Title: "It's All in the Mind"
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~2,300
Rating: T

A/N: I'm really hoping I cleared up all the loose ends. I can't think of any others, but if I missed something, I'm just terrible.

Don't hate me for that ending, either. That's the ending.

Don't tell me I must've missed the ending when pasting it over.

Because I didn't. So don't hate me. It makes perfect sense, I think.

But! It's the final chapter! Oh, thank you to everyone that's been reading this since the beginning. Or, if not, thank you for reading this story! Means a lot. And I love the reviews. They were very good last chapter, which was what I hoped. You guys are too much. But thank you again, and I hope you like the ending.

Enjoy part two!

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

The big bad wolf lied to her. Little red would never escape into the outside world. He would keep her locked up for as long as he wished. He wanted to see her crumble and rot inside the cell, see her die over time. But little red didn't want that. He would try to scare her with those big fangs he had, stare into her little eyes with what big eyes he had, and smile with that grand grin he composed. "My darling Molly, you wouldn't hurt a fly."

But the big bad wolf lied. He lied all the time. His venom was sometimes empowering, giving her the strength to fight. He knew she could do something, his little red. But she was unresponsive to his submissions, the marks he would bruise on her precious pale body, as he bit more into her skin with his venom. Sometimes, it would just be words growled into her ear. "A worthless brain is rotting away before me. Do the world a favor." Other times, he would grab her with his sharp claws and never let go. "You think you can run from someone like me? Oh Molly," his nails puncturing a vein, "you do have hopeless wishes."

Molly continued to scream, the pain wrecking her very body. It was all flooding back to her without recourse, surging through her mind like it was just yesterday. But it hadn't. Was she dreaming? Was it something she made up this whole time? The memories continued to crowd her eyes, continued to crash through the cracks of time and seize her by the throat. She could hardly breathe.

She tried to run, once. Yes, she had the plane ticket in her hand, the luggage by the door, but there was no phone call. She was leaving on her own. Her Jim had held a knife to her throat about speaking out about his treacherous path, and she couldn't live with him. She needed to go. But he was outside the door the entire time, so when she opened it wide, the malicious smile was fading.

"Leaving so soon?" The luggage was dropped, and she tried to run. But he grabbed her by the reins and threw her to the ground, her knees cracking against the floor. "You know, I thought you were different than the others, the stubborn lot." She tried to rip away, but his hold was too much. She started to cry. "But you have always been such a disappointment, Molly dear. Maybe I should straighten you out and get rid of that."

She never tried to run away again.

He made her watch the murders sometimes. This time, it was a government official he had targeted, and he left a note on the desk to watch a video on their computer. She had no choice; she was already bound by blood. Clicking play, she heard the crying screams of a man, begging and pleading for mercy. "Oh, look, we have an audience," Moriarty waved to the camera. She just stared at the screen. "I think it's time we start the show, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Come one, come all," a buzzsaw started to cackle and whizz in his hands, and the man in the chair twisted and shouted for it to stop. But she watched as Moriarty sliced up his body, cutting into the face at first, and then circulating down the stomach to watch the insides fall out, all while laughing and warning those that had watched it their fate.

When Moriarty was finished, he wiped his brow and smeared blood all over him. "Oh, and dear Molly," he whispered through the air, "I hope you know this is your doing." She pushed the chair away from the desk and felt someone grab her arms. She knew who it was; she didn't try to fight. "I hope never to do it again." A man's voice whispered in her ear. She didn't say a word.

But how did she get there? How was she trapped and tortured by the man that kept her trapped in her own home? Why was she safe in some asylum when she should be dead? Was she dead? No, she could still feel pain—she was still so alive. She closed her eyes and screamed in agony. "Make it stop!" She cried. Molly scratched at her head and felt it getting harder and harder to breathe. She opened her eyes to make sure Jim had not been choking her—he would be blamed for such mutiny.

She remembered blood. Little red had to trick the big wolf somehow, lure him into the cell she had been stuck within ever since meeting him. But she never got the chance. Instead, he gave her the consent to kill him. With that devilish smirk, that poised charm, he just stood behind her body and whispered, "My darling Molly, you wouldn't hurt a fly. But I bet you want me to burn." When she turned around, she was already holding the knife in her hand, lunging for his heart. And all he did was smile.

Suddenly, Molly heard the howls in the hallways again, screaming for help, crying for mercy. There were small whispers coming and going, breathing down her neck. And it was the big bad wolf, always trying to scare away his little red. "Jim, please!" She cried. But the whispers were there.

"Monster."

"Nightmare."

"Molly, dear."

"Hello."

She rose from the ground and spun to see the door. She could see the creeping shadows climbing higher and higher on the ceiling, but she wasn't afraid. She was more afraid of what was behind the door, if it was her big bad wolf coming back for her. He was still out there, crawling through the cracks of the system, trying to make it back to her in one piece so he could take her back to his cell, her lonesome prison. The door started to open, and the lackeys started to pile in.

"No, please, stay back!" Her back hit the wall, but her hands were trying to climb. She needed an escape. She needed to get away. Where was her escape plan? She had one. Where was it? The lackeys continued to move toward her, arms out toward her, trying to grab her. But she continued to scream. "No, please!" She could hear the familiar voices of Sherlock and John, talking to a deep voice, and she tried to peer out into the world again, but all she could see were the shadows grabbing at her and clawing against her skin. She screamed while the men beside her tried to calm her.

