Molly was worried that night. Had Sherlock really just left her? She'd hailed a cab and was in her slippers and kitty pyjamas, sipping a coffee to keep herself awake. Just text him. Just text. It's just a text!
Sherlock, where are you?
-Molly x
I'm not far. Following a lead.
-SH
It's getting late. I'm worried. Hurry up.
-Molly
Soon.
-SH
Well, fine. She shuffled off to bed. She still hadn't fully sorted through her room; boxes lined the walls and her wardrobe was only half full. Damn. She forgot her phone… if Sherlock needs me… she went back to retrieve it. One new message.
Molly. Need your help. I'm at Bart's.
-SH
Why?
-Molly
Just do it! Danger!
-SH
What? Sherlock are you okay?
-Molly
Cabbie. Killer. Got me.
-SH
Molly shoved her phone in her pocket, ran outside and hailed a cab. She was there in minutes. Please let it be enough.
'Sh-Sherlock? Where are you? What's going-'
'Sit down and shut up.' She felt a gun press to the back of her head. She did as she was told. The man walked out in front of her. Old, glasses, frail looking. Not your typical killer. But in his hand…
'Sherlock's phone! Where is he, tell me where he is!'
The man chuckled.
'He's long gone, sweetheart. Already dead. Now, me and you, we're going to play a game. And you're going to die. It's painless, honestly.' He held up two pills in bottles.
'Oh, how cliché. You give her the poison, she dies and it's told as a suicide.'
Molly was elated. She couldn't believe it. Was it a trap? Sherlock snatched the gun from the man's hands, tossing the pills to the floor.
'Well, not on my watch,' Sherlock growled. 'Get out of here, or I promise I will make you beg for death. You see, this isn't a real gun. You're defenceless.'
'No, but this one is.' The man drew another from his inside pocket, clicked the catch and trained it on Sherlock.
'NO!' Almost before she knew what she was doing, Molly had launched herself forward, forcing his arm down and shoving the gun into his gut. It went off. Blood splattered her and Sherlock as the man lay with his belly blown open.
'Give me a name. Who's making you do this?' Sherlock murmured.
'…Never…tell!'
'Fine. I still have time to make you hurt.' And he stuck his hand into the gaping wound and latched on. The man howled. Sherlock squeezed, primal fury on his face. 'A NAME!'
'M-MORIARTY!' Dead. Molly stared at Sherlock. She'd never seen him like that, so inhuman. He offered her his hand, the one not slick with blood.
'Molly… I'm sorry. Forgive me.' She took it.