The Good, The Bad and The Woman

The End Is Always Near

9. The End Is Always Near

When Sherlock and John barged through the front door to 221 B, the whole world seemed to have stopped rotating in anticipation of the inevitable. Time was simply unnaturally slow as they approached the crescendo, running on heavy legs as though through thick sand.

All the great detective heard as he reached the top of the stairs was the sound of his own erratic heartbeat, pulsating like a wild storm on the sea. Both men stopped in the open doorway as they gazed into the crime scene that was all too close to heart.

There was a small hole in one of the windows, letting in could, eerie air to remind them of a harsh reality. The hole was so small, it was hardly noticeable, but its significance was all the harder to ignore.

The silent chaos in the room left a palpable tension in the air that carried such a bitter aftertaste. On the ground by the armchairs, two of the women sat hunched over the third. Closest to the exit was the blonde, who was also the only one to react as the men reappeared. She stumbled from her seated position and so cleared their view to behold the dark scenery.

Mary's eyes danced with tears as she flew into her husband's waiting arms. She explained that she'd called for an ambulance already and was doing all she could to help. Her words, however, seemed to Sherlock to come from the end of a long tunnel as he glared down at the revealed horror before him.

Partially covered in blood splatter and tears, Irene was leaning over her friend. The ex-dominatrix's erratic movements was all the detective needed to learn the severity of the situation. Her hands trembled as she pressed some fabric to Molly Hooper's pale temple. The cloth was covered in the red, deceiving liquid that made it all so undeniably real. The blood meant only one thing to Sherlock: He had failed.

For another excruciating second, the tall man gazed down at the wounded woman. Her face was almost translucent under the lamps and her form ghastly still. She seemed to him as if lying at the bottom of a tomb already. The only color on her pale skin was the red splatter across her porcelain cheeks and forehead, smeared by her friend's shaking hands.

The detective pulled himself from his reverie as he breathed a simple, "John."

The doctor jumped back to reality with the simple, helpful reminder of his friend. He checked his wife over one last time, before he flew forward to aid. John knelt down by the injured woman and tried to coax Irene's hands away from the wound, but she seemed unable to hear a word he said. Sherlock coldly stepped over and tugged on his partner's shoulders. She had to move out of the way. He needed his best friend to save a life.

"Gunshot wound to the head. She's lost a lot of blood…" the blond man muttered to himself as he quickly set to work, his own feelings suppressed behind a veneer of professionalism.

Irene's long nails dug into the fabric of Sherlock's sleeve and he heard her uneven breathing as she huddled closer to his tall shape. The man gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to feel anything, but his eyes never once wavered from Molly's unconscious face. He barely had time to collect himself as he heard commotion from the stairs.

Two paramedics clad in bright, yellow jackets rushed inside and with level heads managed to get a good overview of the situation. The detective opened his mouth to explain what had happened, but no words came out. Instead, he merely watched as they ran over to their patient.

Seamlessly, they took over and John was forced to retire to his wife's side once more. The two clung to each other as if there was no tomorrow and no words of sorrow needed to be spoken aloud as they protected one another.

As Molly was lifted onto the stretcher and the EMT's moved towards the exit, the curly-haired man stepped forward as if pulled along on an invisible string.