Glass: Reader Requests

Bullet

For Bellaboo0904

He was sprinting. Pushing past the burning in his lungs and throbbing in his ears as he ran, so fast that he could feel the long grass whipping his legs. Behind him, he could hear John following, the light from his torch bobbing erratically as he tried to catch up.

But Sherlock got there first.

"Margaux..." He dropped to his knees beside her, placing a hand on her cold, marble-like face.

He winced at the sight of blood on her chest and neck as she lay on her back, the grass glistening dark red beneath her. The hairs on his arms pricked as he touched her. Her body was freezing as a frost began to form across her skin.

John knelt down, panting as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes widened at the sight below him.

"Oh god," he whispered. "Jesus!" He placed his hand against her bloodied neck in a futile attempt to find the wound.

Greg approached them, throwing his hands on top of his head and turning away from the scene. "Shit."

"Sherlock..." John looked up at him. "I'm so sorry..."

Time slowed down. Sherlock collapsed backwards into the wet grass. He was silent as he brought his knees to his chest and covered his mouth. A tear trickled down his face, followed by an agonising gasp, as if he were drowning and couldn't catch his breath.

*

Molly sat at her desk in the morgue resting her face in her hands. She had been crying; the phone conversation with Sherlock still reeling in her mind.

Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?

Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.... Molly, this is for a case. It's... it's a sort of experiment.

I'm not an experiment, Sherlock.

She had come to work to keep her mind busy. But it wasn't working. Every time she felt like she had calmed down, she would remember his voice and start crying again.

The door opened. She turned to see two men in black suits and earpieces walk into the room.

"Molly Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"We're here on business for Mycroft Holmes, your assistance is required."

"Oh... What... what is it?"

"A private autopsy has been requested under approval of MI6."

She felt a lump in her throat, an anxious cramp in her stomach. She took a deep breath, standing up clumsily.

"An autopsy? Wh-"

They wheeled in a gurney with a black, zipped-up body bag. Molly felt her cheeks go hot as they positioned it beside the slab. She stepped forward slowly, her gloved hands shaking as they reached for the zip.

Don't be Sherlock, she thought to herself. Please, don't be Sherlock, don't be Sherlock.

She undid it slowly, her breath quivering, tears spilling as she looked down at the face hidden beneath the plastic.

...

John stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. It was still cordoned off, unsafe to enter. But he didn't care. He glanced around before lifting the tape and letting himself inside.