Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

Creamocrop on Tumblrgave me this prompt: "A groundhog day version of sherlolly where Sherlock repeatedly experiences the day molly dies…so, yes, beware: angst..."

And the days they linger on, yeah
Every night I'm waiting for
The real possibility that I may need to end my pain
Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me
Come the morning I could swear you're next to me
And it's ok

It's ok, it's ok

I'll be here
Come back, come back
I'll be here
Come back, come back
I'll be here
Come back, come back

"Come back" - Pearl Jam

When it happened, he was not in London. It was the first time he had left the city with John after his "resurrection", as the newspapers had called his sudden reappearance in the land of the living. The case was barely a 8, and it involved a former Russian spy, an old posh gentleman and the theft of a super secret software used in nuclear submarines. Mycroft had promised his younger brother that he would not oblige him to attend the next two Christmas parties at the Holmes' , if he could solve the case within the next 24 hours, so it was obvious that Sherlock couldn't lose the opportunity to rightfully avoid his family for two years...

The train had just arrived at Cardiff Central, when he heard John's mobile ring."Greg! I'm sorry but Sherlock and I are not in London right now so it will have to wait-what? When? Oh,no, God no...no she can't be...". Sherlock couldn't hear what the DI was telling to his flatmate and colleague, but if the words John was uttering were not obvious , then how fast his best friends was turning pale, his broken voice, and the single tear that was running down his face were enough evidence for anyone less clever than him to understand that the news were bad. Really bad.

"What happened?"the consulting detective barked, but John only raised a hand, gesturing that Lestrade was still talking. "I- I'll tell him. We'll be back as soon as we can just give us the time to take the next train. Ok, yes-bye Greg". Just as John hung up, Sherlock's phone beeped, signaling a new text.

"A car is waiting for you outside the station. A private jet is ready to bring you back to London- Mycroft"

Mycroft. Not MH, as his brother usually ended his texts. Sherlock knew that he had signed his texts with his birth name only twice: the first time, when he announced him that their father was dead, and the other after his fake death, to offer his help. It couldn't be something related to their mother, because Greg had phoned John, not him. Something bad had happened to someone close to him, and if it wasn't their mother, than it could be only Mrs Hudson, or...

John's voice was laced with sorrow."I need you to sit down, Sherlock..."

"Just tell me,John. Being comfortable won't change whatever it is. What happened?"

"There-there's been...oh God, I'm so sorry Sherlock, I-"

"Tell me what happened!" the consulting detective shouted, and a few people in the waiting room glared at him.

"There's been -a shooting,and..."

"Where?"

"Sherlock, I don't know how to-"

"I asked you where, John". His deep voice was cold,stoic, but John Watson knew that the man in front of him was not insensitive. No more, after his "death". No, the way his bright eyes were almost shining was not because he had already figured all out. This time there would be not applause, no praises for his keen intellect. This time, Sherlock Holmes was waiting for someone to tell him that he was wrong. Oh,how he wanted to tell him that he was not right, but he couldn't. Denying the truth wouldn't let the pain disappear, John knew it.

"St. Barts. At the morgue"

Bright, chestnut eyes, full of intelligence and comfort. Dexterous fingers,using a scalpel skillfully. A pointy nose - he had heard Mrs Hudson define it cute - and under it, the sweetest smile someone had ever offered him. The portrait of generosity and caring. John's following words, pronounced with cracked voice,were like blood-red paint thrown at it.

"Molly...Molly is dead, Sherlock"

They didn't let him see her. Lestrade made the identification, and called her brother, the only Hopper left now. The shooter...well, he was only a desperate man with a gun. He had lost his wife, a simple operation gone wrong. He wanted to blame someone, and maybe he was right, maybe the surgeon was not focused enough during the surgery...but he couldn't find him, so he went down to the morgue. There he found Molly, performing the autopsy on his wife. He shouted to leave her, to leave his wife alone, and fired. Once, twice...Lestrade told them that Anderson was searching for the cartridge cases. Then the shooter tried to run away, but the hospital security thankfully had managed to block him before he could harm someone else. Someone who was luckier than Molly Hooper, someone that owe his/her life to her.

John had defined him a machine, and like a robot Sherlock listened to Lestrade telling him the facts. There was no mistery to solve, just the victim'ss death to acknowledge. John had tried to comfort him, in his own embarrassed way, but he didn't say anything. They returned home, John carefully broke the news to Mrs Hudson, and together they cried, and mourn her. Sherlock didn't waste a moment with them: he went to his room, stretched out on his rarely used bed, and spent the entire night committing every single memory of his pathologist to his memory, until an entire wing of his mind palace was dedicated to her.

When he opened his eyes again, the clock on his nightstand told him it was seven o'clock. He opened the door to find John calmly eating his breakfast at his desk.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". John's voice was cheerful, and Sherlock opened his mouth for the first time since they had left Cardiff the day before.

"Molly...she's..."

"What about her? Please don't tell me that you're forcing her to take care of your experiment at St. Barts...she's a doctor, you know? Not your personal slave..."

How could his best friend, the emotional and caring doctor, being so insensitive? Molly was...wait, did he use the present tense?"She's a doctor"...it was not uncommon for friends and relatives to still use the present when talking about a recent dead person, but it still didn't make much sense...unless...

"What day it is, John?"

"Monday, why?Sherlock, what are you doing, we need to go the station!You can't-"

Sherlock didn't hear his friend shouting at him the rest of the sentence. He was already on the street, hailing a cab for St. Barts. It had been only a nightmare, it was simple like that; it didn't happen often, but after his fall his dream activity had increased slightly. His cellphone was still in his coat. It took Molly only three rings to answer, but her voice was a soft balsam for his ears.

"Sherlock, hello! Do you need something? Oh,sorry, wait a minute...Excuse me, you can't stay here...". He heard her approaching someone, then a male voice shouting "Leave her, leave her alone!". Three gunshots, then just heavy, laboured breathing.

"Molly! Molly, stay with me!", but none answered him.

She was gone.

Again.

Ok, I decided to do a multichapter out of this prompt. It's emotionally draining for me (and I imagine for every writer) write angst, but it's something new, and I just wanted to try. Let me know what you think, while I try to find the silver lining in all this mess of fellings and tears.

Irene (yes, that's my name. Quite ironic for a Sherlolly fan, isn't it?)