BEFORE I BEGIN: I have to credit The Final Problem (finalproblem) on Tumblr for many of the ideas in this story. Links don't work on fanfiction, but I strongly urge you to look at the theories by The Final Problem because they gave me more than just the inspiration for this story, but the 'clues' to make it plausible. So again, please look up finalproblem on Tumblr.
Well, anyway. Since Keep Calm and Carrion (which I'm not discontinuing but it's already technically always on hiatus) wasn't the 'hit' TMATS was and I hoped it would be, I'm going to try again.
I'm going to write another Molliarty.
It won't be exactly the same as TMATS and it will have slightly different interpretations of Jim and Molly (but not drastically different) for reasons of the plot which you will hopefully read.
It, being this story, will also incorporate season three canon of Sherlock and present a new theory on how Jim Moriarty survived shooting himself in the head.
It will also present theories as to why he had to do this and also how (if anything) much Sherlock, Mycroft, Molly, and possibly others knew about Jim's faked suicide.
And in addition, it will also have some theories about how 'Mary Morstan' came to be in England, and how Lord Moran of The Empty Hearse and Charles Magnussen of His Last Vow knew Jim. Because there is no way they would not have been on Jim's radar.
It will be shorter, I think, I'll try to keep it under 20 chapters, but the chapters will be long. I will update this story as often as I can, based on the amount of reviews I receive and general interest in the story.
Long A/N over, now on to the story! I hope you enjoy it!
"Did you miss me?"
"Did you miss me?"
"Did you miss me?"
The GIF of Jim Moriarty's face (mouth attempting to move) and the soundbyte (chipmunk sped-up, and demon slowed-down) repeated on every screen in the United Kingdom. People gaped in shock.
Moriarty was supposed to be dead!
(But then again, so was Sherlock Holmes.)
Upon seeing and hearing this, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock Holmes were as surprised as they could have been, and Jim Moriarty himself was not as happy as he should have been. Therefore all three could agree…
…not good.
… a few years earlier…
(February, 2012)
When blindfold was removed from Jim Moriarty's eyes he found himself inside sickeningly square room made of metal and concrete. It was white like one of those stereotypical insane asylum rooms in television shows, but minus the padded walls.
His eyes did not need to adjust despite having been covered. It was dark in this room, the only light source the door that the men who had put Jim in this room were now walking out of. It shut, loudly, behind them and it was as if Jim was blindfolded again.
Jim was seated ('was seated' because they had sat him down, instead of allowed him to sit by offering him a seat like proper gentlemen) in a metal chair, which his hands were handcuffed behind. The key to the handcuff was clenched inside his fist, he had taken it from one of the men's pockets while they were dragging him into the room.
They had handcuffed him in the black limousine that the pretty girl ("Anthea" she had called herself…and then admitted that it wasn't her "real name") had requested he get into.
After uncuffing himself with expert precision, Jim stood up from the metal chair and let the cuffs fall dramatically to the ground.
He then took the key and walked to the nearest wall (all four walls were the 'nearest walls' since the room was a square and the chair was in the center, so Jim just picked a random one) which he carved the name 'Sherlock' into as many times as he could without the letters overlapping (which was hard to do in the dark) before moving on to the next wall.
This would convince Mycroft Holmes that he was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes (which was true, of course, but Mycroft had to believe it).
One of the walls seemed to be a window, made of glass not metal or concrete, so it meant that someone was watching Jim (in the dark, he didn't know how, but they were, they always were). And so he didn't carve into the glass. He didn't want to obscure their view.
They left Jim in there in the dark for a day, or so, maybe more.
Jim had no way of telling time. His watch and designer clothing had been taken from him, in a different well-lit room full of footsteps and voices that Jim had not been able to see (as he had still been blindfolded at the time). They had taken his suitjacket, buttondown, slacks and shoes. Jim wished he had worn prettier underwear. Or gone commando, just to mess with them.
He was in boring white undershirt, black socks, and briefs. (Yes, Jim Moriarty wore briefs; it was too much fabric to wear tight suitpants and boxers. Real men wore pink and real men wore briefs (and, sometimes, pink briefs.))
Jim had slept in the cold on the floor in his underclothes. Another wild night in the life of Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.
Finally, the stream of light from the door peaked into the room like an uninvited guest. Jim didn't move from the floor. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the light on his eyelids, warm and red.
He listened to the approaching guest—guests. Two men, heavyset (muscular not fat), wearing boots. He didn't need to open his eyes. He could visualize the marching robots, programmed to follow orders without asking why. Just like everyone else in the world.
Including Jim.
He wasn't so special that he had never accepted any social norms.
A kick in the stomach 'awoke' Jim, eyes bursting open to be kicked by the light as his abdominal region had been by the boot. He looked up at the man it belonged to. A forgettable, emotionless face. Jim matched it.
"Up." The man ordered, he and his clone in fake military uniform (as if it would fool Jim into thinking the military had arrested him).
Jim didn't respond or move.
The men hoisted him up from under his shoulders and brought him back to the chair. One of them the found the handcuffs and key, using them to rebind Jim's arms behind the chair.
Jim said nothing.
Neither did the men. They liked to 'talk with their hands', apparently.
They punched him for an hour or so, maybe less (and it just felt longer). And then they left him without even asking a single question. When they were finished, they uncuffed him and left him to return to the floor.
After a week of these one hour a day punching sessions, bland meals, and darkness Jim was successfully disoriented. He didn't know what time it was, what day it was, or what he was thinking getting into the car with that woman.
Just what Mycroft Holmes wanted.
Finally, the British Government entered the dark room, bringing in light with him.
Jim squinted, eyes adjusting, standing up from the cold concrete floor when he heard the expensive leather shoes of the man he had been waiting for. He turned to face him.
"Hello there, Mycroft Holmes, nice to finally meet you." Jim greeted, cordially. (And he was impressed, too, because even in the darkness he could tell that Mycroft's suit was of almost as good quality (and high price) as the suits he wore.)
