OMG I FORGOT TO PUBLISH THIS ON FF NET HERE YOU GUYS GO I AM SO SO SO SORRY
Hello everyone.
I really have nothing to say to myself - it's just been a really hard couple of weeks, couple of months, and so on and so forth. I would like to say life happens, but I don't even know what the last few weeks were. I'm trying my best to update regularly from this point forward, and I know people have probably lost interest because of the huge break in between updates, so I'll give a quick recap:
1. Molly was kidnapped by an alliance of witches, which included Eurus, Irene and /
2. They negotiated for her /
3. Molly knows she has her own magic, and Moriarty has been training /
4. They /
5. They're going to continue kissing for a while :)
You guessed right - after chapters and chapters of slow burn, I'm just going to indulge myself a lot for the next few chapters. Which means I'm going to indulge.
She was trying to be very, very, very careful.
One word.
Pause.
Second word.
Pause.
Third word.
Molly!
Molly jumped, and almost instantly, the ink spread over her notebook. She looked up and glared at the house. Toby woke from his sleeping position near her feet and looked up blearily. Not a very good guard dog, Toby.
"What?" she snapped.
Oh – did I disturb you? They asked.
"Yes!" said Molly emphatically.
I was just coming to say that the squirrels are about again, sniggered the house.
"Did you?" asked Molly darkly. She tore a sheet of blotting paper, and began carefully dabbing it on the notebook.
What are you doing anyway?
"Not looking at squirrels!" Molly said, annoyed.
The house laughed again. Molly glared at them, and returned to her notebook – and they disappeared. Toby had already fallen asleep again.
She was trying her best to write a nice, unblotted set of notes on the use of music in magic. Moriarty had piled on readings for her to do, and all of them were more confusing than the last, which took up a large part of her day – and there were a hundred chores to still finish. She couldn't ask the house to do them by themselves.
She rubbed her eyes. She felt exhausted, and she didn't have an endless store of energy for all the work to be done.
Besides, things were… tingly at the moment.
She didn't quite know how else to describe it, but the fact was that she was waking up simultaneously dreading and excited about meeting him. And she was spending a large portion of her day with him – even if practice seemed to drain out everything else from her mind, somehow the end of the day was the one that took up the most of her thoughts.
Because they didn't… kiss, but there was an odd sort of - tension, an inability to say goodnight.
She was unbelievably nervous around him these days. Which is why she was even gladder for this odd day off – Moriarty had business outside the house, giving her a moment to catch up with her chores and her work and her studies and her medicine and everything that had been piling up on her head.
She felt rather like Atlas at times – trapped, carrying the weight of sky itself on her shoulder, and with no help apart from a slightly insane magician, and a very amused house.
Molly finished scribbling the rest of her notes, bookmarked her page, and disappeared downstairs to make dinner.
"Good evening to you too," she said to the house.
Evening, said the house, preoccupied with the baking shepherd's pie.
"What do we have left to make?"
Dessert, said the house.
There was something restful about whipping up the soufflé. She liked the way her hands worked when she cooked, and right now, her heart needed a bit of calming. If you did it enough, your mind got a little lost in the rhythm of things; everything you didn't want to think about got slightly pushed to the background.
Until of course, James Moriarty crashed into her reality again.
"What are you cooking?" he asked in a sing-song voice.
Molly jumped out of her skin, crashed into one of the racks that held the spoon-stands, and promptly dropped the bowl. It broke into tiny little pieces, with her soufflé everywhere.
"Dear, dear," tsked Moriarty.
"Now look what you did," moaned Molly. She bent down to pick up the shards of the bowl.
"I did nothing," said Moriarty, with a bright grin. "You're unusually jumpy."
She would have liked to respond that by telling him categorically that she was unused to this; that of all things she had thought to encounter while trapped in an enchanted castle, romance was not high on her list; that if he really had to ask her, he was always making her nervous. But she couldn't say that - because that would require a level of coherence she currently did not possess.
She went absolutely red when she had to face him. He was leaning comfortably on the counter, looking at her with amusement that she couldn't counter in any way, shape or form.
