HI ALL. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR PATIENCE, I love u very very very much.

The room smelled of her.

Everything about it was Molly – the jumper strewn on the vanity chair, the desk piled high with fantasy writing, the quilt that she used sentimentally. Everything about it all was Molly.

He smelled like her.

Molly was an everywhere for him right now. He couldn't escape her, from her small, satisfied sighs to her limbs splayed about all over the bed. She slept gracelessly, and funnily enough – she hadn't asked him to stay the night.

And he had.

Jim mulled over this. It had been a long time since he had a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, an uncomprehending complication.

Heaven only knew how much James Moriarty loved complications, but this was a decidedly uncharted one. His hand, for one, tingled. Molly's fingers had brushed across it in the middle of the night. Before, he had felt nothing when this happened. Now, his arm was – well, it was tingling.

A very decidedly uncharted complication.

Molly sighed again in her sleep.

Last night had been everything he hated about sex. Softness. Gentleness. Warmth. Molly didn't scream this time, she moaned.

She had kissed him tentatively, unsure about how much he wanted this. He had kissed her back. And back. And back again. His fingers had charted her, down the blades of her shoulder to her spine to the curve of her bottom. It had been unexplored, doing this gentle thing – he had never done it before. None of his lovers had been Molly Hooper, of course – but that was the funny thing: he had expected that the mission would demand gentleness from their first date.

Molly's face appeared again before him, her small body curled up in the closet. Someone had hurt her.

His fist clenched tightly.

Molly turned – haplessly, as she always did. She always stuck to her side of the bed – whenever Jim stayed for more than an hour, of course. She stuck to herself. He had never noticed how little Molly touched him. For someone who wore her heart on her sleeve, she was surprisingly good at not being clingy.

Only in moments of unconscious sleepiness – or drunkenness – did Molly reach out for physical comfort.

And as she turned, she was across his chest. Her hair fanned her back, her arm across him for good measure, her breath regular and even.

How did this woman manage to make him feel so… uncomfortable?

He was gone by morning. She wasn't very surprised.

She had no idea what had prompted last night. She didn't know why, or how, or what had happened to cause it. All she knew was that she was happy. A difficult emotion, in today's day and age.

She loved him.

And that was that. The empty cavity in her bed where Jim had been last night, every time he had touched her – that was that. It didn't matter anymore – she would worry if he didn't come again, but she wouldn't be surprised if he didn't.

After all, she had gone ahead and fallen in love. He certainly had not. Though that would not be the thing that stopped him, recognised Molly. What would stop him from coming would be that there was a chance he might not win this game that Molly had been refusing to play.

Who would he win against?

The mornings had whispers, for Molly. There were scents – it began to dawn on her, that London wasn't entirely Jim's. Or even Sherlock's, for that matter. Or Mycroft's. Goodness knows how many prodigies littered the streets of the city, forming the countless Gods that fought for dominance.

London stretched in front of her. Tall buildings, whispered words pressed on the pavement of the sidewalks – the chip shops, kebab stands, and chicken tikka places that she went to. Every Indian curry she had begged to be a little less spicy, all the libraries and homes that she had visited. Well – there was a London that was hers, and there was a part of her that knew that this London could not belong to Jim. It did not belong to anyone but her, and that was that.

It wasn't a London that was torn up with his lack of visits, it wasn't a London cut up over the loss of minds that could fight it out – intellectually, idiotically – whichever was the one Jim was wishing for.

It was a London that told her things.

And she could hear it. She could feel the way the articles for Sherlock seemed just a little hungrier, the twinge of desperation in the newspapers every time she could feel Mycroft's assistant drop by the morgue. It had happened once, but it was enough for her to understand. London's language was strange, and caught in the middle of manipulation and winter sweaters, but it was very much decipherable.

She wasn't going to hear from him, she knew.

She knew this instinctually. She worried, but she knew. He wasn't going to come near her with a ten foot pole – not until he had figured out how to get the upper hand. It didn't matter, though.

