Because I'm obsessed with the idea that "Jim from the Hospital" was less of a self-portrait and more of an escape for a certain favourite villain of mine.

Anti-Ordinary

It was a dreary and boring Tuesday when Diener Molly Anne Hooper sifted through her post, the body of a former drug lord acting as her only company in the mortuary of Saint Bart's Hospital in London city. She already knew what to be expecting; she was sent more or less the same post every week. A letter from her mother (to whom she'd never given her actual address) which she wouldn't read, her bill from the hospital cafeteria and a note from her boss asking her if the consulting detective she was always working with was finished with the fingers he'd taken yet. Today, however, she noticed something different as her own fingers found their way around a little brown paper package. Which was tied up with string, funnily enough. She became a little excited for a moment, before she realised that the package wasn't even addressed to her. She should've known, really. No-one ever sent her anything nice.
"James Moriarty," she muttered, turning the package around in her hands. "IT..." She paused. "How does someone confuse 'IT Department' and 'Morgue'?" She giggled, swivelling on her heel in order to face the cadaver, into which Sherlock Holmes had injected some sort of jam-like chemical. "The things I do for him," She muttered dejectedly, before rolling her eyes. "Must be a new postman." She concluded, still talking to the cadaver. It wasn't her fault, it was lonely down in the morgue and this was technically once a living person-even if they weren't necessarily a good one. "I best go find this James guy, then." She made her way to the door. "But where on earth is 'IT'?"

Molly rapped lightly on James Moriarty's office door. It hadn't taken her long to find-apparently he'd taken over the office Albert Carlton who, just yesterday, had left a note stating that he'd won the lottery and he wouldn't be returning. Lucky him. "He must be important," She decided, eyeing the obviously new, shiny name tag on the door. Usually, people didn't get name tags for their doors unless they asked and asked repetitively for three years. Or maybe that was just her. It's funny, she thought, the more time one spends with Sherlock Holmes, the more trivial things one notices and the less trivial they seem to become.
"Hello?" The door swung open and, suddenly, Molly was faced with a brown-haired, doe-eyed man in a sharp suit, whose gaze fluttered over her momentarily. "H-hello," He stuttered, then rolled his eyes, an embarrassed smile making its way across his face. "I, uh, I already said that." He laughed, awkwardly. He had an accent, she noted, though she couldn't place it. It definitely wasn't British. Maybe Irish? Scottish, perhaps? Sherlock would know.
"Yeah," Molly said shyly, not meeting his gaze, as he had begun studying her intently. She felt her face flush and, all of a sudden, wished she'd put on makeup that morning. Not because she wanted to impress anyone—Sherlock wasn't coming in today—but because a bit of makeup would've nicely hidden the blush that had crept across her cheeks.
"Um, h-how may I help you?" He asked after a moment
"Oh!" Molly shook her head lightly. No use getting in flustered over someone who probably wouldn't even acknowledge her existence. God knows, she'd had enough experience with that. "This was mixed up in my post." She smiled, handing him the package. "It's for you."
"Oh, gee, thanks!" James took the package. "I'm James, by the way." He blinked rapidly. "Which you already know..." There was a pause. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this..."
Molly laughed and held out her hand. "I'm Molly Hooper; I work down in the mortuary." She stopped, realising how forward she must've sounded. And, against her better instincts she thought that perhaps making a joke might let her away with it. What had Sherlock said about her making jokes? Don't do it? Damn. Too late. "You know; where rainbows end." Thankfully, she couldn't but help smile as a feeling of elation passed through her when he laughed, however lightly, at her joke.
Sherlock wouldn't have laughed.
"Molly," He breathed her name, taking her hand delicately and she felt her cheeks heat up again. "It's a pleasure to meet you." They looked at each other for a moment and then James moved a little closer. "Can I tell you a secret?" He whispered.
"Sure," Molly nodded, smiling. Usually people told her secrets because they didn't realise she was there in the first place. This was unusual; someone actually wanting to share classified information with her.
"This isn't my office." He laughed. "I'm not actually a manager, just a technician. I work on the floor. I was trying to impress this girl..."
Molly felt a surge of disappointment wash over her, though she was unsure why. Shouldn't she be used to this?
"But," James smiled. "I don't think I want to impress her any more. She's not all that interesting anyway."
Molly's brow furrowed as James slipped the name tag from the door. "I asked my friends in IT to help me, I thought maybe it was her at the door when you knocked."
He put the name tag in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and smiled at her again, his eyes focusing on hers and making it hard for Molly to concentrate on anything else but how pretty they were.
"I'm glad it wasn't." He told her, and she felt her heart flutter. He bit his lip and his embarrassed smile made its way across his face again.
"Doyouwantogetcoffee?" Molly shook her head and then laughed at herself. "I mean, do you-would you like to come for a cup of coffee?" This time, she smiled at her forwardness. The last person she'd asked that to had been confused by her wording, so she added; "With me?"
James smiled and Molly knew that, this time, the message had been received the way she meant it.

