Author's Note: Thank you for the positive responses! I'm flattered by how many people have this story on alert- I'd love to know what you think though, so here's a cringe-worthy request for reviews! Criticism is excellent too- I always want to write better. Enjoy. Apologies for any typos, I have no-one to check it.

Molly had been living in London for four months now. Jim had set her up in a flat- which she paid for of course- and she'd gotten that job very easily. It was a pleasant one too, lots of nice sombre people, a pretty building, cleanliness and peace and quiet. Decent hours, decent pay.

At first Molly saw Jim everyday, which then blended into every few days, then just once a week, and now not for three. His business was 'expanding,' as he put it. Jim now wore suits whenever she saw him; beautifully tailored things that made him handsome, attractive and powerful, though he still had that young raw edge, and that unpredictable air.

For a month he'd even taken up a job at the University College of London, lecturing in maths. He told her afterwards it was just for a laugh, to get to know people, and to get called professor. "Professor Moriarty does have a simply sumptuous ring to it doesn't it Mols?" Needless to say that didn't last long, and he left, leaving behind him a reputation as pristine as his wardrobe, and no hints at what sort of business drew him away from his job in academia. "I just wanted to try a lackey's job, you know? It was kinda dull though. Plus the kids were a bit thick. They just didn't all appreciate the beauty of maths."

"Surely they were studying maths though?"

"That means nothing."

Molly's life was far less glamorous than Jim's, who recent absence from her life only meant that he must be more embroiled than ever in his secret underworld. She missed him- his volatile presence of an evening, their stupid conversations, laughing at the news as they watched the world wrung this way and that with new horrors. She focused instead on appearing normal at work, feigning happy conversations, and an elusive boyfriend that she mentioned to fend off any faint interest from colleagues. She also bought a cat. Jim loved the cat. He would spend hours teasing it with a piece of string, showing an odd consideration and affection that Molly had thought impossible of him previously.

After the conversation in Jim's empty sterile flat after they first arrived in London, Jim seemed to have taken Molly's rejection of his job as a rejection of him personally. They still, of course, spent long hours together, but Jim no longer teased her in the same ways, and there was a noticeable lack of innuendo in his usually laden speech. Molly missed it; she almost felt as though their flirting was something that she'd always relied on to someday develop into that something more, though with Jim that could mean a knife at her throat as much as it could sex.

Now Jim just detailed his days to Molly, avoiding anything concrete like names or particular tasks, but describing people in such hilarious detail that Molly could imagine them as if they were there. She told him tales from her own work, but suspected he didn't really listen, and they played chess which Jim always won. Molly also taught him biology, trying to impart her passion for the secret veins and arteries of man, the nerves, the guts, and the tissues. Jim liked it, found it interesting, but didn't understand the tender care that Molly took in unravelling people. "Just rip it out, and appreciate the mess?"

"I'd definitely be sacked, and that's not the point."

Yet now she hadn't seen him in weeks. Three, and four days to be precise.

Molly let herself in one Thursday evening after work, bending down the pat Toby the cat who wrapped around her ankles. He sniffed at her fingers curiously, but he was growing used to the odd smells Molly carried home. Her flat was small, but comfortable and neat: pale colours, no art on the walls, just some books, a TV, and tidy kitchen bedroom and bathroom. Molly clicked the front door shut and dropped her handbag.

She ate dinner alone, the radio on, and had a long bath before bed. The loneliness didn't bother her in itself; she enjoyed her own company, but she also appreciated Jim when he was there and his prolonged absence was dull, as well as slightly worrying. What if he forgot about her? How could she ever hope to explain herself to another living person?

She climbed into bed at eleven in her small bedroom, and fell asleep quickly.

She didn't sleep long.

Molly was awoken at what must have been near three in the morning by the sound of the front door closing. She almost felt a little panic, an odd and unfamiliar emotion to her, but then her mind jumped to the obvious conclusion: Jim. She heard Toby meow a greeting and then relaxed back into her pillow, watching her bedroom door, not bothering to get up and move in the thick darkness.

After a minute it opened. Molly couldn't see his face, it was too dark, but Jim's silhouette was as familiar as her own was. He padded into the room, and paused in the middle of the carpet. She guessed he couldn't see much either. "Mols?"

"Yes?"

"Mind if I turn the light on?"

His voice sounded slightly drunk, if only in a low happy soft edged way. It sing-songed his words.

"It's okay."

