Tears of An Angel, a sherlock fanfic

Cover my eyes.
Cover my ears.
Tell me these words
Are a lie...
It can't be true
That I'm losing you:
The sun cannot
Fall from the sky.
~ Tears of an Angel

I collapse on my knees in the pouring rain, and hear myself babbling insensible words to the stunned form lying before me. Babbling. I never babble, and yet here I am, saying the first things that come to my mind without a second thought.

Hang on. Don't close your eyes. It's all going to be okay. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This was my fault. Don't die on me, now, look at me! Everything will be alright! Be strong! You were strong for me when I needed it, be strong for me again now!

John is kneeling beside me, still trying to wrap his head around my sudden appearance: I wasn't supposed to be revealed to him, not yet. Not over her body. Not over her blood. He is trying to do something to help me stop the bleeding from her torso, stop the flow of crimson blood from the damned bullet hole, but both of us are too shocked to do anything, the stupid rugby down jacket that I had been using as part of my disguise draped uselessly over her.

The gunman, my target, is injured over on the parapet of the building across from me, downed by my retaliatory shot. I suddenly hear her voice break through my fogged mind. She is looking up at me with a deep sadness, and reaches out to put her hands over mine, tears forming as she realizes what she had done. I hold her hands tight and lean down to hear what she's going to say. She gives me a fragile smile and whispers my name to me, bloodied fingers reaching up to try and brush away the tears that I, like an emotional idiot, have let fall.

"Sherlock..." she whispers, and the light in her eyes slowly fades away, leaving those brilliant eyes that I have grown to love dull and dead.

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"Sherlock?" she asks, walking into her sitting room. "Sherlock, are you okay?" I continue to stare straight ahead, fingers steepled before me, acting purposely unaware of her presence. "Sherlock?"

"Did anyone see you when you were out?" I ask suddenly and Molly shakes her head.

"No, no I don't think so."

"No one following you?"

"No," she answers again. "Are you sure it's the right time to do this?" This time I turned to look at her and look at her carefully. "Sherlock, stop looking at me like that," she says, looking down and fiddling with the hem of the pair of pants draped on her arm. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"Sorry," I say, without really meaning it. I never really mean much that I say to her. I know I should change it but for some reason I can't. I look away from her though and begin talking. "We need to find out how to disguise me. If I'm going out to confront Moran today, I'm going to need to be incognito. People on the streets can't recognize the two of us, me primarily."

"Well maybe you shouldn't have gone and made yourself a net phenomenon," she jokes and I immediately retort.

"I wasn't the one who made myself a net phenomenon, that was J-" his name catches in my throat and I look down at the carpeted ground, avoiding all eye contact. Molly smiles at me sympathetically and moves to sit by me.

"I know you miss him, Sherlock," she says and puts her hand on mine, her hesitation clearly showing me that she expected me to jerk away. However, I didn't want to and instead turned to look at her. "What is it?" I don't answer, and she asks the question that makes my heart, that heart that I claim I don't 'have, melt. "What do you need?"

And I don't know. There is something in me though that feels calmer, more centered, when I'm with her. And I find myself voicing my true concerns even before I myself knew them.

"I'm...concerned. Not only for my safety, but for John's...and yours. If this doesn't go to plan, Moran could kill any of us. He's one of the best marksman in the world and I'm going after him in the wide open, with two of my best and only friends, with a hand gun. I'm..."

"You're scared." I look at her sharply and draw breath to protest. "No. Sherlock you are scared. That is why you are uncertain. You are scared, and this time it isn't drug induced like in Dartmoor, this is pure, understandable, acceptable fear." I look at her in mild surprise and shift so that I can look at her more directly and head on.

"Yes, that is precisely...precisely what it is," I answer helplessly. I don't want to admit it but it is what I'm feeling.

"Sherlock. It's okay. And it's only going to get worse. Come on, we should start getting ready." Soon I find myself in the bathroom with Molly, the two of us contemplating my image in the mirror. "Okay, your hair is going to be the biggest problem. Don't worry I won't dye it or cut it off." I giver her a look and she rolls her eyes at me. " We can hide it under a beanie or a hood or something like that. I think a beanie is our best bet though...one of my old boyfriends left a rugby down jacket with me, it should fit you..."

"A down jacket?" I ask her incredulously. "Molly, I'm going to look like an idiot - "

"Which means no one will recognize you," she interrupts, leaving the room to rummage around in her abysmally disorganized dresser and closet. "You were always so consistent with this dark mysterious vigilante look that it's all people associate with you. If you dress way out of your style, and cover up your face or something people won't look at you twice." I look after her momentarily in surprise: she usually isn't this intelligent... "They may think that you bring around a sense of deja vu, but people don't go looking for those they know are dead." She came back in and handed the jacket to me. "I think it will fit."

