A.N. Oh gosh, a billion apologies for late update. Will sell soul for forgiveness. Here's a resolution to the cliffhanger, at least?
Molly Hooper's first experience with death was at the age of six, thanks to the tragic mortality of Bunny, her first pet (this was before she began to develop any sort of creativity with nomenclature). She'd cried, of course; she was six and her rabbit was dead, no one blamed her. But as she grew up she became more and more comfortable with death. She saw it as a fact of life: you lived and died, the end. It didn't bother her. This gave her many advantages in the morgue, where some of the other workers would gag upon seeing particularly gruesome corpses and so she'd perform the autopsy by herself, unperturbed.
But this was slightly different. For the first time in her life, the dead man lying in front of her had been killed by her bullet.
Her head began to swim a bit and she felt dizzy. She remembered all the cadavers with gunshot wounds she'd worked with and tried to convince herself he was one of them, just another dead body.
Focus, Molly. You don't have time for this, she thought. What about Irene?
Irene. Shit.
She spun around and rushed to Irene's side. She couldn't tell if it was a puncture wound or a graze, but Irene was losing blood fast.
"Hold on," she whispered. "We'll get you to a hospital, okay? Just hold on."
"Am I okay?" asked Irene.
"No," said Molly, who had never had a great bedside manner. "Just hold on."
She pulled out her mobile and started to dial 112.
"What are you doing?" Irene hissed. "The body, remember?"
Right. Shit. Shitshitshit.
Molly's head was now spinning and she felt ready to throw up. Her beautiful dress was now soaked with Irene's blood and Irene was clenching her teeth in pain.
"Can you walk?"
"I can try," Irene quavered. Molly reached for her hands and pulled her onto her feet. Irene swayed a bit, but Molly wrapped her arm around her waist and held her tightly.
"Come on, come on," she urged. Irene began to mumble something and fainted. Her body curved gracefully and she slumped in Molly's arms. Gently Molly laid her back down on the ground and kneeled by her, feeling helpless.
"Come on," she muttered. "Wake up, you've got to get up!"
It was then that she realized she was crying, tears streaming down her face. She did her best to wipe them away with the palm of her hand but she was useless and Irene was bleeding and everything she was trying wasn't working and she only knew how to deal with bodies, not save lives.
"You've got to get up," she repeated, trying hard not to sob. "You can't leave me. Please."
And in an impulse, she swooped down and kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, not at all like the one in the hotel room, and it didn't relieve her feelings so much as make her cry harder, and Irene didn't wake up.
"Is everything okay?"
Molly looked up and saw a red haired woman standing in the entrance to the alleyway. Her gaze swept from the dead man to Irene's unconscious form, and a flicker of emotion- confusion, maybe? - passed over her face.
"Please, I need help," Molly tried, figuring that this was her last chance. "Can you take us to a hospital?"
"Of course," said the woman. "Yes, of course. Do you need help lifting her?"
Molly reached down and tried to pull Irene up off the ground. It didn't work.
"Erm, if you could help, please..."
"Naturally!"
The woman came over, gingerly stepping around the pools of blood on the ground, and lifted Irene's feet. "My car's just down the street."
They dragged Irene over as quickly as possible and set her up in the backseat, Molly climbing in behind her. The woman pulled out and began to drive. Molly reached over and took Irene's pulse. She was still alive, at least.
"Sorry about the blood," she volunteered.
"It's okay, I can clean the seats."
"This is very kind of you, I can't think how to repay-"
"No need," the woman cut her off, waving her hand. "I'm happy to help."
Molly turned her attention back to Irene, who was breathing shallowly. With a twinge of regret, she tore a strip off of her own dress and tried to use it to slow down the flow of blood from the wound.
"Friend of yours?" the woman asked.
"Fiancée, actually," Molly replied, trying to remember their backstory. Irene was Catherine, right? Catherine Undershaw.
"How long have you been engaged?"
