Molly's Buttons
There was honestly no logical reason for her to be there. No autopsy was needed, the cause of death was quite clear: self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head (into the mouth, to be more accurate). But she didn't believe Lestrade when he had told her; even when the body bag had been brought in she didn't believe anything they had to say. How could she, nobody ever got to him, it was just the way things were.
"Must have been a lousy programme," the paramedic sighed as she helped Molly move the body from the stretcher onto one of her tables.
"Excuse me?" she questioned arching an eyebrow.
The girl snapped off her gloves and tossed them in a nearby bin. "Said he was on some sort of children's show, storybook time, must have been dreadful if he went and done himself in like that."
Molly glared at the bag and couldn't help but roll her eyes, she should have known that storyteller rubbish was all he was going to be remembered for; and this prat couldn't even get it right.
"Storyteller," Molly corrected, giving the girl her best fake sweet smile. "My brother's kids eat it up," Dead and she was still lying for him.
"Anyway," she brushed her hands together and started to lead her out of the morgue, "I've got work to do now and no offence but I prefer to do it alone. No surprises that way."
Molly bolted the door as soon as she was alone; taking a moment to lean against the wall and take several calming breaths. She still wasn't ready for this, to unzip that black bag of horrors that was waiting on her table, to face the man that had turned her life upside down and sides of herself she had never known before. She swallowed the lump in her throat and slowly approached the steel slab that now imprisoned her lover, her heels making ear deafening clacks on the ground with every step she took. She passed a hand over the bag before her thumb and fore finger rested on the zipper, pausing before sliding it down notch by notch, exposing the spider secure in his black canvas nest. Her breath caught in her throat when she caught sight of his dark eyes; still wide open in death. What once was beautifully dark and full of so much passion and power were now sad, cold and empty; she almost felt as if she could see right into him. She finished with the zipper and pulled the bag from him. Molly closed her eyes and turned her head, she had a proper look at his head now; while mostly in tact there was a nasty exit with a nice portion of his skull shattered and his hair matted with blood.
"Why, Jim?" she whispered, "We could have found another way, you bloody bastard."
She pushed a tuft of hair from his cold forehead, her hand automatically retracting at the touch. She was quite used to the feeling, but not from him, not her Jim. Whose cold exterior had been stripped bare and had shared warmth with her on occasion. She reached in again and this time did not draw back her hand and instead let it travel down the length of his face and over the light stubble of his cheek. Stray tears were now trailing down her cheeks and she found the strength to lean over and press her quivering lips onto his stagnant ones.
She sat motionless by his body for almost an hour deciding on if she was actually going to prepare his body or pass him off to a medical student. It was fear mostly, not knowing if she could deal with doing things to his body that she does to corpses on a daily basis, but the more she thought about it the more selfish she became. The more protective she became. She didn't want anyone else touching his body, this was her Jim; and he was going to remain that way.
"I'd apologize," she spoke to him as if he could still hear her while she stripped him, "but some part of me thinks you'd probably enjoy this." Molly looked around the room and up at the ceiling. "Maybe somewhere you are," she mumbled. She took her time, cleaning him up, including the mess going on in the back of his head, drained his blood; and where she would usually enjoy watching the crimson life liquid pool at the bottom of the table and drain it felt as if a piece of her was slipping away into oblivion.
She even did the embalming process herself, she simply didn't want him to be in anyone's care before he was laid to rest; and Moran was making that process simple enough. Molly regretfully slid him into the cold chamber, dropping a kiss to his forehead before she did so.
"I'll see you soon, Jim," she sniffed, "to say goodbye."
It was nearly three in the morning when by the time she reached his flat, frowning that he would never greet her with that coy smile and his sharp tongue. She slid the key she had taken from his pocket into the lock and stepped into his world and she smiled. There was still so much of him here; she could feel him in the air around her. Molly closed her eyes and took a breath, wrapping her arms around her body, taking in his presence.
