4If John could, he would jump into the front seat and take the wheel himself, the cabbie wasn't driving near fast enough for the doctor's needs. Added on top of that, the traffic was particularly bad today and they were caught at nearly every stoplight. He was not sure if she would be at home either. John could have kicked himself at that moment; Molly works at the same hospital that they were just at and she most likely worked that day. He would just have to hope that that wasn't the case.
After a painful amount of time, the cabbie screeched to a halt in front of the accused woman's house. John told the cab to wait for him just by the off chance she was at work and they would have to double back before he walked up the walkway to her home. She lived a little ways from the city in a nice suburban area where you can imagine a doctor, although a mortician, living with her house squished, sharing a wall with one of the adjacent houses. The concrete leading up to her humble home felt longer than it actually was, each step echoing off the walls of the surrounding houses to John's ears. He had made this walk many times, whether it be a friendly visit or a holiday or two, however, most of the time Sherlock was present. This was different. His guts squeezed and fell done to his toes like they were lead, making him nauseous and filled with anxiety like he has never felt before. Anger fueled his steps, his shoes hitting the stone harder the closer he got to the door.
After what felt like a year of brisk walking, it felt like the door seemed farther and farther away. Each second that passed Sherlock laid in that hospital bed, dazed and confused. His knuckles impacted the door, the wood shaking from the sheer force. John kept pounding on the door, his heart racing with adrenaline he's only felt on the battlefield, bullets whizzing by his face. No matter how hard he was knocking, he was especially punching the door at this point, his recently healed broken fingers ached painfully. With his and Sherlock's position with the police, breaking the law was below them, so he resulted in one swift kick and the door splintered from its hinges.
"Molly!" he roared, marching over the door but was met with nothing but silence. The rat was either hiding or had made her escape to the hospital. Everything was so tidy inside, very unbefitting of this traitor. The enraged doctor cursed loudly and turned tail back to the cab, slamming the car door behind him, directing the cabbie back to the hospital. The driver was visibly afraid and uncertain if he would get in trouble for driving a man who just committed breaking and entering. Normally, John would apologize and offer to pay him for the man's bravery for driving this deranged with hatred around London, but this deranged man was too distracted. He demanded the cab driver to step on it and get to the hospital as soon as humanly possible, tacking on a "a man's life is in danger!" at the end of his instructions. If the poor man was not afraid before, he was now but he was dedicated to being apart of saving this mystery man's life.
The question now was what if she was at the hospital the entire time and did he just leave Sherlock in her claws. One man's brain was not equipped to deal with so many powerful emotions in one day, and the added feeling of dreadful guilt was not helping. This was an endless goose chase, without rhyme or reason, nothing about it was adding up in John's mind.
...
The elevator seemed to be moving at the pace of molasses up to the ICU where Sherlock was being held. The lift would stop at every floor to pick up people from all over creation, separating John from his partner and the potential danger. The doors finally opened, revealing the hallway crawling with nurses, doctors, and residents, but John paid none of them mind and beelined to Sherlock's bed which was obstructed by the medical curtain. Ripping the curtain to the side, his mouth open to explain everything to Sherlock, warn him about Molly but his words died on his lips. The bed lay empty, sheets tossed aside, the wires without a patient to attach to. John's heart plummeted through into the center of the Earth with all the possibilities of what could have happened.
"Dr. Vudatha!" John shouted in his panic, whipping the curtains aside to see if Sherlock was anywhere around. It was not unlike Holmes to wander away on his own accord at hospitals but now was not the time for a game of Where's Waldo?
"Dr. Watson?" the doctor asked in a rush, believing that something was happening to his patient, unbeknownst to him, said the patient was missing. John quickly explained to him the briefest explanation of what was happening, trying to ensure that Molly Hooper did not getaway. Somewhere deep within him still didn't believe that she could have done something like this and it was all a misunderstanding. She had a hand in saving their lives before and solving cases, she did not have the air of a murderer. John forced himself to think like Sherlock, attempting to deduce a reason why Molly could have snapped. It was a possibility that Moriarty was truly back, threatening her with her family or other civilians, knowing she was one few people close enough to Sherlock to get his attention or take him out altogether.
