Well I'm trying to get back to a regular posting schedule.
...trying.
lol
Hope you all like it (even though you might not like what happens lol)...
A single suitcase each in hand, Mycroft and James exited the airport and got into their respective rides.
A black towncar for Mycroft and a black taxicab for James.
The vehicles drove away into London.
"Status report." Mycroft requested, leaning back in the leather seat, elbow against the armrest by the window.
He allowed himself to close his eyes.
"Sir," Anthea began, she sat a "Your brother has been busy with a steady stream of high-profile cases, garnering himself increasing fame—"
"I know." Mycroft interrupted, "And you know who I want to hear about."
"Yes, sir." Anthea nodded, she ruffled through her stack of black files until she found the one she needed and placed it on the top, opening it, "We looked into James Moriarty, the professor, and his story checks out. He does 'avoid' his taxes, sometimes, has the usual 'secret' foreign accounts in Swiss and Cayman banks, and during his business and stock trading days he did make some more 'questionable' deals…but other than that, he's clean. Clean—but not too clean."
"So he's real." Mycroft interpreted, "…and as for his past, his personal life?"
"Born in London in 1965," Anthea reported, "At home, with assistance from a midwife and two uneducated, very traditional parents—whom he cut off all contact with when he emancipated himself at sixteen."
"Any siblings?" Mycroft asked.
"No." Anthea responded, and then added, "…or, well, none that survived. He had two brothers, younger, that died during the home births. They were unnamed. After the second's death, he attempted to sue his parents for wrongful death. When that didn't succeed, he was, however, able to emancipate himself through the courts."
"That's what you told them?" Moran clarified, taken aback, as he drove the taxi.
"I didn't 'tell' them anything." James corrected, he could see Moran's eyes in the rear view mirror, glancing back at him and ahead the road simultaneously, "That is just the data I put in the records when the British government updated their record system from paper to paperless. They use a computer program for their archive that I helped design. It was easy and convenient."
"Yes, sir, but…" Moran responded, "…don't you think that story was a little strange?"
"If it wasn't, then no one would believe it." James explained, "If I looked too normal, than it would seem like a lie…besides, the account of my life I gave is not all that untrue. Only minor details, like setting, and character names, are changed. The more truth that's in a lie, the more believable it is."
"Still, I think Mr. Holmes is beginning to suspect." Moran worried, "I was concerned when he unexpectedly had his employees research you. And you know, sir, that Holmes is not stupid. Neither of the brothers are. Sooner or later, no matter how many believable lies you tell, they're going to know."
"Yes. I know." James agreed, "That's why I need to speak with my brother."
"You know the government is watching you, now, even if they don't know what they're watching for." Moran cautioned, "If you speak to or see your brother, then they'll know about it."
"I'm sure we can manage to arrange something—"
"I don't believe that is a good idea, sir—"
"Well, that's why I have the ideas and you just do as you are told." James stated, "I'm the one who thinks, you don't think. You just follow orders. It's not your job to question them—to question me. When you're smarter than me, 'Mr.' Moran, then you can council me."
"Yes, sir." Moran accepted.
"I see…" Mycroft considered.
"Don't you think it's a little strange, through?" Anthea inquired, "Do you actually believe it?"
"If it wasn't strange, I wouldn't believe it." Mycroft answered, "You know what they say about truth and fiction."
"Yes sir."
"Now, what about the other James Moriarty?"
Anthea searched the pile of files until she located the largest one, which she dropped onto Mycroft's lap.
This caused him to open his eyes and sit up straighter.
He opened the folder, looking through pictures of Jim Moriarty (stills from security footage, photos taken from the window of the hotel across from the one he was currently staying at (as well as other locations such as the talent agency and a house in the suburbs across the street from one he visited)), and printed out reports, text messages, emails, and transcripts of conversations (telephone and in-person) recorded.
"Well, sir…" Anthea began, "I know you predicted that Moriarty would stop interacting with Molly Hooper because he had no more use for her, but he has seen her almost every day since you released him from the cell…and yet she doesn't seem to have any part in his plans."