"And here I thought you had lost your voice, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft replied, a bit surprised but trying not to show it on his cautious face. (He looked nothing like his brother, Sherlock. Jim wondered if they had ever asked their mother any questions growing up, perceptive boys as they must have been.), "You didn't answer any of our questions."
"You didn't ask any." Jim said, flatly.
"Oh, of course." Mycroft chuckled, feigning embarrassment, "My mistake."
"I suppose it's your revenge for what I did to your baby brother a few months back, isn't it?" Jim guessed, "How protective of you."
"Speaking of my 'baby brother', I'm sure he would appreciate your foray into interior design." Mycroft complimented, eyeing writing on the wall, "It's much like those teenagers who put up posters of boybands in their rooms and scribble the names of their crushes into their school desks. Sherlock does love admiration—of course he has John for that and John doesn't scratch the walls and blow up buildings to profess his.
"And that's why John will never be enough for him." Jim smiled.
Mycroft sighed.
"Have a seat," he offered, like a proper gentleman, gesturing to Jim's enemy the metal chair.
"Thanks." Jim politely accepted, sauntering over and plopping down. Jim sat. He was not 'seated'.
"When you played your 'game' with Sherlock," Mycroft began, stepping towards Jim (who was not restrained physically or mentally and so could pounce at any moment), carefully, "you had bombs and an army of snipers at your command. And yet you put up no resistance when my people arrested you. Why?"
"You're a genius." Jim goaded, "You figure it out."
"You no longer have bombs and an army of snipers at your command." Mycroft figured it out, "You revealed yourself, and so your Criminal Network as well, to Sherlock and the public and so your Criminal Network has turned against you. You wanted to get arrested for your own protection. That's why you made up that ridiculous story about a keycode that could hack into anything, so that we would come looking for you."
"Very good, Mr. Holmes." Jim clapped, "You're almost as smart as your brother."
"Smarter." Mycroft corrected.
"Why arrest me, though, if you knew the code is fake?" Jim checked.
"Since your own Criminal Network wants you dead, I'm hoping you wouldn't mind giving up everything you know about them." Mycroft requested.
"I'm no rat." Jim smirked, "…I'm a businessman. I don't give anything up for free. Know what I mean, Mr. Holmes?"
"You give me the information, we give you protection." Mycroft stated, "Fair trade."
"Protection?!" Jim snorted, "I've been beaten daily." He stroked one of the bruises on his cheek, gliding down the magenta mark it with two fingers until he touched his cut lip. "Besides, just having me here is a fair trade enough for the 'protection'. You get to impress your bosses for capturing the beautiful and dangerous Moriarty!" He stretched out his arms like a performer would before a bow. He was hideous in his current disheveled state. But was he still dangerous…?
"I don't have 'bosses'." Mycroft scoffed, "I have clients. I work for them but they don't outrank me in any real sense. They simply pay me to help them."
"Clients, ooh." Jim repeated, raising his eyebrows, "Following in your little brother's footsteps, then?"
"I've done this longer than he has." Mycroft returned, slightly smugly, "Sherlock is following mine." He folded his arms, "But let's stay on topic, shall we? Tell me why you believe your presence enough warrants us protecting you?"
"Because it impresses your 'clients'." Jim reiterated, "I already told you. You get me, I get protection. See how this works? Now if you want information….I want information."
"And what information do you want?" Mycroft questioned.
"Information about Sherlock Holmes." Jim requested, "The stuff I can't get from following him around, or rooting through his messy flat while he's out on a case. The good stuff."
"Why would I tell you anything about my own brother?" Mycroft asked.
"Because you hate him." Jim attempted.
"Yes." Mycroft admitted, "But I also love him. Family is like that. Of course, you wouldn't know…"
Jim chuckled.
"…You're a strange man, James Moriarty." Mycroft continued, changing the subject and circling Jim in the metal chair like a hawk would its prey, "You don't accept the currency most criminals of your caliber do; you just distribute and exchange it. You deal it, but don't take it. Instead, you deal in sentiment. A dangerous thing. More so than money, goods, services or information."
"Oh, how so?" Jim inquired, somewhat boredly. Now that he had gotten his joke out of the way, he had brought one of his feet up to plant on the metal chair so that he could rest his chin on his knee. This wasn't working very well, because the smooth fabric of his sock was sliding against the smooth surface of the metal, but somehow Jim was managing.
"Goods, services, money, information…they're all basically the same; things you can exchange for other things—usually also goods, services, money or information." Mycroft explained, "They can all get you killed, but sentiment can do worse. Because you cannot exchange sentiment with another person. You cannot force someone to care about the things you do, any more than you can force yourself to care about something—or force yourself not to. Someone can trade you something, or someone, you are sentimental about for a good, a service, money or information, but you cannot trade it back. And you don't necessarily know or have access to something, or someone, that they are sentimental about. And so, that leaves you vulnerable. They know your weakness."
"And what is my weakness, Mr. Holmes?" Jim asked the question with the obvious answer, "I know you know it. But I want you to say it."
"Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft answered the question with the obvious answer.
"Wrong!" Jim declared (quoting one of the worst Superman movies, with one of the best incarnations of Lex Luthor), apparently the obvious answer was not so obvious, "Sherlock Holmes is your weakness. Sure, I love the dear detective to death and all—literally—but he doesn't make me weak. He makes me strong. Pushes me to be at my best, the same way I push him."
"So what is your weakness, then?" Mycroft asked.
"Me." Jim answered, "Myself and I. I am my own weakness."
"Arrogance at its finest, I see." Mycroft commented, rolling his eyes.
"I've never told anyone that before, you should feel flattered." Jim added, "I work hard to make the world think I don't care about anything, not even myself. That way, they never bother to threaten me with torture or death. That way, they fear me as an inhuman monster…It worked. For a while, at least—"
"Until 'the world', meaning your Criminal Network, didn't want to threaten you with death anymore." Mycroft completed, "'They' just want you dead and don't care how you feel about it. In fact, now you've revealed yourself for the true coward you are, running to and hiding in my custody."