God, Molly Hooper, whispered the house in her ear. You're perfectly alright with kidnapping, but a kiss is your undoing?
That was something new as well - the house would sometimes be watching her interactions with Moriarty. She had always noticed that the house spent as little time as possible around Moriarty - and here they were, whispering in her ear even as Moriarty smiled.
"Nerves," she said shortly in response to both.
"I'm sure," he said. "Let me help." His hand brushed against hers, and she didn't flinch or jump - but an electric current ran through her. She knew intrinsically that when she got back to her room, every part of her body that he had accidentally brushed would be remembered and agonised over.
Another new development: accidental touching.
Molly laid out the dinner - and lately, there had been a plate for herself which had appeared in the moment that she had turned to bring whatever she cooked. She didn't ask any questions, but she suspected it was another sign of his attempt to make her comfortable. They ate in the kitchen these days, and she didn't know why any more than anyone else. She supposed he was trying to be a good teacher - because during dinner, Molly was bombarding him with endless questions on how to do what, where he could improve - what to fix and what to not fix.
"But if I use music to control magic, you said I would lose control -" said Molly. "You mentioned that I ought to use words -"
Moriarty leaned back, the tips of his fingers touching as he regarded her. "You're being simple, Molly," he said. "It would be stupid to imagine anyone - even I - has any kind of completeness of information where magic is concerned. All I know is how mine works - if yours works better with music, I don't see why you are feeling so anxious."
"Didn't think you'd ever admit to your own stupidity," said Molly with a grin.
"It's not stupid to know your limitations," warned Moriarty. His fingers tapped softly against his knee, in synchronisation - she counted the taps and the dashes, and she wondered what he was thinking of.
"What if I destroy everything in the house and kill you?" asked Molly bluntly.
"That's a sacrifice I am willing to make for you, dearest," said Moriarty with a wink.
Molly ignored the flood of emotion that made her blush red and stared at him. "Stop saying that, it means nothing," she said flatly. "You are immortal."
"You're right," he said. "Perhaps I should amend my statement: I'd kill for you."
Molly's eyes narrowed when she regarded him this time. "That means nothing, too," she said tonelessly. "You enjoy killing."
Moriarty smiled. "You know me too well, darling."
Molly rolled her eyes. She stretched her feet - and to her utter mortification, her toes brushed against his.
"Apologies," she murmured.
He hummed, without paying attention.
Despite the fact that they sat on opposite sides of the table, she had a suspicious feeling that he was able to find excuses to touch. She'd serve the chicken, and his hand would brush against hers - she'd stretch her legs a little and accidentally bump into his feet.
She cleared the table - her exhaustion was creeping up on her again. She hadn't thought of how to manage her classes, her readings and her chores. A part of her was rebelling against the very need to do the same.
Going to bed? Asked the house.
"Yes," said Molly. "Listen, I've been wondering - do you have a name? I can't keep thinking of you as 'the house.'"
If I have a name then I have to think of whether I'm a man or a woman, mused the house.
"You don't have to," said Molly. "You could be neither. Or both. Just give yourself a Christian name for me to address you with."
The house hummed to itself.
Molly wiped the table, and yawned again. She left the kitchen, and found the lights of the study on. She knocked carefully, and the door opened. "I'm going to sleep," she said, steeling her nerves.
"Goodnight, little Molly," he said absently.
She clenched her fists, and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Goodnight."
As she retreated behind the boundary that the door created. He watched her, and she told herself that she would count until ten before disappearing.
She chewed her lip. She'd count to ten, she decided firmly. Ten, she said to herself. Nine, eightsevensixfive -
God, she wanted him to kiss her - no, she absolutely did not want him to kiss her - no, she patently did - God. She turned around, attempting to rush away.
ThreetwoONE-
He grabbed her by the wrist, and she looked at him.
"How much courage did that take this time, little one?" he said, with a smirk.
She huffed. "If you ever tried to help, it would take lesser effort!" she pointed out.
"I've helped enough," he said. "Besides - it isn't the gentlemanly thing to do, kissing a woman who's forced to live in the same house as you. Goodnight."
