessible, but secure enough that they wouldn't be going all over the place in case they had to run. He suddenly wished he had his army uniform. All the pockets would have come in handy now. And the first aid kit. And the signal flares. And the assault rifle in glorious working order. And the bullets. No use for wishful thinking now. "What about blades, Greg? I've got my army knife, but that won't be much good, even at close quarters."

"I think I saw some of those fire axes around."

"We passed seven on our way here. It occurred to me that they'd be useful, but there wasn't any opportunity to stop for them." Sherlock had almost tried to get one out of its red box ('break glass in case of fire') but he had seen almost at once that those things were coming down the corridor too fast. "There should be any number of surgical instruments around here, though. They might buy us a little time, if well-aimed."

"Christ." Lestrade sagged against the wall of refrigerated drawers. He was about ready to kill for a cigarette, though that really was what he'd have to do to get to the pack he kept surreptitiously in his car. "I hate being here. Gives me the creeps."

"At least it's a reasonably secure room." John critically eyed the barricade of gurneys they'd set up. That was the paltry best they'd been able to do. "And she doesn't seem to have done her...handiwork here." His stomach grumbled. And at a time like this. John shook his head. He had gotten used to the part of civilian life that involved regular meals. Ella ought to be proud. "We should be thinking of supplies next. And, Sherlock" - he glared at his flatmate - "Greg's right. It - is - all - your - ruddy - fault. Couldn't you have taken her out for coffee just once?"

"That really is unfair. I don't see why anyone should be obligated to like anyone else just because they like them!" It was bad sentence construction, but Sherlock made it clear which party liked whom with expressive hand gestures.

"Try 'devastatingly obsessed,'" muttered Lestrade.

John inhaled sharply. His patience was wearing thin and with the imminent possibility of death lurking in the corridors outside, he did not think he had to put up with his flatmate's attitude. "All we're saying, Sherlock, is that if you'd snogged her well and good, she might not have felt the need to make killer zombies in her spare time!"

"How was I supposed to know?" shouted Sherlock, a trifle too defensively.

"You could have bloody well deduced it, couldn't you?"

"I didn't see this coming, I admit it, are you happy now?"

"Shut it, you two, we've got company!"

Things were pounding on the double doors. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that they wouldn't be all that friendly when - and it was a when, not an if - they got in.

"How many?" John asked the question as if it was simply a matter of fact, as they positioned themselves behind an overturned autopsy table, weapons trained on the door.

Sherlock listened to the arrhythmic pounding. "Fifteen, no, sixteen. We have maybe a minute before they get through if they don't get any more coordinated than that, and the barricade might give us another thirty seconds."

"D'you think we could fight our way out?" Lestrade was visibly nervous, but he held the shotgun steady.

"If we take one down with every single shot we make now, we might have enough bullets left to make the run to your car a feasible thing." Sherlock's lips curled in a mirthless smile. "If, that is, we want to make such an end as to be worth a song."

"If I die today, I will be happy in the knowledge that I got you to watch The Lord of the Rings and made it stick in that brain of yours."

"Shut up, John." Sherlock calculated, sized things up. "I wish we were in the lab. Our chances could be very much improved by something explosive or flammable."

"What, are you saying that we'd have a better chance of getting out of here alive if we had a...distraction of some kind?"

"Well, obviously, yes."

"Right." John Watson stood, determinedly shouldering his rifle. "I think I've got enough here to give you two a good run. Might even be able to cover you for a bit out in the corridor. Get ready to run for it."

"Are you mad?"

"John, I didn't mean you!"

"Look, at least one of us has to get out. Warn people. Tell the government. You don't need three people to send a message."

"If it's the government you want to talk to, we could just text Mycroft."

"Yes, and where are our phones? And, not to sound my own horn here, but we all know that I'd be able to hold them back the longest. Army doctor." John smirked. "Whatever happens, Sherlock, promise me that you'll finally watch 300."

"I know about the Battle of Thermopylae!"

"And Monty Python. I will haunt you if you never get around to watching Monty Python."

"Stop being an idiot!"

"I thought we all were. Good to know you don't think it's incurable. Always look on the fucking bright side of life, eh?"

