Hello again! Sorry about the delay!

It's difficult to write dark!Molly without changing her personality but I think I may be sort of getting the hang of it a bit. Same with Rich, the nice noncriminal (but still pretty shady) version of Jim.

Hope you like it!

(January 30th, the back of a London taxicab.)

After her clandestine meeting with the mysterious government man during which she agreed to spy (for money) on Sherlock Holmes (who she was already faithfully following—meaning she would be getting paid for something she would be doing anyway), Molly Hooper returned to Saint Bartholomew's morgue and continued her work for that day as if she had simply taken a late lunchbreak (she didn't even eat lunch) until her shift was over and it was time to take her nightly cab home.

Molly Hooper took cabs because Sherlock Holmes took cabs.

She could afford a car—or a car service—if she had wanted one (or both). She could even afford not to work, for that matter, with the money she inherited from her father. But she liked to keep herself busy and keep up appearances (as if people were actually paying attention) and be like Sherlock Holmes and so she bustled into the back of a standard black London taxicab as she did every evening after her shift.

As usual, Molly stated her address and attached the polite and meaningless "please" and "thanks" to the end of her request with believable enthusiasm, despite being a bit tired after doing autopsies (rigor mortis was difficult to slice through) and very distracted after having had a clandestine meeting with a mysterious government man.

"I know." The cab driver replied, as usual as well. He knew who he was picking up and where she was going.

They did this every weekday evening at 6:06 PM. Still, Molly liked to keep herself friendly but distant. She preferred acquaintances to close friends.

Acquaintances were superficially polite, always putting on their best façade for the public. Friends and family were cruel to friends and family because they could get away with showing who they truly were.

Molly knew how people truly were and she didn't like it. She didn't want people to know who she truly was, either. They wouldn't like it. She didn't even like it. And so she lived life like a masquerade ball where everyone wined and dined each other wearing happy masks in a room of beautiful colors.

"I know." Molly parroted back the third lyric of the call-and-response, with a polite and distant smile as she stared out the window watching the hospital glide away as the cab left the curb.

And that was often the extent of the conversation until she reached home and said her "thank you" again. But today, the cabbie, Jefferson Hope, spoke up, much to Molly's surprise.

"Your boyfriend Sherlock Holmes stopped my cab today." He said, casually.

He was facing the road, one hand on the steering wheel but he glanced back in the rearviewmirror to gage her reaction to his words.

Molly blinked and instantly turned away from the window to look at the back of his head.

"Has he figured you out?!" she questioned, urgently.

"Not yet." Hope chuckled, "He should have, though, with all the things you've said about him and everything I've read. He knew enough to stop my cab but not enough to figure out it was the lowly driver, not the hotshot passenger, that he was looking for."

"He'll realize his mistake by the end of the night." Molly declared, certainly, "If not sooner."

"And if he doesn't?" Hope ventured. Molly could see his raised eyebrow in the rearview.

"He will." Molly insisted, "…and when he doesn't you can't mention my involvement, no matter what he does to you or offers you, or your children get nothing."

"I know, I know." Hope accepted, then adding hopefully, "Maybe if he catches me, he'll kill me…or maybe I'll kill him."

"No." Molly forbade, instantly.

In concert Hope brought the taxi to a sudden halt in the already slow traffic due to allow a family of pedestrians to cross the street in front of them. He politely waved them on as Molly experienced slight whiplash.

"I'm just gonna play the game with him, is all." Hope consoled, "And if he's smart as you say, he won't be in any danger. He'll choose the placebo and I'll choose the poison of those drug study pills you altered for our arrangement."

"And if he chooses wrong?" Molly asked, returning the raised eyebrow which Hope would have seen had he not been watching the children and their father cross the road.

"And here I thought you had faith in your messiah to beat death." Hope sneered, "If your detective can't beat a sick old man like me in a simple gamble then he isn't worth your time and affections, 'sweetheart'."

Molly grimaced in disgust.

The cabdriver had always tried to act fatherly towards her, but it was also always snide and he had been divorced from his wife and alone for a long time now.

"That's something my dad would've said." Molly commented, "You remind me of him, you know."

"Is that so?" Hope inquired, carefully idle and uninterested but watching her in the rearviewmirror again as he continued driving ahead through the city.

"I poisoned him to death." Molly expanded.

"…oh." Hope replied, returning his eyes to the road ahead.

