Low review count last chapter...
...so I added some Jim and Molly actually together, this chapter.
Hopefully that'll work.
If not this is gonna be one lonely summer lol...
This time there was no theatrics.
Instead of a wide, vacant top floor of a skyscraper where more money was made in one minute by a powerful few than in the entire lifetimes of normal people meant to intimidate by all it symbolized, Molly was taken to a small office of a small college in the city that was out for the summer.
And instead of being given tea and threats, she had a conversation.
Two conversations, actually.
"A man was shot here." Molly said, as they approached the building, "Two years ago. I did his autopsy. He was shot and killed…but he was already dying of a brain aneurism. He only had days left to live…"
"I don't know anything about that, ma'am." Moran replied, not turning around to look at her.
He was walking ahead of Molly, leading her into the school as she scurried behind him, staring around and making nervous small-talk.
She'd been silent the taxi ride over, but she'd been right and so she wanted to say something (but politely ease into it).
"They never caught the shooter," Molly continued, "Even though Sherlock Holmes was working that case. The man who died was a serial killer. He poisoned four known victims, I did some of those autopsies too…"
"Well, that's a shame." Moran sympathized, unconvincingly.
If Molly was trying to make some kind of a point (or an accusation, even) then he would have preferred her to just state it outright…but until then he had to pretend to be polite because Molly, although annoying, at least wasn't Jim and so didn't deserve to be ignored or berated.
Up the stairs and down the hall, they were almost to his employer's office, though and so he wouldn't have to put up with this much longer.
He had work to do, after all.
"Speaking of Sherlock Holmes…" Molly changed the subject, finally getting to her point, "I knew it would be you—well, your boss—that would see the security feed. Your boss or Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. He works for the government."
"I don't know anything about that, either." Moran responded, "And neither does my employer, ma'am. We try not to get involved with Sherlock Holmes or anyone he associates with."
"Really?" Molly inquired.
Moran didn't look back to see her face and so didn't know whether she was raising her eyebrow wryly or in genuine surprise.
She sounded sincere, though.
"Causes trouble, Sherlock Holmes does." Moran commented, "It doesn't just follow him, he seeks it out. It's a dangerous thing to do, getting involved with Sherlock Holmes."
Molly wasn't stupid, of course.
She could tell that in Moran's sentence the name 'Sherlock Holmes' was meant to be synonymous with 'Jim Moriarty'.
The nuances and double definitions of words were important things.
"I know…" Molly agreed, "…but it's hard not to. Get involved, I mean. Sherlock Holmes and—well, people like him…they're just—just so…magnetic. Sometimes you can't just stay away. Sometimes you're just drawn to them, like…like…"
"Like a moth to a flame?" Moran suggested, finally turning his head around look at Molly.
She was no longer walking behind him but simply standing there in the middle of the hallway, smiling embarrassedly as she tried to gather her thoughts and put them to coherent expression.
"Well, yes." Molly accepted, "Though I was going to say like planets in a solar system, orbiting around the sun."
"I see." Moran nodded, starting forwards again.
Molly hurried to keep up with him, he was walking faster now.
"I know you understand," She insisted, "I know you know…They're different. People like them, like Sherlock, like Jim…"
And Moran wasn't stupid, either.
He could tell that in Molly's sentence, the names 'Sherlock' and Jim' were meant to be synonymous with his employer's.
And he could tell that in this 'story' (whatever fiction she had created in her mind, whatever perceived parallels she had seen), he was meant to be synonymous with Molly.
Moran laughed, breaking from his normal straight face and monotone, and shook his head.
"I don't know what keeps you coming back to Jim," he told Molly, turning all the way around to face her, "love…loyalty…loneliness…Hell, maybe you're just bored or have a death wish. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because Jim is not his brother. And my employer is not like him. He pays me. Very well. And that's why I'm here. No other reason. And I don't care what yours is."
At Moran's words, Molly attempted to have no reaction but was unable to disguise the hurt and…disappointment (was it?) on her face.
And Moran did feel a little bad, at that.
(After all, he wasn't like Jim or James or Sherlock or Mycroft…he did have some semblance of a conscience left.)
