Billy Wiggins was one of her Strays (as Jim called them). He'd once been a member of Sherlock's homeless network—which explained why he was rather good at taking odd orders without half as much questioning as one might expect—but she hadn't discovered that little fun fact until well into their acquaintance. (She had promptly told Wiggins it would be best to never mention his past ties to Sherlock again—least of all if there was even the faintest chance Jim might have ears or eyes about. Molly was never entirely certain how Jim would react to those that had been close to Sherlock Holmes and she'd rather not watch him put a bullet in Wiggins.) They had met during one of her narrower escapes; gotten to talking while she waited out the police in a seedy drug den.
She hadn't been surprised to learn he was rather a brilliant chemist, even if his brain was a bit crispy round the edges from his recreational use of the science.
"Ya don't seem surprised, miss." He said, bleary eyed and still mostly high, curled up on against the wall of the narrow, filthy hall, barely managing to hold himself upright despite the fact that he was apparently supposed to be guarding the place, "Most say summit. 'What's a brain like yours doin' in a place like this' sorta thing." She thinks he might be trying to make a joke, but he's too far gone to have proper command of his tone.
Molly had simply shrugged from her seat opposite, her head tipped back against the wall, her arms around her spread knees, her boot covered feet firm on the floor, "You're not the first genius I've found in a place like this, not the first genius I've found ruining his gifts with that shite, either." And that was perhaps the exact moment Molly Hooper realized she wouldn't be able to leave the stranger alone to his fate.
She couldn't help Sherlock in his final days (But what could I need from you? echoed in her head, a cruel reminder that even in his darkest hour, he couldn't see a need for any ounce of her), but she sure as shit could offer this brand new idiot a helping hand.
It took time for Wiggins to (mostly) turn away from drugs. He was more like Sherlock than she'd been prepared for and their early days were filled with her sudden need to leave whatever room he occupied. He was observant, like Sherlock. Not to the full scale of the late detective but certainly well above average in his ability to deduce a situation. But perhaps most importantly, he shared Sherlock's dangerous boredom. Without something to do, without something to keep his mind going, he turned to drugs for distraction. It didn't help that his self esteem was rather ghastly and his family situation was something that had turned the poor man into a puddle of tears on more than one occasion.
Molly couldn't fix his family (though she could make his prick father's life rather difficult in some impressively petty ways with her new underworld contacts). Molly couldn't single handedly replenish his long gone self esteem (though she could compliment his work and his taste in comfy jumpers and inform him when the bloke at Tesco wasn't just checking out eggs and milk). Molly could—however—give him work. And while it wouldn't guarantee Wiggins' sobriety, it certainly helped.
Molly Hooper was, after all, expanding her own side jobs. She would never be an international consulting criminal—had no desire to be. But Molly Hooper would forever and always require her own independence and her illicit activities were no exception. Jim even seemed rather pleased by her freelancing while Sebastian had taken to calling them "Nerds Incorporated" when they took over her living room for "R and D" for future endeavors. Wiggins' much more in depth understanding of organized crime certainly helped in many of her exploits.
The more her quiet reputation spread, however, the more Molly became aware of a certain… nickname that seemed to follow her about and absolutely refused to die. People didn't call her "Mrs. Moriarty" or "Miss" or by whatever alias Jim gave her as they had when she worked solely for Jim. Instead, people were quite regularly calling her "The Missus." Which Molly rather thought—as far as villain names went—it was pretty massively unimpressive. Molly had the sneaking suspicion the blame for the new title could be laid rather squarely at the feet of Billy Wiggins himself.
"Tea, Missus," he said in his heavy, endearing accent as he played at being posh and well mannered, setting her favorite cup with the birds and flowers printed across its white surface on the coffee table before her. (She wonders where the hell he got it from but given the audience, she doesn't ask.)
She tried not to sigh in exasperation.
