Again, I cant thank you all enough! Over 100 follows, 55 review and 60 odd favourites for just 5 chapters! Thank you so much!

Prewarning, bit of sexual suggestion and violence in this one!

The clocked stopped ticking the very next night, just as the sun was going down. John had rushed out on one of many searches for Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, after a frustrating day concerning Molly's safety, and Mary settled down for another uncomfortable night (apparently the baby had become nocturnal and just wouldn't stop moving during the night). Molly had gotten into the routine of staying up late and instead relaxed in the living room with a cup of tea, looking out the window absently from the armchair. Sherlock had made a no show today, and John had complained angrily about his absence. He'd even gone to Baker Street in search of his friend, but the detective was nowhere to be found. Molly didn't have a clue where he'd gone, but she was in no mood to care either. Sherlock gallivanted off wherever and whenever he chose, and sometimes he didn't show up for days on end. Something had probably come up in a new case, one that was simple enough that he didn't need John's assistance. Whatever it was, Molly was alone, just as she wanted to be; she'd be able to disappear more easily that way.

The text came just after midnight. She was downing the last of her tea when it came through, and she found herself remarkably calm in the process. She didn't start at the buzz of the device that was in a vice grip, and her heart didn't speed up as she opened it to read. She felt nothing, because there was nothing left to feel.

Time to talk. Get the door; I have a gift waiting for you.

- M

Molly, not even bothering to think it over, did as she was told. Silently she rose to her feet and padded quietly to the front door. Opening it, she saw what she expected; a sleek black car was waiting for her, its engine humming ever so softly in the dim light just a little way up the road. With tinted windows and headlights slowly brimming with light at the opening of the door, Molly thought it reminded her of a panther, lying in wait for its prey. Next to the car stood a man at the back seat door, holding it open like a butler. He wore an incredibly dark suit, his hair black and his face hidden in shadow. Upon seeing her he motioned for her to join him, and Molly did so but not without the quiver in her knees. Though she felt calm, her body had other ideas.

As she approached, the man bowed in greeting. "Miss Hooper." Molly shivered, glaring at him, and then slipped into the back of the car with very little argument. She wasn't surprised to find the backseat empty aside from her, and there was a very still, dark man sat in the driver's seat who didn't even bother to turn and look at her.

As the first man slipped into the passenger seat, Molly sank back as she slipped on her seatbelt out of habit. She let the smell of leather envelope her and closed her eyes, the scent taking her back to a time when she was a little girl and her dad would take her out in his shiny new car. She remembered the leather in that one and pretended that this was the same car, her father being the driver. She envisioned the world zipping past in a blur, the engine purring happily in her ears, and while she squealed with glee her father would laugh and shout, "You okay back there, baby girl?" The memory made Molly's lips quirk in a tiny smile, and for a moment she forgot about the hell she had been put through in the last few years.

The car drove smoothly for about twenty minutes until the road began to get rougher, knocking Molly out of her dreamy past. She recognised the River Thames in what little light there was that shone over the water, creating a sheet of shimmering diamonds below the sky. As the car bobbed along, she glimpsed herself in the tinted window, capturing her face that was frozen in an unnerving mask. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and she was dressed in a simple hoodie, t-shirt, skinny jeans and trainers. She didn't feel pretty or glamorous, not now. She felt small and wounded, limited to what she could do. She couldn't be someone she wasn't; she'd never been good at acting. She wasn't like Irene Adler, who had surfaced once or twice as a beautiful, cunning, desirable, and downright fierce… everything Molly wasn't. She could never be like the women in films, who tricked the villain by being incredibly sexy and captivating. Dressing like this was basically her accepting defeat but storming into the final fight anyway, because it was the only thing she had left.

The car stopped and the man who had greeted her got out. She sat quietly, waiting while quickly clicking her seatbelt out of place. Her heart was beginning to pound now, catching up with events, and she struggled to keep her breath steady. Her palms began to sweat aggressively, which they hadn't done since the day she'd met Sherlock in the morgue all those years ago. It felt like a dream now. Who would have thought that the road from there would lead to this? Slowly Molly blinked, fending of warm tears as she did.

