Gunfire was not her thing. Too messy. But then, she did reach elbow deep into corpses for a living. Still, it wasn't her style. She was slow, methodical. She got close to her victims, slowly gaining their trust, and then they were fair game for some fun. And her concept of fun was murder.
Suddenly she was discovered by the master criminal, the consulting criminal. He was always around, ready to sponsor, help, or cover you. He would set you up and give you money for what you enjoyed doing. She decided that James Moriarty, while gay and so not interested in her, was her sort of man. The kind of thing she wanted to evolve into.
She couldn't change ranking, so she kept on with the random killings, sticking around for a while afterwards, and then 'moving away' using the excuse of grief. James would fix her some fake official documents and a new alias, and she would find her new target. It was a good arrangement.
She had just finished being Bridie Waters in Ireland, making her total killings 10. Now for number eleven, she had a rather special interest of James's lined up. A Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who would be lured in to trust a shy little pathologist named Molly Hooper. She knew that this was going to be fun.
The first time they met she knew it would be more fun than she had ever imagined. It was like he was sculpted out of diamond, an icy demeanour, impossible to break. Well, maybe not for her. She had him figured out. His weaknesses, his loves, his habit of playing; no, torturing the violin from the obvious and distinctive calluses on his fingers, his previous addictions from the old track marks in the crease of his elbow, and his nicotine addiction going from the smell of stale smoke and the yellowing of his fingers. His deductive skills, just like hers. They were polar opposites. Angels and demons going head to head.
She could see him using his own deductive powers on her. She knew he would draw a blank. She knew how to hide herself away. She smiled sweetly, the way she knew she would have to to pull this off.
"Hello, I'm Molly, Molly Hooper. I'm the new pathologist. And, you are?"
"Sherlock Holmes. I need a corpse."
"Came to the right place then." She giggled.
Soon enough, she started letting him walk all over poor Molly. Little mousy Molly, getting him coffee and body parts, and demanding nothing in return. Small smiles and the faking of daydreams, that was actually her planning out his murder in fuller detail, became Molly's key move.
She had had so many alias's she had almost forgotten her real name, but she thought if she had to pick any alias, it would be Molly Hooper. So innocent for the kind of woman she was. So very fitting. Ironic, almost.
Then came John Watson, his blogger, and great distraction. She had been on track, fast coming towards when she might be able to kill him, but then the doctor entered Sherlock's life,and she was thrown aside like a toddlers plaything. She was angry, but kept doing what she could, like let him compliment her to look at body's or insult her into obedience. John was the thing that as dragging her away from her target.
Eventually, Jim was needing her to introduce the both of them. She did as she was asked. She did hope that he didn't kill her prey. It would be a pity. Though out of spite, she told him that if Doctor Watson died, it wouldn't be the greatest tragedy.
She introduced him as 'Jim from IT', her boyfriend, and it took Sherlock one glance to figure out he was gay, just like it had taken her. She acted outraged, trying to stem some sympathy from him, but she got nothing. That was what she got for preying on a sociopath.
Jim had almost blown him up. She had yelled at him for ages, he knew how much this meant to her, and yet he had jeopardised his agreement with one of his best clients.
From then on Sherlock seemed so much more distracted. At the Christmas party she deliberately wore something thought provoking, to put it delicately, and he didn't give a shit. He took Molly down, insulting this size of her lips and breasts. Luckily her acting was up to par, and she made him apologise. There was even a kiss on the cheek. And then he left.
The next day in the morgue he came in to identify the quite battered body of one Irene Adler. And he did. By; how did sweet little Molly put it? Oh yes, not her face. It was concerning. Another woman had his attention, and flew with it, it seemed. Not only a woman, but a nationally renowned dominatrix. It had to be in the bad way, though she knew Irene personally, and knew she would sometimes try to surprise people by attending appointments completely nude. But Sherlock had a keen mind, and had identified her within seconds.
Then he was out to Baskerville. It was a bit of a break for her. She could do whatever she wanted in the time he was out. Go out to clubs and be her real self. Fuck some drunk bastard and then leave them to die of blood loss after slitting their throats. It was a thrill, and a risk she was willing to take. She needed to let herself go once in a while and that was what she needed. Of course, they would put it down to a serial killer, and she was most definitely out of the picture. The last person expected to be a suspect.