"Hmm…" Mycroft smiled, glancing through the papers and then over at Anthea, "Do I sense you…sensing some sentiment?"
"There is no other explanation for his behavior, sir," Anthea affirmed, cautiously, unsure as to why her boss was smiling, "it's the only logical reason for—"
"It has nothing do with 'logic'." Mycroft corrected, "Although I do admit that people like Moriarty, like my brother—and like myself, as well—can get quite sentimental about their hobbies, they'll only ever love their work. In the grand scheme of things, Miss Hooper doesn't count. She's only a distraction. And so I will warn you not to get too attached to watching their 'romance' unfold."
"I'm not attached to watching them!" Anthea exclaimed, rolling her eyes and laughing (with an exaggeration and an unprofessionalism she would normally never display in front of her employer—except when she was trying to use a strange lie to hide an even stranger truth), "I'm just following orders. Doing my job."
Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head and closing the folder.
"I like it that you enjoy your work," he commented, "I wouldn't employ those who didn't. People have their fun where they can get it. Better to get it from your job than from your hobbies, since then you even get paid for it."
"Still, sir…" Anthea continued, "just the fact of Hooper's proximity to Moriarty is…concerning. She's too close to your brother. Even if she does nothing to aid Moriarty, she still has done nothing to stop him."
"What do you think she could possibly do to 'stop him'?" Mycroft asked, still chuckling, "She's no genius but she not stupid either. She knows better than to try something she'd fail at—and probably be killed for."
"But she did try, and he didn't kill her." Anthea reminded, "…and she could have told your brother about Moriarty…or you, she knows who you are, too, sir, by the way. Moriarty's told her all about you and your 'minor' position in the British government. She knows too much."
"So what do you suggest we do about that, then?" Mycroft asked.
Anthea knew the question was just bait to lead her into a trap where he would be right and she would be wrong, he would be smart and she would be stupid…
…but it was her job to take that bait.
And so she did.
"Take her in for questioning, detain her…" Anthea suggested, "…or at least warn your brother than he can't trust her."
Mycroft sighed.
It was like he was disappointed at his employee for making such a straight-forward (simple—not clever) solution to the 'problem' of Molly Hooper…
…but, of course, he wasn't.
Because now he got to explain why that idea was stupid and why his complicated one was much a much better thing to do.
"Why confiscate from Moriarty a perfectly good distraction?" Mycroft inquired (rhetorically), "If we took away his favourite toy, then he'd be forced to return to his earlier activities. For the greater good, I think we should allow Moriarty to keep his plaything, and Sherlock to remain unaware."
"And what about Hooper?" Anthea inquired (not rhetorically), "If she is only a distraction, as you say, what if Moriarty gets bored of her…what if he kills her to 'tie up loose ends'?"
"Miss Hooper's not a child, she knows the risks of being involved with him." Mycroft shrugged, "Like I said, in the grand scheme of things, what's one life in comparison to the numerous lives her death—and her life now, might and do save."
"I see, sir, that makes sense." Anthea nodded, "So what now?"
"I need to meet with Jim Moriarty." Mycroft declared.
For the first night in weeks, Molly had slept in her own home…
…not alone, though.
Toby (lonely, jealous and now triumphant), quickly hopped up on top of her before she even pulled the covers over herself when she went to bed.
With his keen, cat sense of smell, Toby had known exactly who his Molly had been cheating on him with and reminded himself to use Jim (skin and his nice suits) as a scratching post the next time he saw him.
Not that he didn't like the guy—because he did, Jim had always been nice to him (occasionally bringing him treats when Molly wasn't around by climbing in the window, and letting him sit on his lap and petting him)— it was just that Molly was supposed to be his, not Jim's!
And she had to have known this too…so why had she been spending all her time away from home leaving poor Toby all alone?
…Could it be that Toby had only been a distraction to Molly, just until she had found herself something better to do, found herself a boyfriend…?
No.
Never!
There was no way Toby was only a distraction to Molly, he knew that couldn't be true.
