Sebastian Moran was just a bit too much for the army. He'd been pushed out part because he made his officers uncomfortable and part because he found a better offer. He'd killed people all his life from the day he turned 18 and went and signed up at his local recruiting office, all the way up to the moment he sat in the chair across for him employer, while said employer spouted words that made Moran's mouth open and close like a fish.

"You're telling me this, why exactly?"

"Because you're literally the only man I can trust, and if it's not you it'll either be no one or someone worthless," James Moriarty said, sitting back in his chair and sipping his tea like he hadn't just told his right hand that he would be dying soon.

"Boss," Moran said, leaning forward a bit. He steepled his fingers in front of him, leaning forward so he had to look up at James Moriarty. "I'm not sure I understand. You want me to go to this girl and date her," he said.

"Yes," Moriarty said, rolling his eyes and dipping into his low-ridiculing tone. "I want you to date her."

"I'm not getting this, obviously… why this girl? Wasn't she just an in to get to Sherlock Holmes?" Moran asked.

"She's mine, Moran, and has been since I picked her," Moriarty said, leaning back in his chair. "You think I'd pick a worthless person to even pretend date?"

"I don't think you'd pick anyone to date," Moran said. Moriarty laughed… or as close as he ever got to laughing.

"This is why it's got to be you. You're as close to perceptive as it get."

"That may be true, but I still don't understand."

"I've been having her followed, keeping away the boring people. When I'm dead everything collapses and no one's going to care about my orders anymore. No one does anything except for money. No, if she's got to have someone, it's got to be someone interesting, and since she seems so dead set on dating and marriage it's going to be someone I picked."

Moran's mouth open and closed again like a fish, then he shut it. He wasn't sure what to say about his boss admitting that he was actively interfering with the love life of a perfectly normal doctor… well, not normal. Normal doctors didn't work on the dead. Maybe James Moriarty liked the irony. Moran just didn't see it.

"Why me?" Moran asked. Maybe when he was younger he'd entertained ideas of a family, a wife, children… maybe, someday. He hadn't even considered those things a possibility for himself since he came under Moriarty's employment.

"I already told you, were you not listening to me?" Moriarty asked in his normal sing-song voice. He let out a heavy and dramatic sigh when Moran just looked at him. He did that sometimes, could almost see through Moriarty. And when Moran could almost see his employer's core, then he'd actually get real answers. This wasn't a very common occurrence. "It has to be you. Because you're the only one who will do exactly as I asked, especially once I'm gone."

"Surely someone else-" would what? Be more suitable? Would also follow through? What?

"No," James Moriarty said. "Just you."

"Just me," Moran agreed. "Boss… are you sure about this, not me, I mean… are you sure that you're going to die?"

"I'm not sure," James Moriarty responded, leaning forward, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm. The fingers of his free hand strummed with a not quiet annoyed rhythm. "But, if Sherlock Holmes is as interesting as I hope he is, then it's a very real possibility."

Moran nodded. He didn't like it, but he didn't say it. He didn't like his boss setting his affairs into order like this. "What happens to your organization when this happens?"

"Hoping for a promotion, Seb?" Moriarty asked with a smirk, chuckling when Moran scrunched his nose. Sebastian Moran was an enlisted man. He'd never be an officer. "It all goes to hell. There's no one to replace me."

"That is true," Sebastian said, and Moriarty smirked.

"What, don't tell me you're going to miss me when I'm gone," Moriarty scoffed, thinking it was ridiculous.

"Yes, desperately," Moran admitted instantly without even batting and eyelash.

"Sentimentality will be your downfall," Moriarty crooned.

"Yours too, I'm afraid," Moran said with a heavy sigh. "Boss… please reconsider."

"No," Moriarty said, sounding like a petulant child. He was a child, such a child… and such a man, a man like Moran had never known. He'd never admired anyone so much. There was no other man he'd sprint into hell for. There was no other man he'd lay his life down for. No other man ever had his loyalty. No other man ever would… and no woman, not like James Moriarty had his loyalty to him.

"Jim, please reconsider," Moran said, his voice straining a bit.

Moriarty's face got dark. He didn't allow his employees free use of his first name. It was too familiar, and he was too far above them. Sebastian Moran got away with it only twice before. The fact that Moran never slipped, and had never called him anything less than James made Moriarty's eyebrows knit together. "No," he said again, all finality in his tone.

