Molly sighed to herself as she picked up her tools, one by one cleaning them and putting them away. She loved this time of night, the quiet and dark. No one ever came down to bother her this late, well almost no one. Sherlock had no understanding of privacy or boundaries. Since meeting him he had broken into her flat in the middle of the night no less than five times.
Wiping out a metal bowl, Molly thought back to the last time the man had woken her up. It had been just the week before; a murder of course, missing pinkie fingers and unrecognizable face. Sherlock refused to allow another pathologist to work with him, so it was a wake-up call at three in the morning.
It wasn't that she was really complaining, she loved the man… well she had, or she did, or something. She wasn't so sure where her heart was anymore. There was a time when she would have done anything for Sherlock, but since he had left for those two years things had changed. She had grown, moved on… or at least tried to move on. The biggest thing though was that she had finally found her ground when it came to him. It had changed the dynamics between them, though apparently not enough to teach him manners. But you couldn't win them all.
A crash from the other side of the room shook her out of her thoughts. All the lights had been turned off except those around her work station; it discouraged curious people from wandering in for a bit of a chat. Though it seemed she was not alone.
"Sherlock, you better clean up any mess that you make. I've already heard it from the cleaning staff six times this week about the disasters you've left behind." Molly placed the bowl on the table beside her. She had a day off tomorrow and planned on going home to bed early and stay in bed all through the morning, so of course Sherlock would need her.
Another crash came from the other side of the room, this time accompanied by a deep groan… one that didn't match up to her wayward detective. Molly grabbed a scalpel from the tray, curling her fingers around it, pressing the cool handle into the palm of her hand. She moved slowly through the room, weaving this way and that around the tables until she reached the darkened corner. Enough light reached from across the room to shine off of a bit of metal.
"There's nothing valuable down here." She knew she should probably leave, call Greg for help, but she figured she had been around Sherlock too long.
"Are you a doctor?" A voice called from the furthest bit of the corner, harsh and rough like it hadn't been used in years.
"What… who are you?" Molly clutched the scalpel harder, her fingers turning white with the pressure. The voice was American, though she could detect something else, something barely there.
"Are you a doctor?" The voice was harsher than before, though it sounded more out of pain than anger. There was an inflection in the voice, focusing on the word 'doctor.'
"Yes, well I'm a pathologist if you want to get technical." Her grip on the scalpel loosened as she walked close enough to make out the man she was talking to. She gasped when she took him in. He was huddled in the corner, one arm… made of metal… holding him up. His other arm, one of flesh, was wrapped around his stomach. It wasn't so much the metal arm that made Molly pale, although that was something she would have to address later. It was more the fact that his shirt and flesh arm were soaked in blood. And if she had to guess, much of it came from his stomach. "What happened to you?"
"I've been shot." The man groaned as his feet slipped in the pooling blood. If it hadn't been for his metal arm he would've ended up flat on the ground. "Do you know how to fix that?"
Molly blinked at the man a good two seconds before setting the scalpel on a table and rushing forward. She might not know who the man was, but she wasn't about to let him just bleed out in front of her when she could do something.
She was quiet when she knelt beside him, slowly, quietly slipping her arm beneath his metal one and helping him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked, but Molly was able to get him across the room with a bit of his help. She directed him up on a table and stood back.
"I'm not a GP, but I can help you." She leaned in, her fingers wrapping around his flesh arm. When she couldn't get him to move she looked up. "I can help, but I need you to let me see the wounds first."
"Sorry." The man gave a tight smile as he moved his arm and quickly pulled his shirt off.
Molly stood there with her mouth agape. She had hoped that the metal arm had been some sort of glove, but it had been fused directly into his body. She swallowed back the spike of fear and went to work.
"You shouldn't have lost this much blood, not with this shot." Molly pressed her finger carefully against his flesh, noting the color around in entrance wound. He had been lucky, gut wounds could be deadly, but the shot had missed all vital organs.
"It's not all mine." The man shrugged as though what he said was as normal as asking someone if they wanted a cuppa.
"What?" Molly's eyes went wide. It wasn't like she hadn't known the man in front of her had been up to stuff, he had a metal arm and had been shot. But knowing it and hearing from him were two different things.
"Don't pity them, they would've killed you without any thought. They were not good men." The man looked down, his eyes burning like coals. Anger, pain, and hatred radiated from him.
"Are you?" Molly feared the answer. Being friends with Sherlock meant that she had come across some rather unsavory people, but it didn't mean she wanted to be trapped alone with one.
"I don't know." The man furrowed his brows, his face turning away as though to distance himself.
"How can you not know?" Realizing their little conversation could cost him, she shook herself and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Come on, lie down so I can get to work."
"They said I was a good man, he said, but…" The man clenched his teeth Molly went to work.
"Who, who are they, the man?" Molly figured if she kept the man talking she could keep his mind off what she was doing. They were in the pathology lab, not much use for anesthetics.
"The historians, the books, they all say I was a good man; a good soldier." He grunted as the bullet was dug out, but besides that he ignored it.
