Hi everybody. So I had some time on hand, and I squeezed this through my keyboard. Angsty angst and all sorts of sadness. It was sort of inspired by that tumblr post I can't for the life of me find - the Person A calling Person B while dying and being all normal on the phone.

If ever Sherlock had ever wanted more to be alone, it was now. However, the privacy he wanted wasn't granted to him by the presence of two intrusive bodies.

Corpses can be encumbering things, even at the best of times – and right now, for Sherlock, the two dead and still bleeding bodies did not help. They were, for one, lying on top of him, making his arm numb and cold – unable to move. He shifted, ineffectually, and managed to grasp something cool and thin.

His ribs hurt – the knife that was directly in his stomach, and being pressed down more and more due to the body of Moran was causing a constant and throbbing pain. Sherlock ignored it; he had more important things to do. For one, he had to make a choice.

John, or Molly? The best friend, or the ex-almost?

Sherlock had always been good at clinically observing his surroundings – and this was no exception. His solitary adventure into the warehouse was bound not to go well, but he had not anticipated that Moran himself would be there. There was only one reason he allowed John the luxury of staying with his wife for one night – he had felt like the situation was relatively harmless.

And he knew he was dying. There was nothing for it. He was dying. What mattered was who he managed to call.

It was instinctive, he supposed. John knew how Sherlock felt about him – to John, closure would be simpler. It was Molly he was having a dilemma about – if he called her and told her the truth, the whole truth, without omitting everything, he was simply giving her a glance of something that had never happened.

Sherlock Holmes did not believe in regrets and deaths which went beyond the grave. Molly's favourite poet was Thomas – she loved him, for some very strange reason. Sherlock never understood her fascination with literature, but when she had read out the lines from The Signpost, he had understood, almost without thinking, the love for Thomas.

The freedom to wish.

That was what Thomas had thought was the only flaw in death. And yes, Sherlock would not have the freedom to wish Molly close to him right now – however, even when dead, he had a haunting suspicion that he would somehow always be aware of Molly finally moving on, without being aware of what Sherlock was thinking about.

He dialed the number; he'd had it memorized ever since she gave him a skull to talk to. It was one of those things about her.

Ring.

Would she pick up?

Ring.

Would she not know her phone was ringing?

Ring.

"Sherlock?"

If Sherlock had doubted before, he did not do so now. Her voice was exactly as it had always been – small, soft, gentle, radiating the consistent control she had over herself when situations went out of hand.

"Molly?" he made an effort to make his voice sound normal.

"Are you alright? You don't normally call," she said. Her voice sounded anxious, and the tick in her accent showed up – the one that betrayed her Irish descent.

"I'm fine," he said. "I was taking Moran down."

"I trust it went fine?" she asked, her voice visibly relaxing. "I hope you didn't get hurt! Is he dead? Are the police there?"

Sherlock glanced at Moran's body. "Oh, he's dead. He won't bother you anymore."

Molly laughed nervously, and Sherlock's dazed and dying brain brought up every single instance of her laughing, altogether at once.

"Molly?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Could you – could you – recite me some poetry?"

"Sherlock, are you all right?" asked Molly, her voice hiking upwards.

"Molly – please. I promise you, calling the police won't help you."

"Sherlock – please, what's wrong? We can fix it," she promised, her voice rising further in pitch.

"No - you can't. there's a lot of things you can fix, Molly Hooper, but this is not one of them."

"Sherlock –" it was a small, slightly strangled question. "What's wrong?"

"Molly – please. I really want that poetry." It was a plea. Sherlock needed her to do this for him – so that he could remember himself one last time.

She was crying, he could tell. But she was not willing to cut the phone. Molly breathed in, and Sherlock could almost picture her – searching her memory, thinking, thinking – twirling her hair, and then biting her lip. He could feel her next to him.

"You've crossed all the seas and oceans, you've travelled all the world –" he hadn't heard this one before. Molly's voice was cracking, it was losing its control. "You've been chasing something distant - something so bizarre. Something that always tantalized you – you no longer know who you are"

"It sounds nice," he said. He could feel her nod, without knowing it. She chuckled.

"You always were a little misfit - in a world of puzzle pieces that seemed to somewhat work. You always were dreaming of something beyond, somewhere I would look, for hours in mind - somewhere where the sun and moon met, somewhere I could never find."

"It fits," said Sherlock, his eyes shutting. This felt nice. Everything felt nice.

"You disappeared one day, I suppose, I did not realize when," she was whispering. Why was she whispering? "For everything that you did – the way you slammed your books shut - your glasses, your little laugh, everything so you, it lingered on and on. It hid in the crevices of your things; it did not go for a time too long."

"I like this one, Molly," he said. His voice was becoming softer and slower. "It's a lot better than the trash you normally read. This and Thomas. I like Thomas."

Molly gave a small, watery chuckle, but she ploughed on. "Forgive me, my dear - I did not understand you then, I do not fully understand you now. Darling, you were cold and warm - you never made sense to me. I did not know what it was about you - Something that – something that always wished to be free."

"Molly?" he asked.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" asked Molly, her voice very, very small.

"I love you."

There was a silence.

"You're a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes," she said.

"I know. I'm really sorry," his voice was so far away. He could barely hear himself. "I'm sorry I did those things to you. I'm sorry I – hu – hurt you. I loved you. Always, always. When you brought me that skull, especially."

Molly laughed. "I called him Billy," she whispered.

"Yes – you always did insist on unnecessary sentiment. I used to hate that about you. Well, I pretended to hate that."

"Sherlock – just tell me where you are –"

"Molly – I promise you, there is nothing to be done. I give it two more minutes. I regained consciousness too late, and realized I was dying even later. Give us this moment, please."

Molly said nothing. "I love you," she said. "Always did."

"I know," said Sherlock.

"Personal secret, Sherlock?" said Molly to the mouthpiece.

"Yes, Molly?"

"I punched Jim Moriarty before breaking up with him."

If Sherlock could have kissed her, he would have. He laughed, coughed blood, and realized there really wasn't much time left.

"Molly?"

"Yeah Sherlock?" she was crying, so much. He could tell.

"Make sure the next one likes that blue blouse of yours. The blue blouse is the most hideous one you have – so he has to love that."

"Oh Sherlock," she said. "Please – please don't do this."

"And Molly? Greg likes you. He'll break up with his wife again in approximately three weeks. Could you make sure my autopsy is done by you?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Molly, I –" he coughed more blood. "Love you –"

The line went extremely and irreplaceably dead. Far away, Molly Hooper sobbed, cried, and brought the DI Lestrade to find where Sherlock was.

There was a smile on his face.

"Time of death, six-seventeen PM."

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