"Exactly." Jim confirmed, unashamedly, "So now that you know my weakness and I know yours, we can make a trade. Sentiment for sentiment. Quid pro qou." (He couldn't help throwing in a Silence of the Lambs reference, given his Hannibal Lector like situation—not that Mycroft was much of a Clarice…)
"I give you Sherlock, or information about him at least, and in return you give me information about you?" Mycroft tested, "No thank you. I couldn't possibly care less about your past. I want your Criminal Network, Mr. Moriarty."
"And that's what you'll get, or information about it at least." Jim returned, "Because I'm not my past, Mr. Holmes, I'm my network. The international criminal enterprise I built all by myself for myself. That is Jim Moriarty. Not a boring childhood. I didn't even go by the same name, then!"
"I believe we've talked ourselves in circles then, for we're right back where we started." Mycroft realized, "Again, why would I give you information about my own brother?"
"Because you want information about my Criminal Network." Jim said, "…and because you think of yourself as a man above the trivialities of 'sentiment' as you call it. A man with no weaknesses. Why not give information about your own brother to me? You don't care, do you? And you wouldn't want your 'clients' to think you'd put your brother above the commonwealth—above them and their ends—would you? There is so much you can do with every detail about my Criminal Network. There is absolutely nothing you can do with every detail about Sherlock Holmes…except give him to me and get my Criminal Network in return. One man for an empire. It's an offer you can't refuse." (Now Jim was paraphrasing another criminal in another movie; more famous than Silence of the Lambs and much more famous than Superman Returns.)
"You're correct." Mycroft accepted, nodding once as he closed his eyes in brief regret, he then opened his eyes to look directly at Jim Moriarty, "You have a deal."
(March, 2011)
After chatting in the rarely used comments section of Molly Hooper's gratuitously cutesy and pink blog, Molly Hooper and Jim Moriarty met in the canteen of Saint Bartholomew's hospital at an ungodly hour (2:00 AM) of the morning.
Jim, of course, was just using Molly to get to Sherlock Holmes. But he wasn't even originally going to do that until he had linked to Molly's blog from John Watson's blog and decided that he was obligated to mess with the poor pathologist because of how pathetic and desperate for Sherlock she seemed. This would be fun.
The canteen was deserted. Jim had wandered the halls of the hospital (after breaking in because he didn't actually work here) until he found it. It smelled like mop fluid instead of because it had already been cleaned for the night, the assembly line—no, buffet—was also closed down for the evening and only the paltry coffee machine was still on. Of course, the coffee itself (and the water) had to be put inside it and made.
Jim Moriarty did not make his own coffee (or anyone else's, for that matter). But tonight (this early morning, really) Jim Moriarty was not Jim Moriarty, he was Jim from IT and Jim from IT was the kind of overzealous suitor who made coffee for, and to impress, a girl. (The girl in this case, and the reason for Jim from IT's existence, was Molly Hooper.)
Jim was struggling with the coffee machine when he heard footsteps behind him. Jim from IT wouldn't hear footsteps behind him and so Jim let the footsteps come closer.
(Sensible, but work appropriate shoes worn by a relatively light person taking tentative steps, stopping several times mid-approach and then continuing with bursts of false confidence.)
Finally, Jim felt the double tap on his shoulders and so allowed himself to stop fiddling with the coffee maker, turning around to face the woman he knew had to be Molly Hooper. (She didn't put her picture online (which meant she had some common sense, whatever small amount it was) but her outfit matched her blog and who else would be at the hospital canteen this late at night?).
"Hi…um, are you Jim? From IT?" Molly asked, smiling friendly but also embarrassedly at the man she was hoping was the one who had contacted her online.
(In her green cardigan and brown slacks, he wished she had worn something nicer to work that night, possibly a skirt, but then quickly was glad that she didn't because she didn't want this man to like her for how she looked. Besides, he was dressed more casually than she was, in jeans and a longsleeved t-shirt.)
"Yes, yes I am." Jim confirmed, instantly grabbing the hand that had tapped him and shaking it, "Nice to meet you, Molly!...you are Molly, right? Molly Hooper?"
"Yes." Molly nodded, "Nice to meet you, too."
"You're more…normal than I expected, by the way. I mean that in a good way. It's just that you hear so many stories about…well, creeps from the internet stalking, raping and even killing women! I almost didn't want to come, but then I told myself that if I ever want any rewards in life, I've got to take risks. And so now I'm here."
"You're cute when you ramble." Jim commented, "I've always liked people who ramble. It's almost like you're listening to their thoughts. You learn a lot about people from what they say when they ramble. For example, you're normally a cautious person, you have been your whole life, but something changed recently. For some reason, you've decided to be different. I don't know what the reason, though, of course." Jim chuckled because he did know the reason.
Molly laughed, too, politely because she did not know why Jim was laughing and then took a breath of resolve.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes." she declared, "He's a consulting detective. The only one in the world. Have you heard of him?"
(December, 2010—February, 2011)
Jim Moriarty had amassed a vast Criminal Network. (Not all by himself, he had help (a certain gentleman named Lord Moran, for one.))
All was well…
…too well.
Jim was too good at being bad.
There were never any police knocking at (or down) his door, never any rival gangs or vengeful idiots attempting to assassinate him, the authorities didn't know who he was (or that he even existed).
This was perfectly acceptable to the network (individual trees in a forest so dark that they could not see each other). They were getting rich (and so was Jim, too, but he didn't care about money). They didn't want police knocking at (or down) their doors, rival gangs or vengeful idiots attempting to assassinate them—although the authorities often did know who they were (and that they existed).
But Jim was bored.
He wanted the excitement of being chased, the challenge of hunted, and the appreciation of an equal. He wanted someone to notice his work—to notice him. And not just any old someone, either, he wanted someone worthy.