They were silent for awhile as he drove, after that, until they'd left the densely populated area of the concrete and cars, and were rolling slowly through the quieter neighborhood in which Molly lived where the buildings were further apart and had green lawns.

However, when they had stopped in front of her house, before Molly paid and exited the taxi she asked "When and where are you going to play the game with Sherlock?"

"Tonight." Hope answered, "This little further education college. It's undergoing renovation, so its doors are unlocked and its security cameras are down."

"Take me there." Molly ordered.

"What?" Hope said, taken aback.

"Take me there." Molly repeated, more slowly and matter-of-factly, "I want to watch what happens so I can make sure that no mistakes happen that will leave your children without their substantial inheritance and insurance payout."

"Fine." Hope shrugged, "If you insist. But what if your Sherlock sees you?"

"He won't." Molly dismissed, "He never does."

"Alright." Hope accepted, with a nod, "I'll leave you there and then I'll go pick him up. We'll play our game in the chemistry lab, it'll be dark and so you can hide in the next room."

"Okay." Molly accepted, with a nod, "And are you sure you know which pill is which?"

"Always do." Hope affirmed.

And so the taxicab turned around and drove away from Molly's house.

(March 26th, Molly's house.)

The monotonous rush of the washingmachine eventually became a white noise to Molly Hooper, the pathologist, and Richard Brook, the actor, as they sat in the laundry room. In the machine was Molly's white labcoat and shirt, both wine-stained, as well as Rich's white buttondown, coffee-stained. Seated on the currently motionless dryer next to it was Rich, and seated on the adjacent table used for folding clothes was Molly.

Neither of them were wearing shirts.

"So what are those little things?" Rich asked, examining his view with a raised eyebrow, "B cups?"

"That's none of your business." Molly refused, narrowing her eyes and bringing her knees up to cover her chest.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Rich continued, smirking, "I'm really good at guessing that sort of thing. All the time spent backstage with women in the dressing rooms, you know, seeing them get fitted. I've got a good eye. For clothing and sizing, that is. You don't have to worry about me, Miss Hooper."

Molly nodded, understanding his implication, and lowered her knees. "Doctor." She corrected, "I'm too old, I think, to be called 'miss' anymore." It was a polite way of telling him not to be condescending.

"Alright, 'doctor'." Rich agreed. He smiled and was still condescending.

Molly sighed, "So you want a job from me?"

"Yes." Rich confirmed, with a nod, "I do."

"Doing what?" Molly inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Acting, of course." Rich answered, "I'm an actor. And I know you have enough money to pay me."

"And what would I need to hire an actor for?" Molly questioned. This she was genuinely confused about. She wanted to hear the story behind why this 'Richard Brook' person believed she would need an actor working for her.

She also wanted to find out how much he knew about her and who he found out whatever information he had from. (That was the reason Rich was still alive right now.)

"To interact with Sherlock Holmes on your behalf." Rich stated, "The way that cabbie responsible for the 'serial suicides' did."

"You met Mr. Hope, didn't you?" Molly realized, "How much did he tell you?"

"He told me he was going to die." Rich recounted, "I asked why and he explained everything. How he was diagnosed with a brain aneurism and hid it from his family. How he became depressed and gambled all his money away. How his wife finally divorced him after the years of emotional abuse and he had to live in his cab for months until he could afford a tiny flat to live in. How he met you and you offered a solution to his money problems—and his love for gambling and hurting people. How he was on his way to confront Sherlock Holmes for you and die."

"He told you all that?" Molly asked, taken aback, "How long did you know him?"

"I met him once." Rich chuckled, "Gave me a ride one night."

"Mr. Hope was smart." Molly said, "He wouldn't reveal his life story to just anyone, some fare in the back of his cab."

"I'm not 'just anyone'." Rich scoffed, "Old Jeff recognized me from TV. He knew I'm an actor and a good one, too. He said his kids used to watch this show I narrated. He also knew I'd be needing a new job…"

"You were fired." Molly assumed, narrowing her eyes, "Why would I hire someone who couldn't keep their old job?"

"Because it proves how skilled an actor I am." Rich reasoned, "It was why Jeff knew my talent. I played a clean-cut, Catholic kid's show host for years and if I could pull that off he knew I could play whoever you needed me to be."

"But you were caught." Molly countered, "Whatever it was you were hiding from your bosses, they found out about it and fired you. What was it?" She asked even though she knew it could only have been one of four possibilities.

"You'll never guess and I'll never tell." Rich smiled, "But it's not what you're thinking."

