Hi! I'm so sorry I am a week late, as I updated on my Tumblr - my keyboard broke down, so writing became impossible. I really missed this story, and I pretty much churned out this chapter as soon as my laptop was repaired. I wanted to update yesterday, but I'm shifting my update day to Sunday since I have a recurring class on Saturday.

ON THAT NOTE: POST GRAD ADMISSIONS ARE DONE, I AM NOW A STUDENT FOR ANOTHER TWO YEARS :))))

Second note: this chapter will be rough. Fair warning.


She was in a moment – a moment of her eyes tightly shut, of having that unbearable weight pressed on her chest. She couldn't move – not from her bed, unable to shift, unable to speak. She was barely breathing.

And her heart was beating softly.

She counted it – One, two. One, two. One, two.

Her voice was stuck somewhere between herself and the space above her. She felt colourless – like a transparent ghost, roaming in halls that remained as brown as she forced them to make them red. She couldn't think of anything except the lack of colour – the white, bright sky, shining with the listlessness of winter, unable to supply her with blues, pinks, golds, oranges.

Awake, unable to open her eyes.

Her heart was beating softly.

One.

Two.

One.

Two.

Come on, Molly.

She was distantly aware that the house was around her. She didn't have anything to say. She wanted to disappear into the blanket, into the winds. Into nothing.

One.

Two.

Her fingers – so small, so rough, they touched the bedding, pressing into the folds of the cloth.

Her feet touched the blankets. Her toes curled. They curled – around the strands of hay, around the bits of her that had somehow scattered about the bed.

Her breath came out in a mist above her – she could feel the clouds of winter reality exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

Come on, Molly.

And she opened her eyes.

"Good morning," she said to the house.

It was watching her carefully, and she knew it. Perhaps someone else was watching her as well, but she could not be certain.

Time to go for war, she said to herself.

And she put her boots on.


"Good morning," she said as she rushed down to the kitchen, to find the master seated at the smaller table.

He didn't greet her, apart from a nod. He was poring over a newspaper.

Molly looked up at the light of the window, wishing – wishing – wishing –

"Tea," said Moriarty's dark voice succinctly.

It tended to curl around her – around her neck, her cheeks.

She nodded.

The kettle was already on, which was nice of the house to do – since she only had to manage breakfast. Ever since her slightly mad dash to make the house an acceptable looking one, Moriarty came down for breakfast more frequently, and for tea in the evenings. They never said anything, but Molly's stomach was clenched throughout the interaction.

At times, she still got the sensation that someone was watching her – but a lot more distantly, a little less brazenly.

It helped that he hadn't said anything to her. It maintained a fragile sort of peace between them. A little less cruel – a little more… curious.

She poured out the tea quickly at the table, put down the cake she had made for breakfast, and began on the eggs.

The newspaper flipped.

The sound of frying sausages bubbled through the air. The smell was everywhere.

Molly took the sausages and eggs down, put them on a plate, and waited.

Moriarty ate a single bite, shut his paper, and despite the sunlight now found in the kitchen, the darkness enveloped his form until – until – until –

He was gone.

Molly turned to the stove.

Exhale.


The days were difficult sometimes.

Molly had realised that the seconds were slipping into minutes. The minutes pressed away between the pages of books she cleared, stuffed into jars, swept by the brooms in the afternoon – gone, before she could catch them. The hours had become waves, which washed by her – softly disappearing into the darkness of the house.

The tall architecture of the room loomed over her constantly.

And Molly batted away at the ceilings – wrapping spider webs in her broom, cleaning tapestries – forcing light.

She entered the study, clearing the tables, the little things of Moriarty that she was perversely interested by almost as much as she hated them.

Taxonomy: An Introduction, she read from the corner of her eye.

She couldn't help reading the titles. Moriarty's books were odd and varied, differently collected and from a variety of the corners of the world. She had tried to look a little lesser, simply because she knew that it was a tempting part of him – something that she would like to avoid, if possible. This was also why she always cleaned the study first – and why she felt most uneasy in that corner of the house.

He read books of literature, of medicine, of stories, of philosophy, of geology, of chemistry, of science. She didn't know quite what he was attempting by the array of literature that was spread under her nose.

