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"Sherlock, you need to get a hold of yourself."
Dr. John Watson, best friend and colleague of Sherlock Holmes is standing in flat 221B on Baker Street, trying to reach a distant, vacant and isolated consulting detective who has been non responsive for two weeks. He hasn't spoken to anyone or responded to any stimuli since the day it happened.
"Don't do anything, I'll be back." John knows he shouldn't leave him alone, but this is an emergency. He is determined to get Sherlock through this.
On that day, it was raining in London and as usual and they were working on a case. As they visited St Bart's hospital to see one of the bodies, they ran into the usual staff, including Molly Hooper.
Anyone who knew Molly knew of her love for Sherlock Holmes, and not only for his charm and good looks. He was a genius, and to Molly, that was why her love for him was so deep and unyielding. She loved his cleverness and did not even mind the way he treated her every time they interacted, as if they had just met for the first time. Although everyone around her knew of her love, Molly never said a word. It wasn't needed.
Some days, when Molly didn't wear much makeup or try to look fancy, Sherlock would flirt with her knowing exactly what words to say and smiling that sly smile she loved.
"Those were the days I loved her best. When she didn't try because of me, when she was just herself" Sherlock spoke in a whisper. He wasn't speaking to John, only himself.
That day was one of those days. Molly wore the sweater she loved best, one knitted by her mother with love and warmth, but was old and frayed. She donned her red scarf that had never been washed due to the abundance of coffee stains, but always smelled like her favorite perfume. Her clunky brown bag that didn't match anything she owned but went everywhere that she did. No makeup, only lip gloss to bring out the color of her eyes, and her usually ponytail.
"Hey guys" she said to the two of them, beaming up at Sherlock as she took in the sight of him, beautiful and clever as always. "Who are you here to see today? I'm guessing the Mr. Wilson?" she asked.
"Yes" Sherlock was curt, but smiled for half a second, knowing full well that Molly would catch it and hold onto the image for the rest of the day.
As she finished examining another body next to the pair, she threw away her gloves, washed up and shook off her lab coat.
"Anyone fancy coffee?" she asked, looking at the duo.
"Yes, please. Thank you so much Molly, you're a lifesaver" John replied, visibly tired and worn out from the case. By the looks of it, he hadn't gotten sleep for at least two days.
"Mm" was the only thing Sherlock muttered, too bothered by the situation to use words. John shot him a nasty look but refrained from reprimanding him. Molly smiled and took off for the short walk to the café two blocks from the hospital.
Taking his eyes off the body for just a second, Sherlock noticed Molly's smile, the only person he ever thought to have a real, genuine smile. She was indeed a legitimately happy person.
He felt a warmth creep up in his body, ready to give away his emotions to the ever scrutinizing John who always seemed to be studying Sherlock like a medical experiment, but quickly repressed it. Things like that usually happened when he was around Molly. She was happy all the time, how could he be immune? But nevertheless, he could not let feelings get in the way of the case in front of him.
Eleven minutes passed.
"John, stay" Sherlock said in a husky voice. He needed a cigarette. Dr. Watson was all too willing to stay behind, hoping to catch a small nap while Sherlock did his usual thing, whatever that was. Even though people were under the impression that he had quit months ago, sometimes Sherlock desperately needed to smoke. The familiar feel of it between his fingers and the calm that comes afterwards, sometimes, was exactly what the case needed.
He timed it perfectly. It only took Molly fifteen minutes total to make it back to the back door of the lab giving Sherlock three and a half minutes to smoke.
He finished in three. When he was about to go back into the lab and wait for the coffee, he stopped with his door on the handle, back facing the street. At that moment, running footsteps were loud behind him, quickly fading into the distance. Sherlock didn't think anything of it.
His only thought was "I'll enjoy the look on her face when she sees me waiting". He smirked to himself, counting down the remaining fifteen seconds as he waited for that smile to come around the corner and to see the color rise from her neck, making its way to her cheeks. "She won't be able to control herself" he spoke, smiling.
Twenty five seconds pass. Nothing.
"Odd" he says aloud.
Ten more seconds. Nothing.
"Why am I still waiting" he asks himself, noticing people quickly walking towards a commotion around the corner. He can't see.
Without thinking, a very non Sherlock thing to do, he walks slowly to where the people are going. He's hesitant and does not know why. Sherlock rounds the corner but does not look at the crowd, or at what the crowd is looking at. His eyes are fixed to the sidewalk, noticing drops of blood getting larger and larger the closer he comes to the scene. He sees the shoes of bystanders, those of which who are trying to figure out what to do, or just wanting to be where the action is.
He smells coffee, the strong smell coming from three spilled to-go cups on the sidewalk, the liquid soaking into a long, red scarf.
Sherlock's heartbeat, which had been steadily increasing during his slow arrival to the scene, is now out of control. He finally makes eye contact with Molly Hooper, the small woman lying in a pool of her own blood. She does the one thing he hadn't expected, the one thing to seal his love for her, even though it was now too late. She smiles. The same happy smile she has always had, without fear, without panic, only love in her eyes.
As he kneels next to her on the ground, cradling her head in his lap, he assesses her wounds and deduces them to be fatal. She only has a minute.
"I know, Sherlock. I'm a goner" she says, coughing blood. "He must have known where to stab the knife".
"No, Molly. Please." Sherlock's eyes are blurry and his mouth is dry. Tears roll down his cheeks and fall on Molly's clothes. He had no words.
Twenty five seconds.
"I know you know this, but I should tell you anyway" Molly rasped, coughing up more blood, making it difficult to breathe.
Seventeen seconds.
"Molly, please don't strain yourself. I'll go get John right away."
Ten seconds
Molly smiled again. The sweetest, most serene smile Sherlock had ever seen.
"I love you Sherlock"
Five seconds
"My Molly"
Three seconds
As she closed her eyes, Sherlock placed a gentle, loving kiss on her forehead.
Molly Hooper breathed her last breath while the man she loved cradled her lifeless body, hot, red blood still pouring out of her.
Back in the flat, still sitting in the chair, Sherlock replays the last minute of her life over and over.
"I should have told her" he whispers.
He stands, remembering the hiding place with the familiar liquid waiting in the syringe. He closes his eyes and sees Molly, smiling.
"I'm coming."
Thanks for reading!