And that someone was Sherlock Holmes.
Jim noticed Sherlock for the first time after Sherlock and John caught and killed the cabbie he had paid to murder people. (The desperate, dying cabbie had tried to murder and rob Jim at first, wanting money to leave to his children, but Jim offered him a better solution.)
Jim noticed Sherlock the second time when Sherlock and John defeated the Black Lotus Tong. Antiques wasn't their only business, they also sold heroin. (Jim wasn't actually connected to them personally, that was Lord Moran who used his job as Minister of International Development to travel all over the world helping the poor third world people—and getting rich off of the corruption and crime in their countries that kept them poor.)
Neither Jim nor Lord Moran had General Shan shot, though. That was Mycroft. He didn't let anyone threaten his little brother. He had Anthea hack into Shan's computer, finding that she was communicating with Lord Moran who brought her gang into the country, and alerting Sherlock to the fact that he was working with the underground Chinese gangs and North Koreans.
(Jim and Lord Moran didn't know that though and assumed that General Shan had been shot by a rival gang or a vengeful idiot (who wasn't much of an idiot as he had been successful in his endeavor of assassination.))
Finally, Jim noticed Sherlock the third time after mentioning him to his 'mentor' (if one could call really him that, Jim rarely took guidance) Lord Moran, who then revealed to Jim that Sherlock had gone to the police with questions about Carl Powers's death all those years ago…
And that was when Jim knew had found his 'worthy opponent'.
(March, 2011)
As the earlybirds were just waking up, Molly and Jim were trying not to fall asleep after working hard on the nightshift. They lay in Molly's bed after skipping out early.
Molly had played by the rules her entire life, but then she had met Sherlock Holmes. He broke almost every rule and was still...astounding. No, not 'still astounding'. That was why he was astounding.
Sherlock's genius saw societal norms, rules, and peer pressure for how foolish and limiting they were. They were random, essentially. Most traditions had no significance or necessity; they were just things that people did because other people did them.
Molly had always known this, too, but she like (most of) the rest of the world was afraid. Afraid to do what others did not. But when she saw Sherlock swimming in the waters of nonconformity, Molly decided they were safe and dipped her toe in.
First, it was stolen body parts Sherlock requested for his experiments. (The dead people weren't using them anymore, anyway, and their families would never know... )
Second, it was asking Sherlock Holmes out. Sure, she had a crush on him from the moment she saw him and heard his deductions, but she had learned as early as primary school that girls didn't ask boys out—especially men who were far out of their league. It was desperate, pathetic, weird.
And girls also didn't have one night stands with fake night-shifters they just met, either—at least 'nice' girls, 'good' girls, 'respectable' didn't.
But Molly wasn't a nice, good, respectable girl anymore.
And no, she wasn't a 'bad girl' now, either.
She was a grown a woman with an education, a career and a right to sex life that was her business.
(She wasn't going to feel guilty this time, she wasn't going to feel like a whore, she wasn't going to feel dirty; she promised herself these things again and again in her head and she promised herself that soon she wouldn't have to promise and convince herself of these things, too. Sherlock wouldn't (not that he had casual sex (Molly had no clue if he did or not) but he did do other things society might frown upon)).
Molly liked Jim. They had fun tonight (early morning), why did it have to mean anything? So what if they had just met? They had both consented, both enjoyed it and they had used protection. If they continued seeing each other, good. And if not, still good.
It didn't have an effect on either of their morality (not that Jim's was in anyway being debated as a man in society or as himself in Molly's internal monologue).
"You there, Molly?"
Molly blinked. The room was dim but not dark (the lamp on the nightstand was lit, the overhead lights were off). She had been staring into space when she was supposed to have been staring at Jim. He was waving a hand in front of her eyes.
"Sorry." Molly apologized, shaking her head quickly, "I was just thinking…"
"About him?" Jim guessed, lowering his hand. Then tentatively, gently, he used it to tuck a strand of Molly's brown hair behind her ear. (He had had his hands all over her, just minutes earlier, but somehow this was more intimate.)
Molly looked down, bashfully, and smiled slightly. The appropriate response to a tender touch from a sweet man. She knew how to do these things, by now, there had been moments like these before; the moments that (most) women longed for since girlhood.
Sherlock Holmes would never—could never—be like this. Yet, Molly still longed for him, too (and (most) women longed for a man like him). A dissonance? Maybe. Or just a fact. Molly wanted Sherlock for his intelligence and his skill using it (and perhaps, his aloofness, too, she admitted), the things that made him powerful. But if Molly wanted caresses and kindness, if Molly wanted affection (love?), she would have to get them from someone else.
And so there was Jim.
(How long he would last as the 'someone else', she didn't yet know.)
"No," Molly sighed, "Not really…"
They were lying next to each other, their sides propped up on the white pillows so that they were facing each other. The sheets and blankets only covered the pair's lowerbodies. Molly had been tricked out of her bra unfairly, as Jim Moriarty had decided that Jim from IT was too shy to take off his undershirt.
Jim hadn't scoffed at Molly's small breasts and skinny and not so curvy body (which she was educated enough to know how to maintain in a healthy manner), in fact telling her he preferred 'girls like her'.
(Molly couldn't decide if she liked this about Jim, or not, because on one hand it meant he was attracted to her, but on the other hand it meant he probably bought into a destructive beauty standard that had left too many emaciated teenage girls dead on her morgue table.)
"Not really?" Jim repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Not in that way, I mean." Molly explained.
"Well, then, I hope you weren't thinking of him 'that way' when we were…you know." Jim chuckled.
"Don't worry." Molly smiled, also chuckling, "I wasn't. I'm not that obsessed."
"Liar." Jim accused, jokingly, "You wouldn't shut up about him and how brilliant he is until I kissed you."
"You're the one bringing him up now." Molly returned, "In bed. You sure you're not obsessed with him to, maybe?"