And this poor girl… this poor, sad, lost girl was just trying to find someone to relate to, just wanted (needed) a friend…
He sighed.
"What I mean is," Moran added, "is that it's not safe. You being around Jim. He could kill you. You should get out while you still have the chance."
But at this, Molly said nothing.
She just shook her head.
Moran sighed.
Neither spoke again until they finally reached the door to his employer's office and he held the door open to allow her to enter.
Inside the small office, Moran could see James, who was seated at his desk in the lamplight, look up when he heard the door.
"Miss Hooper." James greeted Molly, "Please come in."
"…hello…" she responded, tentatively stepping into the office.
Moran caught his employer's eye.
"You know what I have to do." he reminded.
"Yes, yes." James nodded, waving Moran away, "You may go."
Moran nodded also, and then ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
At the thud, Molly jumped a little.
She glanced around the room, which was cozy compared to the empty floor she'd visited last time.
But it still didn't seem real.
It was all dark browns, with a few reds or greens here and there.
Its bookshelves held the proper books and the desk had the proper papers (and coffee stains).
It was just too normal.
The stereotypical professor's office without an ounce of personality in the décor.
Molly realized then that she had never seen Jim's 'home' (if even had one).
She wondered about the people, those different (strange) people, that existed in worlds (homes) of their own making within their own minds and were only just barely here in this one, only just playing the parts that the (boring—normal—stupid) people expected them too.
"Sit down," James offered, gesturing to the chair across from him, "…and don't be afraid. I'm not going to threaten you, this time. I'm just going to talk to you. That's what you wanted, isn't it? After all, you contacted me."
Molly sat, uncomfortably, holding her hands in her lap.
"Actually," she corrected, "I thought it would be the government who'd come to pick me up. I wanted to speak to Sherlock Holmes's brother."
"Mycroft Holmes?" James raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, "I'm sure he has better things to do than talk to you—no offense, of course, miss—but the man does have a country to protect. I, on the other hand, don't. I'm just a teacher, a little person like you…"
"I know you're not." Molly stated.
James shook his head, laughing.
"I admit that list time I did put on a bit of a 'show' for you, Miss Hooper, what with the tea and the empty floor in the skyscraper." He said, "I had convince you I was truly Jim's brother because I doubted he had told you about me—we don't tell people about each other, normally, you see…"
"Well, may be true but…" Molly considered, "…you still were able to get access to the video from the morgue and so I know how must have some kind of… power."
"I like to keep eye on my little brother," James shrugged, "and everyone he associates with. Constantly."
"…You watch us?" Molly asked, taken aback, "You were watching me?"
"Not personally, of course." James chuckled, "I have people for that."
"Oh." Molly breathed a sigh of relief (…and then wondered just who had been watching her, then—and how much).
"But when my employees saw the message, they assumed it was for me." James continued, "And although it wasn't…I still would like to hear what this is all about. If not Mr. Mycroft Holmes, then perhaps I can help you, Miss Hooper."
"I'm not the one who needs help." Molly replied, "Jim is. You know he's going to…do something. Something terrible, probably, and he and Sherlock both'll end up dead."
"I don't know anything about that." James declared, "I'm not involved in any way with Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty. If they both do die, then that's a shame but there's nothing I can do about it."
"You're just going to do nothing, then?" Molly exclaimed, actually shocked, "Jim—he's your brother!"
"Like I said, there's nothing I can do about it." James asserted, "I've been trying to stop my brother his entire life…and I've failed. Jim can't be controlled. He can't be stopped."
"So you've given up…" Molly murmured, sadly.
"Yes." James affirmed, "I tried to teach him, I tried to helphim…but you can't make Jim do something he doesn't want to do. You just can't."
"Maybe you've just been trying the wrong thing," Molly countered, "Maybe you've just been doing that same thing over and over again, expecting a different result…"
"You think I'm crazy, Miss Hooper?" James scoffed, "You think you know my brother better than I do?"
"I—" Molly began.
"You're wrong." James interrupted, "You may believe that you're special to Jim, just because you've known him a couple years and he hasn't killed you…you think he cares about you…He doesn't. Jim doesn't care about anyone but himself—and Sherlock Holmes, of course, which is only his arrogance appreciating someone he believes is his reflection—And I assure you, Miss Hooper, that he doesn't care about you. So you shouldn't waste your affections on him, either…or your life."
