I don't own Sherlock. Of course. He predates me by about 100 years or so. The story below is the first of several one-shots I plan to publish. No character is safe (although I lean toward Sherlolly fics) and I'm dabbling in everything from Sally vs. Sherlock, to Sherlock vs. driving, to John and Sherlock vs. alcohol. Hope you enjoy!

Random Victim

The sodding phone was so close. SO CLOSE. The screen had long gone dark, and Molly, through her failing vision, could see the light from the long lamp in her living room reflecting dully from the screen. It beckoned to her. Just grab me, it said. Call for help. You can do it.

But she really wasn't sure she could. A lone tear trickled down her cheek, and she sniffled, then whimpered as the wound in her side pulled agonizingly. Her jumper was already soaked in blood. There was so much of it, although Molly supposed she should have already known exactly how much was bleeding out of her. It was her job to know these things, after all.

There was certainly enough to ruin her jumper.

That was my favorite jumper, Molly thought dazedly as she looked down at the blood. She was having trouble focusing on any one thing. It was as if a fog had descended upon her senses. Everything was dulled. Even her own whimpers sounded as if they were coming from down a long, narrow tunnel.

Everything echoed. Her crying and sniffling, the sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street ... the quiet, shuddering breathing of the man who lay just a few feet from her. His head was turned toward her, eyes unseeing as he drew his last breaths. The man may have been handsome, in another time and place. His hair was light, similar to John's, and his face, now slack, had a rugged cut to it. Strong jaw. Hooked nose. Wide, brown eyes, similar to Molly's.

Except not. His eyes were fading quickly. So quickly. She still had time. Her life was draining out of her a bit more slowly with the spreading blossom of red on her jumper — my favorite jumper.

His life was nearly gone. His time was up.

And she'd been the one to take it.

It had happened so quickly. She had been about to retire to bed after a long night of watching Glee and drinking a bit of wine when she heard the knock on the door …

•••••••••

* Thud thud thud *

Molly frowned when she looked at the clock on her living room wall. The numbers read that it was well past midnight.

"Who in the world ...?"

For half a second — just half a second — Molly wondered if it were Sherlock. But she quickly dismissed the thought. He had a key, and as she'd learned, he didn't waste his time knocking and being polite.

"Miss?" The voice was low and rough. Her heart skipped. She grabbed her cell phone off the table. It wasn't Sherlock.

Toby, her cat, meowed softly at her from his spot on the couch as she stood uncertainly. She made her way to the door slowly, her socked feet sliding silently across the hardwood.

"Miss, please. My mate is outside and I think — I think he may need a medic."

Molly bit her lip, unsure."I can call the police, if you like," she answered back.

A beat of silence. She heard heavy breathing just on the other side of her door. She made sure her latch chain was still on before she unlocked the deadbolt. "I'm a doctor. What's wrong with your friend?"

The silence stretched. Then, his voice. It had a keening, desperate edge to it. "Miss, please, I don't ... I don't know. He-he just ... I'm worried he may be dead."

Molly's heart flipped again. Not out of concern for her, but for the poor man in the street. She reached for the door knob. But she hesitated. Maybe if she just kept the door cracked and left the chain on … Yes. That was the idea. She wasn't about to let a stranger into her flat.

She turned the knob, cracked the door slightly. "I'll call police —"

But she couldn't finish her sentence. The man had been ready. He rammed a stout shoulder into her door just as she turned the knob, and the door flew open, the chain and splinters flying as he rushed through what remained of the entryway. Molly stumbled back and screamed as the man — much taller and bigger than her — barreled through the doorway.

I bet he doesn't even have a friend out on the street, she thought, suddenly disgusted with her naiveté.

The man reached for her, his brown eyes glinting darkly. Molly knew what he wanted. She'd examined plenty of young women with the signs of sexual abuse. He'd come just for that. He wasn't a money thief.

Molly wasn't going to let that happen. "No!"

She scrambled backward, barely noticing Toby making a mad dash for her back bedroom in the chaos, as the man lurched forward. She smelled alcohol. He reeked of it.

Her phone. Her phone! Where the hell was it?! She saw the pink case. Lying just to the side of the doorway. With a yelp, she changed direction, her legs scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. Molly couldn't help but scream again when he came down on her, his body weight crushing her into the floor, forcing the air from her lungs.

He flipped her onto her back, eyes gleaming with what Molly would only describe later as pure evil. She'd seen it in Moriarty. She saw it here, in her would-be rapist's dark eyes. Without thinking, she reached up and raked her fingernails across his face. He roared as the welts began to bleed.

Then he backhanded her, and she gasped as the pain exploded across her cheekbone. Her left eye felt as if it were going to pop out of its socket, the pressure was so great. Stars swam in her vision, and she thought she had heard a crack from her broken cheekbone. The man sneered, his crooked, yellow teeth bared animalistically. That's all he was. An animal. No humanity in those eyes.

