Heyyy how's it goin around here?

So this fic is a one shot that just randomly popped into my head the other day. It's a little random, but hopefully I'll portray it well and you'll like it! Thanks :)

The gun shook in her hands. You could see the wobble, the jerk of her arms from fatigue and from fear.

"Please." She breathed, the word so quietly that I quirked my eyebrow and leaned in closer.

"What was that?"

"Please!" she shouted, her voice cracking and wavering. She closed her eyes, letting tears roll down her face. Her mouth was open, gasping in air with each sob. The gun was still pointed at me. "Let this stop."

I tried to compose myself. "Let this stop."

I opened my eyes to see Moriarty mockingly thinking, contemplating what I had asked of him. His finger tapped his bottom lip.

"Let what stop?" he asked.

My arms burned from holding the gun up for so long. The thing felt like it weighed a ton, the metal warm against my palms. I let it fall to my side, giving me some relief, and some vulnerability.

My eyes scanned our surroundings.

Sherlock lay on his back, three bullet wounds in his leg turning his black pants a crimson color. His face was screwed up in pain, his mouth open and gasping for shallow breaths. I wanted to run to him, to comfort him. To save him. But I couldn't. I moved at all, and I would end up the same. In enough pain to be on the brink of dying, but not serious enough to kill you instantly. Moriarty was maniacal like that – killing you in the most painful way he can have with the resources he can use.

My eyes scanned to the other side of the area and found John knocked unconscious with a gash across his face. Blood ran over his eyes and down his cheek and soaked into his jumper. With each image, my heart clenched into a tight knot, anger and grief and impatience welling up and threatening to burst out.

"Let the game stop. End this now, for the last time."

I looked Molly up and down. Her hand tightened around the gun and she lifted it once more. She no longer shook. Her hair fell around her shoulders, bits of it sticking up and giving her this sort of red halo. Her eyes held a spark that dared me to do anything dodgy. I don't want to do this, but I sure as hell will if you try anything else they seemed to say. I smiled at her.

"Ah, well, all games must end, I suppose." I said, pacing around a bit, my hands in my pockets. "But this has been so much fun."

Her hands jerked upwards, tilting at an angle towards the ceiling. Faster than my eyes could pick up, her finger squeezed the trigger and a shot fired right above my head. I jumped, ducking at the noise. She lowered the gun calmly back down to be aimed at me.

"People have died. People have been hurt. I'm not letting that happen to anyone else. No one is going to be killed at the hands of Jim Moriarty again."

Her knuckles were white from gripping the metal so hard.

I will do this. I will pull this trigger right now. Give me a reason to not pull the trigger.

I put my hands up in a surrender motion, casually nodding. "Alright! Ok. Let's work something out here."

"I don't trust you. Give me a reason to."

"I have Sherlock and John taken to the hospital. Right now. I'll call an ambulance. You can't kill me, though."

"There's something else. You wouldn't be that simple."

I laughed, the sound echoing around us. "You are smart, Miss Molly. Smarter than John, certainly, and perhaps even smarter than Sherlock. I don't know why they do all the work." I walked closer to the girl and if possible, her grip tightened on the weapon.

"You have to die in exchange for them."

My heart damn near stopped right then. I should have expected this from Moriarty. Me die in the place of Sherlock and John. But I couldn't trust that he would leave them alive and transport them to a hospital. That sounded insane.

"I've said before. I can't trust you. Sherlock and John have to be in the care of a hospital before I do anything."

"But I can't trust you then." He countered, walked around me in circles. I lowered my gun again, my arms on fire. Instead I caught the eye of a very pale Sherlock. His breathing was even more labored, his face covered in sweat. A small pool of blood settled by his leg. But his eyes were still alive and dancing with the thoughts he always had. Sherlock, I said in my mind. How I wish you could help me.

"We aren't getting anywhere, Miss Molly." He said, coming round to face me again. "Sherlock and John live, and you die. Two for one. Great bargain, really."

I carefully met Sherlock's eyes again. I didn't want Moriarty to know he was looking. Those blue eyes told me a thousand things, things like don't do it, you idiot! Don't succumb to that? He's lying, obviously.

I tried to convey back it's alright.

"Ok. Get those two moving, and fast, or you'll have a bullet through your head before someone can even aim on me."

I stood facing Moriarty, my gun long gone. You can't enter a hospital with a gun, if you didn't know.

Sherlock and John were gone, being cared for. Moriarty kept his word. Now I had to keep mine.

I stood in the middle of a large room with concrete floors and high vaulted ceilings. Moriarty stood across from me, a gun in his hand. His arm was straight and steady and his eyes were cold. The opposite of me.

"Miss Molly, it's been fun." He said, lining up the barrel to my chest with his second hand. I took a breath and closed my eyes. I wasn't going to fight. That would be pointless. Moriarty had his cronies set up above and around and probably below us so that if I took one misstep, I'd be dead even quicker.

I heard the gun go off. The loud bang of a trigger being pulled echoed through the building.

I felt the bullet pierce my chest. At first, it just felt like a dull punch. But as time sped up, the small ache exploded into millions of fireworks going off in my heart. Pain shot up and down my body and it stayed there, burned there.

I fell backwards. I could feel my head hit the concrete. At this point, I wondered why I was even still alive. Was I still alive?

Breathing was hard. Why was I even trying? Wouldn't it be easier to give up, let the pain subside, and slip away from the world in a black sleep?

I opened my eyes. The pain, somehow, was gone. I must be dead now. But then, why would I still be in the same room? The ceiling expanded above me. I tried lifting my arm – it felt numb. I place my hand to my chest. My vision blurred.

I was surprised to find my hand wet. Blood. It was soaked through my shirt, pooling around me.

I closed my eyes.

Each breath came easier.

The pain left my body.

I slipped away.

Sherlock answered his cell quickly. "Lestrade? Where is this case at?"

I heard the muffled voice of Lestrade through the phone giving Sherlock the directions. We jumped in a cab and rode to the destination.

What I wasn't expecting was the body that lay on the floor.

Molly Hooper in a red-stained shirt lay motionless on the concrete floor of the warehouse building. Sherlock collapsed next to her, his hands falling to her cold lifeless ones.

I lowered my head, the shock keeping any sadness at bay. Lestrade had to leave, a tissue clutched angrily in his fist.

Molly Hooper was dead.

And we were alive because of her.