A/N: You know when you just think 'ah to hell with it, who needs a plan anyway?'. Well this is the result of that. Here is my wholock. This is just the beginning of what I fear is going to be quite a lengthy and traumatic (for me) story. I hope you guys enjoy this. It's fic 100. Thanks to -oracularspectacular- on tumblr for suggesting wholock in the first place and hihiyas for being my awesome idea bouncing buddy. Muchos appreciation for you chicas.
Alone in the Dark
It's cloudy, but sunny. The air is caught between the heat of the sun, beating down through the clear patches of sky, and the chill of the strong breeze sweeping the streets. Spring is fighting its way into existence, though that hasn't stopped Molly from winding a woolly scarf around her neck to keep her nice and cosy.
She walks quickly, her satchel bashing against her thigh with every step she takes. As she passes the off licence, she almost jumps out of her skin as a homeless person tumbles out of the skip in the alleyway alongside it. He groans loudly and Molly quickens her pace, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
As she is squashed against one small corner of the tube carriage by some large tourists with cameras hanging around their necks, Molly wonders what the hospital will have in store for her today. The last few days have been unusually quiet; she's even run out of paperwork to do, and last night, she was reading an ancient copy of Cosmopolitan she'd pinched from one of the waiting rooms, in order to while away the last hour of her shift. On top of that, she actually went home at six o'clock. Six o'clock. In the evening. Not six o'clock the next morning, not six o'clock the following evening, six o'clock as in the six o'clock that was nine hours after she entered the building.
When she'd arrived home, she hadn't known what to do with herself. It had all been very disorienting.
She is halfway through making her first coffee of the day, stirring in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar, when she realises that she feels awake. She doesn't need the coffee because she slept for hours last night. She takes it down to her office anyway, guiltily hoping that someone has popped their clogs overnight.
"This is ridiculous, John."
John doesn't look up from his newspaper, and Sherlock turns away from him, resuming his pacing. His fingers are twitching, itching for work, for a puzzle, for anything, and yet, nothing. Nothing via the blog, no phone calls, no one at the door...it's disgusting.
"Why don't you just...I dunno, watch some telly?" John says from behind the pages of the Guardian.
Sherlock scowls and ignores him. He kicks the leg of the dining table, and at last, John looks up, throws him a scathing look, and shuffles his newspaper.
"Why don't you go and see Molly? See if she's got anything you can solve?"
"I texted her last night, she's had nothing. She was at home. Half past eight and Molly was eating dinner at home. I don't know what the world's coming to."
"I know," John says with a sigh. "Dreadful, isn't it?"
"I don't think you're taking this seriously," Sherlock snaps.
"Never mind," John says brightly. Sherlock huffs, and storms towards his bedroom, determined to put at least twenty feet between himself and John's overly cheerful disposition.
She's just had delivery of a fresh one. Found by a jogger in Hyde Park in the early hours. She'd bet anything that it's asphyxiation, and she hasn't even opened the bag yet. It's a young woman, just nineteen, and these are the ones she really hates. Thankfully, they're a lot rarer than the press make out.
Just as she's about to get on with things, get it all over and done with so she can head off to the canteen with her copy of New Scientist and grab a coffee to forget about it, the door bursts open.
She's expecting Sherlock, because he's the only one who ever makes such a noisy entrance, but when she turns around, it's not Sherlock. It's not even Lestrade.
"Can I help you?"
The man looks up. There is a pleasant look about his mismatched features, and his mismatched clothes for that matter. He's wearing tweed, and yet he can't be older than thirty-five. Perhaps he's one of those hipster types that she sees hanging around the Southbank. There's some sort of metal instrument in his hand with a green light at the end. It might be some sort of hardcore electronic cigarette but Molly doesn't think so, somehow.
"Ah," he says, looking up and noticing her at last. "Hello."
"Hello," Molly replies, unsure of whether she should call for security. Maybe he's just from ward seven though. But she can't see a hospital tag round either of his wrists. "Who are you?"
"I'm the Doctor," he says, frowning at his metal tube and clicking some buttons on it. It makes a few high pitched whirring noises, and then eventually falls silent. He looks over at Molly.
"The Doctor," she says.
"Yep!" he says brightly. "That's me."
"Well, you won't find any patients down here, Doctor," Molly tells him, her lips curving into a slightly morbid smirk. She can't help her sense of humour, even though Sherlock thinks she can. "Not living ones anyway."
The Doctor's gaze pierces straight through her, and she feels like she's being x-rayed by him. "Why? What happened to them?" At last, he seems to notice the body bag on the slab, and strides towards it, his metal tube held aloft. He waves it up and down the length of the bag, like he's brandishing a magic wand.
Molly takes a step closer to the phone.
"This is the morgue?" she says delicately. "We don't get many live ones down here."
The Doctor looks up again. "Right," he says, shoving his metal tube back into his inside breast pocket. "Naturally."
Molly frowns. The metal tube is far too big to fit in a pocket comfortably, and yet she can see no outline, no lump under the material, nothing.
"I don't suppose you've seen any..." the Doctor trails off, frowning at the storage units. "What's in there?"
"Bodies," Molly says. She doesn't bother trying to deliver the news with any tact. He's in a morgue, he shouldn't be shocked by it.
He pulls his metal tube out again and approaches the containers slowly. The green light comes on and she hears it start to whir again, and Molly, who has never been spooked by the fact that she spends her day with the dead, suddenly does not want him to open any of the drawers.
She's about to open her mouth, about to tell him to leave, but the words die in her throat.
There is a loud clang. The sound of flesh smashing against metal. One of the drawers shudders.
Molly clamps her hands over her mouth, not daring to make a sound. The Doctor moves slowly towards the drawer, and another clang, louder this time, sounds from within.
"What is that?" Molly whispers.
The Doctor turns around, his fringe falling softly over his eyes. There's a small smile on his face, which is the last thing Molly expected to see.
"The Dead have been coming back to life," he says gently, his smile stretching wider with each passing moment. "And I've got no idea why."