Her door opened and the man helped her out. She didn't bother looking into his face, for there was no point. Her story was about to end, so what was the point in adding another face to her nightmares? He took her elbow and began to lead her silently from the car, the gravel beneath their feet crunching and sounding absurdly loud. Molly listened to her breath, forcing it to be calm while desperately trying to ignore the sudden twisting of her gut, as well as the familiar throb of her wound that seemed to awaken with the horrific memories tonight was bringing to her. Instead she held her head held high, awaiting the arrival of a painfully familiar face.

Walking into what seemed like an abandoned warehouse, the door barely coping on its hinges, the man pulled Molly along more roughly as they closed in on their destination. It was dark and cold, the smell of mud and rain thick in the air. She could barely see anything aside from the pillars here and there, and then they came up to another door. Kicking it open, the man dragged Molly through, and a small whimper escaped her as his fingers began to dig into her arm. So before was an act. He was being polite so as not to raise suspicion from anyone who may have been watching. Clearly this was a man who just wanted to get his job over and done with.

Suddenly he released her, and Molly stood in a black room with nearly no light. She heard the footsteps of the man fall away from her and then the distant slamming of a door, and for a second she was able to trick herself into thinking she was alone. She squared her shoulders and flexed her hands at her side, tempted to crack her knuckles. The air circled her, bitter on her face, numbing her fingers and toes. She felt like she stood there for hours when in reality it was only minutes. She knew she wasn't alone. She could feel his presence like a mother was aware of their child; he was somewhere along the walls, probably grinning as he fed on her own fear.

At last, a chuckle sounded, and there was a spark of light in the room. Molly's breath caught in her throat.

"My, you do look different." The Irish voice spoke out fondly. Molly pulled her eyes towards the light, but it was gone before she could glimpse it. A candle, or maybe a lighter? Frowning, she looked around as she listened to Moriarty move around her, circling her like a cat. Then she heard a click, followed by blindness as bright lights flickered on above her. She squinted as tears of discomfort burned her eyes, something like a distant headache yanking on the cords in the back of her head painfully.

"Really?" she said through slit eyes. "I hadn't noticed."

He was behind her, closer now, and he reminded her of a mocking poltergeist. "Hmm… something is most certainly different. You stand straighter; my Molly was much slouchier."

"I was not your Molly." Molly spat through her teeth, clenching her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palms, the blood in her ears singing with a newfound rage.

And then he was right behind her, grabbing her possessively. An arm wrapped around her middle and yanked back, making her cry out with pain, while the other hand came around her face to cup her cheek, pulling her head back. He was warm and lean against her, just like she remembered him being. She could feel the tenseness of his muscles and the tender touch in his fingers that began to stroke her cheek in adoration. She swallowed down the whimpers that threatened to fall from her and let herself go, sinking into him in order to play along with his game. At this point, she didn't really see another choice.

Dipping his mouth to the curve of her throat, he spoke again. "You are, Molls. Don't you remember our time together? They were the best of times, weren't they?" His lips were soft on her skin, teasing her in the most familiar fashion, yet this time she didn't quiver in bliss but froze in disgust. "It broke my heart when you ended things. Truly, it did. I thought we had something."

Molly laughed breathlessly, and the venom that dripped into her voice startled her. "No, you had something with Sherlock; I was just your gateway."

With horrid force he swung her around his face him as if she were in a waltz, and the fire in her abdomen made her scream. He made a point of adding pressure on her wound as he pulled her against him, having her at his mercy. Hand on her waist, all her had to do was move his thumb up as few inches and push, and she'd be on the ground howling in pain. He knew it, she knew it, and quite frankly she was more than willing to behave.

He was as beautiful as she remembered. Pale and endearing against his black suit, his eyes dark but warm like dark chocolate, he looked at her with something of familiarity. She found herself losing herself in his features, his beautiful yet cruel face. How could someone look so stunning and innocent and yet commit the most horrendous crimes? Then again, how was Sherlock any different? He was perfect in every sense of the word and yet so damaged it sometimes took control of him. Sherlock was in a constant war with himself, whereas Jim Moriarty was past that war and living by his own rules, the king of his own madness.

Locking her to him, Moriarty pressed his hand against the small of her back and tugged her closer so that no more air could pass between them. Then, with the hand at her waist, he guided one of her hands to his shoulder before shooting a glance at the other, to which she found no choice but to mimic that of the first. They were in a position of a couple dancing, yet they were far from dancing. He was reading her, recollecting what he already knew and then adding the things he didn't. He was taking himself back the way she had, back to a time when they had both been in a dream, false or not.