It just couldn't.
Molly had come back to the flat unexpectedly that night after already stopping by to feed him, she was here with him instead of Jim.
That must have meant something.
And the way she stroked his fur, picked him up and carried him around sometimes just to hold him close, and always let him jump up on to her no matter what she was wearing or doing and just sit there motionless so that he would be comfortable for as long as he wanted…
…all of that had to mean something.
Everything she had said, everything she had done…
…there was no way it wasn't real.
So Toby was happy and loved his Molly because he knew that she loved him.
And now he was watching her root through her closet and dresser, trying to find suitable clothing to wear to work that day.
All the outfits she normally wore were at the hotel and Molly didn't think that it was a good idea to go back there at the moment.
If Jim came to her, then fine—but if not, then she was going to give it the day before coming 'crawling back' to him after their discussion (because she was not going to call it an 'argument').
Finally, Molly acquiesced to just wearing jeans to work (how unprofessional!), hoping that if she closed her labcoat nobody would notice anyway.
When Molly arrived at St. Bart's she saw the car that used to sit across the street from her apartment building some nights, parked (illegally (because who in the world would be stupid enough to try to give a cop a parking ticket)) out in front.
Lestrade was here.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
The last thing Molly wanted to deal with that morning was with the half suspicious, half sorry-for-her, detective inspector.
But it wasn't like she could just leave work (again) so she would have to walk into that hospital, go down to the morgue (where Lestrade would inevitably be), say a polite 'hello', give him whatever information he needed (along as it was about her profession, not her personal life), and go on with her day.
However, by the time Molly had made her way to her workroom, Lestrade was nowhere to be seen.
It might not have been his car, she reasoned, and even if it was he could have had other business in the hospital.
Either way, she was glad she didn't have to have another awkward discussion (because she wasn't the kind of confrontational person who went around arguing) with him.
Perfect.
Actually, perfect.
As Jim entered the (wide, high-ceilinged, concrete-floored) room of the seemingly deserted television studio, the lights came on.
There was a room within the room, smaller on a raised platform with only three walls.
Inside that of room were two armchairs and between them a wooden stand, where a tray with a pot of tea and two teacups sat. Jim instantly recognized that the scene was meant to dramatize his meeting with Sherlock the day he had been released from prison.
The actor stepped up on the stage, sitting down in the dark brown chair and waiting patiently for the director to arrive.
At first Jim was fine, absentmindedly staring around (oh look, video cameras, lights hanging from the ceiling…but where was the action?) but then he got bored.
"Line!" He called out.
That meant whoever was directing this thing would have to come out and talk to him.
Those were the rules.
First, Jim heard the approaching footsteps (evenly spaced until the person (male) had to jump up onto the platform without stairs) and then saw Mycroft Holmes enter the room.
(Well, who else could it have been (other than one other person who wasn't talking to him anymore) that had organized all this?)
"Mr. Holmes." Jim greeted, smiling up at him, "Long time no see. I've missed you. Did you miss me? I think you did—or else you wouldn't have taken over a whole television studio, just for little old me."
"Oh, this? This is just what I do."Mycroft said, also smiling as he strolled into the room, "It's just a bit of 'executive meddling', that's all. Nothing too fancy…"
He sat down in the armchair across from Jim.
"Don't be modest, Mr. Holmes." Jim replied, leaning forwards "The studio, the casting call, the set…it's all very professional. I love it—except for the script, of course."
"Pity." Mycroft sighed, "I really thought you'd like it. Being a 'renaissance man' and all… I thought you preferred the 'modern'."
"I do." Jim affirmed, "But I like the new, the novel—not the old. And taking something new and dressing it up in the latest fashions doesn't make something new. It's still same old, same old…unoriginal."
"I disagree. It's not unoriginal, it's a classic!"
"Exactly. 'Hamlet' is a classic. So to set it in modern day would be sacrilege! Using our technology for the props, our colloquialism for the dialogue…well that's just tacky."
