The air was hostile, attacking the pathologist's lungs. Her breath came in choking gasps, pangs ripping through her chest. Her knees buckled and she tipped over onto the pale man she had worshipped as long as she'd known him.
Finally alone, wretchedly she sobbed for him, for the child behind the mask he had learned to wear. No one had accepted him as he was, so he had become someone who needed no acceptance. Someone cold, emotionless, heartless, who felt only the thrill of the game.
Only that was the real magic trick, wasn't it, Sherlock?, she thought dully, head leaning on the dead man's chest. Convincing so many people that you didn't care, didn't feel. She blinked, blinded by the tears and the darkness of the morgue. Fat lot of good that did you, Mr. Holmes.
Slowly she slid her hands alongside his body onto the edge of the gurney, pushing herself off and away from him. She felt hollow; she could do nothing for him now. His life had ended.
She wrapped her small fingers around his left hand, perching herself on a stool and staring at his bluish fingertips. Hours passed with Molly hardly moving, barely even breathing. Her heartbeat was terribly slow, her eyes fluttering open and shut, her mind all but silent. The light in her office buzzed energetically, seeming to echo through the hush. The silence was suddenly loud, deafening, and very close. Her heartbeat began to pound through her skull, starting at the tips of her fingers and racing through her body. It grew faster, more insistent, almost calling her.
Then she realized: it wasn't her heartbeat.
His frantic gasp for air nearly made her jump out of her skin. Electric shocks were coursing in her veins, dizziness shattering her formerly blank mind space. Colour bled into the cold grey night, tinging everything in its wake. His long eyelashes fluttered rapidly, his breathing ragged and panicked. Sherlock lolled his bloody head to the side, blinking into the tearful face of the woman he counted on.
"Oh, Sherlock," she choked out, burying her face into his coat. His fingers tightened around hers with the miniscule amount of energy he had regained after the medications had worn off. He felt the intense anguish and overwhelming relief in her as she trembled against him, and momentarily regretted asking her to administer the dangerous concoction he'd suggested. But it had worked; Sherlock Holmes was reborn, and the people he loved were safe.
"Molly," he croaked, willing his right hand to slide up to her shaking shoulder. She had done it. She had killed him and brought him back. She had protected his world. She was the hero. He took a shallow breath in, managing a slight smile into her hair. "You saved us all, Molly."
She shivered harder and clung to him, unable to quell the waves of anxiety washing through her. He laid still, uncomplaining, catching his breath and little by little gaining a steadier pulse. Slowly she lifted herself away, and he watched her, soaking her in. She looked terrified, exhausted, lost, radiant. He saw her absently try to smooth down her hair, inadvertantly making it messier. He winced as he began to smile, the genuine bruises on his face reminding him that despite the safety gear and medicinal aids, he had just literally jumped off a building and died. Magic trick or no, he was damaged.
"Come now, Sherlock, let's get you patched up," Molly said quietly. She sat him up gently, holding him against her to steady his shaking frame. He relied on her once more, allowing himself to be washed up, bandaged, and examined. His exhaustion was beginning to get the better of him, and she walked him to the little cot in the back, where she made him up a bed for to rest in till morning. "Try to rest, alright? We'll need to get you out of here in the early morning, but you should build up some strength first." He nodded, his eyes already closed. She paused at the door, watching him doze off. His eyes opened again as he felt her lips meet his brow, warm and tender.
"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes," his saviour murmured, brushing a stray curl out of his face. He watched her back as she left, her shoulders straight and proud.
"Goodnight, dear Molly," he whispered.