Rolling my eyes I put it on and have to admit it fits well enough. I look at the inside of the jacket and notice that there is a pocket on the inside that my gun would fit perfectly in. I turn around and Molly pulls the hat over my head and tucks my hair under it before I can say anything.

"Molly, I could have done that - " Molly interrupts me by going on her toes to kiss me. I am too surprised to react. When she pulls away, she looks down at the ground in embarrassment. "Well...that was - "

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have," she says and walks away, playing with the ends of her hair in her mortification. I follow her out and find her sitting on her bed, looking down at her hands. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I've embarrassed you."

"Not necessarily," I answer carefully for, in truth I have no real objection to what just happened. I don't know why, but aspects about Molly Hooper were beginning to show that I had not seen before. Her kind smile, her eyes, her personality and very presence that seem to provide the supportive nature that I desperately needed, when I faked my death, and right now, without her saying anything.

"What do you mean?" she asks, and it is with that question that I knew. I began to comprehend my sudden observations of the truth I had been pushing to the back of my mind since our ordeal began that I had begun to have...feelings for the mortician before me. I had fallen in love with Molly Hooper.

Of course, I don't tell her, and instead simply shake my head, moving out to the kitchen to check on the experiment I had secretly running in the unused cabinet next to the refrigerator. But the small, private smile she gives herself are enough to tell me that she suspects what I feel.

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John's POV

"Thank you, have a nice evening," the cashier says and I force a smile. It is the first time I have left 221B in a long time, and only at Mycroft's threat to have me removed to another location if I did not, claiming that the familiar surroundings are driving me mad.

They aren't though. I am adjusting nicely, thank you very much. I have Mary to comfort me now, a dog to look after and keep me occupied...

I do not tear up at the discovery of some thumbs in the refrigerator, the sight of a 'friend' above the fireplace, or seeing the mail from long ago still pinned to the wood of the mantlepiece with a pocket knife.

I do not.

I leave the grocery store and walk in the growing rain down the slightly busy streets of London, ignoring the faces that go by me. They are simply blurs to my mind...nothing more. At a different time, I may have looked more closely at their features, pointing out subtle indications that told his or her life story in an instant. But now, there is no one beside me to laugh with, to run with, to solve puzzles with. I shake the sad thoughts from my mind in time to accidentally run into a man hurrying along the sidewalk with his head down. The bags of groceries topple to the ground and both of us react instantaneously.

"I'm sorry," the stranger says, turning around, keeping his face averted and shoving the spilled contents back into their respective bags. I shake my head and immediately go down to help.

"No, it's alright. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. It's really no problem," I say and I notice the man freezes ever so briefly as he hears my voice. I wonder why.

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Sherlock's POV

I was hurrying down the sidewalk, Molly several feet behind me, stopping at a few of the outdoor stalls before the grocery store to avoid looking too conspicuous. I keep my face turned to the ground. Though Molly so far has no one shadowing her, and no one has recognized me, I feel that something bad was going to happen, something inopportune -

In my foolish musings, I became blind to the world and walked straight into someone walking in the opposite direction. I stumble to the side and see that I have knocked the man's groceries out of his arms, spilling the contents over the wet ground, and hurry to put everything back in.

"I'm sorry," I say and hurriedly try to repair the damage I have done.

"No, it's alright. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. It's really no problem," my collision partner says and I imperceptibly freeze. I look up briefly and see Molly is looking over at me, drawing a hand across her throat in a gesture that clearly said: not good.

John.

Of the 8,174,100 people I could have run into here, I have to run into John Watson, the one person that it was imperative I stay away from. I slowly stand, face still averted and try to subtly pull the beanie farther down over my head, hunching over slightly in the rugby jacket.

"I'm sorry for having inconvenienced you," I mumble and turn to leave, but John, John who can be so sharp at the worst times, called after me.

"Excuse me, have we met before?" I shake my head fervently and begin backing off towards Molly who turns around sharply to pick up an apple and look at it with sudden interest.

"No, sorry. Unhappy chance," I laugh and turn around, hurrying back over to Molly and putting a hand on her arm to lead her away.

"I'm sorry, but weren't you going this way?" I hear John call after me suspiciously. I look over my shoulder and see John walking after us in that purposeful manner of his, an expression on his face that clearly said, so help me you had better not be who I think you are.