"You'd be surprised. Modern-day Hamlet is much better than it sounds…pour you a cup?"
Mycroft gestured to the teapot and cups.
Jim shook his head, refusing.
Mycroft shrugged and then took one of the cups for himself.
"So you actually wrote it, then?" he inquired, "You really are trying to impress me."
"I'm not the only one who gets bored." Mycroft explained, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other, "and it was a long flight back from Switzerland."
Jim mirrored his movements.
"Long flight, huh?" he smirked, "Arms must be tired."
"Fingers." Mycroft corrected, "I was typing."
"I'm sure. And that pretty assistant of yours traveled with you?"
"Actually no."
"But you kept in-touch the whole time? She kept the little phone she never puts down on vibrate, awaiting your every call—"
"Not everyone mixes business and pleasure. Maybe you should take a lesson, Mr. Moriarty, and learn to be more professional."
Jim shrugged.
"I can't help it if I love my work," he laughed, "I like to have fun. It's not my fault if everybody in a suit's too stiff to know how…"
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
He knew that Jim Moriarty wore suits all the time and the only reason he wasn't (and so was able to make that comment) is because it had been Richard Brooke summoned for the 'casting call' by the Mountford talent agency (which had been purchased by the British government that morning).
"…or not stiff enough…" Jim added, in a mumble.
Mycroft took a breath, rolled his eyes again.
"Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" he asked, taking a teacup for himself
"No, thanks." Jim said politely, "…So why 'Hamlet', then? I know there's a 'why', there's always a 'why'."
"It just felt logical." Mycroft shrugged, taking , "Hamlet was a man of indecision, inaction—not to mention theatricality—one of grand schemes that he took so very long to carry out."
"Are you trying to imply something, Mr. Holmes?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well I just assumed you'd be perfect for the role," Mycroft commented, "…seeing how you're already in character."
"And so are you, Claudius." Jim retorted, "So eager to see your brother murdered….so what do you want? The throne, or his wife?"
"You know what I want." Mycroft stated.
"Ah, well, I'm sorry, then." Jim apologized, "I won't be in your show. I never liked 'Hamlet'… but I did like 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead' though—"
"You know very well, Mr. Moriarty, that this conversation is not about the theatre." Mycroft interrupted.
"It's not?" Jim gasped, "And here I thought we were friends having a friendly chat because that's what friends do—unless this was, you know, a date and we're just getting to know each other a little better—"
"You and I had a deal." Mycroft declared, "You promised me that you'd lead me to the creator of that code and you have yet to deliver."
"Oh, ye of little faith!" Jim laughed, "I've been 'delivering' ever since we had our last little 'heart-to-heart'! I've left the breadcrumbs all over this city…now it's up to you to follow them."
"I don't have time for your games." Mycroft responded, "I, unlike you, have a real job. Either you'll lead me to the code now, or we can continue this conversation elsewhere."
"My place or yours?" Jim asked.
"The location we met when we spoke before." Mycroft answered, "My men went easy on you the last time. I, however, will not. You should know that from now on I will be handling our dealings personally, and I promise you, Mr. Moriarty, that I am much more creative than my employees."
Jim snorted.
(He was glad he had decided not to drink the tea or else it would have sprayed out of his mouth all over Mycroft (which would have been hilarious—not to mention 'symbolic' in its own right—but not very dignified) who sat across from him, sipping his cup of tea and staring him down.
Mycroft was obviously trying (and failing) to scare Jim… but if he was so smart then he should have known better than to try to use Jim's own 'tricks' against him.
Vague threats and promises, innuendo ( 'my men went easy', 'handling', 'personally' Mycroft wasn't stupid. He knew what he had said).
Those were all Jim's things.
So unless Mycroft's new motto was 'What Would Jim Do?', there was really no logical reason for his words and actions.
…Jim wondered just what Mycroft was up to…
"Sounds fun." Jim commented.
"It can be." Mycroft conceded, "There is nothing I wouldn't do to get that code."
"…Are you propositioning me?" Jim grinned, "Cause it kinda sounds like you are—"
"I need that code."
