Hello!

A "carrion" is a corpse if you didn't already know (you probably already did or looked it up). I like puns.

It's been far too long for my friends that I promised this story to and far too long for myself since I've wrriten anything. I feel dead when I don't write and you can tell I'm just coming off of that since I write kind of crazy in the A/Ns whenever I do.

Sorry, if you're new have no idea who I am and what I'm talking about. I'm Hannah and it's nice to meet you. Thank you so much for clicking on my story and I really hope you like it!

The basic plot for this AU story is that Molly Hooper pays Richard Brook to be Jim Moriarty and interact with Sherlock Holmes on behalf of her so Sherlock doesn't know about her criminal activities and sees her as trustworthy and nonthreatening. She's not a criminal mastermind in the sense that Moriarty is, and she isn't a 'consulting criminal' but she does have an intense fascination with Sherlock. Her personality doesn't change. She acts like herself but also happens to commit the occasional crime for reasons that will be explained. But it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?

You probably already know this too but Molly's blog is real and can be found online. All excerpts from and descriptions of her blog are from that one. I can't post a link, sorry, but you can google it and it'll be easily found.


Molly Hooper's blog was pink.

And not just pink, but pink and decorated with stockphotos of kittens (still with the thin white Xs slashed across them that site they'd been copied and pasted from put to prevent that very copying-and-pasting from occurring), their backgrounds carelessly deleted leaving a gray uneven trim around their edges that stood out against the pink (again) and various clashing colors (blue, orange, brown, green) of the floral background.

…and the dark maroon font she used was Comic Sans.

Comic Sans!

(The most overused and outdated font from the rise and fall of AOL.)

The blog looked childish, overly girly and unprofessional; just some silly computer-illiterate woman with too much time on her hands had made a blog to share her silly thoughts because she thought she was more important than she was and that people actually cared.

That's how it looked.

…but the very fact that she had created her own website, with its own domain name and its own template (background, foreground, text—a comment feature, even) proved her competency with computers and the internet. She could've built a better website if she had wanted to.

But she didn't want to.

She wanted anyone happening to see her blog to think that she had no idea how to use a computer or the internet. She wanted anyone happening to see her blog to think she was childish, overly girly and unprofessional.

And most people would, too. Most people wouldn't notice the little details that put together created a picture of sloppy stockphoto kitten and an expertly programmed background that was just wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes was not most people and Molly Hooper wanted him to notice. She knew that if he saw her blog, he would…

...the only problem with that hope was that Sherlock Holmes had not noticed Molly Hooper enough to even know that she had a blog—let alone look it up himself.

Jim Moriarty had, though. He had noticed Molly Hooper and he had looked up her blog. And Jim Moriarty was not most people, either.

He wasn't even real.


Oh! How can I delete this?! I meant to say 'you-know-who' not his name!

Don't read this! Nobody read this!

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:12)

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Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?

(Jim 26 March 00:14)

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Who are you?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:15)

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Sorry! I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift.

(Jim 26 March 00:17)

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Are you all right? You've gone quiet...

(Jim 26 March 00:22)

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Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog.

What's wrong with my nose?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:26)

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Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying.

I'm here all night so I need more coffee.

(Jim 26 March 00:28)

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Okay.

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:30)

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Do you like coffee?

(Jim 26 March 00:32)

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Yes

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:34)

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Would you like to meet for coffee? In the canteen?

(Jim 26 March 00:35)

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Erm... okay. 5 minutes?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:40)

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See you there!

(Jim 26 March 00:41)


(March 26 1:45 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital Canteen.)

It was almost two in the morning and so the canteen was almost empty. Almost, except for pathologist Molly Hooper, come upstairs from the morgue in order to drink a cup of coffee that tasted like dirt with a man who she had never met named 'Jim'.

Molly doubted 'Jim' was the mysterious internet man's real name.

People rarely ever used their real names on the internet, it was the perfect anonymous place to tell lies and becomes somebody else.

So who was 'Jim'?

Jim was hurrying nervously down the hall wearing khakis and an untucked buttondown, carrying a cup of coffee from an outside chain in both hands. He glanced around but smiled when he saw Molly, standing on the edge of the doorway to the canteen, and tried to wave, almost causing the cup in his left hand to spill.

He was younger than Molly guessed he would be.