Oh God. Her thoughts were racing, swirling around the realization that she may die tonight.

Was this going to be it? Was she going to be a random victim? A body on a slab, beaten and bloodied? With a pathologist not unlike Molly frowning sadly above her, wondering what her last thought was before she was raped and killed? Or Sherlock? Molly's breath hitched as she fought against the man's huge hands, as he struggled to pin her flailing arms to her sides.

God, Sherlock. Would he be called to the scene? She imagined — and later she realized her wandering thoughts were a defense mechanism, an attempt by her mind to remove her from what was about to happen — Sherlock's bright, intelligent eyes narrowing as he took in her beaten body. She doubted he would cry. He was Sherlock.

She imagined him kneeling beside her, brushing a stray auburn lock of hair from her face to examine the raw, bruising wound on her cheekbone. She imagined John standing behind him, sucking in a sharp breath, saying "Oh Jesus."

She imagined Greg's head bowed, his mouth set in a firm line, as he watched Sherlock coldly tick off her injuries, the evidence of the struggle. Perhaps Sherlock would find him.

Yes, perhaps — perhaps Sherlock and John would hunt this horrible man down. Molly's eyes snapped back to his face. Her attacker. He was still grinning. Her arms were pinned down with his knees.

"Now just stay still, and it won't hurt much, love." The man's voice dripped with triumph.

Molly let her eyes slide away from his, seeking something, anything to focus on. She wished she could be very, very far away from what was about to happen.

And then, a sudden, chaotic ball of fur. Toby!

The cat snarled as he streaked across the living room, and all of a sudden he was on the man's shoulder, claws digging into coat and skin. The man howled as Toby held on for dear life. Molly's arms were suddenly free as the man reared backward. She used the man's sudden lack of focus to shove him backward, mightily, with a grunt. He went flying, windmilling his arms as he fell on her coffee table. Her glass-topped coffee table. The glass shattered, and without thinking, she was moving, grasping a piece of jagged glass in a trembling hand. She felt the blood. She knew she was holding it firmly enough to cut into her palm. But she didn't care. That was the least of her worries.

Toby, with another yowl, was gone, a flash of white and gray as he flew into the hallway.

The man was still groaning and trying to pull himself upright. Molly made a mad dash for her phone. But before she could reach it, he was there again, holding a similar wicked-looking piece of glass. Molly struck first, not thinking, just running on pure "I have to LIVE" instinct. The glass went deep, burying itself just underneath his sternum, on the left side. Lung, liver. Lots of arteries.

Molly knew she'd dealt a deadly blow.

But she didn't realize he'd started swinging too. Although she'd been faster, meaning she'd struck first, he still was moving, his arm arching, even as it began to lose strength. And the glass was there. THERE. In her left side, tearing muscle and fat and ... organs? Did he hit organs?

Pain, blossoming across her abdomen. So much …

She wasn't sure what was damaged. His attempt was more to the side. Hers was more direct.

The man choked on his own breath, staring at her. He was shocked. Little Molly Hooper had proven to be more than he'd bargained for. But she hadn't emerged unscathed. The man sank to his knees and then pitched forward, coming to rest on his stomach. Blood pooled around him sickeningly. Molly wasn't usually bothered by blood and organs and death. But she'd never watched a man die in front of her either. Except for her father. But that had been different.

Molly felt the strength leave her legs, and she slid down slowly, so slowly, until she was sitting on her floor. And then she was lying on her floor, on her right side, the wound on her left side beginning to throb as the adrenaline drained from her body.

•••••••

And now, she was watching as the final light left the man's eyes. Molly felt a grim satisfaction as his body relaxed, his last breath leaving his lungs with a soft sigh. It wasn't yet sinking in that she'd taken another life. But then again, she was worried about living herself.

He was gone.

But she had to get help. The wound wasn't fatal if she got help soon. But bloody hell, there was a lot of blood. She moaned as she craned her head to look at her phone. It was mocking her. God, her side HURT!

Keeping her left hand clamped on the wound, she scooted across the floor of her living room slowly, gasping as dark spots began dancing at the edges of her vision. The fog hadn't lifted. It was getting thicker. Her body was shutting down. Her right hand strained for the phone. She didn't notice the streak of rich, red blood that followed her slow, agonized movement across the floor.

She just noticed the phone. With a soft, pained sigh, her weakened fingers came around the phone. After what seemed like an eternity (but was actually a few seconds) she managed to unlock the screen. There was blood on it now. She wondered if phones were better with blood than they were with water.

It sounded like an experiment for Sherlock.

Sherlock.

