"You understand, I got a plan for us.

I bet you didn't know that I was dangerous."

If Molly had ever truly experienced anxiety in her life, it was a dream compared to her days under the close eyes of James Moriarty. Every move she made she feared was being watched. She constantly saw him in the street, then realized it was just another London banker headed to the city. He haunted her thoughts, gliding across her consciousness like a malevolent shadow. If she strayed from her usual routine she received stern warnings from him in the form of threatening texts. When he was in a better mood, he flirted, albeit in an unusual way.

I love the way you look when you cut into a corpse.

I'm trying to decide which crown jewel would look best with your paleness, dearest.

That blouse would look better at the foot of my bed. xx

He always knew what she was wearing. He had not visited her personally in days, but he found pleasure in commenting on her day-to-day appearance. Molly preferred to wear soft pinks and creams, but Jim gave her special compliments when she wore darker shades of red and grey. His daily taunting gave Molly strange fits of anxiety, but she could not help blushing at the compliments. Sherlock had only ever mentioned her appearance when he wanted something from her, usually feeding her criticism over praise. Her heart stopped every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, then raced as she read his messages. He new what she was thinking before she thought it. As much as it terrified her, she was in awe at his deep understanding of her mind.

A week after his last appearance, Molly was greeted at the hospital by an outrageous bouquet of exotic flowers perched ostentatiously on the reception desk. When Molly pushed through the glass doors into the lobby, the receptionist, Helen, poked her head out from behind the blooms and squeaked with suppressed excitement.

"Oh Molly!" She stood quickly, her chair grating against the floor. "These were left here for you!"

Molly forced a smile. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Helen leaned forward over the desk. "The man who brought them in was absolutely gorgeous! Is he your boyfriend?"

"No he's-" Molly blushed furiously, struggling for words. Stalker, criminal, and psychopath all came to mind. "He's a friend."

Helen laughed. "Well he doesn't think so! What kind of friend just leaves flowers? You should have seen him!" Helen had her there. Molly faked another smile and took the flowers in her arms. A cerise petal brushed against her cheek. She mumbled her thanks to Helen and pushed open the double doors into the corridor with her back, hiding her face behind the delicate flora.

In the employee locker room, Molly stowed the flowers hastily in her locker with her coat and bag. She took her phone in her hand and stared intently at the screen. She expected a text any minute. He had delivered the flowers personally; he had to have been watching her reaction. Minutes passed before Molly dragged herself away from the dim screen and forced herself to work.

The day wore on excruciatingly slowly. Every spare moment, Molly checked her phone. His silence was unbearable. Worry dug into her heart like a drill. He must have seen her reaction. Was he angry? If he was, Molly was terrified of how he would handle it. During her lunch break, Molly ate her salad silently. Various forms of violence flashed through her mind, crimes she had seen on the news committed once more with herself as the victim. She had no idea what he was capable of. Lestrade had told her about the people he had strapped explosives too; an old woman, a child… She shivered. Her appetite gone, she threw away the soggy remnants of her meal and shrugged into her lab coat.

Even the most gruesome bodies in the morgue could not distract her. She only imagined her own body on an examination table, broken and bruised by an assassin's hand. If killing her suited Jim's fancy, would he do it himself? No, he did not get his hands dirty, he had said so himself. He could arrange an accident, poison her, or have a sniper shoot her through the window. Stop it, she thought, You aren't helping anyone by thinking like this.

When Molly finished her last examination and filed the necessary paperwork, she gathered her things (including the slightly wilted bouquet) and walked quickly through the lobby.

Helen, putting on her coat and shutting down her computer, waved to Molly as she passed. "Tell you boyfriend hi for me!" Molly pretended she didn't hear.

