Chapter 7: Bleeding

Once she was out on the street, Molly found the street bustling with people out enjoying the cool evening air. Having slept all day, Molly decided to walk home to stretch her stiff limbs. It wasn't that far of a walk. She set out, her bag bumping against her hip and her hair softly brushing against her neck in the breeze. She could distinctly feel the solid shape of the cold metal gun in her pocket, but tried not to look nervous. She took well lit roads until she reached her own street. Her street was quiet, almost empty, and dark. She was only two blocks from her flat when a hand shot out of the alley on her left and pulled her into the darkness.

"Wha-?" A hand covered her mouth and fear slithered up her spine.

"Hello, sweetheart." The deep voice was accompanied by a chorus of chuckles. She wrenched her head away from his hand.

"Let me go."

"Now don't be like that." She felt his heavy hands sliding up and down her arms. After a moment, another pair of hands replaced his to hold her in place.

She couldn't think, couldn't even try to think because of the shock and fear crashing through her mind. The first man's hands crept towards the hem of her shirt. She shuddered in disgust as his hands came in contact with her bare skin.

"No…" She sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"C'mon, baby. Just relax." More hands were on her, in her hair, on her hips, her legs. She was finally able to move when she felt a hand sliding its way down the front of her pants. She struggled and kicked but it was too late. The men laughed and paid no attention to her attempts to get free.

Molly felt tears burn down her cheeks. How could this be happening to her? No, no, no. She was so close to home, so close to Sherlock, it wasn't fair. Please…

Suddenly the grip on her right arm was loose, forgotten by her captors. She plunged her hand into her pocket, withdrawing the gun and praying she wouldn't drop it. Barely pausing to aim, she fired. There was a shout of pain and most of the hands that had been on her disappeared. Heavy footfalls told her that they were running, frightened of the gun. One man, the first one, was standing in front of her, a hand pressed to his bicep, where she had apparently shot him. He was staring at her in shock, which quickly gave way to hate.

Taking a deep breath, Molly tried to calm her shaking hands.

"Leave," her voice was quiet, yet firm. She lost some of her confidence when she saw his smile, ugly and fierce. Her only warning was the almost imperceptible tensing of his muscles before he launched himself at her. Molly fired, but her aim was wide because of her panic. His fists planted in her stomach and Molly felt the air rush out of her lungs. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back and the gun was in her attacker's hand.

"Eye for an eye," he hissed at her. She heard another shot and felt a searing pain in her side. Then he was gone, taking the gun with him and leaving her to bleed to death in the alleyway.

…

Molly lay on the ground, struggling to breathe. The pain that was stabbing through her was immobilizing her, as well as disorienting her. She could feel a steam of warm liquid soaking her shirt. She slowly raised a hand to her side and then brought it up to her eyes. Blood. It was at that point that her medical training kicked in. Carefully, she put her hand over the wound and pressed. A cry of pain escaped her, but she swallowed down the sob that she could feel building in her throat. She needed help. The struggle to get to her feet was painful, so much so that Molly almost passed out. But she couldn't stay here; she'd bleed to death for sure. Shuffling and leaning against the wall for support, Molly slowly inched her way home. She kept herself conscious by sheer force of will.

Finally, she reached her flat. She fumbled the key into the lock and tried to turn it. Her hands were wet with blood though and her hand was growing weak. The struggle to get inside lasted for only a few minutes before she heard the lock click open. Molly didn't make it farther than the kitchen before she collapsed on the cool tile floor. She pressed her cheek against the tile and fought to speak.

"Sherlock." It came out as a whisper. She tried again. "Sherlock."

Her vision was becoming hazy and her head felt light. She was going to pass out. She might not wake up again. She gathered what strength she had and let out a shout.

"SHERLOCK!" She had no energy left and hoped that her shriek would be enough to bring him.

"Molly, where have you been?" His voice was coming from the living room. "You said you were only going to be gone a few…hours…Molly! What's wrong?"

