Tumblr Prompt: Can you please make a fic in which Molly almost dies taking a bullet for Sherlock or something like that and Sherlock tries to save her?
A/N: An angsty-drabble set in the 1800s with Molly and Sherlock in an arranged marriage. Enjoy, my dear!
'I warned you to stay out of my way, Mister Holmes. And you still didn't listen.' The taunting voice laughed, echoing in a disturbing way and sending shivers up and down Molly's spine. She peeked around the corner of her hiding spot in the warehouse.
Richard Brook, Jim Moriarty, she corrected herself, stood across from her husband. Sherlock had his back to her, but she could see the pistol he pointed at Moriarty. With quiet steps, Molly slipped around the pillar and moved closer, still remaining hidden.
'I don't take orders from criminals.' Sherlock's calm baritone reverberated through the room.
Molly peered around the pillar just as Moriarty shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner. 'I expected nothing less. But that doesn't mean I won't follow through on my threat.'
'Ah, yes,' Sherlock replied. 'I believe you intend to burn the heart out of me.' He tsked and cocked the hammer of his pistol. 'Unfortunately for you, I don't have one.'
'But we both know that's not quite true.' Moriarty tilted his head knowingly and smirked, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. 'Tell me, how is the missus? Seb's told me so much about her, the lonely wife of the great Sherlock Holmes.'
Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly.
Moriarty sauntered closer to Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. 'Haven't you met Seb? My right-hand assassin?' He snapped his fingers and laughed mechanically as he pointed at Sherlock. 'Oh, that's right. You know him as Barnaby, your wife's footman.'
There was pin-drop silence.
Molly trembled under the knowledge that her footman, her friend, was an assassin working for the man trying to bring down her husband. It felt surreal, like the plot of a fanciful book. But when she saw the slight hesitation in Sherlock's grip before he slowly released the hammer and lowered the pistol, reality crashed around her.
'Very good,' Moriarty mockingly praised, his applause making Molly cringe. 'Lesson 1, Mister Holmes, never underestimate me. I knew where your heart lay long ago, despite your desperate attempts to ignore it.'
But that would mean… Molly's thoughts flailed as she tried to piece together Moriarty's implication. As she turned her head to peer around the pillar, she could see that Sherlock had surrendered his gun.
'Leave her alone,' he spat. 'She has nothing to do with your game.'
Moriarty cackled and waved the gun mockingly. 'Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Haven't you figured it out yet?'
While Moriarty turned away, Molly snuck to the next closest pillar. He brushed down his suit and whirled about with a wicked smile. 'Your dear wife, forced into a marriage you did not want, has fallen in love with you. And you, oh, you, Sherlock!' He danced a gleeful jig, pointing Sherlock's pistol at him carelessly. 'You oblivious idiot! You never saw it. You made it quite clear from the beginning that you had no interest in her, in marriage, or in anything either of those… entailed. And you've broken her heart! But what of your heart?'
Sherlock flinched subtly.
Now close enough to see the way Moriarty's eyes danced in wickedness, Molly felt a horrific sense of foreboding.
'She is your weakness.' Moriarty dipped his chin down and peered up at him with piercing eyes. 'But she is my trophy, my angel. I will kill you and while your body rots in the Thames, I will retrieve my prize.'
Bile rose in her throat at the thought.
Moriarty's grin abruptly dropped. 'I am the devil. What greater reward for me than the heart of an angel? A shame, Sherlock, that she will never know of your own heart. Too bad,' he tsked and lifted the pistol to point directly over Sherlock's heart. 'I win, Mister Holmes.'
Time seemed to slow down as Molly scrambled from her hiding spot as Moriarty flicked the hammer back. Flinging herself in front of Sherlock, she heard the reverberation of the shot echo in the cavernous room. A dull pain hit her shoulder as the bullet impacted and she stumbled back into Sherlock.
She felt her legs crumble underneath her, but she did not fall. Glancing down, she saw the blood staining her nightgown under her coat and Sherlock's arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her against his chest. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground.
Moriarty's eyes widened in horror and he dropped the pistol. It clattered to the floor.
'No,' he breathed. His face distorted in rage and he shouted, 'No!'
The pain in her shoulder grew and her vision started to blacken around the edges, blood pounding in her ears. Sherlock laid her out and placed her head in his lap, brushing her hair from her face. His eyes were wide and terrified. There was suddenly a plethora of shouts and footsteps. She turned her head slightly to see all of Scotland Yard pouring into the room, led by Greg Lestrade, who immediately restrained the shock-stricken Moriarty. Sherlock's hand cupped her cheek and brought her gaze back to him.
'Molly, Molly, please.' His voice faded in and out as he whipped the ever-present ascot from his neck and pressed it to her wound. A flash of pain shot through her and she groaned. Something dripped onto her cheek. Tears, she realized, Sherlock's tears. 'Please don't do this to me,' he begged, his usual cold demeanor abandoned to sheer vulnerable terror.
Suddenly, she felt herself being lifted into strange arms. 'We need to get her to the surgery. Now.' The familiar voice of John Watson spoke above her. The last thing she saw before she surrendered to the darkness was Sherlock's tear-stricken face over the shoulder of the army doctor as he carried her away.
Her chest rose and fell steadily. A miracle. At least, according to John. Sherlock brushed a trembling hand over the inside of her wrist, thanking whatever deity allowed it that her heart still beat steadily beneath his fingertips. He lifted her limp hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles, closing his eyes as he prayed for her to wake up.
'Come back to me, Molly,' he whispered.
She'd been unconscious for nigh on a week. The bullet had been removed from her shoulder, courtesy of Doctor Watson's surgical skills. But her body was still recovering from the loss of blood and the shock to her system.
Sherlock had not left her side since that night for more than five minute spans to tend to himself. His eyes were hollow and sunken, his hair in utter disarray.
Sighing, Sherlock placed her hand on top of the other and sat back in his chair, running a hand down his haggard face. 'I've never loved before,' he admitted hoarsely. 'I knew you felt deeply for me.' He swallowed thickly against the lump in his throat and leaned forward on his knees. 'And I'm sorry… I'm sorry it took you sacrificing yourself for me to realize that I feel deeply for you, as well.'
A gentle sigh broke the silence following his quiet admission. He jerked his head up and leapt to his feet when he saw Molly's eyelids fluttering open. 'Molly?'
She groaned and blinked up at him blearily. 'Did you mean it?' She whispered hesitantly.
Sherlock froze and his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't intended for her to hear. And he was afraid. Afraid of being weak. But the white gauze on her shoulder reminded him that her love was powerful enough to keep him alive. He knew that were he to accept his love for her, he would do whatever it takes to keep her safe, as well.
He smiled and traced a finger down her cheek, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. She sighed happily as he pulled away and he smirked proudly at the red of her kissed lips and the glow on her once deathly pale face.
'Yes. I meant it,' he admitted huskily. 'I love you, Lady Holmes.'
Her eyes sparkled as she beamed up at him. 'And I, you, my dear husband.'
