Category: Angst, Molly POV.
Rating: K
Spoilers: Series 2 Finale "The Reichenbach Fall"
Summary: Molly & Sherlock's conversation in St. Bart's during "The Reichenbach Fall."
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC . This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author's Notes: This was written shortly after I first saw the series two finale, although I never posted it. Originally, it was the beginning of a longer story but I never finished it. I think it works okay as a one-shot though. It could also be read as a sequel to Broken Illusions
The day ends the same as any other. My lab was left in a complete mess by Sherlock and John, as if they just dropped tools and walked out. Which is probably what actually did happen. I've tidied it up trying not to disturb any evidence they've left lying around. They were both gone by the time I returned from the vending machine. My conversation with Sherlock earlier on did not go exactly as I had planned. I still managed to fumble and muddle my way through, barely saying what I needed to. Just when I thought he'd let me finish, or just ignore what I'd said, he'd delivered his killer blow.
"What could I need from you?"
He was right of course. What could I possibly offer Sherlock Holmes? It was a moment of madness, it must have been. Even thinking of it now, I can't help the sigh of regret and sheer exhaustion escaping. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now it just seems that I have, once again, made a fool out of myself for no reason. It was such a stupid-
"You're wrong you know."
My heart bangs painfully at the unexpected voice form the darkness and I jump around, my hand still locked on the door handle ready to make a quick escape.
Sherlock.
Of course. I relax instantly and release the door from my death grip. Only Sherlock could sneak into the lab and sit staring at nothing in the darkness. I hate that he's like this, so morose and sombre. It's not the Sherlock I'm used to.
"You do count," his voice is strong but there's something different in it, "you've always counted and I've always trusted you."
I can't move, frozen, scared that if I move he'll disappear like a figment of my imagination. Maybe I'm dreaming.
"But you were right," eventually his gaze swings in my direction, his eyes keeping me still as a statue, my arms still clutching my oversized shoulder bag. "I'm not okay."
"Tell me what's wrong."
"Molly," he starts to move towards me, elegantly, confidently. "I think I'm going to die."
I don't understand him, can't understand what he's talking about. So many thoughts and questions are rushing through my head but I brush them aside focusing solely on him. He needs me.
"What do you need?"
He ignores my question immediately and continues to stalk closer to me. And it's only now that I can see the moisture building in his eyes. Alarms bells are ringing.
"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"
He's towering over me, his height a little intimidating in the darkened room. And all I can think is what has Jim done to you? I can feel the burning of unshed tears in my eyes and ignore them. Now is not the time.
"What do you need?" I say again, determinedly, refusing to look away from him.
He moves even closer to me, closer than I thought he could, closer than I think he ever has, his vulnerable expression making me concerned but strong. Sherlock needs me to be strong now.
"You." His voice nearly breaks on the word, and I can't help but stare at him. Only a few hours ago he'd questioned what he could ever need from me, now he stands before me, more open than I've ever seen him, asking for my help.
"Tell me," my voice is barely above a whisper now, hypnotised as I am from his steadfast gaze and the heavy silence of the surrounding darkness.
He continues to stare at me, he's so close I could reach out and trace every contour of his face if I wanted to. But it unnerves me, Sherlock is never uncertain, never hesitant.
"You may grow to hate me, Molly." I don't know if it's a warning or regret I can hear in his voice, but my heart is beating so loudly against my rib cage it's a miracle I can hear anything. Don't doubt me Sherlock.
"I couldn't," I shake my head, emphasising it. What could he possibly do to me or say to me now to make me hate him? After everything that has gone before. "Sherlock?" I tentatively grasp the sleeve of his coat and he looks down at it, and I know that's regret shining from his overly bright eyes.
"Molly," he pauses, locks eyes with me, "I need you to kill me."
I don't know how long I've been staring at him, has he gone insane? How could I ever….
"Sh-Sherlock, that's not….I mean, I could never…what?"
"Listen carefully," he grasps my shoulders firmly leaning down, his warm breath brushing the tip of my nose.
He explains it all and I concentrate, listening to every syllable uttered from his mouth. This is what it has all been about, what Jim wants. Sherlock dead. Sherlock destroyed. My mind reels, but I try to remain focused on what he wants me to do if the worst happens.
Blood, body, keep John away from his body.
Wait in the morgue, injection and wait for him to wake up (hopefully).
Sign his death certificate.
"You make it sound so easy," my throat is closing, clogging and I have to look away from him.
"I know this will be…difficult for you," his hands drop away from my shoulder and I feel suddenly bereft, as if he's already gone even though I can see him in front of me. "But John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade will all be in mortal danger if we don't execute this properly."
I stare at him now; the mask is slipping again, revealing a glimpse of the emotion buried beneath. He's afraid.
"If I can find a way out of this, Molly, I will take it. But, I can't guarantee it."
I nod; I don't trust myself to speak to him now.
"Are you sure you can do this? It won't be easy. You'll have to lie to everybody, and I don't know for how long. It could be years."
My heart sinks at the thought, but my spine straightens. For years I have wanted Sherlock to notice me, to see me and rely on me. I built this dream of him in my head, this ingenious man, made of steel, who could do anything, be anyone, who just needed the right girl to make him truly happy.
How silly and juvenile it all seems now. Like a little girl's fantasy Fairytale when reality is so much darker and difficult. Sherlock needs me now and I refuse to let him down.
"I'll do whatever you need me to. I promise," I try to smile reassuringly at him, but I fear my brimming eyes and stiff lips won't be much comfort to him.
He closes his eyes and his body relaxes, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders, like a coiled spring being allowed to relax.
"Thank you, Molly," he opens his eyes and it's the first time I've been the subject of his sincere gaze.
I swallow the lump in my throat, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge it. Instead I nod jerkily and leave. My legs are like jelly and I'm standing outside my front door without even knowing how.
Oh God, Sherlock's going to die.