Moran let out a heavy sigh, his hands forming into fists to keep from rubbing them over his face. "I wish you would, sir," he said, becoming very formal.

"Duly noted, but no," Moriarty said, suddenly getting it. "I'm not your father, Sebastian." He even frowned a bit when Sebastian's head shot up and they made eye contact. They both held It for a while, brown and brown meeting, neither backing down.

"I know," Moran finally said, his words coming out very slow. "But I still love you, sir," he said.

Moriarty's face screwed up a bit, half a wince, half a pained smile, and mostly pity. He'd heard Moran speak to his father once that way, just once. After getting drop-kicked out of the army he'd told his dying father that it was being gay, a blatant lie, but Moriarty (a fledgling criminal at the time) had volunteered to play Moran's boyfriend so his old man could meet him. At the time, Moran had introduced him as James, and not called him by any name or title for the rest of the visit.

Moriarty remembered very clearly Moran's parting words to his father. A simple 'goodbye, sir.' It was odd, and odd thing to call a man that you had such clear affection for. But then, Sebastian Moran had always been and would always be merely an employee, a strong and unbreakable man who was in control of his life by putting someone else in control of it.

"Sentiment, Sebastian, sentiment."

"It won't make it less true, sir," Moran answered, sitting soldier straight.

"Whatever," Moriarty said, leaning back in his chair, sulking and bored of the conversation. "Just do what I tell you."

"Of course, sir," Moran said. "Do you need anything else?"

"Yes, a possible final mission… for the future, about half a year from now. I need you to pick two of your little killers from a job."

"Just two, sir?"

"Well, I need three, but the third one's got to be you."

"Do do what?"

"Provide Sherlock a bit of incentive."

"What will my mission be specifically."

"You kill John Watson if Sherlock Holmes doesn't kill himself."

"Alright," Moran said. He'd been asked to do crazier things, even just in that hour. "I'll be sure everything is ready when the time comes."

"Good, I hope you don't make me repeat myself," Moriarty said. That was why Moran was valuable. He rarely needed reminding of anything.

"Outside of this conversation, when was the last time I made you repeat yourself, boss?" Moran asked, smirking a bit as he settled back into familiar territory.

"Five years ago today. It's our anniversary Seb, I bought you a tie clip," Moriarty said, and both men laughed. Sebastian Moran needed a tie clip like James Moriarty needed Bermuda shorts.

Moran sighed, taking out his riffle and starting to clean it. Of course Holmes would jump, after Jim shot himself like that, how could Holmes not follow through. The news of the suicide of the 'fallen' detective was still all over, even with the funeral being all done. There also wasn't any news about the discovery of the body of Richard Brooke/James Moriarty. Moran had no idea how Jim had accomplished that, but that was the main reason why he was avoiding his boss's final wish. Moran really wasn't a fan of morgues. He could deal with it, but he just did not like the amount of bodies. A sniper normally didn't have to do clean up. A room full for dead bodies in freezers was just not Moran's area.

He finished cleaning his riffle, reassembled it, and slipped it back in its hiding place in his London flat. One thing about working for James Moriarty: it paid very, very well. Moran was smart, lived slim and put most of it away. If he wanted to he could simply live off interest for the rest of his life. But that was hardly any fun.

First step to getting to the morgue was to actually get dressed. He already had his pants on, but his hair was still a bit damp from the shower he hadn't really needed up had taken anyway. He'd even stopped for five minutes to debate about using the gift his employer had sent him for his last birthday. It had been a joke (Moran hoped anyway), a woman's perfume. Moran had thought himself smart to turn it on Jim and actually wear. He wasn't sure just how much the joke had been on him when he discovered he actually liked using it. It reminded him of a brothel worker in some African country (he honestly forgot which one). She'd been a dark skinned beauty who he'd felt affection for he could never explain. When he embraced her she had a musky scent he normally would have associated with man's cologne but he found very comforting on her.

A part of him rather thought that Moriarty had been kind with the gift, and another part of him thought it had just been a jab at Moran's sentimentality. He couldn't help it. He loved, adored a good woman. He purposefully forgot names, but he remembered faces and bodies and laughs and smiles and likes and dislikes and personal little quirks. Normally he was picking up prostitutes, but he'd pick up a barista or an attorney here and there when he didn't have any other choice.