"I…" Molly began again, quietly, hopelessly, "…I can't help it. I just do."
And James did feel a little bad, at that.
This poor girl… this poor, sad, lost girl who fell for the only man who paid attention to her (and the most dangerous criminal mind the world had ever seen).
All she'd wanted (needed) was a friend.
He sighed.
"Well, it does take the heart of an angel to love a monster," he consoled, reaching over to pat Molly on the shoulder, "You're a very caring person…"
"'Caring'?" Molly repeated, "You mean stupid."
"Same thing." James smiled.
And Molly nodded.
The nuances and double definitions of words were important things.
"You said you 'keep an eye' on Jim…" she recalled, "…Do you know where he is? I need to see him, I just want to talk to him…please…"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you his location at the moment," James started, already seeing Molly's mouth open to protest, "but if you go back to the hospital and wait there, I think I can arrange a meeting between you and him."
"You can do that?" Molly questioned, skeptically "You'd really do that?"
"If I wasn't going to I wouldn't lie to you about it." James answered, "…but I can't guarantee to you that Jim will actually come to this meeting. I told you, I can't make my brother do anything he doesn't want to. And I don't know if he'll want to, considering what he knows you're going to say."
"He'll want to." Molly said, hoping she was right and hoping she was as sure as she sounded (and that she sounded sure).
As the sun set, Moran steered the taxi through the streets of London until he saw Jim standing by the side of the road, pointing his thumb in the direction he wanted to drive.
And Moran did not roll his eyes as he pulled up to the curb beside Jim, keeping the engine running as he stepped out of the car to allow Jim to drive.
"He'll know it's you." he warned, once Jim was in the driver's seat leaning his arm against the open window.
"No, he won't." Jim disagreed, "Who would ever suspect a lowly cabbie?"
" 'Fool me once'-" Moran began.
"And that's a damn shame, ain't it, Seb?" Jim interrupted, snickering, "…And by the way, you ever get that money you lost to him playing cards back?"
"No." Moran stated, expressionless as always (and hiding his anger and annoyance as (almost) always) but then added with a small (triumphant) smile, "…but I got his cab."
Jim grinned.
"I like how you play," he commented, "and I think that maybe, just maybe, in another life we could've been friends…"
Moran did roll his eyes at this.
"People like you don't have friends." Moran reminded, "…Now go get your enemy and get this over with."
"Oh, alright…" Jim sighed, also rolling his eyes.
From inside his jacket, Jim pulled out a hat (and not just any hat—Jefferson Hope's hat. The previous owner of the cab's hat.) and adjusted it onto his head until it fit, checking his appearance in the rear-view mirror before finally putting his hands on the wheel.
Moran watched Jim drive away, the taxi quickly disappearing among the traffic of the city.
Once Jim was gone, it was time for Moran's next assignment.
Kill the hitmen who were following Sherlock Holmes.
(Of course, they weren't shooting each other. After living together in such close proximity for such along time they had actually all become friends, making alliances between their respective gangs and taking turns following Sherlock around. The Russain woman and the Albanian man had even hooked up a couple times-don't tell the Moroccan, though, he has a crush on her.)
Still handcuffed together, Sherlock and John sat in the dark of Kitty Riley's living room, anxiously awaiting her arrival.
Sherlock was tapping his feet impatiently, muttering something under his breath, just to kill time until Kitty arrived for their 'meeting'.
"Sherlock, could you stop that? Someone'll hear!"
"Someone'll hear you talking."
"You were talking, too."
"I wasn't 'talking', John, I was whispering. There's a difference."
"Well, you're not whispering now, are you?"
"Neither are you."
"What were you talking about, anyway?"
"Not 'talking', whispering. I was whispering."
"What were you 'whispering' about, then?"
"I was just thinking—"
" 'Thinking'? But I thought you were 'whispering'!"
"Well, John, I can do both at the same time—a fact which you'd realize had you the same ability."
"But since I don't, you better tell me what you were 'thinking'."
