This is why you should have texted Mycroft, stupid idiot.
Damn his pride. The last thing he wanted to do was die because he wouldn't call his brother for assistance. God knows, Mycroft would probably have that etched onto his gravestone.
Here lies
William Sherlock Scott Holmes
He was a willful idiot
Died from too much damn pride
Sherlock imagined his brother tsk-ing over his bullet-ridden corpse, muttering about how now he'd have to bring Mummy and Daddy to every play now.
Standing across from him in this forsaken, dirty warehouse, Sebastian Moran, First Lieutenant of the Consulting Criminal, James Moriarty, leveled a gun at him with a smile.
'My boss would be disappointed with how easily you have given up, Mister Holmes,' he taunted.
'Your boss is dead,' Sherlock retorted, clasping his hands behind his back in a stance of casualness.
Moran's grip tightened on the handle of the gun, 'That mouth is going to be your end someday.'
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, 'Oh? Not today, then?'
Moran's nose twitched in annoyance. He pulled out a cell phone with his free hand. 'Now.' He commanded to the person on the other side, then shoved the phone back into his pocket.
'I have so many plans for killing you, Sherlock. But that seems so final; Not at all like the game Jimmy loved to play. And although I want to see your rotting corpse decorating my front porch, I like the idea of watching you suffer, so…'
Right on cue, the door behind Moran opened. Sherlock flicked his gaze over his enemy's shoulder and felt his heart stop.
A large brute shoved his way in, dragging Molly Hooper in behind him. Her lip was cut and she cradled her free arm against her body. Apparently she put up a fight against whomever kidnapped her.
Sherlock took a step toward her, but Moran waved his gun at him and tutted, 'Now, now, Sherlock. What good are you to her if you die from disobedience?'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moran. 'Why bring her here? She's unimportant.' Even as he said it, he prayed that Moran would not hear his pounding heart or see his utter fear that Molly was in mortal danger.
'Unimportant?' Moran scoffed. 'She's 'the woman who counted'.'
Sherlock flinched and Molly squeaked almost imperceptibly.
'I pay attention to the details, Sherly,' Moran smirked. 'And, in fact, we didn't bring her here. She fought her way inside.'
Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared past Moran to Molly. She was trembling, but her eyes were zeroed in on the back of Moran's head.
'And now, you're going to watch the 'woman who counts' die.'
'No,' Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a step forward. Behind Moran, he could see Molly trembling, her entire body on edge. He tried to stay calm, to assure her that he had everything in control.
But Moran destroyed that plan.
'Then again, having you die not knowing all that I have planned for your dear Molly,' Moran grinned wickedly, 'that seems much more appealing.'
Before he could react, Moran whirled about, his armed hand arcing above his head until it targeted Sherlock, lining up the bullet's trajectory directly with Sherlock's heart. In the space of a heartbeat, Sherlock watched as Moran pulled the trigger. A rushing sound filled his ears as time seemed to slow down. He knew that this time, this time he would not survive. The bullet, even if it missed his heart, would drive itself into his chest with enough force to topple him, spreading pain and death in its wake. Molly would be left alone with this monster and would likely be killed before Mycroft found them.
He barely had time to feel that bitter regret before the buzzing was obliterated by the loud gunshot.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.
His heart thudded in grim anticipation.
Suddenly, a gentle warmth embraced him.
He opened his eyes and looked down, expecting to see blood spreading across his shirt, the pain following soon after; once the shock had worn off.
Instead, his vision was obscured by a crown of brown hair, familiar hands gripping his arms. It took exactly four heartbeats for him to realize what had happened.
Molly tilted her head up and smiled at him, despite the agonizing pain radiating from her eyes. Sherlock grabbed her arms as her legs collapsed from under her.
'No, Molly, no,' he gasped, lowering her gently to the floor. From the corner of his eye, he could see Moran watching them, shocked at the turn of events, but an evil grin invading his face.
She grimaced, 'Sherlock, get out of here. Go!' Her voice was laced in agony. He ignored her feeble attempts to push him away and instead cradled her close. The bullet had hit her in the back, upper right. The shock and blood loss would be enough to kill her in a matter of minutes.
If she had not stepped in front of him, it would have hit his own heart.
The one that was now breaking.
A tear escaped his eye and Molly reached up to brush it away.
She arched as a wave of pain coursed through her body. She gritted her teeth and groaned. 'Go,' she spat out with great effort. 'You need to go now!'