She had for a moment thought he was younger than her, even, because of his big eyes (dilated because he had just been outside in the dark) but when he handed her one of the cups of coffee (the one he had not almost spilled) the veins on his hands gave away his age as probably older than her. The lines on his face, which she could see in better detail now that he was standing directly in front of her, seemed to betray this fact as well.

Jim had a toweringly high forehead that would have made him remind Molly of Mycroft Holmes, had he been half a foot or so taller.

Would Mycroft send somebody that looked like him to collect the information, just to make sure he didn't confuse stupid little Molly Hooper? Deceptively shrewd Molly Hooper wondered. That was their deal wasn't it? She would make a blog post signaling she had information about Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft would somehow (he hadn't specified) collect it.


(January 30th, a damp and poorly lit abandoned warehouse.)

Mycroft Holmes (who didn't look "very frightening") had, about thirty minutes ago now, sent military doctor John Watson on his way after being summoned to this damp and poorly lit abandoned warehouse somewhere in the city of London, escorted by his personal assistant that now seemed to be calling herself 'Anthea' (it wasn't her real name, of course, but she did always have a fondness for Greek mythology) in a fancy black limousine.

John Watson had refused Mycroft's offer of a "meaningful sum of" money (and told him not to even bother giving him a figure) in exchange for spying on his brother Sherlock Holmes. Now John did not know that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, but having to explain to John why he wanted—and had—to spy on his own little brother(rather than just call him up and ask how he was every once in a while) would have made the situation even more complicated and dramatic than it already was…

…and so Mycroft decided to leave it at a Bondesque spy drama of fancy black limousines and poorly lit abandoned warehouse and intrigue rather than turn into a soap opera of rich bickering brothers.

Umbrella in hand, tapping impatiently on the ground, Mycroft sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair he'd offered John. John had refused that offer, too, and had stood there like the good soldier he was despite the psychosomatic limp in his leg.

Mycroft should have known better than to try to enlist John's help in doing something so…illicit as spying for money. John was a moral man; a soldier that followed orders, yes, but also a doctor and a doctor first. He wanted to do what was right, not what he was told. And John's military training and experience made him very hard to break. Mycroft couldn't scare or threaten him into working for him—he probably even couldn't torture him! And so Mycroft should have known better than to try to bribe a moral doctor and well-trained soldier into spying for money.

…but perhaps Mycroft would have more luck with the quiet, accommodating female pathologist at St. Bart's that Sherlock easily persuaded into giving him body parts for his experiments and evidence from police cases just by being tall and having blue eyes and bow lips. She had already shown she was willing to break the rules, do something wrong, if she had the right reason to (namely, Sherlock Holmes) and so Mycroft could use this to his advantage.

Sure, Mycroft wasn't as young and handsome as Sherlock, but he did have money. And when it came to women, money was often much more attractive than even, well, being attractive. And if money didn't convince Molly to spy on Sherlock for him, then Mycroft could threaten to report what she had already done for Sherlock to her bosses unless he helped him as well.

Finally Mycroft received the buzz in his pocket and pulled out his mobilephone to read the text from Anthea stating that Molly Hooper was being sent into the big, damp and poorly lit room. He quickly stood up from the chair and moved to stand across from it, leaning on his umbrella casually as if he had been standing there the entire time he'd been waiting.

Mycroft heard her footsteps first and then saw Molly shuffle into the room, glancing around at its size and in confusion, and finally finding Mycroft (and the black plastic chair) in the center, ominously expecting her.

"Ah, Miss Hooper." Mycroft greeted, "I've been expecting you. Please have a seat." He gestured to the chair across from him and smiled politely.

Molly sat down, ankles crossed and hands in her lap, on the chair and looked up at the mysterious standing man who'd for some reason summoned her to an abandoned warehouse. She didn't know yet who he was or what he wanted (or how much he knew), but she knew enough to play innocent and dumb.

"That was quite…frightening," she said, faking a shaky fake calm, "but impressive too, you know? Calling me on my mobile in the morgue, telling me what I was doing and where I was standing, giving me instructions to leave the hospital and get into the car waiting outside. I've never been kidnapped before, so this is exciting, but I know you won't hurt me if you want ransom."

