Fly
Molly rubbed her tired eyes with her knuckles in an attempt to regain focus. It had been four days since the call, and those three little words were still clanging around her head, forming an endless mantra of despair. Molly clung to those words.
She had not slept, having spent the previous nights tossing and turning to the rhythm. I love you, I love you, I love you. It was torture. Toby had run off the same morning of the incident and was yet to return, so Molly had suffered alone. She had never felt so broken.
After the call she'd been angry, distraught, wild... now she just felt empty and emotionless. She'd done the screaming, the crying and the punching, but after that is done what is one supposed to do? You are weak and worn out, left with bruises and puffy eyes and cracked lips. Molly had cracks all over.
She flipped her file shut and emptied her test tubes; trying to work was pointless. She needed some air to freshen her mind.
The petite pathologist reached the top of the last staircase and fumbled for her keys to open the small door. It creaked open with a wail. The soft breeze tickled her cheekily, trying to lighten her mood. She batted it away.
The sun's bright teeth were gleaming merrily. The sky was blue, but a strange shade - a bit like the blue part of his beautiful eyes. The birds sang. London hummed along.
Molly hated heights, however as she walked out into the sunlight she found herself wanting to go to the edge of the rooftop. She took a step, then another. Instead of the expected fear, she felt nothing. Empty, but heavy. Her heart was weighing her down. Prehaps if she let it go, she could fly?
She walked to the edge, her steps conforming the pattern of his words. They were hers now.
I. Love. You.
Molly carefully sat down and let her feet dangle over the edge. One of her shoelaces was untied. It danced to the birdsong, guided by the gentle hand of the wind. Molly wished she could do so too. She was going mad, and she knew it.
She considered. Her parents were dead, and her cat had almost certainly joined them. She worked with dead people too. Who would miss her? What a dreadfully morbid life. She almost envied those on the slab.
Molly took off her long, stained lab coat and set it behind her. She risked a glance down to the street below - it was deserted, which was unusual. The ambulance station was usually full of life, occasionally mixed with death. She stretched out an arm and fluttered her fingers, tickling the wind back. It chuckled quietly, and squirmed.
It was so peaceful at the top of St. Barts. If only Molly could silence her mind. It was almost deafening now. She closed her eyes, and allowed herself to look at his face. The colours of his eyes, his crisp cheekbones, his mop of unruly dark hair. He was smiling. Molly smiled back.
Suddenly the eyes grew cold, and the smile became a sneer. Molly started to hear the insults, mockings, taunts; it was too loud and too real. Her feelings began to flood back - pain, anger, heartbreak, heaviness, despair. Then s voice rang out from behind her, clearer than the others.
"Molly, Molly please!"
It was him again.
She stood up and turned around slowly, whipping up the wind with her building rage. There he was, in all his breathtaking glory. Sherlock. That complete and utter bastard."Molly, please move away from the edge, be sensible. I'm here, I'm here for you!" He was moving closer, shouting his meaningless words. The wind was howling now. She was at her limit. She'd had enough, enough noise, enough of him-
"WILL YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" she screamed, and spun back around, but her shoelace was still undone, and then-
"NO! MOLLY! NO! I LOVE YOU!"
His broken cries echoed in the now silent atmosphere. The earth was holding its breath. A lonely figure gracefully tumbled down, like a puppet cruelly cut from its strings. It was like flying, except with a more permanent destination.
Sherlock collapsed on the rooftop, his utter, overpowering grief leaving his transport - no, his body - useless. A loud, painful crack was heard, as two hearts broke simultaneously.
The sky finally let out its emotion. It started to rain.
A/N: I started writing this with a happy ending in mind, whoops! I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but then I never am. I always find I know exactly what I want to say when I write and I have a clear image in my head, but I have difficulty translating that onto the page. Any tips? Thanks for reading, feel free to review - it really helps! :)