"No such thing as 'need'. Only want…So tell me, Mr. Holmes, how badly do you want that code?"
Mycroft sighed, leaning forwards to set down the teacup back on the tray and then back into the armchair.
"More than anything else in this world..." He said.
"Good." Jim stated, seriously, face expressionless, "Because you have to want that code—value that code over everything. Be willing to trade that code for anything. Nothing is for free and you know that well, Mr. Holmes. You know that everything, everything is business and that in order to get you must give."
"Your demands?"
"I have no demands. You've already given me everything I need… All I ask now is that you leave me alone. You see, it's just a simple game of 'follow the leader'. I leave my trail of clues and you follow them. If you stop me, then the trail stops too and you'll never be able to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. If you want that code, you have to let me finish my trail—and my plans. And you know what my plans are, don't you?"
"Plant the keycode on my brother without his knowledge and then watch as the 'representatives' of various international gangs circle him like hawks?"
"Close enough."
"Well if you were actually going to sell the code you would have already."
"You've got that right, at least."
"What is it, then? What did I miss?"
Jim chuckled, shaking his head.
"Nobody ever listens, they just. don't. listen. The underestimate the importance of words. The meaning, the value…"
"You mean your 'stories'? Your 'Richard Brook' character and his lines in the papers?"
"Like I said, 'close enough'—But that's not the point. Point is you know what you're giving up, getting that code, right? You know who you're giving up?"
"Yes."
"Well then you better say it, then, say his name. You do owe him that much, at least. Because it's him that I'm crumbling up into little pieces and leaving behind as my trail for you. It's him that will burn alive. And when you reach the end of that trail, Mr. Holmes, there's not going to be anything left of him. He'll be all gone. So you'd better be alright with that now, since now you can stop me. Now you can save him—save him and give up the code, that is. Your choice. Because there is always a choice."
"Yes, there is always a choice. And you can choose to stop this yourself. You can choose to give me the code—"
"But I won't. And you know that. So what do you choose, Mycroft Holmes? Your brother, your own flesh and blood…or a computer keycode?"
"In the wrong hands that code could do more damage in one day than decades of war. But in the right hands, the British government's hands…that code will save lives, save the world."
"And it'll also kill Sherlock Holmes. So you'd trade your brother for the world?"
"Yes. It's the logical choice, to sacrifice one life for the lives of many."
"But this isn't 'logic'. This is family. This is love—"
"Love is what one gives up to get logic. It's a trade. It's business."
Mycroft straightened himself, taking a breath and then picking up his teacup again.
Jim smiled, finally taking the cup meant for him but waiting for Mycroft to drink before he too did.
"…Or maybe you're secret bleeding-heart who—in your infinite love and wisdom—can't help but to save it from itself and its sins by sacrificing your only son—I mean brother. Your only brother."
"Playing god's a difficult job. One has to make difficult decisions."
"You made the wrong one. You chose wrong."
"You'd have done differently?"
"Yes."
"You have a brother…?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
Jim smirked.
"No…but I'd never give up Sherlock for anything, Mr. Holmes, not even the whole world—not even myself."
Mycroft's eyebrows remained risen as he brought the cup to his now smiling lips, taking a slow slip.
"Really, now?" he asked, "Not the world, not yourself?...Not anything?"
"Nothing." Jim confirmed.
But when he drank from his own teacup of tea…
…he tasted coffee.
When Moriarty had left, Mycroft heard the high-heeled footsteps of his employee approaching.
She hesitated before she stepped up onto the stage and came into the room within the room through its 'door'.
Anthea was standing behind Mycroft from where he sat in the armchair, still enjoying his coffee in a teacup, and he did not turn to face her.
"Yes?" he asked.
He had to prompt her because he could hear her taking the deep breaths a soldier took before disobeying a direct order, the fear of a firing squad in forefront of his mind.
"...your brother..." she said, finally, "...your own brother?"
"Yes."
"But how can you-"
"How can I not? How could anything else be justified?"
