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Molly Hooper has seen her fair share of death. Working in a mortuary, it can’t exactly be avoided. She knows every piece of the human body inside and out, could put it back together like a puzzle if she had to. She’s seen everything from brain bleeds to burn victims to stabbings. It takes a lot to surprise her anymore.
When Sherlock Holmes is wheeled in on a gurney, she can’t breathe.
She doesn’t recognize him at first. Just sees another body, another faceless bloke with bloodstains and staring eyes. It isn’t until she pushes the dark locks of hair back and really looks that she realizes it’s him.
Denial comes first, because this isn’t Sherlock Holmes, it can’t be. This is some sick joke, an experiment on how the human body reacts to shock. If she flicks him on the forehead or pours cold water on him, he’ll spring up like a spastic Pomeranian and proceed with his deductions.
Logically, she knows his eyes couldn’t stay open for so long, knows that he shouldn’t be so still. But that doesn’t matter, because Sherlock Holmes is the master of time and space. He knows everything - everything. Whatever he’s gone and done to himself now is only temporary. They’ll laugh about it the next time he whirls in to browse the latest organ selection.
She’s suddenly very aware of the other people still in the room. She catches one of them mid-explanation. “ - just outside, actually. Someone said he jumped off the roof, God knows how he got up there.”
“Sorry.” Molly shakes her head, trying to process this new information. “Sorry, did you say suicide?”
“Dr. Hooper, are you alright?”
Her heart stops. She can picture the scene in her head almost perfectly. Brilliant, beautiful, impossible Sherlock, stepping over the ledge of the hospital roof, his Belstaff fanning out behind him like wings.
She winces as the sound of impact reverberates in her mind.
The sound of impact ricochets again, but this time, it’s the doors to the morgue being thrown open hard enough to smash into the wall. Molly’s head snaps over to see Mycroft Holmes, tall and imposing, marching towards her.
He’s more unkempt than she’s ever seen him. His hair is windswept - has he been running, or did the winds pick up? - and his eyes are crazed, though it’s clear he’s trying to keep a sense of control. But he’s snarling at her - that’s the only way she can think to describe it. “I was told,” he growls. “That my brother jumped from the roof of this institution.” He doesn’t ask it like a question. “Now I don’t know where this information came from, but I will have your highest officials terminated immediately if -”
Something he sees in Molly’s face cuts him off. He scoffs at her. “Miss Hooper, do wipe that tragic look off your face. Don’t you think I would know if my brother was suicidal? We’ve been down that road before, him and I, but there is not reason to believe that….” But Mycroft trails off when his eyes finally fall on the broken body of his little brother. The air catches in his throat. Molly has never seen this strange, stoic man look surprised, yet here he is, face as blank as a sheet of paper and twice as white.
“Sherlock?” His voice has gone sort of soft, and there is a pleading behind the question. Molly glances at Sherlock, but can’t look longer than a few moments without feeling sick.
Mycroft’s fingers tremble as he reaches for his brother’s wrist. He palpates and counts and shuts his eyes painfully against realization after realization. This goes on for several moments, and then he snatches his hand back as though Sherlock has burned him.
“No…” he shakes his head, and Molly fears that he’s going to faint if he doesn’t sit down. She reaches for his arm but he swats her away. “No,” he repeats. “No, no, I’ve missed something! Get me the footage,” and it’s only then that Molly realizes Mycroft has smashed a phone to his ear. “Yes, all of it, from the last twelve hours at least, and - what do you mean?” Mycroft waits only a moment before his gaze cuts back to Molly. “Dr. Watson,” he hisses. “has he been here?”
“No,” Molly stammers. “No, but -”
He’s talking into his phone again. “Do not let him come down, do you understand? Do not let Dr. Watson anywhere near -”
The doors open again. Molly grips the edge of the table.
John is standing in the doorway, his face red and his sleeves covered in blood. His eyes are wet and bloodshot and he’s clearly shaking, but the look he’s giving Mycroft could turn mortal men to stone. One of the workers who had backed away at Mycroft’s entrance steps forward somewhat nervously. “Sir, you can’t be in here -”
Mycroft dismisses both technicians with a wave of his hand and a very large stack of bills. His composure is quickly crumbling. “John -”
“Do you see that?” John’s voice is gravelly and thick and breaks in odd places. Molly doesn’t realize she’s gone and grasped Sherlock’s hand until tears begin to drip on them both, one by one. “Do you see what he’s done to himself?”