With this new information, the Hospital was put on high alert for an escaped patient and John, with a few security guards, marched on the morgue. However, when they got through the double doors into the sanitized room, it was empty. Watson expected this but it still made his stomach drop. One of the security guards phoned Scotland Yard while the doctor wracked his brain for another place she might be with him. Since her house was already thoroughly searched, he began to panic, knowing Sherlock shouldn't be away from medical attention that long.
…
Sherlock was tired. His body ached and his head felt like it was being hit with a sledgehammer. His thoughts were more coherent than before but it was still a struggle to put a proper sentence together beyond a jumble of words. Every slight sound around him echoed in his head and bounced around his skull, picking out individual sounds proved to be complicated. The objects around him were in twos. Okay, double vision, check. At first, he was in the hospital having fluids pumped through him but between then and now, there was a blur and undiscernable voices.
What he could gather was that it was dark and abandoned. This was becoming a theme in the past few years and couldn't believe someone was still feeding into this cliche hostage technique. The next aspect to note was that it was oddly noisy, which was uncommon and whoever kidnapped him this time was inexperienced and not going for the scary criminal vibe he often encounters, this also meant that this was not Moriarty which was disappointing. He tried focusing his eyes on the petite figure that was being illuminated by a dim yellow light of old, buzzing bulbs. In the back of his mind, he knew who it was and he had for a while, it was just that he refused to believe and for the only time in his life, he questioned himself and his intuition. But of course, the answer was obvious, he had figured it out weeks ago before the medication had flowed through his veins, polluting his thoughts. Even though the smoke, which was nothing like the clarity that the heroine had given him, he was busy working out how and why.
Jealousy was the first suspicion but that wasn't enough to cause someone to break like this, let alone start working for Moriarty, who by all accounts should be dead. He had to have something over her, he was controlling her like a puppet, the one person that Sherlock would ever expect. He would have thought of John before he would ever think Molly would be sucked into the madness the Moriarty inhibited. It had to be-
"Oh stop thinking Sherlock, you already know the answer. I can hear you thinking from here," a sad, soft voice broke through his confused thoughts. Twin Molly's came into a blurry focus not too far away from the chair that Sherlock was attached to, he could now feel how loosely he was tied and how inexperienced the knot was, but to break out was way beyond the strength he was capable with at the moment. So in the end, it didn't matter either way.
"It should be over soon," she said, quieter this time with a sniffle in her voice. She was was frazzled, her hair half up, half down from a ponytail that seemed days old and most of the hair had fallen loose from the tie. The two Molly's were holding themselves up on the tables with a shaking hand, not looking like she had rested for many months. Like any good cliche villain story, he expected to hear the whole plan from her own mouth along with her own explanation, and some sign that she was in there somewhere. Molly was a simple creature with simple thoughts and feelings, she was predictable and incredibly normal, someone was being held above her head. He wanted to know how Molly's tragic backstory aside, how did Moriarty live blowing his own brains out.
He tried to speak but his mouth couldn't form his lips around a single consonant or anything that resembled English. He sat, loosely tied to a chair, drugged out of his mind, his mouth gaping and gasping like a fish. The current look painted on the mortician's face was pitty, guilt, and immeasurable regret. To see a man so great reduced to drooling and googling eyes was a great tragedy, one that rocked her to her core and will haunt her throughout her painfully and most likely, short life.
"He is alive Sherlock, he lived," she spoke, not believing her own words as they left her lips. "He shot in the direct right way in order to not be fatal, it seemed like both of you cheated death that day," she chuckled darkly, her voice trailing off into the silence and being drowned out by the low hum of the bulbs that hung above them.
"Where…" Sherlock managed hoarsely, struggling to keep his head up when it felt like it was a million pounds. Any other words died on his chapped mouth and on his limp tongue.
"He will be here soon," she answered, not needing clarification, "The man in that warehouse, you were right, he wasn't Moriarty, that man is dead. His name was Edward Cooper and owed Moriarty his life, he went through intensive surgery to look just like him, it was incredible really, but you saw right through it with that stupid blemish under his eye," she continued, her tone growing sharper.
