fic: red song in the night (molly/moriarty)
Just a quick Molly/Moriarty snippet with more to come. Unbeta'd
The worst thing, Molly thought after the dust from the pool debacle settled, was not the pity from her coworkers or the police search of her flat. It was not even the subsequent ransacking by a half-mad consulting detective on a tear, convinced another clue to James Moriarty lay behind her coffee mugs or at the bottom of her knickers drawer. The worst thing about the whole bloody mess was that she knew. She knew. She knew before the news broadcast announcing an explosion at a local aquatics centre. She knew before DI Lestrade smiled at her over awful police station tea and brought up protective custody. She knew before Sherlock sodding Holmes.
The knowledge laid dormant in her until the night it all fell apart. She was curled up, safe and cozy, a stack of anatomy journals ready to read when the scream of sirens ripped past her window. She started, dislodging Toby from his perch atop her lap, and listened as the wailing faded away. She remembers because in that moment, Molly thought Jim, it’s Jim, I know it, and when the doorbell buzzed with DC Donovan on the other side, Molly Hooper was already dressed to go.
It was an irrational impulse, a thoughtless notion, and for a time Molly convinced herself she was simply so distraught from her quarrel with Jim earlier that he was the first thing to pop to mind. But Molly had never been terribly good at lying, not even to herself. As the police briefed her on terms like Black Lotus and sniper rifles, Molly marveled in silence at her own utter lack of shock. The man the police described was psychotic, violent, mercurial. He had wide-spread, well-training operatives, possibly even within the British government. He was dangerous, obsessive, and Molly had just seen him, sweet silly Jim, teeth gritted to keep from grinning as they shouted at each other, and she’d known something was wrong. But something had been wrong so often where Molly was concerned that she didn’t pay it any mind, and watched him slam her door behind him.
Lestrade assured Molly she has no reason to worry, not with a police car outside her building, a statement that sent Sherlock into fits. “The timeline is all wrong,” he bellowed, stalking about the interrogation room, a great dark outline against the clean white walls. “Minutes were precious, seconds even. It makes no sense that he’d waste a moment on Molly.” Dr. Watson winced and corralled Sherlock into the corridor, leaving Molly feeling wounded, yes, and more than a little victorious. She hoped the gravel abrasions along his perfect cheekbones hurt.
The police kept Molly until the rubble had been sifted and no body found. Much ado was made of the detective and the doctor’s incredible escape, hands were shaken, backs were clapped. By the time Molly stumbled into her living room, dawn was threatening. She kicked off her shoes and stripped off her clothes, too tired to make it to her bed. She slept on the couch and dreamed of Jim.
In her dream, he held her wrists and pinned her painfully, beautifully to the cushions. In her dream, he kept his eyes on her face, watching her watching him, and he was brilliant, he’d fooled them all, hadn’t he, even Sherlock, especially Sherlock, so clever, and maybe she was only a game to them, to him, but oh God, he’d played her perfectly, and Molly woke up gasping, pulsing in the half-light. She turns her face to the cream-coloured pillows and breathed in. She thought she could still smell him, designer cologne and the lie of it sends aftershocks through her. Molly mouths his name, unfamiliar on her tongue.
“Moriarty.”
The dawn is silent around her in her empty house.
There is just nothing about this pairing I don't adore. Dark? Vicious? Unhinged? Sign me up!
The worst thing, Molly thought after the dust from the pool debacle settled, was not the pity from her coworkers or the police search of her flat. It was not even the subsequent ransacking by a half-mad consulting detective on a tear, convinced another clue to James Moriarty lay behind her coffee mugs or at the bottom of her knickers drawer. The worst thing about the whole bloody mess was that she knew. She knew. She knew before the news broadcast announcing an explosion at a local aquatics centre. She knew before DI Lestrade smiled at her over awful police station tea and brought up protective custody. She knew before Sherlock sodding Holmes.
The knowledge laid dormant in her until the night it all fell apart. She was curled up, safe and cozy, a stack of anatomy journals ready to read when the scream of sirens ripped past her window. She started, dislodging Toby from his perch atop her lap, and listened as the wailing faded away. She remembers because in that moment, Molly thought Jim, it’s Jim, I know it, and when the doorbell buzzed with DC Donovan on the other side, Molly Hooper was already dressed to go.
It was an irrational impulse, a thoughtless notion, and for a time Molly convinced herself she was simply so distraught from her quarrel with Jim earlier that he was the first thing to pop to mind. But Molly had never been terribly good at lying, not even to herself. As the police briefed her on terms like Black Lotus and sniper rifles, Molly marveled in silence at her own utter lack of shock. The man the police described was psychotic, violent, mercurial. He had wide-spread, well-training operatives, possibly even within the British government. He was dangerous, obsessive, and Molly had just seen him, sweet silly Jim, teeth gritted to keep from grinning as they shouted at each other, and she’d known something was wrong. But something had been wrong so often where Molly was concerned that she didn’t pay it any mind, and watched him slam her door behind him.
Lestrade assured Molly she has no reason to worry, not with a police car outside her building, a statement that sent Sherlock into fits. “The timeline is all wrong,” he bellowed, stalking about the interrogation room, a great dark outline against the clean white walls. “Minutes were precious, seconds even. It makes no sense that he’d waste a moment on Molly.” Dr. Watson winced and corralled Sherlock into the corridor, leaving Molly feeling wounded, yes, and more than a little victorious. She hoped the gravel abrasions along his perfect cheekbones hurt.
The police kept Molly until the rubble had been sifted and no body found. Much ado was made of the detective and the doctor’s incredible escape, hands were shaken, backs were clapped. By the time Molly stumbled into her living room, dawn was threatening. She kicked off her shoes and stripped off her clothes, too tired to make it to her bed. She slept on the couch and dreamed of Jim.
In her dream, he held her wrists and pinned her painfully, beautifully to the cushions. In her dream, he kept his eyes on her face, watching her watching him, and he was brilliant, he’d fooled them all, hadn’t he, even Sherlock, especially Sherlock, so clever, and maybe she was only a game to them, to him, but oh God, he’d played her perfectly, and Molly woke up gasping, pulsing in the half-light. She turns her face to the cream-coloured pillows and breathed in. She thought she could still smell him, designer cologne and the lie of it sends aftershocks through her. Molly mouths his name, unfamiliar on her tongue.
“Moriarty.”
The dawn is silent around her in her empty house.
There is just nothing about this pairing I don't adore. Dark? Vicious? Unhinged? Sign me up!