"Maybe." Jim grinned, in mock embarrassment, down at the sheet beneath them and at his hand which had eased like water drops down Molly's long hair, onto her shoulder, along her arm until it held her hand, "Or maybe, I'm just jealous of how much you love him."
"I don't love him." Molly corrected, "I just like him a bit, that's all. And I like you, too Jim." Now she was the one looking down at the blankets, again. Jim's hand was over her hand, enveloping it (but not the way that Sherlock's larger hand would). Hers was only clutching the sheet, idly.
The linens were purple, not pink (which is what Jim guessed they would be)—probably because studies stated that purple is the color that most promotes sleep (and because reminded Molly of Sherlock's infamous tight 'purple shirt of sex' as she had secretly taken to calling it).
Molly's mattress was a double, slightly smaller than a queen size, so large enough to fit two people (though not necessarily comfortably). It was meant for visitors, not live-ins. Jim couldn't decide whether that was lonely or liberating for Molly Hooper, who was harder to read than her blog.
"But who do you like more?" Jim inquired, slyly. They both knew the answer (Sherlock) but he wanted to know whether she'd be honest or polite.
"Hard question." Molly answered, cheekily, then seriously, "I mean, I've known Sherlock for a while, now. I've just met you tonight. But you're here, and Sherlock isn't. So…"
She chose both.
(Clever girl—no. Tactful woman.)
"So, you like him more but I'm the one who pays attention to you." Jim translated, "You'll take what you can get, it seems. Beggars can't be choosers, after all."
"I'm not a beggar!" Molly exclaimed, offendedly. She snatched her hand away from Jim's, sharply. Her words had come out more harshly and less jokingly as she had hoped they would. She always ended up speaking her mind, even when she didn't want to.
"I was only kidding." Jim back tracked, he hadn't expected an outburst from someone like Molly (first the sex, and now this, she was a surprising person) "Sorry! I'm sure you have loads of handsome suitors sending you flowers and—" Okay, maybe that was too sarcastic; Jim bit his tongue to prevent himself from continuing.
"I don't, but that doesn't make me 'beggar'." Molly asserted, matter-of-factly, "I'm perfectly happy alone."
Did she mean it? Jim couldn't tell. Maybe it was why she liked Sherlock, because she knew she could never have him and so could have an excuse to always be alone…
"That doesn't mean you have to be alone." Jim responded, to save the situation, "That doesn't mean you can't be happy with someone."
He leaned in for the kiss. The first time they had kissed, after she had told him about Sherlock for over thirty minutes, he had just moved forwards and pressed his lips to hers. This time, his lips waited centimeters from her lips, waiting for hers to move the final small distance to connect them.
She did.
Just like anyone would, just like she was supposed to do. Perhaps she wasn't so surprising after all.
And so they kissed. It felt longer than it actually lasted, was warm and wet, and even had a modest amount of tongue. It was practiced and controlled, there had been many other kisses like this one for the both of them (with other people). They were both playing their parts perfectly, but they were just playing.
This wasn't real.
It disappointed Jim because he liked being the only one 'faking it'.
It excited Jim because he was tired of being the only one 'faking it'.
…Of course, although it was obvious Molly didn't really have any deep feelings for or future hopes for a relationship with Jim (how could she? they had just met) she was using him in a much different way than Jim was using her. And so Jim enjoyed the best of both manipulation worlds because of that.
"You know, we never did have that coffee." Jim reminded, offhandedly. He sat up, turning away from Molly to glance around her bedroom.
It was small, but so was the rest of the flat. There were curtains over the one window (thick so nobody could peep into the bedroom from the building across the street), soft carpeting over the floor (and pillows and tangled clothing moved out of the way over the soft carpeting), and bedside tables on both sides of the bed (although only one of them was regularly used).
"That's because you never figured out how to use the coffee maker." Molly returned, smiling. She sat up, too, watching Jim eye her room.
She was embarrassed about the mess (dirty clothes overflowing the hamper by the wardrobe—which was filled with old stuff she no longer used but hadn't thrown out or given away instead of clothing—her clean clothes unfolded in the half open drawers of the dresser) but hoped Jim wouldn't notice because he was a guy and all the online articles said guys didn't care about that sort of thing.
"Even so, I'm getting really sleepy now. I've been up for twenty hours or so." Jim sighed, flopping back down onto the mattress with a thump, arms behind his head and eyes closed, "So I either need a nap or some coffee. And since I can't make seem to work those ridiculous machines, I guess you're going to have to make the coffee. Or else I'll be commandeering your bed—without you in it—for a few hours." He yawned.
"Or, I could just, you know, kick you out to find your own coffee and bed." Molly asserted, boldly, then quickly shutting her mouth and opening it again to say, "I'm joking. Sorry." She shook her head, embarrassedly, "Guess I'm sleepy too. Saying things like that." She yawned, too.
Jim snorted, eyes still closed, "I thought it was funny. Your blog and your sweaters make you seem so innocent and sweet. So it's nice to see some spite from you, every once in a while, just for some variety."
"You only met me ago and read a blog I've made about five entries in." Molly stated, smiling but serious, "You don't know me."
"You're right." Jim admitted, opening his eyes and gazing over at her, "There's no way I could figure out everything about you from such a small amount of time and information. I keep forgetting I'm not Sherlock Holmes."
Molly giggled. "I thought we weren't talking about him anymore," She said, then adding, "…Besides, the ugly sweaters and internet kittens are ironic."
Now Jim sat back up.
"Ironic?" he repeated, taken aback and then laughing, "Come on, Molly! Nobody likes hipsters—not even hipsters like hipsters."
Molly rolled her eyes.
"I like hipsters." She declared, folding her arms over her chest in a location that particularly annoyed Jim, "They wear sexy scarves like Sherlock Holmes."
"I thought we weren't talking about him anymore." Jim echoed. He reached to pull one of Molly's arms out of the way of a more preferable sight and pull her down towards him in one motion. He lay back to accommodate the movement, keeping it smooth.
