"Hey, there you are, geeze," Greg hung up his phone, seeing the Consulting Detective step out of a cab, followed by Doctor Watson. Lestrade had been waiting outside of St. Barts for almost an hour. "You want this case or not?"
"Honestly, Graham-
"Greg!"
"I cannot be at your beck and call every day, there are matters that I have to attend to," Sherlock replied. John sighed, shooting an apologetic look to Greg.
"Mary wasn't feeling well so I brought her home from the clinic, he refused to go ahead of me."
"Well, just text next time-"
Bang!
They all stopped at the doors, turning to look around.
"That was a gun-"
"It came from inside-"
Bang!
Another shot, this time followed by a scream. Greg was sprinting for his squad car, grabbing the radio.
"I need a unit at St. Barts now, there's been a shooting-"
"Get back!" someone on the sidewalk shouted; a group of people had fled the doorway, seeing a gunman inside.
"Security is locking the building down,"
"John," Sherlock turned to his friend. "Molly's inside."
Morgue – St. Barts
Six months pregnant, Molly was beginning to understand the definition of 'waddle'.
"I was a bloody cow when I was pregnant with Ella," Mary was saying to her over the phone. Balancing her phone on her shoulder, Molly laughed.
"I think I'm going the way of cow, I was already huge last month. Today someone asked me if I was having twins," Mary snorted a laugh. "How are you though, John texted me you were sick-"
Bang!
She jumped, the sound was so loud and quite nearby. It could've been someone slamming a door, but it wasn't as heavy. It sounded like something exploding, but smaller. She'd heard that sound before, when Sherlock shot up the wall in Baker Street. She felt her heart skip a beat, knowing in the back of her mind exactly what that sound was, but also having the disbelief that it was actually happening where she worked.
"What was that? Did you drop something-" Mary was talking.
Bang!
Molly dropped her phone, slamming the body into the drawer; she scurried across the morgue, hugging her belly.
"Was that a gun?" she ran around, shutting the lights off and kicking up the door-stops. She crouched down, carefully making her way back to her phone, Mary still talking to her. "-was that a gun?"
"Mary, Mary I can't talk now, I think there's been a shooting, I have to go-" Molly hit 'end call' before Mary could protest.
Sudden footsteps in the hall made her jump. Sliding down the wall, she covered her mouth. Someone rattled the doors across the hall. She looked around, horrified that she hadn't locked the doors. Trying to remember to breathe evenly, she got down on her hands and knees, leaving her mobile behind, she crawled along the floors of the morgue behind the long counters. Sandwiched between a cabinet and the wall, she sat and waited. Waiting was the worst part. The clock on the wall ticked quietly.
"All I have to do is sit quietly, and wait for the police. Sherlock should be here any moment and I'm sure Mycroft has already sent out a squad. There's no reason to panic."
One of the doors creaked open and she covered her mouth to hide her breathing. She could see between the counters a pair of legs clad in dark trousers. The legs went in one direction, so she quietly, quietly got onto her hands and knees, heading in the opposite direction toward the doors, keeping an eye on the slowly moving legs on the other side of the room. If she could get through the doors to her office-
I must confess when I wear this dress I feel like dancing-
Her ring tone went off, her mobile vibrating along the floor where she left it. Her heart made a sickening flop as she forced herself forward not daring to look behind. The sound was cut off by the gun firing over the counters. Glass shattered above her, she ducked her head, crawling and sliding along the floor. A collection of beakers was knocked over and she felt her palm land squarely on the shards, piercing her skin in her mad attempt to get out of the way. Biting back a cry, she got to her feet, almost tripping as she dove into the storage room. Bullets ricocheted off the shelving units as she slammed the door shut behind her. Bolting it from the inside, she shut the lights off in there as well, backing up to the far wall and sitting on the floor. The handle rattled, and she held her breath. The stillness was broken by someone pounding on the door. It lasted for only a moment before the shooter gave up and moved on. For a moment, she didn't move, clutching the shelving units on either side of her.