"Remember?" he whispered, gently brushing his thumb over her delicate stomach, his hand somehow having slipped beneath her t-shirt. "Remember the perfect nights together? Remember how happy we were? I can give you that again, just say the word and I can make it happen."

Molly swallowed, and drowning every drop of fear she had inside her, she growled her response. "You are a liar. What we had was nothing! In fact, there was never even a we! You manipulated me and used me and hurt me; for God's sake, you sent my own ex fiancé out to kill me!" She clenched her fingers hard into his shoulders, nails bared, and she certainly didn't miss the flash of slight pain in his eyes as she continued. "Do you really think a few words will have me grovelling at your feet begging for you to have me? How stupid do you think I am?!"

He blinked, clearly surprised, and suddenly he looked incredibly childish. "Well, I was hoping you'd be at least a little stupid."

Molly made a sound that was something of a snarl, and without even thinking tried to push against him in a fury. Big mistake. He pushed his thumb into her wound without remorse and Molly screamed in agony, they bolt of torment making her see white flashes. Before she could even sink, Moriarty pushed against her so forcefully that she gasped, and effectively knocked the breath out of her as he slammed her into the wall. Pain shot up her spine and spread throughout her body, and the only thing she could do was cry out, yet even that was muffled as Moriarty slammed his palm against her mouth to silence her.

He leaned towards her, whispering in her ear, his voice a little breathless. "I like this side of you, Miss Hooper. It's incredibly sexy, though I do wish you dressed up for the occasion, and then this whole situation would have gotten a whole lot hotter."

Molly almost choked in revulsion, and violently began to struggle against him while spitting out, "Get your hands off me!"

With maddening composure, Moriarty captured both of her wrists in his hands and raised them above her head, ramming them into the wall behind her. Still she struggled and he pressed himself against her once again, his face inches from hers, his breath warm and sweet on her lips. They were toe to toe, chest to chest and nose to nose, and the closeness made Molly want to scream in terror and sick repulsion. His touch was awful, making her remember things she deeply wanted to forget, and finally fear began to take its course.

"Face it, Molls," he cooed, kissing her throat. "you want me."

Stop touching me, stop touching me, STOP TOUCHING ME! "NO!" She cried, her voice echoing off the walls and yelling right back at her repeatedly. Moriarty sighed in annoyance when she began to struggle yet again, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if this were a regular occurrence. He pulled on her wrists and then rocked her back into the wall, slamming her against it once, twice, three times, until finally she stopped. Grabbing hold of her ponytail he pulled her head back, forcing her to look into those near black eyes, like the pits of Hell itself.

"After careful consideration, I've decided I don't want to kill you." he told her calmly. "Quite the opposite, actually. I want to use you. I want you to work with me." He shushed her when she immediately began to object, once again preventing her from making a sound by covering her mouth with his hand. She tried to bite him, but she could barely move her jaw. "Now, now, listen to me. I can give you a much better life. I can give you anything you want; money, men, me… you could be my Queen in the world of consulting crime. Think about it! I'd have Sherlock on his knees simply by using you, the one thing that ever truly mattered to him. You'd become the most famous woman in London, the woman who fooled everyone into thinking she was innocent! You could be the John Watson to my Sherlock Holmes!" He leaned into her, pressing his mouth against her forehead which was now damp with sweat. "You can finish what you actually started. I'm giving you another chance, Molly. After what you did to save my dear Sherlock, I should really be grateful. You've given me another game to play, and this time it can be bigger, better, and you would simply be the cherry on top of a very divine cake."

Abruptly he released her, whirling away and slipping his hands into his pockets. He seemed to look around in wonder, walking slowly about the room as he continued. "Or, you know, we could start a 'I Faked My Own Death Club' with Sherlock and The Woman. That would certainly be interesting, don't you think? We could double date!"