"I don't want ransom." Mycroft scoffed, as if surprised she had suggested it (although he wasn't, "I'm well aware of the fortune you've inherited from your father, however, I'm not interested in being paid. As you can see, I have more than enough money to buy this old warehouse just for our meeting here today. Besides, holding you for ransom would be useless. You're the only one with access to your money. You have no family that will help you and only three acquaintances that can barely pass as friends. You're very alone in this big world Miss Hooper."

"I don't mind being alone." Molly confirmed, "When I'm alone, I can think. When I'm not and there are other people around I can't—I mean I can, but the thoughts get jumbled and so do the words when I try to speak and nothing ever comes out right...and why am I even telling you this?"

Mycroft smiled, again, just slightly. "Because you have no one else to tell. Like I said, you're alone."

Molly swallowed.

Who was this man and how much did he know about her? Could he have figured out what she'd done and be holding this meeting to get her to confess?

Mollyhoped not. Sherlock was supposed to be the one to figure her out and he hadn't even figured out that there was anything to figure out yet!

Molly Hooper had only met Sherlock Holmes two times before he beat a cadaver with a ridingcrop for one of his cases today. The two times before he hadn't even recognized or remembered her and those two times she hadn't had the courage to even speak to him.

But early today, while he was torturing that corpse, she had finally spoken up and asked him if he'd like to get coffee with her.

He had answered "black, two sugars".

And she had actually brought it up to him. He had said "please" and "thank you" but Sherlock Hooper was completely oblivious and uninterested in Molly Hooper.

(Although that same day Sherlock Holmes also met John Watson. He was not oblivious to or uninterested in him.)

Later, Sherlock came back to the morgue for the ridingcrop. Molly picked it up to give to him.

"Put that down, you shouldn't be touching a weapon like that." he'd said, "Could be dangerous."

Molly had giggled like a school girl and handed the ridingcrop to him. She had thought he was joking. Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow, took it and left.

"What do you want from me, then?" Molly asked, "Who are you?"

"You asked Sherlock Holmes out to coffee today." Mycroft recounted.

"Yes." Molly nodded, "…How did you know?"

"The same way I know about you, who you are and where to find you." Mycroftsaid ambiguously and ominously, "I have eyes everywhere."

"You have control of the CCTVs." Molly realized, "…that means you work for the government!"

"Brilliant deduction." Mycroft patronized, chuckling, "You're almost as good as Sherlock Holmes himself."

"Why did you ask me about him?" Molly asked, pretending not to notice that she was being made fun of.

"Because despite all my government resources; CCTVs, money, cars, warehouses…" Mycroft answered, "…you have the one thing I don't have. The trust of Sherlock Holmes."

"He trusts me?" Molly rephrased, taken aback.

"Enough to let you bring him coffee and drink it without first measuring its pH to check if it is poisoned." Mycroft reasoned, "So yes, I would say that he trusts you."

"And he doesn't trust you?" Molly deduced.

"Naturally not." Mycroft affirmed, "I am from the government, after all."

"He only trusts me because I'm too shy and small for him to see me as a threat." Molly reasoned, staring down at her lap and speaking softly as if ashamed, "He doesn't even notice me…"

"And that was makes you perfect." Mycroft declared.

"…'perfect'?" Molly repeated, "For what?"

"For spying on him, of course." Mycroft stated as if it was obvious.

"Spying?!" Molly exclaimed in alarm, "Why would you want me to spy on Sherlock? Is he under investigation."

"No, no, nothing like that." Mycroft dismissed, with a wave of his hand that wasn't holding the umbrella, "…And I hope you're not one of those skeptics suspecting that one day he might be the cause of the same kind of crimes he solves—or that he is one truly responsible for those crimes. Because he is not and will not ever be."

"Then why do you want me to spy on him?" Molly questioned, furrowing her brow.

"Sherlock Holmes does dangerous work, and his work is his life and so he lives a dangerous life." Mycroft explained, matter-of-factly, "I want you to spy on him for me so that I can make sure he is safe. I want to know what he is doing, where he is going and what cases and experiments he is working on. I'm worried about him and I wouldn't want him to get…hurt."

He sounded as if he was lying. Because he sounded like he was lying, Molly believed him.

"You really mean that, don't you?" she responded, looking up and meeting Mycroft's eyes, "You really do care about him."