Books were expensive. Molly had her mother's commission coming in, which was very little – but just enough to support her. Three hundred pounds a year was enough for her alone, and she would borrow books from the only bookshop in town. She'd rent them out, which was a little cheaper. And at times, during Christmas, she'd buy a few.

And here was Moriarty, surrounded by thousands and thousands of books – books that he touched, the spines that had felt the tips of his fingers as he pulled them out of the shelf. Books that had been caressed by his skin, which had inhaled him.

She longed to read them, and yet –

She could only look from time to time. She could stare, watch, desire. She could not touch.

What would he do to her if he found her rifling through his books?

Her hand lowered, as she placed the books back in the shelf, her fingers touching the spine of a beautifully maintained copy of Paradise Lost.

He was watching her.

She was aware of this before she turned around, but she started nevertheless – when she spotted him near the doorway.

He didn't say anything, not for a moment. His eyes skimmed over her, and Molly shivered.

One, two. One, two.

And he smiled.

Molly clutched the last book in her hand. Her knuckles were turning white.

"Do return that to its place, Molly," he said genially.

He walked away. Normally, she could never hear him leave – not once. This time, she was sharply aware of the retreat of his steps. They made a sharp sound over the floor.

The book fell from Molly's hands.

She wished she could sink into one of the chairs she had reupholstered.

"What are you looking at?" she asked the house crossly.

The house mumbled snidely.

"I don't like it any more than you do," said Molly, grabbing her dusty cloth and marching out of the study.

And again, there were murmurs of criticism.

"Do be quiet," she said, returning to her kitchen.


The snow was finally beginning to soften a little more in February. It was early, and it would take till March for spring to listlessly arrive, but come it would.

Molly was curled up on a rock, overlooking the acres and acres of fields that stretched around the house. The white sky, with a small, ineffective sun was hung around her. She enjoyed looking at the forests, at the climbing, tall sky. The wind fluttered around her, the clothes she had put up on the clothesline murmuring softly with every touch.

She tilted her head sideways.

At times, it occurred to her that her loneliness was curiously quiet these days. Not that it had disappeared, but that it had stopped bothering her.

Which was odd, because even while she lived alone by her own choice – it bothered her.

She had taken off her gloves. The winter stinged her sharply. Her head automatically searched the skies. The sky, filled with a certain kind of whispering, taunted her softly. She couldn't hide here, not from the sky – not from the thunder, not from the rain, the clouds, not from the wind. She was terribly, terribly tired.

And up she got, finally. Her ungloved hand pressing into the snow as she raised herself up. She dusted her apron, and crept into the house. She took off her apron – it was afternoon, and she took a little time off during this time. She might even sleep for a little bit.

The house had disappeared into one of its corners. It seemed to do that at times, and she had wondered why. She had wondered many things, obviously, but it seemed clear to her that the house had a history that she hadn't any access to.

Molly was always looking upwards at the halls, almost constantly. She didn't know why the ceilings were what she stared at the most of all, but that was where the blackness seemed to disappear into.

Tap.

Molly stopped on her tracks.

There was a rustle of cloth up ahead.

It was coming from one of the bedrooms. Molly was unsure of who would be in the East Wing bedrooms at this time of the hour, but there was only one suspect.

She peeped into the room, careful about what boundary she was crossing.

The master stood in front of a mirror, his tie around his neck, and his face obscure.

Molly hesitated.

He turned to look at her. She had never felt more inescapably trapped.

"Would you mind?" he asked politely.

Molly's feet stuttered on their way to him. She took a breath, clutched the back of a chair, and stepped forward.

She maintained an arm's length distance from him. She didn't want to come any closer, and she could knot a tie perfectly well from this space.

He didn't insist on any closeness. His smile was polite. His voice was genial.

She felt the itching sensation of having been violated in some way. She hated it.

"Terribly sorry for bothering you," he said.

Molly nodded perfunctorily before escaping from the room. Her breath was speeding, her heart was irritating her, and she wished she could throw herself from the topmost floor.

She was outside the door, and she could hear him look after her retreat. She could hear it.

"I have never enjoyed myself as much as this," he mused, to no one in particular.

Molly choked back a sob.