"I was thinking that with everyone thinking that I falsified my accomplishments, that it's almost like I've ceased to exist—at least in my true incarnation—like I'm dead…"
"That's ridiculous, Sherlock! That doesn't even make any sense!"
"It would in Moriarty's mind."
"It shouldn't in yours, though. And if you know this is what Moriarty wants you to think…then you know you shouldn't be thinking it."
"Well we can't help what we think, John, now can we?"
"So you actually think—"
"No. I mean yes, but no. I know it's not logical but I still think…I still feel—"
"You feel? 'Feel' as in like, you know, actual emotions?"
"I do have those, John..."
"Ah, so you're not a robot after all. Good to know."
"…but they rarely, if ever, affect me. And when they do…they slow the circuits in my mind."
" 'Circuits', huh?...No, well, I shouldn't be joking about this, anyway. It's wrong of me—"
"Joke if you want, John. I won't laugh, but I won't cry either. I doesn't affect me—"
"But you just said—"
"I said that I do have emotions. That doesn't mean just any little thing can hurt me. It doesn't mean anything should be able to hurt me."
"It's normal to get hurt. That's—"
"—That's what people do? Really, John, I think you can do better than that. Normal people get hurt. Ordinary people. Stupid people…not me."
"Look, Sherlock, Moriarty's smart. He knows just what buttons to push. He knows how you'll react to all of this…he's doing it on purpose! He's trying to mess with your mind, Sherlock, don't let him!"
"…I don't think he's trying to mess with my 'mind'…I think he's trying to mess with my heart. He said he'd 'burn the heart' out of me, didn't he? He knows my mind is too powerful for him to defeat and so he's targeting my heart—"
John sighed, shaking his head in the darkness.
As smart (genius) as Sherlock was, he refused to learn one simple truth.
That the heart and the mind were the same thing.
It was already dark when Molly returned to St. Bartholomew's.
James had offered to get another ride for her, but she'd elected to walk there just to kill time until Jim arrived for their 'meeting'.
But as soon as Molly stepped off the elevator into the lower level, she saw that the doors to the morgue were closed and locked, the entire floor blocked off.
From another, side door, a man emerged, practically running (despite his girth) towards Molly.
"What are you doing down here?" he demanded, worriedly.
"…I—I work here!" Molly stammered, jerking back away from him in shock, confusion and fear.
What did this man think she was doing, what did he know?
"Oh…sorry." The man apologized, stopping and smiling embarrassedly, "I guess you didn't get the memo, then. Morgue closed tonight."
"…nobody told me, I'm sorry." Molly also apologized, also smiling embarrassedly.
Why did no one ever tell her anything around here, why did everyone always forget about her? Did she really leave such a fleeting impression…?
"It's alright." the man shrugged.
"Why is it closed?" Molly inquired, "Did something happen?"
"Oh, no, nothing bad happened or anything like that." The man laughed, "I'm just doing a training exercise for my students down here."
"Your students?" Molly repeated.
"I'm a teacher," he stated, smiled, and then extended a hand for Molly to shake, "Mike Stanford."
Molly stared at him at him for a second before remembering what people do when someone extends a hand for you to shake.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Stanford." Molly shook his hand politely (though loosely, she never did have a 'strong handshake'), smiling politely, " I'm Molly Hooper."
"Nice to meet you too, Molly." Stanford returned, still shaking her hand, "And please, call me Mike."
"Okay…Mike…" Molly accepted, freeing herself from his grasp and inching away, backwards towards the elevator (she could see where this was going), "Well I've got to go now, since the morgue's closed and all and there's nothing for me to do here…"
"Oh. Right…" Stanford nodded, "See you around, then, Molly." and then called after her, "Coffee sometime?" as she backed back into the elevator behind her.
The doors closed (thankfully) before Molly had to think of a polite response (and refusal) to his invitation.
After he'd jumped out the window, Jim hid in the alley behind Kitty's townhouse.
Sherlock would expect him to run and so he stayed.
And once Sherlock and John had gone their separate ways, away from the neighborhood, Jim returned to Kitty's flat.
She was sitting at her dining room table, looking over the Richard Brooke 'evidence' while sipping some wine (a gift from her boss once he'd seen her Sherlock Holmes tell-all) from one of the nicer glasses (the kind Molly didn't even own), obviously trying to calm down after the heated confrontation that had just taken place in her home.