"Brilliant deduction." Mycroft said, again, softly with a confessing smile. This time he wasn't patronizing her.

Molly was silent for a moment, thinking of what to say next and finally deciding to ask "why would I agree to betray Sherlock's trust and spy on him for you?" instead of prying into why this mysterious government man cared about Sherlock Holmes.

"It's simple." Mycroft replied, "Because you like him—"

"If I like him, why would I—"Molly interrupted him only to be interrupted herself.

"Because you like him," Mycroft repeated, "and you want him to like you. Right now he doesn't notice you. He takes one look at you and knows everything about you—or, at least he thinks he does. He sees nothing of interest and so he's not interested in you. But wouldn't you like to surprise him? Wouldn't you like to fool him? To fool the man who sees and knows everything? Wouldn't you like to prove him wrong? To be interesting?"

"Interesting…?" Molly considered, "So you think if I spy on him he will find out about it."

"No, and I'm almost certain he won't." Mycroft countered, "But it'll be a hidden mystery for him to solve. And if he does notice, he'll be on the case and won't rest until he finally finds you out. And then, I guarantee you he won't be angry—he'll be excited, he loves these games, and he'll interested. In you."

"But you don't think he will figure it out." Molly reminded.

"I don't…but you can, if you wish." Mycroft allowed, "It can be a wager between us, if you decide to spy on him for me. You can try your best to fool Sherlock Holmes. I think you can do it. You think you can't. I think Sherlock won't notice. You think he will. You're smart, Molly Hooper, and Sherlock doesn't see it. Doesn't see you…so let us see if he ever does."

"And if he doesn't?" Molly inquired.

"Then you will be the woman who outsmarted Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft decided.

"With your help." Molly added.

"'No man is an island'—and no woman is either." Mycroft troped and modified, "You don't have to be all alone. It isn't as if Sherlock has no help. He has his Homeless Network and John Watson, his new flatmate, for example. And he has you too, as well."

"Not if I agree to your plan." Molly conditioned.

"No, he won't, not in the same way…" Mycroft agreed, "But then you might have him. And that's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes." Molly admitted, "I do want him to notice me. And so I'll do it. I'll spy on him for you."

"I knew you would." Mycroft smiled, "And you will be paid for your help."

"I don't need the money, which you already know, but thank you." Molly accepted, "…And how do I contact you to give you the information?"

"You have a blog, don't you?" Mycroft checked.

"Yes, I do." Molly confirmed, nodding and then laughing, "…I didn't know anybody knew about it. So should I post the stuff about Sherlock on it?" (a stupid idea, of course, but she wanted him to think she was stupid.)

"No." Mycroft said, "Whenever you have information about Sherlock Holmes make an irrelevant post on your blog. I'll see it and I'll contact you."

"Okay." Molly agreed.


(March 26 1:47 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital Canteen.)

On the off chance that 'Jim' wasn't Mycroft Holmes's employee and just some random hospital employee, Molly had to act 'natural' ('natural' being the completely unnatural best behavior people put on when first meeting someone—especially a potential romantic partner (not that she saw this 'Jim' person as a potential romantic partner. Sure, he was alright looking but it was hard to really see anyone else with the image of Sherlock burning in her mind whenever she closed her eyes.))

"Molly, right?" Jim greeted as he handed Molly the lidded cup of coffee, "I'm Jim. From IT."

"How did you know it was me?" Molly asked, accepting the cup and taking a sip. It was still warm, but Jim's hand had been hot since he'd just run in from rushing all the way to and back from the only coffeeshop in the area open at this hour to get slightly better-tasting coffee.

"Well, we agreed to meet and you're the only on here." Jim chuckled, taking a sip of his own (almost spilled) coffee, "So I just assumed."

"I mean how did you know what I look like before?" Molly specified, "You said on my blog that you think my nose is cute."

"Oh…right…" Jim recalled, and then paused as if he was thinking of what (lie) to tell her.

Molly's eyes narrowed.

This 'Jim' person would have told her by now if he was working for Mycroft Holmes…So who was he? How had he seen her before? She never went upstairs to the IT department, just to the morgue and the lab and that was it. The two had had never before crossed paths so how did he know her name and how she looked?

It was too suspicious. What if Mycroft, the government, some other party, or Sherlock Holmes had figured her out and had sent 'Jim' to investigate?