"Is this really the time?" Molly snapped, and immediately felt guilty. The stranger had been nothing but kind to her, but her stress over Irene made everything else look trivial in comparison. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.
"Look. You're panicking and you need to calm down. I'm just trying to help. Tell me about her."
Molly breathed out slowly, glancing over at Irene. She looked so peaceful, slouched against the window, as if she was merely asleep. "She's odd," she started cautiously. "She's not like anyone I'd ever met before. Well, at first I thought she was, but... She's different. She's funny and thoughtful and spontaneous and kind of crazy but it's okay. She's absolutely brilliant and she kisses like it's the end of the world. Her favorite kind of tea is mint and she loves to look at the stars..." Molly started crying again, but once she'd begun she couldn't stop. "We met through a mutual friend. It was something stupid, for work or whatever. And we didn't really get on at first, but we got to know each other and... I dunno. I'd never really liked girls before, but she... You've got to meet her, she's the most incredible person in the world. I just... I need her. Like I've never needed anyone, ever. And if I have to go on without her..." Molly choked back a sob.
"It's okay," the woman murmured soothingly. "She'll be fine. We're almost there."
Molly looked over at the unconscious Irene and held her limp hand as the car pulled into the circle in front of the hospital.
The next few hours were a hellish blur, a pandemonium of doctors and nurses and surgical equipment and filling out forms and startlingly white waiting rooms. Occasionally an older nurse (Maja, her nametag read) would come in to inform Molly of vague updates in thickly accented English. At times Molly fell into shades of a dreamless sleep, sagging against the green plastic cushions of the couch and letting herself slip blearily into unconsciousness. Maja, a stern short-haired woman who happened to be the only nurse there to speak any English, often popped in and asked Molly if she just wanted to go home until she was allowed to visit Irene, but Molly couldn't bring herself to leave. She kept running through the incident in her mind, over and over, finding all the little moments where she could have done something different, ought to have been able to save her. She thought of the woman who had saved Irene, saved Molly too, a complete stranger who had dropped from the sky and asked for no thanks. She'd pulled Molly aside just before she left, into the corner by a flowerpot, and whispered, "She's going to be fine."
"How do you know?" Molly asked, incredulous.
The woman tapped her nose. "Call it a hunch. Keep me updated." She wrapped her scarf around her neck, patted Molly on the back, and swept away like she hadn't just saved someone's life.
It was four in the morning when she was visited by Maja for the last time.
"She's okay," the nurse began, and Molly sunk down in her seat, overwhelmed with relief. "You are very lucky, the bullet missed her bone and major veins. She is resting now."
"Can I see her?" Molly blurted out, unable to wait.
Maja frowned disapprovingly at her. "She needs to sleep."
"But if I promise not to wake her up-"
"No."
"Please? I just need to see that she's okay."
Maja sighed at the ceiling and muttered something to herself. "Fine," she finally responded. "As long as you don't wake her."
Irene looked so peaceful as she slept, her dark hair spread out like a halo across the white pillow. Her arm was wrapped in bandages and her skin was a shade paler than usual. Molly gingerly sat down in the wooden chair next to her, careful not to make any noise. She watched Irene's stomach rise up and down, watched her breathe in and out, and felt so relieved she couldn't speak, even if she wanted to. Maja smiled at her, a tight, thin-lipped smile, and then crept out, shutting the door behind her.
Molly reached out with a trembling hand and smoothed Irene's sheets. She stroked her hair and then gently took her hand, holding it as if it was made of precious crystal. She remembered the first time they met, shaking Irene's hand so carefully, as if it might break, remembered looking into her green eyes and not knowing anything about her. Irene Adler, a mystery then, remained a mystery now, but a different one; one that Molly had learned to work with, to understand, to love.
She fell asleep in the hard wooden chair, fingers still wrapped around Irene's, and when she woke a few hours later, Irene's other hand was resting on her own.