"Deep breaths, deep breaths, breath in, count to three, then let it out- they've moved on-" Even repeating the mantra, she felt herself give way to tears, trying to calm herself before she hyperventilated.
Something hitting the door made her jump, and she couldn't stop herself from screaming. The walls shook, and the jars on the shelves rattled.
Outside St. Barts
"She's not answering," Sherlock looked at his phone; he'd opted not to call her, but rather text. Her phone only vibrated on text.
"We've got a squad going in," Greg said, he'd shed his jacket, pulling on a bullet proof vest.
"We're coming," Sherlock and John both answered and Greg nodded.
"You gotta wear a vest." Sherlock made a face, but John was shoving one into his hands, taking another for himself.
"Was getting shot once not enough for you?" He buckled his vest, making sure it wasn't too tight. "You've got Molly and the baby to consider now." He added. Sherlock immediately shucked his belstaff, grabbing the other bullet proof vest. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his coat again, following after the group gathering by the doors.
John and Sherlock branched off from the squad, and Greg let them, knowing they'd work better together and apart from the group.
"Stay in touch," he tossed a radio to John, who nodded, setting it on his hip.
'All clears' radioed in as they made their way lower and lower in the hospital. All but a few places were left. John and Sherlock made their way to the morgue, clearing hallways as they passed.
"Still not picking up her phone," Sherlock muttered. He felt his insides twist, forcing himself to listen, to concentrate. Molly was not stupid. She would lock the doors to the morgue; she would shut the lights off and hide. John, running on pure adrenaline, fell back on his military training, walking almost crouched, tense and ready to run if need be. He forced back images of finding Molly shot through, any chance of the baby surviving being lost. He clenched his jaw, pressing on. He wouldn't do this now. Suddenly across the radio crackled:
"Gunman is down, repeat gunman is down, all units report back-"
"Greg, we're going to the morgue," John was already checking in on the radio.
"I'm already there, my unit has the gunman-" John and Sherlock stared, letting Greg's words sink in. Breaking into a run, they took the stairs two at a time.
Morgue
The gunman was taken out the back way, at Greg's insistence. He was only marginally surprised that a police van was there, Mycroft Holmes standing at the end of the alley, a cigarette in one hand. He nodded his thanks, knowing the elder Holmes would most definitely have a hand in the gunman's punishment and interrogation.
Running feet made him and the other officer on duty turn. Sherlock and John slowed to a stop outside the morgue.
"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded.
"I dunno," Greg admitted. "We pulled him out of the hallway, it's a mess inside, just to warn you," he pushed the doors open, and John and Sherlock followed.
"She shut the lights off," Sherlock said, "but forgot to lock the door."
"Spread out," Greg replied and the three set off in opposite directions.
"She was working here," John said, noting the partly open slab. "It bounced open a little, must've slammed it shut," he pulled open the drawer, seeing she'd laid down her tools and clipboard inside.
"Sherlock," Greg stood at the end of one counter, he nodded to the floor before him. "What do you make of that?"
"Blood!" John stepped over the shattered glass, Sherlock already pulling out his telescoping magnifying glass.
"Not from a gun-wound," he looked at the counters above. "The gunman knocked the glass over, and she was crawling along the floor out of sight. She couldn't avoid it,"
"Hands bleed a lot, yeah?" Greg asked.
"Mm," John said, he was studying the hand-prints, "she'd been trying to crawl without putting pressure on them, but at six months pregnant, her balance would be off," Sherlock felt sick. He followed the scuff marks on the floor amid the glass and blood smears.
"The closet," he bolted for the door, rattling the handle. "Molly! Molly!"
Before she could even move to her feet, the door was kicked open, Sherlock pushing against the stack of boxes and the chair she'd barricaded there. The lights flicked on, revealing Molly on the far wall, sitting on the floor, her face streaked with tears. She gave a sob of relief, seeing her husband.