Molly sighed. "Even if you're as good an actor as you say you are that still doesn't explain why Mr. Hope would tell you about me. Why would he think I'd need an actor?"

"As a replacement for him after he died." Rich replied, "And not just that, but an upgrade."

"And how do I know you're not just some kind of investigator?" Molly considered, "Mr. Hope wouldn't tell all about himself and all about me to a stranger he'd just met, regardless if he'd seen you on television or not. Everything you told me about him, the aneurism and the divorce and the debt, those are medical and public and financial record. The authorities would have access to those. So how do I know you're not just using that information to put me at ease and make me 'confess' to whatever crimes you may believe I'm guilty of?"

"You don't know for sure," Rich admitted, standing up, "…but I can do another strip show for you if you want proof I'm not wearing a wife. Take of my pants—my underwear, too, if you want to be absolutely sure…" He smirked and even winked.

Molly knew Rich thought she'd be too uncomfortable 'call his bluff', and so Molly had to—not only to make sure he indeed wasn't wearing a wire but also to show him that she wasn't afraid and would not be manipulated. If he was going to work for her (she hadn't decided yet) then he would need to respect her.

"Do it." Molly ordered.

Rich blinked in surprise. "Okay…"

Molly folded her arms and eyed him expectantly.

(And she listened for the sounds of his fellow agents breaking into her house to save him. There was no noise except the washingmachine.)

Rich unhooked his belt, unzipped his fly and allowed his pants to drop to the ground. He paused and glanced up at Molly to see her reaction.

Her face was blank. (He'd hoped for a blush from her, at least.)

Still, when Rich smiled sheepishly and puts his fingers on his underwear, Molly said "stop, that's enough".

"I take it you didn't like what you saw." Rich gathered as he pulled his pants back on.

"I like that you're not recording me." Molly shrugged.

"How do you know it's not in my underwear?" Rich asked, cheekily.

"It's too small." Molly shrugged. It was revenge for his earlier comment about her cup size. She smiled, just a little.

Rich rolled his eyes, laugh unenthusiastically, and hopped backwards back up to sit down on dryer.

"So you trust me now?" He hoped, "And you'll hire me?"

"Why can't you get another job as an actor?" Molly questioned, "It's for the same reason you were fired, isn't it?"

"Well, yes." Rich admitted, "I basically I got 'blacklisted' back in Ireland, not officially or anything but nobody in the entertainment industry will hire me anymore. I came to London thinking it would be different in the UK but apparently it isn't. You said Jeff lived in his cab for months? We'll I've been staying in a cheap hotel and in a few weeks I won't even be able to afford that anymore."

"You must be very desperate for work to want to work for me—if you believe whatever Mr. Hope told you about what I've done." Molly considered, "But then again, you were fired for a reason. Maybe you don't have any morals to compromise."

"I'm show business, you know I don't have a soul." Rich scoffed, "But I don't believe everything Jeff told me about the things you've done."

"What don't you believe?" Molly inquired.

"He told me you murdered your own father." Rich stated, "But I think you only told him that to scare him. He thought the same. He said you mistakenly thought he was coming on to you and you wanted him to back off. But he wanted me to assure his affections towards you were solely paternal."

"I told him he reminded me of my dad." Molly remembered, "He had already mentioned I reminded him of his daughter. He said it was why he didn't try to poison me. That, and I was polite to him."

"Yeah, he said I reminded him of his son, too." Rich assumed, "But I thought it was you who got him started on that Princess Bride thing."

"It was my favorite book growing up." Molly explained, "Before he met me, Mr. Hope was pointing a fake gun at people and making them overdose on paracetamol—Tylenol—and then leaving them by the side of the road somewhere in the city. I recommended he be more creative."

"To get Sherlock Holmes' attention?" Rich suspected.

"Yes." Molly admitted.

Rich snorted. "Jeff told me you were obsessed with that bloke. I'd ask why but you'd probably just tell me the same thing you told me in the toilet at the hospital. He's a 'genius' and all that."

"He is." Molly asserted.

"I know." Rich accepted, "So will you hire me to interact with him for you or are you still going to try to kill me?"

"If I'm going to hire you, I'll have to see how good of an actor you actually are." Molly termed.

"You already have." Rich reminded, "I fooled you into thinking I was 'Jim', from IT, didn't I? And that was the first time I'd ever been to that hospital, too."

"You were good enough to fool me." Molly allowed, "But you need to be able to fool Sherlock Holmes."

"How do we test that?" Rich asked.

