A/N: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. (Oh but if I did) and thanks to Epponine on tumblr and ao3 for beta-ing and helping co-author. She is amazing!
She stands, bowed before him, bathed in white. Her oversized nightshirt barely managing to cover her thin, ivory thighs.
Molly Hooper is on the side of the angels, just like The Virgin. And she's not an interesting angel like Sherlock, who is full of secrets and feathers dipped in darkness. No, she is one of those annoyingly pure ones who flitter around with harps and halos. The kind who look down on poor devils such as himself, like they are something to be pitied.
He takes a step towards her, and reaches out a hand to brush aside a strand of her long brown locks. She whimpers quietly and his hand recoils as if burned.
James Moriarty is most definitely not an angel. He much prefers being a devil. A scaly, fire breathing villain who bests the heroes like Sherlock at every turn. It's a thrill, a puzzle, and much less boring. But sometimes on the lazy days, when there is no one to kill, no government to plunder, he wonders if he picked the wrong side. If he was an angel, would she look at him differently?
She lifts her head slowly, their eyes locking, brown against brown. Neither of them look away, both wanting to win the silent battle of wills.
All James wants is to find one little piece of darkness among all the insufferable good that is Molly. One black feather. A small sign that she's average, because things would be so much easier if she could just be average. He could forget about her if she was average, if she wasn't the light to his dark. His polar opposite.
He roughly grabs her, swooping down to capture her lips with his own. Molly struggles and fights, but slowly, oh so slowly, she allows herself to sink into his embrace.
Together the angel and the devil drop their roles in this dark fairytale and are simply a man and a woman. She tosses aside her halo, and he lets his scale-like armor down for the night. The two of them are free, at least for now. They both know that this is their last chance to be together, before they go back to their roles one last time, the roles they play in order to solve the final problem.
Their lips meet once more in desperate passion. Soon pieces of his Westwood suit are being scattered down the hall, a trail leading to the bedroom.
He finds Miss Molly's black feather.
She has kept it hidden underneath all that precious white, hidden where no one, not even the great Sherlock Holmes could find it. It's him. She has allowed him, the devil, into her heart, and turned one of her precious feathers an inky black. He's finally gotten what he wanted, but it isn't the victory he thought it would be.
James wakes up hours later, Molly's arm draped across his chest. He turns and softly chuckles when he sees how peaceful she looks, like she's somehow safe in the arms of a villain.
The devil examines the angel as she sleeps, burning her serene face and the warm feel of her body against his to memory. If everything goes as planned, and he knows it will, (The Virgin has always been so easy to predict.) This will be the last time they will ever meet. And it's for the best he muses, he'd only end up killing her, or at least that's what he tells himself.
He slides out of bed, making sure not to disturb her, and gathers up the pieces of his suit. He stops a moment before placing a quick kiss on her forehead, he was changeable, remember?
As he is leaving, James catches a glimpse of his own wings. The glossy black feathers, drenched in the blood he has spilled (without lifting a finger of course) have a new addition, one gleaming white feather. Some how despite having burned his heart out years ago, she's gotten inside him, weakened him. How did he allow this to happen?
When he pulls open the door to her flat he straightens his tie, and hardens his face into an old familiar mask. The memories of tonight are pushed to the back of his mind and hidden, locked away in a space only he has access to.
He throws chairs, shoots henchman, and fells governments, but nothing seems to cheer the devil up. All he can think of is her, their one night love affair, and how complete she made him feel. Now it's painstakingly obvious how empty he is, was he always this empty? Was life always this boring? It doesn't matter now, his is coming to an end. That had always been the final problem, and now, it was the only answer.
When Molly wakes, she isn't surprised to see the spot next to her is empty. But she curls up anyway, wrapping her arms around herself as he had done only hours earlier, and cries, she cries for herself, but mostly she cries for James, the devil, her own little tragedy, her James.
No one would suspect that sweet, little quiet Molly Hooper would have such a story, no one would suspect just how meaningful she is. Moriarty's only true weakness. No one would think it would be her.
The angel knows that he will never change, he'll never be good, or anything even resembling decent. That doesn't stop her from mourning him though. She can't help but think maybe, just maybe, if they had meet sooner things would have turned out differently. She could have saved him, now all she can do is watch as the devil destroys himself.
James walks up the steps to St. Barts roof, and wonders what Molly is doing. He wonders if she'll miss him when this is all over, will she cry one last time for the consulting criminal?
The devil sits and twirls the white feather in his hands. His mind is racing, filled with snipers, codes, bullets, and most of all her. His tragic angel. He had lied to her, manipulated her, thought about killing her, but most of all he loved her. In his own sick twisted way, he did. Honestly.
He'd give up Westwood for her.
As he puts the gun to his head, he lets the memories of that night flood his mind. When he pulls the trigger he doesn't feel a thing except the ghost of her lips on his.