Not much to say today...

Does anyone even read these things anyway, lol?

I ramble on too much...

I'll try to keep these things short.

Not doing a good job just yet...

Dramatic title, yeah I know lol, but I can't help the pun.

Anyway, it'll make sense in context so don't worry :)


"I could have killed you in your sleep, you know."

Molly opened her eyes, with all the flutter and fuzziness of waking up after being knocked out.

How Jim had known she was awake, though, in this darkness Molly did not know.

Nor did she know where he was—or where they were.

She could see nothing, nothing but blackness.

She didn't even know how small or how large the room they were in was.

No.

It wasn't a 'room'.

They were moving.

This was a vehicle.

Molly felt the steady hum of a car (or truck or train or maybe even an airplane—no not a plane, there wasn't a pressure change) from the floor beneath her and felt the only very occasional jolt.

Then she heard movement again.

Jim could move.

"But that wouldn't have been much fun, now would it?"

Molly heard his voice again, coming from a different direction this time.

Not only was Jim able to move, he was moving around.

He couldn't see either and he didn't know where she was, Molly realized.

He probably had just woken up recently as well, maybe only minutes before her.

"You can't kill me if you can't find me." she told him.

Molly heard movement again.

"Found you." Jim whispered into her ear.

And it was her fault, really.

She shouldn't have said anything.

If she'd known basically where he was based on the sound of his voice, then he'd do the same—and do it better.

"Are you going to kill me?" Molly asked.

"Not yet." Jim answered.

He leaned back against something—the wall, probably—next to her and stretched out his legs.

Molly felt something tap her leg and so she sat up to sit against the something—probably the wall—that Jim was, next to him.

"Where are we?" she inquired.

"In the back of a truck," he said, "getting further and further away from London."

"You know who took us." Molly suspected.

"No I don't." Jim denied.

"It was probably your brother." Molly reasoned.

"I think he has bigger things to worry about than little old me—and you." Jim dismissed.

"…um…Mycroft Holmes then." Molly guessed, "Sherlock's brother."

"As far as I know Mycroft thinks I'm dead." Jim reminded, "…unless, of course, you told him otherwise."

"No! I didn't! I would never!"

"I know that, darling, I trust you."

Jim gave Molly a 'comforting' pat on the knee that made her shudder.

"Who do you think would have done this, then?"

"Nobody we know…and nobody that knows us. You heard what they said right before they took us. They didn't expect to see anybody alive down there in the morgue—let alone me, of all people. They wanted Sherlock."

"…Oh…right… well, I wasn't really paying attention to what they were saying. I was more preoccupied with what they were doing."

Jim laughed.

"A common mistake you people tend to make. Sometimes I forget how stupid—"

"I'm not stupid! I did listen! I…I heard him say 'she'. 'She'll like this'. That means whoever they are, they're working for a woman."

"Very good, Molly. There may be hope for you yet. Anything else you can extrapolate from those words?"

Molly held her breath as she thought so hard her head hurt (or maybe that was just the residual headache from being unconscious via a blow to the back of her skull).

She released it when she could think of nothing.

"…no…"

Jim laughed again but it was much more bitter and mocking this time.

"Good try though, then." He chuckled, " 'A' for effort."

"Oh, like you could do any better!" Molly snapped, regretting the words the instant they'd come out so much that she brought her hands up to cover her mouth.

Now Jim's laugh was happy again (still mocking, though, of course).

Molly thought his shark teeth should have glinted in the dark when he grinned.

They didn't but she knew had had to smirking.

"Couldn't I, though?" he smiled, "They said 'she'll like this'…and then they took us alive. They'd come to steal a dead body but left with two live specimens. Either they're afraid to kill—unlikely, because of their comfort around the corpses in the morgue—or they'd actually prefer a living body. Any guesses as to which one's right?"

"…no."

"No? Oh come on—"

"No. I'm…comfortable with the dead but I'd never kill. So I can't choose one of the other."

"Good. Because it's both."

"Both?"

"The people who took us are inexperienced. They weren't prepared to capture living people and only did because they couldn't find who they were looking for and didn't want to disappoint their boss—this mysterious woman you 'deduced' that they work for."

"How do you know they're inexperienced?"

"Easy. They didn't tie us up."