"He wants to see you suffer, Sherlock," The statement could barely register through his foggy mind but as each minute went by things began to become clearer. He was thankful there was only one of Molly now at least, her figure still and statuesque near the single table.
Again, he could not form words for there were too many questions to be asked, but one thought was persistent in his mind and growing stronger. Where was John?
"John should be joining us soon, you could have at least spared him, John doesn't deserve this," Molly spoke again, anger tinting her voice with a side of frustration. She finally turned to him for the first time and he could see her clearly. He was sitting and a deep pit of fear was forming in the pit of his stomach. There was no way this wasn't going to end badly and the only thing Sherlock could do was pray to a God he didn't believe that John would stay away.
Before anything could escalate, there was a sound of a door opening and the squeak of wheels of a wheelchair coming from the right side of the room. Without a second thought, he knew what was coming. He kept his eyes glued on Molly, unable to peel his gaze away. Although this was no shock to Sherlock, he still struggled to wrap his head around the idea that Molly would help the notorious criminal.
Now in the center of the room, Moriarty was completely paralyzed from the next down, his head was being supported by a neck brace of sorts that was attached to his chair. That sickening grin which still held life that was taken from his limbs was clear through the haziness that hindered Sherlock's field of vision. Searing hot anger pulsed through Sherlock, giving him enough strength to fight against his weak restraints. Molly immediately shrank and cowered away from the man's very presence, it was obvious he had done something horrible to her, she just kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock in fear. Pain will drive someone to do anything.
"Isn't it very like me to be late to my own party? My bad everyone!" Moriarty rang cheerfully, being pushed by a brute of a man that could barely be described as human.
"I'd be late to my own funeral, so I'm told but as far as I have heard, I've had two and I haven't shown up at all! Isn't that right Sherlock," he spoke, his voice velvet and triumphant, causing Sherlock to nearly go blind from rage. The excursion he was putting on his frail body cause him to almost pass out as he fought against his restraints to strangle the crippled creature.
"You should be dead!" Sherlock yelled in a voice unlike his own, the first true sentence he had spoken in many weeks. It came out mangled and cracked and Molly never once looked away from his eyes. It took all her strength not to run, but she knew that she had tried that before.
"Oh Ho! He speaks, in English which is quite shocking in your former catatonic state really," Moriarty continued, his wheels coming to a halt in front of Sherlock's chair. This was the plan, Sherlock would think less as he is filled with anger, so it was time to turn up the heat.
"I wonder how poor John thought of all that, hm? Too bad I wasn't there to see it, I had to let my little birdy out of her nest, you see? I LOVE to see your face Sherlock when you realized it was her NO ONE believed you!" He began to yell, the veins in his neck protruding but the rest of his body limb and dead. So much animation in the limited facial muscles while the rest of him slowly seemed to be rotting away from lack of use.
"You know what I did? I had some friends from meet her poor wittle famiwy," he spoke in a baby voice while Molly's face twisted in pain. It was unknown how long this had been going on under Sherlock's nose. He needed to win, there was no doubt about it, his drive to beat Sherlock at his own game drove him mad to a point past murder but now to torture. Molly trembled behind the broken man, the only thing keeping her from falling to her knees was the gun being held to the back of her head. While Sherlock was focused on Moriarty, his inhuman underling had seized Molly and held her at gunpoint..
Without warning to explanation, the gun that was pressed to the back of Molly's skull, her body wracked with sobs, was thrust into her hands. While this was a surprise to Sherlock, Molly held it tightly in her fists, her knuckles turning white. She was trained for this moment, told countless times she would be free if she did not comply.
"You took everything from me," Moriarty began again, his voice low and menacing, "I have died time and time again for you Sherlock, couldn't you stomach at least a smile, hm? I thought dead was the new sexy?" he demanded, his eyes dancing with a shine you would expect to see from a deviant child that just killed his first innocent animal. "Put on a happy face Sherlock, this is the final show!"
"Fuck you," Sherlock spit, trying to get his nimble fingers to undo the loose knot that bound his wrists. He lacked the function of his fine motor skills in order to complete the task and he shook with frustration.
