-Hey, Probably going to be the last installment in this story, but I will definitely write more Dark! Molly. Tell me what you think of this by reviewing.

"You know how this ends, don't you?" Molly washed her hands slowly, knowing that Moriarty had installed cameras everywhere. She took care that she leaned her head towards it, so that he picked up her whispering voice.

She heard a small clicking noise as the camera readjusted unnecessarily, and took it as him entering the conversation.

"You two, you two lose, and I, the one who was always playing, but never played, win. It's how all of this works; the criminal and the detective even each other out and the pathologist is left with the scraps. I hope that you at least have fun." She sighed and wiped her hands, now immaculate, on a paper towel, before lightly tossing it over the camera and walking out, the cameras frantic clicking echoing the sound of her heels on the linoleum.

Jim Moriarty sat on a rooftop, waiting for his only almost-equal in the entire world to come and play – no -to come and do battle. He regretted using the word play in his text to Sherlock; Molly would already be smirking. The girl scared him.

She could have easily deceived him as she had deceived the Great Sherlock Holmes, but she didn't. She let him see a part of her true self, and it worried his mind. It made no sense, none whatsoever, and he cringed at his inability to grasp her intentions.

He shuddered at the idea of her actually playing him for a fool, and this whole intelligent, bored demeanor was just a disguise, set up by someone of far greater intellect than him. This is what nightmares and dreams are made of, he decided, the stuff that sets your blood afire even as it chills your soul.

"I should have been a poet." He thought smirking slightly as Sherlock entered onto the roof.

Molly hummed slightly as she watched Sherlock's look of terror as he dove off of the building. They had put in place a fail-safe, a plan so that he wouldn't die.

But she hadn't done her part. Little Mousy Molly let Sherlock see Miss Hooper as he fell, his eyes staring directly into the shop window where she said she would be, and she laughed at his stupid expression when his head hit the concrete.

Jim Moriarty, however, was more difficult to get rid of. She saw him stand slowly, tucking the gun into his jacket pocket before opening the door to go back down the stairs. As he turned away from her, she lined up her sights, letting out a satisfied mewl as his form instantly crumpled when the bullet pierced his skull.

She lifted herself from her crouching position, toe lightly nudging the corpse of the man who had been holding the sniper's rifle before her.

She danced down the stairs into the street, singing softly, and thinking of those still alive; all of them a bit more boring than the last two, but maybe just a little entertaining, something to keep her alive for a few more months or so.

The lights in the morgue shone brightly as Lestrade left a tear stricken Molly alone with the corpses of the two men Mousy Molly had ever pretended to like.

As he left she suddenly straightened, and her tears dried as she walked over from her sitting position, eager to begin the ending of her great game. She reached

She drew her hand down the face of Moriarty, the same place he had placed his knife in their first conversation, noting that he had a nice clean hole in his forehead where her bullet had entered his skull.

She glanced over at Sherlock's broken body with the same casual disdain with which he had looked her so many times over before picking up her scalpel, running an ebony digit over its sharp edge, nearly drawing blood.

She thought of the nights with Jim from IT, where Mousy Molly played slightly dumb or scared and confused the Master Mind, feeding his ever-growing theory that she was acting, that her script was written by a far superior power.

She had played it up just enough that she knew in his final moments there on the rooftop, he would question the very existence of Miss Molly Hooper.

"I told you I'd win sweetheart. Your game was a bit silly, and I'm almost glad it's over. Almost. Oh well," Molly brought her scalpel up into the light so she could see how it shone when it was so clean and unused, "Best begin this final act, eh?"

She looked down at the men who had always condescended, always laughed at her, always told her what to do, and she smiled, a smile so sincere that it would cause a corpse to shiver.

"Tell me, does genius show in the blood?"