"Oh…but they knew how to knock us out. Isn't that experience?"

Jim was quiet for a moment.

This was something he hadn't considered.

Good thing Molly had.

And why had Molly thought of this when he hadn't?

"Medical training." Jim decided, "They had the anatomical knowledge of where to strike a person in order to force an impromptu nap."

"Do you think they could work for the hospital?" Molly wondered.

"No. If they did, then they would have known Sherlock had been buried already."

"Why did they even want him? And why do they want us?"

"They took me because they wanted him. They know who I am and they decided I was next best thing—I'll soon show them I'm even better. They took you because you were there."

Molly sighed.

(He hadn't answered her question.)

"…I knew that. What I mean is…why. Why take anyone at all? What are they going to do to us?"

Jim smiled.

(He liked this question better.)

"My guess is…they want something to play with—or, at least, their bosslady does. And living, breathing pets are always more fun than lifeless dolls."

As abstract and metaphorical as that was, Molly knew that Jim was probably right.

They'd been kidnapped and soon terrible things were going to happen to them.

(Just like those horror stories told to children by parents about men in vans with candy.)

And it was worse, too, not knowing exactly just what they would be.

Just sitting there in the dark, thinking of all the possibilities…

(Maybe this was what it was like to be Jim…except Molly didn't enjoy contemplating all the things that people could do to people (and she probably wasn't as good at it, either.))

She shivered, again.

"Cold?" Jim asked.

He put an arm around her before she could answer and pulled her close.

Anything that anyone else could do to her, Jim could do worse (better) and Molly knew this well.

But he was warm.

And maybe he was scared too.

After all, whatever they (whoever 'they' were) were going to do to her, they were going to do to him too (and probably do worse, also, since they had originally wanted Sherlock and Jim was the 'next best thing').

They were in this (whatever 'it' was) together, even Jim must have realized this.

Molly hoped that meant he was postponing any plans he might have had to exact his revenge against her for saving his life.

"Who do you think they are?" Molly said.

She'd only spoken to keep the room—no, the back of the vehicle—from getting uncomfortably quiet.

She knew that if Jim knew who had captured them he would have both said and done something about it by now.

At the moment he didn't have enough information to act.

"I don't know." Jim admitted, "But I can't wait to meet the lady in charge."

"…yeah, uh…me too." Molly attempted, unconvincingly.

'A' for effort, indeed.

Jim sort of chuckled, under his breath, as half-heartedly as her statement had been.

After that, a long silence was a dangerous possibility.

"We should pass the time, somehow," Molly began, "until we get to…wherever we're going. Keep our minds off it…"

"I'd say 'I spy'…" Jim replied, "but we can't see anything in here."

"Well, we could, um…talk or something…" Molly suggested, then quickly adding, "Unless you need it to be quiet. So you can think."

"There's nothing to think about…" Jim grumbled.

"…oh…"

"But that doesn't mean there's nothing to talk about. Let's talk."

"Okay!...what do you want to talk about?"

"You're asking me? It was your idea to talk."

"You're better at conversation."

"I am…So I'm going to make you practice."

"…Practice?"

"Yes. Practice. I want you to tell me your life story."

Molly actually laughed at this, although it was forced.

"There's nothing to tell! I haven't lived very interesting life…as you probably know since I know you looked me up. You probably know everything about me."

"Names, dates, places…that's not a story. That's a phonebook—and nobody even uses those anymore!...I want a story, Molly, and you're going to tell me one."

Molly sighed.

"…Well, a story's not always the same thing as the truth."

"No, it's not."

Jim was smiling, although Molly couldn't see.

(He liked where she was going with this 'not' 'truth' thing. He hoped it was somewhere good. Better than wherever they were headed to at the moment.)

Molly was smiling too.

"So if I told you things, stories…would you be able to tell me which ones were true and which ones were lies?"

"Is that a challenge?"

"…It could be a game…maybe…?"

"I like games. I like stories. They make long car rides much less boring."

"Alright, then. I'll tell you my 'life story'…and you'll tell me if it's true."


Once upon a time there was man who worked hard in the factory everyday until finally the cancer pushed him down so he couldn't stand up again.

That man was my father.

And he was too young to die.

But they always are.

Even the oldest person on earth is always too young to die.

And it didn't matter, he was going to die and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

It was sad.