The screen opened up to her recent calls list. Sherlock's number was at the very top. They'd talked briefly earlier about some test results she'd gotten back on a body at the morgue. She hadn't called anyone after that, nor had they called her. Such was the life of the quiet pathologist.

It took several attempts, but she was finally able to highlight his number and hit "SEND." Her face was so close to the screen. She could make out the tinny sound of the other line ringing. He picked up quickly. The deep rumble that echoed up to her wasn't loud enough for her to make out the words, but she didn't care.

"Sherlock," she choked out, her eyes welling with tears. "Sherlock ... help me." Her voice was echoing again. It sounded so small and weak. She wondered if he even heard her.

"Molly?" His voice was louder now. She heard him call her name.

"Pl-please. A man ... at my flat."

The blood was everywhere.

"Blood?"

Oh, she'd said that last thought out loud.

"Molly, I need you to stay conscious. Stay awake, Molly." He was yelling now. She could hear him perfectly. She tried to answer back, but the dark spots that had hovered at the edge of her vision began moving in. They were taking over. Her eyesight was failing. So quickly.

Suddenly, she couldn't hold her head up. The blood … my favorite jumper.

She saw the man's feet just beyond her own, unmoving. They were the last thing she saw before she faded away to the sounds of Sherlock's yells, rumbling from the phone that was her lifeline.

•••••••

"Jesus, Sherlock, she's lost a lot of blood," the voice was hovering right above her.

And with that sound, the rest of the world around her began to filter in. Molly felt herself returning, exhausted in mind, body and soul, to the land of the living. She felt someone's hands on her. Hands? The man — !

She tried to struggle even as she fought to open her eyes. No! The man! He was here! She hadn't killed him!

The hands moved to her arms. Pinning her. Pinning! PINNING!

She screamed as her eyes snapped open, and she barely felt the intense pain that radiated from her left side as she struggled to focus on the face above her. The man!

"Molly, it's alright!"

No! Nononononono …

She was still screaming, panicked beyond comprehension. Her mind wasn't working. Not working. Just fight. FIGHT!

"Molly, look at me!" The second voice was deep, and it sliced through her panic. The voice. The voice ... the hands weren't pinning like the evil man had pinned her. They were gentle. Different than the attacker. She slowed her movements. Squinted above her. The dark curls and sharp, blue-green eyes swam into focus. Sherlock.

With a gasp, she stopped struggling. Her head lolled limply as she let her neck relax. She was still in her flat. She was still lying on the floor. And GOD, her side was still SCREAMING at her!

The hands on her side were John's. The doctor placed a tender hand on her uninjured cheek. "It's alright, Molly. It's just us. Medics are on their way."

"John," she whimpered. "John, it hurts."

He nodded, eyes tired and concerned. "I know. You've lost a lot of blood. I have to keep pressure on it. You know that."

She sighed. She did know that. But it still hurt like hell.

She let her eyes slide back up to Sherlock's, right above her. He was staring into her own, a frown set deeply into his face. Then, those eyes moved to the man just beyond her. The glass. The blood. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened.

"I killed him," Molly choked out, unable to stop the tears that fell down her cheeks. The wound on her left cheek stung as the salty liquid moved over it.

Sherlock nodded. "So you did."

"The bastard had it coming," John bit out as he pressed down a bit harder on Molly's side. She moaned. He frowned sympathetically. "That'll teach anyone to mess with our Molly."

She was still staring up at Sherlock. And he at her. She blinked away the tears and tried to concentrate on his swimming visage. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep …

"No, Miss Hooper," Sherlock's voice wrapped itself around her, overcoming her muddled senses. "None of that."

She felt his hand on her uninjured cheek, where John's hand had been only moments before. It lingered there, and she felt him brush a strand of hair from her face. "Stay with us, Molly. Just a few more moments."

She let her right hand, so weak, hover off the floor. It took a great effort to move it upward, but she was rewarded when she felt it come to a rest above Sherlock's own hand, which was still gently lying on her cheek. She knew it was bloody, and she knew Sherlock Holmes didn't really enjoy human contact.

But she didn't give a damn.

She watched him, her vision graying around the edges again, and she saw his eyes widen, ever so slightly.

But his hand didn't move.

And through the pain, and the exhaustion, and the fear, she felt grounded. His hand on her cheek, her hand on his hand. In that moment, while her mind struggled to comprehend what she'd just endured, Sherlock's slender fingers and palm were very real. His hand was warm and comforting against her cool, clammy skin.

And then the medics were bursting in, and there was a flurry of motion. Sherlock's hand was suddenly gone, and she whimpered at its absence. Before she could say a word, someone was cutting her jumper off of her to get a better look at the wound.

"That was my favorite jumper," she couldn't help but grouse.

She saw Sherlock smile from just beyond the medic's shoulder.

"We'll get you a new one, Miss Hooper," he answered.