The last thing Dr. Molly Hooper expected to see as she exited her bathroom, dressed comfortably for an evening of telly, wine, and self-pity, was James Moriarty, alias Jim from IT, sitting on the couch in her sitting room, sipping a glass of her favorite cheap red wine.
"Hello, Molly. Happy to see me again?"
"Happy may be overstating the case, a bit, Jim…"
"I prefer James, actually."
"Of course you do. Makes you sound more important." Molly sighed heavily, went to her kitchen to grab another glass, along with the rather large bottle of wine, and headed back to the sitting room. "To what do I owe this pleasure, James. Or do your really prefer Mr. Moriarty?"
"Molly, I'm supposed to be striking fear into your heart! At least try to look a bit a bit apprehensive. You're ruining my moment!"
"Look, James, I've had a rough day. If you're going to kill me, or kidnap me, or torture me, at least have the common decency to let me have a few drinks first." Molly was playing for time. She reasoned that, given his relaxed position on her couch, Moriarty was planning to play with her for a while, like a very nasty cat with a very frightened mouse.
The fact that she wasn't already dead, or trussed up like a prize turkey, or drugged, gave her some small hope for her future. Besides, what would he want, or need, from her. She didn't matter. Sherlock Holmes was his target, she now knew. He had used her to get to Sherlock. But Holmes and Moriarty now had a dysfunctional relationship all of their own. Why did he believe he needed Molly Hooper again?
"Tell me about your day, Molly."
Molly studied his face for some clue as to what he wanted, but could find none. So it must be the same thing he had always wanted. Sherlock Holmes, the love of Molly's life, albeit totally unrequited. She was not going to make that mistake again. She would give him no more insight into the mind of the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock had guessed right away that he was gay. Looking back, perhaps that should have been obvious. Molly was certainly not unattractive, but she wasn't one to flaunt her looks. She should have been clued in by the fact that Jim from IT made such a concerted effort to pursue her, but no effort to turn their relationship into a physical one. A few evenings at the local pub, and one movie date, was the entirety of their relationship. It lasted right up to the time he started blowing people up and trying, unsuccessfully, to kill Sherlock and John Watson at some swimming pool where he had, evidently, committed his first murder. As a child, yet! Well, it was nice to see someone who had their life goals clearly in mind at such an early age.
"I like the suit, James. Boys' department?"
Moriarty winced a bit at the remark, but hid it well. "I realize that you like your men a bit taller, Molly."
"So do you, evidently. Well, have at him! he's all yours! It seems he noticed you a lot more than he ever noticed me!"
"Ah, so he's spoken about me, eh?"
Molly noticed that she had, indeed, piqued his interest. Using a sociopath to catch a psychopath. Something she hadn't been taught in medical school. She took another sip of her wine, and deliberately averted her eyes. "Not really," she said, but her tone implied otherwise.
Moriarty now poured himself another glass of wine, and moved closer to her on the couch, bending closer to her in a conspiratorial pose, like some mean girl at secondary school trying to flatter a less popular one into believing they were comrades, friends, sister in misery.
"Oh, come on, Molly. He must have mentioned me. I bet I made quite an impression, what with the explosives and all…"
"He did mention your eyes…"
"My eyes? What did he say?"
"That they looked like twin cesspools of desire…"
"Well, I suppose that could be interpreted a couple of different ways. Anything else?"
"He was a bit annoyed that you tried to blow up John. He quite fond of John, you know!"
"I know," Moriarty rolled his eyes, practically whining. "That's the main reason I wanted to blow him up. Eliminate the competition, so to speak."
"I have thought of that myself, you know. But then I figured out that I simply didn't have the equipment, if you know what I mean, that he was interested in!" Molly tried an embarrassed blush. She was beginning to think that if she could convince him that they both had the same problem, that she did, indeed, share his hopeless love for the dashing detective, but had no chance of his ever returning her affections, she may make it out of here alive. "But you do have that equipment, you bastard!"
"Molly, are you jealous of me? I used to be a bit jealous of you, I don't mind admitting. Sometimes I thought that his harsh treatment of you was covering some very different feelings."