But it always is.

My father loved life.

And he hated—really hated to be stuck in bed, just lying there, unable to truly live.

But he never once complained.

Because my father loved life—in any form his happened to take.

He loved life…

…but love doesn't necessarily mean happiness, though.

Love is often a very painful thing and a love of life is no different.

And so although my father was sad, and we were all sad, he still loved his life and couldn't hate it despite what it was doing to him.

Making him die.

He believed that a love of life is inherent to all mankind and is what keeps all of us alive.

It takes an unholy, almost impossible, power to suck it out of someone.

This is what my father believed.

This is what my father knew.

He was sort of wasted as a factory-worker, you see, he was very smart.

He should've been a philosopher…or a doctor.

He'd always wanted to be a doctor.

Maybe that was why, of all people, he chose to tell this secret to a doctor.

—or maybe the doctor was just there and it was convenient.

Anyway, my father told his doctor all about his life…

…and all about his love of life, despite it leaving him bedridden and only a breath away from death.

And the doctor listened.

For a moment, then, my father was happy again.

But only for a moment.

After that, the doctor politely reminded him how our family just didn't have the money to continue caring for him.

The bills had been piling up for years, even before they found the tumor.

And now there was just really no logical reason to keep spending the money on keeping my father alive when he was going to die and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

Even hospice, even home care...all the medicines, the hospital visits, the doctor's house calls…

…a wife, three children…

…it was all just too expensive.

So one more time, my father asked his doctor for help.

And my father loved life, he really, really did.

But still he chose to die.


"Sacrificing his life for his family…how noble." Jim commented.

Molly couldn't see his face in the dark but from the tone of his voice is sounded as if he was at least trying to be sincere.

'A' for effort, Jim.

"Yes," Molly agreed, "He was."

"But how do you know what happened?" Jim asked.

"…I wasn't supposed to." Molly admitted, "My father didn't want any of us to know. He waited until we were all out of the house to…have it done…I came home early. I heard the whole conversation. I…I saw the whole thing. They never even noticed I was there…"

Jim was silent for a respectful, but short amount of time before he spoke.

"Tell another." He said.


Okay.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman.

She loved to be beautiful and everybody loved her.

She was happy.

She was my mother.

My father fell in love with her and she fell in love with him and they got married.

They weren't rich, they weren't educated…

…but they were happy.

And that's what matters, isn't it?

And she was beautiful.

Even when she got fat.

She had an excuse for that, though—she was pregnant.

Soon my mother gave birth to a baby boy.

He was beautiful too, yes, because all babies are…

…but boys and men don't need to be beautiful to be happy.

Girls and women, however, do.

Because beauty is often the only light that ever draws the moths of love to us women—the beautiful ones, anyway.

And love, of course, is what makes people happy.

And being happy is what matters, isn't it?

They were happy, my parents and their beautiful boy who they loved.

And my mother was still beautiful.

But then she got fat again.

She didn't want to this time, she was getting old.

My father didn't want her to, either, he was getting sick.

And although they didn't have the money for another child, and they weren't Catholic or religious at all…

…they still chose to be unhappy.

Because they loved.

Oh, how they loved; don't ever think my parents didn't love me.

Their for me and my brother love was 'infinite and expanding, just like this universe' my father said.

He said things like that.

And my mother, she screamed.

She screamed in pain and I cried because it takes pain to bring a life into this painful world.

Now they have medicine, that though…

The doctors asked my mother, after I was born but while my father was still outside in the waiting room, why her second child was so small and premature.

She said nothing and then she and my father took me home.

And they loved me

But my mother wasn't happy, she thought she wasn't beautiful anymore.

And my father was never home, working harder even as he got sicker.

From the outside, of course, our family looked perfect, beautiful, happy…

A breadwinning father and a stay-at-home mother.

A little boy and a little girl.

My brother saw through it.

He was always smart, like my father.

He knew better to be happy.

But I didn't.

And so I was.

I was.


"What happened to your mother?" Jim inquired, innocently.

"She died." Molly answered, "You know she died."

"Why?"

"It wasn't suicide if that's what you're implying."

"I wasn't."

"…We were poor. Sometimes my mother would skip meals, so the rest of us would have more to eat. Unhealthy diet…"

Jim didn't know whether he should have laughed at that.