"Come back, Jim," she whispered, "please, if only to say goodbye."
Even if it were possible, Molly knew it wouldn't happen; that wasn't Jim's style. Besides, even if they were having a little fun together, did he even know the effect he had over her? Did he know that she could see past the criminal mastermind Moriarty and find just Jim? Probably not, she only saw small glimpses of him, the wall around his mind was an unbreakable one; but it did have a small crack and from time to time a light would shine through.
She made her way to the bedroom and pulled open the closet doors, picking out a fine Westwood, white dress shirt and a blood red tie. He'd like that, her acknowledging his favourite colour; and he did look rather good in it. She zipped the suit up in a garment bag and set it over a chair that sat beside the bed. The same bed she spent so many nights sleeping beside the world's only consulting criminal; who in the morning would wake her with a stroke of the cheek and a soft kiss on the lips. She felt a tear fall at the memory
"Breakfast?" he muttered against her skin, while his hands trailed up and down the length of her back.
"I like breakfast," she grinned.
"Good, because I'd like some," he replied running his hand through her hands now. Molly would glare at him with narrowed eye brows.
"Off you go then," he winked.
"You want someone to make you breakfast, Sebastian can do it," Molly scoffed turning to rise from the bed.
Jim tightened his arms around her body and laughed, pulling her back to him and dropping a kiss to her shoulder.
"Come now, Molls, no need to get upset. Thought I'd give it a go." Jim sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. "My flat, my kitchen, I suppose," he stopped mid-sentence, stopped talking, stopped stroking her skin, stopped everything and sat up.
"No, I don't suppose anything." He got up and pulled on his pants, tossing Molly her own clothes. "I'm Jim Moriarty, for fuck's sake, get dressed," he directed her, walking away into the bathroom. "I don't even cook for myself," he muttered under his breath as he left.
"What was that?" she asked smugly.
"We'll go out for breakfast," he said assumingly before snapping the door shut behind him.
Molly smiled to herself, running her hand down the thick down comforter and sinking down into the bed. What harm could it do? Toby had plenty of food and water to last him through the night and this was the closest thing to a last night that she would ever get with him. She changed into one of his shirts and slid beneath the covers, breathing his surrounding scent, burrowing her head into his pillow. When morning came she made sure to put everything back in its proper place, make it look as if she was never there. The last thing she needed was for someone to find out that Molly Hooper had been snooping around Jim Moriarty's flat after he had died. She collected the suit and snagged a black pair of shoes and with one final glance behind her she locked the door and left his former home.
It was the waiting that was killing her. It was going to take until the weekend to have a private funeral arranged, that meant dodging questions from John (which wasn't hard, seeing as he hardly ever came around anymore) and hoping that nobody had any interest in her apparently short fling with Jim from I.T. Sebastian kept everything out of the papers, nothing but a short yet sweet obituary ran for the former storyteller; and it had claimed that the suicide had been accidental.
"Because everyone who shoves a pistol in their mouth does it by mistake", Molly thought rolling her eyes at the article, but folded it up none-the-less and slid it into the upper drawer of her desk.
The day came for her to lay her sweet Jim in the ground; smiling sadly as she looked over how sharp he looked even in defeat. There was no service per say, only Sebastian and herself, and the grave diggers that it took to lower in.
No priest.
Jim would have wanted it that way.
The casket was black in colour with white velvet lining and silver detailing, she had trusted Moran to pick out one in fine taste and he seemed to do a well enough job. They stood together in silence under the shade of an oak tree with their eyes fixated on the chest before them, occasionally sharing uncomfortable looks.
He signaled the grave diggers with a nod and they began to prepare to lower him in.
"Wait," Molly said softly.
Sebastian shot her a look.
"Wait!" Molly held out a hand to him, "give me your knife."
He only stared at her in return, furrowing his brow.
"I know you have one, Sebastian, let's have it," she demanded.
"What for?" he questioned cautiously.