"Tut tut Sherly, that's no way to speak in front of a woman, it is ungentlemanly," Moriarty reprimanded, twitching his head to the muscular man who shoved Molly forward, the gun still in her fragile, shaking hands.
"Common Molly, dear, tell him how you really feel. Tell him how we USED you. Show him the scars on your back from how we whipped you until you screamed. It's all his fault Molly, this is because of him. How could he ever love someone as bland and disgusting as you," Moriarty laughed, playing his mind games with his conviving, lying tongue to get her to bend to his will, even without the use of the majority of his body. One could hear the rattle of the gears inside the firearm as her hands shook, unable to shoot straight if she tried.
"Molly, please listen! This isn't you Molly, what he did to you, it doesn't matter," Sherlock tried to reason but was quickly cut off by a bullet grazing his cheek with a searing speed that caused blood to drop to the floor.
"SHUT UP! Why couldn't you just do your bloody job, you were supposed to figure everything out, how could you not notice what was HAPPENING TO ME!" She screamed, shaking more violently than before, "You never noticed when I disappeared for weeks on end!"
"You should have died that day!" Molly screamed, her face flushed with rage and agony. The gun in her hand shook violently but it never once pointed away from her target. Before Molly could continue her tirade with a very please Moriarty watching his plan unfolding before him, the door opened and in burst a gun-wielding Watson, way ahead of the police that was on his tail. In a way, John had become more like Sherlock than he would ever care to admit, busting his way through, guns blazing and without backup. Fueled by body wracking fear and anger, vengeance alone made him feel invincible and more than capable to save Sherlock and bring justice himself. Furthermore, times like these are when his old military training had clicked in his brain, he had a duty and he was going to fulfill that, no matter who was in his way. At the moment, it was Molly who turned the gun towards his direction like some sort of Mexican standoff. The guard who stood firmly behind her, moved to action to charge John, his footsteps echoing loudly off of the concrete flooring but without a second thought and a mere gaze he fired his weapon at the man. Stopped dead in his tracks, the man dropped to his knees before hitting the floor with a meaty thump, blood smoothly flowing out of the hole in his neanderthalian skull.
Molly barely flinched, but Sherlock could see the terror in her eyes. She saw dead bodies on a daily basis, it came in the job description, but the vision on her own body on a cold metal slab drove a shiver up her spine.
"Ah," Moriarty started, "Nice of you to finally join us, you're running a few minutes behind," he said nonchalantly ignoring the dead elephant in the room. With sheer reflexes, his aim immediately went to the villain but he wavered, the shock of Sherlock being right hitting him like a ton of bricks.
"Yeah, yeah. Blah, Blah, I'm back from the grave and all of that jazz. You guys act like I'm Jesus, it's getting old, honestly. I've only died twice! Really, Sherlock, you need to catch up," he gaze flitting in Sherlock's direction before back at John. Without being told, Molly again pointed the gun in the consulting detective's direction, stepping forward and jabbing the barrel to his sweating temple.
"You choose now! Or I am just going to kill both of you!" The tears fell until it became a river on her face, the water sinking into the fine crevices of her early-onset wrinkles, her smile lines and the ones added from pure stress. The river continued to drop to the floor, wetting the carpet as a sob shook her body violently which came out as almost a scream.
"You ruined everything! Someone has to die! Now choose!" her cry ripped through the air and if she wasn't about to kill them, it would have been the saddest thing they have seen. Moriarty really knew how to use his hostages, he knew John would not be able to shoot her. It was a triad of murder ready to get really ugly and it was a toss of the die. Someone was not going to make it out alive.
Molly's glow, her kindness, and selflessness made her loved by everyone she met. She was a shy mouse, so kind it was so easy to take advantage of her. The old Molly had died somewhere, leaving this rotted, grotesque body behind with demons no person can imagine. She was possessed with such rage and such sadness that it squeezed every inch of life out of her, wracking her husk every moment, with every pound of her heart in her hollow chest. She had to be in there somewhere.
"Molly please, think about this!" Sherlock said, the knot so loose now, "Make the right choice Molly," he pleaded with her, the panic inside of him rising so quickly he could burst from the sheer stress. He continued to beg, one last-ditch effort to stop her finger from pulling the trigger. Her eyes met his blues, they shimmered from fresh tears. His pleas were met with silence, her mind working a million miles an hour, knowing she could not do this.
