::/Convenient Omission/::
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A/N: Hi! So this is my first ever Sherlock fanfiction, and a lot of the writers here are just plain astounding so I'm pretty nervous. I'd just like to make a few little things clear before I start.
-In several parts of this story, it may seem like I am being unnecessarily harsh on Sherlock. Trust me, that is NOT my intention. I appreciate all the characters (with the exception of Charles Augustus Magnussen maybe), and I am only writing it this way to stay in sync with Sebastian's and Jim's points of view. As for Molly's POV, well, she has been through quite a lot, and even otherwise, whatever I have mentioned about Sherlock is exactly how he behaves with her on the show.
-This story goes with the assumption that Jim faked his suicide just as Sherlock did, and that Jim is not actually gay. (Though whether he is bisexual or straight is open to interpretation.)
-Lastly, I do not own BBC's Sherlock, its characters or anything (or anyone) affiliated with it. Also, the edit I used for the cover is NOT MINE, I got it off Google.
Happy reading! :)
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The pool of blood under his head is dry. It sticks to his already slicked-back hair, matting it to his scalp. Some of it has sunk into the collar of his expensive coat as well, and the taller man cringes- that stain's going to be quite tough to get out.
"Took you long enough." The normally smooth voice is hoarse, a little dry from the chilly air. "This stuff is simply disgusting."
"Sorry." The sniper has to fight back a grin as he pulls his employer up to a sitting position. "Those three new blokes you hired wouldn't let me go until they got their payment. They seemed to think you'd swindle them."
"Aren't ordinary people adorable." It doesn't sound as it usually does- the regular Jim Moriarty, if he can even be described as such, would add a derisive sing-song, whereas now it just comes out dull and flat. Sebastian's brow furrows in confusion. Everything happened according to plan, that high and mighty detective is out of the way, so why does Jim look like he doesn't even care?
As if reading his mind, the very next second the consulting criminal's face lights up with a broad smile, the kind Sebastian is used to seeing after the successful completion of any job. "But who cares about them? I did it! The final problem..." He gets to his feet, dusting off his clothes as he goes over to the edge of the rooftop, looking out at the city. "Is no longer a problem," he finishes, and Sebastian notices again that his boss doesn't exactly seem ecstatic at the thought. This is getting, to put it simply, curiouser and curiouser.
The strangeness only increases on the car ride away from St Bart's. Jim is abnormally quiet, merely staring alternately at his hands, feet or out the window. His eyes seem to be only looking without seeing, though, that much is clear to Sebastian, who occasionally glances at him in the rear view mirror as he drives. They're headed for one of Jim's less-known hideouts, a nice place in one of the quieter parts of his- their- native Ireland. Sebastian is glad for it- he's been wanting a little break from work for quite a while now, though of course he knew better than to ask Jim.
"You can talk, you know." Jim's wry voice cuts through the sniper's musings. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, Sebby boy." There it is, finally, the usual touch of sing-song amusement, suggesting that everything is just a colossal joke Jim Moriarty is having at the expense of everyone else in the world. Even the great Sherlock Holmes, now cold and dead, just another corpse laid out on a morgue table.
The word hits him powerfully all of a sudden, and he nearly loses control of the car as a thought occurs to him. "Wait, what about that doctor from the morgue? The one you went out with?" Something else comes to mind, and he is unable to grasp the idea for a second. How the hell did they miss it? "Why didn't we place a sniper on her along with the others?"
Whatever reply Sebastian was expecting, it certainly isn't what he gets- silence. Just silence, blank and cold. That unnerves him, and after all he's seen in life, he's not a man who's easily unnerved. Jim Moriarty is not Sherlock Holmes. He may be ruthless, but coldness is not in his nature... not unless something is wrong. Seriously wrong.
And just like that, Sebastian Moran isn't sure he wants to know anymore.
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Why, indeed?
Why didn't he target her?
The detective inspector, the old landlady and the army doctor were all so easy. So easy it was almost boring. Even in his head, he drags out the word in the mocking tone he speaks it with. It would have been even simpler to include that mousy little woman who cut up corpses and watched silly musical television shows with equal enthusiasm. Why hadn't he done it, then?
Come to think of it, who would have missed her, really? Apart from that dreadful cat of hers, who had made him thankful for the cheap casual clothing of 'Jim from IT' as opposed to the expensive high-fashion suits Jim Moriarty himself favours. Even as he thinks it, though, he knows it isn't true. Someone would have missed her, someone who can't admit it even to himself, much less to Sebastian, who's still expecting an answer. An answer that for once, Jim doesn't know how to give.
And when someone like James Moriarty is lost for words, you know the universe is rarely so lazy.