The five minute decision had yielded that he'd spritzed himself with the perfume, It would make him feel less nervous in the morgue anyway, maybe cover up the dead-people smell… well, he could dream anyway. That five minute distraction happened before he decided to clean his riffle again, partly because a well tended instrument just worked better, and part because it was either cleaning or solitaire while he waited for his hair to dry enough. Solitaire was his addiction. He couldn't play on his computer anymore, but even playing with just cards he'd keep going until the sun had set. He didn't need to waste time like that.

Moran went to his bathroom again, grabbing the hair product Jim had picked for him, putting enough in to keep his blonde bangs out of his eyes and otherwise not caring how messy his hair looked like. As he washed his hands in the sink his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror, specifically the claw marks on his right collar bone. They were gift from one of his women. He remembered this one's name: Angelique, black ops, the reason why he'd been kicked out of the army. He looked at the four scars more in the past two years than he had since he join Moriarty.

Angelique, one of Moran's women that he'd simply been more annoyed about than the rest… until he saw her as a homeless woman in Russia, more crazed than sane and even more deadly because of it. The scars served as a reminder now of the line he'd always walked. He was sane enough for his own purposes, and he'd always been the stable one, compared to his boss anyway. Angelique, a woman who had been a proud, straight up and down type of woman who was proud of her country and her work, a woman of duty and discipline, had lost her mind from what she'd seen and done and now lived half starved on the streets. He sometimes wondered just how close he was to butterfly net territory.

No matter, not that day anyway. He had a body to claim that day.

He walked back to his room and took much more care in picking from his identical white tee shirts, and identical pairs of jeans, and his one favorite pair of boots and his one favorite jacket. He slipped his sig into the waistband on his pants, under his shirt and jacket. He just felt naked without some kind of fire arm on his person.

Finally ready he headed out, grabbing the tube rather than a cab. He didn't know if it would get him to St. Bart's faster or not, he just felt more comfortable in a hot and sweaty press of living people than he did in a cab. Jim hated it, but then Jim was dead and wasn't around to tease him for his choice. He took the tube, and wished he could have just stayed on and ridden around all day rather than get out and walk into the hospital.

There are two ways to blend in while in plain sight. The first was to be so still and quiet and unassuming looking that no one would notice you. The second was to blend in, simply act like you belonged and no one would question it. He walked around for a while, asking directions once or twice until he found himself in the morgue, alone, thankfully. He didn't need to be seen asking about the body of James Moriarty or Richard Brooke.

Instead he started opening the freezers, pulling out the bodies and opening the bags just enough to see it wasn't Jim's body before zipping back up and pushing the body back into its place. He was very methodical about it, and he worked very quickly and quietly so no one would notice him. Unfortunately that didn't mean that he still wasn't caught.

"What are you doing?" asked a still, quiet, unassuming voice, a question, curiosity, pity, and a smile all wrapped up into the tone.

Moran quietly zipped up the body bag he'd been looking at and close the cabinet. "I'm sorry," he said, not turning around to look at the young woman. His heart was pounding. He'd hoped to get Jim's body out before he ran into anybody, especially not this woman. He'd seen the footage of her, and her photographs. Molly Hooper, of course she'd be the one to catch him.

"What are you doing exactly?" she asked again, surprised at having heard him apologize.

Moran took a deep sigh and turned around to look at her. She was adorable, he could see that. In a weird way he thought she looked like the female version of Jim's innocent puppy act. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, and he found his eyes drawn to her over large eyes and the soft pink lipstick she was wearing. "I hate morgues," he started. "I think my friend died, and I just didn't want to deal with the paper work and all the questions and everything else. I just wanted to find him. I'm not family, I've got no pictures of him, and I didn't want to get tossed out if I couldn't prove a connection. My father always said it was better not to ask and let someone say no when you can just take care of it on your own."

"I'm not sure that's very sound advice," Molly said, but she smiled sympathetically. "What does your friend look like? Maybe I can help," she said.

Moran looked at her for a moment before he understood what she'd assumed. Boyfriend. Oh bloody hell, how was he supposed to deal with that? "Brown hair, about 5"8, brown eyes," he said. "35," he added, for specificity.

"Hmm," she said, going to the computer records. "When do you think he died?"

"Early this week," Moran said.

"No… no I'm sorry… no one here from this description. Have you tried calling his number?"

Moran let out a laugh and stopped when she seemed taken aback. "I'm sorry, this idiot does this, goes off and pretends to be dead. It's a cry for attention, and help. Idiot tries to kill himself, risky behavior, and then he doesn't show up for any of the meetings we set up, not at home and no sign of forced entry… I wasn't sure where else he could be," he admitted.