It was too easy to get people like her worked up…
(And Kitty was so worked up that she hadn't noticed that her most important piece of evidence, her trust tape-recorder, had disappeared.)
"Honey, I'm home!" Jim called as he came through the front door.
Finally he was able to make the joke that was long overdue an audience (and some appreciation)—except Kitty didn't seem to find it funny.
"Rich, I was so worried!" Kitty cried, jumping up from her chair and rushing down the stairs to hold him (she was always so grabby—didn't seem to care about personal space).
"It's fine, Kitty." Jim assured, patting her on the back (awkwardly) as she hugged him, "I'm fine."
"But you were gone such a long time…" Kitty reminded, finally pulling away from him.
"What do you mean a 'long time'?" Jim questioned, "I was only gone a few minutes. I was just hiding outside in the alley. Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson—they really scared me…"
"I mean before," Kitty explained, folding her arms, "You said you were just going out to get some coffee…but then you were gone almost all day! It was eleven in the morning when you went out, it's nine o' clock at night now and you've only just come back! Where were you, Richard?"
"um…getting coffee…?" Jim tried.
"Oh really?" Kitty raised her eyebrow.
"I told you they didn't have any pre-ground—at least I think I did…" Jim pleaded, "And I went around from shop to shop, trying to find your favorite kind. I just kept looking and looking…but nobody had any! I'm sorry, Kitty, I really am! I just—"
Before Jim could finish his false apology, he was encompassed again by an embrace that violated his sense of personal space that was very sensitive.
"Aww, Richie, that's so sweet!" Kitty swooned, "…You must have had the most difficult day, first that and now all this with Sherlock Holmes finding you…I'm so sorry, it must be so hard on you…"
"It is, Kitty, it really is…" Jim sobbed into her shoulders, "It's like I'm dead already…"
"Don't think that!" Kitty exclaimed, pushing Jim over to the small sofa and sitting him down.
"I don't 'think' it, I just feel it…" Jim continued, sinking into his seat and sighing, "I feel like if nobody believes I'm real, then it's like I've ceased to exist—like I'm dead."
"Wait right there, I'll get you something to drink—" Kitty had started to say as she was halfway back up the stairs, before she stopped mid-sentence and in her tracks, turning around to stare at Jim confusedly, "…What do you mean nobody believes your real?"
Jim sighed.
"You don't believe I'm real, the public doesn't believe I'm real after your article…" he said, "…and even Johnny, there, seemed like he was starting to doubt my reality, too, for a minute…"
"What?" Kitty asked, taken-aback.
"God, you're so stupid…" Jim groaned, "Everyone is just so stupid!…except me and Sherlock. We're the only ones…"
"You mean you're finally admitting it, then?" Kitty inquired, a small smile growing on her face, "You're finally telling me the truth about your identity?"
"You knew?" Jim asked, taken-aback.
"Of course, I knew! I'm not stupid!" Kitty laughed as she stepped down the stairs, "Besides Sherlock Holmes deduced me in the men's toilet—"
"He did what to you in the toilet?!"
"At the courthouse! When Sherlock deduced everything about me I knew he was for real. And there's no way he could've faked everything else like that—just made up all the crimes he solved—made up you…He'd have to be a genius to do that, and the what would be the point?"
Jim flew up from the couch.
He knew he couldn't kill Kitty (yet)—she still had to publish her article, after all.
But how had she known all along?
And, more importantly, how had he not?
(…maybe he had just been distracted…)
"So all this time, you were just pretending…" Jim made sure, approaching her.
"I'm an actor." Kitty grinned, "Just like you, Richard Brook."
Jim chuckled at this.
"…You know…" he began as he continued towards her, giving his voice that edge that he knew made women melt, "…it wasn't all acting…"
"Yes it was." Kitty scoffed, "It was all just a job…but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy my work, of course. I have to have my fun, my excitement where I can get it…"
Jim rolled his eyes.
He stepped backwards until fell back onto the sofa, sighing again and closing his eyes.
"So are you still gonna publish the story, or not?" Jim muttered, leaning his head back against the wall, "I've got to know, so I can know whether I have to kill you."
