This is written because of a prompt on tumblr. I apologize if it's particularly terrible, I'm new to the Sherlock fandom (honestly I ship nothing... Except maybe Johlock brotp and unrequited Sherlolly). Enjoy this depressing little bit!
The rain can't hurt me now,
This rain will wash away what's past
His eye twitched; the only visible indication that he was watching the man with the powdered wig. If the white monstrosity wasn't enough to tell him that this one was no use, the frayed (and badly sewed) hems of his pants and sleeves would be close. Or perhaps the painted metal that resided on his finger in opposition to gold. The lack of a jingle when he stepped forward with the same leg whose pocket held his wallet?
Sherlock relaxed against the wall behind him and looked around. He made a strange sight, this young man. His proud chin and cool, calculating eyes would be fit for a prince or someone of high status, but his messy curls and tattered clothes told his real place. He was fine with it, too.
In another life, Sherlock could have used his 'people watching skills' to find answers; but at that point he needed them to smoothly perform a crime. Unfortunately for him, the streets were rather lacking of possible victims that day.
A rustle in the near distance sounded horribly familiar, but he looked not in that direction. Sure enough, he felt a source of heat sidle up next to him. He didn't have to look to know who it was.
"Molly." Was all he said in greeting. He heard her snort prettily.
"How is it that I can never catch you off guard?" Her voice was frustrated, yet light. From the shadow on the ground he knew her hair was down and her bonnet long discarded. The wind threw her skirts towards him and brushed his legs. It was cotton.
"Shall I take it that there were no new bodies today?" Sherlock cast a side glance at Molly and immediately regretted it. He wasn't one for distractions, but there was something about the morgue-girl (as the other ones of the street called her) that succeeded in putting his current task to the side if only for a single second.
"How did you-" She started, then stopped when she saw his eyes light up (he adored explaining his wit to her, or really anyone but she told herself that it was only her).
"Is it not obvious?" He asked. "You're not dressed nicely- you feel comfortable, not like you do when you see a body that is either better off than you are or much worse. Your hair is down and I have not a clue as of what you've done with your bonnet, but this is something you do when you're in a good mood. Am I wrong?"
"No. You never are." She smiled, and once again he was shocked into (momentary) silence. Her red hair caught the summer light and her smile was wide and open- for that's what she was, really, an open book, Sherlock could read her easily, and the lack of a challenge occasionally annoyed him- and her dress was… thinner than he was used to seeing her dressed.
"Have you something to ask me?" He questioned. She faltered in her steps, and he groaned inwardly. How was it that he managed to offend her far too often than was pleasant?
"No, I just wish to spend a day with a friend. If you do not want me here-" She turned to leave and Sherlock was going to let her go (she was really just like a butterfly, sweet and well-intentioned even as she was distracting him and often annoying him), but he caught sight of a group of young men and snagged her arm.
"Does your father know that his students are involved in treason?"
"What?" She was confused, so he pointed at the group of ten or so.
"They are carrying republican works; they really should learn to hide them better. They passed the officer on the corner and turned towards the center as if afraid of being seen. Their shoes are old, yet good quality; they are wealthy students who wish to live like those they think that they're helping." Sherlock said quickly, and Molly's eyes followed the group for a while before she shrugged.
"If my father knows, he does not care. He cares not about his students." Molly was often at odds with her father, who did not approve of her helping out at the morgue.
"That's just what he says because he is hurt that they do not care about him." Sherlock said mindlessly. "Those boys are not going to bring the peace they want."
"Are you trying to insist that you can tell the future now, Sherlock?" Molly asked exasperatedly.
"It is not hard to tell."
And you will keep me safe,
and you will keep me close...
The tension in the air was tangible, and Sherlock noted dully that there were no students wandering the streets for a few days. He had heard the news of a local military veteran's death from 'cholera' (Sherlock highly doubted this- if only because it was well known that the man was looked down upon by the King. The General spoke for the people, for the oppressed, and because of that he made political enemies), and it was as if the culture of the students vanished at the death of the beloved General.
He would say it was the calm before the storm, but he could almost smell blood- whatever happened was going to be terrible. Sherlock couldn't say what exactly was going to happen, but happenings in Paris were not going to proceed as usual.
