It was pouring that day. The smell of asphalt merging with the stench of the dumpster lodged carelessly in the alleyway. Sherlock barely registered his surroundings, not even as his soaking coat weighed him down. All he did was stare at a certain puddle by the wall.
It had since seeped over the cracks of the uneven ground to form smaller pools but the source was starkly different from the rest. On that pool was the slumped body of a woman, mid-30s, long brown. A large stab wound to the left side of her abdomen indicated the source of all the blood. Her skin had since paled to a blue hue from the exposure.
Sherlock blinked, his mind still trying to comprehend what he was looking at. It was impossible. No, not impossible, he knew that. There was no mistake, but in that moment, facts failed to help him come to terms with the reality before him.
Molly Hooper is dead.
The thought struck him like a physical blow. Although centered at his chest, it hurt him everywhere. After all she had survived through; Moriarty's return, Moran's following vengeance, it had all been for not. In the end, she was taken away by an act of random violence. A burglary gone terribly wrong.
Sherlock would have laughed, had he not been aware it would leave him vulnerable to unleash waves of sentiment he had been harboring since he got the the call, and even before that. He blinked again, this time focusing on her lifeless arm lying in the puddle of blood. Once more the cruel truth echoed through the silent halls of his Mind Palace.
Molly Hooper is dead.
"They're going to send the body to Barts soon."
Sherlock flinched at the words and turn to glare at the man that had spoken. Lestrade was extending an umbrella to shield him. His face bore the usual mask of professionalism but today Sherlock was more than aware of the facade. She was his friend too. He felt himself relax at the mutuality.
The muffled patter of raindrops on the umbrella was all that filled the silence that fell over them. It was only when Lestrade spoke again that Sherlock realised he had been looking right through the DI, his thoughts lost in something he couldn't recall.
"Listen I understand if you don't want to take this one. The Yard can handle the case."
"I'll find him in an hour."
He walked away from the scene briskly. As he approached the main street his mind began to compartmentalise the situation. He dismissed most of the personal sentiment derived from his connection to the victim, allowing some anger to fuel his determination to find the culprit as soon as possible. To some extent he was aware that a part of him was already preparing for what he would do once he caught the murderer but he focused his attention on the details he had gathered.
A cab pulled over right before him and John stepped out after frantically throwing bills at the driver.
"I got here as I could. Is it true?"
A brief nod from the consulting detective confirmed his fears.
"Oh, God no."
Sherlock contemplated heading out without him. He had signaled the cab he arrived with and had every intention to leave in it. He was not willing to re-examine the body for John's benefit. Sherlock didn't think he had it in him to see her like that; not presently. Sherlock wasn't even sure if he wanted to go after the murderer without him.
John however, made the decision for him as he returned to the cab.
"Let's go."
He followed after and barked directions at the driver. They were soon in motion, moving further away from her end, and moving much closer to what Sherlock will ensure to be the criminal's end.
Molly worked an extra shift; the third one in that week. The epilogue of what most certainly had been the most terrifying chapter of her life had left Molly enough experiences to haunt her. She had found stability in increasing her work load. That way she had no time to contemplate on her on them. It wasn't healthy, but it always worked for her. In the end, she always mended.
She grabbed her things from the locker and booked for a cab with her mobile. By the time she got out of Barts, it was waiting for her outside. She didn't realise just how exhausted she was until she had sat down. The heater had been blasted so high that Molly soon found herself dozing off in the backseat. It had felt like a minute but the driver's voice alerted her that they had arrived.
She looked groggily out of the window and frowned.
"This isn't my address."
"Your street's been blocked ma'am."
She looked confused for a moment and was about to refute his statement when she remembered.
"Oh, right."
It had been barred for a week city was finally doing something about the pot-holes. Molly shook her head, dazed at by how she had completely forgotten. She supposed it spoke for how tired she was.
Upon paying for the cab, she crossed the street towards the alley way. The cold air had done wonders to clear up her head and she could now tell she was a little over a block away from her home. The alley way led to the backdoor to a small cafe she frequented over weekends.