"I'm going to publish it." Kitty declared, "I'm a storyteller, just like you, who cares if it's the truth or a lie?"
"I don't." Jim shrugged, "But doesn't hat doesn't compromise your 'journalistic integrity' or whatever people like you call it?"
"'People like me'?" Kitty repeated, "I'm not like them, the other writers, the normal people…I'm like you! We're alike, the two of us! We're different from the rest…so we should be together!"
Jim snorted.
"You think you're like me?" he asked, still chuckling as he stood, shaking his head as he stalked towards her, "…you ever kill anyone before?"
"…no…" Kitty said.
"…would you?" Jim tested, "And don't just say yes unless you mean it. Really, really mean it. And if you don't know, just say it."
"I would." Kitty affirmed, "I would kill someone…for you. I'd do anything for you."
"Are you asking me for a job proposition, Miss Riley?" Jim questioned, smirking.
"I'll accept any kind of proposition you give me." Kitty answered, also smirking.
Jim laughed.
Laughed for a long time until Kitty joined him.
As soon as she did, he stopped, the smile falling from his face which turned blank…and dark.
"Then kill yourself." Jim told her, "Publish your story and then go jump off a building or something."
"…Wh-what?" Kitty stammered, smile also falling from her face.
"Did I stutter? You heard me. I said kill yourself." Jim snapped, then, muttering under his breath, "…good lord, I can see why you 'repel' Sherlock…"
"Is this some kind of a test?" Kitty asked.
"If you wanna call it that, then sure, it's 'some kind of a test'." Jim accepted, "Kill yourself…and once your good and dead I'll give you an A plus. How about that, Kitty-cat?"
"I—you—you don't want me to work for you?" Kitty fumbled, still in shocked as Jim rolled his eyes at her, "…but we'd be so good together. I may not be any good now, but you—you could teach me! I could learn how to be bad, how to be like you. I'd be perfect…"
"I've got people, so many people that work for me, that 'would do anything' for me—or for money…" Jim sighed, "…I don't need any more—I don't want any more. There are so many people, so many annoying little ticks that think if they latch onto me—or people like me—that they could leech a bit of power for themselves. Finally be something. They're wrong. They can't. No matter what, all of them, they're all nothing…"
"All those people are the same!" Kitty insisted, "But I'm different!"
She was forward and persistent, Jim had to give her that—but not a job.
"NO YOUR NOT!" Jim shouted, straight into her face because he knew that scaring her was the only way to get her to back off (and because it was fun to see her jump away in fear, that shocked expression on her face (not as good as Molly's though, of course)), "You're stupid, just like everyone else. Everybody is just so stupid…stupid, and boring, and too easy to corrupt—" Jim paused anger fading and voice softening, "—except...except when they're not. Except when they're not…"
And as if on cue, Jim felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
Getting it out, he saw the text he'd received was from his brother.
Miss Hooper wants to meet with you.
Poor thing still wants to save you.
After reading it, Jim returned his phone to his pocket, looking back up at Kitty who was still gaping at him in disbelief.
(Now not only had she been rejected by Sherlock Holmes, but by Jim Moriarty as well. Not a lucky girl, this Kitty Riley.)
"I've got to go now, darling." Jim told her, apologetically, "…but I'll be waiting for the Sherlock story, he's going to commit suicide, soon, by the way. You can add that to your piece—and while your at it, you might as well write your own obituary, too, since you're going to commit suicide, soon, as well—for me, because I asked you to." At this point he was already walking away, stopping in the doorway only to add, "See you around, Miss Riley—oh wait. No I won't."
And with that, Jim was gone.
Molly took the elevator up Robert's floor to see if he was in his (burrowed) office to chat with (to kill time until Jim arrived)…but he wasn't and that door, too, was locked.
So Molly decided to just go up to the laboratory where she knew Jim would be able to find her once he found that the morgue was off-limits for the night.
That is, of course, if Jim even came at all.
He didn't.
Molly waited for hours for Jim (again) and he never came (for her).
But Sherlock did.
Just as she was finally giving up and going home, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows to tell her of all people (little nobody Molly Hooper) that he needed her.