Sherlock felt his heart shatter as she closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. With a last pitiful whisper for him to run, she stilled. He leaned his forehead against hers, feeling the rush of heartbreak pull his world out from under his feet.
'Pity,' Moran sauntered over and nudged Molly with his foot, 'That bullet was meant for you. Shame to waste it on this human drivel.'
Fury and sorrow burned white hot as Sherlock placed a reverent kiss to her forehead. As he shifted her body to the floor, he felt a cold metal caress his arm. A dagger, slipped up the arm of her cherry-laden cardigan was peeking out the edge of her sleeve.
He grew cold with realization. She'd never intended to make it out. She'd sacrificed herself to get him an advantage, a fighting chance. And if she hadn't shown up, he would assuredly be dead in her place. He stood up slowly and lifted his head to stare into the laughing face of Moran.
'Have I struck a nerve, Mister Holmes?' He taunted. 'Or perhaps it's not a nerve I've hit, but your heart.'
With a roar, Sherlock lunged.
'You bastard!' Sherlock bellowed as he grappled with Moran, the dagger slicing through the air. Though equally matched in technique, Moran had the upper hand in weaponry, pulling his own blade from the heel of his boot and attempting to stab Sherlock at every turn. The gun, having fallen from Moran's grip when Sherlock tackled him, was kicked aside.
A thrumming filled the room, unheard at first by the fighting men, but growing in intensity. The floor began to vibrate as the thrumming grew louder, the walls joining and the window glass shaking.
With Moran holding the blade to his neck, Sherlock's hands trying to pull it away, the two men became aware of the noise and change in atmosphere.
A bright light illuminated the dank room. Moran turned his face away, but did not loosen his grip or pull the blade away. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the light.
Suddenly, in a rush of wind, Moran's weight was gone from his chest, the sharp blade absent from his throat.
The light faded and Sherlock opened his eyes, sitting up as he did so. He looked around for Moran, ready for another attack. To his shock, his enemy lay several meters to his right, smoke rising from his well-burnt corpse.
'Leave.'
He whipped his head around at the familiar voice.
There, alive and well, stood Molly Hooper. Gaping, he stood up, never taking his eyes from her face.
'You're alive,' he gasped breathlessly.
'I told you to leave,' she reiterated, cold wrath threading through her tone. Sherlock blinked in surprise.
Suddenly, the entire situation came back to him. He glanced back at the smoldering corpse and then back to Molly. His gaze dropped and he froze. Dangling from her hand was a heavy blade of white metal.
'Molly?' A confused frown marred his features.
She ignored him and marched over to the body of Moran, kneeling down beside it, leaning on the upright sword.
'I don't understand.' He hated himself for saying something so ordinary, but he could not deduce how the woman before him, whom he had seen take a bullet and collapse, was now walking about, with a sword.
'There's a lot you don't understand, Sherlock,' Molly quipped as she straightened up. Sherlock watched as she lifted her sword with both hands. She suddenly stilled and glanced behind her at the door.
'You need to leave,' she demanded coldly.
Sherlock scoffed, 'I most certainly will not. You were killed, you died. Now I want some answers.'
Her jaw clenched in anger as she stared him down. No longer the shy pathologist who risked her job to help him, who sacrificed herself to save him, Molly stood with the bearing of a warrior. But Sherlock was not one to admit defeat and turn tail. He stared right back, determined to get his answers.
Finally, Molly spat, 'As you wish, Mister Holmes. But remember, I told you to leave.'
She whirled back to the corpse and took a steadying breath.
As she raised the white blade above her, tip pointing to the ground, a white light began to encircle her. Sherlock took an involuntary step back as more lights appeared. Afraid to look away and miss something, he watched wide-eyed as the lights encompassed her entire body then vanished.
He gaped in shock.
Instead of her familiar, yet bloody clothes, Molly was now garbed in a tunic of pure white, silver armor laced around her vulnerable areas. A breastplate hugged her torso and wrapped over her shoulders, silver bands protected her arms. She wore a pair of white pants that were tucked neatly into knee-high white boots, silver calf guards protected her legs, laced up the sides. A belt cinched her waist, an empty scabbard for her sword on one side, and a dagger and a number of pouches on the other. Her hair remained in a braided plait, but silver strands shone through the weaving.
But of all that shocked him about her metamorphosis, the pair of armored wings extending from her mid-back were the most astounding. They were not the vision of romantic feathered, angel-like wings from fairytales. Rather, they were sharp and intimidating, the silver chain armor gleamed in the minimal light from the dirty windows. With a breadth of nearly five feet, the armor chinked as the wings unfurled.