The stillness of the night just reminded her she should be asleep with the rest of the neighborhood. She was mentally picking out her clothes for the next day when she was roughly tugged towards the alley.
Her back collided painfully with the dumpster. A blood-curling scream was forming in her chest when she felt a sharp object scrape her neck. The alley was dark, and the streetlights had kept her from immediately adjusting to the light. All she could see was the attacker's silhouette, and his shadowed face prove to make him appear more formidable.
"Don't you even think about screaming," hissed a voice surprisingly close to her face.
She was petrified on the spot, unable to move, not even swallow as she felt the knife hover dangerously on the surface of her throat.
"Gimme the bag."
Her fear scrambled her thoughts and she stared, unable understand what was being asked of her.
"Your bag damn it! Give me the bag!" He hollered, his blade cutting a thin line.
"Okay! Okay!" She shrieked, hastily giving him her purse.
The blade was immediately lowered as the man plundered through the purse, looking for what probably should be her wallet.
Molly glanced nervously to the end of the alley. Everything in her was screaming to run for it. she was so close to home, if only she could get to the door. But could she outrun him? She turned to the man who was still ravaging her purse. It was only them she noticed he was shaking. She had no time to consider anything beyond that when he suddenly dropped her purse and lunged for her.
"The money. I need money. WHERE IS IT?"
The blade was now positioned on her abdomen and Molly's fear intensified as she felt his hand tremble. He was unstable, he was mad.
"My w-wallet sh-should be there."
"STOP LYING!"
She whimpered as she felt the jab break through skin again. She felt like she was going to be sick.
"I can't-t-ake it anymore." The man nearly whined. " .Money."
"My coat," Molly explained, finally remembering she had placed it there after paying for the cab. She reached in slowly to retrieve the wallet for him when he panicked.
"No!" He grabbed the lapels of her coat and she instinctively lashed out at his face. A gasp escaped her when she felt a searing stab cut through her. The man moved back, staring at her as she felt herself slide down to the floor. The hilt of the knife remained lodged in her. Her heartbeat roared in her ears but she could still hear the man's panicky breaths.
He turned as if to run away but then crouched down to ruffle through her coat. A surge of pain and nausea took over her but the man seemed more determined her wallet.
It hurt so much. She felt herself losing herself to the pain. Her eyes shut as she waited for him to leave her. At that point that was all she could think about; him getting away as far as possible. Molly's eyes flew open when her wound pulsed painfully. She saw him just as he tugged it wretchedly out of her.
He dashed out immediately afterward, leaving Molly to bleed out. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move and most of all, it hurt to be alive. No one had come to her rescue yet, despite her cries and she had no energy to put enough pressure on her wound to make a difference.
Molly groaned as she felt her agony intensify. The cold made it no easier for her, and she soon wished for everything to end. Her hands clenched again as a gust of wind passed over the wound and she finally noticed there was something in her hand.
Her mind scrambled to work out why she had it when it dawned on her. She then made a decision; if she was going to die, then she rather have done everything possible to settle her murder. There was no point despairing over the inevitable. With incredible effort, she shifted herself upright and began to drag herself towards the direction he had left.
She only managed to get a few feet away from the dumpster, before relaxing against the wall. It was too hard, and she could feel the tendrils of sleep were tugging at her to give in. She turned to look at his escape route. It had been towards her home, her safety. She smiled ruefully at that and took a glance at her wound. The blood had soaked through her coat, and a pool was forming around her.
She doesn't know how long she remained there like that. Her desire to sleep felt hindered by the nagging cold and excruciating pain. She tried not to feel sorry for herself, difficult as it was. But philosophy failed to distract her from her body's struggle to hold on to her mortality. Her thoughts strayed to Sherlock, and she wondered if he would take the case. She doubted it, as it wasn't going to be a mysterious one.
The thought made her sad, so she chose not to think of anything at all. Eventually, she finally felt herself give in and a familiar prayer surfaced to mind.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep
"If..I should die before I wake," she whispered.
"I pray the Lord my soul to take."
She released her last breath, and her arm fell limply into her own pool of blood.
A/N: Yay? Nay?