Molly scoffed and stuck her hand into his pocket, when she found it empty she went to the other. Empty as well. She pulled open his jacket and reached inside the lining until she found the pocket there and slipped her hand inside and felt her fingers go around a slim object.
"Thank you," she smiled coyly, pulling the weapon out and walking over to Jim's coffin. She lifted the lid, still awestruck by how he looked to be so peacefully sleeping. She really did do a nice job on him. Molly ran a hand through his hair one last time and pressed one last kiss to his cool lips and then slid the knife down to the buttons on his suit jacket, popping one off with ease. A small token, if she could have nothing else, at least she would have this.
"Goodbye, Jim," she whispered, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes and going back to Moran's side. She returned his knife and nodded to the grave men herself this time. She stayed until he was in and buried, and surprisingly so did Sebastian.
"If you need anything, Molls," he began in a quiet tone.
"You don't get to call me that," she interrupted, "thanks for the offer, but I'll manage."
Molly went to visit once a week; usually late at night, after work. She had a small marker placed there, not for Jim Moriarty, but for Richard Brook. After all, according to the public Sherlock made Jim up, but there was a lot of things the public didn't know. Perhaps that was for the best.
"Does a man like Richard Brook really deserve to be mourned?" a calming deep voice approached her from behind. She knew he would show up eventually, it was only a matter of time; honestly she thought three months had been an eternity in his time stream.
"Doesn't everyone?" she replied honestly, turning to see a pair of grey eyes staring back at her. "You certainly were."
"Unnecessary mourning," he said matter-of-factly, taking a step forward to glance at the marker. He looked himself mostly, button shirt, grey trousers, the only thing different was that he was sans coat and plus one hideous ball cap.
"But you're the only one who comes here, Molly. I think you loved him and yet you still helped me. You came to my aid when the one you cared for was out to end me. Now why would that be?" he asked, crossing his arms with genuine interest.
"Jim might have wanted you dead, Sherlock but that didn't mean I did. I thought if only I could help you we would both win. Then you pulled that little stunt about him being able to call it all off and the next minute he had that damned bullet through his brain. So congratulations Sherlock Holmes. You're dead, Moriarty is dead, and your whole life's work is looked upon as a fraud. Nobody wins the game, Sherlock, the problem was never solved. I hope you're happy." Molly looked away and passed her hands over her face.
"So you did love him," Sherlock reasoned, tilting his head.
"Of course I did, you bloody fool!" Molly snapped, shoving his shoulders. "Now go before someone notices you're here. Unless you're ready to be resurrected."
"No, not just yet." Sherlock started to walk away, but turned back to face her after only a few steps.
"Molly?"
She glared at him with hard eyes.
"For what it is worth I do apologize, I would have rather him lived in the end, it's hard to find a mind worthy of competing." He spun back around and disappeared into the shadows just as quietly as he had come.
Molly leaned back against the oak tree and allowed her eyes to slip closed. Sherlock Holmes had ruined everything for her in the end, she didn't know if she could ever forget that.
The leaves around her began to rustle; she slid her hand into her pocket and wrapped her finger around the canister of pepper spray and went rigid against the tree.
"Dear me I thought he'd never shut up."
Molly's ears perked up at the voice, that joyous sing song voice that had whispered into her ears many a nights. But that was simply impossible; she had to have been hallucinating.
"But I suppose that happens when you die, nobody to see, nobody to talk too. It does get rather boring. But you know all about boring, don't you my dear, Molly. Have you been bored without me? Did you miss dear old Jim?"
He was still nothing but a voice, and she still refused to believe it. Molly stepped away from the tree and pulled the canister from her pocket. "You're not real, you can't be," she whispered into the dark.
"Oh but I am," his voice rang out and finally a figure stepped out into the moonlight. His perfection was purely Jim, right down to that devious twinkle in his eye. "What's wrong, Molls?" he grinned holding out his arms. "No welcome home for little old me?"
