"Holy water cannot help you now.
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out.
I don't want your money,
I don't want your crown.
See, I've come to burn your kingdom down."
The fluorescent lights of the morgue burned Molly's eyes. The corpse on the examining table stared at the ceiling with blank eyes, gleaming from the harsh light. Molly took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. She had not had time to add any sugar. Her heart fluttered. She felt weighed down, burdened. She had to tell Sherlock, Lestrade, someone. She could not handle this alone. Jim…
The double doors flew open and Sherlock strode into the lab with his usual effortless, dramatic flair. John followed close behind. His eyelids drooped heavily and his mouth was downturned in displeasure. Sherlock stood across from Molly over the corpse and studied her closely.
"Same clothes as yesterday, Molly?" He raised an eyebrow. Molly blushed furiously. If only he really new. She drew in breath to respond, then stopped as her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Say a word and he's dead.
"You didn't change your clothes, your hair is disheveled. Clearly you did not spend the night in your own flat. You overslept this morning didn't you? No time to sweeten your coffee before work? You look exhausted, Molly. Did your overnight activities take up too much energy?" He spoke quickly, bitterly, without stopping for breath. John sighed behind him and rubbed his forehead.
"No, I…." Her mind was blank. She had no alibi, no lie to feed him, to protect him. Sherlock smirked.
John coughed loudly, drawing Sherlock's attention, then jerked his head toward the door. "Out. Now." He opened the door and held it expectantly. Sherlock looked back at Molly. Her face burned with anger and embarrassment. Tears threatened to fall. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again after a moment. His eyes dropped to the floor. He walked past John, who smiled at Molly apologetically before pursuing Sherlock.
Top marks. Do I get to make you blush like that next time? JM
He can see me. Molly glanced around the room. She looked out the window, scanning the street for him. He 's watching me. Raindrops began to patter the windowpane quietly. At this point, she could not help but wonder if Jim had put the body on the slab behind her, and if she would be next.
Molly drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them tightly. She curled up on the sofa, far from the spot where he had been sitting. She took a deep, shaky, breath, and then let her tears fall. Quiet sobs shook her body. Her tears spread dark, wet blotches across her dressing gown. Sherlock's accusations would have hurt her less under ordinary circumstances, when she could have denied them. The cushion beneath her shifted as Toby arranged himself next to her. She turned her head, brushed back her damp hair, and laid a hand on his back. He purred quietly. Molly smiled sadly, and felt a warm hand rest on the back of her neck. She froze, her smile faded.
"You aren't going to purr?" He asked, playfully disappointed.
"Don't touch me."
He laughed softly and his hand shifted, gripping her thin neck with delicately. Molly could feel her blood pounding against his grasp. He did not tighten his hold, but just held her. After a moment he sighed and his hand slipped away. He bent over the back of the sofa and lifted Toby, cradling him to his chest delicately. He made small clicking noises and scratched him behind the ear. Toby had loved Jim those years ago, and Jim had displayed a special fondness for Molly's cat whenever he had visited her. Molly studied him carefully. He stood before her window, outlined by the dim light from her lamp and the glow of London in the evening. Toby purred lazily, his eyes half closed. Molly's eyes flicked towards the kitchen, to the pans hanging from the ceiling and the knives stowed in the drawer beneath them. If I could just…. She swung her legs off the cushions.
"Don't bother." He turned from the window and let Toby jump out of his arms. Molly felt like a child that had been caught eyeing her mother's jewelry. But she felt far more helpless. His brow furrowed.
"You wouldn't. I know you."
"You don't know anything," Molly said sharply.
"Oh, but I do. I spent so much time with you, Molly. Don't you remember?" Molly did remember. She could recall the evenings spent with him, watching Glee, cuddling with Toby, and afternoons getting coffee with far more sharpness than she would admit. He had been so kind, so soft. He was different now. Instead of cardigans and a casual demeanor, the man before her was cool, professional, and dressed in a suit she could not afford in her wildest dreams. The warmth had vanished from his eyes, replaced with reptilian hunger and calculation. He saw her every move, measured it. She had thought he was considerate and intuitive, but now she understood just how much he could see into her thoughts.
