So tired...
...it's been too long...
...need sleep...
...will reply last chapter's reviews tomorrow...
Once upon a time there was a scared little girl who hid herself under a hooded cloak.
If she was so afraid, then why did she choose such a bright covering?
It was red.
And it stood-she stood out amongst the brown and green trees of the dark forest where she lived.
They called her Little Red Riding Hood.
One day Little Red Riding Hood was walking through the woods to visit her grandmother.
Her grandmother was dying
And everyday Little Red Riding Hood made this journey through the dark forest to tend to her.
Normally, she saw no one, spoke to no one.
Normally, she was alone.
But on this particular day (which was as dark as night under the shade of the looming trees) she met someone on the path.
Little Red Riding Hood met the Big Bad Wolf.
And the Big Bad Wolf was hungry.
He couldn't help but smile at her, baring all his sharp fangs, and stare at her with his burning black eyes.
But Little Red Riding Hood didn't see the danger right in front of her; Little Red Riding Hood was naïve.
(Or maybe, she was just lonely, having never met anybody else before and desperately wanting somebody to talk to.)
She smiled back.
Molly waited four more hours for Jim at the train station, holding that final flower, four of them knowing that he would not come (for her).
And as she unlocked and opened the door to her flat she hoped that maybe (just maybe) he would be there waiting for her, stretched out asleep on her couch, but she knew he wouldn't be.
And he wasn't.
What was there, however, were the rest of the dead flowers.
Shriveled, faded and dry, they had been ground into dust and lay like the ashes of the dead on the floor.
They blew away with the wind from the door.
Molly watched the bits of flower dance in the air before closing the door behind her and going into kitchen.
She sat down at the counter, pulling out her phone.
She knew Jim wouldn't pick up but she called anyway.
With a sigh, Molly set down her phone.
How had this all gone wrong?
She had worked so hard on this 'game', so hard on keeping his attention…
(And he had liked it, too, at first. Loved it. She had seen it in his eyes. The way they burned when he spoke about Sherlock, they were burning that way for her.)
(And they had been alive that night. She had been alive. Yes, playing the Game had woken her up…but with after the high, there came the fall back down. The shame. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. It was wrong, feeling alive, if this is what made her feel that way… It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. It was wrongthe way he made her feel, alive, and wrong that she felt it.)
…but all her efforts had failed.
She had lost.
(And maybe that's what Jim had wanted. Because he always wanted to win. And in order for there to be a winner, there had to be a loser…but he didn't understand. He just didn't understand…she was going to let him win. Just like he had asked. She was going to let him win. No. Not just 'going to'. No. She already had... She already had.)
Molly couldn't believe that she had actually thought she'd have a chance.
(At what? At winning? But she was going to let him win…so what, then? Maybe for her, winning meant something else. Maybe for her 'winning' and 'letting him win' were the same thing…because, maybe, she didn't play the Game to win. Maybe she played it just to play with him. Just to be with him.)
Of course, Jim would get bored of her.
Of course.
Molly thought that she should really be thanking god that he hadn't killed her.
Molly thought that she really should be relieved (happy) that he was gone.
But what Molly thought she should think and what she actually thought were not the same thing.
(And she knew it, too. Knew it with the most shame she had ever felt before. And shame, now, was her (second) strongest feeling.)
Soon Jim would do something (something bad) to Sherlock and there would be nothing Molly could do to stop it (stop him).
And Jim and Sherlock would both probably end up dead.
It was funny (depressing), actually, how Jim (who knew everything—especially about her) had been so completely wrong.
Jim had thought Molly cared more about Sherlock than him.
(How did he not understand? How did he not see that it wasn't when he had said that he would kill Sherlock that he had scared her, it was when he had said that he would kill himself. How did he not know?)
Maybe it was because he, like Molly, knew that she should care more about Sherlock than him (a criminal, a killer)…but what Molly knew she should care about and what she actually did care about were not the same thing.
Now, don't get Molly wrong, it wasn't that she didn't care about Sherlock at all…
…it was just that Sherlock didn't notice her.
Jim did.
But Jim was bad.
Jim was bad and Sherlock was good.
But Jim noticed her, Sherlock didn't.
(There was a choice here, Molly realized. A choice between the selfish and the selfless. Right and wrong. Good and bad… Molly didn't want to make it. )
Molly allowed herself, just one more time, to imagine (just as she had been imagining as she waited for him at the train station) what might have happened if Jim had come (for her).
If he hadn't gotten bored with her.
Would they have run away (eloped) together like they had almost done the time right before he had been arrested?
Would they have gotten on some train (any train, it didn't really matter) and gone somewhere (anywhere, it didn't really matter)?
Would they have escaped?
Escaped to somewhere (anywhere) where who they were didn't matter and they could be anyone that they wanted to be?
Would they have been free?
No.
Of course they wouldn't have.
Of course.
Because even if they had run away (eloped) together like they had almost done the time right before he had been arrested…
…there was nowhere that who they were didn't matter and no matter who they pretended to be they wouldn't change.
No matter who anyone pretended to be, people didn't change.
Jim wouldn't (couldn't) change.
(And even if he did change, that still wouldn't change what he had already done.)
Jim was bad.
But Jim noticed Molly.
Not anymore, though, not anymore…
Molly set down her phone next to the last flower (the spider-flower) still solid (but still dead) on the counter.