He left her wrist, and it tingled. The door closed on her face, and Molly glared at it. "Pah!" she exploded.
Very brave of you, sniggered the house.
"It's not my fault!" said Molly. "I get nervous!" she stomped upstairs, murmuring to herself. By the time she had reached her bed, she was roiling with misplaced anger at herself, at him, and at her general inability to function in the face of a situation which should theoretically be simpler to manage than being trapped in a magical manor with a madman and a sentient house for company.
She couldn't sleep.
It was late, and all she was thinking of was how irritated she was, or what a nonsensical situation this was, or how much she'd just like to sleep as of now.
She threw off her damn covers, and jumped out of bed. The house was resting - or sleeping - or doing something which rested it, almost certainly.
Molly didn't bother with slippers, and she barely remembered the dressing gown that she needed for the sake of propriety. She disappeared downstairs, holding a single candle. She almost certainly nearly fell in the eastern corridor, and she certainly broke something when she walked through the central corridors to enter the West Wing.
His observatory room she remembered vaguely - but she didn't think that was where he slept. She didn't know what she intended, doing this - but she was determined to get rid of the nerve wracking anxiety.
She looked around - noticing the door that lead to his laboratory. She judged carefully - there were two doors, and she didn't want to wake him until he had to be woken.
The right door. It was a gamble, but there was half a chance.
As soon as she stepped in, she knew it was the right place. The chill in the room was oddly misplaced, oddly uncomfortable - oddly unsure. If the rest of the west wing was whispers that had gotten lost, this room was where the hush of not having a thing to say settled. She wasn't sure how she'd find the words to say anything, approaching the canopied bed softly.
She could see him through the canopy - he was turned away from her, and he was sleeping with the blankets reaching his shoulder. Molly swallowed, preparing herself for what will be an unbelievably disconcerting confrontation where the greatest weapon in his arsenal would simply be the lack of a shirt.
He turned, and Molly considered she ought to wake him. Calmly, in the same breath as his sleep, he was now facing her. She noticed the smoothness of his features when asleep.
"Molly," he said, and opened his eyes as calmly as he had turned in his bed. "What are you doing here?"
"I - uh - um, I didn't mean to - I mean, I did - I'm - erm - I apologise for waking you."
"You're forgiven," he said calmly. He raised himself from his bed, propping himself on his elbows.
Molly's heart swooped down to her stomach.
She had prepared for the fact that he was bare chested, but it was far more uncomfortable actually seeing his bare chest. It was distracting, and frankly, it was wrong for her to be seeing it. She shut her eyes tightly, and she could feel his amusement. She peered from one eye - and as she had expected, he was smirking.
She swallowed, and opened her eyes. "You - could you wear something?" she asked.
"No," he said simply.
Molly sighed. "Fine - alright. It's cold - and you're scarred all over your chest. I know, so you cannot surprise me. I bound your bruised ribs, remember?"
"I wasn't aware you were paying attention," he said, enjoying himself immensely.
"I wasn't!" Molly exclaimed. "That is - I was - but I - one can't help pay attention to the chest they are binding!"
"Of course," said Moriarty, soothing her humorously. "Why are you here?"
Molly went a brighter shade of red. It was a good thing it was dark. "I - look, could you - Christ almighty, you make me nervous, sir!" she said finally.
Moriarty looked at her with interest, and finally sat up in his bed. This helped nothing, and no one, because now his chest was far more on display.
"I cannot - I simply refuse to spend my evenings thinking about what to say to you - or what to do if you kiss me! And if I have to contemplate how much I'd like you to kiss me one more time, I shall scream."
Moriarty's hand was pressed to his lips, and she could see his shoulders shaking with the suppressed chuckle, but she ploughed on.
"I know that you're attempting to not force me - or you're being gentlemanly, or you're doing something wildly kind - which is out of character, if I do say so myself! Behave yourself, sir!"
"And do what," he asked. "Snog you without permission?"
"Yes," said Molly emphatically. She stamped her feet and reached closer to the bed. "I was under the impression that men do the honours! I was under the impression that I could lie back and think of England! I do not want to do more romantic work! It requires effort! And sustenance! And a stomach for nerves, which I do not have!"
