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Sherlock was carrying Molly up the stairs to 221B Baker Street; she was shaking in his arms, tears falling quietly down her face. Sherlocks heart clenched as he looked at the small pathologist curled up in his embrace, blood still dripping slightly from the gash on her forehead.
He’d taken her from the hospital bed; he knew she’d hate to wake up there, hate the memory of what had happened there. He placed her gently on his bed, sending a quick text to John that Molly was with him before sitting down exhaustedly in his chair.
5 hours earlier
- Did you miss me –
Molly dropped the steel bowl of a brain she’d just separated from its owner as she was staring at Jim Moriarty, alive and well. His eyes were gleaming with joy and he was watching her like a predator did it’s pray, causing chills to run coursing through her blood.
She didn’t move, frozen on her spot as he slowly, deliberately walked closer to her, circling her, his gaze taking all of her in. ‘Molly, Molly, Molly, you’ve been a bad girl haven’t you,’ he was right in front of her now, only a heartbeat away.
He dragged a finger over her cheek before hitting her hard, her head snapped to the side, and she stumbled backwards into a chair. She fell, hitting her head on one of the counters before landing on the cold floor of the morgue.
She’d blacked out for a couple of minutes and when she came to it her hands were bound to the arms of a chair, she could hear Moriarty rustling about behind her, she watched as he came back, wielding a scalpel in his hand, and a wicked smile playing on his face.
Two hours had gone by but Molly was still keeping her head high, refusing to cry in front of Jim, and refusing to let him make her crack under his watch. ‘Well well, you’re obviously not the little mouse everyone thinks you are,’ he whispered into her ear, his cold breath ghosting over the skin on her neck.
‘I can see why Sherlock trusted you, it’s really such a shame you have to die,’ he said coolly. Molly took in a deep breath, for the last thirty minutes she’d been working on loosening the rope around her wrists, once on a case with Sherlock she’d been bound, and after that day she had practiced at getting out of a few different kinds of knots, knowing it would most likely prove useful knowing Sherlock.
She was weak from blood loss, several cuts and deep gashes placed methodically on her chest, arms and even neck. She could feel the warm blood trickling down her face from the injury on her forehead, some of it sticking to her eyebrow.
She waited until Jim was close to her again before striking; she knew she only had a very slim chance, so she needed him to be as close as possible. She felt the scalpel piercing through her skin again, this time on her thigh, and this time deeper than the other cuts.
She grabbed the instrument from his hand in one swift motion, only registering the look of shock on his face before plunging the knife through his neck, pulling it out forcing the knife to his temple. She watched in horror as the blood started gushing out from the two wounds she had inflicted, watched as Moriarty fell to the floor, and taking his last breath.
Molly’s breathing was ragged as she fell to the floor next to the now dead consulting criminal, finally letting the tears and pain overtake her small frame, and she felt broken, cold and alone. She didn’t hear the doors opening, didn’t hear the scream of pain erupting from Sherlocks throat, she didn’t hear him calling her name over and over.
Present time
Sherlock massaged his neck tiredly, he’d never felt so scared as he’d seen Molly lying on the floor of the morgue, blood seeping from several places on her body, her eyes closed halfway, and her breathing ragged and uneven. He’d run to her, screaming and calling out her name, he’d growled at anyone who tried to get near her, but had finally been persuaded to let the nurses take care of her injuries.
As soon as she was fixed he’d taken her, and now she was sleeping in his bed only a door separating them and he couldn’t take it. He’d thought he’d lost her, but she had been brave, so much more than he had ever thought she could be. He’d had Mycroft place cameras in both the morgue and lab a long time ago.
He’d watched as Moriarty had broken her down, he’d told her she didn’t matter, told her that she was insignificant, that she was useless. But she had held her head high, she hadn’t shed one single tear, and she had ultimately defeated him, defeated the most dangerous man Sherlock had ever encountered. She’d never know how many people she had saved, how she had once again saved him.
When he walked through the door she was awake, her eyes were cold, ripped of any feelings or emotion, and it killed him, her eyes had always been home of the sun, but now they were dead. She wasn’t crying anymore, only looking at him as he slowly slipped down in the bed next to her.
‘I’m so sorry Molly, I thought i’d lost you, I thought you were dead, when I came through the doors and saw you on the floor,’ his voice broke, and a tear or two had escaped from his eyes, - traitors – his eyes fluttered shut as her lips kissed away the wetness from his cheeks.
When morning came Molly went to the shower in silence, it ached to let her go, to be away from her for too long. Sherlock started to worry when he’d heard no word from her for almost an hour, he knew he should respect her privacy since she was most likely naked, but he was worried and aching for her.
She was holding herself protectively around the waist, her head bowed down, and even though water was falling down over her, he could tell she was crying. Sherlock disposed of his clothes, slipping under the warm rays of water, and he took her into his arms, he held her close, he tried to provide her with all the love he held for her as she cried into his shoulder.
She was supposed to stay with him until she was healed, until the scars had faded and she could start working again. Instead she stayed; she stayed with him even though he’d caused her so much pain, even though in the long run it had been because of him she had ended up in the arms of Moriarty.
‘Why?’ He’d asked her silently when he’d pulled her to the side at their wedding, ‘why did you stay?’ She looked at him, her eyes were lively and happy again, once again home of the sun, his sun. ‘Because you think of my scars as a reminder of the threats bestowed on the people you call your friends, the people you call your family.’
Her hand had moved to his neck, gently caressing the small curls, ‘I stayed to show you that they remind me of something else. They remind me of the threats we can overcome, together,’ she finished as she pulled him down for a soft kiss. He’d smiled as he realised that not only did the sun have home in her, it now had home in him as well.