"You meet him, talk to him, let him look right at you." Molly described, " And if he's unable to see the truth about you and instead sees a lie—the character that you're playing—and believes it, then I will hire you."

"Okay." Rich agreed, nodding, "I can do that."

"We'll see…" Molly said, skeptically.

The washingmachine beeped, its motion and rocking noise slowly stopping until the room was silent.

Rich looked at Molly and Molly looked back at Rich. They stared at each other for a long moment until Molly finally raised an eyebrow and Rich realized that she expected him to get up and remove the laundry from the washer and put it into the dryer.

Once he'd realized it, he jumped up and did what he was supposed to.

(January 31st, the morgue.)

It was only six in the morning when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade strolled into the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital to ask if the medical examiner on duty had finished the autopsy of the serial killer cabbie who Sherlock Holmes had caught the night before and who had been randomly shot by a man "probably with a history of military service", "nerves of steel" and "actually, do you know what, ignore me" (as described by the criminal's catcher Sherlock Holmes himself).

At only six in the morning medical examiner Molly Hooper was just finishing up her night shift and so was still there in the morgue to answer "Yes".

"So was there any identification on the body?" Lestrade followed up, glancing away from Molly at the naked, dead old man on the metal slab.

The corpse had been sewn back up, its eyes closed and a white cloth draped over it as a thin useless blanket in the cold room. (Yes, 'it'. Once Hope had died, he was no longer a person; just a thing to pick apart and put back together. It didn't matter that Molly had known Hope while he was alive.)

"No." Molly shook her head, "There was only cash in the wallet. No ID or creditcards."

"No taxi license?" Lestrade checked, "The man was a cabbie."

"I didn't find anything in the man's clothes." Molly shrugged, "Maybe it's in his taxi."

"Officers searched the vehicle, they didn't find it." Lestrade stated, also shrugging and shaking his head.

(January 30th 10:00 PM, outside Roland Kerr Further Education College.)

Molly had waited alone in the building until Jefferson Hope's cab returned to park exactly in front of the further education college undergoing. She watched from a window upstairs as Hope and Sherlock exited the vehicle and then entered the identical building next to the one she was in.

Hope had done that on purpose. He had led Sherlock into the building that Molly wasn't hiding in so that she wouldn't be able to watch him and Sherlock play his deadly game.

Molly wanted to sneak into the building next door but knew it was too risky to try, especially since Hope's gun was fake and Sherlock would probably know it was fake and so could walk away from the confrontation whenever he felt like it (for example, if he heard someone else creeping around the building, attempting to spy on him).

So instead, Molly went back outside of the college and opened the (left unlocked since Hope had been busy with Sherlock and forgotten to lock it) front door of Hope's taxicab and climbed into the driver's seat. With gloved hands, she removed the photo of his children (wife cut out of the picture) and any other forms of identification (insurance and car information, medical documents, receipts) out of the glove-compartment and passenger's seat. Finally, she popped open the trunk and checked it, just in case, closing it after she'd found nothing that could be used as evidence to identify the cabbie (or possibly link him to her).

After she was finished and walking away from the cab down the sidewalk, thinking that she would never see Hope alive again (and refusing to consider that it might be Sherlock she'd never see alive again), she had to duck into a dark alley when she saw John Watson, Sherlock's new flatmate, sprint by towards the further education college, gun in hand.

Pressed up against the damp side of a brick wall, holding her breath she thought to herself that Sherlock didn't need John's help or protection. Sherlock was a genius! He could take care of himself! He didn't need John.

…and if he trusted and befriended John, then he would be too preoccupied to notice that he needed Molly.

(January 31st, the morgue.)

"Another killer without a name, without any loved ones." Lestrade commented, with a sigh and another headshake, this time down at the dead body, "Same old story."

Molly smiled. "Well it saves us the paperwork," she joked, "Unclaimed bodies can be put to better use, too. For teaching or experiments. Maybe Sherlock could do one of his experiments on the body."

"Sherlock was the one who caught this old man." Lestrade informed, "But it was an 'unidentified shooter' who killed him."

"Oh, really?" Molly feigned surprise with wide eyes and ovular mouth.

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded, then chuckled adding, "After what happened the paramedics decided that Sherlock was in shock. They put him in a bright orange shock blanket and made him sit on the back of the ambulance for twenty minutes. Some of the uniforms snapped pictures."

"That's funny." Molly giggled politely, "I hope orange was his color." She needed to see those pictures. She knew she should have stayed at the college.

