Leap of Faith Chapter 2, a sherlock fanfic

Thank you so much for the wonderful response! I hope it continues to please you!

Obviously, (and again) I am admitting my ignorance concerning what actually happened. Molly may have still been there in the hospital when it happened, I don't know. So when the next season comes out, if I am proved to be in error, that's fine! This is just to tide us all over until then…J

Enjoy!

VVVVV

CHAPTER TWO

Day darkened and the stars shone

Setting their course among the clouds

The maiden sat, burdened by her sadness

Her singing could not have been more soothing

I moved closer to the young woman

Singing of her love sailing on the sea

Oh, sweet was her sad lament

"My love is on the high seas..."

-Tha Mo Ghaol Air Àird A' Chuain

Molly stayed in her flat all day. She had called in sick to work—she could not go in. He had ordered her not to. She didn't turn on the wireless, didn't click on her computer, and definitely did not switch on the television. She had gotten dressed and brushed her hair and put it in a ponytail and everything, but couldn't eat. So she paced back and forth through the pink and white sitting room, her stocking feet swishing on the carpet being the only sound in the quiet, all the while doing something she hadn't done in quite some time.

She prayed.

She prayed and prayed, with all her strength. Sometimes silently, as she stared out the window at the gray sky. Sometimes out loud, clutching a pillow to her chest.

Always the same thing, over and over again.

Then, at noon, the door banged open.

Molly spun around, the pillow held tight in her arms…

Her ginger-haired, freckled flat-mate, Jenny, bounded up the stairs, still in her blue scrubs. She slung her purse down on the couch and swiped a strand of her hair out of her face.

"Oh, what a horrid day," she exclaimed, pressing both hands to her face for a moment before crossing her arms and shaking her head.

"What happened?" Molly asked.

Jenny opened her green eyes and looked at her…

And her brow slowly knitted.

"Molly…" she said quietly, gently. "He's killed himself."

Molly stood still.

"Your Sherlock Holmes," Jenny went on. "You know how they've been on and on about him in the papers and on the telly—how he's a fake and a fraud and he's been swindling people all these years…" She sighed, then stepped toward Molly and took hold of her shoulders. She spoke slowly, softly. "This morning he jumped off the roof of the hospital. I was on the lower floor, and I had to respond." She swallowed, and rubbed her hand up and down Molly's arm. "He died right away."

Molly's throat locked up. She didn't dare say anything—didn't dare ask a single question. If it had worked, she could ruin it all single-handedly. If it hadn't…

If it hadn't…

A deep shudder ran through her whole body.

"Oh, Molly!" Jenny gasped, putting an arm round her. "You've just turned white. Here, come sit down."

She steered her over to the couch and Molly eased down into it next to Jenny, clamping the pillow even tighter.

"They also…They also found a dead man on the roof," Jenny continued, keeping her arm around Molly's shoulders. "He rather looked like…Like that Jim fellow who took you out a couple times…"

Molly's eyes flashed. She clamped her jaws shut.

"It looks as if he killed himself too. Shot," Jenny said, her voice low. She sighed, labored, sat back and pressed a hand to her eyes. "Madness. What was going on up there?"

Molly said nothing. Jenny finally sat up again, and pulled Molly against her side.

"Are you going to be all right, love?" she whispered. "You feel faint?"

"Yeah," Molly finally gasped, nodding. "Yeah, a little."

"Can I get you something?"

"No," Molly shook her head. "No, I'm…" She drew in a careful breath that hurt. "Could I just be…alone for a bit, Jenny? Please?"

"No, I don't think I should."

"Please," Molly said firmly. "Please, Jenny. Just for a little while."

"Are you sure about that?" Jenny looked at her sideways.

"Yes," Molly said. "Yes, please, could you…?"

Jenny considered her, then nodded reluctantly.

"All right. I'll go out to get myself a bite to eat. But whatever you do, don't turn on the telly. Somebody caught almost the whole thing on his camera phone and they've been playing it over and over on the news."

Molly's stomach flipped. Jenny gave her one last squeeze, then got up, picked up her purse and started down the stairs.

"If you need anything at all, give me a ring," Jenny called. She paused. "You're sure you want to be by yourself?"

"Yeah, I'll…I think I'll call my mum," Molly managed.

"Okay, good," Jenny said. "I will see you soon."

Molly didn't reply. Jenny hesitated, then headed down the rest of the stairs and left. The door shut behind her.

Molly flew off the couch and punched the button on the television in the corner. She then fell on her knees in front of it, flipping through the channels by clicking the buttons on the set. Finally, she caught up with a news station…

A primly-dressed anchor woman sat there in a red suit, reading out—

And a portrait of Sherlock Holmes perched up in the right hand corner of the screen. Molly watched without blinking.

"…may be disturbing," the anchor said solemnly. "England's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, made famous by the blog written by his colleague Dr. John Watson, has died today. Following a barrage of public accusations declaring him to be a fraud—and even a criminal mastermind—Holmes was arrested at his flat on Baker Street, only to steal a gun, take Dr. Watson as a hostage, and flee police on foot. A man-hunt ensued, but was unsuccessful, until Mr. Holmes threw himself off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital."