On his smaller cases she would provide occasional help as well as coffee, slowly gaining back the trust she had lost. She smiled and let him say what ever he wanted. The last step was to get him to be close to her, to feel as though he knew Molly Hooper. Tell a sob story, let him feel some sympathy and set up a situation that Moriarty had already been trying to construct. A situation where he was sure his death would feel as though it was impending.
She knew exactly what she would need to say to grab his attention. Talk about her fictional father and say something her might relate to. Let him trust her. The last piece of the puzzle. She was almost sorry that it was almost over. Three years worth of work and it was fun. She sighed, happy with her work. It was almost the best she had done.
"Molly, I think I'm going to die."
"What do you need?" Either way he was going to die. Her way would certainly be more enjoyable.
"You."
"What do you need me for?"
"I need to fake my death. And I need your help."
She smiled, making sure it looked at least vaguely sad. Her plan was working.
"Lets get to work then." She already had many theories worked out, but needed to help him reach them. Somewhere along the line, his brother got involved. And suddenly the day was over. He stayed at the lab and she went home and slept. She needed it for tomorrow, when the final problem would be solved.
Jim fucked up. He accidentally mentioned that he could call off the snipers. And no one could have guessed how far he was willing to go to right that wrong. Here she was sobbing over his body. No longer would she have his help to cover these things up. To cover her up, provide her with papers and a fake name. Her help was gone. She almost wasn't sure that she could get away with killing Sherlock. It was nothing to do with not wanting to, only that she couldn't get away with it, without Jim.
But maybe. Just maybe, she didn't want to get away with it. Maybe this time she could be caught. Just this once. And confess to all of her crimes. Come out of her hole and confess under her actual name. All the attention would be marvellous. A woman who killed with no motive. Who killed eleven men all around the globe, within years of each other. Starting her killings at age fifteen and her last at thirty three, finishing with the great Sherlock Holmes, the only person on the earth who possibly could have solved it all.
She smiled. That was going to be her reward. It was that or take over for Jim. And she really wasn't sure how she would do that, take over for the greatest criminal she knew of. She would decide after killing Sherlock what she would do. She was, after all, second in charge. It would make sense for her to take control. To take control as her real self. As Cecily Moran. So she did.
Sherlock had left to 'take down' Moriarty's network. Funny he didn't stop to think that maybe someone would take control. Later she would laugh at his ignorance, but for now, she continued being Molly Hooper with a side of Cecily. Digging into corpses by day, organising and covering up crimes at any other time she could find. With Jim's connections, she could do anything.
Two years had passed before he came back. And he trusted her. He came to her after going to John, and then let her come on a case, taking hints from her and letting her help more than she usually would. She let him trust her, let him put his faith in her and watched him burn when he saw the engagement ring on her finger. She knew that in the last few years he had developed feelings for Molly Hooper. She wondered how he would despair when he realised that there was no Molly Hooper and there never had been. Not really. She wondered just how scared or betrayed he would feel when he figured out that she was going to murder him and that she had always wanted to. That murdering him was why she became involved with him in the first place.
She grabbed his scarf pulled him in and kissed him. He looked confused for a moment.
"You're engaged." She looked down and saw her mothers wedding ring, which she had started wearing after her mum's death six months ago. She might as well use it to aid herself.
"I moved on. But now you're back."
He looked as though he was about to protest, so she pressed Molly's lips to Sherlock's
"I don't love him. I told everyone I was moving on, but I can't. Not with you back."
"I- I need some time to think about this." With that he walked out and down the road.
Next thing she knew, the bombing she had planned had been sabotaged by Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. The old team was back together. Some persuasion was needed and she knew exactly what she had to do. She called in one of Moriarty's snipers to play her fiancé and went over to 221b, almost to tease her prey. He didn't respond, he simply walked out to reveal himself as alive to the press.
