Title: "It's All in the Mind"
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~1,200
Rating: T
A/N: URGGGGGHHHH THIS CHAPTER WAS A PAIN IN THE ASS-
I mean, hey.
I can't wait for the next few chapters. First, I'll be done then. Second, some mind fuckery is gonna go down. Mmhmm.
ANYWAY, yeah. The childhood I have for Moriarty is actually a fic I'm working on for him specifically. Fun times. It's just a watered down version of that fic, so, yep. Look out for that.
Enjoy!
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Perhaps the reason she hadn't remembered the bed was because it was a safe zone. Yes, yes, she couldn't remember him hurting her on the bed. Just outside the bed, just on the ground, against the wall, against the door, pushing against the floor—yes, that's it. That must be it. There was no other explanation. He only held her in his cold arms as he talked and talked about his day, how he bragged about being able to see the outside world while she was stuck inside, believing he was saving her from some deadly attack.
She didn't know how long he would be there. Sometimes, it would be for hours—others, minutes. It felt like days to her, too, when he was in an ugly mood. She had the cuts to prove it, the stories to tell what he had done. "Now, be a good girl and lie there for me. I must practice with this knife on something, and you are my Molly dear. I'd hate to see you be slaughtered on accident," he said to her. Of course she screamed, but one of his lackeys had to hold her down so he could poke and prod with a knife. Or was it a knife? It was sharp, that's all that mattered. Blood loss must've made her pass out. It was the only explanation.
He held her close; she loved it. She never held back—she never had the chance other times—and listened to him talk about his life. Sometimes they were just ramblings about nothing in particular. "Have you ever seen a Sun spot explode? It's quite a lovely scene." Other times, there were motives for killing another human being. "I've found that most conventional ways of killing someone is simply dull. I need to spruce up the fun in this town, Molly."
She didn't care. She was forced to listen to the stories, anyhow (he held on with a strong grip, sometimes unable to even breathe), and some of the stories were interesting. For some reason, that day, he wanted to tell her about his life. Just a fraction of it, however. "Oh, Molly, you might as well know the true me," he whispered in her ear. Moriarty started to pet her hair and she closed her eyes. She wouldn't sleep; she wanted to hear. "I was born as a black sheep in my little town. Born without a mother, born with a desolate father, they all knew I would be something someday. But they were too afraid to voice their reasons.
"See, I was born without a mother because I killed her. Maybe on purpose, she was killing me after all. Perhaps I should've gone with her, but here I am. My father wanted me alive, wanted to see me grow up to be his little boy. Too bad his little boy would kill him in the long run as well. I told him I hated to get my hands dirty," his grip around her shoulders tightened.
"J-Jim," Molly breathed out.
"Every time he mentioned her, that whore of a mother, the one that died because she wanted a child—I smiled. Oh it felt wonderful to know that I was already known as a demon, a spawn of the deepest parts of Hell for killing his lovely wife, my darling mother. What had she done to me, he asked. Why did you take her away from me, you lowlife, he would say. And I would just laugh, knowing that the world had chaos. And he came to me, on his knees, begging for his life. He was praying to God, praying that all would be right in the world, but nothing would spare him. Hell had already been spawned from his brimstone and fire. So he brought a gun out, pointing right at my small body, abusing me, teasing me with death. Death had no place in my shadow except right beside me, and my father pointed it to his head.
"'Kill me,' he whispered to me. He grabbed one of my hands and placed my hand around the handle, my fingers on the trigger. 'Kill me like you killed her. I hope you burn in Hell for what you have done to this family. What you have done to me. Burn my heart out, Jim. Do it!' He screamed. My hand was shaking, but not with sorrow. I enjoyed it. I started to laugh.
"'Burn, father,' I said to him. He was afraid to die, screaming to be spared by God, by me. But I would not forgive him. Nothing would let me forgive him. He was giving me the opportunity to be a monster. So I gave into the darkness and fired a round through his skull. The blood, oh the blood. Molly, you should have seen his eyes roll back into his head, the blood splashing in every direction. I had a strong grip on that gun, and I refused to let it go. I smiled at his death, laughed in his face as he laid there, still praying for a Saint to save his soul. The police moved me far away from home, and the rest is history. A grand history, father, and you would be proud." He growled.
"Jim!" Molly could feel his grip hold on for dear life, digging his fingernails into her skin. But the look on her face was not in pain, nor was it full of fear. No, something made her neutral. Something had caused her to just stare into the voided eyes and see the devil spawn within him. She pushed him away—or did he let go?—and rose, sitting on the edge of the bed. Moriarty moved toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She did not flinch.
"Molly dear, did you enjoy that story?" He whispered through the dark. She began to rapidly blink. She was searching for an answer, anything, but nothing would come. Moriarty leaned toward her and smirked. "You little monster you," and she brought her hands to her ears.
"No, no, no," she repeated over and over again. She was not a monster—was she? What did she do? Why was she there? When would she leave? Who brought her there?
The door opened and Moriarty was summoned. "Sir," one of his lackeys said. Moriarty growled, stubborn of the fact that he had to leave. The door closed behind the lackey, and Moriarty hummed in her ear. But Molly wanted him gone. She wanted to be alone, on her bed, safe, away from the darkness. She wanted the comfort of knowing there were no monsters in her bed. Moriarty, however, tore one of her hands away and whispered:
"Enjoy the feeling, Molly the Monster."
He climbed out of bed and began to leave. Molly fell to the ground and rocked back and forth, repeatedly shouting "no" through her walls. She closed her eyes and shook her head, wanting to go home, wanting to be somewhere else, somewhere far, far away from the lackeys and the knives and the clean sheets they called home there.
She didn't hear the door open or close.
She didn't dare look for the nightmare, either.