"I just thought we could spend some more time together," He was saying. "We didn't really get off to a great start, thanks to Sherlock." He drawled Sherlock's name with extreme distaste and smiled. "I think we need to spend some quality time together, Molly. To properly cement our relationship."
"We don't have a relationship to cement." Molly said, her voice rising. "You are a criminal! I don't want anything to do with you." She stood up quickly and stood before him. Shadows draped from the hollows in his face, accentuating his sharp chin and round eyes. Initially, Molly had only felt fear, but in the present light, his elegant face resembled carved marble. Shorter than Jim, Molly was forced to look up into his eyes.
"There's my Molly."
"I am not yours." Bitterness and anger swelled in Molly's chest. "You don't own me. You don't even know me! You used me to get to Sherlock so you could get him to-" She stopped, remembering Sherlock hurtling past her window to the ground. True, it had all been an act, a clever play, but she could not help feeling the weight of her role in his false demise.
"And you helped him fake his death, ruined my game, and broke John Watson's poor heart." His face darkened. "Which of us has done more against the greater good?"
Molly stepped back, stung. It had not been her fault. Sherlock had faked his death; she had only helped a bit.
"I didn't… That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" His arms crossed over his chest. "I never held a gun to anyone's head, Molly. I don't like getting my hands dirty. We are more alike than you think. We both like to help people along, don't we?" Molly dropped her eyes to the floor, but Jim gripped her chin and forced her eyes up to his own. "I arrange crimes and interfere with the British government, you help Sherlock solve crimes and mess things up for me." He winked. "See? Two of a kind, eh?"
Molly jerked her chin out of his grip. That's not the same thing, she told herself. They were two different people, on different sides of the law. They came from different worlds, and could not be compared. Jim Moriarty came from the upper echelon world Molly had only glimpsed, never been part of. Molly had risen from modest means and had never crossed anyone. Her mother, a strict women, vowed until her dying day that appearances mattered most, that kindness would get any woman as far as she needed to go in life. Molly had always been kind. She did not need her mother's provocation; it came naturally to her, as did her often awkward and uncontrollable honesty.
His delicate and pale fingers traced lines up her arms, giving Molly goose bumps. He snickered again. She closed her eyes, fighting her urge to slap his hands away.
"You are not as innocent as you think." Cold fingers wrapped around her neck. "Do you want to live, Molly?" She nodded with some difficulty. "And John? Lestrade?" She nodded again. "Sherlock?" She sensed danger and hesitated. Jim's head titled to the side, waiting. If she agreed, what then? Would he kill Sherlock? And if she said no, would Sherlock (and likely herself) be punished? It felt like an eternity had passed before Molly could force a small nod. He laughed.
"We can fix that." He leaned into her, his bristly cheek brushing against hers. Molly could hardly breathe, if from her own fear or Jim's grip on her throat, she was not sure. "You are my new distraction, Molly. I don't intend to share you. Don't go making any mistakes now, or I will be very cross." He breathed into her neck, whispering into her ear with terrifying softness. Molly's fists clenched, but her arms remained glued to her sides. He squeezed her neck tighter.
"I won't," She gasped, "I promise, I won't."
"There's a good girl." He leaned back and released his hold on her. Her breath returned to her shakily, awash with relief. He considered her for a moment. Molly avoided his eyes, rubbing her neck thoughtlessly. A loose strand of hair fell over her forehead. Jim took it between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear. "I am always watching you. I have eyes all over this city. If you don't behave, I'll have to call in a permanent chaperone for you." Molly shook her head. A quiet buzz drew Jim's attention. His drew his phone from his pocket and glanced at it, frowning. His chest heaved with a dramatic sigh.
"This is where I leave you dearest. You'll be hearing from me." He nodded at her distractedly. His shoes clicked down the uncarpeted hallway. Molly closed her eyes. The door creaked open.
"Bye my dear!" He sang, then slammed her door shut.
The ghost of his hand lingered on Molly's skin. Tears slipped down her face. Her back slid down the wall until she was slumped limply on the floor. Beneath her fearful and innocent exterior, Molly began to feel the beginnings of a different attitude towards James Moriarty. What it was, she could not say, but the thought terrified her more than his limitless dark eyes. With this thought in mind, Molly slipped into her soft pajamas, wrapped her self in a blanket, and cried quietly until sleep overcame her.