Christmas Day found Molly working a double shift. She usually worked on Christmas Day because she had no family to visit, and others appreciated the time off. She appreciated the solitude, and the food in the canteen was usually good then. She let herself have a slice of chocolate cake as a treat as she watched a group of nurses wearing reindeer-horn hats sing Christmas carols at the next table.

Her father had loved Christmas, and even those days when he'd been sick in bed with the malady that finally killed him, he'd insisted on wearing paper hats and listening to the Queen's speech. She thought of him as she watched it on the tiny telly in her office and she cried.

They'd rolled in the body of a woman in her early thirties earlier that day. She had been found in her flat by neighbors. The cause of death was listed as unknown, but Molly already could tell that it was suicide. She wheeled it over to the camera and took photographs before preparing her for the autopsy that would most likely occur later that week.

Molly wasn't the type who would consider suicide. You couldn't work with dead bodies day in and day out without knowing how unattractive you looked dead in your soiled clothes. She also knew that poisons weren't as painless as most people let on. Even so, she could understand the crushing weight that the future could hold when your dreams seemed impossible. She was thirty-six and her chances of having children and a normal family were passing away day by day. It wasn't as if she even liked children, but Da had so wanted their family to go on after Mum had died, and she had wanted to please him. He had never been sad about anything she'd done with her life though, and the day she'd got her degree, he'd said, was the happiest day of his life.

And having a family didn't seem to have made things easier for Greg Lestrade, or John Watson for that matter. The baby was expected any day, and as far as she knew, John and Mary were still estranged. If she and Tom had married they would most likely have ended up bitter and sullen with kids in tow. Damaging them with their sarcasm and bitterness. No, it was for the best. He was dating a young, ginger shopgirl now. She probably never called him stupid.

Later as she lay huddled on the couch in her flat with Toby on her lap, she considered visiting Jim. Her relationship with Jim wasn't healthy. They snuck around as if they were having an illicit affair. She used him to get off when she was angry or upset, and he manipulated her shamelessly to get her to do what he wanted. She had seen Sherlock do it to her often enough to know how it felt. She couldn't help the uneasy feeling she got whenever she heard that eerie mechanical laugh. That's why she was shocked when at work the next day she saw an image of Jim as he used to look on the screen. She might have thought it a prank if it hadn't been for that familiar voice, and the familiar words, "Did you miss me?"

Did you miss me?

At first she didn't realize that the broadcast was being sent everywhere. Whatever Jim was doing, it wasn't good and it was at least partially her fault. The image of Moriarty had his voice, his latest voice, and she realized that he must have been testing it on her to see which sounded the most like his old one.

She went to his flat, but no one answered. Then a tall, young, light-haired man came over to her as she stood at the door.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?" Molly said suspiciously.

"Mr Hoehn sent me for you. He told me to give you this, and to say, 'Please'."

He had something black rolled up in his hand. She took it and unrolled it to find that it was her black scarf.

"Right this way, Miss," he said.

He opened a car door for her, and then drove her to a set of office buildings. Inside, they were mostly empty. They took an elevator down, and walked through a carpeted hallway to a room decorated tastefully with large oriental vases and potted plants. He gestured to another door, and she entered alone to find Jim waiting for her.

He was sitting beside a folding chair wearing a bespoke grey suit without a tie.

"Jim, what's going on? Why did you send that message?" Molly asked.

"Sit down, Molly. I'll explain everything."

Molly walked over and sat down in the chair. "You know Magnussen, the newspaper man who died recently under mysterious circumstances?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock killed him."

"Sherlock? But why...John?"

"Good. Very good. May I have the scarf?"

She handed him the scarf and he placed it on his lap before taking her hand and lifting it to a manacle mounted on the wall.

"Jim what are you..."

"Trust me," he said as he fastened her hand firmly in the shackle. He took her other wrist and attached it. "Comfortable? Is it too loose?"

"No," she said.

"Good," he replied kissing her deeply before placing a ball gag in her mouth.

"They were going to send Sherlock off to die," he said, "And I couldn't have that happen. Not before I had a chance to get my revenge."

Molly sat up and pulled at the shackles, but they were too strong.

"Operant conditioning if you're wondering. That's how I did it. Whenever you said that you trusted me, I rewarded you with sex. It was quite easy really, and enjoyable. You really are a lioness in bed."

Molly pulled at her restraints, but there was no getting out of them, and with the gag in, she couldn't even scream.

"I really must thank you, Molly, and not just for the new identity. I actually was insane, you see. Severe chemical imbalance that led me to be unpredictably violent. I have pills to control it now. It's thanks to you, you know. As I was I would never have been able to submit to treatment. I'd have probably killed my therapist."

Molly tried to scream, but only heard a muffled moan. Jim pursed his lips.

"Don't struggle, Molly dear. It will only tire you out before your precious Sherlock comes to rescue you. But first, a bit of psychological warfare."

Jim took a knife out of a pouch mounted on his chair, and he cut her black scarf shorter before tying it around his neck as a tie. He rolled over to a mirror and inserted a mother of pearl tie pin before returning to her side. "Won't Sherlock be surprised at how close we've become. I'd be surprised if he can't recognize your knitting as well as I can."

Molly leaned forward and pulled, but the wrist shackles fit as if they had been made for her. They probably had been.

"It wasn't all lies, Molly. It took quite a bit of time to get my memory back, but it's all there now. It's only facts though, no emotions, which is good. I'm a much better person now. Much less reckless. I left them a message that I kidnapped you, so stay put and be a good little hostage. Hopefully, I won't have to kill you. I had so wanted to take you to Paris as I promised. Goodbye, Molly love."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek then, and rolled out of the room ignoring her muffled screams as she pulled vainly at the straps holding her down.