She was leaning forward, breathing like a windmill.
"Alright," he said.
"Alright?" she asked.
"Alright," he repeated. "I'll do the honours."
"Good," said Molly, leaning back. She felt unsure about what to do with the winded energy she had inside her at the moment, but she was sure she'd find a way to expel it creatively. "A pleasure doing business with you -"
She was about to turn around, when he gripped her by the wrist (this was becoming a habit), and dragged her closer - her knees bumped against the bed, and she found herself facing him as she leaned against the bed sideways. He kissed her - powerfully, not like any of her nervously contemplated pecks. Her hands were on his chest, and it didn't help that she could feel the curve of his muscles as his arms curled around her, his hands touching the back of her neck.
When he stopped - Molly found she was sitting on the bed within that much time, and his left leg was uncomfortably close to her.
"If you ever lie back and think of England, we are going to have words," he warned.
Molly took a breath, unsure if she'd be able to say words. "Understood," she said finally.
"And Molly?" he continued. "You ought not to call your lover 'sir.'"
Molly blushed brightly.
His head twisted from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He left her wrist. "But you could. If you so wished."
With that, he turned around and enveloped himself in the blankets. Molly swore, certain that he had fallen asleep almost instantly.
How on earth was she supposed to sleep now?
She glared at him in the morning.
"You look like you didn't sleep a wink," he said cheerfully.
Molly blew a strand of her hair from her face, clenched her fists, continued to glare.
He brushed an invisible spot on her nose; kissed her, and said, "Good morning to you too, sweetheart."
The days passed… oddly then. Within moments, it felt as though the weeks were passing in seconds. In days, it felt as if time seemed to drag across the landscape, slowing everyone and everything. April was already finished and over with, and Molly's vegetable patch had been flourishing, despite Toby's many attempts to dig everything in it.
The house was looking a little less tidy these days - despite Molly's many attempts to maintain a standard, everything was exhausting her simply because she had too much work to do. There was a lot of laundry that needed doing which she hadn't had the time for, and the kitchen was the dirtiest she had ever seen it. But she had to plough on - there was only so much the house could do.
Molly had found her routines calming in these times of constant upheaval. Within six months she had been kidnapped twice, forced into manual labour for the majority of her time during it, discovered she was magical, had also adopted a dog, befriended the wandering spirits of a house, and a dangerously controlling and terrifying magician. That she wished for a little routine was only normal.
She slept by ten in the night, she woke up early - she did her morning rounds of cleaning; made breakfast, and they'd eat. Moriarty would explain the magic for the day, or what sounds would encourage what kind of magic from her. They'd head outside, with Toby at their heels - Moriarty had warned her, with a lot of relish that uncontrolled magic might kill him.
She didn't hold too much hope for that happening. Toby seemed magical by his own rights.
They did spells - they learned incantations, Molly learned languages of magic. She learned how to articulate what she wished for without causing a rip in the time space continuum - she focussed everything she had on this, she opened her shield, and she broke through. The room inside her head developed gently - she added jars of light filled magic inside, she added a rickety desk, she built up the shelves with what she learned.
They had lunch - and then they continued well into the evening. After that, Moriarty normally had business, but he instructed her on certain things to read, or certain things to practice. After dinner, Molly poured over books in the study while Moriarty normally had business to attend to. He returned late in the night, by the time Molly was ready to turn in.
Whenever Molly had time to herself, she tried her best to do her chores and her reading - to make her notes and finish repairing the house - magic helped, she could actually do a little less time consuming labour - but it tired her almost as much as manually doing the work.
Toby woke her up that Saturday. May was ending already, and there was so much in Molly that had managed to change - she had nerves of steel, she was certain - there was nothing in her that was afraid anymore. If this was simply because of the pure exasperation of having dealt with dark magicians, she didn't know.
When she woke up, she knew she would already had endless work to do - by the time she had put on her clothes, readied herself - she was already groaning at the thought of the day.
The fact was, she was feeling almost constant fatigue and what she needed was a few days of concentrated sleep, and doing nothing except perhaps reading a book.
