A/N: Hi there! This is a collaboration fic as you most likely read in the summary. It is between me and my lovely big sister. :) So this story is a bit sad. For those of you who like destroying your feels, read away! We hope you enjoy!

Sherlock sat on the edge of the white hospital bed, staring down at his broken Molly. His Molly. He would be sitting in her flat, probably watching crap telly if this hasn't happened. It was his fault, which was the worst part about it.

~OoOoO~

They were walking back to her flat after a meeting with Mycroft. He had wanted to tell Sherlock that some of Moriarty's men had escaped to the United States. That meant Sherlock was going to have to go there to hunt them down. When Mycroft told them this, the first thing that he said to Molly was that he wanted her to stay in London. She looked to Sherlock, expecting him to disagree with his older brother as he so often did, but he merely nodded his head in agreement and said he thought it would be for the best. Molly had looked at him, bewildered and hurt. She stood up, yelled at him, and then ran out, holding back her burning tears. Sherlock slowly shook his head and got up to go follow her. When he got out of the building, he ran after her. But when he caught up, she twisted out of his grasp and kept running.

Blinded by hurt and copious amounts of tears, she ran into the middle of the street without looking where she was going just as a car was barreling down the street. Sherlock screamed her name as the car slammed into Molly's body. She flew through the air like a broken doll and landed hard.

Right when the car hit her, it stopped and the driver leapt out and ran to her side. Sherlock was cemented to where he stood.

When he could finally move, he pushed through the gathering crowd yelling, "let me through! Please, let me through!"

All he knew at that moment was that Molly meant more to him then he had ever thought and if she died, he would blame himself for the rest of time.

He finally got through the crush of people and fell to his knees next to her mangled form that lay bloodied in the street. For the first time in ages, he felt tears burning his face. He felt someone pulling him away and he tried to fight back without knowing that it was a paramedic.

Sherlock finally allowed his body to go limp and be gently tugged away and seated on the back of the ambulance with a blanket around his shoulders. In a fog of disbelief, he allowed it to remain on him.

Then he heard two words that made him come out of his shocked state, shouted in relief by the paramedic, "she's alive!" A breath he didn't even know he'd been holding rushed out of his lungs.

"Sir," a paramedic said, walking up to him, "if you would like, you may accompany her to the hospital."

Sherlock slowly nodded his head in the affirmative and stood to allow the stretcher pass through. For once in his life, everything seemed to go in slow motion. The image of Molly's horrifyingly still, battered face burned itself into his retinas, reappearing whenever he closed his eyes. He stood next to her, as close as he could get without being in the way. I am so sorry, Molly, he thought, shutting his eyes tightly. So very sorry. There were monitors plastered on her body and an IV line jutting out of her arm. The sound of the heart monitor pulsed weakly under the watchful eye of a paramedic.

The ambulance arrived quickly at Saint Bartholomew's with sirens blazing. As soon as it came to a halt, the doors instantly swung open and Molly's stretcher was unloaded in a quick fashion. Sherlock jumped out of the back as soon as they were carrying her in and ran to catch up so he was right next to her. However, once he was by her side he was pulled gently away by a petite woman.

"Excuse me sir," she began, "I know this is hard for people, but I'm going to have to ask you to wait in the surgery waiting room."

He was about to refuse, but then he realized if he did she might not get the best treatment so he reluctantly gave in. They went down many corridors until they came upon a small grey room that had only one other person occupying it.

He sat down in one of the uncomfortable seats and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, retracting into his Mind Palace. He sifted through many random thoughts, carefully avoiding any that related to Molly. The thoughts went from future experiments he might like to attempt and how to do them in a mostly legal fashion to aspects of previous cases he thought could have gone better.

Hours passed, and the only time he resurfaced from his Mind Palace was when someone new came into the waiting room and he deduced whatever mildly interesting information he could from them. Thus far, the only slightly not-boring thing he'd found out was that one of the doctors had at least three affairs going at that moment with three different nurses. If something incredibly fascinating didn't show up soon, his thoughts were inevitably going to go back to her... Well, there it went. He was thinking of Molly again.

He was brought back to the present by the doctor who had rushed up beside Molly's stretcher. The man clearly had news of her, but Sherlock could not tell if it would be good or bad. His shoulders were slumped with relief, but there was a heavy sadness welling in his eyes. "Well?" he demanded.

"You were the young man who accompanied Miss. Hooper here, correct?" the doctor inquired and sat down in one of the uncomfortable, hard seats next to Sherlock. It was like they were purposefully not the sort of chair you could sink into and forget your problems, if only for a little while. These chairs wouldn't let you do that. It was as though they wanted you to remember exactly why you were there. They did their job well.

"Yes, of course. How is she?" he asked sharply, getting restless. How was Molly? Was she going to be all right?

"As you know, Miss Hooper is very lucky to be alive," the doctor stumbled and tripped over his words like unexpected potholes in the road. Sherlock's back went taut, the muscles tensing with nerves. A statement like that generally prefaced bad news.

"Obviously, but my question was, how is she now?" Sherlock's voice was on the rise, as though he hoped adding volume would keep out the slight note of panic that was slowly settling in and making itself comfortable.

"I'm sorry," the doctor took a deep, shuddering breath, pity flooding his eyes. "We did everything we could for her, and it could have potentially been so much worse, but Molly Hooper is paralyzed from the waist down."

Sherlock felt the world abruptly stop turning. There was no air in his lungs. She would never walk again.

And there was no one to blame but himself.

A/N: So there is the prologue of our angsty little tale. Well, what did you think? We would love some reviews. :)