She didn't feel like it, but she knew she had to go into work later.
(She had been taking way too much time off, lately…but she wouldn't be anymore, now, of course.)
Next to the phone and the flower Molly saw her remote.
It had been lost for days (Molly being to busy to look for it (not anymore, though)) and now it was found.
Just like that.
Molly sighed again, picking it up and using it to turn on the television from across the room (the kitchenette being across from the living room).
She saw the familiar characters appear on screen, talking and laughing together.
Although she hadn't had the time to watch her favorite shows in a while (not anymore, now) Molly realized that she knew these fictional people so well-much more than she did most of the people she saw everyday (on the tube, at the hospital, in her building) that she had been seeing everyday for years.
She knew their hopes, their deepest secrets, their feelings, who they loved, who they hated, their whole life stories…
…and they didn't even know her.
They weren't even real.
This was Molly's life.
(At least it was…and now would be again.)
Surrounded by so many people (real and fictional), so many people that didn't notice her.
Alone.
Molly watched her 'old friends' on the screen, not bothering to travel over to the couch (where she had hoped that maybe (just maybe) Jim would be stretched out asleep on, waiting for her).
This would be her life.
This would be her distraction.
She clicked a button on the remote, switching to the news channel, since at least it was real.
(Un)surprisingly enough, they were talking about how Sherlock had solved some case or something.
Genius, as always.
(Boring?)
Molly supposed she'd read about it in Doctor Watson's blog eventually.
She was envious of the doctor, really, what an exciting life it must be to bask in the light of someone like Sherlock Holmes.
('someone like'…but who is like Sherlock Holmes? Surely no one…)
But Molly wasn't so lucky.
She just went to work, went home and watched television.
This was her life.
This was her distraction.
Once upon a time there was a cookie baked in the shape of a human being and he was alive.
The Gingerbread Man
Everybody in the kingdom wanted a piece of him because he was just the sweetest little pastry there ever could be.
That and everybody was hungry.
So hungry.
And so they chased The Gingerbread Man all through the town and The Gingerbread Man ran.
And as he ran he sang out his favorite rhyme, "run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—I'm The Gingerbread Man!"
He did this because he knew what he was.
He knew that he was just the sweetest little pastry there ever could be and that everybody wanted him and that everybody was hungry, so hungry.
He did this to taunt them.
"Run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—I'm The Gingerbread Man!"
But finally, after miles and miles of running, miles and miles of people chasing him, miles and miles of everybody wanting him, The Gingerbread Man reached a river.
A river with no crossing.
And, just for a moment, The Gingerbread Man was afraid.
Afraid that he'd be caught.
Afraid that he'd be eaten and so cease to exist and that everybody who ate him would have just a little piece of his sweetness inside of them which would mean that not only was he gone, but that he was no longer special anymore.
The Gingerbread Man considered this and considered throwing himself into the river so at least when he died no one would be able to eat him and his sugar would dissolve into the rushing waters.
But as the people chasing him grew nearer, all still hungry, so hungry, a Fox approached him.
The Fox, seeing his predicament and being just that kind of Good Samaritan, offered to carry The Gingerbread Man across the river.
He, too, knew that The Gingerbread Man was just the sweetest little pastry there ever could be and he wanted that special sweetness all to himself.
And The Gingerbread Man didn't see the danger right in front of him; The Gingerbread Man was naïve.
He accepted.
And as they forded the river, getting deeper and deeper with each step taken, The Fox kept telling The Gingerbread Man that he wouldn't want him to get washed away by the water and drown, that he wouldn't want him to die.
"Climb onto my shoulders, it's safer," he said, and then, "climb up onto my head, it's safer," and the finally, "climb into my mouth."
And The Gingerbread Man did.
The Fox opened his jaws, hungry, so hungry, and The Gingerbread Man stepped inside.
As he did, The Gingerbread Man looked back, one last time, at the kingdom he had come from, all the hungry people stood on the bank of the river unable to chase him into it.
The Gingerbread Man called back to them, one last time, his favorite taunting rhyme unaware as The Fox slowly closed his salivating mouth.
"Run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—"
The lights flashed, blinding Sherlock as he squinted trying to shield his eyes with the dark sleeve of his coat.
He feared the day that it would be too warm to wear it and so he'd be left unprotected.
It was coming soon.
"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!" the crowd of reporters buzzed, swarming around him and John just as soon as they stepped outside of Scotland Yard, "How did you do it? How did you solve the Reichenbach Falls case? How did you catch Antonio Ricoletti, the world's most notorious art thief?"
Sherlock didn't respond to them, instead pulling up the collar of his jacket around his face to obscure its detail in any of their inevitable photographs.
174.
…or more, probably (there had been that many flashes at least but there were always cameras without flashes and camera-phones).
"No questions!" John finally requested, seeing Sherlock's frustration as he tried to push through the crowd of media personnel…
…who chose to ignore his words.
"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!" they continued.
"Please, let us through!" John tried again.
He and Sherlock were now being blocked by a wall of reporters, standing shoulder to shoulder, waving their notepads and clicking their cameras.
"Dr. Watson!" they shouted, now addressing John having realized that Sherlock wasn't going to talk, "Will this be written up into your blog? How did he do it? What was your role in this case?"
"…I…um…" John trailed off, unsure of what to say when accosted by camera flashes like bombs exploding and chattered words as persistent and quick as bullets hammering out of automatic weapons.