"Do you like the suit?" James asked, as they walked back from the little coffee shop on Newgate Street. "It's Westwood." Molly nodded intently; mid-sip from her Styrofoam cup of coffee. "I borrowed it from a friend; I thought it would make me look more impressive." He looked to her then, a certain smile making its way across his face as though he was enchanted by her, or something. It was the kind of look she secretly wished Sherlock would give her, though she knew he never would. She'd never seen anyone look at her like that and she couldn't help but feel a bit excited by James' almost fairytale reaction to her.
"Looks like it worked." He looked to his feet. "Remind me to thank him."
"What's his name?" Molly asked, blowing on her coffee.
"Uh, Sebastian." James laughed a little, holding up his hands. "I know, I know. But he's not a little red crab or a Glee character. I swear."
"Right, I'm sure." Molly cocked an eyebrow at him. "So what does he do then, if not sing?"
"He's a trained assassin." James deadpanned and Molly laughed.
"And what about you, James Moriarty?" Molly smiled as she said his name. "That's not an English surname and that's definitely not an English accent you've got there." He had a sort of twang to his accent, that could've been mistaken for an English one if Molly wasn't as observant as she prided herself in being. That's what you get when you spend too much time around a one, Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh, you got me." He said, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows. "I'm Irish. Born and raised in Dublin until I was old enough to get out." He looked to the sky and Molly thought she saw a sadness in his eyes. But, as soon as it was there, it was gone again.
"My Dad, he... He wasn't a very nice man." James shook his head. "Especially not to my Mother. After she... After she died there wasn't really any reason for me to stay. So I guess I just... didn't. I tried to get my little sister to come with me, but she's a bit like my Dad." He gave Molly a lopsided smile. "She doesn't take prisoners."
Molly gave him what she hoped was a comforting expression but might have come across as more of an awkward grimace, she wasn't sure.
"I miss Ireland sometimes, and then I come to my senses." He took another drink of his hot chocolate and Molly could visibly see the moment wash over him. Clearly, sharing about his past wasn't something he was used to doing. Her suspicions were only confirmed when he just as quickly changed the subject. "What about you, then, Molly Hooper? Are you secretly an undercover FBI Agent sent overseas to locate Wally? I'll give you a hint; he lives in the apartment below me."
Molly giggled. "I wish." She shook her head. "No, I live in a two bed roomed flat with my Grandmother on Cobourg Street, she's old and needs lots of taking care of but, after my Dad died, my Mom went sort of mad and turned to alcohol for grief counselling instead of a psychiatrist like we kept telling her to." Molly bit her lip. "It's not Mom's fault, really. But I just can't see her anymore. I haven't seen her since she ran away with my boyfriend, in university. My brother comes to visit sometimes, but himself and Granny don't get along so he avoids it if at all possible. I've got two lovely nieces, though, and I get to see them every second weekend so it's not all bad..."
There was a moment of silence before both Molly and James went to say something at the same time. "Oh, I'm sorry," Molly shook her head and James laughed. "What were you going to say?"
"No, no, you first." James practically begged. "I insist."
"I was just going to say that I'm sorry for boring you with my life story. People don't usually ask me, so it tends to all spill out into a puddle of mess when someone does. I'm sorry."
"There's no need to apologise, I know what it's like. Not being able to tell people your stories, the things that make you, you." He waved his hand in front of him as though trying to erase something he'd said that he really shouldn't have. "But, I'd like to hear more about you Molly." He smiled, his eyes mesmerizing her again. "Do you think, maybe, I could give you my number? You know, in case you wanted to chat or..." Molly couldn't help but smile. "And then, maybe I could get yours too? Just in case it's lunch time and I don't want to have hot chocolate in the hospital cafeteria with that scary dinner lady that keeps asking me to marry her..."
Molly grinned, not able to stop herself. This lovely, genuine guy actually wanted her number, and not because he wanted to able to contact her when he needed access to the morgue at three in the morning. How lucky was she?

Alas, this was meant to be a one-shot but it became a little too long, so I'll upload it in a few parts. Do feel free to drop us a review, you know how us writers are! xD