"Molly, we need to run." She looks over her shoulder as well; John clearly recognizes her and sets his groceries down on the bench, starting to run after us.

"Sherlock - " she whispers urgently and I start running, pulling her into a side alley and taking a series of bewildering turns and twists through the back streets of London that takes us to the abandoned house that we were heading to anyways. I pull her inside and watch the alley we exited from in worry.

"I don't think - he will have - followed us, Sherlock," she pants and I look down at her and nod. I lean against the wall and release a long breath, nodding once more.

"Come. We should - " There is a gun shot and the wood by my head splinters, Molly yanking me down to the ground, landing practically on top of me, eyes wide. "Find Moran," I finished, irony lacing my voice. She looks down at me and gets to her hands and knees, crawling over to the open window. "Molly," I say warningly and she turns to face me, finger to her lips. "What are you - "

"What part of this - " she holds her finger before her lips again, " - do you not understand?!" She reaches up and quickly closes the shutters, dropping to the ground again as more gunshots go off and the wood splinters some more. My heart hammers a little harder than it already does as she doesn't move from her facedown position on the old linoleum flooring.

"Molly!" I hiss at her and she looks up and gives a weak smile.

"This what happens with you and John all the time?" she asks breathlessly and I smile at her, standing and pulling her to her feet.

"Molly Hooper, you are brilliant, you know that?" I tell her and we are half-way up the stair case when Molly stops.

"Sherlock, he's outside." I turn around, pulling her behind me, expecting to see Moran through the partially open door, and instead I see John. I look up at the parapet of the opposite building and see, from one of the top windows, the glint of a scope in the faint light.

"JOHN!" I shout and run outside, throwing the plan and my safety to the winds. He looks around at the familiar shout of his name and barely has time to comprehend who it is running at him before I tackle him to the ground to hide behind the newspaper containers on the sidewalk. I try to turn away in vain, but John reaches into my jacket and pulls out my own gun to point it at my head.

"Who are you?" he asks and I don't answer, Molly still hiding in the empty house, watching from behind the door.

"John - " I finally say and he stops me with a small motion of the firearm. Unsteadily, he reaches out and pulls the hat off of my head, and drops the gun as his face takes on an expression of shock.

"That - that's not...no. No, no, no, no," he says, disoriented, and stands up, backing away from me and shaking his head.

"John, I can explain," I tell him, standing, so distracted that I had forgotten the situation at hand.

"It really is - " my friend begins, seeing my face for the first time in a long while, and suddenly I hear Molly's shout.

"SHERLOCK, NO!" I feel a small but strong impact and I am sent tumbling into the pavement, another gun shot going off. Dazed, head buzzing from the hard hit on the concrete, I look over at Molly who is standing there. My mind is blurred as is my vision and I look at her red shirt under her black coat. Red? Her shirt had been white when we -

No...

NO!

"MOLLY!" I shout and push myself off of the ground as she crumples to the ground, the dark crimson staining the gray pavement. Blood on the pavement, blood on the pavement...like me.

I grab the gun off the ground between me and John, who is scrambling to get to Molly as well, and turn around, aiming for the glint of the scope. I pull the trigger. The rifle falls to the ground, and I hear the shout of pain from somewhere at the top of the building. I drop the gun from my numb hands.

"Hold on, Molly. Be strong..."

"Sherlock - " she whispers, eyes wide and fearful. She knows what she did, and I hate her for it. She played the hero, the martyr, this time, and I wasn't able to save her. For me. She took the bullet for me.

"I'm here, Molly. Don't close your eyes!" I order as I see her slowly drifting off. "It's all going to be okay. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This was my fault. Don't die on me, now, look at me!" She looks up at me with tear filled eyes and takes in shaky breaths that shatter the calmness that I am failing to show her. "Everything will be alright! Be strong! You were strong for me when I needed it, be strong for me again now!" I look around at John. "John!" I plead, tears smarting in my own eyes. "Help me!" I pull off my stupid jacket and drape it over her body, noticing that the coat she was wearing was mine. "Molly, please, hang on..." John is beside me and takes the jacket, folding it over to press it down on the bullet wound. But the tight expression on his face as he pockets his phone - I assumed he had just called the police or the ambulance - and slowly relinquishes his pressure on the injury tell me that it's too late. Illogically, I ignore the signs and take over keeping the pressure on the bullet hole.

"You're going to be okay, you hear - "

"Sher - Sherlock...I'm sorry," John says to me, voice trembling and choked. I look at him in disbelief, mind frozen, not computing anything said to me.