"Molly!" he ran to her, stumbling over the boxes. "Are you hurt? Is the baby alright?" he touched her shoulders, her belly, feeling the fluttering of their child under his fingertips.
"I'm okay, the baby's okay," she was trying not to move her fingers, blood on her palms, her cuts stinging. He cradled her head in his hands, kissing her and she returned it, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Doctor Hooper accounted for," Greg said into his radio and pocketed it; he and John cleared the boxes away from the door before stepping in and helping Molly to her feet.
John himself carefully picked the glass from her hands before wrapping her palms.
"Have Sherlock change the bandages, you'll have to take it easy next couple days, it may not be a bad idea to take your maternity leave now," he added. "The less stress at this stage of your pregnancy, the better, and I think this was just about enough for you." Somewhat numb, she found herself agreeing, Sherlock filled out the paperwork for her, dropping it off at Mike Stamford's desk. It would be accepted, even if Mike didn't agree (which he would, no doubt) then Mycroft would assure it went through.
Mary was in tears by the time they reached home, enveloping Molly in a tight hug right on the doorstep.
"Thank goodness, you hung up, and I didn't know- and then I saw the news, they said they caught him in the morgue-"
"I'm okay," Molly soothed, though her own voice was trembling as she hugged Mary. "We're both okay." She seemed to still be trying to reassure herself that she'd come out unharmed.
"I'll put the kettle on, come put your feet up, are you hungry?" Mary led Molly up the stairs, giving John a pointed look, flicking her gaze quickly over to Sherlock as if to say 'talk to him'.
"What was that about?" Sherlock asked, once the women were upstairs and out of earshot. John sighed a little, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Molly has been in a shooting, Sherlock,"
"Yes, I know, I was there…"
"She's not like you or me or Mary," John continued. "We're used to guns being waved in our faces, we're used to that fear, hell, you even relish it sometimes," John rocked back and forth on his heels. "Molly's never had that before, she deals with the after-effects of that, and she may be considering a lot of the 'what-ifs' right now." Sherlock nodded, about to go up but John stopped him with a hand on his arm. "This isn't something to just consider, a man was after her, Sherlock. A man had a gun, and was trying to kill your wife and child."
There. The words were said. Sherlock didn't move then, he set his jaw, staring at the wall opposite. A thousand and one thoughts ran through his mind. He knew all the possible outcomes, and the best by-far was the one that had come to fruit. Molly was unharmed, the baby was perfectly fine. He had not considered the after-effects on her mental capacities. Sherlock clenched his hand.
"Yes." His voice was quiet.
"So you need to be there for her tonight, take care of her. Talk with her. Don't let her sit there bottled up with fears and emotions. Teach her how to use a gun if you feel the need, if she wants, teach her how to defend herself, and remind her that you. Will. Protect her."
"I could promise nothing less to her," Sherlock said. John studied him a moment, and then nodded.
They headed upstairs; Mary was setting a cup of tea in Molly's hands. The warm cup soothed her trembling fingers.
"About the shooting-" Sherlock began.
"Oh my God-"
"You did not just-" Mary and John spoke at once, one all anger and shock, the other covering their eyes, knowing too well.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"It's okay," Molly said, and she almost smiled. John gave Sherlock a look though, Mary simply shook her head. They left once Molly assured them she was settled and that Sherlock could take care of her.
Sherlock, to his credit, often looked after Molly (and it wasn't for anyone but his wife to know, thank you very much), and tonight he didn't see how it was any different, but John said to take care of her, so he did. There was an extra measure of care now, even if she was less on edge than at the hospital. By the time he shut the shower spray off and helped her out of the tub, she was considerably calmer. Her hands still shook a little, and he disliked that.
"It's just nerves," she reassured him. "I would think I could handle something like this, I dated Jim Moriarty, for pities sake."
"Three times," Sherlock added. "And you ended it." That earned her a smile.
"Let me make dinner," she said.
"I'm supposed to take care of you."