"I'm sorry, but he's not here I'm afraid," Molly said.

"Thank you… Doctor…?"

"Hooper, Molly Hooper," she said, smiling politely.

"Thank you for not… asking," he said hesitantly.

"I understand," she said quietly, looking very said. "I have… had a friend kind of like that. Sometimes it's just easier not to ask."

"No exactly hospital procedure," Moran said, finding that he'd come to lean against one of the tables near her.

"I hope your find your friend," Molly said.

"I doubt it. If he doesn't want to be found that he never will be," Moran said, sighing heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. "He's pulled this crap before. We actually had a funeral last time. I told him if he ever did it again that I'd actually kill him."

"Would you?" Molly asked.

Something in her voice made him look at her. She saw that he could do it, was gauging something in him. "No… I don't think so… no… I wish I could. The man drives me insane sometimes. He's such a child and he doesn't even realize it, what, what's so funny?" He asked, looking confused.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. The laughter was more from pain than something actually funny. She had been Sherlock Holmes' friend. He wondered if she'd performed the autopsy. She'd known Jim. If his body had been brought in, she would have identified him instantly, for sure. "It just sounds like someone… well, I think he was my friend, but I'm still not sure."

"Oh, that is a bad relationship," Moran said. "You should break it off with this man."

Molly blushed. "You make it sound like he's my boyfriend."

"Friendships can be abusive too," Moran said.

"I can't break it off," she said. She hesitated a moment. "He's dead."

"Oh… I'm sorry… was this soon?"

"Very," she said sadly, her eyes casting down.

Moran sighed heavily. "I'm sorry for bringing it up then," he said. " J-… James was a big fan of a guy who just died as well… I wouldn't be surprised if he went off because of it."

She hesitated at the name, gauging if it was just a coincidence or not. Good, that was smart, though she picked coincidence. Good for Moran, but a bit disappointing. "You mean Sherlock Holmes?" She asked.

"Yeah. James read his blog, the Doctor's too… wouldn't shut up about it either. I'd get detailed reports about tobacco ash every other week," Moran said, rolling his eyes. Moriarty had gone a bit nutty over The Science of Deduction at the beginning. He'd laugh hard at John Watson's blog. "James was never very stable. I'm… Oh hell… I'm afraid he went and killed himself before of Sherlock Holmes," he said, letting just some of the anger he felt come out.

"I'm sorry… I lost a friend because of the same thing," she said softly.

"Really?" Moran asked.

She nodded. "Sherlock Holmes," she said, a bit of anger in her voice. Moran winced a bit. It was wrong to hear anger in a voice so sweet. He gave himself a bit of uncomfortable silence to gather his thoughts.

"I'm sorry… I know it's irrational… I know I can't even prove James is dead, but I'm just angry right now… and everyone at everything. It's pathetic to take my anger out on a dead man, but he seems like the least destructive person to be angry at," he admitted.

"It's okay," Molly said. "I mean, it's not okay for you, but it's okay for me, I mean-"

Moran reached out, placing a finger over her lips. She froze like a deer that just realized it was staring down the barrel of a gun. "I understand, move on," he said before lowering his finger.

"He always made everyone very angry," Molly said. "Even now."

"With the bullshit that Kitty whatever the hell he name is spewing out?" He asked. "Oh, don't look surprised. James swore up and down Moriarty was real."

"What do you think?" She asked hesitantly.

"I… trust James' judgment. I'm afraid I never knew enough about the situation to form my own opinion."

"You sound like you respect your friend very much," she said.

Moran smiled, honest sadness in his features. He didn't even have a body to bury damn it. Where was he? "James is… was…. He was there for me at the very worst times of my life. He helped me figure out what type of man I wanted to be. He was there with me when I said goodbye to my father and at the funeral, and he's been there for me for the past fourteen years," Moran said. He reached up, rubbing his eyes a bit. "I'm just sure… I'm just sure he's gone and I'm so… angry that he did it in such a way that I can't even bury him or even really grieve," he admitted. "And I still loved the bastard anyway."

"I'm so sorry," Molly said, very sympathetic.

Moran let out a very hollow laugh. "I'm sorry… we just seem to be constantly apologizing… and no, he was not my boyfriend… He was more like… for all his insanity it was more like he was my father," he told her quietly. "I know that sounds weird."

"No, not really. I think we all try to find people like our parents once we lose them… we don't want to be orphans," she said softly.