Almost unconsciously, Jim's mind wanders back. Back to a time not so very long ago. In his whole career as a consulting criminal- the only one there is- he has donned and discarded more than his fair share of fake identities, but surprisingly enough, none of them has stayed with him for quite as long as 'Jim from IT'. The character he created was simple enough, rather dull really considering the fact that he fooled even Sherlock Holmes into thinking he was someone ordinary, someone far beneath the great genius' notice. Come to think of it, that had been disappointing really, when it turned out just how easy it was to be dismissed by Sherlock Holmes.
As if to add insult to injury, he had been subjected to hours of that television show with all the singing with that infernal furball curled up on his lap as though planning to settle there permanently, all the while listening to Molly Hooper prate and prattle about Sherlock this and Sherlock that. The information he was gleaning from the conversation was nothing he didn't already know, but all the same it was interesting to get a fresh perspective.
And what a sad little perspective it was indeed- the genius who was too absorbed in his own brilliance to notice the nervous little woman fluttering around, catering to his every need in an attempt to make him properly acknowledge her existence.
Normally, Jim would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of Molly Hooper's predicament. Funnily enough, however, that was the last thing he felt like doing as she continued to speak of the detective, her tone alternating between gushing and gloomy. What he felt was more along the lines of annoyance, rather. It would have been natural for Jim from IT to be feeling something like that when the woman he was seeing endlessly extolled another man's virtues.
What is not natural, though, is that Jim Moriarty is the one who felt it.
He can't even fathom giving this as an answer to Sebastian's question that still lingers unspoken in the tense air between them. He mulls it over, framing it in several different sentences that each sound more ludicrous than the other even in his head. Indeed, he suspects that voicing any variation of what he felt- if at all he can describe it- in Molly Hooper's company would sound, to Sebastian's ears, like the equivalent of expressing a fascination for rainbow unicorns, sunshine butterflies and an honest life.
Still, an answer must be given, but as Jim stares out the window, hoping for something to come to him, the only thing that does is that feeling, the same feeling he'd gotten all that time ago when Molly Hooper had, in the course of one quiet evening that for some reason was still vivid in the recesses of his mind, made him feel something that had been unlike anything he was familiar with.
Something that had been enough for him to leave her out of this dangerous game of death.
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The atmosphere of the morgue seems to be colder than usual that day. But then again, maybe it's just the aftermath of everything Molly Hooper has seen- has participated in- through the last several hours.
She sits with a cup of coffee between her hands. The normally comforting drink does little to warm either her skin or her soul. Her hair is pulled up into a knot, a few stray strands tickling the back of her neck just above the collar of her lab coat. On regular days she takes time to do it carefully- the habit becoming stricter after she met a certain consulting detective- but today, somehow, she doesn't care anymore. It's not like anyone's going to be looking at her. Not little Molly Hooper, who comes in and does her work and has a shy smile and a cheery word for everybody regardless of whether or not they bother to return it. But then again, isn't that why he chose her for this top-secret mission?
Her brown eyes furtively glance towards the door, through which he disappeared not too long ago with the usual elegant billowing of the famous coat, the trademark move which simply screams 'later, peasants'. Molly tries not to dwell on the fact on the last occasion the peasant was her. No matter who he'd turned out to be, Jim had never-
The name feels like a sharp slap on her face, bringing her crashing back to reality. Briefly, she wonders why she's never been able to think of him as James Moriarty, one of the most dangerous criminals in the world. No, even after she found out his real identity, even after Sherlock made it clear as crystal to her- with no more consideration than he had had when bluntly telling her 'Jim from IT' was gay- she's still always thought of him as just Jim. Granted, a Jim who most decidedly does not work in IT, but Jim nonetheless.
A little, sharp twinge of pain shoots through her chest (she doesn't want to think of it as her heart) when she remembers what Sherlock said. Shoved the gun in his mouth and fired, and it was over, just like that. She doesn't know why it hurts, but it does, and she's too tired to feel guilty about it. So she just sits with her coffee and lets the pain wash over her, hoping it'll subside. It has to. She has to quell this pain she's alone with to make room for the pain she has to share with John, Mrs Hudson, and everyone else who will expect it from her.
As she finally takes a sip of her coffee, something dawns on her. Sherlock may consider Jim her biggest failure in the romantic department, but surprisingly enough, that's never really been how Molly herself has thought of the consulting criminal.
He's always been and will probably always remain, even though he's gone, her biggest what-if.
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A/N: No offense to Glee fans, I have never watched the show myself but it doesn't seem like a genre that would immediately appeal to Jim!
OK, honestly, I don't know what kind of reviews to expect, but please do review and let me know what you think. I would really, really appreciate it, cause this story was kind of a testing-the-waters thing, to determine whether or not I should continue writing for the Sherlock fandom. So yeah, please do drop in your thoughts! :)