I suddenly hear her voice break through my fogged mind. She is looking up at me with a deep sadness, and reaches out to put her hands over mine, tears forming as she realizes what she had done. I hold her hands tight with one of mine and the other goes to gently cup her face. I lean down to hear what she's going to say. She gives me a fragile smile and whispers my name to me, bloodied fingers reaching up to try and brush away the tears that I, like an emotional idiot, have let fall.

"Molly, please," I beg her and she smiles again.

"Sherlock..." she whispers, and the light in her gaze slowly fades away, leaving those brilliant eyes that I have grown to love dull and dead.

My sight is blurred red, unsteady, and I feel an insurmountable anger boiling inside of me. No one takes her from me. No one. And no one could have stopped me as I got to my feet to do what I did next. John looks up at me with obviously mixed feelings and concerns as I stand shakily and grab the gun, turning to the parapet. I run into the building and begin sprinting up the stairs, anger fueling me more than any grief could. I wanted vengeance. And nothing would stop me from having it. I burst into the room that still smelled of gun smoke and stalk over to Moran, who is lying on the ground, holding his shoulder. His blood is staining the ground also, but I feel no remorse, draw no parallel to the dead woman on the sidewalk outside.

"Please no - " he begs me as I approach him, gun in my hands. "Please - " I aim the gun at his head and pull the trigger. His pitiful pleas cease immediately but my anger doesn't allow me to stop there as I fire the gun several more times. I expected the anger to be gone, the bitterness, the agony of grief...but it isn't. It is still prowling in me, burning me up.

"Vengeance," a voice says from behind me and I turn around to see Mycroft standing there, looking in on the scene with sad eyes. "John called." I feel stricken and I know that he sees it. "Vengeance is not what it is painted to be in the books and movies, by the great poets, dramatists and philosophers, is it, little brother?" I begin finding it almost difficult to breath as I look down at my mutilated target before me. "Revenge is the act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice, Samuel Johnson...If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? William Shakespeare. And of course, revenge is a dish best served cold: the...was it the Klingons from Star Trek?" I look over at my brother and he sees the bloody hand print on my face and the single tear that I have let fall and his own expression is one of sympathy. "But I think Friedrich Schiller, the German dramatist got it right." I let my brother take the gun out of my hand. "Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair."

"Mycroft, he - he killed - " I begin, the tears starting to come. And for the first time in my living memory, I allowed my brother to pull me into an embrace. I could sense his disturbance at my sobbing, the way that I clutched desperately at the back of his suit jacket.

"I know, Sher. I saw," he says softly, and gently pulls away. "Sherlock, did you...have feelings for young Ms. Hooper?"

"I shouldn't have, all it did was put her in harms way. I shouldn't have let her come," I say softly in response and numbly turn to walk out of the flat, taking the elevator, since I was afraid that my legs would have given out if I had taken the stairs and I would have fallen fall down them, breaking my neck. Not that that idea isn't appealing. When the doors slide open, I nearly fall out of the small space, stumbling to the street.

I walk out to the sidewalk and shove my way through the crowd that has gathered. "Let me come through. Let me come through please. She's my friend, she's my friend, please - No...Molly, god no..." I moan as I see her body once more. I know that I am saying exactly what John said when he saw my body, but I can't help it. The expression on his face is one of horror and he puts his arms around my shoulders, holding me close as I hold her hands in mine, ignoring their coldness, and I cry myself to near unconsciousness.

I don't wake up as Lestrade shows up and helps John get me back to 221B.

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The funeral is nothing grand. The necessary people come: the priest, John, Mrs. Hudson, briefly Lestrade, and myself. No one else but us and the body. Mrs. Hudson gives me a hug and I guess she has seen through us this whole time. John just stands by me, the anchor in my ocean of grief. Lestrade gives his condolences and shakes my hand, telling me it's good to have me back. But to me it is a curse. I do play the violin, but all I can do is cry. And I am the one who puts the first shovel full of dirt over the glossy wooden surface of the final resting place of Molly Hooper.

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They are all sad. I can see them. But only one of them cries, and they are the tears of an angel. He is on the side of the angels, and he is my angel. He even plays the violin for me as the undertakers finish burying me, committing me to the earth, and that lovely voice of his carries out to me, forever. The tears of an angel...so bitter and yet so sweet. My angel. My Sherlock.

MY ANGEL.

Cover my eyes
Cover my ears
Tell me these words are a lie
It cant be true
That I'm losing you
The sun cannot fall from the sky