Molly would pull at the world during bedtimes. She would pull the earth around her, the wind to cover her. The sky to fall on her.

And she would sleep.

She dreamed of Elizabeth these days. Of her father. Of her mother. Of the people she had loved once. Of everyone who was gone.

But at least she slept alright these days. Not fitfully.

She missed herself.

She missed a herself that she didn't know quite existed. One that she yearned for, that was perhaps a part of her mother, her sister, and her father. One that had existed a while back, and yet, seemed to exist in the future. One that was here, and not – one that was the wind, and not.

She turned over.

He was watching her again. Not closely, distantly. She knew it was him.

"Please, I am trying to sleep," she said aloud.

The darkness swirled in front of her, the candle flickered –

There he was.

"Hello," she said, arranging the blankets around herself gently.

"Evening," he said pleasantly.

"Why do you watch me?" she asked.

He tilted his head to the side. "Why do you ask?"

"I have a right to know," said Molly quietly. "I dislike being violated. The least you could do is tell me why."

He looked at her again.

"'Violated'," he repeated softly. "You did not have any power when you entered the house, Molly Hooper. What makes you think you have any now?"

"I am not fighting for power," she said plainly. "I would simply like to know how much of my dignity is to be sacrificed for the sake of your games with power."

He didn't say anything.

She looked outside the window. "I do not feel the need to fight to explain my every breath to you, sir," she said. "I am human. Does that not qualify me for my dignity without needing to amuse you?"

He looked at her interestedly.

"Curious."

"I don't have to be curious for you to afford me a sense of privacy," she said, looking back at the window.

"Oh, I understand the merits of your argument, Little Molly. It has simply never been used against my games."

Molly chewed her lip. "Perhaps because your previous opponents entered willingly. I didn't ask for this."

His finger tips touched as he regarded her. "And yet, here you are, arguing with me."

Molly blinked. "I am not fighting in your arena, sir," she promised quietly.

"And if I keep watching you?"

"You will eventually be bored," she said.

His face was always half shadow, half undecipherable. And that was, perhaps when she noticed something odd in his face. An expression she couldn't quiet place.

"Somehow, I sincerely doubt it," he said.

Molly's nostrils flared. "Nevertheless. I would like it to not continue."

He looked at her with that expression again, that odd one, the strange one. "Very well," he said.

"Very well?" asked Molly.

"Very well," he said. "I will not watch from the shadows."

Her eyes narrowed. "Is this because I managed to pass your test, or won a game of some sort?" she demanded.

He smiled. "Hardly."

"Then why?"

"Because you asked," he said, finally. The darkness had touched his fingertips, covering his feet, his eyes. "And as you explained so logically – the game isn't fun if only one of us is deciding the rules."

He was gone before she could argue – and she had such a lot to argue about. She wanted to tell him, under no uncertain terms, that she was not playing.


She looked outside the window as she washed the dishes. It was terribly cold, and her hands were half frozen – the water running down her skin, ice and silences.

The house she had sent off to clear some of the plumbing up in the attic. She hadn't gathered the courage to venture upstairs as of now, but she had spotted what looked like a piano.

The firs rustled as she watched them. She rolled her eyes at them, which surprised her for a minute. Molly looked back at the dishes, when she heard a loud, loud high-pitched yelp coming from the edge of the wood. Almost immediately, she shut the water off.

Molly wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed her boots – and was out of the house without a coat within minutes.

She knew it was pointless to rush towards the yelps of what must be a wild, untrained animal. It was always better to mind one's own business in situations such as this, but god, the monotony was driving her mad. Something had to be done.

There was another loud yelp, and Molly tripped over herself. She fell face first into the snow.

As soon as she got up, she regretted her lack of gloves. She felt annoyed at her dress as well, but one couldn't help that.

The edges of the trees taunted her, their leaves high in the sky and beckoning her further. She frowned at them crossly, and rushed through the snow again.

The wood was silent. A little less silent than normal, but silent. The winter weather had settled on the branches of the trees, and the animals had disappeared.

"Hello?" she called.

She made her way through the wood. Between the trees that were reaching the sky, the magic that had decided that it was simply part of the setting. A fairytale, this place – almost definitely where Little Red Riding Hood got lost. Molly was not wearing red, but she felt it in her bones that she'd met a wolf already.