"Ah ha!" Molly's voice stunned him from his reverie and he actually flinched as the girl laughed emptily at his surprise. There was blankness in her eyes.
"A child?"
"Three." She looked down, avoiding his sympathetic look. Sometimes it benefited Sherlock to not care too much, that was Molly's weakness. "What is bothering you, Sherlock?"
"There is blood in the air."
"Well, of course there is. General Lemarque is dead." Molly commented. "And there is something wrong. I may be 'stupid' and 'silly', but I am not blind."
"General Lemarque… It has a ring to it." Was all Sherlock said.
I'll sleep in your embrace at last.
The rain that brings you here is heaven blessed...
"Sherlock!"
The man turned, surprised at how many people were about on an ordinary morning. "Yes, John?"
Ever since John Watson had gotten married, there was a rift between the ex partners-in-crime, if only because Sherlock didn't approve of distractions (or really of having anything to lose. When he'd fist told John this, his partner raised his eyebrow and had glanced in a not-so-subtle way in the general direction of the morgue). But here was John, running in spite of his limp.
"Stay off the streets today." He wheezed. The smell of blood burned stronger than ever in Sherlock's nostrils. "Dangerous."
"You know I cannot do that." Remarked Sherlock, and he left John panting and disappointed. The storm was brewing and soon enough the shot of lightening would occur that was bound to ignite the city in the flames of bloodlust and childish naivety.
Sherlock's steps went on their usual way, but while passing la place de la Bastille, he heard something suspicious that sounded like… noisy silence. The cadence of a crowded place where not a person is moving or even breathing too loud.
Sure enough, following his senses he found throngs of people lining the road as a stiff black carriage passed down the road, preceded by a decorative group of soldiers. The wheel of the funeral cart caught on a miscellaneous stone, and it was as if the tension in the air snapped in half.
People rushed about like leaves on the wind, shouting and waving flags. The soldiers were caught off guard, and just as Sherlock suspected, the apparent leaders were the students that had been avoiding the public, most likely in preparation of this moment.
Even as someone fairly indifferent to the turns of society, it was a magnificent spectacle to behold. The chaos was a source of fascination for Sherlock; how could the masses go along with these boys so easily? Surely, they were hardly younger than he was, and around Molly's age, but they were still dewy-eyed and fresh-faced. And they were terrible and wonderful at the same time, their young smiles leading crowds down narrow streets.
What could Sherlock do but follow?
Even as he did, he nearly died for a few mistakes of ignoring his surroundings. A wardrobe was shoved out of a nearby window, and it crashed to pieces only two feet from him. Gun shots peppered the air and caught a few citizens. That iron smell was no longer in Sherlock's mind.
He passed by an alley and almost- almost- missed the familiar autumn-like gleam of sun off red hair. Molly was watching the fanatical streets from the relative safety of a grimly alleyway.
"Molly, what are you doing?" Sherlock confronted her. Molly's face twisted- an open book, as always- into an expression akin to worry and fear.
"Are you… Are you going to the barricades?" Her voice warbled, and a thought nagged that maybe, for some odd reason, the silly girl was risking her safety to check on him.
"I suppose so. Do they think that barricades will solve problems? Is that the solution to everything in this city?"
"Why are you going if you do not support them?" Molly grabbed Sherlock, and shook him. For a relatively small girl, she was strong. "Please don't do this! You'll be killed!"
Sherlock pulled her hands away from him and began to leave her there. As if her safety was just an afterthought, he turned back to her and said, "Go inside, Molly. Today is not the day to be stupid."
But there was an expression that he couldn't read there in her eyes, and she grimaced at him. "You are wrong. It is the perfect day."
The skies begin to clear, and I'm at rest...
A breath away from where you are...
For all that stacks of furniture would do little to change France, the barricade itself was quite impressive. It was as if a child had found a crack in the ground and blocked it off with a stack of sticks, but this particular stack was stuck through with sharp metal that had been wrenched from wrought iron railings, and the side of the barricade that faced the oncoming soldiers was covered in glass and oil to make climbing it difficult.
The excitement that initially exploded at the General's funeral was waning in the eyes of some of the older men behind the barricade. However, one of the younger students stood and re-encouraged the lot, his rousing speech only disturbed by the near sound of stomping footsteps. The soldiers were coming.