Before Jim could say (lie) anymore, Molly took another sip from her cup…

…and 'accidently' fumbled it in her hands, spilling coffee all over Jim's nice white buttondown. If he was wearing a wire it would shortcircuit and become visible through the fabric.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" she cried automatically.

Jim also cried out in surprise (and pain because the coffee was pretty warm), jumping back and then accidentally spilling his own coffee on his shirt as well, further staining it.

Both their cups and lids were on the tile floor below.

But instead of cursing or shouting at Molly, Jim laughed.

"Well that certainly woke me up." He declared, matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry." Molly said again, then matching his laughter with her more embarrassed and polite version, "Let me help you clean up. The toilet's just down the hall. I'll wash it for you in there."

"Okay." Jim agreed.

And so together they trekked down the hallway in the direction of the bathrooms.


(January 30th, the back of a fancy black limousine.)

Molly was used to wearing a seatbelt while riding in a vehicles (she'd seen so many car accident 'victims' (of their own stupidity) who'd been thrown from their cars during a crash because of not wearing a seatbelt) and so she felt even more uncomfortable than she already did in this strange, scary situation of being summoned by a mysterious government man to a damp, poorly-lit abandoned warehouse, because the back of the fancy black limousine she was being driven back to work in did not have seatbelts.

Seated next to her was the mysterious government man's personal assistant, who'd introduced herself as 'Anthea' (and then promptly added that it wasn't her real name, she had just always loved Greek mythology) and seemed more interested in her smartphone than the woman she was currently escorting.

Still, she finally said "You haven't said anything."

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, "Was I supposed to have?"

She turned to look at Anthea but Anthea didn't look up at her. London was speeding by in a blur on both sides of them (except when there was traffic, then it stood still).

"No, but my last passenger was more talkative." Anthea recounted, "He tried to ask me out on a date. Silly, wasn't that?"

"I won't try to do that." Molly joked (or, at least, tried to),"…Not that I'd ask any woman out, I'm not a lesbian—not that there's anything wrong with that…oh gosh, I've done it again…"

"You weren't this awkward around my boss." Anthea commented, with a snort and a raised eyebrow, "…You weren't attracted to him."

"You were watching?" Molly asked, quickly adding, "That doesn't mean I'm not attracted to men. I am. He's just…not my type. Not that I would be his. He was wearing a ring—but he had one on his other hand, too, so I'm not sure if he's married. Is he? Nevermind. Why does that even matter?"

There. That rambling was enough to assure 'Anthea' (and her boss) that Molly was flighty and fumbling and certainly not any kind of threat.

Anthea looked up from her smartphone to giggle into her free hand and then turn to smile at Molly.

"I was only teasing you." She informed, "Just like those girls in school did. The pretty ones who you never had the nerve to stand up to. The ones that I remind you of."

Molly blinked in surprised and confusion.

"How did you know about that?" she asked despite knowing that probably every single girl had been teased by other girls while in school and so Anthea's 'deduction' about Molly was a common fact about most people.

"Because there are always those girls." Anthea explained what Molly already knew (which she didn't know Molly already knew), "…and I wasn't always one of them. I used to be like you before I was the kind of girl almost everybody, male and female, is intimidated by. I just modeled my current persona off of the childhood fear that nobody ever grows out of. It works every time on everyone—well, almost everyone…"

Now she was rambling. Not as much as Molly had been, but just a little. She'd been put at ease by Molly's behavior. Put off guard.

"That's really smart…but why are you telling me?" Molly asked.

"Because I don't have any friends, any family because of my job." Anthea answered, "I've got no one else to tell." She laughed once and almost embarrassedly.

She was trying to befriend Molly. Or manipulate her.

Molly went along with it.

"And your boss is alright with this?" she questioned, skeptically.

"Why wouldn't he be?" Anthea shrugged, "He chose to hire you. That must mean he trusts you." (It didn't of course, but she wanted Molly to think that.)

Molly smiled and matched Anthea's laugh with equal almost-embarrassment. "Well," she said, "Everybody does."


(March 26 1:50 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital.)

Molly and this so-called 'Jim from IT' had stopped in front of the two individual doors, one leading to the men's room and the other leading to the women's.

"I can take it into the women's with me…" Molly suggested.

