A Little Fall Of Rain

"The rain can't hurt me now
This rain will wash away what's past
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
I'll sleep in your embrace at last."

- Eponine, Les Miserables.

M O L L Y

She was next. She was the next, to die.

"—John!" Sherlock called out, temples throbbing as he quickly wrapped the scarf around his neck, "John – it's Molly! John!" Tersely, the man realized that the doctor had left the flat approximately an hour ago to fetch dinner. Small grey eyes spontaneously ogled the time.

Late, he was going to be too late. His hand grabbed his phone.

No new messages. New message. Molly H.

Stay where you are. You're not safe – SH

Texting her and John (to go to Molly's address swiftly), the detective fumbled down the steps, heart thundering harshly against his ribcage. His thoughts were blank as he forced open his front door.

A blast of wind welcomed him as he stumbled forwards. Mouth frowning against the overflow of rainwater, Sherlock signalled for a cab. His eyes watched the lone, black cab roam towards him. Each second that passed seemed to stretch.

Late, he was going to be too late.

He ran.

Sherlock ran fast. His trousers were tarnished by the puddles of rain water as he dashed unyieldingly through the quiet, black street. In his head, thoughts were flashing by incomprehensibly as long, wet locks draped over his face. He had told that John would come – John will come.

And he won't be late. He won't be late.

He promised Molly he would find Jim. He promised her he won't be late. She had been frightened. He had told her not to be. Late… he can't be late…

Heart swinging uncontrollably in his chest, Sherlock heard the gunshot.

The man turned the corner and found himself screaming out as a car zipped forwards. He ran after it, but found his steps slowing as a lone, curled human body entered the frame of his vision. The figure was on the side of the street, slumped.

The man stopped running. Instantly, he realized that there was no need to run anymore.

He was too late.

Bullet wound on the chest. Depth –

His thoughts were in disarray as he reached her, crouching instantly. "Molly," he called, dropping to his knees as he turned her body delicately. Her eyes were open.

"Molly," he repeated, eyes flicking to the blood that had leaked from her wound, mixing with the rain water that had soaked her shirt, "Molly…"

"—Sher- Sherlock?" Her eyes seemed to turn.

"Yes," the detective managed, hovering over her to shield the raindrops that seemed to pelt her face, "it's me – don't worry, I've informed John. He's on his way – I will contact the police as well –"

the wound is inches from her heart. The volume of blood –

Irrecoverable. "Molly," he told her, rainwater fleeting down his face, "you must forgive me – I was too late…"

Her large, impish eyes seemed to stare back. Sherlock was rather accustomed to the way Molly Hooper looked at him. Always affectionate, if not bordering on neurotic. But she did not look at him in the same way. Her pale, sallow face was not admiring. But at the corner of her lips, a smile.

"—it's okay," she answered gently, "it wasn't your fault."

"No, it was. You expressed your concern –"

"It's too late now," she shook her head gently, smile fleeting across pallid lips, "I – I'm… okay."

no, a wound like hers would be excruciation; searing burn as blood –

"Here," Sherlock offered, beginning to remove his scarf, "—pressure for your wound. The blood – "

But her hand began to wave it off. A brief look of pain flashing across ashy features.

she is surrendering to

death

The detective nodded, respectfully. He did not apologize anymore. Nor, did he try to stop the trickles of crimson that stained her night wear. Delicately, Sherlock simply motioned forwards and scooped her head up from the concrete road. He noted that the rain was getting heavier. Rainwater streamed down his face as he peeled back long, brunette locks that had become disentangled across hers.

She was staring at him. Her smile still an emblem over the pain that was intoxicating her trembling body.

"I must… take you inside," Sherlock explained before she shook her head gently.

"—no, no," she mumbled, "please keep me out here."

"But you're getting wet –"

"A little drop of rain can't hurt me now," she murmured as she took a long, empowering breath. She liked the rain. The raindrops were gentle, flighty across her face – it was nice to feel. While, she still had time.

Her eyes turned to his face softly. It was thoughtful. Desperate. He was thinking of something to do. To help. Sweet, her mind mumbled, Sherlock is sweet -

"Don't be worried," she murmured, lifting a hand in hope to touch his handsome, face but failed, "—it doesn't hurt."

"Yes it does," he argued, "how can – I… I help."

