Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's note: Hey y'all…did you miss me? I'm baaaack! Kind of. Maybe. Hopefully for good. I missed you all! I hope you guys enjoy this latest offering. This one is going to be a four-parter, because you know, everything good comes in four. But I hope you all like it!
This one is for Jillypups.
Also: just a head's up: you're going to need a healthy dose of suspension of disbelief for this story. Like a lot of it really. Because some of the shit I come up with, well, it's a wee bit far-fetched and you're all probably like 'what the hells is BB on about now?' So, this is me, giving you a warning. It's going to be one of those stories.
WARNINGS: These triggers go for the entire story, not just for this chapter but encompass the story as a whole. Please heed the warnings. Sociopath!Molly, murder, blood, sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, Molly is not who see seems, lots of dubious things, criminal masterminds…it runs in the family, suicide, there's a bunch of creepy undertones, like kind of really creepy. This is a dark, angsty fic.
Hope you all enjoy! I kind of had a lot of fun writing it…which may or may not say a lot about my psyche, but we're all a little crazy here? Hehe. Seriously though, hope you all enjoy! Also: any mistakes are mine and mine alone, and I apologize profusely if I offend anyone because that is the last thing I want to do.
(Just an FYI: Title of the story comes from Macklemore's song Otherside; each chapter title comes from the song Nothing but the Water by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals; and every chapter is based on a song, which will be listed below. In short, I still own nothing.)
The cusp of death (it won't be us)
Part I: I'll find glory somewhere, somehow
I've got to say goodbye
To the pieces of me that have already died
I'm a ghost
Haunting these halls
Climbing these walls that I never knew were there
Ghost – Ingrid Michaelson
It's dark when she steps onto the roof, breathing in the cold air. It burns her throat, stinging her nostrils and she shoves her hand in the pockets of her lab coat, her jumper barely keeping her warm against the cold wind.
The gravel crunches beneath her shoes as she makes her way to the ledge and her heart lurches when she glances down, crouching, she swings one leg over the ledge and the other following, until her legs are dangling off the ledge, one nudge away from falling.
The moon is brilliant in the sky, illuminating the streets and shadows that dance across buildings and streets and across the yard of the place she called home, the place she laughed, cried, schemed, raged and planned in. She can hear everything from up here, see everything from the ledge. Here, she thinks, is a beautiful and haunting place where lost souls come to conquer and many fail.
(But not Molly. Never Molly.)
It isn't until her hands are numb and she can't feel her fingers or her toes, that she smiles into the night, where no one can see her and her eyes gleam as she takes in all the lights and thinks, mine.
(She always knew she would be the last one standing.)
"Do you need something?" He says. He has a mop of dark hair, eyes gleaming with something maniacal, something unhinged, as they rove over her body, giving her a once over and it sends a shiver down Molly's spine. He's smiling at her, all teeth and no sincerity and she appreciates his lack of bullshit. She gives him a soft smile (in the future, she'll perfect the soft smile and the innocence but she knows, there are a select few who know the true her, a select few who know she is all angles and sharpness, willing and able to cut down anyone who stands in her way. The last one standing, she thinks to herself.)
("Are you sure Molly?" Her father asks her one-day after he, her uncle and herself meet.
Molly lifts her eyes and glances between her father and uncle, eyes clear and she nods sharply. "Him." She says, her voice unwavering. "I want him."
Her uncle leans back, glasses perched atop his nose and he stares down at her, like he used to do when she was child and she would sit on his lap, listening to him breathe as he talked to her father and smoked his pipe. Molly always hated that look. It made her feel like a child and after everything she's done, after everything she's proven herself to be at such a young age, she's anything but a child. "He's unhinged, Molly."
She looks at her uncle, her brown eyes meeting his. "We're all a little fucking unhinged, aren't we Uncle?"
There is a ghost of a smile on his face, barely visible, except for the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
Her father pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Fine. You win."
She leans back in her chair, arms lounging on the armrests, legs crossed and as she looks down she can see her reflection in the black patent leather of her heels. She gives them a smile, all teeth and no sincerity (there is no room for sincerity in their world, in their lives, they're all liars, thieves, crooks and murderers, not that it bothers Molly, it's the family business after all), "I always do.")
"You." She says, her eyes studying him as he huffs on his cigarette and flicks it to the ground. "I need you."
He rolls his eyes and steps closer to her until he's a hair's breadth away from her lips and all she can smell is the nicotine and his cologne (Hugo Boss) and something else that she thinks is purely him. "`Bout fucking time, Molls." He snaps his teeth at her as his arms snake around her waist, his hand going to the small of her back and he pulls her to him, pressing her against him and her mind wanders as it always does when she's with Jim and they're thinking of a future that will be hers and one name always, always, comes up and she gets lost in this one name and everything he has and can offer her. He's all she can think about, all she can breathe in. It's just him.