She had so much work to do – she had a mother, a best friend, a Sherlock, and everything that came attached with that. Meena has as usual been a saviour in the midst of all this. Complaining about little, and taking over some of her shifts with her mother.

She didn't have a second to breathe. Meena had been cooking for her.

"Don't mention it," Meena snarled when Molly mentioned it. "Take it as a thank you for all those nights in university when they served us yesterday's chicken."

Molly gratefully invited her inside her home. "You look exhausted," Meena said bluntly.

"Thanks for the tip," said Molly, yawning.

"You should sleep. Give up on everything, take a vacation."

"To where?" asked Molly, curling up on the sofa.

"Have you been regularly just sleeping on the sofa?" asked Meena incredulously. "Dear God, Hooper."

"Don't Hooper me," mumbled Molly. "Ooh. You made fried rice."

"Yeah, I figured you were sick of casseroles."

"They last longer, though," Molly sighed.

"I have a confession: Lizzie makes the casseroles. I don't know how to cook," said Meena, flopping by her side.

"That's a confession?" asked Molly sarcastically. "Maybe next you should be coming out to me as a bisexual, for all the usefulness of your confession."

"Ha, ha, ha," drilled Meena. "Anyway, Lizzie has been out of London, if you remember things that aren't your problems. So I made fried rice."

"Thanks, Meena," said Molly quietly. "I'll get the plates."

"You know," said Meena, as Molly got up and headed for the cupboards, "You have still not told me which guy it is you've been seeing."

Molly paused.

"What makes you think I'm seeing someone?" she asked nonchalantly.

Meena didn't even look at her. "Talk about poorly hidden secrets. Are you sure you don't want to come out to me as straight, while we're doing this?"

Molly blinked.

"I've not been seeing anyone."

"And Lizzie isn't the love of my life," Meena rattled off.

"Lizzie's the love of your life?" asked Molly blankly. "Oh my god! Lizzie is the love of your life!"

"Yeah, well, don't lose your shit over it. It's not like she knows she's the love of my life."

"You – God, Meena. You are distracted."

"So are you," said Meena. "Who've you been seeing?"

"No one important," said Molly. She rummaged through the cupboard finally, taking out two plates and a serving spoon. She quickly reached the sofa, settled down. Meena smiled at her briefly and sarcastically as she opened the container with the fried rice, carefully serving Meena a plate. "Guy from work."

"It's the mass murderer on your arm, isn't it?" deadpanned Meena. Molly promptly dropped her second plate. Luckily, it was a plastic one. Luckily, there wasn't any fried rice on it. Yet.

"Meena!" exclaimed Molly.

"Well?"

"… Yes," muttered Molly.

"There we go. How hard was that?"

"How many of your friends have confessed to seeing a mass murderer on the side?" asked Molly acidly, picking up the plate. She savagely put fried rice on it, as if that was going to solve anything.

"How long has it been going on?" asked Meena.

"Late April?"

Meena whistled. "That has been a long time. How come you aren't dead yet?"

"I don't know," said Molly to herself. "I thought it would be over one month in."

"And where were you expecting yourself to be, in that one month?" asked Meena conversationally.

"On my slab," confessed Molly.

"Kinky," winked Meena.

"Meena!" Molly reprimanded.

"You can't tell me it's not a turn on for him," said Meena, rolling her eyes.

"No! I mean – yes. I mean, I don't know. It could be – almost certainly. But I don't know, because we always meet at my place. He's never really – met me otherwise."

"Hasn't he?" asked Meena.

"No, he hasn't," said Molly, shifting her food from one end of the plate to another, making no move to eat it. "He always shows up here. We have sex. He leaves before morning."

"Friends with benefits?"

"For him," muttered Molly. "I mean – it's not like I can ever ask him for sex, can I? I hardly have his number."

"Hmm," frowned Meena. "What does turn him on?"

"Bondage," said Molly, without thinking twice. "Dominant or submissive. He's a terrible sub, though. It was really hard for me to establish control."

"Really?"