She approached him carefully, running a hand along the length of his face, examining his eyes, his hair, and his skin. She picked up each of his hands and slowly rotated them in her own, running her fingers along each individual line.
"No, I…I saw you, I…I fixed you for Christ's sake! I put you in the damned ground!" Molly scolded, poking him in the chest.
Jim grinned in acknowledgement and nodded, "And a fine job you did Molly Hooper, James would be very appreciative."
Molly took a step back and shot a look at the grave.
"Pity, such a fine suit had to go to waste," Jim said shaking his head in mock sadness.
"James…" Molly whispered, "But you're…there were two of you, you had…a brother…" Molly leaned back against the tree and ran her fingers through her hair letting her hand rest over her face, taking in a deep breath.
"Did you know, Jim? Is that why he went and not you? You sent you own brother to his death bed?" Molly knew Jim wasn't exactly there, she knew of all the horrible things he was capable of and all the things he had done, but to think that he would do it to his own flesh and blood made her skin turn cold.
Jim approached her and cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look into those eyes she had missed so much, those unguarded eyes. Just Jim, the man nobody else got to see, save for her.
"No," he whispered stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. "He's been with me since the beginning; it's quite handy having two of yourself around," Jim blinked slowly, "but then he got sick, very sick, very fast. He only had a few months left Molly, he volunteered, so I could go on." He pressed a warm kiss to her forehead and when he pulled back she saw a shimmer of sadness wash over his eyes.
"No more sad tales, Molly, I'd very much like to go home now, and seeing as I've been sooo lonely would enjoy some company," Jim held out his hand and Molly slid hers into it without second thought and they began down the dirt trail that exited the cemetery.
"What will they say, whey they find out you're alive?" she asked casually as they walked.
"That's the easy part. I made Moriarty disappear once in a blink I can bring him back just as quick, Molly I'm disappointed, you should have more faith in me than that," he stopped and turned to face her, studying her features.
"What's wrong, what is it?" she asked.
Instead of answering her, his lip curled up into a one sided grin.
"Jim?"
"Did you mean it?" He asked slowly, "I'm genuinely curious to know," he grinned.
"Mean what?" she queried, tilting her head.
"Oohh, I think you know, Molly. What you said to Sherlock Holmes…about your feelings…about me…"
Molly chuckled and shook her head, then continued walking.
"Well?" he pestered on, "Unlike Sherlock, Molly I do have an understanding of human emotion and while I'm not fond of the domestics—"
"I kissed your dead brother, Jim," Molly spun around cutting him off. "How's that for domestics?"
Jim smirked and raised his eyebrows, closing the gap between them and resting his hands on her waist. "Is that so?"
"Twice," she assured him with a nod.
Jim lowered his head and let his lips hover just above hers; he could taste her breath on him already. "We'll I'm far from dead, Molls." He closed the gap and she melted into him, her hands fisting in his suit jacket before they traveled behind his neck and played with the hair at his neck line. He nipped at her bottom lip and she allowed him entrance to deepen their kiss and he couldn't hide the subtle moan that escaped from his throat when she pushed up against his body.
"I think it's time for breakfast," he murmured against her swollen lips, his breath shallow.
"Mmm, only if it's breakfast in bed," she grinned, pulling him back down for another kiss, pressing into him even harder.
"You're nothing but trouble for me, Molly Hopper, do you know that?" he asked with a smile.
Molly broke their embrace and linked her arm through his, leading him back down their path.
"I have it on good authority that you quite enjoy trouble, Mr. Moriarty," she replied.
"That I do my dear, that I do."
A/N: Wow...I haven't written any Molliarty in a long time...I missed them so! It wasn't so much dark!Molly though was it, dark!Molly is my favorite one. I'd really like him to come back though. Do you hear me Moffat? BRING JIM BACK! Anyway, thank you muchly for the read, and don't forget to hit that blue button on your way out.