The tinny sound of a whine reached her. She whipped around, changing her direction in the confusing forest.

By the time she located the source of the sound, her breath had steadied. She was no longer panting, she was no longer out of breath.

It was a small dog. A small, tiny little terrier. His leg was almost just blood and bone, almost just nothing else. She bent down gently. She had to be terribly careful – animals in pain tended to bite.

She gently reached for the dog, who growled softly. She stopped almost immediately. "Alright, I apologise," she said quietly. "But you need to let me have a look at your paw."

He looked away from her. He was male, he could be around four years old, she judged. He seemed to have gotten into an altercation with something that had torn his leg into bits, and he wasn't keen on being looked at. She needed him deposited in the kitchen, so that she could fix his leg.

She took a deep breath. No one was watching her, not now.

"What are you doing so far from the house, Molly?" asked a voice.

Almost instantly, the shadows of the trees converged on the white snow.

Molly didn't turn around. Her knees were freezing on the snowy ground, anyway.

"Could you help?" she asked, without turning.

He was behind her. She couldn't see his expression, but she could feel that he wasn't too close behind her.

"Alright."

She turned abruptly.

"You will?" she demanded.

His eyes were dark, as they always were. His face looked a little terrifying, as it always did.

He nodded, with a grin.

Molly would like to ask why, to get an answer out of him – but she decided against it. She smiled unconsciously. "I don't suppose we have bandages at home?" she asked ruefully, turning back at the dog. She lifted herself out of the snow and turned around.

He tilted his head to the side. "There'll be bandages when you return," he said.

She nodded, her voice stuck in her throat. She turned to look at the small dog again.

She shook her head. She stepped forward towards him, wanting to direct the dog to the kitchen as quickly as possible. The roots of the trees reached for her then – unconsciously, as she always did, she tripped over them –

Several things happened simultaneously. The dog yipped softly, Molly fell, once again, face forward, a hand gripped her before she touched the ground, and her heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach.

She looked upward, and Moriarty's face was impassively cold. His expression was hard and inaccessible.

She applied a little pressure on his hand as she got up. They weren't too close – he was a distant, reasonable arm's length away. Yet, she felt… surrounded. She took a deep breath, her eyes firmly placed on the snow.

"Thank you," she said.

He nodded sharply. His fingers snapped. The dog that had yipped disappeared almost instantly, and Molly could feel her cheeks going a bright red.

He was gone before she could ask him to do the same for her. Molly looked at the house distantly – her eyes were shut.

He was invading her, unknowingly.

She opened her eyesagain, and stomped off to the house.


The dog was waiting for her when she got back. She cleaned his wounds, cooing softly. She didn't know what she would call him, or if she could keep him – but for now, he was wounded. He'd lost a bit of blood, so movement was out of the question.

And Molly liked him. He was rather friendly, but in a standoffish manner. He turned his nose up to the meat Molly had provided him initially, which made her laugh.

She had cleaned him up and put him to bed in the kitchen eventually – he was mongrel, with a terrierlike ancestry.

She needed sleep.

It was around midnight, and dinner had taken her a while thanks to her new companion.

He whined a little as she left, and Molly nearly took him with her to her room. She didn't want to hurt him more than necessary, so she didn't.

Besides, he was still a little untrustworthy. He didn't snap or growl, but he eyes her rather suspiciously. He licked her hand cautiously when she was done.

The light of the study was still flickering when she decided to make her way to her room.

Against her better judgement, she hesitated when she saw the crack in the door.

She was soft when she approached it. Light was glancing through, in bits, like a fluttering paper.

She looked inside, and he was sitting at his writing table. He wasn't facing her, but sideways. She could see the outline of his profile, flushed in the light of the fire.

His hands were touching, but in an odd way. The tips of his fingers from his left fingers were resting lightly against the edges of the wrist of his right hand.

Her fingers tingled.

She walked backwards, hurrying back to her room.

The house seemed to become larger in that minute, almost expansive. She knew her boots were clearly audible over the floor, but she didn't care. She nearly rushed to her bed, throwing herself on the covers and sheets, and turned over immediately.

She touched the edges of her right wrist as well.

He had been checking his pulse.


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