Her heart pounded in her chest. Sherlock Holmes was stood beside her, cramped against her in the dark wardrobe as they hid from him. Jim Moriarty was back, that was no lie. Who was he after more, though? Sherlock Holmes… or Molly Hooper?

Molly grasped Sherlock's hand to calm her down; she had to control her breathing, they couldn't risk being heard. Sherlock squeezed her hand once, hoping to help her achieve calmness, although he knew it was no use. Today was supposed to be amazing. First, some experimenting on donated corpses, dinner at Angelo's, then back to Baker Street for. Now, they were hiding in a closet from a man believed to be dead. The fact that he had faked his death should have been a surprise to Sherlock and Molly, but seeing as Sherlock had faked his death as well and Molly helped him succeed in it, this was not new for them.

Molly closed her eyes, and thought about how wonderful the evening had been. Silly, she thought, how a wonderful evening could be turned into a life or death situation in a matter of minutes.

When Molly finally got her breathing under control, she pressed her ear against the door of the wardrobe. Sherlock let go of Molly's hand and gently pushed the wardrobe door open a bit, and peeked out. The room was empty. He quietly stepped out, and when Molly tried to follow, he gently pushed her back in.

"I have to be sure it's safe, Molly." He whispered to her.

"I'll be fine, Sherlock." Molly whispered back.

"No, you won't. You think you will be, but you won't. Molly, he could hurt you, or worse, kill you. Do you know what would happen to me if I lost you too?"

"Sherlock, I can handle myself."

"That's what John said too," Sherlock looked her in the eyes. Molly could see the grief he was trying to hide over the recent loss of his best friend, John Watson. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and Molly could feel her eye beginning to spill over as well. "And look what happened to him. Moriarty used to kill just for the joy of the game, now he's just trying to get to me. He hasn't before, and that's why he won't stop this time. I won't let anything happen to anyone else, Molly. I just can't."

Molly grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him to her, crushing her lips against his. Some of her tears transferred to his cheeks as he returned the kiss, resting one of his hands on her jaw. After a few seconds he pulled away and wiped Molly's tears from his cheek.

"I love you." Molly told him, her voice breaking.

"I know." Sherlock said. "Quite right too." He closed the wardrobe door shut softly, separating himself from Molly. He turned, taking long, but quiet, steps to the door of his bedroom.

Molly understood, really she did, but she wasn't going to sit in the wardrobe for God knows how long while Sherlock was searching the flat for her psychopathic ex-boyfriend. Molly sighed, and opened the wardrobe door as quietly as she could. She stepped out and took soft steps to the door, putting her ear against it when she reached it. After a few minutes of silence, so she opened the door and peaked through it. She saw nothing, so she opened it all the way and stepped out.

That was when the gun went off, and the floor started getting closer to her.

"Come on," Sherlock begged. "Don't tell me it wasn't fun!"

"Beating corpses with riding crops?!" Molly exclaimed as she and Sherlock walked down the pavement together, hand in hand, talking about the experiments they had done earlier in the day.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "That's the best bit!"

"My god Sherlock!" Molly shook her head at her boyfriend's idea of a date.

"Come on, Molly." He gave her a look, as if to say 'I know what you're really thinking.'

Molly sighed. "Okay, maybe a tiny bit fun."

Sherlock chuckled and Molly smiled at him. Sherlock took the key to his flat out of his coat as they approached the door to 221b. He unlocked it, and he and Molly stepped inside. They walked up the stairs and into Sherlock's flat. Sherlock walked in to find a note taped to his chair. He bent over, picked it up, and read it.

Sherlock,

Mrs. Hudson is a wreck. She said there was a break in and the burglar gave knocked her out. I'm confident that he is hiding somewhere in the flat. I've called Lestrade, so he should be here soon. I can handle myself until you get back. I think I heard footsteps from the bathroom, come find me when you get back.

–John

Sherlock handed the note to Molly, who read it and looked at him, frowning.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered. "I'll be right back, go downstairs and check on Mrs. Hudson."

Molly nodded, and hurried out the door, closing it softly behind her. Sherlock took slow steps towards the bathroom. The door was closed, but the light was on. He stood at the door for a moment, listening for any voices or footsteps. Nothing. He slowly opened the door, and a surprised gasp left his mouth.

John Watson lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, a bullet wound through his chest. Sherlock didn't have to check for a pulse; he knew he was too late to save his best friend. He noticed Rizla paper stuck to John's forehead, just like when they had played Rizla Game on John's stag night. He walked over to John's corpse, and picked the paper off of his head and read the three words written on it:

Did you miss me?

Sherlock dropped the note, and turned on his heels. He didn't need many clues to know who had killed John. He walked back to the front door, his footsteps light, where Molly walked in. Her eyes were watering and threatening to spill over.

"Sh–Sherlock…" She stuttered, her voice breaking as the first tear rolled down her face. "Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade are dead."

Sherlock kept his footsteps light as he walked out of his bedroom. He was sure that Moriarty was still in the flat. He wouldn't just leave, would he? He wouldn't kill John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade and just leave. No, he wanted Sherlock; he would wait until he talked to Sherlock before leaving.

No, Sherlock thought. He won't get the chance to leave. When I find him, I'll kill him on the spot.

He slowly walked down the hallway, and into the sitting room. Empty. He turned his gaze to the kitchen. Empty. He went upstairs to the room that used to be John's. Empty. He went downstairs and into the bathroom again. Other then John's pale body, it was empty as well.