On the tube, Molly received knowing smiles from the other passengers, who gazed at the rainbow of blooms on her lap with a mixture of admiration and jealousy. A woman even told her how lucky she was to have a man who gave her that much attention. At the steps of her front door she paused, holding her keys in her hand. She felt numb, like she had just emerged from a frozen lake. Her keys rattled in the lock. Without bothering to turn the lights on, Molly walked into the kitchen and got out a vase. She filled it with water from the tap, tucked the flowers in carefully, and set it on her table. Feeling her exhaustion weighing her down, she sat down and rest her forehead on the polished wood. Sleep threatened to overcome her, whispering to her that she could just slip away…

A floorboard creaked behind her. Fabric rustled faintly. Molly turned her head on its side and looked up at him. Jim gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed in a glare burning with something Molly did not understand. She turned her head away from him, avoiding his stare.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Why should I?"

Molly shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Because you're bored. I don't know what else you plan to do."

"Don't be obvious, Molly. It doesn't suit you." His voice was low, so quiet that Molly had to strain to here it. "You didn't like my flowers."

"No, I did." Molly straightened her back. She could not face him. Her hands twisted in her lap. "I don't understand this."

"I thought it was the ordinary thing to do, to send women flowers?"

"No Jim!" Molly felt a surge of frustration and stood up. Her chair clattered to the floor loudly. Molly flushed with anger and embarrassment and straightened the chair, flustered. Jim laughed quietly, but stopped when Molly turned her pained frown upon him. "This is not funny. I don't know what you expected, but if you think you can just use me to get to Sherlock again, you are so wrong!" Angry tears sprouted from the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Jim reached for her, but Molly shoved him roughly in the chest. He stumbled back a few steps. His eyes seemed to grow several shades darker. His hands curled to fists. He closed the distance between them in an instant and gripped Molly's forearms in a vice-like grip. She twisted and struggled in vain. He pulled her away from the table and slammed her back into the smooth, papered wall, rattling old picture frames.

"Don't be so obvious Molly. You don't understand anything." He hissed at her, pushing her hands above her head, trapping her against the wall.

"Don't pretend you actually cared about me."

Jim eyed her for a moment, thoughtful. She glared back at him, mustering her last reserves of strength to appear defiant. His head tilted slightly.

Then his lips descended upon hers. Molly closed her eyes instinctively. Goosebumps prickled on the back of her neck. She turned her face away from him, but his lips were magnets, pulling her back again.

"Jim, stop…" She could smell his expensive cologne, metallic and sharp. His lips parted hers and bit down sharply. Molly should have been fighting, kicking, throwing her arms out at his sharply angled face. But she couldn't. Her muscles went weak, and she felt her lips responding to his. A small groan escaped him. His hands glided down her arms, leaving an icy trail across her skin. He reached her hips and pulled her closer to him, almost lifting her. Her neck arched backwards. She dropped her hands and gripped his shoulders tightly. His motions became more urgent, aggressive. His fingers dug into her hips painfully, but Molly did not protest. She felt like liquid in his arms. Her mind screamed for him to stop, but another part of her begged him not to. One of his hands slipped beneath the hem of her blouse and slid across her waist, sending ripples of sensation throughout her nerves.

"I own you, Molly." His mouth wandered to her shoulder and nipped at her thin collarbone. He pushed her back into the wall. Molly gasped, struggling for air.

"No, Jim, I-" He crushed her lips again, forcing her to respond. He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled, dark, greedy.

"Oh, yes. I own you, and I don't want to share you." His fingernails raked across the small of her back. His left hand gripped her neck tightly, jerking her face up to meet his. His other hand pulled her towards him, bending her back until she thought it would break. "Not with anyone," He muttered into the gentle curve of her neck. His grip tightened.

"Jim…" Molly whimpered.

"Say it," He demanded. "And best be convincing, I can tell when you're lying."

"I'm yours." The words slipped from her tongue unbidden. His eyes, deep brown and hungry, drank her in. "I am yours, Jim." Her heartbeat slowed. For an eternity he stared into her eyes.

"Then I suppose it's settled."

He dragged his lips down her neck, across her collarbone, tracing the planes of her skin. Molly bent her neck and stared at the ceiling. She bit her lip, fighting back the sounds that threatened to betray her. Jim's arms encircled her torso, growling, "Mine, all mine," into her hair.

If Jim thought she had lied, he certainly did not appear to mind. If believed her, Molly feared that he would keep his word, and never let her escape. Even more than that, she feared that she would not want to.