"You do know we won't let you do this?" Lestrade didn't mean for that to come out as a question, but inflection and tone were a little hard to keep in hand at the moment.

"And I won't let you stop me." There was an odd look in John's eyes, and somehow his calmness, his quiet, matter-of-fact, I'm-going-to-die-to-save-you-don't-argue manner was frightening. Lestrade did not envy the zombies. If they didn't know fear, well, they were going to make its acquaintance soon.

And then Sherlock stood too, unfolding to his full height, desperation suddenly written in every inch, every line of him.

"John, I -"

The door burst open.

Lestrade took out the first of the things that lurched unsteadily into the room. They were fast, but the motion was uncoordinated, jerky, painful to watch. John dispatched three with ruthless efficiency, and Sherlock had managed to get one down when his eyes widened in horrified surprise.

"There's more," he said. "Twenty or thirty, maybe ten more in the corridor."

"Are you shocked because you were wrong, or because there's just that much more of them? Shoot, damn it! Maybe we can trim it down to sixteen, if it'll make you feel better."

"John, you do realize that sacrificing yourself would be pointless now? If there are that many, Lestrade and I wouldn't make it past this floor. And I'm not just saying that to stop you. Well, I am. But you probably get the point."

"How many have we got?"

"As many as makes no difference." Lestrade ducked down behind the table to reload. "They're still coming in."

"I think our best bet would be to clear the door long enough and block it again. Properly. If they can't get in, maybe they'll go away." John said this with all the cheerful certainty of someone who believes that maybe this time that blasted lunar satellite will stop following the Earth around.

"All right, there's a plan. Good enough."

"Let's just disregard the fact that we're losing ground, shall we?"

"Unless you have something better to contribute, Lestrade?" Sherlock was still not on first name terms with the D.I. - if John was, he owed it to a few pints shared in commiseration over the frustrations of working and living with the world's only consulting detective. He grit his teeth. "Dear Lord. I'd kill for a cigarette. A cigar. A pipe!"

"You and me both, mate."

"Ten."

"Jesus, John, you're actually counting?"

"DUCK!"

The shout came from outside. Lestrade obeyed immediately, wondering who he hoped it was (The rest of the police? The army? A random band of mercenaries? Pirates? Buddhists?). Sherlock pulled John down forcibly, but not before the doctor managed to take out the four zombies closest to them.

From behind the table, and over the organic scrapings and shufflings of the walking dead, they heard a sharp clink, as of glass landing on the floor.

"You do realize," said John peevishly, "that if that was a ruse we're -"

The rest of his words were lost in the explosion.

When it was over, the three of them stood, gingerly, ears ringing from the blast, trying to see what was beyond the settling dust and the bits of meaty, organic matter that were still dropping off of the ceiling. What they saw was a single zombie, male, probably mid-thirties, coming towards them at what passed for a run. They barely had time to be surprised.

A scalpel is a delicate instrument, by necessity extremely sharp and with a handle that provides a good grip, the better for precise manipulation. John had never considered a scalpel as a throwing weapon despite having the most exposure to them (and at uni too, when everybody had thought or tried something stupid). Sherlock had considered it, but doubted it would be effective - the aerodynamics were all wrong.

Nevertheless it was a scalpel that hurtled through the air to burrow itself firmly in the back of the zombie's head, stopping it in its tracks. A scalpel thrown by Molly Hooper.

She stood framed in the doorway, and somehow the word 'nice' meaning 'agreeable or pleasant' didn't apply to her anymore. She was still wearing her white lab coat, but it was cinched at the waist with a thick band of what looked like gauze, and her doll shoes had been abandoned for a good pair of sneakers. In one hand she held another scalpel, and in the other she carried a cotton-plugged glass flask containing an innocent-seeming clear liquid (probably flammable, thought Sherlock). An air gun on a strap was slung over her shoulders, and she appeared to be having no difficulty with this despite the knapsack on her back that was bristling with various sharp, metallic lab implements from its outside pockets. Her hair was pulled back in a tight efficient ponytail, and, incongruous as it was with the rest of the image, she was wearing lipstick.

If the word 'nice' described her now, it would probably mean 'exactly precise' and would refer to her aim.