"I'm not taking my shirt off in the hall." Jim refused, "I'll just go in with you. You don't mind, do you? It's late so nobody else'll see me."

"We could both go in the men's, then, if you'd prefer." Molly suggested.

"No way." Jim refused, "The women's smells better."

"Well, then let's go before the stain sets." Molly decided.

And so, after looking both ways to make sure no one was watching (other than the security camera on the ceiling), they went into the women's restroom.

Inside they were met by white plastic, tile and ceramic that reflected the overhead light making the room very bright.

Jim stood still in his stained white shirt.

"I'll wash it for you." Molly offered again, moving next to the sink and holding out a hand, "May I have the shirt please?"

Jim smirked.

"So this is what you wanted all along." He ventured, "To get me alone in the toilet and make me take off my shirt."

"No!" Molly exclaimed, "I'm sorry! I just wanted to help—"

"I know, I know." Jim laughed, "I was only kidding. But I do have to warn you, I'm not in my best shape at the moment so I've got a bit of a stomach."

"I don't mind." Molly said.

Still, Jim didn't move. "Turn around." He requested, sounding a little annoyed as if she should have done so already and waving a hand.

Molly turned around.

She watched his reflection slowly unbutton his brown-stained shirt in the mirror above the sink she was facing. He did have "a bit of a stomach" but quickly sucked it in, then allowing Molly to turn back around.

He handed her his shirt and she stuck it under the warm running water of the sink, spraying some of the stain off, before leaving it to soak under the flow and growing pool (although there was no drainstopper).

"You're not wearing a wire." She commented, scanning his bare chest. His chest hair was growing back as if he had previously waxed it but then didn't bother or have any reason to maintain it.

"What? Why would I?" Jim asked, blinking and taken aback, "I mean I'm an IT guy and all but I'm not that obsessed with wires and stuff. Or do you mean a police wire? Are you under some kind of investigation or something?

"I was kidding, too." Molly giggled, smiling.

"Oh." Jim laughed, smiling back at her. The he turned and glanced over at the sink, "I feel bad making you wash it like that. I don't want to be sexist."

"It was my fault it got stained." Molly reminded.

She turned back to retrieve the white shirt from the sink, watching Jim in the mirror as her hands picked it up out of the water and twisted the excess out of it.

Once she had turned around his stomach had returned to normal and he was scratching it (hair growing back in was always itchy). Did he not understand what a mirror was? Even the well-dressed men were stupid slobs under their clothes. (Or, at least, the ones that weren't were gay (but what did that mean for Sherlock…?))

Molly shook the shirt flat to get the final drops of water out of it like she was shaking a rug to get the dust out of it. Then she draped it along the edge of the draining sink to dry.

When she turned back around to face Jim, he was slim and trim and smiling again.

"Thank you." He thanked, "…but I wish I hadn't spilled my coffee, too. Then I would have it here to spill on you so you would have to take your top off for me. But that would be rude of me, wouldn't it? Making you take off your shirt for me. And I hate being rude. I'm a gentleman and so instead, I would do it for you. Slowly. Caressing your skin and kissing your lips all the way. I'd keep my eyes closed the whole time, until it was all the way off and then I'd let go, open them and admire the sight."

Molly's eyes widened at the very forwards statement, instantly put on edge.

Maybe this 'Jim from IT' wasn't a secret detective or government agent. Maybe he was just some sleazy guy who had gotten born of watching pornography during the nightshift and so decided to try to reenact what he'd seen with a real woman.

"I've got to get back to work now…" Molly stated, already turning towards the door to go.

"You can't leave me in here in the woman's toilet alone." Jim prevented, sidestepping to block her exit, "I'll get security called on me and lose my job."

"No you won't." Molly countered, "No one is here."

"Exactly." Jim declared, "So let's have some fun…" He took one step towards her.

"You're being very inappropriate!" Molly snapped.

Instantly, Jim jumped back away from her and out of her way, covering his face in shame.

"I'm so sorry!" he sobbed, "I was just trying to be…smooth, you know? Confident. But now I see I've gone too far. It's late and I'm not used to being up this late, I just started the night shift this week and I haven't even actually had any coffee yet. I'm sleepy. And I'm really sorry. Please forgive me, Molly. You can go now, if you want to…"

Molly stared at him, unsure of what to think. It was like 'Jim' was two different people and he couldn't decide which one of them to be. Was he serious?...Or was this some sort of trick? Either way this man had issues and was definitely dangerous. She watched him, sobbing into his hands, his face obscured and head bowed, until he was no longer sobbing and was laughing again. Yes. Definitely dangerous.