"I actually don't mind taking the backseat for him frequently. But then – he takes the backseat sometimes. Very little. Sasses me throughout. What else? Funny things turn him on."

"Like?"

Molly shut her eyes. "Things that surprise him. Not unexpected, exactly. Surprising things – if I correct him, or sometimes when I say something innocuous."

Molly opened her eyes. Meena looked thoughtful. "Do you try to surprise him?"

"No," said Molly, shaking her head. "It always happens inadvertently. Never when I try – the less I try, the more I surprise him, in fact."

"You don't stumble and stammer around him anymore, do you?" asked Meena.

Molly thought about it for a second. "No," she realise. "I don't."

Meena leaned back. "Eat your rice," she said.

"Just ask whatever you're thinking," said Molly.

Meena looked at her meditatively. "He's been doing things with you, hasn't he? Not sexually. Interesting things."

Molly blushed.

"Wow," said Meena. "You can tell me how your mass murderer likes his sex, but you can't tell me what he's been doing for you, as a person. Tell me, which was it? Did he drink with you? Read one of your books? Make your breakfast?"

"He did those things," she said slowly. Molly bit her lip. "But – he – he kissed me."

Meena stared. "I hope he did, because kissing is a really good way to get sex ready."

"No, you don't get it," said Molly. "He kissed me. Like – softly. Not as a preamble to sex."

"He did?"

Molly nodded.

"Hmm," said Meena. "What are his names?"

Molly went from red to purple.

"Molly Hooper," said Meena deliberately. "What are Jim Moriarty's names?"

"It's not important," mumbled Molly.

"Yes it fucking is."

Molly looked away.

"Oh God," said Meena. "Oh dear God. He has your name, doesn't he? You and the nitwit detective, most likely. Oh my god. He has your fucking names. Oh Christ."

"Why is this so bad?" Molly demanded.

"Molly, it's one thing for you to have his name. One thing for you to be in love with a fucking criminal mastermind. It's a whole other thing for the criminal mastermind to love you back."

"Jim doesn't love me," said Molly immediately, and with conviction. "You're the one who keeps preaching that the names mean nothing."

Meena looked at her sceptically. "I hope for your sake he doesn't love you, Molly."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Molly defensively.

"I don't need to have a reason to wish that a mass murder not love my best friend."

November inched forward. That was the way winter passed, every time. Molly's winter clothing closet was a little light, but she hardly had the time to go shopping. She wore the same old jumpers over and over again, praying that the lack of decent gloves won't have her hands freezing. Breath began to ghost across the streets, rising from people's mouths and drifting away, like some awful metaphor for existence.

Her earphones vibrated in her ear, "We are ordinary people. Living ordinary lives."

As if she didn't know that.

She fell asleep on the Tube. She didn't know what was going on with her sleep schedule – or the fatigue that had become an essential part of her everyday.

She didn't dream anymore. Sometimes, she'd have a stray dream in the middle of restless darkness – getting sleep was impossible. Her body collapsed whenever she slept, and more than that – it simply blacked out.

Sometimes, she dreamed. Once she dreamed about dragons. She dreamed that dragons came to London, breathing fire and raining frustration and anger on everything they breathed on. She didn't have time to dream more than that – but she remembered running – away from flames. They seemed so fucking real. Jim had been there – Jim had grinned at her, right before he burned right with the dragons.

She'd woken up in cold sweat.

Someone was shaking her awake – she jerked herself awake, scared for half a second that she'd missed her station. Two stops away.

"Miss?" said the little girl who had been responsible for Molly not missing work. "You're bleeding."

Molly blinked at the girl – black, curly hair, dark complexion. Large lips, large eyes, freckled all over. Wait a second – blood?

"Christ," she murmured, touching her nose. Bleeding. As expected.

"Here," said the small girl. She gave her a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, you're gonna need that," said Molly. "I have a napkin somewhere."

"Okay," said the girl. "What did you dream about?"

"Nothing," said Molly, rummaging through her bag and emerging with a tissue.

"Wish I could do that," she said wistfully. "I have such nightmares. Mummy doesn't let me sleep with her anymore."