Molly had a strange sense of humor, sometimes, maybe she was making a joke.

…Or maybe she was lying.

"Both of these stories were about death." he stated, evenly.

"I'm sorry." Molly hiccupped—it was sort of a choke and a laugh—, "I don't mean to be so morbid, it's just…all I think about, I guess…"

"Me too," Jim laughed, "…and Sherlock Holmes. Course now it's the same thing."

"Yeah…" Molly said, sadly.

(Forced sadness?)

(Lying?)

"…or is it?" Jim tried.

But it was much harder to tell if someone was lying in the dark than when he could see their face.

"All life has death in it," Molly reasoned, ignoring his comment, "so all life stories are really death stories, too."

It was the kind of sentiment she thought Jim would appreciate.

And he did appreciate it, or at least acted like he did.

Molly never really knew with Jim and the nicer he was to her, the more suspicious of him she became.

Was he lying?

She was.

(At least about some things, anyway—but what things were he lying about? Everything?)

And her lies so far had earned her a kiss on the cheek.

"But I want to hear your life story." Jim said, "Not your parents'."

"Well mine's not as interesting…" Molly complained (—but was it a complaint? was it a lie?).

"We're in a black box going nowhere with nothing better to do." Jim reminded, "Anything is more interesting than that."

Even Molly Hooper.


Even me.

Once upon a time I was more interesting to someone interesting than every other person waiting patiently in the room.

We, about twenty of us, were gathered down in the morgue at St. Bartholomew's.

It was my first time down there.

We were just students then, waiting for our instructor to arrive and do the demonstration of an autopsy.

He was a late and so we all were just milling about talking amongst ourselves—or, at least they were.

I was standing over towards the corner, shy as always.

I'd been the first one there that morning and so everybody else had come in with friends, I didn't want to intrude onto their conversations and they didn't want to intrude on the strange girl standing in the corner of the morgue.

Or maybe they just didn't notice me…

So I was being quiet already when everybody else got quiet.

At first I thought that the instructor had finally arrived, but he hadn't and instead everyone was just listening to a student tell a story.

"So there was this professor who told his students that there were two rules to being a good doctor. The first was to never to be disgusted by anything human. Even death…and even shit. And so then he takes his finger and sticks it up the ass of a corpse! Really, he did and all his students were just standing there like all of you, staring in shock, some of them laughing…"

(He was describing all of us in the room.)

"…but that wasn't enough for him because then he brought his finger up to his mouth and licked it. He licked it! 'Now' he told his class, 'every single one of you has got to do the same'…and so they did—well, the ones who didn't walk out, anyway—and when they were all through, the professor said, 'the second rule to being a good doctor is that you've got to be observant. You all did great on the first rule, but if you want to master the second one you'll need to practice. Because if any of you were observant already, you would've seen that I used two different fingers'."

Everyone laughed at that, even me.

I'm sorry if I'm not doing the story justice, it was really funny when he told it.

Anyway, everyone was laughing when two older students, graduates probably, came into the room.

I don't remember their names or faces, this was the only time I ever saw them.

"Hemsworth, stop messing with the new students!" one of them snapped, "Don't you have something better to do?"

"Don't you?" Robert returned (—his name was Robert, by the way. Yes, that Robert. I assumed you'd figured that out by now), "Or do you just enjoy telling people what to do? You'll be a teacher one day, Stanford, as strict as you are."

"I doubt that." Stanford scoffed, "And you really need to leave because the real teacher'll be coming soon."

"Hey," Robert laughed, turning away from Stanford to address all of us first-year students but still gesturing towards him, "Maybe he's got a finger up his ass, too! Just like that corpse!"

And so we all laughed, too.

Stanford didn't, of course, but his friend did—only a little, with a cough to cover it up.

"Shut up, John." Stanford muttered, glaring at him and then glaring at Robert, "You too."

Robert continued to laugh.

This time it was John who addressed the class.

"Let me just tell you all, that story's not true. You don't have to worry about that."

We weren't really worried, but he didn't think we were. He was just trying to diffuse the situation.

"You loved it though, Watson, I know you did." Robert baited, "I saw you trying not to laugh."

John sighed.

"You need to leave," he warned, sympathetic but stern, "you really do. You're not supposed to be here and you'll end up getting kicked out if the instructor sees you."

