Alternity - Molly is shot while Sherlock stays at her flat. This is his rather frightened - and frightening - reaction. (an alternate Chapter 16 for my story One of the Few)
Warning: lots of symbolic blood
Hurriedly, Sherlock fills a bowl with water, plops in a washcloth and grabs a towel.
But before rushing back to Molly's room, he takes a sponge from the sink and scrubs at the blood on the kitchen floor. He knows Molly needs to be attended to, but she herself had made certain she was in a stable condition. Thankfully, he supposes, there wasn't as much blood as he would have thought. After removing the liquid so that only a slight pink blotch remains, he absentmindedly wipes the back of his arm against his forehead. He goes to the sink and washes his hands (can't afford to be unsanitary), then goes back into Molly's room.
He places the bowl on the bedside table and begins to scrub at Molly's wound.
Rather brusquely, it seems, as Molly gasps. Sherlock doesn't make a sound but lessens the pressure. He plunges the washcloth into the bowl and wrings it out, but as he goes to scrub her abdomen again, Molly grasps his wrist.
He looks at her, startled, as she tries to take the washcloth from him. "Go wash your face." she laughs. She laughs.
Why is she laughing? Sherlock thinks, heading obediently to the bathroom, Haven't I hurt her?
Seeing his reflection in the mirror, he can't find it in him to laugh at the blood on his forehead. It isn't his, it isn't even some bloke's donation. It's Molly's blood. Molly's blood still tints his hands, hardens under his nails, and leaves an imprint on the forefront of his brain. He groans quietly and places his head in his hands. He closes his eyes.
His mind palace is filled with blood: it drips down the walls, oozes under doors, soaks his feet and sticks to his clothing. Everything is bathed in red. His nostrils flare at the sickly sweet scent of copper. The smell has his mind whirling, spinning out of control and he can't close his eyes, but must suffer through ghastly hallucinations of John - his face hollow like a rotting corpse, his arm twitching as blood seeps from horizontal cuts - Mrs Hudson - her face broken like a haphazard mosaic, red tears slipping into the cracks - Lestrade - his face hurt like a victim of torture, his eyes blinking as blood seeps down from his hairline - Mycroft (yes, even him) - his face grinning like a terrifying clown, blood creeping between razor sharp teeth - and of course Molly - her face bashed up like a victim who can't be identified, so Sherlock looks down to see her heart in the cavity of her chest losing blood with every pump. Her muted heartbeat makes the only sound. Sherlock's nose and eyes are burning, but not running, and he fears that his ears might start to bleed from all the white noise and the sound of Molly's heart. But then he hears a laugh. A disturbingly familiar laugh that burns him to the bone. He only wishes it would chill him. He wouldn't even mind admitting that he is afraid - he doesn't want to burn. Another laugh joins the first, this one not so familiar, but Sherlock still recognises it. He doesn't mind feeling a rush of fire at this laugh. This laugh angers more than terrifies him. The eyes of the hyenas, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, appear and stare through him - through his heart, through his soul - gleaming evilly as they laugh at him, mock him, taunt him, haunt him. Another rush of fire courses through his veins because that is the body's only reaction here, to any and every emotion, burning him from the inside out. Sherlock feels as if he might scream - a loud, demonic, relieving kind of scream, but he cannot. He is paralysed as his friends surround him, close in on him, push him and shove him with their wounded bodies.
They laugh at him. They laugh. Why are they laughing? They should be crying! They should be screaming! Screaming! At this internal proclamation, Sherlock finds the will to let out his own bloodcurdling scream and press his hands to his eyes, shielding himself from the nightmare. But his attempt is futile as warm liquid seeps through his fingers. He refuses, however, to take his hands away. He refuses to be subject to such pain. Feeling his chest tighten, he sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth. He can't hold the air in very long - it leaves him in short gasps. He gulps in more air, the warm liquid still seeping through his fingers. His eyes and nose burn, but he can endure. He must endure. The smell of copper is fading. The red colour is dimming.
Sherlock is thrown into blackness.
But is it blackness?
Slowly, he removes his hands from his eyes. They still have warm liquid on them, but the liquid is clear. The same liquid falls down Sherlock's cheek and into his mouth. It tastes like salt. A tear.
Sherlock blinks, adjusting to the light, and sees his reflection in the mirror.
He has yet to wash his forehead.
He does so with shaking, but strong hands. Then he paws at his eyes with the cold washcloth, to get rid of the red puffiness. He grips the sink tightly and watches the pink liquid go down the drain.
He looks back at his reflection with furious resolve. He stares himself down as he straightens up.
Then he goes back to Molly's room.
A/N - Yeah, I know it's totally OOC, but it just came tumbling out of my brain and I had to write it down. I find it quite disturbing.