The screen flicked to a hand-held video—doubtlessly the one Jenny had mentioned. It bounced with the person's running gait, heading straight down a sidewalk beneath a gray sky. Molly knew the place straightaway—it was the walkway just beside St. Bart's. The camera approached a flurry of doctors, nurses and passers by—Molly also caught sight of someone who looked very much like John Watson, face pale as a sheet, fighting through one side of the crowd to get to the center of it. The person with the camera held it up, so it could get a clear shot of whatever lay on the ground…

Molly slapped her hand over her mouth. The anchorwoman kept talking, but she didn't hear.

Blood. Blood everywhere. A whole paving stone filled with blood.

And Sherlock. Lying there on his belly, his dark head resting on that stone.

The doctors bent and turned him over.

His face—lily white. Splattered all over with blood. Blood matting his hair on the right side of his head.

His eyes. His crystal blue eyes staring sightlessly straight up. Wide open and blank.

John fell to his knees beside Sherlock, reached out and gripped his wrist.

Doctors and others grabbed him and pulled him away. He staggered back.

A doctor suddenly turned round and spotted the person with the camera. Angrily, the doctor rushed at the person, reached up—

His hand obstructed the lens.

The screen cut back to the calm anchorwoman.

"…of foul play. The investigation into this suicide, and into the identity of the dead man found on the roof, is ongoing."

The news then switched to some turmoil in the Middle East, and Molly sank back onto her heels.

The image of his white face streaked with dark red blood scalded her mind.

Her fingers closed around her throat.

She hadn't seen him fall. There was no way for her to tell…

She scrambled to her feet, raced down the short hallway and into her messy bedroom. She shut the door, bent and dug around in her bag and pulled out her phone. Her fingers shook as she flicked through her contacts, then selected one. She pressed the phone to her ear, and her fingers to her lips.

Ring.

"This is Sherlock Holmes—"

Molly sucked in her breath—

"—I'm not answering the phone right now. There are many ways you could have acquired this number, however, if I did not give it to you, I suggest that you do not leave a message unless it concerns something I would deem extremely important. Thank you."

She hung up. Stared down at his number on her screen.

She swallowed hard. Squeezed her eyes shut.

That image floated up in front of her again.

"Okay, okay…" she panted, opening her eyes and setting her phone down on the bedside table. "He will call. He will. Just…do something productive in the meantime."

VVVVV

Molly cleaned her whole room. Changed her sheets, put on a new comforter and pillowcases, picked up all the dirty laundry off the floor and threw it in the wash, hoovered the carpet, dusted her dresser, chest, night table, bookshelf, blinds, lamps and windowsill.

Then, she snatched up her phone, and rang him again.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm not answering the phone right now. There are many ways you could have acquired this number, however, if I did not give it to you, I suggest that you do not leave a message unless it concerns something I would deem extremely important. Thank you."

She listened to his growling voice all the way through, holding her breath and closing her eyes. Then, she hung up right after it beeped. Stared at it.

She set the phone down on her blankets, opened her closet and pulled everything out of it. She put old clothes she no longer liked in a trash bag, re-ordered the ones she wanted to keep and straightened the messy heap of shoes on the floor of it. Then, she stood up and shut the door. Picked up her phone.

The area behind Molly's breastbone began to pang sharply. It felt hard to breathe. She pressed the phone to her heart, standing at the foot of her bed. She glanced out the window.

The sky was getting dark. She looked over at her clock.

Six in the evening.

The front door opened.

She stiffened. Her pulse pounded.

Light footsteps.

"Molly?"

"Hi…Jenny," Molly called, mentally staggering. "I'm in my room."

Jenny swung around the doorframe, and stared at the clean room.

"Goodness," she commented. "How are you?"

"Not…very well," Molly gripped her phone tight.

Jenny cocked her head at her.

"You calling your mum?"

"No, I…" Molly swallowed—and decided to be as truthful as she could. "I've been listening to his…To his voice mail…answering message. To hear his voice."

Jenny looked at her a moment, then stepped in and embraced her. Molly laid her head down on her friend's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Jenny said. "I'm so sorry."

Molly tried not to choke. She nodded hard.

Jenny backed up.

"Do you need anything?"

"I think I'll…I'll go to bed," Molly told her.

"Don't want to eat anything?"

"No. No, thanks," Molly tried to smile. Failed.

"Want to talk about it?" Jenny pressed.

"Maybe. In the morning. Maybe," Molly said—and her brow twisted. Her throat felt thick.

"Okay," Jenny murmured. She hugged her again. "Shout at me if you need anything at all."

"I will," Molly rasped out. Jenny held her for a moment longer, squeezed her, then quietly left the room. Molly followed and shut the door.

She got into her nightclothes and crawled into bed, still holding the phone. She turned out the lights, and stared at the red numbers of her digital clock on her night table.

Minutes passed. She counted her breaths, laying the screen of her phone against the base of her throat, curling her knees up to her chest.

Hours.

The clock blinked 9:00

She lifted her phone and hit redial.

She hung up. Fought back a fit of terrible shivers. Started counting the minutes again.