The three men remembered who she was and what she had done, and - despite two of them believing it was really all Sherlock's fault - all three pointed their guns at her. From that distance, it wouldn't take a crack shot like John Watson to do lasting damage.

Molly bit her lip. "Look," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Didn't mean it," spluttered Lestrade, unbelievingly.

"You didn't mean to unleash a horde of murderous animated corpses?" Sherlock snarled. "You'll have to forgive us if we don't take you at your word."

"Of course you'd find a way to say 'killer zombies' with as many syllables as possible," said Molly coolly. "I know 'sorry' probably doesn't cut it any longer, but I'm trying, okay? And I don't blame you at all, Sherlock, though looking back, it's at least partly your fault."

"My fault?"

"I'd never have hooked up with Jim if I hadn't been trying to make you jealous." She carefully put the scalpel in the side pocket of her knapsack. "And I'll admit I quite went out of my head when he turned out to be that horrible master criminal - you didn't even notice that, did you? Realizing that your special someone probably had more genuine affection for your cat can do that to you, make you crazy, I mean."

"So you - you went and made killer zombies to make yourself feel better?" John tried to wrap his head around the thought. He couldn't fathom it. He simply couldn't.

"Well, Jim-"

"Moriarty!"

"Yes, him. He wanted to watch Dawn of the Dead and I didn't like it and I told him that those weren't real zombies anyway - real zombies need puffer fish poison and lots of hallucinogens - and he said that maybe I should try to make one since I worked in the morgue anyway. And the awful stuff at the pool happened - I'm glad to see you're out of your sling, Doctor Watson - and I had to do something to keep from thinking about everything. I would have gone mad."

"But killer zombies?"

"Well, I didn't think it would work! And when it did, I thought of setting them on Jim, but things got out of hand!" Molly took a deep breath. "Look, I know I've made mistakes, but I'm better now, and I'm trying to make up for it. I've already got two batches of people out in the ambulances. Come on, we don't have much time. There's a helicopter on the roof and this man with an umbrella that's a sword-stick said to find you, and if we leave now, we just might not have to fight our way upstairs."

Sherlock hadn't thought that today could possibly hold any more surprises. "Mycroft?"

John was boggled too, if for a slightly different reason. "The umbrella is a sword-stick?"

"He has a license to kill," said Sherlock dismissively. He turned his attention to Molly. "Did he bring mine? I'm a decent shot but I'd prefer to have other options."

"He didn't say. Will you lot just hurry up? I've taken care of a lot of them, but I don't know how many more there are."

More bemused than anything else, the men filed out from behind their erstwhile shelter to follow Molly out into the corridor. Wordlessly, she handed Lestrade a pack of cigarettes and a lighter as he passed her.

"Molly," he said fervently, "you're an angel, whatever it is you've gone and done."

"It's, well, I'm doing the best I can," she said. "Think of it as atonement. And be careful with that flame, I've still got explosives on me."

"Yes, yes, whatever. Do you want one, Sherlock? Sherlock?"

The consulting detective was otherwise occupied, however. A nicotine fix could wait.

"John," he was saying, "That - that...thing you, um, offered to do back there."

"Yes?" said the doctor, absently. He was reloading his rifle.

"That was good. But. I never want you to do that again."

"Sherlock, it made the most sense at the time, even you have to admit that."

"I meant that." Sherlock fixed John with a look so intense that the air between them seemed to sizzle as the molecules tried to crowd each other out of its way. The doctor met his gaze evenly, and the quiet defiance there was even more forceful. It probably burned atoms out of existence.

"Oh, for God's sake and Cthulthu and all the saints!" cried Molly, exasperated beyond belief. "Enough with the eyesex, you two! Just kiss each other and get it over with!" She shook her head in disgust. "Honestly. How thick can you get? Though it only proves," she said, more to herself than to any of the three living people with her, "that all the good men are either taken or gay." She sighed gustily as flounced on ahead.

They rounded a corner and were suddenly faced with a cluster of zombies huddled over what was left of another security guard. One of them looked up, and Molly recognized him as Robin from upstairs. He was cute, and always let her go ahead of him at the coffee machine even if she was just passing by and didn't fancy coffee at the moment. Her scalpel took him right between the eyes.

"Or dead," she amended. "A lot of the good men can also be dead."