AN: Molly! Poor Molly! I was thinking about her today. If Jim managed to convince everyone that he was Richard Brook, then surely he had been able to convince Molly that he was in love with her, right? So what would his death do to her?

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

I mean, I should do, right? Since I'm the one who helped him fake his own death and break John Watson's heart and disappear into nothing? I didn't do that just because of my stupid little crush on the man. You don't do something like that unless you really and truly believe in someone. And I do.

I don't believe what the papers said about him, about him making everything up. I've known him for years, and I've seen what his mind is capable of, and I know that he doesn't need to make things up in order to look clever. He just is clever. He is brilliantly, mind-numbingly, earth-shatteringly clever, and to hell with all the people who let themselves forget that in the interest of a scandalous news story. I even believe what he told me about Jim—now. I admit that it was hard at first. Some tiny, ridiculous part of my mind even thought that he was mad that I wasn't pining after him anymore. All I had to do to banish that part, though, was look at how he looked at John whenever they were in the lab together. I never had a chance, really.

I'd already realized that when Sherlock came to me for help. I think I probably still went all red and stuttery when he said that he needed me, but it was more out of habit than anything else. We had an easy conversation there in the lab that night—after he stopped telling me about Jim, that is. I could just be making this up, but I'm pretty sure I saw something new in his eyes. I think he was surprised about how I was acting, and I can't say that I blame him for that. I think he might've also been a little impressed. I hope so.

I know that Jim was not a good person. I also know that his name was absolutely not Richard Brook. And I wasn't there on the roof that day, but I also know that, despite what the newspapers were saying, he took his own life. Sherlock did not shoot him. It's really a good thing that Sherlock's dead to everyone, because there would be quite a lot of legal business for him to attend to if people knew he were still alive. That's horrible to say, isn't it? I'm still not very good at that sort of thing.

But I still can't help missing Jim—the Jim that I knew. Or thought I knew. Or the Jim that he played when he was with me. It's complicated. I know now that he was only with me because it meant he could worm his way into Sherlock's life, but there must have been plenty of other ways he could do it that didn't involve wasting his time with me. It's hard to think about all the time that I spent talking to him about Sherlock and John in the beginning of our "relationship". Maybe if I'd kept my mouth shut, nothing would have happened. No, I can't think like that. What's done is done.

At first, Jim was sweet, sort of awkward and shy like me. We'd meet up sometimes in the hospital cafeteria and he'd always buy my lunch even though I always, always protested. We ate together quite a few times, and at first I thought that maybe it was just because he thought I was a kindred spirit or something: we could be quiet together or we could chat the whole time, and, surprisingly, I never felt awkward about either one. Then one day, he just reached across the table and took my hand in his and he didn't say anything, just flashed me a shy smile. I could feel myself blushing, so I didn't say anything either, just took a sip of tea. When I got to work the next day, there was a bouquet of red and yellow tulips waiting for me. I'm not ashamed, even now, to admit that my heart fluttered a bit at the sight. There wasn't a card, but I knew it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who sent them. Jim confirmed it himself at lunch that day, ducking his head and asking sheepishly if I'd liked the flowers.

Rest assured that Jim never played "gay" when he was alone with me. He never pressured me for anything, but he made sure that I knew (or believed, in any case) that he wanted me. We went on a couple of dates at first, and he was a perfect gentleman, even waiting until the second date to lean in for a goodnight kiss. Eventually he just started coming round my flat on Sunday afternoons (he took his mum to church in the mornings, and always invited me along even though I always politely refused). The first time he just showed up, I was mortified. I looked like a mess: I did my washing on Sundays, and tidied up my place, so I was wearing my rattiest pair of shorts and an old sleeveless top that I'd had since high school. I don't think I'd even bothered to brush my hair. But there he was, wearing his Sunday best and holding a little bouquet of daisies and looking at me like I was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

We started having dinner every Sunday night, and I started doing my washing on Saturdays.