"We're not." Molly agreed, gliding down as guided to rest on the fabric of his t-shirt, which she snuck her free hand under (she had to find out whether it was hair or a belly—or both—that he was embarrassed about…it was neither, the hair felt trimmed and the stomach felt normal (not a sixpack but not a beergut, either) so what was he hiding…?).
"Good." Jim sighed, closing his eyes, pretending to fall asleep, "…but if I'm not having any coffee, I really am going to need some sleep. I have nightshift again tonight."
"Really?" Molly asked, closing her eyes too, trying to fall asleep, "Because I've worked at Bart's for three years now and hasn't ever been an IT nightshift…"
Jim opened his eyes.
(March—April, 2011)
Obsession is like a snowball. It starts small, but as it rolls down the mountain it grows into an avalanche.
That was how Jim Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock Holmes began. Like a snowball. It wasn't the serial suicides or the Black Lotus Tong—no, they were just the snow.
It was Carl Powers that was the snowball. A long dead memory for both Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, resurrected by Lord Moran in Jim's conscious (and soon to be revived in Sherlock's as well).
And Jim Moriarty, he was the avalanche.
In a first, Jim called upon his contacts from Estonia, Albania, Czech Republic, and Colombia…all at the same time. (He couldn't trust anyone in any of the London gangs because Sherlock knew too many people (many of them unsavory) in London.)
Jim Moriarty (and all of the names he went by in different countries with different gangs) had never done this before, having taken care that the different parts of his Criminal Network sum didn't know about each other so that they could never become a whole that was more powerful than the force adding them together (Jim Moriarty).
Jim decided to risk that possibility, just this once, because he had finally found his archnemesis and so he had to make their battle special. He wanted to show off to Sherlock the extent of the Criminal Network he had created. Sherlock Holmes had solved cases all over the world. Jim Moriarty had to prove he had committed crimes all over the world; it was the only way to gain Sherlock's respect.
Jim knew a forger who made perfect 'fake' visas. (They weren't really fake and were manufactured at the same place the official ones. The forger worked out of a British consulate.) Jim had them shipped to the gunmen he picked.
Thirty gunmen…and one gunwoman.
She was English, (or so she claimed), named Mary Morstan (or so she claimed). She worked as a nurse at a local hospital but came to Jim begging for a job since she was just so bored. Jim didn't trust her at first, but the visa forger had sent her as a condition for the fake visas he made and so Jim had to take her. For now.
The gunmen arrived and were split up into four groups, each group not knowing what the other groups were doing….
-The Albanian group captured the crying woman in the car, strapped bombs to her.
-The Colombian group captured the crying man on the street, strapped bombs to him.
-The Estonian group captured the blind old woman and blew her up (along with her entire apartment building) for describing Jim (not very well, and in a way that could never identify him)—Another insurance scam, the old woman wanted to die because she was blind and immobile, and wanted her children to have their inheritance. She was told not to describe the voice on the earpiece or else she would die, and she described it anyway.
-The Czech group captured the little boy, tried to strap bombs to him but couldn't actually bring themselves to do and so just asked him nicely to count down, please. (He was scared enough as it was, being kidnapped and all.)
…but when Sherlock Holmes elected to meet Jim Moriarty at the pool "where little Carl died" Jim couldn't resist further showing off by bringing all the groups of gunmen from all the different countries—all the pieces of a puzzle that was never meant to be put together into a decipherable picture—and so they all met. Hopefully, they'd never team up and turn against Jim…
Meanwhile, not hired by Jim, was Czech hitman Oscar Dzundza (codename The Golem) also travelled to London to kill two people who knew too much, a rookie mistake Jim never would have made knowing that the money that could've been made from the so-called 'Lost Vermeer' was more than enough to pay them off and still make a substantial profit, which was the reason Jim revealed Wenceslas's crime to Sherlock.
The reason he revealed Ian Monkford and Janus Cars was because Mr. Ewart had helped Monkford without Jim's permission (Mr. Ewart's drivers had been delivering drugs for a Colombian gang in his hired cars, when Jim hired a car and discovered this.. he then met up with Mr. Ewart and told him what else he could do with the cars—and his approval).
Now, why Jim revealed Kenny Prince and Raul DeSantos was a little more whimsical. It was because he was pretending to date Molly at the time and she said she was sad that Connie had unexpectedly died since she liked watching the show.
(March, 2011)
They were on their second 'date', sitting in her apartment. The sitting room had a couch in front of the television (the old, small and fat kind with the protruding back) ontop of a small shelf that also contained the DVD player, various DVDs, and an assortment of outdated wiring. The room blended with the dining room that blended with the kitchenette; only the bedroom and the toilet were separate.
Molly and Jim had watched Glee to laugh at how terrible it was, but now they were watching the news. Connie Prince, the talk show host, had died. Apparently via tetanus contracted in the vegetable garden she was always lauding on TV.
Molly loved the show for all the ridiculous people that came on it, telling their crazy stories and arguing with each other. It was supposed to be the UK's Oprah, but it was really just another Springer or Jeremy Kyle. (She did take the make-up tips, seriously, though, but that was because she didn't often wear makeup and it was the gay brother who gave the makeup tips and every gay man was an automatic expert on fashion, hair and makeup.)
"It's not very likely Connie got tetanus from her garden and died." Molly commented, furrowing her eyebrows, pursing her lips and folding her arms in suspicion at the handsome newscaster on the television, "She wouldn't have died from just a little cut infection, before she even reached the hospital, as she did just now. That speed could only occur from ingesting the botulinum or having it injected into the bloodstream, somehow. More directly than a small, shallow cut from contaminated soil."
"It seems we have ourselves a mystery." Jim declared, matter-of-factly. His arm was idling along the back of the couch, a few inches above Molly's shoulder, "I wonder if Sherlock Holmes could solve it."
"He could." Molly assured, nodding. Her eyes were still trained on the grainy TV screen.