Only him.
Always him.
"Good plans need time, Jim. You of all people should know that." She steps closer, wraps her arms around his neck, until there is no space between them, her lips touching his. "Now," she says, excitement tingling up every nook of her spine, "tell me more about Sherlock Holmes."
"I know his brother." Her uncle tells them. "A fat little fuck who thinks he'll one day run the country."
"Will he?" Molly asks.
Her uncle laughs and scratches his chin. "Likely." He concedes. His eyes train on her and she's proud when she doesn't squirm under his gaze. "Why Sherlock Holmes?"
She shrugs one shoulder at him, staring at the picture of said man in front of her. He's all angles and sharpness (like her) and she feels her heart speed up and her hands begin to clam and she imagines how it would be to run this entire network, this entire empire with him at her side. They'd be unstoppable.
Unbeatable.
They would be so fucking glorious together.
"Why not Sherlock Holmes?"
Her uncle doesn't say anything and they fall into a silence until she sighs and clears her throat. "He has a mind palace." She tells him and she sees the light in her uncle's eyes, she watches him process information and watches his mind run a mile a minute from his eyes. "I need you to teach me."
Her uncle cocks an eyebrow at her. "You want a mind palace of your own?" He sounds almost gleeful.
She leans forward, elbows on the mahogany table. "I want a fucking fortress."
He grins and it's all teeth (a family trait she'll later attest it to) and for a minute, she thinks that this is her uncle who always held her and who always protected her and who pushed her to be the person she was always meant to be. He looks younger when he smiles like this, he looks…almost normal. It's strange, and it doesn't suit him (it doesn't suit any of them, really. They were never meant to be normal, anyways.) "Molly, Molly. You always were the apple of our eyes, weren't you?"
She smirks and thus her fortress begins to form.
Sherlock Holmes starts off as a phantom. As a game.
It shouldn't catch Molly by surprise then that he becomes more of an obsession than a game.
(It shouldn't, but it still does. Just a little bit.)
The day before she goes to Uni, her father comes to see her.
She's on the roof of the house, sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the ledge as she looks out across the apple orchids in front of her. She can see everything and hear everything from her little spot on the ledge, one nudge away from falling. She closes her eyes and feels the warm September breeze that blows through her hair.
"I feel like I should part some fatherly wisdom on you." He says and she can hear the humor, laced with melancholy and maybe a bit of nostalgia for what could have been.
(Sometimes, her mother once whispered to her, when Molly was younger and her father was gone with his brother building, creating and sustaining an empire that Molly will one day call her own, I feel like I'm not strong enough. She trails a finger down Molly's cheek and her breath hitches, you're just like them, you know. Your father and his brother, you've always been smart, smarter than me and you'll be smarter than them. I know you will. You'll be the last one standing, Molly. She takes in a deep breath and presses a kiss to her temple, and sometimes, I think I hate you for that.)
She waits for her dad to sit beside her, but he doesn't. Instead, he stands behind her, his shadow looming over her.
And then she remembers her father's fear of heights and she wants to laugh because for the longest time she always thought her father wasn't afraid of anything.
(We're made of tougher stuff, Molly, he would tell her, we don't owe the world shit, it's the world that owes us and we're going to fucking take it.)
"Are you then?" She asks, still staring ahead. "Going to impart fatherly wisdom on me?"
"Would you listen to me, even if I did?"
"Probably not."
Her father snorts out a laugh and rubs at his chest. He's getting older, her father, and her breath catches when she remembers him grimacing and complaining of chest pains.
("Probably from all the scheming and thieving and blackmailing. You know, shit that rots the heart and soul. I'm getting too old for this."
"Yes," her uncle drawls, "because God forbid it be from all the smoking and drinking."
"Well," her father grins, "there's probably that too.")
"This thing," her father starts slowly, "with Jim, think you can control him?"
She laughs because it's absurd. She can't control James Moriarty. Nobody can control him. He can't even control himself and she thinks that's what she likes most about him. "No." She tells him. "I don't think I can control him, but, Jim knows his place. He knows his role. We've all got parts to play in due time."
"Molly, why Sherlock Holmes?"
And because she still doesn't really have an answer, she gives him the same one she gave her uncle, "why not Sherlock Holmes?"
They stay there in silence before she hears her father shuffle his feet and hears the gravel crunch underneath his shoes.
"You know," her father says softly, voice carrying with the breeze. "Your mother, I think she would have liked it."
"Liked what?"
"You taking on her maiden name."
"Well," Molly replies, looking over her shoulder for the first time to meet her father's gaze, "Hooper does flow better off the tongue than Magnussen."
Her father nods his head and stares at her, "but you'll never forget who you really are."
She turns back around and watches as moon peaks through the cloud and illuminates them in its haunting light. "I don't think I would even want to."