She knew of only one answer. Focusing her attention on him calmly, Molly expressed a pained smile. There was only, one thing she could have ever asked of him.

"—just, don't leave Sherlock…okay?" she asked, biting her lip, "just… don't leave."

"Of course not –"

"Just stay with me. Please." I don't want to die alone.

Her body seemed to wrench. He swallowed but nodded lightly, eyes like steel. She began to laugh, slowly and wistfully. Her breaths are slowing.

heart rate will drop

Her pulse was slowing. The man bowed his head privately.

"I'll stay, Molly," he assured her, "I won't leave."

A good forty five seconds passed. Each second, he calculated. The rain never stopped its fall as Molly parted her lips again. It was becoming a lot more difficult to speak. But she was always such a chatterbox, so she found it difficult to stop herself. Plus, she wanted to speak. Distractions. The rain was feeling colder on her cheeks. She was shivering.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"—I'm getting a little cold now."

failing circulation

She was laughing a little. Humourlessly. He found himself wrapping his arms around her and enclosing a tight grasp around her body which was beginning to shake. His hands were wet as he sheltered her from the rest of the raindrops, her cold body limp. He attempted to put pressure on the wound. It would never work now.

But he wanted to try.

"Molly," he called out, glancing down at her, "Molly?"

"—still here," she murmured, voice thin, "you're… really warm…"

"Are you still cold?"

"No… I'm okay," she answered, eyes fluttering, "—still there?"

"Yes, Molly."

185 seconds. A brief silence took over. The detective was deep in thought. Calculating her injury. The effect of the rainfall. But most importantly, kept her warm.

Too late. Forgive me.

She was watching him breathe. He was soaked. And yet he came. He was wrong. He wasn't late at all. He was just, on time. There was little, that he could have done. And for what he did, Molly was forever grateful. Of course, he wouldn't ever listen. He was always thinking. Molly knew that. She was going to miss that. Miss him.

"Sherlock," she murmured again, the feeling of discomfort in her chest, swelling, "do you want to know something?"

It seemed like a Molly-thing to say. He glanced down, realizing how weak her tone was becoming. He nodded in response.

"Yes."

"I - I did love you you know," she chuckled, eyes glazed with tears as they looked hopefully at his face, "just… a little."

He managed a sad, gentle smile.

"Thank you." She then breathed, attempting to express a smile, "thank you…so much for this."

oxygen need to breathe

Molly gasped. An indescribable chasm seemed to enlarge within her, making her vision blurry. Funny. She was unsure if it was pain. Or something else. But involuntarily, her fingers clung on to his coat. It was not long now. She could feel it. But she was okay.

She just closed her eyes and began to count. Her thoughts seemed to sway.

cold getting cold

It was that outburst of breath. That one sentiment that eventually broke Sherlock's thoughtful reverie. Jaw clenched, eyes blinking in confusion, he found himself embracing the woman out of genuine feeling. He could feel her pulse. It wasn't long now. He held her tight. Hopelessly. Human emotions - utterly alien. And yet it was there. Sadness. Grief. His body shivered defiantly against the wind. The showers were thinning.

And so was she.

"No, Molly Hooper," He murmured, flickering his gaze down at her, "thank you." Molly-in-the-morgue. The one with the nose. The one with the cat. Molly Hooper. His eyes closed shut, involuntarily. You have been wonderful.

She was silent after that. He held her tight for a few seconds, until the rainfall seemed to cease. Her body was quivering as small gasps of pain left her chest. One, after the other. A struggle to live. He was shivering when he finally heard her last breath. That one, short sound of liberation from the pain. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd known it was her last. It was barely audible. However, he knew instantly. And then, it was silence again. He sat thoughtless. Freezing.

He stayed there for what seemed like eternity, holding what was left of her. It was probably, two minutes later when John reached him. John was shouting. Something. He'd forgotten. But when it dawned on him, his words withered into the silence too.

They said nothing. Sherlock simply looked up, arms squeezing her lifeless corpse. His eyes were unreadable as he shook his head and gazed upwards.

Time passed. Precious seconds. A reminder of what, he had wasted.

A/N: I must stop writing about death. It's depressing. Anyway. Hopefully, this won't happen. Thanks for reading :) I own nothing.