It was much later that week when Molly went to go visit Jim again. It had taken her a while to get up the courage after the last incident, but things were different now. She was an engaged woman, and she had more of a reason to say no to him.

He called for her to come in, and she did. He was sitting at the computer, as always. His pale hair surprising her again. She couldn't help but think of him as dark-haired. The wooden chair was back. The wicker chair was nowhere to be seen. There was no tea pot on the table, but there was a steaming mug of coffee there instead. How had he known when she was coming?

She sat down and pulled her chair closer to the screen.

"So, how have you been?"

"I saw you on telly," he said.

"What? I was never on telly."

"Yes you were." He said and he pulled up an image of Sherlock's press conference on the screen.

Molly's first feeling was shock. He had seen the press conference. Had it brought back his memories? But then she looked as he pointed toward the screen.

There was a crowd of reporters clustered around Sherlock and John. Sherlock was wearing the hat, and John was smiling up at him. The camera pulled back and showed the building. In the window of their flat, Mrs Hudson's smiling face could just be seen.

"That's not me, that's Mrs Hudson."

"You are there."

She looked closer and could see her hand and shoulder. She remembered. She had looked out, and then hid to avoid a cameraman who looked up at her. It hadn't caught her face though.

"How did you know that was me?" she asked.

"The scarf. It's hand-knitted."

"It could have been another scarf with the same pattern."

"No. You don't follow the pattern when you knit. You find that too boring. You add embellishments and alterations. Your knitting is as distictive as a fingerprint. I could recognize something knitted by you anywhere."

"Really? Wow!" Molly said blushing.

"So, you're engaged now?"

Molly looked down at her ring. "Oh yes, to Tom."

"Of course. Such a dull man."

"He is not dull! He's got..very many attractive features."

"But not very smart is he? Not as smart as you."

"I'm not that smart."

"Aren't you? You were smart enough to fool everyone into believing that Sherlock Holmes was really dead. It was you, wasn't it, who forged the death certificate."

"Jim."

"I know. I shouldn't have asked. Never admit to a wrong doing out loud. A very sound policy, but now that he's back, you're sure to get into trouble about it. What are you going to do when they come asking to see the body? Do you have a body? Who was really buried in Sherlock Holmes' grave?"

Molly turned to look into Jim's eyes. Quincy wouldn't have been so concerned. Jim must have remembered something. Was this finally it? She had to know.

"Jim. Let's be honest with each other."

"Yes, let's," he said turning to face her with eyes half-lidded.

"You haven't been completely honest with me about your memory, have you? You've remembered some of your past, haven't you?"

Jim stared at her and said nothing.

"Is this you doing what you told me to do just now? 'Never admit to a wrong doing out loud.' but this is important. You owe it to me as the person who saved your life to tell me the truth."

Jim sat back, his mouth tightening in what might become either a smile or a sneer, but was neither.

"Why should I be honest with you when you were never honest with me? Despite those idiots granting me identity, it hardly took any research to realize that I don't look like Quincy Hoehn. I don't even have the same blood type. They thought that the people who sent the records must have made a mistake in testing it."

"So, you know that you aren't Quincy. Do you know who you are?"

"Jim. You always wanted to call me Jim."

"And your memory, has it come back?"

"No. But you can never know that can you? You could never tell if I was telling the truth. That's why you've always been afraid of me, isn't it? Even when I was sick in bed, hardly able to lift a hand, you've been afraid of me. Is it because I was James Moriarty?"

"Jim."

"Who was he to you, Molly? It was never in the newspapers. You were never in the newspapers. Little Molly, just a person who works in the morgue at Barts. How is it that you know both a criminal mastermind and the man who hunted him? Who are you, Molly Hooper?"

"Nobody."

"I asked you about the death certificate, and you're not worried. You should be worried. You could lose your job, but you aren't. What else are you hiding? Is there someone else even more powerful taking care of that for you?"

Molly didn't think that she had given anything away, but she could tell by his expression that she had. "So, there is someone! Someone even more powerful behind you. Who is he?"

Jim grabbed Molly's hands and squeezed them tightly. "Why did you save me, Molly? What is it that you want to get from me? Do you want me to reveal my contacts? Moriarty's hidden wealth? Why do you always ask me how much of my memory has returned? Are you to be my Delilah? To betray me once I tell you my true strength? Did you betray me before? How far up does this plan go?"

"Plan, there was no plan. Jim."

He leaned forward, his face inches from her, and the sheer pressure of his anger was enough to make her shiver. "What happened at Barts? Tell me! They say that I pretended to kill myself. Blanks in a gun. Why would I do that? Doesn't it make more sense that Sherlock Holmes held the gun in my mouth? That he threatened to kill me if I didn't give him this keycode that I hear being hinted about? Why did he jump? What are you holding me here for?"

Molly closed her eyes and turned her head away. She could feel Jim's hot breath bearing down on her. "I'm not holding you here! I didn't trick you! I only wanted to help you. I just couldn't let you die!"

