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Molly Hooper was elbow deep into a man’s digestive cavity when John burst in, closely followed by Meena.
“Molly, you need to come–”
“John! You’re not sterile!”
“Molly, I’m sorry, I told him he can’t come in here–”
“Get him out of here, Meena!”
“Molly, please–”
“John, really–”
“Doctor Watson–”
“SHERLOCK’S BEEN SHOT, MOLLY!” he bellowed.
The room froze. Molly withdrew her arms from Mr. Knightly’s lower extremity with a sickening plop that failed to faze anyone in the vicinity. Her arms dripping with blood, Molly pushed up her visor. Her face was drained of all color, except for her lip, which was bright red due to her biting it.
“Where is he?” she asked curtly, her voice trembling only a tick, as she swiftly stripped off her bloody gloves and scrubs, throwing them into the nearest biohazard bin and dashing out of the lab, John right behind her.
“He’s in surgery. But Molly, they won’t let you–” His speech was cut off by her suddenly rounding on him, her eyes flashing, her mouth drawn up into a snarl. To John, Molly looked almost… possessive.
“Watch me,” she snapped.
******
She flew up the flights of stairs, her lab coat flapping behind her, blindly running past anything and anyone in her way. She’d left John down in the morgue; she was medical staff at Bart’s–she’d be let into areas of the hospital he wouldn’t be allowed as a civilian, and god help anyone who tried to stop her.
She came to a halt outside of the theater. She crept past the doors into surgery and climbed the stairs into the windowed bay, where medical students gathered to observe surgeries.
She watched the doctors and nurses frantically go through their complicated dance of saving lives. One life. His life.
Sherlock Holmes lay on a gurney, pale as marble and just as still. Molly watched the machines behind him, watched the lines on the heart monitor spike closer and closer together, listened to the beeping of the machine go faster and faster.
“Come on, Sherlock,” she whispered desperately, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Fight, damn it.”
She gasped as the swift beep beep beep of the heart monitor became a loud, long drone.
She watched the doctors perform CPR.
She watched them, one by one, give up.
She closed her eyes, a single tear escaping without her realizing.
“Please, Sherlock. Fight. Fight to stay alive.
“John needs you. Mycrofts needs you. Lestrade needs you.
“I need you.”
A loud beep startled her out of her desperate pleas. She approached the glass and placed a tentative hand on it.
“Sherlock?” she whispered. The medical staff had noticed something happening. They quickly returned to the gurney as Sherlock’s eyes opened and met hers through the glass.
Molly smiled through her tears.
“Keep fighting, Sherlock Holmes,” she said. “We’re not done here, yet.”