"You said there was a man, who was he?" Molly wasn't sure if it was the pain that was making him delusional, or if he was that way before. Still, he had a metal arm, talking about historians probably shouldn't be that strange.
"The man on the bridge… Steve, he was my mission." The man laid his hand on hers, stilling her work. "They tried to use me against him. It didn't work."
Molly felt her chest tighten, not out of fear, but sadness. She smiled and nodded before resting her other hand over his. After a second she removed his hand so she could continue to work.
"What happened, if you don't mind me asking?" She wasn't really sure she wanted to know, but she figured keep him talking and distracted was probably the best course of action.
"They sent me to kill him, but they overestimated their hold on me. He was able to break through and I couldn't kill him." The man's breath picked up, sweat dripping from his forehead. The pain was becoming to hard to ignore. He looked at the woman at his side. She was so small, but stronger than she looked. He reached out a shaky hand, placing it on her cheek. "They took everything from me, but no more. Don't worry, I'm no danger to you."
Molly watched wide-eyed as the man passed out, his hand slipping down her cheek to dangle off the table. She figured it was the pain, but she still worked quickly to patch him up.
James blinked as he came to. The world around him smelled like death and chemicals, but it didn't send him into a panic. He turned his head to find a small woman at a sink, her hands scrubbing furiously beneath the water.
"Thank you." James grunted as he sat up, but his hand slipped when the woman shrieked and turned around.
"How are you awake?" Molly was backed up against the sink as far as she could. No one could've recovered that fast.
"Advanced healing, don't worry about it." James sat fully up, his eyes scanning the room for something to wear. When he had broken into the hospital he hadn't really been thinking beyond getting the damn bullet out of him. He could put his shirt back on, but it was completely soaked and he knew it would garner too much attention.
"I don't think you understand. After I fixed up your bullet wound I noticed you had a fever too high, I checked and you had a cut along your spine. It had been bubbling, laced with some sort of poison. I cleaned and treated it the best I could, but… there is no way you should be able to be sitting up." Molly reached behind her and turned off the water. She didn't remove her eyes from the man. "What are you?"
"I'm not sure I have a name anymore." James gave a sad smile. How could he be Bucky when he had died all those years ago, but then again how could he be the soldier when he had defied his master? "Just call me James."
"Alright, James. Do you need me to call anyone for you?" Molly watched as James searched through the rooms. He picked up his bloody shirt, but quickly tossed it into the bin. Hoping that he had been truthful about being harmless to her, she moved over to grab a pair of scrubs from the supply cabinet.
"No. I… I have no one." James shrugged his shoulders, gritting his teeth when the action pulled at his stitches.
"Oh, um here." Molly held out the scrubs, her heart fluttering at the grateful smile he gave her. Though that fluttering turned full on pounding when James just stripped bare right in front of her. That was… that was a very well built man.
James looked down at his body, he needed a shower to wash all the blood off. Remembering the sick he headed straight for it, it would have to do. Using a bit of torn fabric from his pants, he scrubbed down until he couldn't see any trace of blood. He tried to reach back with his flesh hand to clean his back, but he could turn that way well with his stitches. Before he could use his mechanical arm a small hand took the cloth from him.
"You'll hurt yourself. Let me." Molly really didn't know what she was doing, but after spending all that time patching him up she wasn't about to let him mess it up.
"You shouldn't sneak up on me. I could've hurt you." James closed his eyes as the woman's tiny hands moved up and down his back with such care. It had been so long since he had been touched like that, as though he were more than a machine needing maintaining. So long since he had felt the touch of another human that only wished care on him and not death.
"You wouldn't have. You promised me, remember?" Molly slowly ran the cloth down his spine, noting how the wound had already looked better. The angry red had disappeared, as well as the fever.
"You are either very brave or very foolish." James just shook his head. He had to keep himself from leaning into her touch.
"Probably foolish. Still…" Molly tossed the cloth into the sink and stepped back. "There you go, all clean."
"Thank you." James turned around, his hand once again going to rest on her cheek.
"You're welcome." Molly looked up, her heart pounding heavily against her chest. She was practically pressed up against a very naked man. "Shouldn't you get dressed?"
"Probably best." James winked and pulled back. He quickly slipped into the scrubs, and after a run under the water, he put his boots back on. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra coat lying around, would you? I can't really walk around with this out in the open." He waved his metal arm a bit before going to gather his weapons.
"Oh, of course. One moment." Molly rushed across the room where Dr. Jenkins normally left one of his coats and ran back to James.
"Thank you." James slipped the coat on, checking it's fit. He gathered the small woman up, pulled her against him and reached up into her hair. She gasped and then pouted when he pulled the tie from her hair and used it to gather his up in a neat bun. "I'll bring it back later. Right now I better go."
James gave one last look at the woman that had helped him before turning and taking off. If he waited around any longer he could put her in danger. He had allowed them to get too close, but he wouldn't let that happen again. They would pay for everything they had done to him, and then, and only then could he focus on finding Bucky. Maybe then he would be able to go home.
Author's Note: Ok, I said I wanted to do this, so here we are. I really should've been working on other stuff, but I needed to get this bit out of my head. I will probably add more later on.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media
franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.