Unconsciously he came to a halt, eyes darting and blinking, seeing them in front of him and then seeing something else.
Now Sherlock suddenly decided that he wanted to make a long, detailed explanation of how he solved the case; finding the stolen painting and catching the thief.
He cleared his throat and then opened his mouth to deliver the monologue, immediately being surrounded by the reporters that left John on the outside of the circle, their backs turned to him.
"Records and security footage from the London International Airport showed that Antonio Ricoletti only just arrived in the country yesterday and yet by this afternoon he had already stolen the 'Reichenbach Falls' and had several forgeries he was advertising the black market, as if they were the original. In order for him to have that many exact copies within mere hours of stealing the painting he would have had to have started the forgeries before actually stealing the original so that they could dry and then he could falsify their aging properly.
To be able to successfully do this Antonio Ricoletti would have to not only be a speed painter but have perfect eidetic recall—a photographic memory. He does not…but Rosetta Ricoletti- nee Monteriva—does. And airport records showed that she arrived in London just after Antonio Ricoletti, her husband. Mrs. Ricoletti's artistic abilities have been public knowledge since videos posted on the internet revealed her talents, leading to a feature in a prominent Italian newspaper and an entire documentary about the institution she resided in for the exceptional and the abnormal…
No doubt this is how Antonio Ricoletti discovered her and the reason why he married her, so that he could act as her legal guardian and discharge her from the facility. Quite easily, police and I discovered a warehouse rented under Rosetta Ricoletti's maiden name where we tracked them to and apprehended them.
Although Ricoletti has managed to keep his wife a 'secret' for the past three years, this information is all a matter of public record, easily accessible, especially by Interpol, who, for some reason, still did not manage to detect this link and uncover the Ricoletti partnership and operation…probably because the agent handling the case had become infatuated with her target and was unable to accept that he had a lover other than herself and so selectively hid this information from her own mind…or, perhaps, she was really just that stupid… That is all. Thank you. Have a nice day."
Sherlock said.
And the crowd went wild.
Again the cameras were flashing in immediate, unending succession along with the questions they were asking.
Sherlock somehow managed to feed this hungry flock of vultures, until Lestrade was kind enough to send out some uniformed officers to chase them away.
Once they were finally gone, John (who was able to see Sherlock again now that the reporters were no longer in the way) blinked.
"They just don't give up, do they..." He complained, sighing.
"It's only going to get worse." Sherlock agreed bitterly.
He turned, pulling his coat closer around him, and restarted his path down the sidewalk.
John followed.
Once there was a man so proud of his golden mind he swelled, fat and round like an egg.
His name was Humpty Dumpty.
He climbed to the top of the highest wall and declared himself the master of the world.
Declared himself a king because he knew everything.
Declared himself a god because his mind was golden like the burning sun.
Oh, but with pride comes insecurity and sensitivity.
Humpty Dumpty was thin-skinned.
His immaterial richness, his golden mind, was protected only by a fragile, white shell.
And atop that high wall from where, only by his own legitimacy and only in his own mind, he ruled the world Humpty Dumpty stood.
He stood there talking and talking, without stopping, telling everyone everything he ever knew because, as the master, it was his duty to inform the ignorant masses who would be completely in the dark without his golden, burning light.
But stupid people don't like to be told that they're stupid.
And maybe it was ' just the wind' and not the jealous hands of the ignorant masses (either way it didn't matter, though)…
…but something pushed Humpty Dumpty down from that wall where he was a god.
And he fell.
Humpty Dumpty stood on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
An all the king's horses and all the king's men…
…couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again
No, they didn't even try.
Because nobody likes to be told that they're stupid and nobody even asked for some know-it-all to be their god.
And when Humpty Dumpty hit the ground, his thin, white skull cracked and his golden mind came pouring out, shinning like the sun and like egg-yoke.
It was perfect.
It was all perfect.
Jim grinned.
Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal' but Richard Brooke was an actor.
Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal' but Richard Brooke was a storyteller.
And Richard Brooke was recording such darling little stories, fairytales, and everything was just so.
Jim leaned backed in the bed as he watched the television.
He was in 221.
No, not 221b Baker Street…room 221 at the hotel.
He had never checked out (nor had Molly, whose credit card it was still on) and so after another successful day of shooting (no, not shooting people…shooting children's television) he had simply just returned to the hotel (where he had been staying ever since that stupid distracting distraction with that Mary Howitt girl (or whatever her name was) who he was not going to waste his time on anymore).
On the screen a reporter described how 'consulting detective Sherlock Holmes solved the case of the stolen painting, the 'Reichenbach Falls', which led to the arrest of Antonio Ricoletti, world's most notorious art thief, his wife Rosetta Ricoletti and a rogue Interpol agent who was helping them whose name has not been released'.
Perfect.
It was just so perfectly perfect!
Soon Sherlock would be so famous that he could not hide and when one was at the top there was nowhere else to go but down.
And it was all perfect.
Even the little details, all perfect.
Of all the paintings in the National Gallery, Ricoletti had decided to steal the 'Reichenbach Falls'.
'Reichenbach Falls'
…Fall…
It was perfect!
And if Jim remembered his German from school (yes, he took German, rather than French, in protest because they didn't offer Gaelic, and 'German' and 'Gaelic' both started with a 'G') then 'Reichenbach' meant 'riches brook'.
