Molly paced frantically, praying that the magic trick she had just witnessed was indeed that. Sherlock made the whole thing so frighteningly real. She bit her lip hard, the tears welling up again.
She heard the anguished cries of a tortured soul through the hallways, pounding through her brain on repeat. The agony in his tone made his identity clear. "John," she whispered, hot moisture spilling down her cheeks, as her consulting detective was rolled on a cold slab closer and closer to her door.
She cringed as the stillness of the morgue was disrupted, the doors flying open. His body lay bloody and limp, she shuddered hard as one of the men wheeling him in announced the lack of pulse. She deftly brushed away the tears and put on her gloves. Shifting into her persona of calculative pathologist, she slid back the sheet covering the regal man's face. The room seemed to completely silence; the blood was sticky, matting his curls and streaking his excessively pale skin with mahogany. He was bruised, the colours already ghastly, deepening almost before their eyes. Dr. Hooper closed her eyes, knowing this sight would haunt her.
It was a stinging slap in the face from life; Sherlock Holmes was dead.