…And maybe that was just what Molly needed.
It wasn't what she wanted, though.
"One more thing, Molly." Sherlock said, after he'd finished listing his instructions for her.
"Yes?" she asked.
"…You were gone a long time." Sherlock stated, "Too long to just be getting some crisps."
And Molly's stomach dropped.
This was it.
Sherlock had finally figured it all out.
She was dead.
"I…I was just—I mean, I—" Molly fumbled, nervously.
Why even try to make excuses?
There was no point.
"Nevermind." Sherlock interrupted, "That's not important, anyway. I don't care."
"…oh." Molly accepted cautiously, confused and still very nervous.
But the look of horror was still stuck on her face, rather than a look of relief.
And so Sherlock felt a little bad, at that.
This poor girl…this poor, sad, lonely girl who'd only wanted (needed) a friend…
…and who he'd completely underestimated.
He sighed.
"It's fine." He added, trying to sound less cold than he normally did, "It's all fine."
They were John's words, of course, and playing John (with the smiles, and the comforting voice, and the being nice) had worked.
Molly smiled.
It looked small, it looked weak—but it was deceptive.
And it was sincere.
Sherlock watched Molly smile, nod and then exit the lab.
Once she was gone, he texted John to meet him here—and then he texted Moriarty to meet him here.
The first thing Jim thought when he got Sherlock's texts—
Come and play.
Bart's Hospital rooftop.
SH
(and then, a second later)
PS. Got something
of yours you might
want back.
—was Molly.
Had Sherlock finally figured out that Jim had 'stolen' Molly from him and so 'stolen' her back somehow?
If so, Sherlock was really playing the villain, here, by 'stealing' his enemy's girl.
Even Jim wouldn't do something as cliché as that.
(That's something Jim would expect from The Rockin' Men—or whatever those bumbling buffoons had called themselves—not a genius like Sherlock Holmes.)
And so Jim decided that Sherlock wouldn't, either, and must have had something else for him at the hospital.
That could wait.
After all, the night was still 'young', Jim still had time for having this 'meeting' with Molly.
It would be funny, whatever she'd have to say this time, to try to convince him to stop.
And so he went to meet Molly, just to kill time until his meeting with Sherlock.
But he wasn't going to meet her at the hospital, that was for sure.
That was where James expected him to go.
It was also what Molly expected.
And Jim wanted to surprise her.
He wanted to see her eyes and mouth open wide just one more time (or a couple more) before everything finally ended.
So he went to her flat.
She'd be home from work soon, wouldn't she?
She wouldn't wait for him forever, there at the hospital, before she figured it out (or gave up) and left.
All he had to do was wait.
Sherlock Holmes has fled police custody.
-DI Lestrade
####
Do you want me to turn him in to you if I see him?
-Molly
####
No.
I want you to help him in every way you can.
-DI Lestrade.
"You were gone a very long time, Miss Hooper. How rude of you to keep me waiting…"
Molly hadn't even gotten through the door, hadn't even turned on the light before she heard Jim's voice.
"Jim!"
She jumped, holding in an exclamation of surprise, and was glad it was too dark for Jim to see her do that once again.
Molly's hand reached over to the wall, fumbling until found the light switch.
But when it finally did, she felt Jim's hand covering hers, insisting that the two of them work together.
Lights on, Molly could see Jim standing right in front of her, with no regard whatsoever for her personal space.
The expression on his face, Molly realized, must have been hers—or as close as Jim could mimic it.
She knew that her face was slowing falling back from shock into neutral, as she took a deep breath that she tried to keep from catching.
Jim just looked like he was trying hard to breathe, with his mouth and eyelids forced open and not returning to a normal parting as they were supposed to do, naturally.
And still, somehow, he managed to look sarcastic.
"Where were you?" Jim asked, in a whisper.
He leaned towards Molly, who backed away until she leaned against the door, closing it behind her.
Jim still hadn't let go of her one hand on the light switch, and instead of doing this, he decided to add some symmetry to the situation by grabbing her other and using it to pin her against the door.
Molly looked down, nervously, breaking eye contact (which she had never been that good at maintaining, anyway).
She wasn't really afraid of Jim, at least not anymore…
…but she couldn't let him know this.