'riches brook'
Richard Brooke.
Perfect, see?
It was fate.
(…Or maybe it was the fact that the day Jim had gone into the Mountford Talent Agency's office there had been an advertisement for the painting in a newspaper he had read in the waiting room.)
(But even 'Mountford' meant 'mountain river crossing'…and what kind of river ran through a mountain? A waterfall.)
Yes, fate.
And the stories, too, the fairytales…they were all German.
The Brother's Grimm.
It all added up just perfectly.
(And it was okay that the Reichenbach Falls were actually in Switzerland because where was Switzerland, after all? Between Germany, the country of the language and Italy, the country of the art thief.)
This was the kind of perfect, orderly plan that James would have loved.
Oh, he would be so proud of his little brother…
…that is, if he hadn't disowned him.
But now, Jim Moriarty had to die and so that's exactly what he was going to do.
Jim Moriarty was going to die and from his ashes Richard Brooke would be born.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Jim's phone rang.
He reached over to where it lay on the bedside table and silenced it.
Jim Moriarty was unavailable.
He wasn't taking any calls or answering any texts meant for Jim Moriarty because Jim Moriarty was 'Richard Brooke' and Richard Brooke was an actor—not a 'consulting criminal'
No more annoying 'clients' begging him to 'fix it' for them again and again and again.
No more of the 'same old, same old'.
It was all too boring.
But this, this was perfect.
Jim looked into his smartphone.
Which plebian would it be, this time, come to interrupt him in his perfect world?
'Missed call from: Little Miss Mouse'
Oh, so Molly Hooper wanted to call him now!
Well it was too late.
Too bad.
Jim Moriarty was unavailable.
Jim Moriarty was 'Richard Brooke'.
And Richard Brooke was normal.
…but wasn't it 'normal' to have a girlfriend?
Once upon a time there was a Spider and a Fly.
"Come into my parlour…" said The Spider to The Fly.
But The Fly was not stupid.
She saw the danger right in front of her; she was not naïve.
"No." said The Fly to The Spider.
But The Spider was hungry.
And so, The Spider was persistent.
"What can I do?" asked The Spider to The Fly, "to prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?"
"Nothing, kind sir." answered The Fly to The Spider.
But The Spider was hungry.
And so, The Spider was persistent.
He watched The Fly fly away but he knew that she would be back.
And she was.
"You're witty and wise," told The Spider to The Fly, "beautiful, with such brilliant eyes…"
"Oh, thank you, kind sir!" said The Fly to the Spider in surprise, "I've never received such compliments before!"
But The Fly was not stupid.
She saw the danger right in front of her; she was not naïve.
The Fly still refused his offer to enter his parlour and flew away
But The Spider was hungry.
So, The Spider was persistent.
The Spider knew that she would be back.
And she was.
He called her to come hither, told her that the crest on her head looked like a diamond crown and she flew to him.
"No one sees your beauty like I do." said The Spider to The Fly, "I've a looking-glass in my parlour, come inside so you can see your beauty too."
And The Fly was not stupid.
She saw the danger right in front of her; she was not naïve.
But The Fly had never heard such flattery before.
And the silly little, poor foolish thing wanted to hear it more.
"Come into my parlour…" said The Spider to The Fly.
…and then…
The Fly flew into his parlour and ne'er came out again.
(A/N: and let's, for the sake of the story, pretend that that was a fairytale.)
Finally the screen went black.
Although they were not horror movies, those videos were the creepiest thing that Molly had ever in her life seen.
For a long moment Molly just sat, legs folded and Toby asleep next to her, on her couch, gaping in shock at the television screen.
What the hell was that supposed to be?
What could possibly be Jim Moriarty's motivation for sending some strange DVDs of him telling his own messed up versions of famous fairytales?
Was he trying to send her some kind of message?
English class had never been Molly's favorite during school, she had never been any good at analyzing stories…
…what did Jim mean by all of these?
Were they, like, some kind of…metaphor (that's what they were called, right?) or something?
Were they symbols for something?
Molly shook her head, still staring at the blank screen (still hearing Jim's voice echo, still seeing his face grin dementedly, in her mind).
She reached for her remote, pressing the button to replay the videos.
Half way through re-watching, Molly heard a knock on the door.
Oh god.
Jim had sent this weird movie and now he was here to make whatever his message was no longer 'just a story' but a reality.
Tentatively, Molly paused the video, stood and went to the door.
She took a deep breath and then opened it.
"Hey, Molly." Lestrade greeted, a bit awkwardly, with a slight wave.
"…uh hello…?" Molly replied, not expecting to see him and not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed, "…Detective Inspector Lestrade…what can I do for you?"
Mostly it was just really awkward.
"Please," Lestrade said, "Call me Greg…"
"Okay…"
Molly's door was only opened just a crack, which was not going to be growing anytime soon even though Lestrade obviously wanted to come inside.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"No!" Molly exclaimed, remembering the video paused on her television screen, and then added, "I mean…it's messy! My flat's really messy. You don't want to come in here…"
"I'm sure it's fine." Lestrade smiled, "I have kids, remember, I'm used to messy homes!"
He laughed…awkwardly, and so did she.
She was in her pajamas and it would have been even more awkward, as well as embarrassing… if she had still cared what Lestrade thought of her (which, as long as he didn't find out about what happened between her and Jim, she didn't).