"Well, not exactly but Sherlock's fine now." Lestrade said, "He and his new flatmate went out to eat. His flatmate's a doctor and so he was able to get Sherlock away from the paramedics. But the man's also ex-military too, and when Sherlock described the shooter, John Watson—that's the flatmate's name—fit the description. Of course, Sherlock realized what he was saying and said it was all the 'shock' talking but Sherlock wasn't really in shock. He'd been through much worse than that—trust me, I've seen the aftermath—and he knew exactly what he was talking about."

"So you think it was the flatmate who did it?" Molly inquired, "This… 'John Watson' person who shot the killer? Should I rule his death a homicide?"

"No." Lestrade denied, "I mean, I haven't got any proof. It's all speculation so I probably shouldn't have even said anything. Besides, even if the flatmate had been the one to kill the cabbie, he would've done the right thing, killing a serial killer and saving Sherlock's life, not to mention anyone else who might've been killed by him if he hadn't been shot….But it's just that because he's a genius, Sherlock thinks everybody else is an idiot. I may not be as smart as he is but I'm not stupid, either and I think Sherlock owes me some thanks. I've kept him out of trouble more than once and he repays me by hiding evidence for important cases."

"He solves them in the end, though, doesn't he?" Molly reminded.

"Yes, and that's why I put up with as much as I do from him." Lestrade confirmed, "But just a little respect would be nice every once in a while." He sighed again, the chuckled again, "I don't know why I'm complaining about this to you, though. Sorry about that."

"It's okay." Molly allowed, with another, wistful, smile, "Sherlock can be…odd and even a bit rude, at times, too so I know what you're feeling. But he is a genius and good at what he does so I guess that makes it okay, doesn't it? I mean, geniuses are often eccentric. And it's awe-inspiring watching him work, I've never seen anything—no, anyone like him before."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at her words. He had seen her wistful smile and was more perceptive than Sherlock gave him credit for.

"That's true but don't go getting some silly crush on him, now." he warned, laughing to cushion the very serious advice, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this either, but I am because you need to know what you're getting into before you make the same mistake. Listen, it happened to my sergeant. A female officer about your age, I won't use any names. She got a little crush on Sherlock Holmes when he first started consulting for the Yard. Tall, pretty eyes, flowing dark hair—you know, all the women notice him. And when they see him work, how smart he is, they react just like you. Well, my sergeant, she tried her best to befriend Sherlock, to work with him and help him—she even tried to impress him, but he just wasn't interested. He called her stupid, the way he calls everyone stupid and turned her down, the way he turns every woman down—I won't say anymore about that, but I'm telling you now, it's not going to happen. And that's not because there's anything wrong with you, it's because Sherlock's just not capable of having a relationship, I think. You know he's not a 'people-person' and so there's no sense wasting your time on him."

"…okay." Molly pretended to accept, with a nod, "Thanks for telling me. But I don't have a 'crush' on Sherlock, anyway." She had tuned out most of what Lestrade had said. "Even so, whatever happened to the sergeant after that?" she asked.

"They're enemies now." Lestrade revealed, "She didn't take the rejection well. Now, they're always at each other's throats whenever they're on the same case together, and she's turned other officers against him as well. It's funny, in a way. She started out admiring his abilities and now she's against the unorthodox way he works."

That Molly had listened carefully to. A story of a woman who admired Sherlock but ended up becoming his enemy. That was something Molly had to heed as a warning. She had to make sure the same thing would not happen to her.

"How did you meet Sherlock?" Molly nonsequitured, because she wondered how long Lestrade had known Sherlock and it seemed to be pretty easy to get information out of him—at least for someone as unassuming and nonthreatening as her.

"Now that's an interesting story." Lestrade laughed, "It was five years ago. I actually arrested Sherlock, I won't say for what since the case was dismissed and the records deleted, but I wasn't DI yet and I found him snooping around a crime scene—not trespassing or anything, though. When I brought him in, he was giving me instructions on how to collect proper evidence for his own arrest and he had already solved the case that I had gone to the scene to investigate. I didn't believe him at first, of course, and before I could even check if he was correct, which he was, his older brother arrived to get him out and cover his arrest up. His brother works high up in the government and so he's able to do that. I'm sure he'd done it before since Sherlock already knew so much about the system—even though he technically wasn't in it. He didn't even want to go with his brother, who has a… 'unique' name like him, 'Mycroft', I think, but he was forced to and I thought I'd never see Sherlock again. Which bothered me for a few weeks since I later figured out he was right about who he said had committed the crime. But then, a month or so later, he was at another one of my crime scenes and at it again. He solved that case, too, and so I decided to bring him in as a consultant."

