Molly Hooper was so drunk that she felt like her head was swimming in a large gin and tonic aquarium on her shoulders. She was so drunk that she had lost her shawl (the bathroom?) and her left shoe (the dance floor?), and was currently wallowing in confusion on a barstool.

It was one of those fantastically expensive and hip clubs in London, one in which she felt deeply out of place. Or at least, she had felt that way at the beginning of the night, when she wandered in, compelled by lonely curiosity and after work depression. It had been such a crap day at work. The paperwork on her desk had toppled over like a lost game of Jenga. And then there was Sherlock; those cheekbones, those eyes. He was basically a crazy person, and she knew that. He was in love with no one but himself, half-mad with brilliance, and completely detached from humanity. But still, her unrequited love for him burned like a supernova. A very obvious supernova that everyone laughed about.

The club was throbbing with music and attractive people. Molly regretted ever wandering in for a drink, although that had been hours ago. She also regretted doing the YMCA on the dance floor when the YMCA had not actually been playing, but those kinds of regrets were for the morning. It was no wonder she avoided spontaneity as a rule. There was no one there she knew, but she was too drunk to make the dangerous journey home.

And why should she go home? No one but her cat waited for her. Working at the morgue was exhausting, and she had the day off tomorrow. That was, of course, if Sherlock didn't have a job for her or something. That outrageously deep voice was like a siren's call to her; she could never say no to it.

Oh lord. She had to pee. She could see the stylized doors to the bathroom to the left of the bar, but it was a long way away in her condition. Besides that, the club was getting more and more crowded. She would just have to take a chance and make an attempt. Molly crawled off the tall barstool and wobbled her way towards the bathroom, weaving between people who seemed to be a lot less drunk than she. She gave them half-smiles and tried her best to act natural. It was hard when her legs felt so thoroughly made of pudding.

She smiled and apologized her way through the crowd until she had quite nearly made it to the bathroom, when she recognized a face that took her breath away and made her completely forget her bathroom mission.

Jim from IT. Otherwise known as Jim Moriarty. Otherwise known as Sherlock's extremely crafty enemy who had dated her in order to get closer to Sherlock. A super villain. An extremely evil murderer. The worst crime, to Molly, was of course him pretending to like her. He had been her first boyfriend in years, and it had all been completely phony.

Jim seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He was looking dapper a fitted suit, with a tall drink in his hand and his hair slicked to the side. Both of his eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he gave her the once-over with his eyes. He was looking at her like she was a piece of meat. Drunk meat. Molly did not particularly appreciate that. She squinted her eyes and gave him a hard stare, and moved two steps closer to him. He smelled like expensive aftershave and wickedness, the combination of which made her feel dizzier. When he had simply been Jim from IT, he had never been this cool. The scrawny guy who loved musicals and mojitos. This Moriarty character was something completely different.

"Molly Hooper? Well, how funny. How odd. The little Molly-wog. You are drunk, my girl."

Jim's voice rose and fell strangely, as if he were putting on some kind of show or vocal performance. If she weren't drunk, angry, and slightly embarrassed, she would have laughed. But as it happened, she was all of those things at once. And she hated him for what he had done, both to her, and to Sherlock. He was so smug. She tried to subdue a wild urge to slap his smug little face with that little weasel smile.

"Oh, dear me Molly. You have lost your shoe—"

Molly chose not to fight her wild urge any longer. She slapped the smile off Jim Moriarty's face and relished in his surprise. It would have been a perfect moment if both her bladder, and now her upset stomach, were screaming for her to make it to the bathroom. Jim touched his cheek and looked at Molly with amazement. He could not remember the last time someone had actually hit him. It was sort of fun.

"I will murder you for that," he growled. Molly had no idea if he was being serious or not, and it didn't matter. She had to go. Now.

"Sorry, got to go, excuse me." She slurred her words and turned to rush towards the bathroom. She didn't have time to acknowledge Jim's death threat.

Molly burst into the ladies' room and dashed into an empty stall. What followed was best kept between Molly and the toilet. She did feel a lot better, however, once she had emerged from the stall and washed up in the sink. She was startled to see her own reflection in the mirror. Water stains down her blouse, hair matted with sweat and whatever else, smeared lipstick. Her skin was pasty white, and her eyes half open. It was not a beautiful sight. She vowed to leave the club immediately.

Jim was waiting for her outside of the bathroom, which didn't surprise her. His cheek was still red from her attack.

"I'm taking you with me," he began, "and you can't do anything about it. Also, I found your shoe."

Jim raised the missing article above his head. Yes indeed, that sensible leather pump was hers. She felt the tiniest bit grateful, in spite of the fact that this was essentially a kidnapping.