The Lion's Paw
By: AvinWinter
Summary: One-shot. Molly x Moriarty. "She didn't stop, but she was careful about where she let her fingers stray and felt, suddenly, as though she were pulling a thorn from an injured lion's paw." NO SLASH
Disclaimer: Not mine. Blah, blah, blah-dee blah and such.
The door to the flat banged open suddenly and Molly jumped. She heard someone stumble, heavy-footed over the threshold as she turned away from her laptop and looked toward the door. She figured it was Jim, popping by as he usually did on her days off. But, something seemed off; something seemed wrong.
"Jim?" she called softly, straining her neck to try and see into the darkened corridor. There was no reply and no movement, just the sound of a slowly closing door. "Jim, are you alright?"
Slowly, Molly stood and took a few steps toward the doorway, flicking on the hall light light as she went. And when the bulb above her turned on, it revealed Jim Moriarty, crumpled against the wall, a pained look on his face.
"Oh my G—"
"I'm sorry to drop by on you like this," he said quietly, wincing as he tried to move. When he shifted, Molly caught a glimpse of, what looked like, blood on his expensive overcoat, near his waist. "But, I was in the neighborhood."
There was a long stretch of time in which Molly had absolutely no idea what to do. She brought the fingers of her right hand to her lips and scowled slightly as she watched Jim clutching his side on the floor of her flat. It was an image she never imagined to see and she had no idea why it frightened her so much.
"Molly…" he pleaded softly, his eyes closed against the pain.
"It's alright," she said, quickly, her reality coming back around her. As she bent down beside him, her own hands nervously shook as she tried to peel Jim's from over the bloody patch of coat. He resisted slightly and looked at her with a shameful expression. "Let me have a look."
As she slowly removed his coat and unbuttoned the expensive waistcoat he wore underneath, she bit her lips slightly and narrowed her eyes in concentration. The white dress shirt beneath was soaked in blood and as she untucked it from the waistband of his trousers, she caught him looking at her. She didn't stop, but she was careful about where she let her fingers stray and felt, suddenly, as though she were pulling a thorn from an injured lion's paw.
Once she got a look at what she was dealing with, she remembered why she worked in a morgue. The sight of warm skin and hot blood affected her and she closed her eyes against the nausea for a moment.
"It's ok," Jim finally said, softly, noticing her hesitation. "I wont bite."
"It's—uh—it's rather shallow," Molly stammered, putting her hands on her knees and taking a deep breath. "I can probably stitch it, but you've lost a lot of blood…"
Molly noticed that he was still looking at her, but he wore a different expression now. It wasn't pain, or frustration; it was exhaustion. He looked so tired just then. He looked nothing like James Moriarty: Consulting Criminal. If anything, he looked more human to Molly than he ever had before.
"Come on, let me get you fixed up," she said with a slightly nervous reassuring smile. She hooked an arm underneath his elbow and put a steadying hand around his hips, feeling his rapid pulse beneath her fingers.