"It's alright, I'd rather, but you can measure for me." He followed obediently, fetching everything she might need before settling at the table with his microscope. In the warm kitchen, they went about their own tasks, speaking quietly if they wished, but otherwise glad for the company and companionable silence.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally, after the dishes were washed and put away. Molly shrugged.
"You already know what happened, you heard my report to the police, and besides that you'd already deducted what happened before you found me."
"I don't mind…" he began uncertainly, and she looked up. "If it helps you…if you want to talk about it…" he watched her fiddle with the end of the blanket on the couch.
Read: She wants to talk about it.
"I thought I wouldn't see you again," she said finally. "That's what scared me the most, and I thought about what you would do, if you were in my position," she almost laughed then, finding her eyes were blurry. "I decided not to tackle him point-blank, if that makes you feel any better, so I thought of what John would do," Sherlock did smile at her then, proud of her. He knew Molly knew how to defend herself, she wasn't an idiot, but being pregnant, she would consider her best options for her and the baby now. "I think the adrenaline kept me going," she said with a shrug. "It's funny," she looked at her bandaged hands on her lap. "I didn't feel anything at first, with the glass, not until I'd sat in the storage room for a few minutes,"
"Did you have a panic attack?"
"Almost," she nodded, and then was quiet. "I'm sorry…" he frowned.
"For what?"
"For forgetting to lock the door."
"Common mistake," he waved it off, but the calm on his face didn't match the fire in his eyes. She knew he was upset she'd forgotten something so simple. She also knew he wasn't mad at her, but mad that the mistake could have led to something much worse.
"No, it wasn't," she said, folding her arms under her belly. "It was stupid. I caused you to worry and-"
"I was already worried, and you were not expecting the gunman to come down to the morgue. No one goes to a morgue to shoot up a place full of dead bodies."
"Do you think he was after me?" he didn't look at her. "Sherlock,"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Mycroft is looking into it," she gave a small sigh of relief and he turned to her with an inquisitive look.
"It makes me feel a little safer, with your brother interrogating him," she said with a shrug.
"I could interrogate him too," Sherlock huffed.
"No," Molly went to him, standing between his legs. He set his pen and paper aside, placing his hands on either side of her belly. "I'd rather you be here with me, as nice as it was, having bodyguards to look after me while you were away, I'd prefer you snuggling with me at night to anyone else." Sherlock looked confused.
"Are you saying you…snuggled…with members of my brother's security team?"
"No!" she laughed. "But as my husband, you're obliged to look after me, and that includes cuddling."
"Hmm," he quirked a small smile then. After a moment, he reached a hand over, resting it against her belly. "You're sure she's alright?"
"Yes," Molly said, quite sure. "John checked us out himself, she's alright, and so am I."
"You were crying," He stated matter-of-factly.
"Well I was being chased by a gunman, I thought I wouldn't have a chance to say goodbye, or even that I love you one last time." He lifted his head, having moved down to press a kiss to where he felt the baby's heartbeat. He reached up to cup her cheek and she bent, kissing him.
"You love me," he murmured. He felt her place her bandaged hands on his face, running her fingertips over his forehead and through his hair.
"I love you," she reaffirmed. He opened his eyes, seeing hers looking back at him and he bowed his head, his forehead against her belly. Softly, she heard him sniffle against her.
"I could have lost you both, and that is something I cannot abide," he said, gathering himself. "If this is a plot against you, I will see that you both are safe, I promise you."
"I know," she said. "Please, let's not think about it anymore tonight. I'm safe here with you now, so just hold me. Let it be for tonight." He obeyed, standing to bring her into the circle of his arms, chin against her forehead.
"You're sure you're alright?" he asked after a moment.
"I'll be fine," she promised. "Tomorrow starts my maternity leave, and I'm sure Greg will have lots of wonderful tidbits for you to pick apart about the shooting."
"One can only hope," he sighed into her hair.
"I love you," his grip around her tightened briefly, and there was no hesitating in his reply.
"And I you."