Still, she supposed it was better than having to remember a false name or having Wiggins slip up with her real one. Returning her attention to the man whose house she and Wiggens had technically broken into in the time of darkness that was perhaps to early to be morning but to late to be night, she smiled and took up her tea.
"Thank you, Wiggy." He gives her a nod in return and she continues, trying not to be amused as always with his attempts to play at being some sort of stiff collared man servant or whatever it is he's got into his head his role is at these things, "Now, Mr. Peterson. By the look of these numbers," she opened a folder containing seemingly innocuous spread sheets, "you've been having a bit of trouble getting things through customs." She cuddles into the comfy chair in his unfamiliar living room, looking positively cozy with her large jumper and small hands curled around her large cuppa.
"Yes, miss." The slightly nervous mid-level smuggler—still in his jimjams, hair mussed, and quite disoriented by the hour and boozing he'd finished only hours ago—said, doing his best to be polite and avoid pissing himself.
They'd had dealings a few times before, mostly good—odd, but profitable and without a single bullet in sight. However, her reputation was growing and while she was considerably more forgiving than most would expect an organized criminal to be, a few fellows that had seen her kindness as weakness—and made no small noise on the matter—had recently gone missing. Well, "missing" seemed to be rather an understatement. They had quite disappeared off the face of the Earth as far as anyone could tell. More than just no body turning up—entire records of existence had been wiped out. Mr. Peterson himself had not been so vocal in his thoughts on The Missus (though he'd shared the missing gentlemen's sentiment—the dark underbelly of the world was not a place for kindness and smiles and cherry covered cardigans), he had however, been skimming rather a lot of smuggled goods to sell and barter for favors.
Molly nodded sympathetically, a sad little frown on her face, a furrow between her brows, "We all fall on hard times now and then."
Mr. Peterson tried not to breath out a massive sigh of relief. The dumb twit of a girl didn't know-
"Of course, it'd be a bit easier to believe you if these weren't showing up in Chinatown." She said as she smoothly pulled several photos from the same folder and placed the small stack on the coffee table before Mr. Peterson.
He didn't need to fish through them to know what they were; some of the goods that had "been lost to customs." He swallowed thickly, eyes locked on the pictures, unable to meet hers for a long beat before he looked up and began to babble through a series of lies that usually got him off the hook—or at least bought him a bit more time.
He was met only with a vague, gentle little smile as she simply patiently waited for him to finish rambling, sipping away calmly at her tea.
And eventually, there was quiet. Peterson knew how to cajole, knew how to manipulate, knew how to cater to the egos of violent criminals. This, on the other hand—this placid sweetness, he simply could not read. Was his fate already decided? Was she still making up her mind? Did she even care? Was she going to use this to blackmail him? (He'd heard she was quite good with blackmail. God, he hoped it was blackmail she planned for him.) He really and truly, for perhaps the first time in his adult life, had absolutely no idea what someone wanted from him. Honestly, he realized now, he had no idea what she wanted at all.
"Gotten it out of your system, then?" She asks into the suffocating silence, not at all effect by it. He simply nods, "Good. I suggest you make friends with someone in customs. From now on, if something gets 'hauled off by customs,' you'll need to show proof of a seizure." And with that, she seems to be finished with her business, handing Wiggins her cup and taking back the pictures to tuck into the folder she then slips into her sturdy and painfully plain messenger bag.
Startled, Mr. Peterson blurts words he immediately regrets, "That's it? What if I don't-" he choked himself off but it was too late.
The Missus turned to him with a soft smile and sharp eyes, "Then I'm afraid your career might hit a bit of a dead end." She gave a bit of a laugh at her own joke before her smile turned a bit dark, "Though, bit of personal advice for the future, Mr. Peterson; best not to ask questions you won't like finding the answers to."
And though the parting words made Mr. Peterson toss and turn the rest of the dark hours, Molly Hooper could only think of the one question she rather wish she'd never found the answer to:
What could I need from you?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
