Hullo there! I actually have no idea what to say right now, so I'll simply tell you that this fic is a request from the lovely hiddenheart40120. So, I'm going to shut up and let you read it now.

My cup runneth over and leaves stains upon the floor

And the blood upon my hands is more than that upon my door

Now I've reached the precipice, this my breaking point I'll call

Yes, I have reached my breaking point, and now I'll break them all

Molly Hooper was tired. She was tired of being the little morgue mouse that people trampled over; she was tired of being used; she was tired of the sleepless nights that she spent wondering if she could have done anything different, berating herself for being too stupid to realize her dear Jim from IT was actually James Moriarty, consulting criminal and psychopath; she was tired of Sherlock's cold, cruel comments that tore into her already-battered heart; she was tired of pining over a man that would never return her feelings; she was so bloody tired.

It showed physically ("You've lost six pounds since I last saw you." "I know, Sherlock."), it showed emotionally (really, no sane person should cry just because their cat wouldn't come out from under the bed), it even showed mentally (Talking to yourself isn't normal or healthy, Molls.). It had slowly infiltrated every facet of her miserable existence until even she realized just how far she had come. The pitying looks from her co-workers hadn't helped, nor had the "uplifting" compliments from Dr. Watson ("That skirt compliments the colour of your eyes," or, "Your shoes very shiny today.").

In short, this newfound weariness had put the right amount of pressure on her, and Sherlock Holmes was the straw to break the mousy camel's back.

"I need to look at a male, aged thirty-five to forty." A deep voice called. Molly sighed, her eyelids sliding shut.

"Have you a pass?"

"No."

"Then you can't see the corpse."

Silence. Then, "Molly, your hair looks quite lovely pulled back like that. It compliments your features."

"Thank you, Sherlock. You still need a pass." A longer silence.

"You really do need to wear lipstick, Molly. Your lips are entirely inadequate. Also, you may consider buying a push-up bra, if you wish to attract anyone other than psychopathic, murderous criminals." His voice was cold and low, his eyes practically glaring a hole through her before he turned on his heel and marched out, ridiculous coat flapping behind him. John looked shell-shocked at his friend's behaviour. He muttered a quick apology before hurrying away.

Molly stood there, elbow-deep in a seventy-two-year-old woman, silent tears beginning to slide down her cheeks as his words replayed in her head. Inadequate, his voice taunted. Weakling. Mousy Molly Hooper, unable to do anything right. She shook her head, the tears coming hot and thick now. Do try not to date any other psychopaths that want to kill me, yes? Or perhaps stop dating at all. God knows the male population would be better off.

"Stop it!" She yelled. Her wavering voice echoed back to her, desperate and angry. Why did he always say such horrible things when he didn't get his way? He was such a child.

You know I'm right, the voice hissed. I always am.

"No. No, you're not," Molly whispered, shaking her head. "You're not."

I am. You are nothing, Molly Elizabeth Hooper. Nothing. Your own family disapproves of you. "

"Shut up!"

Your dear father, wanting you to become something useful, like a surgeon, or even a lawyer. Dear little Mummy, wanting her daughter to be married already, with two children and a dog. Brother William, who thought you'd make an excellent battlefield nurse.

"Shut UP!" Molly screamed, peeling off her bloody gloves and throwing them across the room. She backed up against the wall, sliding down it and sobbing into her hands, rocking herself back and forth. She stayed like this for several minutes, until she heard a quiet voice.

"Dr. Hooper?" It was one of the interns, Bill or Bob something-or-another. His voice was soft, consoling as he knelt beside her. "Are you alright?"

She turned her tearstained face towards him, no doubt looking a complete mess. "I'm fine," she said thickly, voice cracking.

He arched a brow at her obvious lie, but didn't mention it. "Why don't you go home and let me finish up, yeah? You've had a lot put on you lately, and it's probably a good idea if you take some time off."

Molly laughed bitterly. "A lot put on me lately? You've no idea, mate. No. Bloody. Idea." Another almost-hysterical laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll do that. Take some time off, that is. Yeah."

The intern nodded, eyeing her warily before standing and proceeding to wash up. "Have a nice break, Dr. Hooper."

"Thanks," she muttered, standing and all but running from the building. Oh yes, she was going to have a break, all right, but she was almost positive there wasn't going to be anything "nice" about it.

Despite what Sherlock and everyone else thought, Molly Hooper was not stupid. In fact, she was quite intelligent, something that helped her rise to head pathologist at St. Bartholomew's at her relatively young age. She merely didn't flaunt her intelligence, mainly because of her deplorable lack of self-confidence. She would rather appear idiotic than arrogant or wrong, shy than loud and obnoxious. She still used that intelligence in her everyday life, however, and had she not been so blasted tired, and so emotionally strained, she would have noticed the warning signs that something was definitely one thing, Toby didn't run to greet her as he normally did when she entered the flat. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, as she usually left the windows open so that he could roam about while she was at work. The windows weren't open, though, because the forecast had called for rain. She had left plenty of food and water in his respective bowls, and he seemed to be in a very good mood when she left. Why, then, wouldn't he come to see her? He didn't even come pattering down the hall when she called for him, making small clicking noises with her tongue.

Secondly, there was an odd scent in her flat, something definitively masculine. She identified sandalwood as one of the smells, along with something muskier, heady even. All of her perfumes were lighter, airier scents, flowery and fruity.