"I know, sir, but-"
Anthea was interrupted by Mycroft setting down the teacup on the tray sharply and standing up.
Now, he turned around, looking her directly in the eye.
"It is not your place to advise me strategically or morally." he told her, "It may be your job to spy on my brother and those he associates with. But you merely watch them-you don't become them. It's unproffessional. I am not my brother, and you...you are not my John Watson."
"Yes, sir." Anthea nodded, once and then looked down at her smartphone.
When Molly returned to room 221 in the hotel that night at the usual time, instead of Jim sulking around inside (going stir crazy) she found the maid vacuuming.
The hotel room was completely empty and Jim was gone.
…as was all of both of their stuff.
(What the hell?)
"Um…excuse me, ma'am?" Molly attempted as she cautiously approached the woman (bent, with her back turned ('What Would Jim Do?')), the vacuum's roar covering her quiet voice.
She tapped the maid on the shoulder (yes, the shoulder) and she turned around to face her, turning off the vacuum.
"How can I help you?" the woman addressed, in a Russian accent.
"I'm sorry but can you tell me what happened to um…the person who was staying here?" Molly asked, "…and all the belongings that were here, as well?"
"The man checked out this afternoon." The maid answered, "He took all of his things with him."
"…oh…" Molly replied, surprised and confused.
And as she rode the elevator back downstairs she tried to figure out why Jim would have just 'up and left'.
She hadn't thought their discussion (which she hadn't even considered an argument up until now) had been that bad…they'd definitely had had worse disagreements.
So why would Jim just leave (her)?
What if he had been arrested again…or taken by Sherlock's brother?
If that was the case, then it had been whatever authorities responsible who had confiscated all of Jim's (and her) stuff…
…which meant they knew exactly who Molly Hooper was and whom she had been 'spending time' with.
They'd be coming for her next, no doubt!
What was she going to do?
Molly stepped off the elevator and into the slightly crowded, more than slightly fancy lobby.
It was around seven thirty in the evening and so the hotel restaurant was getting full, as was the hotel bar.
But as Molly made her way over to the revolving exit door, she saw Lestrade walk in.
What?
What was he doing here?
There was no logical reason for him to come to this hotel…
…unless he had followed Molly hoping to 'catch her in the act'.
(In fact, Molly figured, Lestrade had probably been following her all day, maybe even since the day that they had had that argument at the courthouse.)
And she was out in the open of the wide lobby now, without even a disguise. She knew there was nowhere to hide and it wasn't like she could run—that would only draw more unwanted (for once, unwanted) attention to her.
Besides, Lestrade had already seen her.
He was walking (—no stomping) in her direction, pushing past any hotel guest or staff that happened to be in his way.
"Hello, Detective Inspector…" Molly greeted him.
She forced a smile.
Lestrade did not.
"Hello Molly." He said, "What are you doing here?"
"…oh, I just came to get a drink at the bar after work…" Molly laughed.
"Really?" Lestrade replied, "This is miles from the hospital…"
"I know." Molly agreed, still smiling, "I didn't want to run into anyone from work…"
"Who did you want to 'run into', then?" Lestrade questioned.
"No one." Molly answered, "I wanted to be alone."
"At the same bar, of the same hotel, of the same sixteen year old victim you said that Moriarty killed?" Lestrade clarified, "—which you had no evidence for, by the way, but still 'just happened' to know."
"I told you he was texting me." Molly explained, "That's how I knew. But he stopped now. Stopped ages ago."
"And yet you still came to this hotel?" Lestrade accused, "Why?"
"I wanted to be alone." Molly repeated.
"You know that this is also the hotel they put the jurymen up in, too, right?" Lestrade informed, "The jury that found Moriarty not guilty, despite all the evidence against him and him not even having any kind of defense?"
"I didn't even know about that." Molly responded, "I just came here to get a drink, be alone…and not be bothered!"
Her last words had come out almost as a shout, which had definitely shocked Lestrade, whose head jerked back in surprise.
And so, even though he was really annoying her right now, Molly still felt bad for yelling at Lestrade.
