So we have come to the end.
And I would just like all of my lovely readers to know that there IS a sequel in the works. It is based during and after Reichenbach falls, and explores quite a bit more into the Supernatural world, and into the relationship between Sherlock and Molly. It is called 'The Final Hunt', and I will be posting periodically. Thank you my lovelies!
Disclaimer: I disclaim any property rights, but i claim the lovely emotions!
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. This time he was in a darkly lit room; his bedroom. He pushed himself off of the bed when he suddenly remembered the wound on his head. Reaching up he searched through his hair, but couldn't find…anything. No blood, no wound. Not even a scar.
Gingerly he reached down and touched his leg where it had been broken earlier. Also nothing!
Sherlock stood up quickly and nearly fell back over. He caught himself on his bed. Even though his leg was fully healed he still felt weak. He pushed himself up and sat back down on the bed. He realized that he was wearing the rare t-shirt and pajama pants that he actually owned. He pushed himself up after moment and slowly made his way to the hamper. He reached inside and pulled out a blood covered shirt.
Who…? He thought to himself, but he didn't finish the thought. He could hear voices coming from the sitting room. He dropped the shirt back into the hamper and hurried to the door. He threw it open and, using the hallway for balance, made his way into the kitchen.
"Sherlock?" he heard a male voice exclaim. He looked up to see John come stumbling into the kitchen. His arm was bandaged, his chest was wrapped in an ace bandage, and he was leaning heavily on a crutch. But the smile on his face made it all okay.
"John! Are you alright?" Sherlock stumbled forward and nearly took John out with him. He felt a pair of arms grab him underneath his armpits and get him upright. Sherlock turned to see Lestrade smiling down at him.
"C'mon Sherlock. Let's get you onto the couch."
After Sherlock had been settled onto the couch he began asking the questions that were swirling around in his brain. But the first one that jumped out of his mouth brought him up short.
"Where is Molly?"
John settled into his chair. He didn't seem surprised in the least.
"She's back home in America. After she brought you here she apparently had business to take care of there."
Sherlock looked momentarily confused.
"How long have I been asleep?"
John glanced at Lestrade, who raised his eyebrows. John turned back to face Sherlock.
"Almost three days."
Sherlock's eyes bugged out of his skull.
"Why did I sleep so long?"
"According to Castiel-"
John gave Sherlock an exasperated look.
"Molly's friend. Apparently, when he was healing you, he said you were highly undernourished and under rested. He took care of it for you."
"He what? Healed me?" Sherlock gaped at John, wondering if maybe the man had hit his head a little bit too hard. John rubbed his lower lip and took a deep breath.
"Do you remember the trench coat guy from the hospital?" he asked Sherlock slowly. Sherlock nodded. John took another deep breath, glanced once more at Lestrade, and then said something that Sherlock never thought would actually come out of John's, or anyone else's for that matter, mouth.
"He was an Angel."
Sherlock stared at John, then started laughing.
"This…this is a joke isn't it?"
John glanced at Lestrade again.
"Greg, would you please go get me the books."
Lestrade nodded and left the sitting room.
"John, whatever this is, it isn't as funny as you think. Now what really happened?"
John didn't say anything. A couple minutes later Lestrade reentered the sitting room, his arms laden down with books. He set them gently on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. He leaned forward and began shuffling through the books, but stopped when he came upon one he recognized.
It was the old book from Molly's flat; Peter Binsfield's Classification of Demons.
He pulled out a couple of others he recognized from her flat and many that he had never seen in his life.
"She wanted you to have them. She said that they might help," John said, shifting in his seat slightly.
"Help?" Sherlock asked, not looking up.
"With understanding this."
Sherlock looked up and saw John holding out Molly's journal. Sherlock leaned forward and took it gently in his grasp. He opened it and turned to the first page.
This journal belongs to Molly Hooper. Hunter.
Sherlock looked up, then something clicked in his head.
"She's…she's not coming back is she?"
John looked down. This time Lestrade took over the conversation.
"She said she doesn't know. Apparently something big is going on back in America. Something they needed her help with. She doesn't know if she'll survive it. That…that's all she told us."
Suddenly Sherlock remembered something he had heard back at the warehouse.
"And I will help the Winchester's-and Bobby-to find and, hopefully, destroy Lucifer. Are you happy?"
Sherlock stared at the two men. Lestrade suddenly stood up.
"Well, I should get going. I've got paperwork the size of Mount Everest piled on my desk."
"Did she…explain everything to you?" Sherlock suddenly asked. Lestrade and John shared another glance.
"A bit," John said. Lestrade nodded.
"How much?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade sighed.
"Enough, for me at least. In this case, ignorance is bliss."
"Not for me," Sherlock glanced up at him. Lestrade nodded.
"I know. I'll check in on you two later."
"Thanks Greg," John yelled. Sherlock opened up the journal again, leaning back against the couch. John watched Sherlock for a moment, his face full of concern.
"He's gone Sherlock. Moriarty is gone," he finally said, his voice full of relief. Sherlock looked up from the journal.
"He is, isn't he?"
Every day for the two weeks after he had woken up Sherlock had been terrorizing the workers at St. Bart's morgue. He would show up and demand to see Molly Hooper. And, when they would tell him that she was still on 'holiday' (as they had been led to believe), he would storm out of the morgue.