Lastly, the television had been turned on, and was currently playing an old episode of Glee. She knew she had turned the telly off before she left that morning, and she hadn't watched Glee since she had ended it with Jim.

Being in the state of mind she was, however, Molly paid little attention to these things, dismissing them as she threw her purse on the overstuffed couch and threw her heels in the hall cupboard. The tears that had left her in the cab were now returning, falling quickly as she hurried down the hall to her bedroom, closing the door far harder than was necessary and beginning to strip, fingers fumbling in the buttons of her lavender blouse.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," a soft Irish voice sing-songed, "we never even made it through the third date, and yet you're stripping for me? Naughty girl."

Molly Hooper froze blouse half-way undone, then turned and looked into the black eyes of Jim Moriarty.

"J-Jim?" She stuttered, brown eyes going wide as she took in his thin form sitting on her bed, Toby purring contentedly in his lap.

Moriarty beamed. "You do remember!" He giggled. "I thought you were just going to ignore me!" "I-" Molly took a shuddering breath, calming herself.

"What're you doing here?"

"I came to see you, of course! You look like you've had a bad day, though. Care to tell me about it?" He patted the space next to him, grinning invitingly.

"W-why would you come to see me?" Have you come here to hurt me?

"Because I missed you, of course! We always did have such fun, you know." His smile dropped. "You don't trust me," he said flatly.

"You tried to blow up Sherlock and John."

"It's always about Sherlock with you, isn't it, Molly? Sherlock this, and Sherlock that." His gaze softened. "You're bright; can't you understand? He hurts you, Molly. He hurt you today, didn't he?" He nodded as Molly's silence gave the confirmation he needed. "I've never hurt you, Molly. Never. You broke up with me, remember?" Another laugh.

"You've killed people," she whispered, "innocent people who never did anything to you."

"Everyone is dying, Molly. I was just speeding along the process for some of them." A small smile flirted with the corners of his lips. "No one is innocent, my dear. Every single one of us has done something bad, something we regret. Even you. Even your dear Sherlock. Even the cat," he murmured, giving the creature in question a small scratch behind the ears.

Molly considered this. Truth be told, he had been very sweet to her when they were dating, always very courteous and kind, able to make her laugh. Never once had he raised his voice - or his hand - at her, nor had he threatened her in any way. In fact, if she hadn't been told, she would've never suspected him capable of being a psychopathic criminal mastermind that was intent on playing deadly games with her crush/obsession and his flatmate. He was also right about Sherlock, as much as she hated admitting it. He was very cruel to her, always using her to get what he needed by whatever means necessary, be that fake compliments or very real, very cold insults. He never showed remorse, either, except that one time at the Christmas party. Even then, she had thought he wouldn't have apologised had it not been the holidays and a fair few people were in the flat with them. She also hated to admit he was right about his…actions. People died every day, and they would continue to die until the end of time, whether they had a terminal illness, or a serious injury, or a bad sickness, or they had just lived too long. He was also right about the bad things. God knows she had her fair share of regrettable actions, and she also knew she wasn't the only one. Molly nodded to herself. Jim was making sense, quite a lot of it, actually. He hadn't tried to hurt her or her cat, he hadn't lied to her or tricked her, and he hadn't threatened her. Perhaps Jim wasn't that bad after all, even if he did do a few shady dealings on the side.

If Molly Hooper had been in her right might (not so blasted tired, and not so emotionally strained), she would have overthrown this tenuous logic, and thrown Jim out of the flat, phoning the police immediately after. But Molly Hooper wasn't in her right mind (she was so blasted tired, and so emotionally strained). So she did the only thing she thought would be sat beside him on the bed.

Jim smiled at her, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. "Now, tell dear Jimmy what happened today that made you cry."

Molly nodded. "I've just been so tired lately, and it's all so much, you know?" She waited until he nodded to continue. "Today, Sherlock came into the morgue and asked if he could see a corpse. I told him no, because he didn't have the right clearance. So, he complimented me, thinking I'd let him go on. I thanked him, but told him he still needed the proper clearance. Then, he…He said the most awful, horrible things." Tears began to fall again as she recounted what he had told her. "Then he just stormed out, like I had insulted him! I just…snapped." She began to sob in earnest again, and he stroked her hair, rubbing small circles in her back.

"See what I mean, Molly? He's absolutely horrid to you, and you did nothing to deserve it."

Molly sniffled in response.

"I won't hurt you like that, Molly," he whispered. "I'll treat you like you ought to be treated. You don't need him. All he'll ever do is hurt you. I promise I'll never do that, Molly. I swear." He continued this train of thought in a low voice, continuing to make soothing motions until she quieted, occasionally hiccoughing. "Better?"

She nodded.

"Are you still tired, Molly?"

"A little," she admitted, voice thick from nodded.

"I thought so. Sleep, love. It'll be better when you wake up. Sleep."And she did.

You know that feeling you get when you write something at 2 a.m., and you read it over and over again, and think it's actually really good, but you wake up in the morning and read it again, and it turns out to be the biggest pile of crap you've ever seen? Yeah, that's what happened with this story. If you've made it this far without running and screaming, then I applaud you, and beg of you to drop me a review. I love constructive criticism, and God knows I need it. So...thanks! I promise nothing in regards to frequency of updates.
Oh, and the little poem at the beginning is mine, so if you use it, please credit me.