"Sherlock has a brother?" Molly checked in surprised. She honestly had not known that fact, "I didn't know."

"Sherlock doesn't talk about him much." Lestrade explained, "The two don't get along. Sherlock resents him for using his money and connections to try to manage his life. But the truth is his brother's just worried about him, for good reason, and wants to make sure he's safe."

"I see." Molly accepted. She now knew who the mysterious government man who hired her to spy on Sherlock was.

"Well, anyway, I'll collect the autopsy report and be on my way now, then." Lestrade finally decided to end his unrelated chat with Molly and return to work.

"Okay." Molly agreed, handing him the file folder she'd had waiting for him in her arms since he'd walked into the chilly room (luckily still wearing his coat and scarf—although Molly preferred that outfit on Sherlock).

Lestrade took the folder, thanked her, turned and left.

Once he was gone and Molly was alone in the room with the dead body of Jefferson Hope, she dared pull out the taxi license ID badge she'd recovered from the man's body…and the pink cellphone of Jennifer Wilson she'd found in his pocket.

After a quick glance, she hastily put them back. She was going to keep them.

(March 26th, Molly's house.)

Molly stood watching as Rich as he folded the warm clothes, fresh out of the dryer, into piles on the table she had previously been sitting on. The laundry room was silent.

"There." She said, finally and satisfied, folding her arms, "Good enough."

"Well, you only made me redo it three times." Rich replied, sarcastically, " 'Practice makes perfect', is what they always say. And 'third time's a charm', too, of course. But the real question is: who is 'they'?"

"Conventional wisdom." Molly explained, as if Rich's question was serious, "They are generations of people who know what they're doing from experience."

Turning away from the table to face her, Rich suddenly changed the subject to, "Can I move in with you?"

"What?" Molly responded, taken aback.

"You've got a big place here, lots of empty rooms I could stay in." Rich reasoned, "I told you I can't afford to live in the hotel anymore. And I've shown you I can do laundry so I can help around the house. Besides, you don't fully trust me yet, either, do you?"

"No, so why would I allow you to live in my home?" Molly returned.

"Because then you'd be able to watch me." Rich explained.

"And you'd be able to watch me, too." Molly echoed, "Which is exactly what you want if you were sent here to spy on me."

"If you actually believed I'm here to spy on you, I'd be dead by now, wouldn't I?" Rich suspected, "So you don't think that's what I'm here to do. But if you ever change your mind, you'd have easy access to me. To kill me…or to do other things, if you decide Sherlock isn't what you want after all…"

Molly rolled her eyes, adding a shaking head to garnish the expression.

"I'd never decide that. Ever." Molly insisted, "But even if I did, I wouldn't be what you want, anyway."

"So what?" Rich scoffed, "You aren't what Sherlock wants but that doesn't seem to deter you."

"Sherlock isn't gay, though." Molly returned.

"That's debatable." Rich countered, smirking, "But I never said I was gay. What I said is I have a good eye for clothing. And good taste. In clothing and in women."

"But you said I wouldn't have to worry about you." Molly reminded, skeptically.

"And you don't." Rich confirmed, "B-cups just aren't my thing, you see. That's all I meant. So if you let me move in, I'll never put a 'move' on you—unless you ask me very nicely, of course."

Molly sighed.

"If I allow you to live here, then you'll have to do everything I say," Molly conditioned, "obey every rule I set, here and wherever we go. You'll be home when I ask you to and get out when tell you as well. You can't tell anyone that you're staying here or receive mail at this address. And if I ever suspect you of anything, there will be a consequence. I don't have to explain, you know what it is and it will happen if you do anything against me. Do you understand?"

"Uh huh." Rich nodded, "I understand."

"Good." Molly accepted, nodding once in return, "Now hand me my shirt, put yours back on and put the rest of the clothes in the basket."

"Yes ma'am." Rich smiled, matter-of-factly, then quickly completing the task assigned to him, Molly watching him work with folded arms and scrutiny.

This was going to be interesting…

...hopefully lol.

Writer's block is slowing the story down so it loses momentum. Momentum is important. I need to work more quickly.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and want me to continue. Do you like this Molly? Do you like Rich? Are they interesting, at least?

If you have the time, please review and tell me what you think!