"What's so funny?" Molly asked, feigning timidness.

Jim raised his head to look at her, removing his hands from his face. "I've just made a fool of myself in front of you, is all." He answered, "I didn't want to do that. I really like you."

Molly took a breath. "How did you know what I looked like before you met me?" she asked for the second time that early morning.

"I work in IT, remember." He reminded, "I was bored so I browsed what other IDs were checked in for the nightshift. I saw yours and you looked cute in your picture. Your nose, especially."

"I look awful in that picture." Molly disagreed. She glanced down at the ID badge pinned to the white labcoat she was still wearing despite being on break.

"No you don't." Jim insisted, "I think you're pretty."

"I'm the only woman on the nightshift, aren't I?" Molly 'deduced', folding her arms.

"…you caught me." Jim admitted, chuckling, "I still think you're cute, though. And your blog, too. Googled your name and it came up. The kittens are adorable. You've got a cat, don't you? I love animals. I don't have any pets though, my building doesn't allow them. Maybe I can stop by your place and see your cat sometime?"

"…maybe." Molly replied, guardedly. This man was on a mission.

"Tonight?" Jim attempted, hopefully.

"No." Molly denied, "We're both working all night anyway."

"Oh, you're right…" Jim realized, sighing, "Oh well, then. But you know I did see you gushing about the detective you've got a crush on your blog. I can't help but think I'd have a chance if he weren't around." He leaned against another one of the sinks, also folding his arms.

Molly's entire consciousness lit up at the mention, not even by name, of Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes widened, her muscles tightened and her breath caught.

So that was what this was about. Him. This meeting with the mysterious man from IT was somehow really about Sherlock after all.

"You mean Sherlock Holmes?" Molly inquired, playing along, "I don't 'have a crush' on him. And it wouldn't matter if I did, anyway, he isn't interested in me."

"Is he gay?" Jim asked.

"No, I don't think so…" Molly considered, biting her lip, "Why?"

"I went to his website as well, and his flatmate's blog, too." Jim told her, "After all your talk I had to. But two grown men in their mid-thirties flatsharing like that? You've got to wonder…"

"So what did you think?" Molly wondered.

"I told you." Jim said, "I think they're both gay."

"No, I mean about Sherlock." Molly rephrased, "You saw his website and John Watson's blog. You read what Sherlock is capable of. He's brilliant, isn't he? A genius."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Jim dismissed, rolling his eyes.

"You're just jealous." Molly teased. Her words sounded more spiteful than she'd meant them to sound, though.

"This Sherlock Holmes bloke can't be all that great." Jim insisted, "He may be smart, sure, and a good detective but he'll never like you as much I do. And he could never do the things for you I could."

And that was it.

Whoever 'Jim' was, whoever he worked for, whatever he wanted…it didn't matter. Molly had to get rid of him. She'd gotten rid of other people who'd caused her problems in the past (or insulted Sherlock Holmes) and this 'Jim' was no different.

Molly smiled sweetly but nervously. Her closed-off demeanor seemed to cautiously open up. Seemed to.

"You really like me?" she checked.

"Yes." Jim nodded enthusiastically, "I really do." His eyes and his smile were wide and eager but also insincere.

Molly pretended not to notice, smiling shyly down at her feet, her own eyes wide as she finally looked back up him like a cat. Cats were cautious and not often friendly but once one got to know them they could be incredibly affectionate. They also could be dangerous. Sharp toothed and clawed.

"Then I suppose you could come over to meet my cat." Molly decided, "His name is Toby."

"Great!" Jim exclaimed (a little too forcedly), "You want to go right now?"

"No." Molly said, shaking her head, "You can meet me downstairs at the morgue when our shifts are over." She was a 'good girl'. She didn't break the rules and skip out on her shift early to go home with a strange man she'd just met.

"…um…I don't really wanna go to the morgue." Jim replied, uncomfortable, cringing a little at the very thought of a cold room full of dead bodies, "Can I meet you outside instead if that's alright?"

