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The first time Holmes died, Hooper had kept his secrets and he had come back. Of course, he had been different afterwards. Two years of adventures, isolation and torture had changed him, softened him around the edges. But he was still Sherlock Holmes. Still the infuriating genius. Still the man they all loved.
What came back the second time wasn’t the man Hooper loved. He wasn’t a man at all anymore. That should have made what she was doing easier. But it didn’t. Looking into his eyes, still beautiful even in death, Hooper raised the heavy revolver he’d handed her before he’d thrown himself into the zombie hoard. He’d done it to save her. He’d calculated the options, known they wouldn’t make it out together, and used himself as a distraction to give her time to escape the savage hungry mass of undead. It didn’t bear contemplating how the dead coming back as ravenous monsters was even possible. None of it made any sort of sense.
If he'd known, he’d be angry with her for wasting his efforts by coming back to search for him. But she couldn’t stand the thought of him endlessly trudging the streets as a brainless corpse. A dull, lifeless echo of the once brilliant man. He would hate that.
So, she’d loaded the pistol with the one precious bullet she had left and she’d returned to West Smithfield. For him. For herself, really, because she was a coward and couldn’t live with losing him like that.
It was a miracle that she managed to find him at all, and moreover, that she’d found him alone instead of surrounded by a pack of shuffling cadavers. She told herself that it had to be a coincidence that he was in the mortuary. They’d retreated to the roof top when they’d been surrounded as St. Bartholomew’s had been overrun.
But the hospital was empty now, save for him. Something must have drawn the others away. Even so, it was not only odd that he had lingered but also had made his way back inside to the basement rooms where they’d spent so much time together. Maybe the last bits of his humanity had led him there in search of familiarity and comfort as his consciousness had slipped away. Hooper swallowed hard. She’d never have any way of knowing.
He shambled forward, arms outstretched, as she leveled the barrel of the gun at him. The sound of the shot would echo down the stone passages and no doubt draw the other creatures in the area to her location. She knew she was likely just replacing his walking corpse with her own. But everyone she’d ever known or loved was most likely dead, so what did it matter. She repeated one of the little prayers she’d said a least a thousand times since this ordeal began, “Please God, let the Watsons have got little Rosamund off to somewhere safe.”
She steadied herself, took aim, then closed her eyes. She could pull the trigger, but she couldn’t bear to watch him die yet again.
“Goodbye Holmes.” She whispered.
“Hhhhooopaahhr” he moaned.
Her eyes flew open and the gun clattered to the floor at her feet.
It wasn’t possible. It simply couldn’t be possible. She scowled at him as she scrabbled to retrieve the gun. He’d quit advancing and simply stood a few yards away, swaying, but otherwise motionless. That too, was unheard of. The undead never stayed put. Once they noticed a living person, they were utterly relentless in their plodding pursuit. Her heart leapt in her chest.
“Holmes?” She asked, not daring to hope, but hoping anyway.
His head did a slow wobble. Was he trying to nod? Her own head swam with the possibility of it. If he was somehow still in there, somehow still Sherlock Holmes, despite having been infected with this horrible thing, then maybe, just maybe, she could figure out why, learn how it worked… Bring him back. Oh God. It felt too good to be true. Hooper knew hope was a dangerous thing. And yet…
“Say my name again.” She said, watching him closely in the flickering light, thankful the gas lights were still functional. She sucked in a breath and held it for what felt like an eternity, waiting for him to reply.
“Mmaaulleeh Ooopahr” He finally managed.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Without a thought, she laid the pistol on the nearest slab and crossed the room to him, wrapping her arms around his ruined bloodstained body.
He leaned down into her embrace, nuzzling his face into her shoulder. His entire body gave a shudder as if he was weeping just as she was. Relief washed over her. They could work together to put this whole nightmare behind them. Maybe they could even save the world.
His fingers dug into her back, pulling her against him, as his teeth ripped through the thin fabric of her shirt and into the soft flesh above her clavicle, tearing open her jugular. Her last thought was that at least she would die in his arms.
Molly startled, shaking herself out of the nightmare and reflexively reaching to massage the base of her neck. Her heart hammered against her sternum. It had all felt so vivid and real.
Something shuffled against her shoulder. She shrieked and rolled away, falling gracelessly out of bed. A large lump under the duvet let out a low groan that sounded a lot like her name.
Pale fingers reached toward her out of the darkness as she scooted back along the edge of the rug in terror. The hand reached up and flipped on the bed side lamp. Sleepy-eyed, Sherlock peered down at her over the edge of the mattress. He hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed. She blinked up at him trying to reign in her panic.
“For God’s sake, you’re worse than John. Why do you insist on watching horror movies, knowing full well they’ll disturb your sleep cycle?”
Molly sighed, her fear subsiding. Of course, he would know she’d watched Cargo earlier. He’d probably checked her Netflix history, the git.
Sherlock held out his hand to help her up.
“Come back to bed, and don’t worry, I’m not after your braaaaiiiinns.” he smirked.
She couldn’t stop her eyes flicking from his face to the pillow as she wondered briefly how long it would take to smother him with it.
"Longer than you'd think, besides, I'd just come back to haunt your nightmares." He answered her thoughts before switching off the lamp.
She had no doubt that was true.