A/N - Well this is my first Sherlock fic, I hope you like it :] I should be posting the next chapter soon :]
Lemme know if you like it :]
Sherlock stood rooted to the ground. Those big, brown eyes fixated upon his, just as they had been many times before. Sherlock however, couldn't help but think about the minute differences between the once mousy, often frightened and extremely naïve Molly to the determined woman standing before him now. The woman who was willing to do anything for him, no questions asked. The only one who could save him.
He did not understand her loyalty; he knew that he did not deserve it. The consulting detective was frequently brutally honest, to the point of cruelty and the pathologist had been on the receiving end of it on several occasions. Sherlock could not feel too much guilt however, as he had always told her the truth, no matter the subject – wasn't that the kind thing to do? Or did people prefer to be lied to, just to save their precious 'feelings'? This was why Sherlock despised emotions; they clouded judgement, making people weak and vulnerable. Yet they had brought him to St Barts – to Molly Hooper.
"What do you need?" Molly's soft voice broke through his inner turmoil. Those doe eyes were shining with such trust, such hope. He needed her.
Today couldn't have been more bizarre for Molly. She had finally mustered up the courage to have a semi-normal conversation with Sherlock, in which she managed without stumbling pathetically over her words. Sherlock had finally paid attention to her and she truly believed that she had broken through to him and showed her true self. If Molly Hooper knew anyone, it was Sherlock; and she could tell that something wasn't quite right. She wanted to help him.
Molly had been looking forward to a night in, on the couch with a bottle of red wine and Toby, but she had been held up – as she often was – by Sherlock. He had confessed that he had always trusted her and that she mattered to him; he cared about her. His gentle words had struck her, momentarily catching her off guard. She actually meant something to him. Molly Hooper had never seen this side of Sherlock Holmes. Her glee was short lived however, as his next words seemed to cause her world to crumble around her. Sherlock thought that he was going to die. Molly knew that he would not have made such a statement if it weren't true; he was actually going to die. So why was he standing in the lab waiting for her?
Molly's eyes remained fixed on his wry face. She had loved this man the moment she'd seen him. She had known that something was wrong with him for days now. Sherlock had been behaving differently, almost placid. He hadn't been his usual agitated, snappy self. He had even allowed her to get away with saying more than three words without cutting her off with his cruel, callous comments. Molly Hooper hadn't been afraid for a long while, but right now, with the most brilliant man she had ever known standing before her with tears in his eyes, she was absolutely petrified. She would do anything that he asked.
"You." Her eyebrows rose in surprise at his declaration – had she heard him right? Was this a cruel joke?
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Molly choked on the words as her heart pounded painfully in her chest. She had imagined this day; the day that Sherlock Holmes finally saw her. But imagining it and being ready for the reality are two different things. She allowed her eyes to drift downward, the penetrating gaze of his icy blue eyes disconcerting. What was happening? Molly had gotten used to his attitude, to their relationship. She had no idea how to handle him right now. "Please, Sherlock. What is going on?"
Sherlock had anticipated her bemusement; however he knew that she was the only one who could save him now. Sherlock prided himself in being able to observe the people and the places around him. He could see every detail, notice the nervous twitches of guilty individuals, tell them what they had eaten for lunch the previous day, who they had conversed with and whether they enjoyed milk in their coffee – all from one glance. Yet the great Sherlock Holmes had missed a very important detail; Molly didn't count, not to Sherlock – at lease she didn't think that she did, which meant that nobody else believed she did either, including Moriarty. She was his only hope now; she could save him without the danger of being a target. Molly Hooper was the most important part of his plan. She was the final piece of the puzzle.
"I'll explain everything later, Molly. Right now I need you to listen carefully and trust me. I need you." Molly could only nod numbly at his words. She may have been petrified, but she would have to remain strong for him.
Several hours later found Molly Hooper sat on the cold floor of the bathroom in the lab. She stared unseeing at the tiled wall in front of her, desperately trying to take in Sherlock words and somehow twist and turn them in order to find some way out. There wasn't one. He had to die – or at least die in the eyes of the press and the rest of the world – and Molly had to help him disappear. Would she ever get to see him when all of this was over? Would he return when it was safe?
He had given her precise instructions; don't be seen by anyone until the right moment and make sure that she was the one to do the autopsy. That word was still spinning around in her mind; autopsy. Of course she knew that it would not be a real autopsy, but it would still feel real, she would still have to clean him up, place the notes into the file – falsify the paperwork – and keep her eye on him while he came around from the 'fall'. Sherlock and Molly had spent a long while creating a chemical compound that would slow his heart rate and cause him to have shallow breathing; they had to convince the paramedics that he was dead so that he would be moved straight to the morgue and into Molly's safe hands.
Molly heaved a large sigh, so many things could go so terribly wrong – but she would do as instructed. Rising slowly from the floor, Molly gripped the sink as she stared at her dishevelled reflexion; this was going to be a long night. She could feel the weight of the adrenaline ampoule and needle - which she had stolen from the medicine cupboard - in her lab coat pocket. Sherlock had already helped her to type up the notes and change the time stamp so that everything was ready and in order. Now all she could do was wait for Sherlock to do his part.
Sherlock was meeting Moriarty on the roof were he would be forced to jump. Sherlock hadn't explained everything to Molly fully, he had only told her that he had many connections in the city and that he was not an amateur. He was still the same old Sherlock, mysterious as ever. Molly would have to get the information later on; if she was helping him, then she wanted to know the details.
