Chapter 2

Molly watched him fall from the tiny window near the ceiling of her basement office. On cue, the homeless man that had been sitting next to the trashcan rushed over to cut the thin wire attached to Sherlock's ankle, allowing it to retract out of sight. She could see the dark rivers of blood winding away from him, hoping desperately it was from the concealed packets she had given him, and not fresh from his veins.

Molly had to look away when she saw John rushing to Sherlock's side, the agony plainly written on his face. A hospital physician would reach Sherlock within thirty seconds, he had said. Upon seeing the height of the fall, the brain matter in his hair, and the utter lack of any signs of life, he would be pronounced dead at the scene. They would know there was no hope of survival from that height, and bring him to her.

A larger crowd had gathered, as Sherlock expected given the time of day, and hospital personnel would feel obligated to remove him from the sidewalk as quickly as possible to minimize the opportunities for photographs, and therefore the questions about how someone could have gained access to the roof of St. Barts for the purpose of committing suicide. John, in his grief, would be kept away from Sherlock's body on the street, and she would provide the needed confirmation to Lestrade that Sherlock Holmes was dead. She hoped that she would be lying.

His gurney appeared in the morgue within two minutes, a white sheet draped over his very still form, while hospital security kept the curious from getting anywhere close to the hospital basement. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hooper," a young orderly said to her, placing his hand gently on her back. "I understand you knew him."

"Who?" Molly looked up from the paperwork on her desk, appearing confused.

"Sherlock Holmes. A man outside ID'ed him. He committed suicide just now. Jumped right off the roof of the hospital, he did. Docs upstairs pronounced him." Molly rushed over, but couldn't pull back the sheet. "You want me to ask them to call someone else in? You still have to sign for him, but I'm sure they could…"

"No, no, NO!" she yelled at him, lifting up the sheet momentarily to confirm his identity. She took three deep breaths. "I'm sorry, Martin, I'm sorry. I should be the one. I need to take care of him. He wouldn't want anyone else seeing him so…" She searched for the word while she rested her hand on his still-covered form, and she said quietly, "broken."

"I understand," the man said. "If you need anything…" He was already backing up towards the door.

"Can you give me a few moments alone with him, please. Keep everyone out, just until I've said my goodbyes, then I'll prep him for viewing." She touched the thick blood that seeped into the sheet near his head. "I need to clean him up. He… he wouldn't want anyone to see him like this."

Martin was already retreating out the door, eager to get away before she started crying. "I'll make sure you have some privacy," he said as closed the door behind him. Molly bolted the door, ran back to Sherlock, and pulled the sheet off. He looked terrible. His face was swollen and bloodied, his limbs arranged haphazardly on the gurney. She pulled the autoinjector out of her pocket and slammed it against Sherlock's thigh, praying it worked quickly.

She peeled back the prosthetic covering his right carotid artery, and felt for a pulse. It was very faint, and slow, but it was there, but she couldn't be sure if he was breathing. He had two to three minutes before she'd know if the antidote worked, but in the meantime, he needed oxygen. She pulled the crash cart closer and placed the ambu bag over his nose and mouth, and giving him slow deep breaths, as his heart sped up and his pulse strengthened.

Sherlock coughed once and his eyes fluttered open, but he couldn't focus. He had a terrible headache, it hurt to breathe, and he felt like he was suffocating. All at once, the pressure on his nose and mouth lifted, and he took a deep shuttering breath. He smelled peaches, and saw Molly's blurry face suspended above him. He reached up to touch her, to reassure himself she was real.

"Don't move, Sherlock." Timid Molly was gone. "You need to lie still until I know the extent of your injuries." She was already moving the x-ray machine into position over him. "Do you understand me?" Molly's tone commanded an answer from him.

"Yes," he said, a quarter smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Molly was full of surprises today. He relaxed back, pushed the pain away from his mind, and let her work. While x-rays of nearly his whole body developed, Molly ran her fingers across his scalp and face, the concentration on her face clear as she probed his injuries. There was nothing sensual or sexual about her touch, she was completely professional as she opened his shirt and felt along each rib, and down his spine, ignoring the dark purple coloration he had previously applied to mimic his expected injuries. Sherlock watched her face intently as she ordered him about, telling him when to move what, and insisting that he tell her if something hurt.

He remained silent, enjoying the sight of Dr. Molly Hooper scrutinizing the details of his x-rays, and he suddenly wondered why she preferred the company of the dead to living patients. She was more than competent, she was thorough and meticulous. He approved.

"I'm fine, Molly," he said, sitting up on the steel table only momentarily. Molly planted her palm on his chest and pushed him back down.

"You have a concussion, three bruised ribs, and an impacted radial head fracture. I told you not to try to break your fall with elbow locked. But your plan worked. I knew you would survive." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of that after the fact. Sherlock knew she didn't doubt his intellect or planning. She was just afraid. For him.

"None of those injuries will impair my escape." He tried to sit up again, but found Molly's hand still on his chest, and she was staring at it there, her mind elsewhere. Sherlock waited, watching her for clues as to what she was thinking. She was feeling his heart beat in his chest, he realized, reassuring herself that he was warm and alive.

He covered her hand with his, and pressed her palm against his chest more firmly, and she startled. Molly's self-consciousness and nerves flooded back to her, now that her medical examination was complete, and Sherlock finally saw it for what it really was. He made her uncomfortable. She was attracted to him, craved his attention, all while she feared him laying her desires bare, like he'd done to her at Christmas. She feared he would disapprove of her. Molly looked away from him and tried to pull her hand back, but Sherlock held tight.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm sorry for always making you feel inadequate and unnoticed. I'm sorry about Christmas. I have always been a selfish and uncaring man, but you never deserved to be treated so poorly. You are strong, and intelligent," she stopped trying to avoid Sherlock's light blue eyes. "And you are beautiful, Molly Hooper. I owe you everything, but I can give you nothing."

Molly opened her mouth to argue with him, but he sat up and placed a finger over her lips, effectively silencing her. "You have my permission and encouragement to find a man who can appreciate you and love you." He slowly let her go as Molly tried to process what he had said.

"You must have a worse concussion than I thought. The…the… Sherlock Holmes I.. I.. know would never say such a thing to me." She busied herself putting away her supplies, but Sherlock saw her hands shake.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." He laid back down on the slab and pulled the sheet over his head. "John will be knocking on the door in ten seconds."

Molly pushed the crash cart into the back room, and switched Sherlock's x-rays with pre-selected ones showing far more catastrophic injuries. She had no idea how'd he known, but a knock came on the morgue door right on schedule.

Sherlock pressed the prosthetic back down to cover his carotid artery, and focused himself on lowering his breathing and heart rate.