She was angry to say the least. Her plan was failing. Sherlock wasn't quite as interested in her as he had seemed to be before, and now she needed to keep 'Tom' around. It was unfortunate, a mistake on her part. Many more cases came and went, along with a year and now John and Mary's wedding was dangerously near. She had grown close to these people, a mistake that she hadn't meant to make. She wasn't supposed to get close to them. She meant to keep her distance, not get attached, but she was quite attached to Molly Hooper, almost as though Molly was another living consciousness inside her. It was bad. Very bad. She needed to end this before Molly took over and stayed, kept being in love with Sherlock, and shut Cecily out instead. She needed to get it all over with.
The wedding was over. John and Mary had taken their leave, undoubtedly to go and shag. Cheesy love songs played in the background as she pretended to cry in the corner. One last idea that might seal the deal. She gave everyone the same story. Tom had broken off the engagement out of guilt. He had been cheating on her, she told them, and she had given him back his ring. She drank almost compulsively, downing three flutes of champagne in twenty minutes. She was sure it made her excuse look more believable. Drinking down her feelings. It was something Molly would do.
Sherlock, over the other side of the room, kept glancing at her, concerned and wondering if he should come over and console her. She was glad that her plans were finally taking affect. He did in act finally come over to find out why on earth Molly was crying.
Finally, after two more flutes of champagne, he came over to see what was wrong. She continued to cry, hoping to god that it looked real. As he sat down she sobbed.
"He was cheating on me."
"I know. I didn't tell you, because, well because I didn't want to hurt you."
"It hurts more knowing that, Sherlock. I could have avoided all of this, if you had just told me." She knew this is what Molly would do. She needed to get rid of Molly, and to do that she needed to get rid of Sherlock.
"Molly, I was only thinking of you. I didn't want it to break your heart. I didn't want to be the one who did that to you. Not again."
She wiped away a stray tear and lunged forward to kiss him. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her back.
"Molly, you're emotional and drunk. I really don't want the break up with your fiancé to be the basis of our relationship."
Oh, how cute. He thought a kiss was an invitation into a relationship. She rested her head against his chest.
"Please. I just want- I just-" she sobbed for impact. "I just want the pain to go away." Her make up was waterproof, and a good thing too, otherwise she would look so very unattractive right now, eye make up would be all over her face. "I thought he loved me."
"Molly, really, you're drunk and overwhelmed right now. I'll take you back to my flat so you can sleep. Come on." She 'reluctantly and shakily stood and began some uneven steps out of the reception hall to find a cab. Everything was going according to her plan.
Sherlock let her go take a shower, standing near by so if she passed out he could make sure she wouldn't drown or asphyxiate. She thought it was kind really, if only she wasn't planning to kill him in the next day. If only she really was little Molly, who loved him so much, and would never lay a finger on him with the intention to harm him. Cecily Moran, however, was an entirely different story.
She stumbled out of the shower, that champagne obviously finally taking effect. She would kill him in the morning. Now she needed to sleep. Quite a bit actually. She always forgot just how sleepy alcohol made her. She barely had time to accept the robe he gave her before she fell asleep in the middle of thanking him.
She woke the next morning in his bed, next to him. For Molly this might have been the most exciting thing to ever happen in her entire life, but for her it was just another sign that her plan was still working. His nose was pressed into her hair, and their feet were intertwined. It was almost cute. Too bad that the lasting impression she would have of him was adorable. She would much where it was hostile, or cruel, even sexy would do the trick. Set her mind at ease when a flicker of doubt would pass through her mind.
Because sometimes she did regret the lives she had take in the name of fun. It was unfortunate to not be insane enough to not regret a murder, but just enough to want to commit one. It was a cross she had to bear. However, she was certain she would not regret this one, with how mean he was to poor Molly. She knew how she wanted this to go, she just wasn't sure how to initiate the chain of events that would lead to the outcome she wanted.
Finally she just went for something blunt. She turned in the tight restraint of his arms and kissed his neck. Lightly at first and soon progressing to giving him love bites. Soon she heard him groan, in delight, but also, undoubtedly because of being awake. She moved her mouth up his jaw and to his lips where he drowsily, but eagerly reciprocated. She smiled into his lips. All going according to plan.
She broke away to breathe after a few minutes.
"Goodness."
"Let me tell you," Sherlock said, slurring his words a little. "I would not object to being woken up like that every morning."