She stared at him, gobsmacked and truly terrified, shivering but not from the cold. He was feeding her yet more lies; once he got rid of Sherlock, he would no doubt kill her, too, as well as John, Mrs Hudson, Mary, Greg… everyone. He'd kill them all painfully and mercilessly. Molly didn't mean anything to him. She knew he just thought of her as stupid even now, seeing her as the gullible Molly he had known three years earlier. But she wasn't. She knew him because she could read people just like Sherlock could, just like Mycroft could, only not in the same way. She knew who people were by good judgement and terrible experiences, not detailed deductions, and Moriarty was in for a shock if he thought for even a moment that Molly would ever join him.

"I would rather vomit, eat it, and then choke to death on it." she growled. Moriarty paused, his back to her. After a few moments he began to bark with laughter, his whole body shaking. The laughter, though, was not humorous. Far from it, actually. It was livid laughter.

"Are you telling me no?" he demanded, spinning around to face her. He didn't look angry, but Molly knew better. Anger was far worse when there was no rising of voices or physical violence. "Molly, I don't think you understand. I'm giving you something so much better here! A life without limits!"

"I don't need a life without limits. I will not go up against Sherlock with you, I will not become a monster like you, and I will never help you kill my friends." She stepped forward, fists shaking at her sides, glaring at him murderously. "If you go and kill them, then you might as well take me with them; you're going to anyway."

He laughed again breathlessly, apparently not believing what he was hearing. "Do you truly think Sherlock and his little friends care about you? They were hiding you away because they owe you. Sherlock will forever be in your debt, and his little followers do whatever he pleases! They don't care about you, you're not a necessity, you are just plain and boring Molly Hooper who cuts people up for a living!" He came striding towards her, stopping just a few feet away from her. "Sherlock has never liked being in anyone's debt, and your death would only drive him mad with unwanted guilt. You mean nothing to any of them."

"You're wrong." Molly murmured. She took another step towards him, close enough to touch him, his fingers itches to grab at his throat as her uncharacteristic rage blinded her with a sheet of red behind her eyes.

"I'm never wrong." he counted, moving so that their shoes touched once more, his eyes swallowing her up with anger and eagerness. She wanted to smile; he thought he had her. He thought he'd made her come around. Oh, he was so adorable.

"Nope," she said. "you're definitely wrong." And then she lashed out quicker than light, her fist colliding into his throat just below his Adam's apple. Moriarty gasped, clutching at his neck, and Molly wasted no time in knocking him to the ground. Both of them cried out as Molly struggled to straddle him, locking her hand around his throat in an iron grip while she pushed her other hand against his face, digging her thumb into one of his eye sockets. The man screamed, thrashing below her, kicking and punching with blind precision. He hit Molly once or twice without causing any real damage, but them he caught her in her most tender spot and sent her rolling, shrieking in agony.

Blood began to wet her shirt; he'd opened her wound.

Though she knew she wasn't going to die from blood loss this time, the pain was still excruciating as she stumbled to her feet. Panting, she caught Moriarty rushing her, screaming her name in a blind fury. She met him head on and raised her knee, sending him to the ground yet again but pulling her down with him. He locked his arm around her throat and pulled, locking off her windpipe as she clawed at his arm. Finally, with awkward and painful effort, she managed to sink her teeth into his arm through the fabric of his jacket. Hard.

"YOU BITCH!" He rammed his palm into his temple, shocking her and making her head suddenly ring with a startled pain. Rolling away, Molly looked around with a disorientation expression, distantly hearing a strange banging noise. Moriarty stood over her, kicking furiously as the dirt as he prepared his next hit while he had Molly out of action. She could see clearly, think clearly, and was instead consumed by pain, anger and downright terror, and that was more than any human body could go through. She just wanted it all to end, and as she felt Moriarty prepare behind her, and rose to her knees and closed her eyes, awaiting the final blow.

She heard the door suddenly bang open, and Molly's eyes snapped open in an instant. Moriarty was fast in that second. He came behind Molly and grabbed in an arm lock, squeezing her throat just enough that it hurt to breathe. Pulling her to her feet, he began to chuckle madly, and then Molly finally broke down in tears; he'd pulled a gun free from his jacket and was now holding it to her temple.

In the doorway stood a man with two companions in black hoods, one holding a gun while the other stood empty handed. The man in the middle was someone she recognised intimately.

Sherlock Holmes had never looked more helpless in all the time Molly had known him, and that's how she knew she was more than likely going to die.

I know, I'm mean, but I would still love to hear what you thought!