"Molly, Molly, it's okay. You're not going to die."

But they lied. They always lied to her. "No, you're wrong! Let me go!" She thrashed about, trying to escape from the shadowy clutches of the damned. They held no remorse in their wicked souls, no sense of guilt ran through their veins. They did what they were told by the big bad wolf, and my, what mighty grips they had. "I'm fine! Just let me go!" She needed to leave, before Jim would return, before she was eaten by her wolf. Little red needed to run back to her house and never return to her grandmother's house. She'd stay away for the rest of her life, she promised.

But Molly listened to the outside world again. She knew she was in an asylum. She knew she had a mental breakdown, and that Sherlock Holmes brought her to this place because he did not want the bother of taking care of her. She knew she lived with Jim for months before the blood. But why did he visit her? Why did he care so much about her? She looked up at one of the men next to her. "Why do you listen to him?" The man did not respond. "He's a monster!"

"And you are not?"

Her eyes widened.

No.

Little red was safe. The big bad wolf couldn't get to her.

She turned her attention to the doorway, watching a woman write something in her file. She knew this woman. Brunette, tall, business attire—she was not a nurse. She was there strictly for business. But Molly didn't care about her; she cared about the man next to her, the one the woman never addressed. He smiled. "You still don't think you are a monster, dear Molly?"

"Jim," she whispered.

It couldn't be. He was—he was the big bad wolf, he was gone! He couldn't get to her anymore! He couldn't touch her! Why was he there? Where did he come from? The woman held out the file and continued to write down whatever happened. Molly would make sure to read the writings, to know she was not seeing things—no, this was real. He was there.

"I leave for a little while and here you are, making a scene out of yourself. Oh, haven't we been through this, about your little hiccups?" Molly tried to tear her arms out from the large hands that held her. It was no use.

"S-S-Stay a-a-away, J-Jim," she whispered. Moriarty just smiled.

"But, I came to see you, my little monster. Look at how big you've grown! It's a shame they put you in this place, you should be running around like I had the privilege of having," he said to her.

"I'm not like you!" Molly shouted. Moriarty chuckled.

"Indeed you are," he replied. He started to walk toward her; so did the woman next to him. Molly tried so hard to be free from the clutches that held her down, but to no avail. Moriarty was walking straight for her, ready to pounce and strike at whatever chance he could get. "And you proved yourself to be quite the monster, my dear. Haven't you?"

Molly shut her eyes. She could hear the clicking of the woman's heels. "I don't know what you're talking about." She uttered. Moriarty let out a laugh.

"Ha! Good, good, Molly! Play the innocent card in front of the audience. I do believe we have quite the liar here tonight, folks," Moriarty growled. The heels stopped. Molly opened her eyes and hung her head to the ground, staring at the floor. "Look at me, Molly."

She couldn't.

She was fixated on the blood spilling around them.

Why was there blood? What had she done? "You killed me, Molly," he whispered. "We've been through this time and time again, but you just won't let me go. Instead of Hell I go into, in you go to the pits." Molly looked up. He hadn't a scratch on him. He was alive. He was lying again. "Now, please be a good girl for a while. I hate to see you like this."

"I didn't kill you."

He killed himself.

He told her to kill him.

He wanted her to kill him.

So she did.

On his dying breath, he said to her, "Look at what you have become: a monster."

And he smiled.

For the first time in months, she started to smile, stopping her thrashes. She was laughing. The woman just stared at her as she let her laughter fill the air. She did that when Moriarty died, too. She sat next to his corpse, just laughing, until the police arrived. And even then, she still laughed, still sat in the blood that ruined her. "He told me to do it," she whispered. "He wanted to die. He wanted to. So I killed him. He thought I couldn't, but I did it. He underestimated me. I can kill again. And again. And again." She felt nothing.

But she felt alive.

Molly looked up at Moriarty and continued to smile. And so did he. "Oh, my Molly dear, I knew you would see the light." No, she saw nothing but the dark crowding her. The woman took a step forward toward her and muttered something. Molly, however, was fixated on Moriarty next to her, holding out his arms. "I've missed you so, my little monster. And daddy's so proud of you."

Molly felt elation.

Her smile began to fade as tears formed in her eyes. "Jim," she whispered. She missed him, ever so much. He never visited as often as he did. The room was getting darker and darker, the light fading from the window. The grips on her arms started to loosen as the woman's arm reached for her. But Molly just watched her big bad wolf smile with pride.

"Hush, my dear. I'll keep you safe. I'll catch you when you fall." Molly felt the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. He was proud to be with her, to feel alive with her. How she wanted to share that feeling with him her entire relationship. She missed him so much, missed his presence and charm. The woman plunged into her veins, and the two men let go of her arms.

For a split second, she was free from the torturous life she had to live day in and day out for a year, maybe more. She felt like she was flying through time and space, drifting from one point to the next. She didn't know why she was in that room, or why Jim wanted to hold her in his arms, or why she wanted to fall into his arms. She wanted to run away and never return. He put her there. He didn't want to keep her safe; he wanted to hurt her, to kill her in the future. But she couldn't remember how they met. They met—somehow.

She fell to the floor.