When we finally...you know, made love, everything felt perfect. I suppose that's one of the benefits of dating someone whose evil plans arguably hinge upon keeping you around, though. He waited for me to initiate things (we were kissing on the sofa one Sunday night and I was feeling brave and when I felt...him press against my leg, I just sort of went for it), but then he took charge. He was firm but never forceful, and he was more considerate than any of the other men I've ever been with.

I think that the times we were together, though, were the hardest times for him to keep up his mask. There were a handful of nights when I'd open my eyes as my breathing started coming back to normal and I'd catch him sort of sneering at me. Whenever I met his eyes, his expression would slide effortlessly back into adoration, so I was never really...sure. I didn't want to believe anything could be strange or wrong, so I ignored it, even after Jim's strange behavior around Sherlock in the lab.

After Sherlock and I talked in the lab that night, I was sort of afraid. I didn't know what I should do about Jim. When I asked Sherlock, he'd sort of waved me off, like I was a child worrying about monsters in her closet. I mostly sat on my sofa all night, worrying that Jim would knock on my door at any minute and I would have to let him in and kiss him hello like always and probably even sleep with him, knowing the whole time what he really was. He didn't show up, and I couldn't decide whether to be more relieved or disappointed. He never showed up again, actually. Probably he was too caught up in the Richard Brook thing to remember little Molly, the girl he once pretended to love.

I didn't go to either funeral. I was afraid to go to Jim's, knowing what I knew about him. Just the thought of standing there among his friends who were probably all criminals too was enough to make my knees wobbly, so I didn't go. And how could I go to Sherlock's? How could I stand there with John and Mrs. Hudson and probably even Greg and watch them say goodbye not to the brilliant man they once knew but to an empty casket? I just couldn't. So I bowed out, pleading heartsickness and grief, and no one pressed me on it.

Every once in a while, I'll get a text from some strange number. It's never the same one twice, mind you, and most of the time they're meaningless, or else hidden in some code I can't understand. Still, sometimes, they're easier to understand.

Don't let him be alone today. John's birthday.

Pub. That was Sherlock's birthday.

Thank you. The first anniversary of that day.

Bored. That one wasn't on any meaningful day, and if I'd ever doubted who the texts were coming from, that definitely put those doubts to rest. It was also the first time I'd been tempted to reply to one of his texts, but I didn't, just in case.

Weary.

I hope you're well. That one was probably the most unexpected out of all of them—even more than the first text, I think. I'd just smiled at the screen for a moment or two and then deleted the message, like I did with all the others. He was taking a big enough risk procuring those phones and sending the messages: I didn't have to keep them all recorded on my phone and risk giving him away.

Still, with all I know and all I've seen in the years since I helped kill Sherlock Holmes, I can't stop that stupid little part of me from missing my Jim. Not the man he turned out to be. Not the man who somehow convinced Sherlock Holmes to force John Watson to watch him jump to his apparent death. Not the man who made a game out of killing people, took pleasure in it. I miss the man who left flowers on my desk and on my kitchen counters. I miss the man who cupped my face in his palms when he kissed me and brushed his fingertips across my cheeks like they were something soft and delicate and pleasurable to touch. I miss the man who made love to me carefully and thoughtfully and god, so thoroughly, but still smiled shyly at me when I took his hand in public. I miss the man who cuddled with me on the sofa after dinner on Sunday nights, laughing with me about the stupid shows on the telly and then kissing me senseless when we both got bored.

I'm telling myself that it's okay. As long as I remind myself that my Jim did not exist, not even before he put that gun in his mouth on the rooftop, then it's okay for me to miss what I thought he was. Jim Moriarty was not a good man, but he was a very good actor. It's okay for me to miss the character he was playing, because he managed to fleece all of London into loving him just like I did.

Someday, Sherlock's going to show up on the doorstep of the flat on Baker Street that John can't bring himself to leave, and their lives are going to go back to normal. Mine won't. I'll still find myself missing that mass murderer and switching between longing to feel his hands on my skin again and wanting to scrub myself raw in order to get the memory of him away from me. John will have his Sherlock back again, but, even if he somehow comes back to life, I can never have my Jim.

I hope to god they appreciate each other. I know they will.