She didn't want him (or anyone, really) as an enemy.
(There already was so much fighting, so much of it for no reason at all.)
Lestrade may have been on 'Team Sherlock' (or, at least, against Jim) but Molly wasn't 'picking sides' (…even if that meant (which it did, Molly realized) that Jim was on a side all by himself).
"…I'm sorry." Molly retracted, "I didn't mean—I mean I didn't want. I just—I don't want to fight. You—I don't want to fight you. We're friends—at least I think we're friends, you said we were 'friends'…and I don't want to fight with a friend…I think we should talk."
"Talk?" Lestrade repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, talk." Molly affirmed, "We're friends, and that's what friends do. They talk. I don't want…" she took a breath, "…you to think the wrong thing about me. I—I know how this looks and I see where you're coming from with, um…all of this. But if you give me a chance to explain I think can—I mean I know I can get you to understand."
"…Alright, then, Molly I'll hear you out..." Lestrade accepted, cautiously, "Let's 'talk'."
"Good!" Molly exclaimed, "Great! So…um…shall we?"
She gestured towards the bar. Lestrade raised his eyebrow again but followed her over to it.
There, they sat down on stools next to each other and ordered their drinks from the bartender who gave them an odd glance as he poured (he had seen Jim take some new girl up to his hotel room yesterday and now Molly was here at the bar with some new guy tonight—the bartender 'deduced' that they were both either cheaters…or some kind of swingers).
And it was a mixed-drink of truth and lies Molly was able to serve and Lestrade was able to swallow.
Because people never really know anything, they only think (think they know).
And people only ever believe what they want to.
(…especially when drunk.)
But when had Molly become a liar, she wondered, when had she become a good liar?
And when had lying become the right thing to do?
Lestrade was laughing now.
He had never found her jokes funny before, nobody ever had (well almost nobody) but Lestrade was laughing now, glass in hand and smiling at her.
He had actually enjoyed (and believed) her story about how, after meeting (and admittedly becoming obsessed with) Sherlock Holmes, she too had wanted to be a 'detective' and so the reason she put up with Moriarty's 'occasional' contact (texting only!) was because she wanted to 'solve the case'.
It was that interest (—that interest being the only interest, there was no romantic interest whatsoever) was what had brought Molly to the courthouse that day to see the trial and brought her to the holding cells to see Moriarty.
(And, of course, there was a bit of a personal grudge there against Moriarty since he had used her so cruelly and played with her heart to get to Sherlock. It was understandable she'd want very badly to see him captured and imprisoned.)
It all made perfect sense.
It all added up.
"I'm sorry, Molly, I'm really, really sorry…" Lestrade apologized, patting Molly on the arm, "I never should have suspected—I don't know what I was thinking!"
"It's fine." Molly forgave, "Really, it's okay. You were just doing your job…"
She glance at the hand touching her out of the corner of her, still looking at Lestrade who had spun completely in his seat to face her.
"No." he stated, and suddenly his hands were around hers on her knees (!) as he stared at her seriously, "I was wrong…but I want you to know that I never—never investigated you officially. At all. I never wrote up any reports or made any records of any of our conversations or times that I've well, watched you. It was all off the books. I never wanted to get you in trouble…I just thought that if you were already in 'trouble', that you might need my help."
"…I see…" Molly replied, politely picking up her drink as an excuse to free her hand from his grasp.
(The glass, of course, was already empty and she bit down on the ice that fell into her mouth.)
This, however, only legitimately rescued one of her hands and so the other one was left in a 'friendly' hold.
Looking him in the eyes, she could tell that what he said was true—but also that he was a little bit drunk.
"And I also want you to know," Lestrade continued, "that all those times I've watched your flat, to protect you from him, none of that was official either. My superiors didn't think it was worth it putting a police detail around your place. But I did. They didn't think he'd come back, didn't think there'd be any logical reason for him to...but they didn't see what I saw—what I see. They didn't see you."
