So here's a little one shot for everyone in the spirit of Halloween! I think I might make it a two shot or series of one shots because this has turned out to be an excellent writer's block activity.
Sherlock was bored.
He was so very much bored that he would have been willing to take nearly any case thrown at him. Even finding some little boy's cat was better than simply sitting there, waiting for John to get back, and waiting for a case. Sherlock had absolutely nothing to do, and he was on the verge of destroying his flat just for the tiniest sliver of mental stimulation when his cellular device began to ring. For some reason Lestrade was calling him instead of texting, but he did not care as he scrambled for the phone to pick it up. Those questions could be asked later.
"Got a case for me? Nine, four, whatever just give me the address and I'll come—"
"Sherlock—"
"—And then I can just—"
"Sherlock—"
"And—"
"SHERLOCK!"
Finally Sherlock stopped, noting the tone of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's voice. He was frustrated, stressed out, sad—he had bad news, "Yes. Of course, speak."
"It's Molly she's uh—the pathologist we have at Barts—"
"I know very well who Molly is, she's a friend." She counts.
"S-Sherlock it's bad. Oh God—Oh lord oh—" It was bad if even Lestrade was reacting. He was a hardened member of Scotland Yard. But sentiment obviously played a role in this call (most likely made purely on impulse) and finally Sherlock found he had to cut off his stuttering. Otherwise all the scenarios for what could possibly be wrong would run through his head. He didn't need that, he needed to know precisely what was wrong.
"Is she injured?"
"No…no Sherlock she's dead. Murdered. Her flat—oh I shouldn't have—"
Sherlock hung up.
Molly Hooper is dead.
This fact hit him like ton of bricks. It was illogical, but somehow he couldn't imagine someone like Molly dead, and he also couldn't imagine anyone wishing to murder her. His mind stopped for a full minute, before he sprang into action, brushing past a tired just off work John, and hailed a cab. Molly couldn't be dead. She just couldn't be. He hurriedly paid the cabbie and ran up three floors and past those who tried to stop him. Inside the flat, he stopped dead at what he saw, cataloging everything automatically, distancing himself from the fact that it was Molly—his pathologist—his Molly was dead. Is dead. He had to correct himself, dead wasn't something in the past tense, it was a state of being, it would never change.
The living/dining/kitchen room had been torn up, too much for it to have been a result of a struggle—Molly is dead-blood sprayed the walls, and it was also used to write something in a language of symbols Sherlock didn't immediately recognize—Molly is dead—The killer obviously had a grudge against Molly—Molly is dead—Most of the blood had been taken from the victim's body in order to write so much on the walls—Molly is dead—The body was on the ground in the middle of the room, suggesting that they didn't put up a fight—Molly is dead.
Andersen and Donavan were for once silent as he approached her pale body. She had been stabbed six times in the chest and one from the back, suggesting that she had been taken by surprise. Molly probably hadn't even had time to scream for help that would have probably come too late. There wasn't even a chance for her to fight against her attacker and against death.
"Whoever did this was either delusional or had a vendetta against her—or both." Sherlock told Lestrade, trying his best to treat Molly's murder just like another case. It wasn't working. Molly is dead. Why was that causing his brain the short out the way it was?
"But who would want to kill Molly? She was sweet." For the first time, Donavan actually said something Sherlock could agree with. He felt his heart twitch at the "Was" in the statement. Molly is dead, therefore she was sweet. His heart twitched again. He wanted to vomit, despite the fact that it wasn't a logical response. He had seen loads of bodies before—but none of them were Molly.
"Sherlock maybe you should—"
"Catch who did this? Great idea, detective inspector, we should begin as soon as possible shouldn't we?" Sherlock immediately replied, his words having more even more edge than usual.
"Leave it to the freak to not care about—"
Somehow, Sherlock's body moved of its own accord, his arm deciding it would be a brilliant idea to punch Andersen in the nose. Sherlock couldn't have agreed more. It took six others too keep him from knocking Andersen even more senseless than his natural state. Yes, the punch felt good. However, this lead to him being thrown into a cell for his own good, which certainly wasn't productive for—for what? Molly's dead, and finding the bastard who killed her wouldn't bring her back. She would never be there to let him into the morgue, or help him with some of his experiments. She would never bring him coffee again. Black with two sugars. She would never annoy him with her bumbling lack of conversational skills or that little crush she managed to keep despite all the horrible things he ever said to her.
This was regret.
John arrived, settling down on a chair placed outside of the cell, "Sherlock you punched Andersen—"
"Molly's dead." Sherlock interrupted, his flat voice echoing through the cell.
"I know, Sherlock. That's why I'm here, I'm worried."
"Why?"
"Because Molly is dead, and you're lashing out and—"
"JOHN SHUT UP!" Sherlock tried to escape within his mind palace, and once he realized he couldn't banish Molly from his mind, he cried out in frustration and tried to analyze the facts, but they weren't organized and refused to compute entirely. He clutched his head in his hands, curling up in a ball. No one from the handful of people he could go out on a limb and say he cared about ever died until that moment. Why Molly? Why couldn't the killer have just broken in to the flat next door, where a girl a little younger than Molly, but with similar height and build resided?
John backed away, and despite Sherlock's state, he could still capture the conversation between John and Donavan.
"I…I feel bad. I didn't realize that he—oh God. He's going to go mad isn't he? He wasn't normal before but now…now I don't think…I'm sorry."
"He liked her, believe it or not."
"I can certainly believe it now."
She retreated, but John remained, and Sherlock gave no indication that he was within earshot. It was agreed that Sherlock would have nothing to do with the case, as he took it far too personally. Lestrade was taken off it as well, but all Sherlock could think about was the fact that HE the best man for the job, wasn't supposed to investigate. This didn't stop him from breaking into the morgue, and staring at the very much dead Molly Hooper on the table after he took—her—the body—huh—brain—not—functioning—out of storage. Her mouth was upturned slightly, as if she had died smiling. Obviously she didn't, no one would die smiling when being murdered.
He stood up, about to leave, lingering at the door. Turning he started walking out when he heard a huge gasp. Sherlock spun to find Molly Hooper sitting up, the sheet falling to expose her bare breasts. She was still unnaturally pale, but blood was rushing back to her cheeks. Stumbling back, Sherlock couldn't believe what he was seeing. Molly was very much alive, gasping for air. He was hallucinating obviously—that had to be it, he must have shot up after hearing about her death. His hands were shaking when faced with this great impossibility.
"That bloody bitch! She thought she could kill me and she was what? A hundred and fifty years old at most? Ugggh what part of 'Immortal witch' do silly brats like them not understand?"
Sherlock openly gaped, and for the first time Molly noticed him. She snatched up the sheet, "Oh…Sherlock um…hi. Oh...um…this is…um…bad."