The kitchen was a mess - she'd had to leave the dishes for the end, and she didn't feel like washing them again. She knew she shouldn't - for she should preserve her energy for the rest of the day - but she snapped her fingers, and the dishes began washing themselves. The house woke up blearily.
"Do we have some preserved peas for lunch?" asked Molly. "I thought we could make pie again."
Yes, nodded the house sleepily.
"Or perhaps meatloaf," sighed Molly. "Alright, I should get started on the mopping. Would you manage breakfast?"
The house began to get started at once - Molly opened a jar and took out a biscuit. She was feeling pangs of hunger which ought to wait until breakfast, but the body hardly ever listened.
She ate the biscuit quickly, wiping her hands on her apron as she disappeared down to the corridor with the closet for the cleaning supplies. The wind whispered softly behind her just as she opened the door of the closet, making everything feel as icy as winter for just a second.
"Are you being dramatic again?" she asked without turning, pulling at the brooms and mops.
"Always, dearest."
Molly turned around, buckets and brooms in hand, and shut the closet door. "It's early for breakfast."
"I have business to attend to," he said. "I'll be skipping breakfast."
Molly shrugged.
"Attempt some of the herbal charms for growth," added Moriarty.
Molly nodded quickly. "Is that all?" she asked. He tapped the side of his mouth briefly - indicating the remains of something eaten, his neck twisting from one side to the other, a slow smile on his lips.
Molly self-consciously touched the corner of her lips - and rubbed ineffectually. Biscuits weren't ideal where leftover crumbs were concerned. He looked strange for a second - as if he was humoured by her, but also by himself. He licked his thumb briefly, and stepped closer. He rubbed the corner, but he was too close again -
The broom dropped from Molly's hand as he kissed her. She was pressed against the door, and for a second - her brain had to remind her to breathe - her wrists pinned to her sides, her heart racing -
"Maybe some dessert?" he said.
Molly wrenched her wrists away from him, dragging him by the cravat to kiss him back.
"If you call me dessert again, I'll poison your food," she promised when she was done (she'd been getting good at this. The practice helped).
"Intelligent girl," mused Moriarty, straightening his cravat.
Molly smiled. "I'll see you in the evening?"
"Afternoon," he said.
"Goodbye," she said - he disappeared into the shadows, and she sighed.
An alone day. A nice alone day. Not a restful alone day, but a day nonetheless.
Molly lay on her stomach, staring at the grass. She was looking at the ants crawling - and wondering. Her bare feet swung aimlessly in the air; thinking to herself of how she had to do the magic. Toby was flopped in the shade - for an animal that was supposed to have endless energy, Toby spent a lot of time lazing about.
She touched her fingers to the soil, closed her eyes, and thought to herself: grow! Grow, grow!
The grass tickled her fingers as it began to grow over her. She wished she could shut her eyes, allow the grass to grow over her - and disappear into the earth forever. She thought of white roses - and she pictured them in her head. She thought of their smell, of their presence - and she pressed her index finger in the soil -
Grow!
From her nails, the thorns of roses crept upwards. The rose peaked upwards, the petals unfolding softly - one by one, second by second. One rose, another rose, and yet another.
She wondered what it would take for her to grow a tree. For her to become the trees, for the lines of the tree to line her face - the bark of everything that was.
Things were soft right now. The roses wreathed her hair - she felt rather like magic.
How long had it been since she had been this happy?
Not since her father had died, not since her sister had left her. Not for a long time - not since she had wrapped herself deep inside her cottage, disappearing entirely into the fog of the northern countryside. Where books had been her only companions, where she had no one - no one, and days went by without her using her voice even a little.
Molly shut her eyes again, the brightness of the sunlight creating a hazy orange behind her lids. She lay on her back, her eyes looking up to the canopy of trees.
Her best friend was a house, her constant companion was a small dog named Toby, her lover was a dark magician, and her days were spent in a large manor, maintaining upkeep. And a few months ago on Christmas, she had been ready to simply bury herself in the snow and hope no one noticed if she never returned.
Her fingers pressed into the grass.
Grow, she commanded.
And she did.
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