Because if he ever thought that she wasn't scared of him he might decide to remind her why she should be.
And that's what Molly was afraid of.
(That and everything between them being just another lie.)
"I was working…" Molly answered, "There were a lot of bodies—"
"Do you know why I think your nose is cute, Molly?" Jim interrupted to inquire to which Molly shook her head, "…it's because it crinkles when you lie."
"I'm not—I didn't—" Molly tried to say (which really spoke for itself).
Jim rolled his eyes.
"Only the nose knows…" he sighed.
"What?" Molly said, confused.
"You've got a tell, my dear." Jim explained (although that wasn't actually much of an explanation), "You're careful when you lie, because your always careful in everything you do. You look them in the eyes, whoever you're lying to, you move your mouth precisely, deliberately…saying things you know you'd say just how you'd say them, like your playing yourself in a movie…you're terrible at lying—and you want everyone to know. So that they think you'd never dare…but you crinkle your nose, ever-so slightly, not on purpose, you crinkle your nose."
"Oh…" Molly responded, unsure of what else she could say.
"So, Pinocchio, wanna try that again?" Jim suggested, "Tell me what you were really doing…"
"I was…I was with someone that I used to love." Molly stated, truthfully.
"Oh?" Jim raised an eyebrow.
"…and I realized that I didn't love him anymore." Molly continued, still telling the truth.
"And just who was this 'someone' you used to 'love', love?" Jim inquired, smirking.
He thought she meant Sherlock, of course, and she did…but she wasn't going to let Jim know that.
"My ex-boyfriend Robert." Molly lied.
And before Jim could see her nose 'crinkle', Molly freed her hands from his, using them to pull Jim's head down to hers for a kiss.
She knew he'd know this was only a distraction.
She knew he'd know she'd lie about ever 'loving' Sherlock.
It's what he expected her to do.
And so she did exactly that.
Jim would have said something about this, but his mouth was busy at the moment and so he decided to forgive Molly's lie (for now, at least).
But although his mouth was currently occupied, his hands were free so and set out to find their own distractions.
And that was how Jim Moriarty was distracted all night while Sherlock Holmes made all the proper preparations for faking his death, putting all chess pieces into place on the board, and just waiting patiently for his enemy to make the next move.
How convenient.
Yeah well...
(Read the whole Author's Note to get the explanation of a lifetime!)
First off, the thing Kitty...that's basically my reason for not doing dark!Molly.
Not only do I think it's out of character, it's also kinda boring (they're too alike) or cliche (good girl gone bad for the bad boy) or whatever you wanna call it.
I think it makes Molly weak.
lol.
Well...
And the whole, 'the nose knows' thing...
...that's another reference (surprise, surprise...more references!), this time to this old 80's show called 'Wiseguy'.
Americans can find the first season for free on Hulu. I'd definitely recommend it.
There was this character, Mel Profit who was an insane arms dealer who lived on a party yacht in international waters, threating and buying government officials, and the like...
I remembered him when I realized that Jim's dad is totally Kevin Spacey (Mel's actor) even though he's American.
Then I found out Andrew Scott and Kevin Spacey probably know each other to (Spacey bought some theater company Scott used to work at or something like that).
...and so like Jim and James's dad is definately Kevin Spacey...just with like a ginger, though (like Spacey had in Outbreak, I think...).
I haven't figured out who their mom is yet...but she has brown hair and eyes like her sons (they have their dads face shape and forehead, though).
And then that's when I realized who James is.
Since Mycroft is Mark Gatiss with no beard...James is Steven Moffat with a beard!
...which also makes John's unseen lesbian sister Sue Vertue (who's actually blonde, too...but not a lesbian-isn't she like married to Moffat or something...?)
lol.
I'm so wierd.
Well anyway, after they killed off crazy Mel, Wiseguy's producer liked the character so much that he made another show 'Profit' (which I've never seen and got canceled after like the first episode) with a character based on Mel.
...and guess what his name was...
Jim!
lol.
And he was Irish American, too.
Funny how things always work out.
(In fiction.)
I love Wikipedia so much.
...Anyone still reading this?
If you are, sorry for my ramblings...
And please review!