"It's just…well, my cat…" Molly fumbled, "Toby. He threw up. And I didn't get a chance to clean the litter box…I'll just talk to you out here in the hallway…"
She squeezed herself through the tiny opened and then shut the door behind her.
Lestrade looked at her with that confused, questioning expression he always seemed to have when he was around her.
…Always just short of suspicious….
"How can I help you?" Molly asked him, just a bit sharply because she didn't like that face.
Then she instantly felt bad about it and so smiled.
Lestrade smiled back.
It was all still very awkward.
(Which didn't 'bode well' for whatever it was that he wanted to talk to her about.)
"Well…" Lestrade sighed, "You have heard about the Ricoletti case Sherlock just solved, right?"
"Yes." Molly confirmed, "I saw it on the news…"
"Okay. Good." Lestrade nodded, "That's good…So we caught the guy, Antonio Ricoletti, and his wife Rosetta who was forging copies of the paintings he stole for him to sell…"
"…okay…?"
"Well, when we caught him he was on the ground and somebody had shot him in the foot. Now we think it was his wife Rosetta, who has a history of mental problems, and that he's just covering for her…but…."
" 'but' what?"
"But when we got there and asked what happened, Ricoletti, he said that it was…well, he told us that it was Moriarty who shot him. He said Moriarty just showed up there at the warehouse, shot him in the foot and ran away."
Molly tried her best to conceal any reaction to the name 'Moriarty' from being expressed on her face.
"Okay…?" she said for the third time, "…What does that have to do with me?"
She tried her best to make her voice sound as innocent and confused as possible.
Lestrade took a breath, clearly feeling awkward about what he was going to have to say next.
(And, for a second, Molly thought that he knew…but then reasoned that if he did, then he would have just arrested on sight or something like that.)
"Well…" he said for the fourth time, "Remember when you said he was…well," (fifth) "…contacting you…"
"…yeah, I do…" Molly responded, indeed remembering the embarrassing failed plot to ambush Jim at the coffee shop.
"Then, um, I'm sure you know why I'm here." Lestrade continued, wiping sweat from his forehead, "I'm here to ask if you have any information on him or if he's still contacting you—"
"He's not." Molly stated quickly, "…he probably, well, you know…forgot about me, by now, don't you think?"
"I don't know." Lestrade replied, solemnly.
"…and I don't know, either." Molly declared, "I don't know anything about Moriarty other than what I've heard from you, and the news and I don't know if he shot that art thief or not…can't you ask Sherlock about this? I'm sure he'd be able to figure out who did it…"
"Yeah, he probably would." Lestrade agreed, "But after he solved this Ricoletti thing Interpol wanted his help with another case, some mobster or something…so he's unavailable right now and I need to find any lead I can."
"Well I'm sorry." Molly apologized, "I don't know anything!"
She knew she was sounding way more annoyed than she should and that probably wasn't going to help her…but she just couldn't help it.
"Okay, okay!" Lestrade conceded, raising two palms towards her to try to calm her, "I was just asking!"
"…oh." Molly said more evenly and quietly, "…I'm sorry…I just—I have to-"
Molly was interrupted by a loud crash booming inside her apartment.
Immediately they both looked towards the closed door.
"What was that?" Lestrade inquired.
"I don't know…" Molly answered, turning back to him and shaking her head.
"Lemme go in there and check…" Lestrade offered, starting towards the door, "It could be a burglar…"
"No, no! It's fine, it's fine!" Molly refused, blocking his way with waving hands, "That won't be necessary! I'm sure my cat just knocked something over or something…"
"…Are you sure?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.
Didn't she just say she was 'sure'?
"I'm sure, I'm sure." Molly affirmed, nodding and smiling like a polite, normal person, "It's fine, it's fine."
"Okay, then." Lestrade replied, "Okay. Right….I'll just be going now. Call me if you hear anything, okay?"
"I will." Molly promised and lied, with a final nod and smile.
Lestrade returned the gestures and walked away down the hallway.
Once he was safely through the doors to the stairs, Molly went back inside her flat.
She walked back over to the living room, wondering just what had made that loud noise.
It was the empty vase.
The one that used to sit on the kitchen counter and used to hold the flowers.
Molly had put it, still empty, on the ledge by the window.
Now it was on the floor, all shards caught in the carpet.
And it was meant to be…
…it was meant to fall, and crash and break if someone were to open the window from the outside and climb into her home.
Molly grabbed a trashbag from the kitchen, went over to the window, closed it and then began to pick up the pieces of the shattered vase and put them inside.
"Shame 'bout that." Jim commented from where he sat on her couch, stretching his neck so that he could glance over at her, "you won't be able to put it back together again…"
Molly sighed, closing her eyes and pausing in her clean up.
It's not like she hadn't been expecting this.
She knew that he would be back.
And now, here he was.
"You never can…" Molly stated, placing the last shard into the bag and then standing, "…so maybe you shouldn't have broken it."
If Jim wanted to play 'metaphors' (that's what they were called, right?) then Molly would play along.
(Yes. Because 'playing' with him worked so well the last time.)
"It's not my fault, really." Jim shrugged, "you're the one who put it there…for me to break."
Molly dumped the trashbag into the trash bin under the counter and then stepped back into the living room.
Jim was in the middle of her sofa, he patted the cushion that wasn't taken up by the cat he was petting with his other hand, an invitation for her to sit down (as if it was his couch).
