Precautions
"She should have stayed in her damned flat." Sherlock yelled into his phone, his Belfast left on his chair, his suit jacket left on the table. He'd barely managed to make it out the door when the black car pulled up. "No time for a car." He ran. He took every shortcut, every empty road until he stood in front of St. Bart's.
She had refused on no uncertain terms for there to be protection placed at her work place. She claimed it would upset others. She didn't want to encroach on her colleagues. She didn't want to put extra strain on Mycroft. She didn't want to take protection away from John and Mary's baby. So many reasons, but he could always see the real reason. He'd never convinced her and now he was going to pay for it.
He fumbled with the keys, dialed Molly's number. Waited as it rang. Three beeps and automated voicemail. A complete waste of his time. He crashed through the doors, ignored the cries of workers on lunch. Someone asked what was wrong moments before someone stuttered Molly's name. Of course they would know why he was here. How had they let that man back in the building? They'd known of the danger. Everyone knew the danger of James Moriarty. Did one of them welcome Jim back to the party?
He scanned the crowd briefly before he returned to his run. It wouldn't matter at this point. If they were going to stop him, so be it. He had to try to reach her.
She still didn't know.
Moriarty was going to kill her and she still didn't know.
He pushed all thoughts from his mind, tried in vain to form a plan. He had no back up. He hadn't been prepared this time. No one knew, no one willing to help. Mycroft couldn't get his goons here in time. John was in the country. Lestrade was just as vulnerable. No matter how many times he ran through the list, he could think of no one to help right now. There was no one. It was on him.
It was enough to make him stumble. He couldn't think about that.
The steps echoed too loudly in his clambering. Stealth was useless. Moriarty knew he was coming. He'd known it the minute he'd pulled Molly onto that rooftop. No one else knew, no one else had heard. Her name, every syllable stretched out, every letter accentuated with a sharp tone. It echoed, urgent in his skull.
"Molly?" He was winded, doubled over to catch his breath.
"Sherlock." Her voice was too calm.
"Such a foolish little girl, isn't she?" Jim's hand slid down her cheek. He was even wearing the same white shirt and neon green pants band. Sherlock didn't move. Molly's eyes connected to his. It was enough to break him.
"No." He sounds too calm, and he sees it crumble on her face. She misunderstands.
"But she is. I mean, didn't she realize? She was a big oopsie in my plan. What did she think I was going to do?" Moriarty circles her, predatory. "Just let her get away with it?"
"Of course not. Not a mastermind like you." Sherlock had to play the game. He had to play the game and win. He didn't flinch as Jim pulled the gun out, arm stretched as he pointed it at Molly's chest.
"I could shoot her here." He ran the barrel up, bumped it against her breasts. Slid it against the bridge of her nose. Jim leaned in, the gun between them. And suddenly, Sherlock understood. Molly had bested Jim. She had beat him. This wasn't about Sherlock. He was just the audience. "Or I could shoot her in those pretty brown eyes."
"Molly doesn't deserve your anger, Moriarty. It was me." He held his hands out as he approached. The second Jim put pressure on the barrel, he stopped, stepped back.
"Oh no, Sherlock. I know her part." He looked back at him, face like a kicked puppy dog. His lip pouted out. Sherlock hated him. "She's such an important doctor. Such a naughty girl. Falsifying records, hunting down bodies. Leaving a trail for me to find."
"I told her to do all of it." He pulled himself together. Thinking fast was not helping. There was no foreseeable way out. Blue connected to brown, a tremulous tilt of her lips the only sign she saw him.
"Doesn't matter, Sherlock. She beat me. I can't let her beat me." He faced Sherlock resolutely this time, the grin sliding from his face. He knew it was next. He wouldn't look away from her.
The gun against her temple didn't make her flinch.
"I'm sorry, Molly. You've always counted." She's wound tight, her entire body tense waiting on the click. As his words sink in, he sees a miniscule lax in her shoulders, the briefest of realization in her eyes.
The click of the gun is not what he's expected. He doesn't know when he fell to his knees, doesn't know when he started crying. There is no spurt of blood, no broken face splintering into parts. Reality processes slowly through his thoughts, but its Moriarty's laugh that cuts through the fog.
"You thought I'd let her go as painlessly as I offed myself?" He's bent, glee in his grin as he gloats over Sherlock's position. "Not nearly enough suffering all around."
He didn't hear more. The gun hadn't shot her. It hadn't happened. She was alive. He had jumped and sprinted, dashing to Moriarty before he'd had a chance to react. A shot rang out, the second round. He felt a searing pain in his shoulder, felt the arm scream in pain. None of it mattered. In an eternity wrapped in seconds, Moriarty's head was a bloody mess on the pavement. Molly called him through the ringing in his ears, pushed him off of the bludgeoned man.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! I'm alright." He can smell her, can breathe her in. Her scent is too sharp, and her whole body trembles. She's in shock. He can tell immediately.
"Let's get you to a hospital." He tries to stand. Dizziness forces him back down.
"You've lost quite a lot of blood." She's calling someone with his phone. He can hear the pounding up the stairs, can hear her shaking breath beside him as she checks his wound. The girl was in shock and checking on him. It was too much.
When he wakes up, the drama is over. He's in a hospital bed, with yet another bullet pulled out from him. Apparently this time was a lot less dramatic, as he hadn't woken up in the middle of the surgery. There were flowers and the usual evidences of sentiment.
He didn't care about those now.
His phone sat beside him on the table. Briefly, he attempted to reach it with his injured arm before the pain reminded him. Eventually, her number was pulled up on his screen, her name like a highlighted beacon of his failures. It rang only once.
"Molly."
"Sherlock?" Her voice is tiny.
"Molly. Come to Bart's."
"…Ok."
She must not have been far away. Or he'd dozed off. He couldn't be sure. When he opened his eyes again she was beside him. She was pale and still held a slight tremble as she leaned beside him.
"I'm sorry."
"No. You will allow my protection." She nodded. "You will understand, you are the one who matters most. You are my pathologist, and my friend, and my Molly." He could see those too calm eyes from earlier, boring into his mind. He'd never told her. "You are important." She nodded.
"I'm so sorry."
"No. I apologize, Molly Hooper. For not making sure you knew." He held her hand, running his thumb over her hand.
He'd never let her forget.
*This was done in answer to two prompts.*