Disclaimer: I don't own Puella Magi Madoka Magica or Sherlock BBC.
A/N: I have no idea why I needed to write a Puella Magi Madoka Magica/Sherlock BBC crossover, but this idea has been in my head for months. You don't need to be familiar with PMMM to read this, but for anyone who is familiar it takes place post-Madoka's wish. I'm posting it mainly because I don't know what else to do with it. The words in italics are taken from the show, partly with the help of Ariane Devere's transcripts on LJ.

You're wrong, you know.

The morgue is suspiciously quiet, considering all of the turmoil and chaos raging just outside. Molly approaches the body silently, her fingers hovering over the white sheet that hides the face she knows so well. She doesn't dare touch, doesn't want to pull it back to reveal what her heart refuses to understand but which her mind understands a little too well. So she stands there stupidly frozen, hardly breathing, until a tall of stack of files topples over. She jumps at the sound and her fingers snatch the sheet back before she can stop herself.

You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you.

Sherlock Holmes. Man of the hour. Probably of the month, depending on how fast the media finds someone new to sink their teeth into. But she's positive they've never got a shot like this. His face is pale, white, against the dark curls Molly has always wanted to run her fingers through. His eyes are shut, head tilted slightly to the side like he's trying to hide a secret, lips just barely parted. He doesn't look hurt, looks like he could stand up and walk out at any moment, but when she holds her hand an inch away from his mouth she feels nothing: no air and no breath.

But you were right. I'm not okay.

There is blood in his hair, fresh and glistening but drying, and his broken body is only concealed by the care with which he was placed on the gurney and his famous black coat. He is ready for an autopsy, the doctors confirmed, and Molly doesn't get it. He'd promised that everything would be alright. A trick, he'd said, his face drawn with exhaustion, a card trick that would fool everyone else and only they would know. Their secret, and would she help him pretend?

Molly, I think I'm going to die.

The world blurs, hot tears stinging at her eyes. She clasps a hand to her mouth too late to hold back the sob that slips out.

If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?

"You could save him, you know. If you wanted to."

Molly does not jump, but the tightness in her chest eases fractionally when she shuts her eyes. "I thought that you might be coming by," she says dully, turning her head slowly.

Even after all this time, it still looks the same. The round pink eyes, soft white fur, floppy ears, like a child's toy that somehow gained the ability to walk and talk. She remembers cooing over it when she first found it, thinking that it was adorable. She was only nine years old at the time, and her father had just lost his job and their parents were having to sell their house and she had to change schools. It had become her confidante.

Until she found out why it was there, what it wanted her to do, and she'd said no. So it left, but it always comes back.

She always says no.

"All you have to do is make a contract with me," Kyubey says.

"And then what?" Molly rubs at her wet cheeks with her hands.

"You become a puella magi, of course. A magical girl."

"I'm not a girl anymore." But she remembers, with a humiliated flush, what it had told her last time. That she ran so hot and cold it didn't matter how old she was, the ability would always be there.

"You could do it anyway," it coaxes. "I explained it all to you before. Don't you want to make a difference in the world, Molly? You know that demons hang around the families that you see every day. You could destroy them, lessen their grief. The cubes would be more than enough to cleanse your soul gem."

"Until they're not."

"He's dead otherwise," Kyubey points out, flicking its tail, changing tactics. It leaps down off of the cabinet and stalks towards her, and she feels like prey. "You know his heart is no longer beating. None of your human methods can change that now."

He's right. In spite of herself Molly pulls the sheet down just a little bit further, exposing his chest. No matter how long or how closely she watches, it doesn't rise or fall. If she ignores Kyubey, then she has to walk out of this room and confirm to everyone that Sherlock Holmes is dead. She'll have to cut his body open and examine every inch of him, and even though she's always wanted to do the latter she'd never imagined that the former would come first.

But. If she agrees to a contract, then Sherlock will open his eyes. He'll get up, be fine, he'll breathe, he'll run off and leave the rest of them behind so that he can finish playing his game with Jim.

It's a trade off, one for the other, and what does she want more?

Kyubey seems to realize that she's wavering, because it remains silent.

Molly's throat hurts. She licks her lips. "I wish that Sherlock Holmes was alive," she says, simply and clearly.

Her hands start to glow first, and then it travels up her body, into her shoulders and down her legs until her eyes sting. Kyubey's ears dart forward and sink into her flesh and squeeze so sharply that she chokes. Something is being pulled out of her and she clutches at her chest, unable to breathe, but it passes easily through her grasping fingers and rises into the air above her.

"Go on," it says, "take it. This is your future, your soul gem. Take it, Molly Hooper."

It's yellow and pretty, freckled with tiny spots of greenish light, and her fingers are steady when she reaches up and grabs on.

The light dies and Kyubey vanishes, and Molly hits the floor on her bum with a startled inhale.

"Huh?" Sherlock jerks awake with a yelp, sitting up and looking around the room. He blinks down at Molly, then raises an eyebrow, no doubt wondering why she's sitting on the floor. "Well? Did it work? Do they believe I'm dead?"

She stares at him.

"Molly?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, they think - you were dead."

Sherlock grins, triumphant, and swings his legs over the side. "Excellent. Just like I planned. On to the next stage, then - do you mind if I borrow your flat for a few days?" He doesn't wait for her to answer, just strides over to where she keeps her purse and fishes her keys out. "I'll take the back route out of here, make sure that none of Mycroft's bloody cameras catch me."

"Sherlock," Molly says.

He stops at the door and turns to look at her. The silence stretches and all Molly can think about is that this is the first time he would have stopped, that normally he'd have just kept going. It feels like this is his way of saying thank you, a quick stop to listen to whatever babble comes out of her this time, and she feels the urge to start laughing hysterically. Her fingers tighten around it, thumb rubbing anxiously over the smooth glass surface.

"Be careful."

His smirk is quick as he throws the door open, bounding out into the empty hall. She listens to the sound of his footsteps hurrying along until a door at the end of the corridor closes, and now she's alone. Only then does she open her hand to examine the soul gem a little bit closer. The warm yellow light hits her in the eyes and it's oddly cheerful against the thick heaviness that's hanging all around her. The morgue is large and empty and she's never felt that more strongly than she does now.

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