"Yes, of course." Molly allowed, quickly, "Sorry for suggesting the morgue. I forgot that it isn't a place where most people ordinarily go."

Jim laughed off the residual awkwardness then said, "Yeah. Well, I'll guess I'll see you at six then", to which Molly nodded. He then turned to go.

"Wait!" Molly called after him, causing him to stop suddenly and turn around.

"Yes?" Jim asked.

"You forgot your shirt." Molly giggled. She was holding the still slightly damp shirt up towards him.

Chuckling again he reached out and took it from her, then struggling to put the wet thing on. "Thanks." He said once he'd managed.

"See you at six." She parroted, beaming sweetly (at an almost sickly level).

She then waited for Jim to leave the woman's restroom before leaving herself and returning downstairs to the morgue and her work.


(March 26 6:33 AM, Molly's house.)

Mycroft Holmes had been correct about Molly's substantial inheritance from her father. In addition to a lot of money it included relatively large victorian-style house in the nice neighborhood she'd spent half her childhood in.

"Nice place you've got here." Jim troped, glancing around, once she'd unlocked the front door and led him inside and down its long, dark halls (she rarely bothered to turn on the lights) towards the dining room.

The room itself and its table were too big for a single woman living alone with only her pet cat for company. Molly sat Jim down along the longer side of the table before going into the kitchen.

From the kitchen she asked him, "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? More coffee? Some wine?"

"I'm not really a wine-lover but if you're having some then I will too." He called back to her.

Toby, the brown-striped and white-trimmed tabby, crept into the room in order to locate the source of the voices (one of them unfamiliar) that had awoken him. In the dark Jim didn't notice him as he entered the dining room and left, and he didn't ask about the cat that was supposedly the reason for his visit to the woman he'd just met's house.

Molly reappeared from the kitchen carrying two glasses (regular, not actual wine glasses) of what looked like red wine (although Jim couldn't see it very well in the darkness). She set them both down on the table, one glass closer to her and the other closer to him.

"Switch them." Jim smirked. He stood before Molly had a chance to sit down across from him.

"You're joking, right?" Molly laughed.

"Yes." Jim confirmed, "But do it."

"Really?" Molly asked flatly, in offense.

"Alright, alright." Jim surrendered, "Let's just drink."

"Okay." Molly smiled.

They lifted their respective glasses.

Molly was about to drink from hers when Jim said, "Cheers?"

"Cheers." She returned cheerily, moving her glass in the direction of his.

Jim brought his glass towards hers, then 'accidentally' fumbled it in his hand, spilling its wine all over Molly's white labcoat (which she hadn't yet taken off despite being home and about to have a drink). If the wine had been poisoned he wouldn't have to drink it now.

"I am so sorry!" he exclaimed.

Molly just stood there, eyes wide in shock and staring across the table at him, her labcoat soaked in the red liquid that looked in the darkness like blood.

"You did that on purpose." She accused. She set down her glass of wine with a deliberately punctuating thud. A few drops popped out and landed on the tabletop.

"Guilty." Jim grinned, "…It's just I couldn't wait any longer. I want your clothes off right now."

"…okay…" Molly agreed, unenthusiastic and even sounding slightly disgusted.

She pulled off her white labcoat, draping it over the chair in front of her and then began to pull off the shirt she wore beneath it.

Jim stood across the table from her, smirking as she did so and finally again laughing when he couldn't contain himself anymore.

"You were really going to do it, weren't you?" he chuckled, "You were really going to sleep with a man you just met. A man you were about to poison."

"Poison?!" Molly repeated. Her shock was too intense to be real.

"I spilled it all over you." Jim affirmed, "You had to take off your pretty white coat and shirt so it didn't soak through onto your skin and kill you."

Now wearing only her bra on her torso, holding her shirt in her hands, Molly turned and walked halfway around the long table to over to Jim who had also moved from where he'd stood to meet her in the middle, at the head of the table. A pushed in chair that had not seated anyone since her father had died was the only thing between them now.

"…who are you…?" she asked.

"Richard Brook." He answered, "I'm an actor."


Thank you for reading the first chapter!

More will be explained in the next few chapters including how Molly knows Mycroft's name and what she has done that she vaguely alludes to.

Please tell me what you think and if you want me to continue!