How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 48: Collapse

Sherlock sat by Molly's bed, his head in his hands.

He mind reeled as he squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to block out the image of her face as she collapsed in his arms, the sound of her voice as she told him that she still didn't believe that she counted, the finality in her expression just before she passed out. His fists closed, pulling at his mussed curls, adding to the disarray he'd been making for the last five hours.

"Sherlock! I need you! I can't stop the bleeding!"

John's voice cut through the haze in Sherlock's mind as he stared down at his fallen enemy. His head snapped up, and he was running before his brain registered that he needed to do so.

He reached her side, sliding in on his knees, stopping himself with his hand, ignoring the cuts and tears from the rough surface. His eyes flitted quickly over her small frame, an expression of dismay on his features at the pooling blood that John seemed unable to stop.

The bullet, the bullet. Where is it?

Sherlock remembered when he had been shot by Mary and the questions the Molly, Mycroft and Anderson in his mind palace had asked him. He checked her still form over more carefully and found the exit point of the bullet, oddly enough, in her inner thigh. As he pointed it out to John, who cursed, Sherlock's mind replayed the scene, noting the flight path of the bullet and the angle in which it entered her body. He looked on in horror as John turned her a bit to get a better look at the wound and the blood continued to pour from it.

"Shit, her femoral artery is shattered. Sherlock, she's bleeding out. We need help now!"

As if on cue, several trauma staff burst through the door and onto the roof, sprinting towards the two men, followed closely by Mycroft.

Sherlock refused to let go of Molly while Mycroft's medical personnel wrapped her thigh to put pressure on it and when they declared that she needed to be taken to emergency staff immediately, he scooped her up in his arms, striding quickly to the door and down the stairs into the hospital, running through the halls and out to the street where an ambulance waited to take her to the nearest A&E at Royal London Hospital. He didn't let her go when they loaded her tiny body onto a stretcher and he climbed into the vehicle after her, to the protests of the workers. A nod from Mycroft, who wasn't far behind, stopped their words though, and the ambulance rushed off, with Lestrade and Mycroft following in one car, while John waited a few more moments for Mary to join him, and followed in a separate car with his wife and Anthea.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, he was forced to leave Molly's side. He fought to stay with her, but by then, Lestrade and Mycroft had gotten there as well and together, they physically removed the frantic detective from the woman's side and took him to the waiting room where he eventually stopped fighting them under the threat of sedation from one of the nurses.

He'd collapsed then, still covered in his lover's blood, his knees hitting the floor painfully, jagged bits of the rooftop still caught in his trousers digging into the flesh. He hardly noticed. He sat numbly as John fetched a first aid kit and brushed away the pieces, pushing the legs of Sherlock's trousers up to get a good look at his knees. He doused them with antiseptic and turned his attention to Sherlock's hand, treating it in the same manner.

Throughout John's treatment, Sherlock didn't move or make a sound. His eyes were dazed and blank and he stared at the floor without really seeing it.

Sherlock raced through his mind palace, searching for Molly. He was frantic, looking for the woman who held his entire existence in her tiny hands. He threw open doors, desperate to find her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright and that he'd spend the rest of his life proving to her that she did count.

That he loved her.

The image of himself wrenched open the door to Moriarty's former prison, screaming at the psychopath who was once again in chains, joined now by Moran, who was the picture of arrogant confidence.

"No! You won't take her from me!" he yelled at the figures before him, pain coursing through his body, so much worse than the physical pain from when Mary had shot him.

"Too late, Sherlock. Tick tock goes the clock! Counting down to when Molly Hooper DIES!" Moriarty laughed manically, pulling at his bonds, lunging towards Sherlock.

"I told you! I told you! I burnt the heart out of you! You wanted to deny it, to make the world think that you had none. But I found it Sherlock. And now I've torn it out of you!" the criminal said the last part in a sing-song voice, mocking the detective in front of him.

"She'll die, Sherlock. She'll die and you'll have never told her." Moran now spoke, his voice calm and low, with a note of pure evil in it. "Never given her the assurance she needed to know she was loved. And it'll kill you. Slowly but surely, you'll rot, your intelligence wasted away in your ever growing self-hatred. And then, what? Back to the drugs? Back to shooting yourself so full of them that you couldn't think even if you wanted to? Until one day you just can't take it anymore and you put an end to your miserable existence?"

The image of Moran and Moriarty blurred together and Sherlock saw Molly's small body, drenched in her own blood, falling. He tried to run to her, but to his horror, he couldn't move and was forced to watch as she fell on and on, until she finally hit the ground, the dull thud of her frame echoing through his mind.

Tears streamed from Sherlock's eyes, both within his mind palace and in his outer body. He was oblivious to his friend's attempts to comfort him, all his energy focused inward.

He couldn't lose her, he couldn't. In a flash, the image in his mind palace changed to the little boy who had lost his best friend, only friend, Redbeard. He was screaming and wailing, the pain now so much more unbearable. So much worse than ever before. The palace collapsed around the little boy, burying him in the debris of everything he knew and everything he was. An emptiness spread through Sherlock, all engulfing, his world going down in flames.

No, he couldn't lose her. He wouldn't survive it.