(From her spot on the ledge, looking down at the apple orchids, she sees a shift and then a drop and from her vantage point and from the light of the moon she sees an apple, roll from its branch and onto the ground. She watches as her uncle walks out of house and onto the grass, watches as he walks forward, pauses, stares at the fallen apple and then grabs it, wiping it on his trousers before taking a bite that echoes into the night. He looks up then, mouth full of apple and nods at her, raising the apple as a cheers and then leaves, continuing to eat the fruit.)
(Molly, you always were the apple of our eyes.)
To everyone at Uni, she's Molly Hooper, budding pathologist in the making who prefers her people dead to living.
She's a happy young woman, with interesting jumpers, a small, innocent smile and a bumbling disposition when talking to others. She's awkward and cute and smart.
She takes a deep breath as her eyes narrow on him, his mop of black curly hair visible from the beakers and chemicals. She makes her way towards him, bumping into people on purpose and fumbling out an apology with as sincere a smile as she can muster (no teeth, just lips pulled over). When she dumps her books on the desk, he doesn't jump or flinch, instead she studies him as she slides into her seat.
She studies his long fingers steepled underneath his chin and studies the way his eyes move behind his closed eyelids and studies the way his mouth moves as he mouths words and sentences and she wonders what is in his mind palace, wants to delve into it and carve out a room belonging just to her. She wants to get into his blood, into his soul until she consumes him whole.
Not even a moment later, he comes out of his trance and it's almost violent the way he opens his eyes and she gasps, not because she's afraid (because she's not, Molly isn't afraid of anything) but because his eyes are a more startling shade of blue and green than she previously thought.
"Hi." She says, a bit too cheerily and a bit too loudly, but she sticks her hand out in front of her. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. I suppose we're partners then."
He looks at her as if she's alien and her smile wavers only slightly and her hand trembles, just a little bit, until he hesitantly puts his hand in hers. It's large and encompasses hers completely, until she can't even see her hand anymore and he pumps it once and then twice, his fingers pressing against her pulse point in her wrist and she cocks an eyebrow at him, amused. His eyes furrow as he stares at his fingers and feels the rapid pulse underneath her skin, muscle, tissue and bone. "I suppose we are. Partners that is."
She lets go of his hand and brings it to her side, gives him a reassuring smile and looks out the window, where the sun is shining and people are milling about. Her eyes scour the yard until she finds who she's looking for. He's leaning against a lamp post, his jacket unbuttoned and cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, but he's there, Jim. Studying everyone around him. Studying her. Studying Sherlock and she gives him a small nod, unnoticeable to everyone (Molly does a lot of things unnoticeable to everyone else.)
She looks forward when the professor comes storming in and she hides her glee when five minutes in, Sherlock drawls out an answer and then a retort and proceeds to disentangle the professor's personal life.
After class is dismissed and the professor is glaring at Sherlock who stares back at him, Molly leans forward, her breath hot in his ear, "that was brilliant."
He turns around and looks at her with hesitant and accusing eyes, studying her, scrutinizing her, trying to deduce her. She thinks it's cute that he's attempting to try. "That's not what most people say." He replies in a distant voice and for the first time, Molly hears rather than sees the hesitance and she wonders just how broken and vulnerable Sherlock Holmes really is and how well he's hidden his loneliness from the world.
"What do you usually say?" She asks conversationally, as she packs her books away.
"Piss off."
Molly lets out a small huff and she shakes her head. "Well, I think that it was brilliant." She walks around and stops, turning her head to look at him, deciding against her better judgment, to give him a little look into who she is. "And I'm not like most people."
"No." Her murmurs after a moment of silence. "You aren't, are you?"
She smiles and waves. "See you around Sherlock."
And so, she thinks, as she walks away, through the mass of people talking about trivial things, the game begins.
Hi. Okay. So, if you've stuck around to the end, awesome! Hi! I luuurrrve yoou! If you haven't, well, you're likely never to see this little note, but I love you anyways!
I don't quite think anyone really knows how much I wanted this to happen when I was watching (and subsequently, re-watching) Sherlock. The thought and idea of Molly not being who she is but rather being related to Magnussen, it's kind of mind-boggling and incredibly far-fetched, I know, but so very delicious. At least to me.
There is a lot of things left unsaid and vague and it's supposed to be that way. Hopefully, by the end of chapter four, everything will have come full-circle and it'll all make sense (then again, it's me and I'm known for not making any sense. Like at all.)
Regardless, I'm hoping you will walking into this twisted and dark rabbit hole with me. I'm a good guide/host, I promise! Hehehe.
Also: I just really really love delving into the could have been's and maybe would have been's of Molly's past life, which is why I think most of my fics have been Past!Molly heavy. Hopefully it's not too boring. But yeah, I hope you all enjoy!
MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,
BB
P.S. Jillypups, you liking this yet? MWAH!