Molly squeezed her eyes shut as the overhead lamp clicked on, and it took her a minute or so of blinking before she could take in Jim's appearance. She wriggled up in bed slightly to look at him.

He was wearing his suit trousers, black, narrow, dark socks (he'd taken his shoes off, how considerate) but he had no jacket despite the fact it was November, and was kneeling by her chest of drawers in only his shirt. The shirt was bloodstained. Deep velvet red up both arms, and smudges on the front as though he'd pressed himself to one of her dissections. Jim looked around at her and smiled, white teeth.

"Mind if I borrow a T-shirt? I know you have some of your dad's old ones in here. I don't think a low plunge ladies top would really suit me."

"Why are you here?"

Jim paused as he rocked on his heels, before flopping down into a cross legged seat on the carpet, facing her. He made a screwed up face, "Well, things got a little… messy."

"What's-"

"I'm paranoid my flat's being watched," he admitted, scratching his nose, and then rubbing at a mark of dried blood on his cheek. "I sort of forgot to branch out in the property market, and," he sucked his cheek, "I'm still learning Mols. Still lots to do."

"Okay. T-shirts are in the bottom."

"I know."

Jim slid onto his knees and turned away to root around in Molly's drawer, pulling out a large navy T-shirt, cotton and thin: one of her Dad's old ones that she kept to wear in bed. He stood up gracefully, undoing his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it off into a scrunched up pile of red and white on the floor. Molly wondered at how thin he'd gotten. His stomach, usually softer was too taut, and she could see his ribs more than normal.

"Do you ever eat any more?" Her voice was muffled by the covers.

Jim just huffed in response, and turned away to awkwardly pull on the T-shirt over his head, his thin white arms emerging from the dark material above his head seeming very childish and self conscious. He tugged it over his head, and then pushed a piece of hair off his forehead, turning back to her.

Molly closed her eyes and pulled up the duvet again, rolling onto her side so she faced away from the room and from Jim. She heard Jim kick the drawer shut, and after Jim had walked to the door again saw and hear the clicking off of the light switch. He then shut her bedroom door, but didn't leave, stayed inside. She heard noises, though she wasn't sure of the sounds with her eyes shut and the duvet over one ear.

A few seconds later she felt the mattress tip and he climbed onto her bed.

"Budge over, it's cold."

"Go home."

"Can't. Move!"

Obligingly she wriggled closer to the wall. Whatever her protestations it was nice to hear his voice again, even if it was at three in the morning and he'd turned up covered in blood.

He let in a waft of cold air as he climbed under the duvet. The bed was luckily winder than a single, but not quite a double. It was some off German brand that made it hard to find sheets for, but Molly was glad of the room just then.

Even so, Jim managed to kick her several times with freezing feet and legs and nudge with her cold arms and angles before he was under the covers too. Molly noticed that he must have taken his trousers off. An old T-shirt and just his boxers then. It was a funny image: Jim was always so immaculate.

There was a brief tiff over the duvet which Jim won- pulling it off Molly's front so she wrapped her arms over her and complained, "I'm cold now. You could have slept on the sofa!"

"Shut up Molly Mols," Jim's voice was amiable though. "Here- just look-"

She felt him move and the mattress rocked again, but he pushed her shoulder away when she tried to roll over the face him, "Just stay there."

Molly lay back down obediently still, and felt him wriggle closer and his chest press into her back, nudging his knees under hers so she sat on his lap, and letting his hand rest in the dip of her waist so they lay together- slotted in like stacked spoons. Jim adjusted the duvet to cover them both, and then slid his arms back under the covers and his hand back to her waist.

"See? Fine."

"You're freezing."

"You'll soon warm me up."

Molly could feel Jim's cool breath tickling her neck. She sighed and relaxed into him, curving her back into his chest and stomach and letting his cool seep into her, and her warmth into him. He slid his arm down over her stomach and tucked it underneath her, hugging her to him.

The darkness was thick again, so Molly closed her eyes as they both warmed up. She heard Jim's breathing grow slower, steadier. She wondered what had happened with all the blood. More as to why it went wrong than to why the blood was necessary in the first place. Jim never made mistakes.

Molly smiled to herself quietly. She rather liked this Jim: the mistake making, blood covered old T-shirt wearing Jim. He seemed a little more human and a little more vulnerable. Furthermore his arm was curled around her waist.

If he was still there in the morning, Molly decided, she'd make him pancakes.

Of course he wasn't.