With the (increasingly unlikely) chance Moriarty played possum, he's very unhappy with one Molly Hooper. Cue a rather Freudian exchange.
Scene one, take one. Action!
daddy
"You and I need to talk." He says the words "you" and "I" in such a way that chokes Molly up and leaves her without air, as though he can summon the words to murder her right where she lies.
She still does not move, still does not breathe. Even as she feels his fingers depress slightly into the shoulder of her night gown. Softly, almost hesitant—the kind of delicacy one might handle an object before they decide to break it.
"So up, sleeping beauty." At "up", he curls his hand around her plait and yanks forward, nearly swinging Molly off the bed and into the adjacent wall. The force of the pull is enough to bring her down to her knees. He circles behind her.
"I've been hearing things about you, pussy cat. May I—call you pussy cat?" In this moment she decides to inhale only it's less breathing and more shaky sobs croaking from her throat.
"I've been hearing awful things about you. Word on the street is that you've gone out and got yourself a new paramour, an old friend of mine. I can't imagine you'd move on so quickly and leave me under the impression we had something special. Is it true, pussy cat? Please tell me it isn't. Oh, I just don't know what I'd do."
"I thought…you'd manage. It was just a trick after all. Fun for you. I guess not any more…by the looks of it." She feels the coolness of saliva in the corner of her mouth as her sobs lessen to hiccups. She struggles with the reeling in her scalp and for all the wrong reasons. Jim, alive. Jim, alive. Jim, alive. She wipes the blur and burn of tears with fingers.
Molly couldn't tell if it was disappointment she was seeing or spots from her struggle with breathing when Jim crouches down and faces her from behind her shoulder.
"I'm going to die by myself in a night gown made for grannies. I'm pathetic. I get it. Just get to the killing part." She mumbles. The hiccups grow louder and her tears are fatter against her face.
"You're so boring. It was a fleeting thought that you could do better, alas, I was right." The way he nearly hisses in her ear tickles all the way down her jaw. Only a few moments pass and she realizes that he isn't whispering anymore but sniffing the back of her neck. Not even sniffing, inhaling.
It's deceptive how soft his hands feel curling around her forearms. It's even more deceptive how he slowly guides her arms the floor, completely bending her on her hands and knees. What is most confusing is the nearness of his lips at the back of her neck.
"Oh, my mistake. I talk about tricks, but pussy cat, I don't think you know the first thing about how I define fun." Molly closes her eyes. She tries to sort between his words and his tone.
"So let's play a game." His breath is light and feathery but his voice—he sounds almost taut as he wrenches her gown through his fingers. Cool air hits her bum and Molly realizes there is only flimsy cotton and tiny little embroidered flowers between her—between him—and between this…
"Let's play our favorite game." Jim says. "Let's play pretend."
His hands dug deeply in her pants, his nose dug deeply in her neck—and she knows she may not make it out of this one completely intact.
"What's my name, Molly?"