"Oh!" Robert exclaimed, "We have a future soldier here! Somebody who likes to have fun but forfeits his happiness—and everybody else's down here—to duty."

"Whatever, 'fortuneteller'" John shrugged, "Do you know what I predict? I predict you're going to leave the morgue right now before I have to call security."

"See?" Robert grinned as he strolled out of the room, "Anybody can be psychic."

Once he was gone, John and Stanford decided it was safe for them to leave as well, now that their job of getting rid of Rob was done.

Of course, it really wasn't safe because once they were gone, Robert came right back.

This time, he came through back door, towards the edge of the crowd of student, near where I was.

Somehow, he saw me there in that corner and said, "Hello".

"Hello." I greeted, trying to smile even though I had jumped in surprise as he'd come up behind.

I turned around to face him and he was smiling too.

"My name's Rob." He stated, already extending a hand, "What's yours?"

"Molly." I told him, shaking his hand as best I could.

My handshake has always been weak.

He didn't seem to care, or if he did he didn't say anything.

"You weren't talking to anybody so I thought I'd fix that." Robert explained.

"Thanks." I thanked.

I wanted to say something else, but I couldn't think of anything intelligent or funny so I stayed quiet.

I was never good at talking…but you already know that, don't you?

"The story was a lie, by the way." Robert confirmed, to start a conversation.

"Yeah, I know." I nodded, "I heard that joke before."

And I really had, too. It was still funny, though, when he told it.

"I've only been here a year," Rob laughed, "but I've had a good bit of fun with that one."

"Those two didn't look like they were having fun with it." I acknowledged, referring to the two older students who had left.

"Well they're going to graduate soon, anyway" Robert declared, happily—but not happy for the success of his fellow students, just happy that he wouldn't have to see them again, "so we don't have to worry about them, do we?"

" 'We'?" I repeated, carefully.

Such a small word with so many different meanings.

"I was assuming you wouldn't change your mind and dropout." Robert reasoned, "Like so many other weak stomachs we get around here."

"I won't." I affirmed.

At this point, the instructor came in.

Finally.

He was wheeling in a metal table with a cadaver on it.

He didn't announce himself as he entered and so some students were surprised to see him—and the dead body.

So surprised that they had to run out into the hallway, clutching their stomachs.

I stayed in the room.

With Rob.

"Stomach feeling weak yet?" he asked me, once the instructor had cut open the corpse.

Poetically enough, the instructor was removing the stomach from the body.

"No." I answered.

"It's okay to admit you're feeling a little queasy." Robert reminded, "Everybody gets nervous their first time."

"It doesn't bother me." I shrugged.

"Then it's not your first time." Robert concluded, with a grin.

"No, it's not." I said.

And even though it wasn't the first time I'd seen a dead body, I still learned a lot that first day of training at Bart's.

For example:

I learned that Rob had the perfect kind of studio apartment, clean and modern looking, to impress women much harder to please than me.

And that he was kind of perfect, too, charming and funny and beautiful…

And that by the next week of classes he'd found a new girl to be charming, funny, beautiful and perfect to and take back to his perfect kind of studio apartment.

And that even though he had that didn't mean he didn't call me every once and a while.

…and that didn't mean that I didn't answer those calls…

Even though it really should have.


"Where is this 'Rob' and how should I kill him?" Jim questioned in gallant defense of Molly's feelings and honor.

"I don't know where he is." Molly answered, mostly truthfully.

She'd been sad when Robert had left the first time, so many years ago, sad but relieved.

And she was relieved again once he was gone.

(Especially because he had been hired by Mycroft Holmes's employee (whatever that woman's name was), probably to do some sort of strange plastic surgery on a dead body to make it look like Sherlock.)

"Keep it that way." Jim told her.

Well since she was planning to anyway, Molly didn't know what to say to that ('yes, sir, I will' and 'no, thank you, I won't' both causing their own internal and external dilemmas) and so she said nothing.

Then the silence in the dark returned.

This bothered Jim more than Molly, this time, and she felt him try to stand up.

He sat back down when he bumped his head against the roof of whatever kind of vehicle this was.

"Any ideas?" she attempted, hopefully, assuming that he must have thought of something by now.

Sherlock
would have.