"You could have been more careful." Molly said and sat down at the very edge, on the arm rest, her feet (in fuzzy socks) on the seat.
Jim snorted.
"Why bother?" he chuckled, "It's just a stupid vase!"
Molly almost rolled her eyes.
Instead she turned to the television screen.
The video of Jim telling those creepy fairytales was no longer paused. It was playing on mute.
"Yeah, I was meaning to ask you…" Jim continued, "Just who is that handsome man you're watching on the telly there?"
"Why did you send this to me?" Molly asked, looking back at him, "What is it supposed to mean?"
"They're just stories, Molly…" Jim answered, "they're not 'supposed to mean' anything. Stories don't always have to have a moral or have some kind of deeper meaning…sometimes stories are just stories."
Molly shook her head, and smiled defeatedly at her lap.
"Why, then?" she breathed, glancing back up at him quickly before looking back down.
He was watching the television, not her.
"I'm auditioning for a show," he explained, "these are my audition tapes…I wanted to see which one you thought was the best so I know which one to send in..."
"You've got to be joking!" Molly exclaimed, unable to hold in her surprised, disbelieving, nervous laugh.
"I'm not, I'm not, I swear!" Jim responded, defensively,"…I'm an actor, now, with my own talent agent and everything. Finally got a real job. It's 'legit'."
Molly looked up just in time to see him stretch on hand out towards her, pushing one of her knees just hard enough so that she lost her balance and tipped backwards.
But just as she began to fall, his hand caught hers and pulled her whole body back onto the sofa, towards him.
She landed in his lap.
Molly decided that she should at least make an effort at sitting back up—even though she knew Jim would just hold her down.
And so she did, and he did and then that was all taken care of.
Now she was curled up on the couch, head in his lap with him stroking her hair now instead of Toby's fur.
It was actually really ridiculous.
Especially since Toby had hopped up and onto Molly's side, making himself comfortable there and returning to sleep, acting as another 'hand' keeping her from escaping Jim.
Must have been fate.
Molly could only see the television and so instead of seeing the present Jim, she saw the Jim telling stories on the screen silently.
It was worse, like this, than it had been when the sound was on.
All Molly had to focus on now was Jim's intense (insane) facial expressions.
His grinning and then grimacing muted mouth, making shapes that seemed like they should have been impossible and baring teeth that, although perfectly aligned and square, still seemed sharp.
And then his eyes, staring and glaring as if they were burning, hot as the sun.
Molly finally just closed hers.
Maybe she could forget where she was, who she was (who he was), and just let the anonymous hand (attached to someone she could not see) stroking her hair lull her to sleep.
Maybe she could forget that (his) face.
…Or maybe not.
Behind her eyelids, Molly still saw Jim, just like how he was in all the dreams she insisted on forgetting as soon as she woke up from them.
And it was worse, like this, than it had been when her eyes were open.
It was worse because these were memories.
Memories where Jim looked sweet and kind and harmless…which was even scarier because she knew what he was capable of and the fact that he was capable of such a convincing lie was so much more frightening than when he took off his mask.
"Why did you come back?" Molly questioned, "…I thought you had…I thought you had gotten bored of me."
"I didn't get 'bored' of you, Molly." She heard him scoff, "…you broke the rules of the game. So I had to stop playing."
"…oh…" Molly replied, not really understanding what meant but being so used to that that she didn't ask any follow-up questions.
"But why did I come back?" Jim continued, "I came back because I need your help."
"The videos are all too creepy…" Molly stated, "You can't show these to anyone. They won't hire you as an actor if they think you're some kind of a psychopath."
"I'll keep that in mind." Jim hummed, his hand left her hair and moved back to Toby…and then the hip (Molly's hip) he sat on.
Molly decided that she should make another effort at sitting up and so she did.
This time Jim didn't stop her and so his hand and Toby were both displaced, Toby deciding that he was done with the couch and with the humans (at least for the moment) and stalking off.
Molly hadn't expected this and she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
At least she was able to look at Jim now.
"Why are you really doing this?" she asked, "Making these videos?...it's got something to do with Sherlock, doesn't it?"
"…May-be…" Jim sang childishly.
"…Please, Jim…" Molly said, afraid to try this again but more afraid not to, "Just don't. Just don't go after Sherlock again. There's no point. You just got out of jail or wherever Sherlock's brother was keeping you and you know they're still probably watching you and I don't know what's going on with you and your brother, he 'disowned' you, or whatever…but I doubt that, if you start up trouble, he's going to be very happy…and so you'll probably end up prison…or worse…and I know that's what's you said you wanted. You said you wanted to die…but don't you think…don't you think that maybe, maybe there might be another way you can…you know, be free, be happy…?"
It was desperate, disconnected plea.
And Jim did just what Molly had expected him to.
Laugh.
At her.
Like he always did.
(Boring?)
"Oh, darling, your concern is touching…" he said, "…but it's just that, 'going after Sherlock', that I need your help with."
"What?" Molly replied, taken aback.
She did not expect that.
"You heard me." Jim stated, "I need your help getting Sherlock. Defeating Sherlock…after your stunning performance that little 'game' we played, I decided that you could be of some use to me, in my plans."
He was playing the stereotypical villain now, his accent becoming that pompous drawl that all the British 'bad guys' had in American kids movies (like Scar from 'The Lion King').