They both giggled.
"I would like to partake in that once more," she said a little too formally. "Would you object?"
"Certainly not."
Molly grinned and kissed him again, wildly, nibbling at his bottom lip. He seemed to be fighting for control. As a naturally dominant person herself, she needed to show him that the only control he would be getting would come from her. She bit down, probably a little too hard this time, and moved so she was straddling his hips.
He glanced up at her, only lust in his eyes now. She was his sort of woman, in bed at least. Molly Hooper was now indistinguishable from her and she didn't care. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt and undid them slowly, one by one, almost teasing him. His hands moved up to remove his robe from her body, and she slapped them away.
"Now, now, Sherlock. We mustn't do that."
She hopped off him to search in the top drawer of his bedside table, and within seconds, found what she was looking for. She came back to him, carrying a pair of handcuffs he had obviously stolen from someone at New Scotland Yard, most likely Sergeant Donovan, and wearing a wide grin, not unlike the Cheshire Cat's. she dragged his arms up above his head, clicked on cuff into place around his wrist and then the next, securing him to the headboard.
Now, with her in control, she continued to undress him. She could see that he was desperate, to touch her, to see her, taste her skin under his lips, and who was she to deny him the pleasure, especially when it was the kind of pleasure that went both ways. She leant back and removed his dressing gown, the blue satin one, and revealed her underwear, sure that that might appease him for a little bit. She saw his eyes light up, delight evident on his face.
She smiled at that and kissed him lightly. He tried to lean upwards and she pushed him back down.
"You mustn't get greedy, Sherlock."
"You are very different in bed than you are in the lab." Sherlock remarked, teasing her a little.
"Oh, there are so many things you don't know about me, Mr Holmes." She grinned, knowing that that statement would not only be thought provoking, but truer than he would ever know.
He leant up and captured her mouth, and this time she didn't bother telling him off. His punishment would come soon. She smiled a little at the thought of killing him, slitting his throat almost effortlessly and watching the blood trickle down his throat. Seeing the horror and realisation on his face before he finally died.
She kissed him back furiously, nipping at his lips, and let her hands roam his chest. She heard his stifled moan when she dragged her nails down his skin. She giggled a bit at that, loving the sounds he made and the feeling of complete control, especially over the genius that had insulted Molly, and by extension her, herself.
She moved on to remove her bra, knowing that that would be what he wanted off next. To be honest, this was certainly more efficient than if he had attempted this same feat. He would have fumbled with the clasp forever before finally giving up, and letting her do it. She saw him perk up at the sight of the almost unnecessary piece of fabric, as he had pointed out that one Christmas, coming off. She removed it slowly, teasing him mercilessly.
He raised his head and sucked her breast into his mouth, biting, sucking, stroking her skin with his tongue. She cried out and arched her back; unwittingly, but not unwillingly, pressing herself into his pelvis. He lost his grip on her, only able to raise his head so high. She leant back in to offer herself to him again, and he eagerly resumed what he had been doing. He moaned into her skin, the sound muffled, but still singing her praises.
She leaned down even more, to give him easier access, and he took the opportunity she gave him, kissing between her breasts, nuzzling into the shallow valley they made, before moving on. He repeated his earlier actions before kissing his way up her neck, sucking a few marks into it as he went, and finding her lips once more. She moaned into his mouth as their tongues met and fought for dominance although there was a predetermined winner. With Sherlock cuffed to the headboard and everything.
Her hands found the button of his trousers, and only now it hit her that he was still dressed from last night, still in the shirt and trousers he had been wearing. It was not off putting, it was actually a little intriguing. Sort of hot, in some weird ways.
With him in such a compromising position there were so many things she could think to do to him now. She almost wanted to feel his hands knotted in her hair, and this was first and foremost for her benefit, but it suited her needs better for him to not be able to use his arms. She removed his trousers, grey and boring as he had often thought her to be she was sure. Who was dull now, Mr Holmes? The girl who had him writhing underneath her? Certainly not. Well, not anymore.