"No." Jim replied shortly.

"Oh." Molly sighed.

Silence again, for a few long seconds.

"You have to keep talking!" Jim snapped.

Molly couldn't see him but he was shaking her by the shoulders, a little too sharply, and she had to grab him by the arms so she wouldn't get the back of her head bashed into the wall behind her (she already had a headache and definitely did not need another).

"Why!" Molly exclaimed, freeing herself from Jim's grasping to crawl over to a corner where she hoped he wouldn't find her.

"Because you need the practice and I need the distraction!" he shouted but then calmed himself, adding coolly, "…dead girls don't talk. I could make you one of those if you'd prefer to be quiet. I'm sure that would distract me just as well as the sound of your voice."

He'd said it from what was probably the opposite corner of the room—back of the vehicle—and although Molly didn't like to respond to threats or taunts, she knew she had to say something.

"We should make a plan." She suggested, "For when they come back to get us and bring us out of here. We could surprise them or something."

"Yeah, it would be a 'surprise'…" Jim mused, "checking the trunk of your car and having some headless dead woman roll out…"

Molly ignored that.

It was an empty threat, anyway.

What, was he going to pull her head off with his bare hands?

"They did take us alive…" Molly considered, "What if we, like 'played dead', or something? That might confuse them long enough for us to escape."

"I'm not trying to escape." Jim declared, "I told you, I want to meet whoever's in charge. I want her to do to me whatever she was going to do to Sherlock."

"…Well then you'd have to be dead."Molly reminded.

"I'm supposed to be..." Jim reminded.

Silence, silence, silence.

Darkness, darkness, darkness.

Molly missed her cat and warm cup of coffee.

Jim missed Sherlock Holmes.

"…Irene Adler." Molly stated.

Jim looked up.

But of course he couldn't actually see Molly (or the woman she had mentioned).

"What about her?"

"What if it was her? What if she hired the people that tried to take Sherlock's body and took us instead? You said that she was, well…'interested' in Sherlock…"

Jim chuckled, shaking his head.

It was cute when Molly tried to think.

'A' for effort.

"Adler would never hire such incompetent people." Jim dismissed, "How did you come up with that idea anyway?"

"I don't know…" Molly said, "I was just thinking…"

(She didn't want to explain that it was Robert that had given her the idea.

If he'd made a fake dead Sherlock then he was probably the same one who'd made a fake dead Irene Adler last December.)

And Jim decided to believe her…for now.

(Rules always changed when you were locked in a dark room with somebody. Even plans to kill them were put on hold.)

But what would Sherlock do?

"…what would Sherlock do?" Jim muttered.

It sounded like it was more to himself than to Molly, but it was meant for her to hear so she would start thinking again.

"Sherlock would probably be able to tell how fast this truck is moving," Molly guessed, "based on the vibrations and then figure out how far away we are from where we started using that and how long we've been driving. I think it's been over two hours, at least, if that helps, we've been awake for one…"

"Yes and we've been going in the same direction all that time, at generally the same speed." Jim added, "We haven't made any sharp turns and there haven't been any bumps. We must be on a highway. Professional kidnappers would drive the speedlimit so as not to attract attention…but these people aren't professionals, as we've already established. They're nervous and they're driving faster and in an area deserted enough that they wouldn't be pulled over for it. And we haven't stopped for gas, so wherever we're going is less than a tank away from where they came from since they would have been in too much of a hurry and too afraid of being caught with live cargo to fill up back in London. So we can't have gone too far from the city yet, either."

"Amazing." Molly commented, (just like she was supposed to have—she knew her lines, she knew her part as small as it was).

Jim grinned.

He loved playing Sherlock.

He wondered if she noticed the diction, speaking space and accent change…

So often much of the beautiful subtlest of his art was lost on lesser eyes that only saw what was right in front of them, taking it at face value alone.

One day, brilliant artist Jim would find finally find someone who appreciated—

"…Sherlock." Molly added, with a giggle.

"Doesn't tell us anything, though." Jim grumbled, "I still don't know where we're going."

"Sherlock wouldn't have either." Molly consoled.

But wouldn't he have?

