When she had returned home to find the front door slightly ajar and the lock broken, Molly Hooper knew something was wrong. As if things weren't bad enough already! She'd found out yesterday that her now ex-boyfriend, Jim from IT, was in fact Jim Moriarty – the smartly-dressed psychopath who was Sherlock's nemesis and quite possibly the most dangerous man in Britain. She'd deleted his number and spent the next day kicking herself for being such an idiot. Shut up, Molly, she told herself firmly. You need to see what the burglars have taken. As she walked cautiously through the door, Toby the cat wound himself affectionately around her ankles just as he usually did. How strange – surely he would have been scared by the break-in? He mewed curiously as if to say well, aren't you going to look?
"You're right, Toby. Let's go." Scooping the cat up into her arms, Molly took a deep breath and walked into her bedroom, where she happened to keep all of her valuables. TV – check. Laptop – check. Jewellery – check. Piggy bank (Why do I even have a piggy bank?) – check. Her phone was safely tucked away in her handbag. Why had someone broken into her flat, then left without taking anything? They hadn't even messed anything up. The bed was still neatly made, everything organised correctly on the shelves, the carpet still clean from when she'd vacuumed it that morning. A quick check of the rest of the flat showed the same results; everything seemed exactly as she'd left it. Wait – except for one thing.
Placing Toby carefully on the flower-patterned quilt and petting him to calm her nerves, Molly noticed something sticking out from underneath a pillow. A piece of paper. I didn't leave that there. After kicking off her shoes, she sat down on the bed and pulled out the mysterious piece of paper. It was folded in half and on the front was a single word: Molly. A sharp dagger of fear passed through Molly's heart; she knew that handwriting. With shaking hands she opened the note and began to read.
So, you found out who I really am. I must admit it's getting harder to fool Sherlock. Still, it was fun to get a look at your mundane little life. It must be boring being you – you're just so ORDINARY. Mousey little Molly, spending all your time in the morgue, hopelessly in love with a man who'll never notice you… I'd feel sorry for you, but I never feel sorry for anyone. I read your diary – wow, your life really is dull. I looked at what are probably your most treasured possessions – those newspaper clippings about Sherlock's crime-solving, an ID card he must have dropped somewhere. How touching. I don't mean to ramble on, but I just love to play games with people's heads – and you're so easy to play with. So that's what this is: one last game. See you soon, Molly Hooper.
JM
"Well, that was… unnecessary. Wasn't it, Toby?" Molly spoke aloud, more to herself than to her cat; it helped when she was anxious or afraid. . She put on a brave face – if she cried it would make Toby scared too – but inside she was a mess of emotions and raw fear. One last game… what was that supposed to mean? She didn't know a lot about Jim Moriarty, but she knew what he was capable of. He was a twisted, unpredictable killer whose games involved death and destruction. Unfortunately, he was also a genius, which made him pretty hard to outsmart. How gullible she'd been to actually believe he cared for her...
NO. You have to stop thinking about him. Shutupshutupshutup.
Sherlock would know what to do. Maybe she should call him? Molly reached for her mobile and then hesitated, her hand hovering above the phone. After a moment of agonising indecision, she made up her mind. For too long she'd been the quiet awkward girl lurking in the morgue, taking the evening shifts because she had no friends to go out with. For too long she'd worked diligently behind the scenes, letting everyone else take the credit. For too long she'd relied on Sherlock to solve everything. But she was more than that, she knew she was. Molly was determined to sort this out on her own, no matter what the consequences turned out to be. Instead of calling Sherlock, she reached into her bag and found the scrap of paper with her ex-boyfriend's number written on it. With a steely determination she typed out a simple message and sent it.
The game is on. – MH (and Toby)
A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm just trying this idea out and if it gets good reviews I'll continue it. Reviews are appreciated, even if it's criticism so long as it helps me improve my writing.