Meow meow!

Meow meow!

Molly awoke to the sound of her kitty ringtone.

She was confused and disoriented by the fact that nothing was where it should be. She sat up quickly and hit her head on a metal bar. The phone stopped ringing. She looked around then and remembered where she was.

She was alone in Jim's room which was a blessing because she was naked except for her bra, and the sheets were pooled down on the floor. She had been feeling unloved and reckless because her fiancé had dumped her, and Sherlock had insulted her for it.

Even so, she wasn't sure that the right answer was to fall into the hands and mouth of Jim Moriarty no matter what he claimed not to remember. In fact he remembered quite a bit, though muscle memory wasn't stored in the same part of the brain as other memories.

The phone began to ring again, and she noticed her purse on the floor. She had rushed out of the room to get it last night sometime and had left it propped against the wall. She wrapped the sheet around herself, embarrassed to answer the phone in a state on undress.

"Hello."

"Hello Molly, this is Mike Stanford."

Molly pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. "Ah Mike, Good morning. How are you?"

"Well, I'm fine, but Sherlock is not, he's been shot."

"What!"

Jim rolled in then. He was shirtless in only his pajama bottoms. "Did you say Sherlock's been shot? Is he dead?"

"No, but he's in critical condition. I just didn't know if anyone had told you yet."

"No, I hadn't heard a thing."

"They're not allowing visitors yet, but when they do, I can give you a call if you like."

"Yes please, keep me informed."

"Goodbye."

"Bye."

Jim watched her with a curious eye. She found her knickers then, and put them on under the cover of the sheet. Then she picked up her dress. Its beautiful rhinestone straps had been cut.

"Damn!"

She turned toward Jim. "You don't have any pins do you? Or glue, or a needle and thread? I need something. No, what I really need a cup of coffee." She tried to walk with the sheet but she trod on it and nearly tripped. "Sod it!" She said dropping the sheet and the dress onto the floor as she strode past Jim and walked out of the room.

She made a pot of coffee in Jim's kitchen while dressed in only her underthings, and tried to ignore the way he watched her as she paced back and forth nervously. She went back to the room then to get her dress, shoes, and purse. Then she went through it pulling out a hair band and running her hand through her hair a few times before putting it up in a ponytail.

She drank the coffee and then dug through her things until she found some nappy pins. She pinned her straps back together, and then put on the dress. It looked ridiculous.

"I need to borrow a shirt," she said and she went to dig one out of his wardrobe. It was incredibly neat. What was it about sociopaths and their clothes?

She found a grey t-shirt and pulled it over her head. It looked odd but at least no bits were falling out. She went to the living room then, and put on her shoes.

"Shame," Moriarty said.

"What's a shame?"

"You're dressed. I liked you better walking around in just your knickers. So serious."

"This is serious. Someone may need me."

"Especially if someone dies," he said. "Come now, you were thinking it too."

"Stop it, just stop it!"

"Make me."

"Jim, I'm sorry about...I mean I was just using you."

"Isn't that what we all do? Use each other for our own ends? I liked it."

"You liked it?"

"Come here, and I'll show you how much."

For just a second, she was tempted, but the thought of Sherlock in a hospital dying made her turn and rush for her coat.

"What, no goodbye kiss?" He called out. And then there was an eerie mechanical sound that she realized must be his laughter. She rushed out into a foggy morning only then realizing that she had left her scarf behind.

For the first few days, there were no visitors allowed to see Sherlock, so she waited for news at Bart's. Every thought of hers seemed to be filled with regret. She regretted that the last thing that she had given Sherlock, was a slap. She regretted that she couldn't be honest with the one good man who had loved her, and that she could with the one man she shouldn't trust. Greg called from the hospital then to ask if Sherlock was there.

"I thought that he was in critical condition, how can he be missing?"

"Just tell us if you see him. John's in a right panic," Greg said.

"I will," she replied before going to check the lab.

Mary came by later that day and asked about Sherlock's hiding places. She told him about her flat, but didn't say much else. There was still something about Mary that rubbed her the wrong way, because anyone who truly loved him would know that if Sherlock was hiding, it was for a good reason. His real friends would wait for him to contact them.

She stayed at work as late as she could, but as fatigue overcame her, she decided to head back home.

The lights were on when she entered, so she rushed inside thinking to find Sherlock. Of all the men that she could have found in her flat, Mycroft Holmes was not one that she had ever expected.

"Mr Holmes!"

"Miss Hooper."

"I don't know where Sherlock is. He hasn't contacted me."

"I know. That's not why I've come."

"Then what do you..."

"Where is Moriarty's body?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why should I?"

"Sometime last night someone dug up my brother's grave."

"Sherlock? He's not dead is he?"

"The old grave, the fake one. I had left orders that his coffin was to be filled with a sack of sand. Instead we found a body, a petty criminal with a superficial resemblance to my brother. The ambassador's children, in the presence of a psychologist, identified this man as the one who had kidnapped them. This lead us to examine your actions on the night of my brother's ... escape. The distance was long, but one camera showed what appeared to be a woman lifting Moriarty's body and placing him onto a trolley."

"Really?"

"You handle bodies quite a bit in your line of work, don't you?"

"I do, but so do most of the nurses."

"Are you claiming that you're not the one who moved his body?"

"I uh, would you like to have some tea?" She started toward the kitchen, but he stretched his umbrella out and stopped her.

"We will get to the bottom of this, Miss Hooper, and if I find that you had the smallest bit of involvement in my brother's situation, I will personally ensure a long incarceration for you. Good evening."

Mycroft Holmes strode out of her flat with the air of a person who owned the country, and perhaps he did. Molly checked the door, and locked it with the chain. She looked around her flat, and noticed Jim's shirt lying on her bed. She didn't remember placing it there.

Did he know about Jim?

Should she expect, sometime soon, to take another car ride with the mysterious woman? Did blood show up on black pumps she wondered?

Her phone beeped. Perhaps Sherlock had finally contacted her. The message read,

'Come on your usual day, no sooner.'

Was it Jim? Whether it was or not, it was good advice. She put the shirt back in her hamper and got dressed for bed.