Disclaimer: It ain't mine
Author's Note: Enjoy!
Molly was shivering.
She strained her eyes to see through the darkness that surrounded her, blinking repeatedly as her brain tried to figure out whether her eyes were open, if they were covered with something to create such horrid darkness, or if she were in a space where darkness surrounded her so completely. She knew that she was lying flat on her back, her arms and legs strapped down tightly with a restraint on her forehead that kept her from lifting her head. She also knew that she was naked from the waist up, could feel the two halves of her t-shirt lying open, as if the material had been split in half. Molly also knew she was no longer wearing a bra.
She tried to take a deep breath and smelled earth, as if she were somewhere underground. She tried to listen to noises, anything that could help her figure out where she could possibly be but she only heard deafening silence. Her last memory was of the airport, and drinking tea that was so hot it had burned her tongue...
Ok old girl, you're in trouble she assured herself. Trying to calm down, she took stock of her body, treating it as if it was a piece of evidence brought into Bart's for her to examine. Nothing was broken, nothing hurt except the small of her back from having her legs stretched out straight for so long. She could feel no sting that would indicate that she'd been cut in anyway, she wasn't dizzy so there hadn't been a blow to the head. Her thoughts were lucid, her memory sharp except for the bit between the tea and here but she suspected there had been something in the tea.
So this is how it ends, she found herself thinking, consciously shutting her eyes so that she was sure the darkness was because they were closed.
She would fight if she could, but she was blind and powerfulness the way she was strapped down. There was nothing in her pockets that would help her cut through her restraints, and even if she had, the material was so thick she wouldn't be able to loosen it without drawing attention. If her attacker came into the room, she would bite and scratch and kick as much as she could, she'd even headbutt him if her head wasn't tied down.
But she knew that it was time to go, that it was finally happening. This was the end…her end.
She gathered all her thoughts and conjured up her love, her Sherlock. She saw his beautiful face, those cheekbones so sharp that they cast shadows, those mercurial eyes that were capable of so much affection and terrible moments of ice, that tall, lean body that was warm to the touch…warmer than anyone could've guessed. She heard his voice, saw his smile, traced the perfect peaks of his upper lip, tasted his plump lover lip, felt the shadow of his beard against her bare breasts on those mornings he wouldn't bother to shave.
Her love.
Her Sherlock.
In her mind's eye she saw him that night he'd come to Bart's, heard his words for the millionth time in her memory. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still help me?"
Her love…
With all heart, with all her soul, with every fiber of her being she prayed in that moment that her death not tear her Sherlock apart, that whichever God heard her fervent prayers gave him the strength to live with her death in peace. She kept repeating in her mind: I love you Sherlock, I love you Sherlock, I love you Sherlock, with the hope that it somehow moved out of her body and mind, out into the universe to touch him.
"Ah, Dr. Hooper, the pathologist from Bart," the sly voice slithered out from the darkness, gripping her heart like a vice, "Sherlock Holmes' little girlfriend. Thank you so much for waiting, I just had to take care of a few things upstairs," the tone of the voice suggested that they were two ordinary people, having a perfectly ordinary conversation at the doctor's office, "now, we may begin your procedure.
I love you Sherlock.
