Title: "It's All in the Mind"
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~1000
Rating: T
A/N: This is my first attempt at the pairing. It's not going so well LOL
Anyway, it might get a bit dark in places, so I'll warn you. Plus, it'll all be in Molly's POV. Trust her? Or not?
Hmm. Unreliable/reliable narrators. So much fun.
Enjoy!
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
They met—she couldn't remember how.
Maybe they bumped into each other at the hospital, or perhaps someone there had introduced them to one another. Did that happen? She wants to say that they met in some office somewhere, in the hospital—where did he say he worked again? Think, think—IT! Yes, he worked in IT. But how did they meet?
She also wants to say that they met because of a computer trouble. Could that be it? Maybe. She didn't remember having computer troubles at all, but maybe she did have some kind of troubles from her work. Did she even use a computer? She couldn't remember.
Either way, they met.
His name was Jim. "Molly," she said, holding out her hand. "I don't think I've met you." She hadn't.
"No, you haven't," he said, a smile on his face. "Jim."
She asked if it was short for James, but he just shook his head and smiled. "No, I'm afraid not."
He had a lovely voice, and was a lovely gentleman, holding the door for her when they would walk out of the building at times, offering to get her a cup of coffee when the day was getting stressful. He would compliment her on her hair, makeup, everything. Someone else used to—who was it again? She didn't think about it. He even visited—no, no, he didn't visit. That wasn't then. She was getting mixed up again. He still was a lovely gentleman, though. Very well kept, attractive, great choice in colognes, and he loved almost everything she loved. Was that a cover, though? Maybe, but she was still a dreamer. She wasn't dead. Not yet.
She was trying to remember the first date, but all she could remember was the dinner. He met her at some restaurant—doesn't matter what, it wouldn't make any difference—and he had gotten a reserved table somehow, candles, food all prepared, violins surrounding them. It was magical, almost all a girl could ever dream for when it came to dates. She couldn't remember the topics they had talked about, or what food they ate, or what music was played for each of them. But she did remember him giving her a peck on the cheek at the end of the night, and he just gave that soft smile. "Goodnight, Molly dear," he said.
And then he was gone, walking down the street, a skip to his step. Or, maybe she was imagining things again. Was she dreaming? No, she could feel something. She was awake.
She remembered not sleeping that night. How she longed for sleep.
Soon after, they couldn't be separated. They'd be together all the time. She would bring her work up to his office and chat with him for the hours on end, or just soaking in the silence together. Maybe it was him scheming the next bombing, or perhaps he just did not want to talk to her, but she usually engaged the conversations, smiling and carrying on. He'd listen, a smile on his face, add his own comments, and she would be content. Was she dreaming? No, she wasn't dreaming. She just went over this.
She could still remember the soft touches of their hands brushing past—why could she remember that and nothing else? Why was it a selected memory? Think, Molly! She couldn't. Maybe she was making it all up in her head. She never thought he could be that lovely. Not Jim, not the monster he became. Or maybe she did fall in love with a monster—
—Was it still love? Yes, she thought so. Or maybe it was the amnesia toying with her emotions again. But could she call it that—love? Maybe she could. Every time she saw him, her heart still fluttered, her mind still raced on what to say, and she would hold onto him until he had to leave. They never held hands in public, or had any public displays of affection, really, but they were always together, and they would enjoy the other's presence.
Or maybe it was called admiration at this point. Maybe the fear of loneliness had driven her into the insane notion of love. He had made her his cover relationship, used her to get at someone—who was that someone again? She didn't know. But she was just a pawn in the grand scheme of things, just someone that would never be used except in this sense. She was vulnerable; he was the master. And he had manipulated her to be together for almost a month before the world started to spin.
On that day, he asked her to move into his apartment. "It's not the biggest, but, I think…" she kissed him on the lips and he said no more with the cheeky smile. Maybe at that point in time, he was happy. Or maybe it was still him playing her, using her to his advantage. But at that moment, she thought he was happy. And she thought she was happy, too. He would hand her a key, tell her to move in stuff the very next day so they can unpack together, and that would be it.
She couldn't remember unpacking, to tell you the truth. But she could tell you the small date they had that night, celebrating them being together. "Oh, Molly dear," he said to her. And whenever he said that, she knew she was blushing, just like the little girl at heart. It would echo in her head and she would never get tired of hearing it.
She never could.
She closed her eyes. What time was it? Morning? Maybe. It wasn't night. She was never sleepy in the morning—or maybe she was now. It was all so confusing. There was no window where she was, no need for time. It would just be another day, that's all she knew. She heard someone walking around, maybe coming with food. The footsteps were heavy, a weight to the step. It wasn't Jim.
He'd come later.