"Fine, I'll make it for you," she spoke suddenly, pointing the gun away from him, swiveling so fast on her feet she almost fell. "Do one thing right in your miserable life and save John," she spoke as Sherlock finally broke free of the rope holding him down.
The world seemed to still as Sherlock rose to his feet, ready to tackle Molly's small body to the ground and handle whatever came next, hoping that adrenalin would push his weak frame to be able to take down anyone else in the way. The dust in the air seemed to freeze around them like the ice in his veins when Molly, with a sad smile on her quivering lips, put the gun into her mouth and fired.
Sherlock blacked out. Regaining his consciousness, he heard John's voice in the background, like it was being spoken over the radio with a bad connection. His vision began to come into focus when he realized he was on his knees on the rough concrete, unsure how he got there from the toppled chair that laid halfway across the room. A soft gurgle brought his hazy mind back down to what he was on top of.
"Drop the gun Sherlock!" yelled another familiar voice that he could not place at the moment, but it definitely was not John. Nothing but confusion ran through his clouded mind, looking at his own bloodied hand holding an equally bloody pistol. Disgusted, he threw it to the side, the metal clacking against the hard floor and sliding away from him and the body he was above. That was the next order of business, what was he on? A few more seconds of adjusting, he was able to see the unrecognizable face of Jim Moriarty with five bullet holes to the face, shot point-blank.
Before he had much time to react, someone grabbed him from behind, their hands under his arms pulling him off of the dead body. Or so he hoped. The further they dragged him away, his eyes did not leave that body, expecting it to move, breathe, anything that could indicate that he could have lived from five shots to the skull he didn't remember firing. It wasn't until they nearly tripped over Molly's lifeless body and shock brought Sherlock back to reality, falling to his knees again, causing the police to stumble. He tried to touch her. Her soft, worn face was now free of pain or her lifeless mousy hair. Now, this he could not believe, but just like Jim, there were no signs of life. They had to pry his skeleton-like hands from her corpse to attempt to get him into the ambulance with the help of a very tearful John. He could not find the words, he needed to get Molly, he needed to get to her so he could save her. He refused to accept that it was too late until there was a slight pinch of a needle and his world faded into darkness again.
Again, Sherlock arose in confusion, the bright, blinding light of fluorescents rose him into consciousness. His body, remembering the moments before they sedated him, returned to a state of fight or flight and immediately tried to get up from the bed before the soft but firm hand of John held down his shoulder.
His eyes were sunken in, raccoon-like with the darkness that was in his bags, it seemed as if he hadn't slept in months, which was probably true. He had many questions and demands to know what happened but he couldn't bring himself to ask questions he already knew the answers to.
"You've been asleep for three days," John said softly, nothing short of reading Sherlock's mind and the only question he did not know. So that was it. Moriarty finally dead for the third time and hopefully staying that way and day three of Molly being gone to, which he couldn't bring his mind to fully understand that fact. It was needless, but probably the only reason why him and John were alive right now. It was a distraction that no one expected, causing Sherlock to leap into a fury of action and murderous rage. Her death saved them both but he still felt that it was in vain. If Moriarty could live twice, why couldn't she just once? He didn't have time for these thoughts, he had to make sure he was really dead.
He tried to get up and move again but his wrists stayed on the scratchy hospital sheets. It wasn't until he looked down that he realized he was tied down.
"They had to, you always run away at hospitals, or kidnapped," John explained, his hand staying firm on his boney shoulder. Sherlock had been asleep for three days but it didn't look like his partner had any rest in those two days. Just like himself, he was on guard, making sure to not let Sherlock out of his sight, fearful he would disappear again. Three days he was alone in his mourning for Molly, only to be visited by a handful of friends to share their condolences, many of them no doubt thinking that it should not have been Molly, no matter what happened. She no longer had many family members after Moriarty got to them so it was painfully lonely.
Normally, Sherlock would try to make another break for it, but for once he thought about someone else's needs and looked at John. Molly was right, he didn't deserve any of this. He also realized that no matter where Sherlock ran, John would follow and he would never be alone again.