There was a pause, and Sherlock reached for a nearby street urchin, who handed him a gun. When his hands momentarily brushed those of the small figure, he thought that they were far too soft to belong to a boy, let alone a street boy. His head snapped towards the- previously thought of- boy, and from the look in those wide brown eyes, the 'urchin' was aware that 'he' had been caught.
"Molly, get out of here." Sherlock said through clenched teeth.
"No." Her defiance was annoying, and she had never before refused him anything. This was strange, strange indeed.
"Who's there?" A soldier's voice broke the silence.
The leader looked around at those willing to fight for freedom and smiled proudly. "French revolution!" He responded.
The world burst in a boom of simultaneous gunshots.
Hushabye, you won't feel any pain,
a little fall of rain can hardly hurt you now,
I will stay with you till you are sleeping...
Sherlock didn't know how it happened, but the troops managed to scale the barricade and were now swarming around the students. He'd long since lost sight of Molly, and his gun was empty, resulting in mild annoyance as he used the barrel of his musket as a make-shift sword, battling furiously with a soldier who used the end of his bayonet to his advantage. The gunpowder formed a haze in the small area where they were trapped- and most likely surrounded. Through this fog, Sherlock was dimly aware of a gun aimed at him. He fought to spin his opponent to use as a blocking device, but failed, and heard the shot. Both of them winced at its close proximity, but when neither of them fell, they continued.
A nearby boy grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and a lit torch. Sherlock was well aware of the boy's plan, and sure enough, a rich voice rang over the battle ground.
"Fall back or I blow the barricade!" It sounded like a suicide threat, but its result worked. It inspired genuine fear in the hearts of the soldiers who had crashed the barricade.
"Blow it up and take yourself with it?" Challenged an officer.
"And myself with it." Confirmed the boy, moving his torch close to the barrel of gunpowder. Sherlock's opponent ran for his side of the barricade as soon as the order to retreat was shouted. The students and workmen slouched in relief; there were only a few injured and none killed but for an old man who tried to replace their flag.
A moan coming from the floor grabbed Sherlock's attention, and he looked down.
It was as if his heart chose that moment to allow emotion to flow through him for the first time as all the negativity one could possibly feel shattered him from the inside out. Pain. Confusion. Anger. Worry. Grief. Regret. Denial.
Molly Hooper was lying in a pool of her own blood, the cap that had concealed that orange hair was long gone, and the strings of ginger spread about her head. If she wasn't autumn before, she was now. The sunset lit her hair on fire and the blood soaked it with red. The wood that supported her back gave the brown backdrop, and she was shaking in pain like a leaf about to fall.
"Sherlock…" She croaked. He fell to his knees beside her, unable to speak. "It hurts."
"Why?" He already knew. The selfish part of him that chose to ignore Molly's affections had known for a long time.
"There was a gun pointed at you." She smiled just barely, the ghost of it crossing her face before falling back into a crumpled expression of pain. Her back arched and she cried out. Sherlock lunched forward and supported her with his arms. She relaxed a little at his touch.
"But… Why?"
"Do you really not know? The great Sherlock…" She coughed heavily and painfully. "… Holmes does not know something, what a time to die!"
"You are not going to die, Molly, don't be stupid." Sherlock chastised. One of her blood-soaked hands reached for his face and stroked it. He didn't want to be rude, so he allowed her that, but if he was completely honest with himself, he wondered why he didn't let her touch him more often.
"That's all I am to you, isn't it? A stupid little girl." She chuckled softly and her hand fell back to her side. Her eyes were glassed over and she smiled sweetly. "A stupid little girl in love with you."
Her head lolled to the side, and Sherlock threw her injuries to the wind as he shook her desperately. He was just like John, damn it. Just like John. He allowed himself a distraction- he had too much to lose. Molly was gone, and with her went everything Sherlock held close.
He died in the next attack with her handprint still on his face.
And rain will make the flowers grow.
In case you are unaware, this is a Les Miserables AU (mostly based on the novel, although most of this is recognizable from the 2012 movie).
My characterization may be awful, because I'm not entirely caught up on the episodes yet. Review, please!
(Co-Written a little bit with La Patron-Minette)