"Yes, he would have." Jim scoffed, bitterly, "He'd take advantage of the dark to feel up the car a bit and then be able to tell what model it is. Then he'd calculated how far we'd traveled based the amount of gas the tank holds and the speed. And then the computer would generate a list of all the possible places within that distance in the greater London area. And then he'd figured out which one we were headed to."

"Well, you could try to do that—"

"I don't think like that!...Sherlock, he works with things. Actions, details; the physical, the tangible!...Me? I work with minds. I see who people are, what they've done. I know how they think and so I know what they'll do…but here, in the dark, I can't see anything! I can't do anything…"

There are many solutions to solving the same problem.

And there are many problems that can be solved with the same solution.

Molly imagined (or at least tried to) the completely different but equally brilliant solutions Sherlock and Jim would come up with if given the same problem.

"But you'll meet the people who took us." Molly said, "And when you do, well…you can do what you do. And they'll regret ever meeting Jim Moriarty."

She was smiling, even though Jim couldn't see her.

Molly realized now that helpless was not a feeling Jim enjoyed. At all. And there would be hell to pay for anyone who made him feel that way.

Molly wondered when the devil would come to collect from her for what she had done to him.

(And it didn't matter, of course, that 'helpless' was a state that simply being around Jim induced in Molly—even when he didn't actively try to make her feel that way.)

She hoped Jim was smiling to, even though she couldn't see him.

"Doesn't everyone?" Jim chuckled.

"You read people," Molly replied, "You tell me."

Because she certainly didn't know the answer for 'everyone', let alone herself.

"No, you tell me." Jim requested, "…another story."

Molly sighed.

She was all out of poignant memories and poignant lies to tell him.

Closing her eyes (because she was in the dark anyway) and leaning her head back against the wall she attempted to conjure the story she'd heard when she was young (maybe at school, maybe from her father) that she'd suddenly remembered because of her current situation.

"Once upon a time…" Molly began, "there was king whose first wife, the only woman he'd ever truly loved, didn't love him back and instead loved another."

"Go on…" Jim coaxed.

"Because of this he became bitter and hateful," Molly continued, "…he became insane. He took a new wife each day at sundown, spent the night with her and then had her executed the next morning at sunrise."

"How?"

"Beheading."

"Ooh, interesting. Go on…"

"One day, as he did everyday, the king married a new wife. But that night his wife told him a story…a story that was so interesting it kept the king up all night just listening—"

"Must've been a pretty damn good story if that's all they did."

Molly rolled her eyes and continued.

"…Although the wife talked all night, her story was still not complete by morning. And so the king did not have her executed like the wives before. He kept her alive…but only to finish the story."

"And did she? Did she finish the story?"

Jim knew the answer to his question, of course.

He'd heard the story before, but it was so good when Molly told it.

"She did…and then she started a new one that she didn't finish until the day after that, which she didn't finish until the day after that. And so the king's wife continued telling stories and the king continued listening to them and they were happy…But only so long as the stories stayed interesting."

Molly breathed in a way that indicated she had completed the story.

"The end?" Jim asked.

"There is no 'end'." Molly answered, "That's moral of the story, isn't it? That stories can't ever really have 'endings'. That there's always more. Even after people die. As long as there's someone still alive…"

"Scheherazade." Jim identified.

(Gesundheit.)

"…oh, right, that is what it's called." Molly agreed, "I'd forgotten the name…"

"Her name." Jim corrected, "…And I'd asked for your life story, remember? That wasn't about you."

"Wasn't it, though?" Molly inquired, innocently teasing or hopelessly lamenting (or both).

"You think I'd kill you if you got boring?" Jim questioned offendedly, "…Well, you're right. Smart thinking, there, my dear."

"The lies." Molly reminded, "Have you figured them out yet?"

"That's easy." Jim shrugged, "They were all true."

"Yes…" Molly affirmed, "…and no."

Jim raised an eyebrow but then remembered that Molly couldn't see him which meant he'd have to vocally acknowledge that he was confused.

Damn it.

"What do you mean?" Jim asked, suspiciously.

"Well…" Molly took a deep breath, "All the stories about my lifewere true—mostly…I just changed some of the details. Those changes were the 'lies'."

"Cheater." Jim accused.

Molly guessed he was probably sticking out his tongue at her childishly.

"You said it was a game." Molly reasoned, "You never said I had to play fair."