Why wasn't Jim an actor?
He could have made a decent living like that.
He didn't need to be a 'consulting criminal', he didn't need to kill people…
"I'm not helping you with that!" Molly exclaimed.
"Of course." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "…you're still too 'in love' with Sherlock to—"
"It's not about Sherlock!" Molly shouted, standing up and causing Jim to flinch at her volume, "…it's about right and wrong, for god's sake!"
"'For god's sake' is right." Jim snorted, "Really, Molly? 'right and wrong'? Like that actually exists? Like it actually matters…"
"It does matter!" Molly declared.
"Oh, yeah right." Jim snapped, again rolling his eyes, "Don't act all 'high and mighty' like you have some kind of 'moral high-ground' here, you're no better than I am!"
"I never killed anyone!" Molly reminded.
"Yeah, but I did." Jim reminded, "And you know I did. But I don't remember you reporting it to the police…and it sure didn't stop you from fucking me, now did it, Molly?"
"…no…but, well the first time I…slept with you…I was…well, I was drunk!" Molly defended.
Jim shook his head, laughing and leaning back into the sofa.
"And all the other times?" he inquired.
"Well I already did once and I couldn't take it back so I just had no choice…" Molly trailed off, knowing that her argument was unraveling and that she really had no excuses.
"Yeah and I already killed somebody once and I couldn't take that back so I just kept right on killing!" Jim agreed sarcastically, mimicking Molly's voice, facial expressions, and manner of speech, "It's not my fault, I just had no choice!"
Molly held her head in her hands.
"That's not what I…" she attempted but then promptly gave up.
She knew she had already lost.
"You know I really do wonder what it's like in your heads, you normal people…" Jim sneered, "With your distorted, sentimental 'logic'…and all your silly, pointless concepts like 'right and wrong', 'good and bad'…and all those emotions, those stupid, stupid emotions that lead you all like rats, blind in a maze…"
Molly kept her shield of fingers up, not wanting to see the look on Jim's face as he proved his superior, monstrous inhumanity, his godhood, in a way was just too eerily similar to Sherlock.
She said nothing.
There was nothing she could say.
She had lost, once again, she had lost.
Until….
"But, alas," Jim sighed exaggeratedly, "I am only an actor. I'll never know what it is to be such a pitiful excuse for an existence…I'll only be able to pretend."
Molly removed her hands from her face, stared at Jim and smiled.
His haughty expression dissolved and he raised an eyebrow.
"You—you actually think you're the only one who pretends?" She laughed, laughed that surprised, disbelieving, nervous laugh, "…everybody does! We all pretend! All the time! We all ask people how their day was when we don't really care. We all smile and say we're 'fine' when we're not…we all lie, Jim, we all pretend!...it's so…so normal…"
Jim blinked.
But other than that he had no visible reaction to what Molly had thought would have at least unnerved him.
Guess she wasn't as good an actress as she had thought she was.
…Maybe it was because she was telling the truth.
Jim stood up and now they both stood, just looking at each other, for a few long, awkward, moments.
Finally, Jim spoke.
"What would you do, Molly…" he started, "…if it was all pretend? If it was all just lies?"
"…if what was?" Molly asked, afraid of what the answer would be.
"If Sherlock was." Jim answered, "If I was."
"…what do you mean?"
"I mean…what if it was all lies, all pretend, me and Sherlock? What if we were never any different from everybody else and we had just made it all up? Made up solving crimes, committing crimes, being geniuses, being enemies...? What if none of that was real and Sherlock and I were both just really good actors? ...what would you do, Molly, what would you do?"
Jim stared at Molly seriously as if his words were more than a hypothetical.
"…what? There's no way…" Molly responded, furrowing her brow, "There's no way…that would never—that could never be true…"
"But what if it was?" Jim insisted, grabbing Molly by the shoulders, his eyes boring into hers, "…what. would. you. do?
"I…I don't know…" Molly admitted, "I don't think there'd even be anything for me to do…"
"Would you still love him?" Jim asked, "Sherlock?"
"I don't love—" Molly protested but was cut off.
"Would you?" Jim demanded, urgently, shaking her.
"I'd still be friends with him, if that's what you're asking." Molly stated, "…I wouldn't just…abandon him just because he wasn't a genius."
"You wouldn't?" Jim said, releasing her, and falling back into the sofa behind him, "…That's surprising."
"Why is it 'surprising'?" Molly inquired, offendedly, folding her arms.
"…because Sherlock being a genius is the whole reason you wanted him in the first place." Jim explained, crossing one leg over the other, "It's the whole reason put up with all his bullshit. Because he's a genius. You wouldn't do that for just any guy. No. Even you're not that much of a pushover. You wouldn't do that for just anyone. Only for Sherlock….and so if Sherlock wasn't a genius, if Sherlock wasn't Sherlock and he was just a normal guy, just a regular old asshole….would you really 'still be friends with him', as you put it…or would you even bother wasting your time with him?"
"Well, I mean…I…" Molly stammered.
"Exactly." Jim smirked.
"So, what?" Molly retorted, "It's not like I'd hate him or anything if he wasn't a genius…and it's not like he's not so it's not like any of that even matters…"
"But it does, it does matter." Jim insisted, "There are two reasons people put up with other people."
Again, he pat the cushion next to him inviting Molly to sit and she did, turning in her seat to face him.
