No dialogue, just prose. This doesn't say anything particularly innovative, but I did write this in one unedited glob at 2.20 am. Mild sex, mostly stream-of-consciousness fast-track through their relationship, I guess. And I know he started to draw her in via her blog. I also thought about Jim possibly opening Molly's mind a little more, or making her decide to close it forever for her safety.
Molly's secret was that she was a thinker. Because her words got jumbled up on their way out, because of her girly appearance and her friendly face, it crossed no one's minds that Molly was constantly thinking. Trying to work out what people's secrets were, what sort of life they had, what sort of person she was deep down. Molly sometimes had the strangest feeling that she'd stepped outside her body and another person was using her voice. She knew she was saying the platitudes, tripping over her words, she could feel herself consciously trying to be pretty and conventional when she brushed her hair in the morning, but sometimes she was terrified of herself. If the whole of the identity she'd created crumbled at a glance in a mirror at the wrong time, what was the real her like? Molly wasn't sure it would be safe to find out. Perhaps everyone had a secret self. Perhaps everyone longed to say what they were really thinking, longed to ask all those probing, impolite questions. Maybe it was just morality, or society, or something that seems easy to break but is really so impenetrable.
And this was where Sherlock Holmes came in. To Molly, it seemed none of the usual bounds of human restraint applied to him. He analysed people quickly and out loud, just like Molly did but slower, silently. He asked all the wrong questions, which Molly knew were really the right ones. And yet he still lived in a flat, ate food, went to work and wore clothes. Sometimes she longed for him to step really out of line, say something really shocking, but of course he didn't work like that. He wasn't trying to humiliate or psychoanalyse. He simply observed, and couldn't help but share his observations. Whenever he misread Molly's invitations or commented on her appearance or insulted her intelligence she had to stop tears from stinging her eyes, and equally stinging retorts to rise up her throat. He was just being literal. He was Sherlock.
When Jim smiled awkwardly at her and gave a clumsy wave, almost dropping his cup of coffee in the process, she was relieved and nodded at his offer of coffee, smiling enthusiastically. It really was a relief for someone to be simply friendly, not professional, not distant, not boring, nor rude and patronising. Jim wasn't anything special, but he asked Molly questions about herself and made a couple of jokes about other people who worked there, and he shyly asked her to come and see him again the next day. She hadn't expected him to like her in that way, she never expected anyone to these days. She didn't fancy him, but she had a warm glow of anticipation in her chest.
He was very shy. And she started to like that he was shy. He made her feel cleverer and funnier and taller. Not like Sherlock, who still slid his eyes over her perfunctorily and then straight past her to the corpses. She talked about how her family was a bit of a nightmare, how she'd just got a cat, how she wasn't very good at updating her blog. He offered to help her, and soon Jim and Molly were meeting most evenings to sit in the IT department, officially for him to help her with her computer skills, but mostly they just sat and talked. Molly asked him if he wanted to go for lunch, he kissed her gently and they were Jim-and-Molly.
She knew that he would never understand if she told him about her existential crises, about her suspicions of everyone around her, and she couldn't begin to talk about her fears and desires. Their relationship was sweetly chaste. He came over in the evenings and they watched TV, snug in each other's arms, and they might be silly and tickle each other, or nuzzle each other's hair. Apart from the quick goodnight kiss, it was almost like hanging out with Toby in human form.
At the back of her mind glimmered a mean, shallow little opportunity with Sherlock. She wanted to show him that she was attractive, that in this relationship she was the leader. It crossed her mind more than once. She began to drop mentions of 'my boyfriend' into conversation. She talked about him openly on her lonely little blog. She held hands with him when they were walking to the canteen, and would kiss him extra hard, even when there was no one else to witness, as if performing. When they ran through the spiel of their days, she couldn't help mentioning how rude Sherlock had been to her, or how blatantly flirty he'd been to her, trying to provoke some pride or jealousy or anger in him, but timidly, timidly. Yet Molly couldn't help but drop in amusing anecdotes of something Sherlock had deduced about a seemingly unassuming person, or the bemused reaction of a newbie. Jim never seemed to get bored with her, and he watched her eyes and mouth and hands as if mesmerised.
Molly began to get frustrated, at herself for being unable to articulate what she really wanted, at Sherlock for being so patronising and ignorant, at Jim for doggedly pecking her goodnight. And so it was that Sherlock gave her a sideways glance when she tutted loudly at his rudeness, that Molly smiled at the feeling of power it gave her, that Jim looked surprised when she leant up to kiss him and they continued. And they continued and continued until she was smiling into his shoulder and she couldn't see the grin on his face as he nipped at her neck. When they'd both climaxed and Molly resisted the automatic urge to cover herself up, she kissed him again, long and lingering, Jim Moriarty smirking all over his face behind the mask and Glee still warbling in the background. It occurred to her how little they really said.
The next day, she was angrier at Sherlock. He was attempting to break up her relationship. She knew he wasn't really gay, the swollen looseness of her limbs was all too accurate an indicator, just bi or something such. Maybe Sherlock really was jealous? But that number was real, and Sherlock rarely made things up. She ran after Jim, her confidence slipping like her makeup was as she started to cry, and he wasn't anywhere to be found. The IT department had no record of him. It was as if he'd never existed.
Attempts at making any real progress at work that day were futile. Molly went home and looked at the things she'd collected. The Sky+ box, multiple seasons of American teen television recorded for her and Jim's viewing pleasure. The Dutch china ornaments. The cat toys. The photo set as her phone and laptop wallpaper, Molly grinning and Jim smiling with his mouth closed, Molly looking up at him, his chin resting on her head as he stared into the camera, Toby sitting on their laps like a child in a Victorian portrait. She'd caught him swearing at Toby once, when she'd come out of the loo and found them in the kitchen. He'd had the most twisted look of cold disgust on his face.
They needed to talk. She phoned him. Left him voicemail messages. Texted him. Emailed him. Updated her blog, even. She tried every half an hour for three hours. She sent him one last sad little text. 'Please call or text or anything, Jim. It's okay if you're gay, we just need to talk about it. Please. Love, Molly xxxxxx'
For days, there was nothing and she got on with her life, twinges of worry and self-consciousness snapping inside her like twigs on a forest floor. Every so often someone or something would step on them.
It must be a dream, she thought, as he stood in her house one night. I didn't answer the door. Look, I'm still in my pyjamas. But not anymore. He was dressed in a well-tailored, immaculate suit, and he was undressing her. She glanced at the window. Heavy curtains shut on a heavy room. Toby sat on the window ledge, eyes narrowed. He lifted her chin towards him and this time he kissed her, greedily. She idly thought his suit might get creased. She closed her eyes, the only light soft through the ajar door, golden landing light and golden waves shivering through her knees and back. The linen didn't feel or smell any different when he stroked her face and left, and she got back under the covers and went back to sleep easily.
Molly often wondered, before it was revealed who he really was, if he might have understood her dissociation, her discontent, her stirring mind. He might have shown him his if she'd shown him hers. She thought, I'll either ask people the questions, let it be known that I'm not so simple, or I'll go with the simple route and put it all from my mind. Molly decided.