Molly didn't believe this reasoning herself…but it was Jim 'logic' and so she thought he would accept it.

He didn't.

"Tell me. Which details did you change?"

"You're not going to guess?"

"But what about the game?"

"I don't play fair, either. Now tell me."

"Okay…"


Well, first off…that conversation with Robert never happened—at least not on the first day.

It took me almost four months to get him to notice me, and even then he was only half-interested.

And then my mother…well, she…she was always very beautiful…

But she was never happy.

She believed that all a woman needed to be happy was to be beautiful.

Because if she was beautiful, she'd find love, and if she found love she'd get married, and if she got married she'd have children, and she had children hen everything would be complete…everything would be perfect.

And then she'd be happy.

But when all that happened and she wasn't happy…

When she was so beautiful and she wasn't happy…

…she just didn't know what to do.

She'd tried so hard…and then she just gave up.

I can't really remember her well, but…one of the last things she said to me was to get an education, go to school.

I didn't understand it then, but my father explained it when I was older…


"And what about your father?" Jim asked, interrupting Molly's stream of consciousness.

"…what about him?" Molly asked, guardedly.

"What was the lie?" Jim clarified, voice intent for an answer.

But before Molly could speak… whatever kind of vehicle they were in finally came to a stop, jolting both her and Jim forwards, backwards and then down to the floor (luckily, they hadn't been standing).

"We're here." Jim grinned as he sat up.

Somehow, even without her speaking, he knew where Molly was and pulled her up as well.

"…oh god…" Molly murmured, as quietly as possible before she could stop herself.

They heard doors open, slam shut and then footsteps approach.

A click…

…and then light blinded them so used to the darkness.

Still unable to see at first, Jim and Molly squinted towards the bright opening where the door (or the hatch, whatever it was) had been.

They could see the silhouettes of people.

And then they could see that these people were pointing guns.

"Get out." One said.

"And put your hands up." Another added, hastily, "Try anything and we'll shoot."

Molly and Jim got out of the vehicle—which turned out to be a van—and stepped cautiously towards the four men in their white uniforms.

They no longer wore black ski masks but neither Molly nor Jim recognized their faces.

"Shoot?" Jim scoffed, "You barely know how to use those guns."

"Jim!" Molly hissed, glaring at him.

The last thing they needed was to live this long just to get killed because Jim took the wrong tone with these people.

"Shut up." The first man warned.

And so Jim asked, "Where are we?"

None of the four answered and so Jim gazed around the area.

They were in some sort of underground structure where other white vans as well as military vehicles were parked.

It was surprisingly, blindingly well lit.

"You get her and you two get him." the man ordered, pointing to those he spoke to and then those he spoke of, "I'm going to go explain this to the boss."

The other three men nodded, still pointing guns at Jim and Molly.

But even Molly could see the relief and gratefulness of their faces that attempted remain neutral, they were glad they didn't have to make the explanation.

They were all young, she realized, in their early twenties. Only kids, really…

The first man hurried away, past a couple cars and then through a door he had to put a code in just to get open.

Molly was beginning to think that Mycroft Holmes did have them captured and that this was some secret government facility.

(He had missed his brother's funeral, hadn't he? Maybe he didn't know the fake body had been buried and so sent his employees to pick it up before the evil traitor Molly Hooper figured out it wasn't real.)

Molly was too busy staring at the men with guns to notice that (the actually more dangerous one) Jim had leaned over to her to whisper.

"Quick." He said, dramatically, "Tell me now. Before they take us and we never see each other again. I have to know."

"Know what?" Molly asked, nervously because she knew she wasn't supposed to be talking.

"The lie." Jim answered, "What was the lie in the story about your father?"

And so Molly couldn't help but smile as two men grabbed Jim and one man grabbed her and pulled them away in separate directions because it really should have been obvious.

"That's easy." she called to him, repeating his words from earlier, and "There was no doctor."


Yep, well...yeah.

lol.

And Molly forgetting people's names as usual, luckily I was kind enough to write them in there anyway to make it convenient for readers.

lol again.

And now I'll just tell ya'll where they are if you haven't figured it out.

They're at Baskerville (white uniforms, bright lights, medical knowledge).

So now you can easily guess who kidnapped them.

Things were going to get a little bit weird from here on out.

Just a little bit.

Please review!