Hello everyone. I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. I encountered my first real case of writer's block since starting this story, and most of this chapter was written yesterday and this morning when I finally had the inspiration. This chapter is the shortest so far, but I feel that it gets the point across. There will only be one more chapter after this, but it'll probably be the longest.
Just a fair warning: Prepare for a lot of angst and such. Also, I hope I wrote Molly okay, cause I really had a hard time with her character.
As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, and please correct me on any British English.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, no matter how much I wish to.
The plastic chair was uncomfortable. The man sitting in it appeared equally uncomfortable, sitting up stiffly.
The waiting room was quiet. Empty except the lone man. It was late, everyone else had already gone home. But the man stayed, waiting for one late shifted mortician to share their results.
Eventually another man walked into the room. He was dressed in a full suit, and held a black umbrella in his hand.
The umbrella man nodded to the sitting man, "John," he greeted.
John looked up, staring blankly at Mycroft. He knew they were both waiting for the same thing.
If he had felt any better, he would have offered for Mycroft to sit down, but the man would have declined anyway. He preferred to stand.
They sat, and stood, respectively, in relative silence for a long while, both lost in their own thoughts. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, the door to the waiting room creaked open. A woman walked in. She was wearing a lab coat, and she looked very sad.
"Mister Holmes, and John, thank you for coming." She said, motioning for them to follow her. John stood, stiffly and painfully, and limped slowly towards her.
"Molly," Mycroft spoke spoke, "you have the results for the autopsy?" It was said almost as a statement, rather than a question.
"Yes," Molly's cheeks bore evidence of tears, but her face was stoic, a mask hiding her distress. "I did the autopsy, and there were signs of a poison. I'll have to wait for the test results to know what kind, but-" she paused to clear her throat, "but there's something I need to tell you."
Both men stared at her, one with emotion written across his face, the other unreadable.
"What did you find?" Mycroft prompted.
"Sherlock, he-" her voice broke, and she started again, "when you found him, Sherlock wasn't dead. I- It's too late now, but if we had known, we- we could have saved him."
John sat up, jerking upright. He was breathing harshly, covered in sweat. It was dark, and John's mind was still lost in what he had seen. He took several gasping breaths, looking frantically around the room.
He was sitting in his bed, sheets twisted around his legs. The digital clock on his bedside table said it was 1:30 in the morning.
It wasn't real. But what if it was?
John's eyes widened. It was all just a dream.
But what if Sherlock's not really dead?
That made no sense, how could he not be dead? John had felt his lack of pulse, he had performed CPR.
He's faked it before. But last time, he had only felt the lack of pulse for a few seconds before the other people had pulled him away.
Sherlock had laid there, no pulse on his carotid artery, not breathing, for at least a half hour. How could that possibly be faked?
There was no reasonable explanation, and yet, John couldn't help wondering: what if?
He had to know. If there was even the tiniest chance, he had to try.
The autopsy! It was supposed to happen tonight, Molly often worked late shifts. He might still have time.
Face set with a frantic determination, John got out of bed. He didn't bother getting dressed, simply throwing on a jacket before racing out of the flat.
He went down the stairs two at a time and ran out the door, slamming it behind him. His cane, which had become needed once more after that horrible night, lay abandoned, leaning against the bed.
Outside, the normally busy city was much subdued, as most people were at home sleeping.
John spun around, looking desperately for a cab. There were none around. John started running.
The few pedestrians he met were brushed past without so much as a sorry. He had only one goal: to get to St. Bart's Hospital.
And so he ran, ignoring anything that might threaten to distract him.
When he got to the hospital, he barged through the doors. Bart's was not technically open, but there were still several employees working late. The lone man sitting at the front desk recognized John from his and Sherlock's frequent visits and didn't question him as he ran down the hallway towards the morgue.
He had walked the same path hundreds of times, trailing after his long-strided flatmate. But this time he was alone, and his purpose was both more urgent and morbid.
As John threw open the doors to the morgue, he was met with a sight that would haunt him for months.
Sherlock's body lay on the metal table. Molly stood over him, plastic gloves holding tightly onto a scalpel and sliding it into his flesh.
Molly looked up, mid-incision, as John flew through the doors.
"STOP!" He screamed.
Will Sherlock survive? Or will it truly be too late? If you wanna find out how the story ends, I'd suggest leaving a review. It just might motivate me to update faster.