When he wasn't being an unholy terror to the morgue workers, he was scanning through the books that Molly had left him.
Today he was reading the Key of Solomon, his eyes wide as he scanned the words, making notes in his own leather bound notebook.
He closed the book, rubbing his strained eyes. He opened them and found John standing in front of his, holding out a mug of tea. Sherlock thanked him and took a sip, breathing in the heady scent. John sat down next to Sherlock and pulled Molly's journal over, eyeing Sherlock carefully. The man had been…possessive of the books Molly had left behind. He flipped it to the most recent entry.
James Moriarty is dead. Finally dead. And his soul will rot in hell for all eternity. Dean won't tell me what happened to him in hell, but that should be evidence enough that it is a terrible place.
I also saved Sherlock. For the first time I was the one to save him. I was the strong one. I hope he understands that I did this not just for him, but for all of us; John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg…all of us.
Castiel will be coming to get me soon. I'm going to help Sam and Dean track down the last of the Horsemen; Pestilence and Death. I'm not sure how we're going to take down Lucifer. And I'll admit it; I'm terrified.
I'll be thinking about everyone back in Britain while I'm taking down demons and slaying monsters.
It will keep me alive. It will keep me fighting.
John sighed. He had read this entry about four times since Molly had left. He could remember when she and Castiel had shown up in his hospital room. He had come out of the coma earlier that morning and kept asking where Sherlock was. What had happened.
Those were the worst hours of his life.
And then they had shown up. Molly had sat down on the bed and told him what had happened and then some.
And then Castiel had come over and laid a hand on John's head. Suddenly he felt…better. A million times better. She convinced his doctor (with a little bit of Castiel's coercion) to let her take him home. When he came home he found Sherlock passed out on his bed.
"Let him sleep as long as he needs," Castiel warned John. Molly helped him to his own bed.
"Sleep John," she said. Castiel had then reached over and touched John's forehead.
John shut the journal and smiled slightly.
"Get some sleep Sherlock," he patted Sherlock's shoulder. The man nodded but didn't look away from the Key.
Sherlock glided through the halls of St. Bart's. It was ten pm, the time that he showed up every night to the morgue. He pushed his way through the double doors and stopped.
No one was there.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. He turned around to go and find someone when he heard a voice.
"They told me you come here around this time every night."
Sherlock whipped around.
Standing in front of him was Molly…but not Molly at the same time.
She looked…haunted. And sad.
She had her hair in a ponytail and her lab coat on, but those were the only things he recognized. He could honestly say he had never seen her wear such tight clothes, or show so much skin before. And was that…a scar.
Sherlock reached out and touched the scar. Molly flinched slighty. It was right below her right shoulder. It looked like a slash, but like none he had ever seen before.
"What did this?" he asked.
Molly looked down and touched the scar.
"Oh, erm, demon...well, demons. That's all I'll say about that."
Molly looked up suddenly and her eyes filled with tears. Sherlock understood instantly.
"Something happened. Something bad," he stated. Molly nodded, wiping at the tears.
"Sorry, I'm so silly," she whispered. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
"No…no you're not," Sherlock said. Molly looked up at him, really looked at him, and then she smiled.
"No, I guess I'm not. Not as bad as I used to be anyway," she attempted to joke. Then she sighed, and turned around.
"Here to see a body then?" she asked hesitantly. Sherlock stared at the woman. He noticed how everything she did, everything she said, oozed with confidence. Never like how she used to be.
"No, I'm here to see you," he said softly. The old Molly probably would have fainted at those words. But this Molly just turned, slight shock registering on her face.
"Oh?" she asked.
Suddenly he had wrapped his arms around her. Molly, for that split second, channeled her old self by freezing up and turning blood red. Just as soon as it happened, the feeling passed. She strung her arms around her torso and pulled him tight to her. And then she began to cry.
She cried for Sam, for sacrificing himself to save them all.
She cried for Dean and Bobby, for losing a brother and a son.
She cried for Sherlock and John, for exposing them to her world and all the torture and torment that came with it.
But most of all, she cried for herself. For everything she had lost, and everything she had gained.
And Sherlock held her the entire time, allowing her to bawl into his shirt, not commenting on the stains she was definitely leaving. When she her cries finally reduced to hiccups he released her.
"Are you alright?" he asked slowly. Molly nodded, then smiled, albeit a bit of a watery smile.
"Would you like some coffee?" he asked. Molly raised an eyebrow, then nodded again.
"How do you take it?"
"Black," she said softly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He turned to go when Molly's voice made him stop.
"Sherlock, do you realize that this is the first time you've ever gotten me coffee," she teased. Sherlock smiled slightly.
"Yes, I guess it is, isn't it."
He left the room to go down to the employee lounge. Molly continued to smile as she watched him walk away.
Molly sat back on her stool and looked around the empty morgue room. She knew she should start her job, but at the moment she was just enjoying the calm and peace. She took a deep breath and thought back to the last few weeks, and how much she had changed in such a short amount of time. How everything was different now. Everything was going to change.
Molly Hooper loved the morgue at night. The peace and quiet. It was where she could think. Where she could come to be alone with her thoughts.
But, she mused as she watched Sherlock enter the room, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.
Sometimes it is nice to have company.