To torture him some more, she brushed her hand lightly over his groin, teasing him at the same time as discovering just how hard he was for her. She shivered, now aware of her power over him. It made her feel good, knowing just how effective she was being, how well she was doing her job. The answer was very well, by the feel of things. She smiled and leant down to kiss him. He arched up into her hand, desperate for some more pressure, which she gladly gave, pulling his pants down and taking a hold of his entire length.
He bucked into her hand and groaned. She giggled a little, mostly so she'd stay in character, but also because it was fun to see him struggle against his bonds so hard. She wanted to taunt him, see what he would do in response to that. But instead she simply watched him squirm under her gentle touch. She tightened her hold on him a fraction and then brushed her thumb over the head of him. He arched her back, leaning into her touch as much as he could, looking almost as though he was in pain.
She pushed his pants fully off his legs and flung them to the floor, and crawled back up his body, pressing kisses where she could, finally pressing her lips to his.
"Are you done with the foreplay now?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.
She laughed a little. "It's better when ones partner can reciprocate, but seeing as you're a little... Tied up at the moment, I can't say Iblame you."
He chuckled along a little. It took everything in her being to keep in character.
"Seeing as I am, as you point out, not able to use my hands, can I request that you remove your knickers?"
It was as though he was trying to charm her into taking off her panties. He had even bought out the charming smile she had only seen him wearing when with clients. She forced a blush, which seemed strange to her, but came naturally to Molly, knowing that that would be what the mousy pathologist would do. It perplexed Cecily that Molly had become a separate person in her own being, coexisting with herself. She had never spent this amount of time under a singular alias.
Finally she smiled and got back on her knees to pull her own knickers down and off her legs.
"Better?"
"Much, now could you do me the favour of kissing me. This is a little awkward. Can I be let out of the hand cuffs now?"
She rolled her eyes but figured it would be more convenient. She kissed him lightly and then broke her straddle on him to look for the keys to the handcuffs.
"It's probably best too, we don't want the blood supply to your hands completely cutting off, but as you can see I do love to be in control in this particular situation." She rambled on in her usual Molly voice, before producing a key from the draw, hoping to god it was the right one. She then unlocked him and pulled him upright.
Sherlock rubbed his wrists a little bit, trying to stimulate blood flow. She smiled and took a hold of one of his wrists and kissed it. Or maybe Molly did. She couldn't tell. He cradled the back of her head and kissed her, softly at first and then with more intensity. Her hands flew to his hair, pulling softly. He moaned.
"You like that then?"
"Very much so, it seems." He replied, looking almost embarrassed.
She smiled and gave another short tug. He moaned once more and bared his neck. She hummed in satisfaction and pressed a short kiss to it.
"Molly..." He said, almost as a warning, and she almost wished that he had known her actual name. She was sure, although Molly's name coming from his lips was hot, that her real name, that 'Cecily' passing through his lips would have a much more pleasing sound.
She continued kissing his neck as his hands made their way up and down her spine, and she was sure he was memorising the feel of her under his fingertips. Hs touch was soft, not how she thought it would be. She thought he would want rough, fast hot, but here he was, memorising her, cataloging her reactions, her moans, the way she arched when his hand found the skin of her thighs. And she thought it was quite possibly the hottest thing about him, the uncertain reverence behind his touch. The curiosity in his eyes as he looked her in the eyes, as though he'd fond all the answers life's questions in them.
It was amusing. He was in love with the very person who would soon be his killer. Ironic. Poetic. Shakespearean, really. She smiled into his skin, and then looked up at him. He pushed lightly at her shoulders, guiding her to lie back. She followed his actions and watched as he produced a condom from the same drawer she got the handcuffs from. It was about ten seconds before his warm weight settled over her.
"Okay?" He asked, wondering is she had any second thoughts.
She nodded contentedly, and finally he was filling her. She whimpered a little. She hadn't had anyone since he had been back from the dead, and she had almost forgotten how good it was. As he started moving, she suddenly forgot why she was trying to kill him. They fit together like puzzle pieces. He made her feel more complete in this moment than she had her whole life. God, if Molly existed, she would have swooned. This was by far the best sex she could recall.