Where the hell is he? Sherlock thought.

He walked to the door to the flat, and put his hand on the doorknob. He would search Mrs. Hudson's flat. Maybe he was still there. He turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door, taking one step out of it.

And that's when the gun went off.

Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and started walking, keeping his steps as quiet and quick as he could. She stumbled over her own feet as she tried to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. He pulled her through the hallway and into his bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. The room was empty, just as he thought it would be, and he walked to his wardrobe and opened the doors, pushing Molly in it. He stepped in as well and closed the door, concealing he and Molly in the darkness.

Molly's breathing was off, and she was having a panic attack. Sherlock, who was already crushed against her, put his arms around her as best he could. She was shaking and her heart rate had gone up a tremendous amount. After a few minutes, he took his arms away from her, and put them at his sides, his right hand cramped between his and Molly's sides.

After Molly's panic attack was over, and they had both stood in a ten-minute silence, Sherlock spoke. "John too."

"What?" Molly whispered.

"He got John, and killed him." Sherlock whispered, the hatred prominent in his voice.

"Who did?"

"Jim Moriarty."

Jim Moriarty never liked killing people the easy way. A bullet to the heart, or the head, was not enough for him to get off on. He liked stopping bombs to people, and using them as messengers and he like getting people to jump off of tall buildings and plummet to their eminent doom. The latter didn't always work, as it seems, for Sherlock Holmes was still alive.

Well, he would have to do something about that, wouldn't he?

He smiled as he climbed out from under Sherlock's bed, gun in hand. Molly Hooper was standing at the door, her eyes closed and her ear against it. Her face was wet with tears and her cheeks were a magnificent red. He smiled as he raised his gun and aimed it at her chest. When she turned her head round and slowly opened the door, he pulled the trigger and watched her fall to the ground.

Quickly he sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, waiting for him to walk in. After exactly thirteen seconds, he appeared at the door, staring down at Molly's lifeless body. Jim smiled and looked at Sherlock. His friends and his girlfriend were all dead. What would he have to live for now? Sherlock looked up from Molly's body, a frown on his face and tears waiting to escape his eyes.

Jim's smile widened. "Did you miss me?"

"What was the point?" Sherlock asked after a minute of silence.

"The point?" Jim asked. "The point of what?"

"John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly," Sherlock's voice filled with rage and disgust. "What was the point?"

"The point was I made you a promise. If my men didn't see you jump, the people you cared about most in the world would die."

"Molly wasn't on that list."

"I added her recently. She's become quite a part of your life since John and Mary got married. Speaking of Mary, you may not want to visit her; she put up a bigger fight than John so things got a bit messy."

Sherlock took a few steps into the room, avoiding stepping on Molly's body. He paused halfway to where Jim sat, perched on the edge of his bed. He put his hand in his coat pocket, and felt for the object he knew he would need. Jim seemed to not notice, and started laughing. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Look at you!" Jim exclaimed. "You're so…dull. So…emotionless, but not really. Look at your pretty eyes, my dear. Sentiment. So much sentiment, and all for these stupid humans?" He stood up and walked, stopping in front of Sherlock. "Aren't you adorable?"

"If you say so." Sherlock took his gun out of his pocket in one fluid motion, hitting Moriarty in the jaw with it. Moriarty staggered backwards, hand on his jawline. After a few seconds, he looked up to see Sherlock, who had approached him quicker than expected. The gun was held to Moriarty's head, and he smiled.

"Would you pull the trigger, Sherlock?" Jim Moriarty asked.

Sherlock said nothing; he didn't need to say anything. He pulled the trigger, and Moriarty collapsed onto the floor, a pool of blood slowly forming around his head. Sherlock turned round quickly, running to Molly. Moriarty had missed her heart, and she was still breathing, but Sherlock knew it wouldn't be long.

He put his hand on her cheek and spoke softly to her. "Molly?"

After a few seconds, her eyes opened, and she looked up at him. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here."

"I–I think I found Moriarty."

"It's okay," Sherlock assured her. "We don't have to worry about him any more."

"My body…" Molly trailed off.

Sherlock leaned over her, and gave her the best smile he could. "Shh, you're going to be fine. Okay?"

"Okay."

Sherlock didn't think. Molly was only going to be conscious for a few minutes at the most. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips to hers. She brought her hands up slowly, ignoring the pain the small movement sent through her body, and cupped his face, kissing him back with all the passion she could. Sherlock smiled at her effort, and kissed her with as much passion as she could handle in her state. After a minute, He finally pulled back in time to see a single tear roll down her cheek, and her eyes close. She wasn't dead, but she was almost there.

She can most likely still hear me. Sherlock thought. He leaned down next to her ear.

"Molly Hooper," He whispered. "You are my pathologist, and you always will be."

When he pulled away from her, she smiled.

"I love you too." She whispered.

Sherlock called the police, and had them send their least irritating officers and an ambulance to 221b Baker Street. When he hung up, he held his pathologist in his arms. Ten minutes later, her breathing had slowed dramatically, and he knew it was a matter of seconds. He turned her head to his and kissed her on the forehead.

And that was when Molly Hooper's heart stopped.

Hello! Oswin Holmes here! I'm going to start writing one-shots! I take requests, so if you want me to write you a oneshot (Sherlolly, JohnLock, and Sherlock one-shot you want) than inbox me your request. c: xxx

–OH