His hands were gentle, rolling her over onto her back. Molly fought to focus on his face. She was so tired.

"Molly, stay awake," he said, sounding panicked. "Talk to me, Molly."

His hands and eyes found the source of the blood at that moment, and he said a word Molly hadn't ever imagined him saying. She felt a ghost of a smile flutter across her face.

"What happened?" His voice was hard, tightly under control, as he turned and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. "Molly, stay with me."

She was starting to slip into unconsciousness when his voice reached her again. "This is going to hurt…"

She screamed in pain as he dug the edge on the knife under her skin. The fog that had been surrounding her brain melted to be replaced by blinding pain. She let herself sob as Sherlock poked around with the sharp knife and long, agile fingers.

"Got it." The knife disappeared, and Molly could breathe again. She had known getting the bullet out would be necessary, but she hadn't imagined how painful it would really be. "I'm sorry, Molly."

He proceeded to wrap her up with bandages and then check for other injuries. Finding none, he warned her that he was going to pick her up. Molly found herself nodding weakly. Sherlock's arms slipped underneath her, picking her up and cradling her. Molly felt him carry her to her bedroom, settling her on her bed. Once there, Molly started giving in to the unconsciousness that was creeping up on her. When she sensed Sherlock begin to back away, she grabbed for his sleeve.

"Don't…leave…" She didn't want to be alone. His hand was on her hair, brushing it away from her face.

"I won't."

But she couldn't hear him anymore.

…

Being unconscious was a curious feeling. She had the sense that she was floating, while still fixed firmly in her body. She had vague impressions of what was happening around her, but she started confusing dreams and reality in a matter of hours. She had the sense that people came to visit her, but she knew that wasn't possible because she was hiding Sherlock in her flat. At one point, a doctor from St. Bart's showed up with a medical kit and painkillers. He seemed at a loss as to why he couldn't find a bullet, but stitched her up and administered the medication. After that, her confusion was drug induced and somehow more scattered. Mrs. Hudson showed up, a basket of muffins on her arm and tears in her eyes. She patted and fluttered over Molly like a mother hen checking one of her chicks. Greg was next to see her, wanting to know who had attacked her. Molly couldn't have given him a description even without the mental fog she was constantly fighting against. Eventually, Greg left to yell at Donovan and Anderson some more. That was all he had been doing the past week or so.

Last to visit her was John. His face, so expressive and vulnerable, crumpled at the sight of her, confined to her bed, wrapped in gauze. He stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees by her bedside. The tears that she had seen a hint of were let free and coursed down his face. His hands took up fistfuls of blankets and a small, tortured sound came out of his throat.

"This…is my…fault," he whispered. "All…my…"

At that point, his face disappeared into the blankets as he sobbed. Molly reached out a hand to him, ignoring the pain in her side. Her fingers found the soft hair at the back of his head. She rubbed his head reassuringly.

"This isn't your fault, John. How could it be?"

"That was my gun…that you took from me." His voice was choked and broken and Molly had a hard time understanding him.

"John," she protested.

"Don't try to argue with me, Molly. You could be dead right now and it would be my fault."

He stayed there for an hour longer, crying. Molly did her best to make him feel better, but she was getting more and more tired by the minute. At last, he stood to go, looking down at her with a face full of pain and relief.

"Goodnight, Molly." Quickly, he leaned over her. His lips brushed hers, once, gently. When she didn't protest, his next kiss was deeper, still sweet and gentle, but with enough emotion and passion to leave Molly gasping. He gave her a small smile before turning and making his way out of the flat. Molly didn't watch him go. She was already being pulled into another round of confused dreams.

…

When she woke up a few hours later, she raised a hand to her lips. John Watson had kissed her. She couldn't remember ever having been kissed like that before. Like she was only woman in the world, like she was a treasure, like John was drowning and she was fresh air. She smiled and let herself drift back into oblivion.