"…um, thank you…" Molly thanked, trying her best to sound sincere instead of uncomfortable, then adding, "…Greg…" because after saying something so sweet (and meaning it) he did deserve a first-name-basis (even if that was all he was going to get).
"And you," Lestrade declared, "…you are something worth coming back to and I just wanted to protect you from him because you are something worth protecting and—"
"It's getting late." Molly interrupted, abruptly standing up, "I should go."
"I'll give you a ride." Lestrade offered, also standing.
His hands were still 'attached' to hers, she looked down at them and his gazed followed hers.
Lightly enough that it could have been accidental, one of her fingers grazed the medal band that he was wearing around his finger once again.
She looked back up at his face.
Blushing and laughing embarrassedly, Lestrade turned away, finally releasing her hand.
"No thanks," she refused, with a polite smile, "I can walk."
First thing in the door to her place, Kitty had kissed him, before he had even put his bags down.
It should have been perfect.
(Straight guys were supposed to appreciate a woman that forward (that easy) weren't they? And Richard Brooke was straight.)
"Well it's not the Ritz, but I'm sure it'll do." Kitty had told him, later, "Make yourself at home."
"I like it already," Jim had smiled, then, flopping down on her couch, "It's...homey."
It was like lines read right out of a movie script.
(…so formulaic, so boring…)
It should have been perfect.
(Free room and board? A pretty girl? (And she didn't have a cat to get fur all over everything.) How could he complain?)
And now, Jim Moriarty (—well, Richard Brooke, actually) was still lying on Kitty Riley's sofa, taking swigs from a beer bottle (because that's what straight guys DO!), gazing around her home.
Pictures of far away places decorated the walls—she wanted to travel, but couldn't afford to.
The motto 'make believe' raised but painted the same color as the wall, almost invisible—Liar. The teller of known secrets.
It should have been perfect.
"And nobody even cares about the so-called 'important' stuff," Kitty babbled on, calling down to him from upstairs in the kitchen, "like that meeting in Switzerland about the economic crisis that just happened…nobody cares! Stories like that don't sell any papers! Gossip does."
Jim could hear the clattering of pots and pans as she cooked (she could actuallycook! Real food. Not just cereal and snacks…) and feel the steam already warming the room.
"…and so that's why we sell gossip, because gossip sells." Kitty continued, "…and that's, why they call it 'The Sun', too, because gossip is at the center of this universe it's what everyone's lives revolve around."
(What? So everyone else's lives didn't revolve around Sherlock Holmes like Jim's (and Molly's) did? Impossible!)
"Well that and money." Kitty added, "That's what people's lives revolve around. Gossip and money. So I'm not ashamed to say I'll do anything, anything to make money. There's nothing I wouldn't do to get my story. Stand outside someone's house in the rain, take pictures through their window, follow them wherever they go... I've done it all. And I'll do it all again. They say it's rude, they say it's immoral? I don't care. All I care about is gossip and money. Same as everyone else—I just admit it. Everyone else is just lying, to each other and to themselves. They're all just pretending…"
And it should have been perfect.
It really should have been perfect.
She should have been perfect.
Kitty was about as morally bankrupt a person could be (and proud about it too) without actually breaking the law.
She was the kind of person Jim liked to work with (and the kind of female he tolerated sleeping with—or at least thought he could) and maybe even be 'friends' with (if people like him had friends).
In fact, she was everything Jim 'respected' in a normal (as in the people not like him) person and she really, really should have been perfect.
Should have…
…But she wasn't and it wasn't.
All Kitty Riley was, was disgusting.
And all Jim was, was bored.
...so...
...well...
That awkward fact of the show is being 'tackled' (and cast back out to sea so our current ship can continue to sail (somewhat) unhindered).
lol
And 'Make Beleive' is actually on Kitty Riley's wall, too. Idk if anyone saw that lol took me a second watch (thanks internet!).
Also in the third episode of the second season...a whole lot of mirrors!
(Just thought I'd point that out too lol)
And again with that reviews being my lifeblood thing, now more than ever I need a little bit of happy when I come home from school lol...