Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

Yes, I'm back. Thanks again to Creamocrop for this prompt, and to everyone who is following, and left me a review, and read the first chapter. I had to write this chapter twice, because ate a part of it, so I'm sorry if it has no sense. And sorry if Sherlock is too OOC, it's really difficult to write something so emotionally draining, and at the same time mantain him in character...

And if you need an explanation
Then everything must go

I look to the future it makes me cry
But it seems too real to tell you why

Freed from the century
With nothing but memory, memory

"Everything must go" - Manic Street Preachers


The third time, it was the first time Sherlock saw Molly Hooper die. He was just turning the corner, and was running towards the morgue. He heard Molly's voice, then Mr Sumner shouting...and the gunshots. Three gunshots, then the sound of heavy footsteps, running away.

He had seen hundreds of crime scenes, in his career. Some were almost neat; some gruesome. This scene was pure horror, because for the first time, he knew the victim. Molly Hooper's body was surrounded by blood, and when he kneeled down to check her vitals, he was able to see the last drop of life leaving her eyes. Her pupils, hollow and cold...her skin was still warm, and his fingers, stained with blood, her blood, traced an unknown figure on her wrist. No pulse. How many times had he checked her pulse, just by looking at her jugular vein? How many times had he witnessed her skin blushing, her pupils dilating, while simply speaking to her? He didn't know...and his biggest regret, in that moment, was the fact that he had not paid enough attention to all those details. His biggest hope, was that one day the nightmare would stop, but only because he would be able to save her.

Once, it almost happened. Maybe the cab driver was faster than the others, maybe his legs had more stamina...that time, he was able to tackle down Mr Sumner after the first shot. He punched him once, twice,three times, with fast precision (he was a boxeur, he knew exactly where to hit to make more damage as possible)and left him unconscious, the gun discarded on the floor. Molly was still breathing, there was less blood than the other times...and it was then that Sherlock discovered that the first shot was the fatal one.

He pressed one hand against the wound on her neck, praying that someone had heard the shots (since when had he prayed for something to happen?), not trusting his voice to shout for help. He heard the commotion in the hallway, someone was coming, thankfully.

"Sh...Sher..."

"Don't try to speak, Molly...I-I'm here, don't worry". Sherlock Holmes, the man incapable of feelings, trying to comfort the most sensitive person he had ever met: whoever, or whatever was playing with Molly's life, with his life, making him relive that day forever, had surely a sick sense of humour.

"I- I'm dying, Sh-"

"No, you're not. Molly, I-"

Her breath was more laboured, then suddenly it became feeble, and he checked her pulse by instinct. Weak, but still there.

"Move! I'm losing her!" he shouted to the nurse that was coming into the room, his fingers still on her wrist...gone. No pulse.

No Molly.

Again.


It was the seventh time Sherlock woke up and it was still Monday, that he decided to risk and tell John. He had tried everything: alerting St. Bart's security, to stop Mr Sumners before he could reach Molly; trying to move Mr Sumner's wife to another morgue; ordering Molly to run away...everything in vain.

Maybe John could help. Maybe he could see something his intellect could not detect. Maybe he just needed a friend.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". Every day, the same sentence from John welcomed him. It was dreadful, and the evidence that he was still trapped in that hallucination.

"No time. We have to go to . Now"

"Sherlock, your brother..."

"I don't care a damn about my brother! We need to catch the first cab and arrive before it happens!". He ran towards the door, John behind him. "Sherlock, why?"

"I will explain later, now move!"

Obviously, John didn't believe him at first: he tried, of course, but the good doctor just assumed that Sherlock was trying to avoid helping his brother, or worse, that he had overdosed his nicotine patches. It was only when they were out of the elevator, in the morgue's hallway, when they heard the shots, that John understood.

"Do you believe me, now!?" Sherlock shouted to him, before running desperately, trying to reach Molly before it was too late.

The image of Sherlock crouched at Molly's side, his useless attempt at tamponing the wound on her neck with his handkerchief...that desperate man could not be his flatmate, could he?

"Don't stand still, come and help her! You're a doctor,save her!" he plead, but John Watson was a former army doctor: he had witnessed death more than Sherlock, and he knew that there was nothing he could do.

"Sherlock, she-she's..."John's voice trembled, and he felt the tears pooling in his eyes. Molly, sweet, brave Molly...why?"We must call someone..."

"No need...they're coming. First the red-haired nurse, then the janitor...give them three minutes, and the security is going to catch Mr Sumner". As predicted, a ginger woman, an old man with a blue uniform entered the room. Sherlock remained still, his hands red by the blood...his fingers were caressing Molly's skin.

They waited for Lestrade to arrive, and the consulting detective mechanically proceeded to anticipate everything: the DI's words, and then Mrs Hudson crying and mourning, Molly's brother's phone call...

"So it happens to you everyday?" John asked Sherlock later, when they were home, sitting in their armchairs, Sherlock still dirty with Molly's blood on his hands.

"Yes" was his laconic answer.

"Since when?"

"It's a been a week today"

"And it ends always with..." the good doctor couldn't pronounce the words: for him, it had simply just happened, and he found the idea that Molly was gone simply too strange, unbelievable...

"Molly's death? Yes, she always dies...always"

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock. The fact that she's gone, and you have to live it all over again, every time, alone...it's beyond cruelty"

Sherlock simply nodded, his expression unreadable. John Watson had seen Sherlock going hysteric over a case, being frightened by the idea that his brain would fail him in Baskerville...but right now, he couldn't imagine what his best friend was thinking. He knew that Molly had helped him faking his death, and that he had always respected her as a valuable pathologist, but Sherlock's behaviour told him that maybe something else had transpired between them during the years in which he had been dead.

Sherlock's voice interrupted his speculations. "I suggest you go downstairs to console Mrs Hudson- she always takes her death very badly..."

"Sherlock, if there's something that I can do for you..."

"Not for me, for Molly. Help me save Molly Hooper, John. We- I need to save her"

I'm prepared for your reviews. Thanks for reading, and remember, I'm still searching for the silver lining. Maybe I just need an Ariadne's thread...