Jim mentally scolded himself because Raul DeSantos shouldn't have even been able to find him—let alone know about him—but, according to Molly, a woman named Sofie Wenceslas had been on the Connie Prince show to promote her gallery's newest (or oldest) piece opening soon, and must have told Raul and Kenny about the mysterious man she had met on the internet, whom she agreed to split the money earned from the forged painting with in exchange for him using his contacts to get the painting authenticated as real. Now the money was going to be split two ways. (The authenticators wanted a cut as bribes, too, but they got threats to their families instead.)
When Wenceslas had been to Argentina, Jim didn't know. It could have been years ago, or it could have been a week ago. It mostly didn't matter. Jim also didn't know how she had met this 'little old man in Argentina' who could paint professional landscapes and yet had never found a career doing so, or else he wouldn't have painted forgeries (as a hobby, not for a living, he was already retired). (How the old man had access to Old Masters' of Europe to copy their style from was the real question, though, of course. …Or was it? Jim really did wonder how old that man was and how long Wenceslas had had the painting.)
Sofie Wenceslas was around Lord Moran's age and they had known each other from before Moran was Minister of International Development, even before he was an MP, when he was an employee of the International Monetary Fund doing research in the newly formed Czech Republic. He had gotten promoted, moved back to London. She had followed him…only to find him married. He didn't mind having a mistress but Wenceslas didn't want to be one. But she did stay in London, for some reason, working at a gallery that she eventually bought. Lord Moran had referred her to Jim Moriarty (not by name, of course), when she had mentioned the forged painting to him one night.
…That all being explained, Jim never should have been able to help Raul with Connie's murder, except for Wenceslas breaking her promise never to tell anyone about him (of course if everyone kept this promise, he would never get any business and so he lived for people lying and breaking their promises).
And now Molly was sad because Connie was dead.
Jim Moriarty didn't really care about that, but Jim from IT did and so Jim Moriarty chose to take advantage of that and put Sherlock Holmes on the case—giving Molly justice from the eager to please Jim from IT, and Jim Moriarty another way to test Sherlock.
"I bet you could." Jim asserted, "You are a pathologist, after all."
Molly was still facing the television, but Jim could see the small smile peaking up her cheek.
"Well, if I could get a look at the body I could try my best, I suppose..." Molly stated, then adding with more resolve and another nod, "Yes. I think I could."
"So who do you think killed her, then?" Jim inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Killed her?" Molly repeated, taken aback and turning to Jim, "We don't know if it was a murder yet, do we?...But if it was, I would guess the brother.
"I thought they did the show together." Jim recalled.
"Yes, they did and they were best friends." Molly recounted, "…until Connie hired Raul DeSantos. He was a plastic surgeon in his home country, but here his qualifications aren't accepted and so he ended up just dermatological advice on the show—and also, doing Connie's botox, most likely. Although she always denied getting it on TV. Did you know she claims to still be thirty two? She's obviously in her late fifties…"
"You women are so critical of each other." Jim chided, facetiously, "Always in competition."
"Connie wasn't in competition with other women." Molly corrected, "She was in competition with another man. Her brother. Connie had a bit of a crush on Raul, I think if you look at how she fawned over him on the show. He's the boytoy every rich old woman wants…But Raul left Honduras because he's gay and gays are routinely attacked there. So Raul ended up with Kenny, based on the two's bod language whenever they were on stage together. And so Connie must have been jealous."
"If Connie was the one who was jealous, why was she the one to get murdered?" Jim questioned, gesturing at the TV screen in which the same clip of the Connie Prince Show was being repeated on the news channel again as it had been every thirty minutes or so.
"…I don't know." Molly admitted, shrugging, "I'm not Sherlock." She smiled.
Molly seemed to smile whenever Sherlock was mentioned. Jim understood this, having similar feelings about Sherlock as she did, but he didn't like it.
"Well, how can you be so sure Raul and Kenny are gay?" Jim asked.
"It's well speculated on the fansites," Molly answered, "Besides, I have excellent gaydar."
Jim raised an eyebrow.
"Really…?" he said.
(March, 2012)
"Alright, let him go…"
Jim Moriarty was suddenly awoken by the voice of Mycroft Holmes from a deeper sleep than he normally allowed himself to have. He had fallen asleep sitting up this time, by accident, in the cold metal chair. He hadn't heard the footsteps of the men approach, or seen the crack of light from the open doorway. He had been in this dungeon too long. Weeks, most likely. He was too…comfortable.
Jim didn't like to be comfortable. He had become accustomed to the routine, first being beaten, and then trading information about his Criminal Network for information about Sherlock Holmes with Mycroft.
But there was something new this time.
A shadow masking the crack of light from the doorway. The silhouette of a tall man wearing a suit.
The tall man was not Mycroft Holmes.
(But Jim knew that from inside the observation room that shared the mirror-window with the concrete cell Mycroft Holmes was still watching.)
Jim opened his eyes, stood up from the chair, and turned around. He walked forwards and past the tall man, as if he was not there.
But he had noticed him. The tall man was obviously not an employee of Mycroft Holmes (too old, Mycroft liked to surround himself with beautiful, fit young people (compensating for something? Jim wondered)), although he did have the same cold and calculating look in his eye as all of the employees and especially Mr. Holmes, himself. Who was he…?
Jim continued out of the cell, blind as he had been brought into it, since being blindfolded before he didn't know where he was or how to get out. And so he turned and opened the closest door to him, the wooden door to the observation room, and went inside. There, he found Mycroft Holmes and the pretty girl from earlier who called herself 'Anthea'.
He stood before them in his undershirt and underpants.
"I do hope your people are going to take me to my five star hotel safehouse as a protected witness now." Jim began, "Because we had a deal, Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, we did." Mycroft affirmed, matter-of-factly, "Information for information. I gave you the information you wanted, you gave me the information I wanted. Now our business has concluded and it's time for you to go." He gestured towards the door.