She felt a hand on her neck and thought that he was about to choke her, but soon she felt his lips upon hers. She threw her head back, and his lips moved down to her chin. Her heart was racing. He knew... he knew who he was, who he had been, and he still wanted her.

It had been something that she had always wondered. Jim had pretended to be her friend, to be her boyfriend. Sherlock told her that it was just a lie, but she had felt something there. That's why she couldn't believe Sherlock when he said that he was gay. She had felt in her heart that he had wanted her. Now she knew that it had been true. She wasn't cold and unattractive. Moriarty had actually wanted her. That much hadn't been a lie.

The hands and lips that had been on her went away, and she felt abandoned. Then she heard a thump, and she opened her eyes to find that Jim had lowered himself to the floor.

She sat up in the chair concerned, reaching her hand out to help him up, but he pulled her down to the floor instead. She was lying on top of him, and she couldn't find a way to stop herself from hyperventilating. He rolled over to be on top of her and he pinned her wrists over her head.

Good God!

He was staring at her lips. And she was trying to remember why this was a bad idea. She knew that this was a bad idea, but he kissed her before she could open her mouth to speak. His arms were so strong. His muscles bunched as he lifted himself up, pulling himself higher up her chest. He lowered himself down on her and then put his hands through her hair pulling out the band that held her ponytail.

How could a man who couldn't use his legs be this strong. She tried to roll him over, but she couldn't. She should be afraid, but she wasn't. There was something about him that made her catch her breath. He was evil, but then again, he might not be. He didn't remember his past. He wasn't that crazy psychopath who had blown up those people, or he was? But... Could he really be blamed for things that he couldn't remember doing? Could a man who made her feel so right be wrong?

No, he wasn't wrong, she was. His right hand was under her jumper fondling her bra. His left hand held down her wrists firmly in a way that should upset her, but somehow only made her feel more excited.

"Jim," she finally said when her breath returned.

"Hmmm," he hummed against her neck.

"I can't," she said.

"I assure you that I can. Not everything about me is paralyzed."

She worked one of her hands out of his grip and pushed him aside. Then she sat up. She looked at herself and then she pulled her jumper down and pulled her hair back twisting it into a bun. Jim rolled onto his side and looked up at her.

"Molly," he said. The voice transmitter still around his neck. "Help me up."

Molly reached over and grabbed Jim's arms pulling him to a sitting position. He held on to her with a firm grip, and she could tell that he was considering forcing her back down to the floor again. She was surprised by how much that thought excited her. Instead, she climbed to her feet and pulled on his waist helping him climb back into his wheelchair.

They took a few moments to groom themselves, avoiding each other's eyes. Then Molly sat back in the wooden chair.

"So where does this leave us, Jim. Am I your enemy?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I didn't save you because I wanted something from you. I found you on the roof. You had tried to fake your death, but you were really dying. I couldn't leave you to die when I had the power to save you."

"And that's the truth?"

"Yes."

"No one told you to do it?"

"No one else even knows what happened. You're the first person that I've told."

"What will happen if you tell the others about me."

"I don't know. I suppose... I guess they'll try to kill you."

"And Molly, now that I know who I am, do you want to kill me?"

"I don't kill people."

"That's not what I asked, but it is answer enough."

"Are you going to hurt them, Jim. I don't want you to hurt people like you did before."

"I'm not the man I was before. I've been seeing a psychiatrist. He's been giving me medicine to control my moods. I can't believe that I didn't know the danger. If I did put a gun in my mouth, then I must have known that I could have died. I just didn't care. From what I've read, Moriarty was insane."

"Moriarty?"

"I am not Moriarty. I am Jim."

"Oh. I won't tell anyone, Jim. I just... I don't want anyone else to get hurt. Promise me that you won't hurt anyone."

"I can't promise you that. You said that someone out there wants to kill me. I won't let that happen."

"But Jim. I don't want to be mixed up in anything illegal."

"What do you mean? Everything that I have been doing is perfectly above board. It is you who is the criminal of the two of us."

"Because if you do go back to your old ways, I won't be able... that is. If you do, I won't come back to see you again."

"You will come back. You'll always come back."

"Why?"

"Because you always knew who I was, and you never turned me in. Because I kissed you last time that you came, and yet you're here now. Because you know what I want, and I now know that you want it too. If this illness has taught me anything, it has taught me to be patient. Tom won't last, and Sherlock doesn't want you. It's only a matter of time before you'll come back to stay, because despite what lies you tell yourself, you've always been attracted to the dark."

Molly rose to her feet. Jim was grinning at her. She stepped away from him, and then she rushed out of the room grabbing her things quickly as she left the flat.

It wasn't true. She was a good woman, an honest woman. She would never...never. The rain started up then and she covered her head with her scarf wondering if anyone else had bothered to know her that well, and wondering if what he had said about her was true.