"What do you dream about?"

"Monsters. They're always coming for me."

"Oh yeah?" asked Molly.

"Yeah. Do you have nightmares?"

"Not anymore," said Molly quietly.

"No?" frowned the girl. "How come?"

Molly smiled. "Don't sleep that often. Besides, I live them now. Anyway. This is my stop. Take care."

"You're the one who was bleeding," said the girl, rolling her eyes.

Molly grinned. Time to deal with monsters. Molly Hooper, Monster Negotiator. It had a nice ring to it.

The house was quiet, smelling like lemon. She didn't want to know why.

It was a small house. London was expensive, so having a house bought way back when her Grandma was young and significantly less annoying was helpful. Molly supposed she got the house after her mother died, but she didn't care for it. It was too large for her tastes, even if it was small as houses go – it was too impossible. The kitchen was airy, pretty counter tops and everything. She had a view of the garden. The living room still felt like her grandma. It was painted with the colours of yellow and beige, as if that was her Grandma ever was.

Her Mum had never removed the bowl of toffees lying in the corner. Her Grandma used to keep them there, as if bribing kids with toffees helped. Molly hated that bowl – it stood in the corner, perfectly placed on the oak stool. The faded brown sofas and lace curtains were also very much her Grandma.

"Mum?" asked Molly softly.

It was a bit too quiet.

She felt the silence of years.

She climbed upstairs. All the lights were turned off. Her Mum's room door was closed, and she heard the distinct tinkle of something that sounded very much like glass.

"Mum!" she yelled, diving for the door.

There was a lump in the bed, shrouded almost completely in shadows. She tore of the bedclothes to find a rather bemused mother under them.

"Oh thank god," Molly panted. The beside table featured a missing glass of water, with small shards very littered around the bed.

"What – Molly?" said her mother blearily.

Jane Hooper looked as tired as Molly felt. Molly had no idea why.

"Sorry – for waking you. Thought you'd done something dumb," Molly said, chewing her nails.

"Oh," said Mum. "Don't – panic. I wouldn't do anything. Not anymore."

"Why not?" asked Molly thoughtlessly.

"You care," said her Mum. "I don't know why, but you do. I can't afford to hurt you. I have a bad track record as is."

Molly's heart jumped to her throat.

"Molly, you look tired."

"Thanks, Mum," sighed Molly, bustling to open the curtains.

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" for a brief second, she frowned. She looked more like herself than ever.

"No," groaned Molly. "I return home really late. I don't want to leave you alone. I barely get enough sleep with all the work piled on. Plus, Sherlock's driving me nuts over the Emilia Gates case. And Mike can't put any other pathologist for him, since he refuses to work with anyone else. It's just annoying." She picked up all the laundry from the hamper, sorting out the whites and the colours.

"You should move here."

"And anyway, I can't keep asking Meena to come over – she has her own work – wait, what?"

"You should move here."

Molly frowned.

"Very funny, mother," she said, returning back to her sorting.

"I'm serious, Margaret," glared her Mum. Goodness, she was getting some of herself back.

"No," said Molly flatly.

"Why not? I know it's not close to work, but it'll be more comfortable."

"No," repeated Molly. "I promised myself I would never live in this house again."

Molly's Mum looked a bit defeated. "You don't stumble around me anymore," she said finally.

"Come again?" asked Molly, putting all the whites in the laundry basket under the bed.

"You don't stumble. Over your words. Has something been happening?"

Molly bit her lip.

"Need a lot of confidence these days," she said eventually. "Can't negotiate with dragons if you can't speak to them."

She left the room, basket in hand. Cryptic. She was getting better at this – maybe one day, she would be a Consulting Detective. Or even a Criminal Mastermind.

You have one new message

Meena Prakash

REMINDER FOR MOLLY: IF YOU DON'T EAT YOUR FUCKING LUNCH EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY I SWEAR TO GOD MOLLY, I WILL FORCEFEED YOU.