Moran smiled, but it was a pained smile. "That makes the most sense anyway," he said. He extended his hand. "Sebastian Moran," he said. He did smile when she shook his hand back. She was so tentative. She didn't realize how cute she was. She would never be beautiful, but she was pretty, and had a sweetness too her that he found nice. He wondered what she'd look like if she wore clothes that didn't look like she'd been gifted them from her grandmother. And it was sweet how she couldn't seem to tell that he was interested in her.

"Sebastian's a nice name," she said.

"And a long one. Seb's fine," he told her. "May I call you Molly, or would you prefer Dr. Hooper." He watched her blush and was proud of himself for not smirking. Give her two options, and informal one and a very formal one, which would seem like too much when he let her call him by his nickname.

"Molly's okay," she murmured.

"Then, Molly, would you mind if I offered to take you for coffee? It's the least I can do after you didn't call security on me… and helped me with my problem… and you seem like you could use it," he added. "Not that I mean you look tired," he realized, realizing how bad that sounded. "I mean that you seem like you're tired from the past week. Oh bloody hell, what's wrong with my tongue?" He asked.

Molly laughed, not a nervous, twittering laugh, but a real one. "It's nice to know someone else can be as awkward as me," she said, and a lot of her awkwardness cleared away. It was amazing what a bit of common ground could do to help a woman's disposition. Moran hadn't even meant to do it… though he supposed that was all the better. "Coffee sounds nice. I get off at five this evening," she said.

Moran smiled and pulled out his phone. "How about we exchange numbers, and you text me about fifteen minutes before you get out?" He suggested. "I was thinking of finding a bookstore anyway," he added.

"Do you live around here?"

"I have a flat in London," he said with a shrug. "Seriously, numbers," he said, smiling a tiny bit as she started to list off her number. He wrote his down for her after typing in her number to his phone. "I'll call you if I don't hear from you by five, then," he told her.

"Good!" She said, smiling nervously. "I mean… that sounds good… Sebastian," she said.

Moran gulped a bit when she said his name. How her voice could be more low and high at the same time was beyond him, but her voice dropped and octave out of nerves when she said his name. Hearing her speak like that did wonderfully bad things to his libido. "Just… just Seb is fine," he told her, pushing the point a little, though his voice had gotten deeper and airier as well.

"I'm sorry," she said, blushing some. "That's a bit much for me, is all," she said.

"We need to stop apologizing like this," he said with a smile. He hoped it looked relaxed, but he had no way of knowing. His heart was hammering again. He really did love women just as a gender. He loved it when he found a good one, heck anyone would do. This one was supposed to be the last woman in his life. Thankfully he was honestly interested in her. It seemed like good old Jim actually did know how to pick 'em.

"It's a bit hard to stop," she said, her voice getting the same airy tone.

Moran leaned in, they'd gotten very close when exchanging numbers. He was standing in front of her, s he just leaned in and kissed her cheek. "I am sorry for that, and I'm not taking back my apology," he told her. "You're rather adorable. I couldn't help myself," he said. He smiled in a way he knew was relaxed. "Coffee, at five, I'll be here, waiting outside the front doors for you," he said.

"Oh… okay," Molly said, bright red now.

Moran turned and walked out and he knew that she was watching him go. Brilliant… that didn't go near as bad as he'd been afraid it would go… now he had to figure out where they'd go after coffee. If she thought he was just going to let her go after a cup of coffee, she was insane.

A/N:

Okay, so yeah, another project. Yes, I'm insane… This is because of a short youtube video I saw. I will link the video (and the Moran reference pictures I used) in my tumblr account. The video is called "Jim/Molly/Moran: I tried to spare you all my lies". This fic is named for it. The reference pictures are from Taking-meds on DeviantArt. Sashkash is also a reference/inspiration, along with the wonderful Moriarty/Molly fic "The Mouse and the Spider".

Thank you for reading. This will be at least a few more chapters. I have to get Molly's POV, and then Moran figures out that Sherlock's alive and all hell breaks loose! Is it sad how much I'm praying for this to be short and not insanely long like everything else.

If you're reading my Harry Potter/Sherlock crossover, then be aware that I'll update that tomorrow… hopefully along with this. If you also read "Just One Mistake" that too should be updated tomorrow… I hope.

Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time really writing Moriarty and Moran, so tell me what you think? How's Molly as well? Feedback and suggestions are appreciated. Thank you.