He observed all this within the space of a breath, which was enough time for Molly to raise her sword a bit higher and then plunge it ruthlessly into the heart of the corpse at her feet.
A flash of blinding light, then the body dissipated into a black mist, a distant scream breaking the silence.
A slow clapping turned their attention to the door. The shadows obscured the man's face, but his voice was all too familiar.
'Well done, Miss Hooper. You surprised me, recognizing a demi-mortal soul.'
'James,' Molly narrowed her eyes.
Jim Moriarty grinned and sauntered into the room, his hands in his pockets. He completely ignored Sherlock, who maintained a cool exterior despite the shock he was feeling, and sidled up to Molly.
He smiled wickedly at her and dragged a finger seductively down her neck to the top of her breastplate. 'Mm, darling, if you had shown me this side of you, we might never have broken up.'
Molly hadn't even flinched at his touch, but disgust was written all over her face.
'Oh, don't tell me you haven't missed me,' Jim pouted.
'Will those be your final words, James?' Molly asked, her eyebrows raised, her grip tightening around her sword's handle.
Jim chortled madly, 'Good golly, Miss Molly, how you've changed!' He sauntered over to Sherlock, 'Isn't she scrumptious, Mister Holmes?'
Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow, still trying to understand this new reality.
His eyes still on Sherlock, Jim called out, 'So, tell me, Molly Hooper,' he turned his black eyes back to her, 'what are you?'
When Molly didn't answer, he glanced between the two of them.
Realization dawned and he clapped his hands gleefully, 'Oh, ho, ho! You haven't even told him. Does the great Sherlock Holmes not know something? Something about his precious pathologist? Tell me, Mister Holmes,' his Irish lilt taunting the other man, 'how does it feel to know that the person you care for most in the world, the one woman you have always counted on has hidden a major part of her life from you?'
'Enough, James.'
Molly's command merely elicited another smirk from the Consulting Criminal.
'Oh, Miss Hooper,' he sing-songed. 'I find myself… quite intrigued by the goddess warrior before me.'
'A warrior, yes,' Molly stepped closer, 'but I am far from a goddess.'
'Perhaps an angel, then,' he raked a lewd gaze over her wings, 'I've always had a sort of kink for defiling the holy.'
Moving too fast to see, Molly suddenly had Moriarty pinned against the wall, her white blade against his throat. 'I assure you, my holiness is no longer attainable. And I will not be threatened.'
A flash of surprise crossed the Irishman's face. He quickly schooled his features into a terrifying smile. 'Then, dear Molly, why not join me? I seem to be in need of a lieutenant.' His gaze flicked to the burnt body of Sebastian Moran.
He choked a bit as Molly pressed the blade into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
'I've died a thousand deaths, James,' she spat, 'I'll die a thousand more before I join you.' His smile fell and his eyes darkened to almost obsidian. A flash of something powerful swept through the room and she released him quickly and roughly, keeping her blade at the ready. He straightened up and brushed his suit off in disgust at having it soiled.
'Very well, then. I look forward to our battle, my dear,' he bowed mockingly before smirking at the dumbfounded Sherlock, 'When Sleeping Beauty here wakes up, be sure to remind him that I still owe him. And it seems I've found a delightful way for him to collect.'
With a final wave, he turned and left the room, shouting a mocking 'buh-bye' over his shoulder.
The door clanged shut behind Moriarty, leaving Molly and Sherlock standing in the darkening room. Sherlock continued to stare at Molly's back, trying to comprehend everything that had happened. For her part, Molly was trying to come up with an explanation. She sheathed her sword in its scabbard and adjusted her breastplate.
Finally, she turned back around and faced Sherlock.
He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her, absorbing a multitude of confounding data, none of which he could decipher. Several minutes passed and Molly began to fidget under his scrutiny. With a heavy sigh, she walked over to him.
'Sherlock,' she stopped several feet from him and tried to catch his eye. 'Look at me.'
He hesitantly raised his eyes to hers. She could see the distrust, the fear, the awe in his gaze. Slowly, she reached her hand up and gently touched his cheek.
'I'm still me,' she whispered. 'I'm still your Molly.'
He swallowed thickly. The very foundations of his Mind Palace were quaking as the evidence of what he had seen was contradicting all his previous certainties and beliefs. He stepped away, her hand falling empty to her side.
'No, you're not.'