Molly Hooper

Ooh, scary. x Molly

Meena Prakash

Don't sass me. Eat your vegetables.

"Copper solution, Molly," said Sherlock, his violinist's hand reaching out unconsciously, eyes not moving from the test tube in front of him.

Molly handed it over wordlessly. She continued scribbling in the corner of the page.

Sherlock was unusually quiet today. It didn't matter to Molly, she was focussed on other things currently. Molly had reports to fill, dead people to cater to, and missing Criminal Masterminds.

"You've been busy," said Sherlock, continuing to stare at his test tube.

"Yes," she said without looking up from her own notes.

"Why have you been busy?" he asked. His concentration was on his experiment, which was what made the small talk even stranger.

"Mum's not well," said Molly shortly.

"I thought you didn't like your mother," said Sherlock. He continued with his experiment. "You called her an 'unpleasant woman,' as I recall."

"I don't. I mean – I do. It's complicated," she finished. "Why are you asking anyway? You hate small talk."

"It was bothering me. You seemed to be more tired than usual, yet you haven't been seeing anyone to explain away the hours you were spending on the Tube, travelling."

"How do you know I'm not dating?" asked Molly.

"You hum," he said. "When you have been dating. I thought you had been dating someone a couple of months back, it was almost constant. I was almost ready to suggest better songs to hum."

"Thanks, Sherlock," said Molly slowly.

"Who is he?" asked Sherlock.

Molly turned to her notes again. "No one important," she said.

Sherlock did something she hadn't seen him do for a long time: he looked at her. Carefully, intently, with a strange sort of expression. She didn't note how often he tried to not look at her until he was almost drinking her in. Molly shuddered.

"Sherlock, you're not using again?" she asked gently.

"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Last time you looked at me like that, I had to call your brother and make sure you didn't OD," she said. For some reason, her voice was a whisper.

"Pleasant memory?" he asked her.

"You tell me."

Molly tapped her pen incessantly. "Is everything alright, Sherlock?" she asked finally. "I don't – I don't want it going back to – whatever that was. I don't think either of us liked it, especially considering the number of times I had to get you out of it."

"I'm not using again, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock finally.

Both names. Never a good sign.

"Oh. It's your one year, isn't it?"

"Five years ago, yes," said Sherlock easily, as if it was nothing.

"Congratulations, Sherlock. Maybe this time we'll celebrate it on your birthday. And before you argue, I know my rights. I'm allowed one celebration a year with you, and I will make the most of it."

Sherlock snorted. "You have more rights than John." He returned to his experiment.

"He still doesn't know your birthday?"

"I'm sure he'll find out eventually. I'm not giving him any hints, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm just saying, it's lonely – two people sitting on a table, sharing a giant cake."

"You're the one who insists on the cake. We could easily have coffee."

"It's a birthday, Sherlock," protested Molly, looking up at him. Sherlock sometimes gave her very strange looks, and this was one of them. Molly smiled at him hesitantly.

She returned to her notes just as Sherlock returned to his test tubes.

"I hope he's not a murderer, Molly," said Sherlock without looking at her.

Molly didn't trust herself to say anything in response.

By the time November froze into December, Molly was almost dead on her feet. Since her mother was better – she didn't have to go every day of the week. She went on weekends, but it ate a lot of her time for paper research. Riding the greasy, murky waters of London Underground didn't help Molly's mood.

And she'd get home, and pretty much collapse. Thank heavens Toby wasn't a fuss, Molly didn't know what she would do if she couldn't depend on leaving him home by himself.

Today was one of those days: the soles of her feet were screaming, demanding a rest. Her hair were everywhere, and she could feel every single part of her body ready to melt.

Which was why it was really upsetting to come home to someone already on the couch. Unfortunately for Molly, it wasn't the person she had been hoping for – although, all things considered, she was far too tired for sex.

Whoever was on her couch, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas. For one thing, she was completely naked.

"You must be Molly!" said the woman.

Molly's threshold for weird had clearly increased, because she only blinked "Hi. Jim's? Or Sherlock's?"