The unsuspecting public could be heard gasping and shrieking as they watched the tall, thin man jump from the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital, his long black coat billowing gracefully before he reached the ground with a sickening thud. The commotion caught the attention of the staff and soon the man was concealed by white coats before being whisked away quickly. The only sign of the disturbing event were the blood puddles mingling with the lightly falling rain. The onlookers recognised him from somewhere, even if they couldn't quite put their finger on it.
Molly had spent the remainder of her time in the loo trying to calm her breathing and ease her mind; she had to be professional about this, she had to make sure she could help him. She needed to be brave and make sure she gave him the right amount of adrenaline and oxygen. Molly stared into the brown eyes reflected back at her, the plan continued to flit through her mind, the words he had spoken, the way his eyes shined with trust and hope; she could do this – he believed in her.
A loud bang to the door sounded making Molly jump slightly before she straightened her hair and put on a neutral expression. Quickly opening the door, Molly was met with the frantic eyes of her colleague, Samantha. "Molly, you're the only one working today, nobody else can do it, I'm so sorry." Molly had anticipated these words as she had already made sure that she was the only one on shift today in morgue.
"I know, do we have a special case or something? Is it for the police?" She questioned nonchalantly. Molly had to choose her words and deliver them perfectly; this was supposed to be a shock for her.
"Molly, it's that man, the one who comes into the lab sometimes, dark curly hair, long black coat, he's…..he's dead…" Samantha allowed her words to hang in the air as Molly allowed her eyes to fill with tears – they were not fake; she didn't need to act this part out.
Molly pushed past the other woman, "thank you, Sam," her words were broken as her throat constricted painfully. She needed to get to Sherlock to administer the adrenaline to get his heart rate back up to normal. If she administered it too late the consequences could be dire. As Molly rushed through the halls of the hospital to the morgue, she imagined how he would look, if he would still look as dapper as usual or if he would actually look dead – whatever she had imagined, it was nowhere near to what she actually saw.
As she pushed through the doors to the morgue, one solitary light was shining over his body. Sherlock was stock still and silent, blood smeared across his face and streaking through his hair. Molly's heart gave a painful lurch as she rushed over to him. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw his cream shirt torn open and the pink defibrillator pads stuck to his chest. Oh god, they had tried to shock him back to life, this was not part of the plan and the electric shock would have most certainly stilled his chemically weakened heart.
Molly pulled herself together quickly, grabbing the adrenaline out of her pocket and filling the needle. She placed her fingers over his chest feeling between the ribs before stabbing the needle into his heart and pushing the plunger down slowly. It wouldn't be enough, she would have to perform CPR and pray that it worked, and she knew it had been over three minutes. Maybe his heart was stronger and had held out long enough for her to arrive – she could only hope.
Molly began pumping his chest steadily, counting in her head as she worked her way up to 15, then without thinking she tilted back his head back and blew in one full breath before continuing with the compressions. Her hair began to loosen as she continued at a frenzied pace, her arms aching and mind reeling as she stared at his unmoving form on the metal slab.
Eyes filling with tears, Molly released a desperate groan as she leapt onto the table, straddling his hips as she slammed her fist onto Sherlock's chest. Tears now freely flowing, hair in disarray, she continued to pound her fists over his heart.
The last thing Sherlock remembered was the sound of the defibrillators as the paramedics shocked his heart, sending a painful spasm through his body before the darkness surrounded him. He had been too weakened by the chemical compound he and Molly had developed, to physically stop the unwanted assistance from the paramedics. His eyes were heavy, body cold and numb, head pounding, heart sluggish as he finally began to come around. He could not open his eyes, but he could hear quiet sobbing, and feel a slight pressure on top of his hips as intermittent pressure was applied to his aching chest.
Sherlock spluttered before taking in a large gulp of air, his body rising sharply from the metal slab as he realised what had happened. He forced his eyes open, met with the dishevelled appearance of Molly Hooper who gave a choked sob of relief. The light seemed to surround her, her dark brown eyes glistening with tears as she stared down at him, a watery smile playing across her lips. Sherlock didn't have time to react before Molly pressed her body against his and placed a chaste kiss to his cold cheek. As she pulled back Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, his fingers lifting as he tentatively touched the blood on her cheek; his blood.
Their eyes locked as Sherlock spoke, "they tried to resuscitate me. I neglected to consider that outcome. I assumed they would simply cart me away in order to stop a scene." His words were so snipped and direct that Molly was taken aback. The man before her had almost died, yet he was still the same logical, straight to the point man as before.
Molly seemed to remember herself as she felt his bare chest brush against hers, causing a red tinge to rise up her cheeks. She quickly pushed herself off him and jumped back to the floor. "How are you feeling? You may be a little out of sorts for a few hours. We should get you cleaned up, and then you can come and stay with me until the heat wears off." She didn't dare to make eye contact as she spoke softly, still mortified at being so close to the half-naked consulting detective.
Sherlock merely stared at Molly; he was still slightly confused, lungs aching and heart pounding. Had little Molly the mouse actually saved him? How had he read her so incorrectly? Perhaps he was not as perceptive as he had once believed.
"Thank you, Molly. I accept your offer. I need to stay close to John to make sure that everything goes according to plan." His tones were still clipped, his eyes still fixed on Molly as he gently eased himself to sit up. "Pass me wash cloth or something. I can't get in a cab like this."