"I can't imagine why. My mouth's too small. And my breasts, forget about them! I can't do anything right. Sherlock never stops stops pointing out my shortcomings!"
Moriarty took another large swig of red wine. "I know what you mean. The man can be an absolute beast! You should hear the things he's called me! A spider, Molly. An icky spider! He thinks he's so damned perfect, with those cheekbones, those eyes, and those perfect lips you just want too…"
"James…"
"Call me Jim, luv. So much friendlier."
"Jim, I can't take it anymore. To see him day after day, knowing that he isn't interested, that he'll never be interested. And now that John seems to be losing interest…"
"Really, there's trouble in that relationship?" Moriarty's eyes showed a spark of hope.
"Yes. Oh god, yes. I caught John checking out a new intern at St. Bart's. Very attractive. Muscular. Not lean, like Sherlock. I give it another month, two at most, before he moves on. I know it will break Sherlock's heart, but what does it matter to me? You have a much better chance…"
'You really think so, Molls. I mean, if you think there's a chance…"
"Well, you might want to give up killing anybody until you see how it all plays out, Jim."
"I can do that. I can quit anytime I want. It's not like I'm an addict. Sherlock Holmes is the addict, after all. If he can skip his fix, so can I!"
James Moriarty, master criminal, was now almost giggling like a schoolgirl at the chance of winning the heart, or some other body part, of Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. The drink was beginning to get to him. Molly remembered from their trips to the pub how little his tolerance for alcohol was. She could drink him under the table on a bad day, and this was certainly the worst she's had in a long time. Now she tried to conjure up a few tears for emphasis.
"I wish you'd shoot me now, Jim. My life sucks anyway. I've lost you, even though I never had you. And I certainly never had Sherlock, not for want of trying. But I love him so! Try to make him happy, Jim. Do it in memory of me, who loved and lost you both!"
This overly melodramatic speech certainly shouldn't have worked on anyone, but it seemed her life depended on it working now. Molly watched with disbelieving eyes as James Moriarty, criminal kingpin, became Jimmy Moriarty, soppy Irish drunk and lovelorn swain. He broke into compassionate sobs and threw his arms around her. "Don't worry about it Molly, luv. You'll be around to see how happy I make him. I'll do it for both of us. And if I can't make him happy, I'll just kill him. And then come back for you!" Ah, the insanity had resurfaced!
Moriarty now went into Molly's bathroom, where she heard a few more sobs and some rather louds sounds of his nose being blown. When he exited, he walked over to a still sobbing Molly Hooper, and placed a hand on her shoulder in a move both comforting and threatening, something only a psychopath of his caliber could manage to pull off. With a few more sniffles, he disappeared.
Molly heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, as she ran to triple lock her door, (although what good that would do against someone like Moriarty she had no idea), and rushed to her phone. Her first inclination was to call Sherlock, but she wasn't sure he'd even take the call. So she called John Watson.
"Molly. Good to hear from you. What's up?"
"John, bad news, I'm afraid. I've had a visit from James Moriarty. Just managed to send him on his way, in fact, in the words of Beyonce, 'Drunk in Love'. Depending on how drunk, he's either heading back to his nearest convenient lair, or over their to seduce Sherlock. You and Sherlock may want to leave, or at least you. I may have given him the idea that your relationship is a bit more than it is, and he sounded a tad more than just jealous. You do have a gun, right? John, I…"
"Molly, have you been drinking?"
"Not enough, John. Not nearly enough! I've been dealing with a psycho for the past hour! And I may have implied that you were gay. And that Sherlock was, too. And that he was interested in Moriarty…"
"Interested, Molls?"
"Yes, interested. Like, let's check out china patterns interested! The crazy bastard may even send flowers! For Sherlock! Or for your funeral, John. Is that gun loaded, because…"
"Look, Sherlock and I will be right over. Sit tight. I'll call Greg, too."
When the two men arrived, Molly was happily surprised to see that Sherlock Holmes, who always seemed to know everything, was carrying a fresh supply of red wine. Another reason she loved him so!
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