"Both," grinned the woman.

Molly tilted her head to the side. "I'm Molly – but – um, you already knew that, didn't you? Sorry," she rambled. "Would you – um – would you like some dinner? I was going to make fried chicken."

"I'd love some," smiled the woman. "I'm Irene."

"Oh," said Molly, with a frown. "How can I help you? Besides the chicken? If it's Jim you want, I can't – he's – er – he's away. Um – also, could you – maybe, put some clothes on? Not that – not that I have a problem with the – erm, exhibitionist lifestyle or anything. It's just that – well, I'm feeling cold simply looking at you. It's freezing."

Irene Adler had that funny look on her face that Jim had very early in his acquaintance with her. A look of surprise.

Honestly, why did everyone find her general existence so surprising? thought Molly crossly. It was beginning to get on her nerves.

Irene turned around, wearing her loose red dress, and one of Molly's jumpers. "You don't seem particularly phased," she said.

"If I got phased everytime something startling happened, I would be dead by now," sighed Molly, heading to the kitchen. "Besides, it's nice to see a woman amongst – amongst all the works. I mean – don't get me wrong, Sherlock and Jim are both very smart – but men can – well , um. They can only go so far. I was wondering whether – erm, you know – there was sexism in the crime industry, and I mean – obviously, it's there. So it's nice to see a female super genius."

She frowned. "Although, all things considered, that shouldn't really be something for me to rejoice."

Irene smiled. "Oh, there's tonnes of sexism in the crime industry, darling, don't worry. You know, I have to sell my image as a dominatrix to get anything done. Apparently, the only powerful women around town are the ones who use sex to their advantage."

"Which is absurd," nodded Molly. "If women wanted to use sex to get power, they'd be perpetually dissatisfied, I've always thought." She leaned in to Irene, while simultaneously emptying her grocery bags. She looked at her conspirationally, saying, "I dunno if you've noticed, but men are really bad at sex."

Irene laughed. Molly was a bit surprised, but pleased. She reached for the glass bowls to make her egg dip.

"One of the many reasons that it's better to be gay," sang Irene.

"Meena says the same thing," sighed Molly. "And she's bisexual, so she knows both the sexes. Literally and figuratively."

Irene laughed again. She was even louder this time, which seemed to shock her. "You're a treat, Molly Hooper. I can see why he likes you."

Molly went pink. "What can I do for you?" she repeated.

"Well, I'm going to be quick, sweetheart," said Irene. "Sebastian and Jim don't know I'm here. Not that they would help me too much. Jim's been acting extremely funny these days anyway – unnecessarily cruel, and twice as manipulative, if you know what I mean. No honour amongst thieves, as you know. In any case, I found out a little bit about you and was rather prepared to blackmail you into helping me – however, it doesn't seem necessary. I need help faking my death, and word on the street is – you're the one who signs death certificates."

Molly's stomach sunk lower with every word Irene said.

"And I know it would violate many rules," said Irene hurriedly. "But there won't be much to do. There's a woman of about my size and weight, who will be wheeled into your morgue. Sherlock will most likely come to identify the body, and her face will be unrecognisable. He will confirm what is already visible, and I will need you to make sure the body comes through you alone. Make sure Sherlock does not see the report, not under any circumstances. The body will have some discrepancies from mine, and while I'm not asking you to lie on the report – I want you to make sure Sherlock gets a false one. The measurements of the other body do not fit perfectly, and he will know."

Molly bit her lip.

"Before you ask, your other boy toy saw me naked only because I greeted him as I greeted you," winked Irene. "He will recognise the body instantly – but the measurements in the report need to corroborate what he knows my body size to be. You have to make sure he doesn't go sniffing up and down and figuring things out – and from what I can see, I think you'd be rather good at it."

"No, no," Molly shook her head. "No – I'm just – Molly, you know? I don't do a lot of distraction."

"Honey, bite your lip like that again, and you might drive even me to distraction," said Irene cheerfully.

Molly blushed red.