"'put up with'?" She requested clarification.
"…'put up with', 'like', 'love'… whatever you wanna call it…" Jim conceded, shrugging, "But there are two reasons people want other people. Two reasons a person wants another person…And those reasons are either that they want them even though they are what they are…or that they want them because of what they are."
"…okay…"
"Do you know which one of those reasons is better, Molly?"
"The second one…obviously. You can't change people and so it's better just to love someone for what they are, to love someone because of what they are."
"Wrong."
"Wrong? What do you mean 'wrong'? How am I wrong—"
"Because you're stupid. Because you didn't think about it. This is a sentimental matter, Molly, and for all your sentimentality—for once—you didn't think with your emotions…"
"What do you mean?"
"What I meant is there's emotion and then there's logic. And logic always needs a reason—"
"But you said there were 'two reasons' a person would want another person."
"I did. And that's just semantics. Different use of the word 'reason'. But I'll make it easier for you to understand…What I really should have said is that there are two ways a person can want another person. And those ways are because someone is what they are and even though someone is what they are."
"But why is 'even though' better? Shouldn't it be 'because'?"
"No, see that's where the stupid comes in. 'Because' is a reason. 'Because' is logic….this is emotion. And with emotion there is no reason, at least not a logical one…when you want somebody because they are who they are, it's not actually that person that you want. It's the idea that that person represents. That's the reason you want them, that idea, that's the logic…and so it can't be emotion. It can't be real…but when you want somebody even though they are what they are, and you might even hate what they are, that's the emotion. That's when it's real. Because you have no reason, no logical reason, for even wanting them at all. You just do. It doesn't make any sense, there's no explanation for it, but you do…You just do. And that's why it's better."
When Jim finished speaking, he took a breath and then gazed at Molly awaiting her response.
(And there was a choice here, Molly realized, she wasn't stupid. A choice between the two ways people 'wanted' other people. A choice between the two ways she 'wanted' two certain 'other people'. A choice between good and bad, right and wrong…Molly didn't want to make it. It was a lose-lose no matter what she chose. She just couldn't win.)
"…why are you telling me this?" Molly asked after a while, unable to think of anything else to say.
"No reason." Jim answered, shrugging nonchalantly, his face as confused as Molly's and a millions times as unreadable.
And then he got up to leave.
Molly, still seated, watched him walk (slowly) away, his back turned to her as he approached the door.
Maybe he wanted her to call out to him, or even run after him and pull him back.
But she didn't.
And so soon, after so long, he was out the door and the door was closed.
Molly just sat there, just sat there and thought.
She thought about what Jim had told her, theorizing on what it was supposed to be a metaphor (that's what they were called, right?) for.
It was obvious, of course.
"No reason."
No reason.
No logic.
Just emotion.
…but then, then Molly remembered what Jim had sad before.
"They're not supposed to mean anything. Sometimes, stories are just stories…"
No meaning.
No logic.
No reason.
"No reason."
Once upon a time there was a Little Mouse.
The Little Mouse lived in a little hole in the wall of little house.
Also, in that little house, lived a Cat.
The Cat sat by that wall with the little hole wherein The Little Mouse lived.
He sat there and he slept there.
And The Little Mouse saw the danger right in front of her; The Little Mouse was not naïve.
But one day, The Little Mouse was hungry.
So hungry.
She had to leave her little hole in the wall of the little house in order to find food.
And so The Little Mouse waited until she saw that The Cat was asleep.
When he finally was she ventured out of the little hole, crept silently past The Cat, dashed into the kitchen, ate, and then crept silently past The Cat again back into her home.
And since that worked so well, The Little Mouse did this every time she got hungry.
But one day, The Little Mouse was hungry, so hungry, and no matter how long she waited The Cat would not fall asleep.
Finally, after starving and waiting for so long, The Little Mouse decided that she would die either way and so emerged from her little hole in the wall of the little house.
The Cat saw her.
But The Cat did nothing.
He just watched The Little Mouse as she tread past him on her way to the kitchen where she ate and then he just watched her as she returned home, past him yet again.
But even though this worked so well, The Little Mouse did not do this every time she got hungry.
And The Little Mouse saw the danger right in front of her; The Little Mouse was not naïve.
She was not stupid.
But one day, she was hungry again.
And so again, she had to risk her life and run past The Cat in order to feed herself.
And The Little Mouse ran back and forth, back and forth in front of The Cat time after time for years, every time she got hungry.
And one day, she finally realized that The Cat was not really a danger to her at all.
Although he was bigger than her and had sharper claws and teeth than her, The Cat was not hungry.
He was well fed by his masters who own the little house where The Little Mouse lived in the little hole in the wall.
The Cat had no reason to hurt The Little Mouse.
And so, after so many times that he did not harm her when given the chance, she was no longer afraid of him.
In fact, they even became friends.
And from that day on, The Little Mouse and The Cat in the little house lived happily ever after.
Well Mountford was the talent agency's name according to some wikipedia like website, too lazy to post link now...
And the spider and fly poem, yeah the poet's name was like Mary Howitt or something which was where that name came from in Jim's thoughts although in the universe of this story she didnt exist just like Arthur Conan Doyle didn't exist because its helpful to my plot.
yeah.
its 4:00 AM where I am so this is like...ugh...
...sorry if there are mistakes...
...but I can't just keep ya'll waiting forever...
Please review.
:)