A/N: I'm really very sorry about the delay in updating but I really have to believe what I write and I've had writer's block since my last update. Also I'm really sorry about not replying to reviews, for some reason my account won't allow me to but I read and appreciate every one. Now, we continue...
She had hoped she would be able to keep calm. Logically, she knew that pain and death were a certainty being in the presence of Jim Moriarty. But her heart started to rise up her oesophagus and choke off her air supply. She also felt tears leak from her eyes and brush her eyelashes. She looked up to see that Sherlock had indeed moved to the stool and was sitting with eyes staring forward, barren.
"How are your burns Molly? And your cuts as well, are they healing nicely?" Jim asked, as though he were genuinely inquiring after her health with concern.
"Would you like to inspect your handy work for yourself?" Molly choked out.
"Well, if you're not bashful. I did put such a lot of effort into it."
Molly glanced at Sherlock, unbuttoning her white coat, to reveal a long sleeved, black top. She let her coat fall to the floor and grasped the bottom of the cotton top, rising an inch before looking above Sherlock's head and staring, like God himself might come through the wall to save them. She gulped a breath in and raised the top over her head.
She kept her eyes closed as her arms fell to her side and pulled the sleeves from her wrists. Through the drumming in her ears she could hear the sounds of expensive shoes walking across the linoleum. She couldn't resist the urge to look up and was not surprised to see Moriarty walking towards her, chuckling under his breath.
Before looking back down, however, she could see that Sherlock's position had changed slightly. He now had one hand on the slab in front of the stool, his knuckles were white with the exertion of his grasp and his eyes were fixed on her skin.
"This is why I do what I do, Sherlock. Can you not see the beauty of these scars on Molly's skin? What you do, it is like stopping an artist putting brush to canvas." Jim said, while his eyes seemed to glaze over, looking at the broken skin of Molly Hooper's broken body.
Molly looked at Sherlock then and saw the flick of his wrist and heard a subtle hiss which would have been drowned out by Moriarty's voice had she not been listening for it.
"Have you ever considered what it is like to be average?" Molly looked at the dots on her chest as she spoke. "I mean, to be insecure about your intelligence and to be concerned by what people think?"
"Oh look, Sherlock, she's back to normal." Jim said with a smile, turning to Sherlock with a relieved smile. "For a second, I thought I was going to have to damage your pretty face to get her to break down. Yes, your right Molly, you are average."
"You see, that is exactly the same mistake Sherlock makes when he looks at me," Molly said with a chuckle as she approached Moriarty, stopping three feet from his surprised eyes. "But you see, James... I will be able to make the sacrifice Sherlock will not, because I am distinctly average."
She heard the lighter switch, lunged at Moriarty and pushed him towards the gulf of flames that had burst from the lab table gas tap. She felt the bullets hitting her side as she gripped Moriarty's body. The pain overwhelmed her, her vision clouded and then she felt numb.