"Oh, you'd be so easy to take to bed. I know exactly what Jim does in bed to get you going, and believe me – I could do it better."

"Um – you – you really like flustering me, don't you? I mean – not just – well, you, specifically. You, Sherlock, Jim – the whole lot, I suppose."

Irene leaned away from Molly, still smirking.

"I need to ask you something," said Molly earnestly. "The woman – the one who's body it will be. What did she do?"

Irene tilted her head sideways and regarded Molly. "She killed a family while smuggling drugs, and did not manage to give the money to her suppliers. The Irish Mob's out for her, and lucky for us – their M.O. is destroying faces."

"Oh," said Molly. "Does she have family?"

"None that I know of."

"Could you find out?" asked Molly. "I – um – I sort of tell the families, and um – I know you'd be pretending to be dead, but I'd like to tell them eventually. When things are safe."

Irene was looking at her funny again. "Very well, Molly Hooper."

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" asked Molly. She dipped the chicken in the egg dip, and began preparing the flour for the crust.

"You wouldn't mind?" Irene asked, just as politely.

"No, I like company," said Molly happily. "It's been a bit lonely, last few weeks. You can come anytime, if you want. I only have Meena as a visitor, and Sherlock sometimes. But Sherlock comes at – erm, odd hours. Meena would like you."

"Sherlock comes to visit?" asked Irene.

"Sort of his bolt hole, my room," confessed Molly, pink in the cheeks again. She mixed paprika, thyme, basil, garlic salt into the flour. "I have a terrible backbone. But ever since he's been off drugs and with John, he's stopped. Sort of."

"Fascinating," muttered Irene. "And this Meena – your friend?"

"Yeah," nodded Molly enthusiastically. "Since school. She's a lot like you. Minus the genius bit."

"How did you know I was a genius?" asked Irene amusedly.

"You have that – aura."

Irene seemed to be smiling rather a lot. "I should like to meet Meena. She seems to be a sexual conquest I would enjoy."

Molly snorted. "She's in a committed relationship, unfortunately for you. I have a feeling this one will stick."

Irene watched Molly as she began to prepare salad and bread. "You're not worried about me using this information to blackmail you?" asked Irene, slowly.

Molly shrugged. "There's nothing I've told you that you wouldn't find out if you didn't put your mind to it. And besides, why would you ever need to blackmail me? Short of doing something truly horrific, I don't need manipulation."

"And what constitutes as 'truly horrific?" asked Irene.

Molly motioned Irene to lean in. Irene did so, but with a lot of amusement. "I'm not very keen on murder, animal cruelty, and –" she paused, chewed her lip hesitantly, and continued, "Insulting Harry Potter. Or anything too horrible to books, in general. Or their authors. Or the actors who play the characters. Unless, of course, they did something horrible."

Irene leaned back and guffawed openly. Molly felt rather pleased with herself.

Sebastian glanced at the boss. He didn't seem particularly off kilter today, which was saying something. The usual amount of madness, Sebastian supposed. It wasn't a very good sign, but it was what he had.

Not that the boss had been acting strange – or something. He had been his best version of normal – whatever that was. In any case, Sebastian hadn't seen any cause for concern. Five or six deaths, a smuggling ring for exotic animals – a few orders for drugs, the Mexican cartel obliterated, and one politician manipulated mercilessly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Why did he get the distinct feeling that there was something off about the boss?

He shouldn't be obsessing. Jim Moriarty's obsessions weren't his concerns, not unless he was ordered to care about them. And while the boss hadn't been visiting Molly Hooper for a while, it wasn't like Sebastian had been ordered to cause Molly any harm. He should keep his nose out of this business. Hopefully, things will stop being… off.

He returned to look at the video feed. Their manipulated politician was saying goodbye to his wife, which wasn't particularly interesting. He looked at the boss again.

Jim Moriarty was watching rather intently as the couple on the screen kissed. Sebastian must have imagined it, because it felt rather out of character – but he could swear that the boss touched his lips gently, almost unconsciously – for the smallest, tiniest second.

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