She arched into him and clutched at his back. She turned her head to look around Sherlock's room a bit and found she was drawn in by the riding crop lying on a bookshelf. But the time for teasing had passed and she was well on the way to one mindblowing orgasm. She bit at his neck, trying to gain the upper hand here, although she was pleased with what was happening now, she really did like to take charge in a situation such as this.
As it was, they were fast approaching completion, and there was no way Sherlock was letting her take control again. Not this time anyway, however arousing he thought it was. He heard her whimpers and the short cries that were torn from her throat and loved every second of hearing her. Hearing her enjoy it, knowing that she loved every single second he pounded into his Molly.
His Molly. It sounded predatory. Possessive. He liked it. She was his. She was no longer Tom's, and he was going to place his mark on her, so that no other man would touch her again. Not while she was still his. He pressed his lips to her neck, still moving within her, pounding into her with all of his strength, and started to suck a mark into the side of the expanse of skin. It was by no means permanent, but it was good enough for him, for now. One of his hands drifted downwards, knowing he couldn't take much more and drove her to and over the edge with a few slow, small, well placed circular movements by his fingers.
She gasped, and cried his name out, and her muscles began tightening around him. Finally, he let go and collapsed over her.
It was amazing, like the universe exploding behind her eyes. That split second where she felt free. It was exquisite, and Sherlock had given her the best orgasm of her life. If he was that good all the time, she might have had to keep him around, merely for the sex. Unfortunately, that would not have fit well with the plan. Which was still in motion but drawing to a close. After six long years, she would let go of Molly Hooper.
She looked up at Sherlock. "That was amazing." She said breathlessly.
She smiled down at her and rolled of the bed. "It was. I'll be back in a moment." He got up, to go and dispose of the condom it would seem.
Hurriedly, while he was out of the room, she retrieved a switchblade knife she had seen in his drawer earlier. That drawer contained everything. She was fairly sure she saw a can of tuna in it before as well as hair clips and glow sticks. God knows why, and she would never ask him. Their story was drawing to a close.
She picked up his dressing gown and put it on, hiding the knife in one of the pockets. She then settled back down on the bed. She heard the toilet flush, and then his voice came from the bathroom. "Care for a shower?"
A shower was perfect. It would rid most of the evidence of her touch from his skin. She stripped off the dressing gown and joined him in the bathroom.
"Don't mind if I do."
The shower was short and slightly awkward. There wasn't much talking. They just washed themselves of, then hopped out, dried off and went back to bed, where she put the dressing gown on again. She laid herself on his chest, and he laid there relaxed. Now would be such a good time to do it. She reached steadily into her pocket, and flicked the blade out. And then, without warning, she struck, slicing through only the external jugular vein. He would die of blood loss in about five minutes.
His hand was on the wound, looking oddly dazed by the sight of blood. "What? What- why? Why Molly?"
She smiled. "I'm not Molly. There never was a Molly. It was a pleasure hunting you Mr Holmes. I'm Cecily Moran."
His eyes widened with understanding and betrayal. "How did I not see it?"
"Because you're stupid. No, don't look like that. Nearly everybody is. You are, John is, James was. I was merely saving you the time of finding that out for yourself. It does look like your time is up. Goodnight, Sherlock. Say hi to Jim for me when you reach hell."
It was needless to say that John was shocked when he came back from his honeymoon to find that Sherlock had been murdered and Molly Hooper had disappeared. Molly's clothes from the wedding had been scattered over Sherlock's bedroom floor and the bathroom, as had Sherlock's, but no sign of the pathologist ever emerged again. He never fully understood why Sherlock was killed, but some people said that hey witnessed a woman leaving 221b in his coat. A woman of a very familiar description.
She was free. Free from Molly Hooper. Free from Sherlock. Free from Molly's friends. Now she could be herself. Cecily.
No more little white lies to tell.
A/N: Okay, long story short, I was bored, someone was freaking out on tumblr about 'what if Molly's a bad guy', and I thought 'y'know, that would be really cool. So I wrote the longest singular piece of writing I have successfully completed in my life. I hope you enjoyed. For those who ware still waiting for the ending for Please Excuse My Writing, I really don't think it's going to happen, I'm really sorry, I did try writing several epilogues. But none of them worked out. So yeah. Thanks for taking the time out of your day/night to read this. Please review. Siân