„Dammit!" Molly tripped over her own feet in the dark. Why did she have to use that Alleyway again? Stupid roadblocks. And now not even the streetlights were working. She grabbed her handbag tighter and quickened her steps. This was not the best neighbourhood, not the best time, and she was alone in a dark alleyway.
"Cliché mugging scene" she said to herself. Out loud, because this way really was creepy. At least she could see the next crossroad with working lights and the train station she was aiming for. Suddenly a shadow came out from behind the bin. Molly almost fell backwards jumping away.
It was only a cat, making its way somewhere to an adventure.
"This is silly", she talked to herself again." everything's going to be fine!"
"Or is it?" a dark voice came up behind her, cold as the blade of the knife that suddenly pressed itself against her throat.
"Give me your purse and you live." He (it was definitely a he) had a slight lisp, making him sound like a snake, or a scorpion. This kind of voice imagined Molly would a scorpion have if it had a voice.
"Give. Me. The. Purse." The mugger repeated. Every Word accentuated with the knife pressing harder against her skin.
Molly tried to breath. She only now noticed she had held it. She let the bag slip down her arm and let it fall onto the street. If the mugger wanted it, he had to let her go and grab it, and then she could run away and get help. Maybe get Sherlock to track him down.
Sherlock. He would help her. Wouldn't he?
"You know what? I have a better idea." The mugger ripped her dreams of rescue apart when he turned her around and pressed her against the nearest wall with one fluid motion. She could see his face now. Shaved head. Tattoos everywhere. Scars. And she knew what it meant that he let her see his face. He wasn't planning on letting her go.
"You're way to pretty to just get to leave your purse." He spat in her face and leant in, the knife almost piercing through her clothing, into her skin right above her liver. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away.
"I don't have time for this missy" His lisp got stronger. He was getting angry. Molly didn't care. She knew she wasn't getting out of this. The least she could do was try and hold him off. She took a deep breath and started kicking. She knew she must have hit something because suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. She opened her eyes. When did she close them? She saw the shock in the muggers face. He didn't want to do that. Not yet. He took a step back and molly fell to her knees. One hand suddenly where the knife had been. He had taken it with him. Molly's sight got blurry. He must have punctuated something important she couldn't remember what it could be. Somewhere in her field of vision the mugger ran. Than everything went black.
"John!"
"What?"
"We need to go to St. Barts."
"It's 2 in the morning… WHY THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU IN MY BEDROOM?"
Sherlock gave John a pitiful look. Obviously he was in the room to wake him up.
"I need a liver. For an experiment. Now." Sherlock didn't know why, but a few minutes ago he felt a sudden need to go to St. Barts.
"Why can't we go tomorrow? No one's gonna be there anyways?"
That was actually a good argument. Logical. Rational. But wrong. He didn't know how.
"I've got to go now." Sherlock already wore his suit and coat. And left Johns room at once. He wouldn't come with him. Not with that girl in his bed anyways.
Sherlock knew it wasn't the shortest way. But he felt the need to walk through exactly this alleyway tonight. No streetlights. Maybe Mycroft could use his minor position in the government to fix the lighting in London. How hard could that be?
Suddenly he stopped. There was a noise, and a smell. Whimpering, and the metallic, salty smell of blood. Then he saw her.
Molly.
In a lake of blood that was to large to be good. Way to large.
"Molly!" he kneeled by her side. Not caring about the blood staining his precious coat or trousers. She was lying on her side and he could see the stab wound. Right into all the important organs. He couldn't think of any. It didn't matter did it?
Why his Molly? Who dared to hurt his Molly? His and only his. His little pathologist.
He tried taking the phone out of the pocket of his coat; it slipped right through his shaking fingers and into the ever-growing puddle of red around them. He picked it up and dialled.
No signal.
No sound.
The phone was dead.
But Molly wasn't. Not yet. He could still save her. Like she saved him. It would be all right wouldn't it? Everything would be all right.
"Everything's fine" He didn't even notice he was talking.
Then the whimpering stopped.