Mycroft tries to step forward. John’s fingers curl into a fist. “You did this,” he whispers blackly. “You did this to him! How could you do that? He’s your brother!”
“Dr. Watson!”
“You turned his own bloody brain against him!” John’s cries are quickly growing louder, his face is carved from stone and breaking apart all at the same time. “You know what - you know what he said to me, at the end? That he was a fake! Tell me, Mycroft, who could have given him that idea? You and I both know - but he was convinced, and he asked me - he asked me to -” John broke down then, sinking to his knees, pressing his hands into the cold floor.
More footsteps, and Molly thinks it would be funny if it wasn’t so morbid. Greg is armed, his face stern, completely in DI Lestrade-mode. “What the hell’s going on here?
They said something about -” His eyes pass over the scene once, twice. Molly knows what he must be cataloguing. The collection of people. Mycroft standing there, shaken, upset. So un-Holmes like he’s hardly recognizable. Molly herself, gobsmacked, the most unprofessional she’s ever been at work. John, collapsed on the ground, guttural sounds ripping through him with every breath.
Sherlock. Still. Dead.
Greg lowers his gun. “No…” he shakes his head and steps back, gaze flicking between Sherlock and John. “No, Jesus, no -”
John's murderous glare, previously saved only for Mycroft, now harrows in on Greg. "He jumped," he tells him, voice unapologetically cruel. "Right off the bloody roof, made me watch the whole thing. You know what he said?" John does not give Greg an opportunity to answer. "Said to tell you it was all true. That he really was a fraud. Congratulations, Detective Inspector, looks like you were right."
"John, please -"
Molly flinches when John laughs. It's the most pathetic sound she's ever heard. He can't even speak.
"Dr. Watson, get ahold of yourself!"
Wrong thing to say. Mycroft doesn't even have time to move before John throws a vicious left hook. Mycroft's nose pours blood like a faucet. John tries to go at him again, aiming for the throat this time, but Mycroft has scrambled back against the fridge and Greg has locked both of John's arms behind his back. "He trusted you! You're supposed to be his brother, Mycroft! You were supposed to protect him, and you sold him out! Look at him!"
"John, stop! It isn't Mycroft's fault!"
"Dr. Watson!"
"Enough!"
It takes Molly a moment to realize that she's the one who screamed. Three broken men are looking back at her. She's still clutching Sherlock's fingers, squeezing them like she's always wanted to. She draws herself up and keeps it quick. She doesn't think she can maintain her composure long enough to lecture them to death. "If you can't behave like human beings, you need to leave! There is a man here that we all loved very much and I am not going to stand here and listen to you go at it like a pack of wild dogs!"
It's quiet now. The distinct hums of various pieces of machinery are the only sounds. It's like someone has cut the strings that were holding John upright, and he slumps in Greg's arms. Greg tries to console him, but only succeeds in helping him stand on his own. John's eyes linger on Sherlock. As if compelled by some unseen force, he shuffles towards the gurney. Greg says something, but no one pays attention.
Molly unwillingly lets go of Sherlock. John stands in her place, one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders. "Bloody idiot," he murmurs, but the words are said with such love that the bite from them is gone. Molly wonders how John can see anything through the thick veil of tears.
And then John and Greg are gone. Molly looks pointedly at Mycroft, but he only has eyes for his brother. "I miscalculated..." Mycroft repeats this over and over until the words stop making sense. "For God's sake, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"
Molly's heart breaks all over again. She's invading a private moment, she can feel it, but she can't look away. Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, the self-proclaimed machine, is sobbing into Sherlock's bloodstained Belstaff. He's groaning now, a deep sound from the pit of his stomach. "Jesus," he moans. "Sherlock, this couldn't have been me. This can't be because of what I - because Moriarty couldn't do that to you, or...but you knew better, you stupid boy, you knew better!"'
This goes on and on until one of Mycroft's cronies comes to fetch him. No one says anything when he presses a soft kiss to his brother's hair. Once he's gone, Molly is left alone with Sherlock, something she's dreamed of for years.
Now, she wishes they were anywhere else. "You berk," she sighs softly, swiping under her eyes to catch the tears before they can fall. "You've made a big fat mess out of everyone, you know that?" She reaches for his hand again, and rubs the pad of her thumb along his knuckles. "You're always twelve steps ahead of everyone," she whispers. "You have a reason for everything, don't you?"
Don't you?
She squeezes his hand gently. She glances at the stack of papers on the table, trying to determine where she could even start. She moves to let go of him.
Long, pale fingers squeeze back.