Title: The Ghost in the Game
Author: EmmyAngua
Rating: 15
Genre: Thriller, Mystery, Darkfic
Warnings: Implied minor character incest. Implied torture. Bad language.
Ships: Implied Sherlock/John, Molly/Other.
Summary: Moriarty has a secret. When Molly Hooper gets closer to it than anyone has before she knows her chances of survival are zero. But what is it? And how does it involve a missing scientist, Irene Adler, a deserted Manor House, and some mysterious hauntings at 221b Baker Street?
A/N: I've changed the summary a bit , because I thought it was a little weak. I'm getting a bit worried no one is reading! If you are, um, please let me know!
Chapter 3
Molly sat at her desk and stared blankly at her computer screen. She had preferred it when the colour was all wibbly.
Her gaudy new blog was open on the browser and she was tiptoeing through it cautiously. She had no posting access to it, though she had tried to guess the passwords without success. She imagined Jim (as she was supposed to call him now) sitting upstairs taking helpdesk calls while he invented Molly Hooper's life.
Helplessness didn't even cover it.
Over the last few weeks she'd watched as Molly Hooper gained a cat and asked reality show hosts about lipstick. Now she was apparently watching Glee cuddled up to the man who had killed her husband and her former PA.
And he had killed her PA. While she had no real proof that her husband was alive or dead in any real sense, she'd already seen the cutting from the NY Times Jim had so kindly had sent to her. Hannah Wade had been raped and strangled in her own high security apartment block. There police had no leads. She found herself stroking the face pictured in the paper. The African-American girl looking back at her was cuddled into the neck of her boyfriend and looked carefree and happy.
"Molly?"
She jumped and managed to remember her dowdy English expression and wilting voice before she snapped 'What?' in her strongest New York twang.
"Yes Kev?"
Kev sighed. "Sherlock's here. He's asking about fingernails. He's all yours."
Molly nodded and sighed. It was time to put on her Glee-watching, cat-loving, psychopath-dating mask again.
Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa eating an entire packet of biscuits for no other reason than it annoyed John when he did. John was being completely unreasonable, insisting on going to this stupid job every day when they had much better things to be doing.
"Sherlock?" There was a light tap on the door.
"Not now Mrs. Hudson! I'm eating! You know how much you approve of me eating things."
"There's a telegram for you Sherlock."
"Not n-"
Sherlock froze. Telegram? Now that was interesting! He leapt to his feet showing the carpet with crumbs and threw the door open.
Mrs. Hudson was gone.
Sherlock frowned. He had moved far too quickly for her to have got downstairs. The logical conclusion was that she hadn't been up here.
Deciding that it was just, just possible he had mistaken her for being upstairs when she had actually called from downstairs he bounced down the steps with his dressing gown billowing out behind him. He rounded the corner and rapped on the door.
"Mrs. Hudson?"
The frosted glass door opened a crack and she peeked out at him.
"If this is about the fingernails-" she began dangerously.
At the same time Sherlock demanded; "Where is it?"
"What?"
"The telegram."
"I'm not quite old enough to be getting one of them Sherlock," she scoffed.
"You just called upstairs and said there was a telegram for me."
Mrs. Hudson blinked. "I didn't. I've been watching Countdown. Perhaps you were dreaming."
Sherlock looked at her guileless face, and unlike many guileless faces he'd seen in his time, he judged it be actually free from guile.
She reached out and began brushing biscuit crumbs from his top with a tut at the state of him.
"My mistake," he said with a friendly smile. "Go back to your dreary programme."
Molly (she was growing attached to the name now) was back in her office. She was slumped in her chair, staring at her blank computer screen without seeing anything. Never in her whole life had she wanted to hide from the world like she did now.
She briefly entertained the idea of shoving the filing cabinet in front of the door and huddling in a corner until she died from starvation. It was probably against hospital policy.
She had done her part. He'd made her go over and over what she was supposed to say, and do, and act. She was supposed to be the dumb, blind girlfriend.
He'd thought it hilarious pretending to be gay.
"You seem to attract the gays, don't you?" he smirked.
She'd introduced Jim to Sherlock Holmes. She'd thrown a tantrum. She'd left. She was waiting for him in her office as instructed.
Moriarty (she wasn't ever calling him Jim again) meandered in ten minutes later eating a Mars Bar and playing a racing game on her cell phone one-handed.
"Have you ever considered a career in acting?" he purred. "You – Mollidith – were perfect. You've earned a reward." He scrolled through the phone. "Any ex-boyfriends you'd like wiped out of the gene pool?"
He frowned at her expressionless face as she stared blankly up from her chair and pinched her cheek. "Cheer up babes. You were good. I mean it about the reward."
Moriarty grabbed her hair and seized a scalding kiss from her. His hands roamed freely over her still, emotionless body. He tasted like the Mars Bar.
"There," he said – grinning down at her as though she were in a swoon of passion, "I take it back about attracting the gays. There's plenty of straight guys who'd take a pop at you. Not that I'm straight. Not that I'm anything really."
"Have I outlived my interest then?" asked Molly, toneless.
"Nice try Mollidith," he grinned. "But you have one final pleasure left for me. I want to see your face when you realise exactly what I've done to your precious husband. And I want to see what happens when you work out what's going to happen to you."
He took a final bite of the Mars Bar.
"But first I've got some playing to do with Sherlock and his puppy. So I'll have to put you back in the toy box for a while." He grinned. "Don't worry though, I know some lovely men who'll look after you. I'll have you picked up tomorrow."