"They're trying to kill me out there, you know that." Jim reminded, "And it's what you want, isn't it? Now that you have what you want, you can't possibly allow me to live with what you've told me. But why not just have me killed yourself, then?"
"Because someone wants you alive, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft stated, "As well as free."
"And who is it who cares so deeply about me and my freedom?" Jim questioned.
To that, Mycroft only chuckled dismissively and shook his head.
"I'll show you to the exit." Anthea smiled, polite and contrived. She strode past Mycroft and Jim, out the door, not glancing behind her. She knew Jim would follow as instructed.
Jim took one last look at Mycroft, and did.
Back in the dimly lit hall of plaster walls, the tall man was gone. The door had also been closed (so then, the tall man had looked inside).
Anthea returned to the observation room once she had taken Jim outside and put him into a car.
"You've delivered him safely, I assume." Mycroft assumed.
"Safely?" Anthea smirked, "The people who want him dead will come to England to hunt him down. That, of course saves, us the trouble of having to locate his global Criminal Network."
Saving Mycroft from having to explain the obvious to the oblivious, Anthea was more than just a 'pretty girl'. Mycroft Holmes had chosen his personal assistant wisely.
"Yes." Mycroft confirmed, "But I doubt that is Mr. Banks's aim in buying Moriarty's life and freedom."
"Mr. Banks?" Anthea repeated, confusedly. She was not the oblivious and this was not the obvious, "Who is Mr. Banks?"
"Who, indeed..." Mycroft responded, forebodingly.
Meanwhile, the tall man exited the secret prison of the British Government that no ordinary civilian should even know about, let alone, buy their way into and out of. He could thank Lady Smallwood for that…
…And Charles Augustus Magnussen.
(March, 2011)
Jim, in his green underwear of a "particular brand" (and of course, his standard outerwear for Jim from IT) leaned against the hallway wall of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, right outside the laboratory he had just officially met Sherlock Holmes inside. (Oh yeah, and that John Watson dude, too.)
He couldn't help but laugh to himself when he heard the unexpected shout from an unexpected voice, covering his mouth with the hand not holding the cellphone that was waiting for Sherlock's call.
"He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil—he's not!"
Soon enough a flustered (furious) Molly Hooper was in the hallway with Jim. She almost stormed past him (tears pooling in her eyes but refusing to fall) not noticing him but she didn't and she did notice him, turning to him and glaring.
"Jim!" she hissed, quietly because she didn't want Sherlock (and whatever his friend's name was) to overhear the impending awkward conversation.
"You ever shout at Sherlock like that before?" Jim asked, in wry amusement, "That was quite the tantrum. He must have really made you mad. I thought you wanted to be all sweet and doting for him, no matter how much he brushes you off. Girls always go for the jerks."
"You must be right because you're the jerk!" Molly snapped, "Gay?! You weren't gay last night!"
"Molly, you know me, he's just lying to break us up!" Jim attempted, incredulously, "You can't honestly believe—"
"You left him your number!" Molly declared, voice cracking, "Why would you have even —I should have—I just—"
"You don't understand—" Jim started.
"Then explain!" Molly demanded.
"Not here." Jim whispered, "I'll tell you everything tonight at The Fox. I'll pick you up—"
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Molly cried, "If you're gay, that's fine! I don't care! And if you like Sherlock, that's fine too, I don't own him. But you have no right to trick me like that! And no, before you say it, we can't still be friends! Don't talk to me ever again!"
Jim blinked.
"Calm down." He said, "You're not even on your period. I saw. And tasted, too. You can always tell when a woman's about to be on the rag."
Molly didn't even respond to that.
She just turned and continued down the hall, hoping never to see Jim from IT again.
(March, 2012)
Inside he futuristic London headquarters of CAM, the multination media corporation named after its founder and director ('arrogance at its finest') Charles Augusts Magnussen, Jim has positioned himself with another stolen key (this time a keycard) in front of the private elevator to the top floor of the skyscraper.
He swiped it, smiled, closed his eyes, and waited for the footsteps.
Well, then! That's chapter one. Hope you liked it and want me to write more!
Some unexpected things. Yes. I know. The whole fuck-on-the-first-date isn't the usual Molly (unless someone's writing a dark!Molly). I almost wasn't gonna do it but then I thought "what the hell?" (and so she thought the same thing).
There was a lot of exposition/explaining things in this chapter because it goes over series one stuff which has all been done many times before. I'm just trying to get it over with quickly in this chapter and the next. After that, it will be more new plot that takes place during the two years Sherlock was gone and also during and after series three.
I'm trying to make this different than The Mouse and the Spider, but once again we have our 'mysterious man in a suit' character, this time 'Mr. Banks' (no relation to the current movie) instead of Jim's secret brother. Oh well. That will be resolved more quickly this time.
As those of you who are also on Tumblr, you can probably see that some of the feminist stuff from Tumblr has inspired me. Because of that, this story will be more feminist, in a way, since I realize TMATS Molly was sometimes too passive.
That doesn't mean I'm going to make her out of character, though. At least not too much.
That being said, I think the slapping scene in His Last Vow was shameful and ridiculous.
Women hitting men isn't empowering to women. Or funny. Or in anyway more okay than a man hitting a woman. If a man had slapped a woman for using drugs, it would never have been portrayed or viewed in the same light as Molly slapping Sherlock for using drugs. And that's not the feminism I support.
As much as I appreciate Moffat's creation of Sherlock, and development of interesting male characters (and Mary's pretty good, too) and plot, I have the same complaints as many about his subtle sexism. He's a good writer for Sherlock and Jekyll, but a bit sexist.
Everyone has flaws though, and since one of my favorite characters (which Moffat partially wrote and now I write in fanfiction) is a psychopathic killer, I can't really get on the soapbox about feminism. I'll still never forgive Moffat for the plotholes in Doctor Who, though.
Anyway, enough of A/Ns I use as my public diary.
Again, I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my story and want more chapters!
If you do, please review and tell me what you think!