A/N: As always, I own nothing.

Twenty-four hours passes. Molly conducts her autopsy and is able to bestow an identity upon the victim. "Hywel Granger", she says while handing Jack his files. "Did the shipping forecasts on Radio Four."

"Hm", Jack flips through the file. "I think I know who you're talking about—he had a really nice voice."

"Okay, okay...down boy", Molly mutters unkindly to him. A few moments pass before she cries out, "Oh...so sorry! A real mess back there, y'know."

"It's alright, Molly", Jack smiles and pats her hand gently.

Molly lets out an uneasy giggle before saying, "Did U.N.I.T find out anything?"

"Yes", Jack pulls out a stack of papers from below the computer. "Nobody heard or saw anything—except for one person who heard something at around midnight. Manny Bianco...he works at a shop called 'Black Books' at 13 Little Bevan Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1...just off Russell Square."

Molly nods. "Let's go, then", Molly cheerfully says, heading for her red trench coat. "It should be fun."

Jack's face goes blank. "Wait...we're going to go interview him?"

"Yeah", she shrugs into her coat. "You can't exactly expect U.N.I.T to do it properly—they'd probably bust in with their guns waving about, screaming and demanding for answers. They'd just screw everything up."

"Hey! U.N.I.T is just as adept and capable of handling this—okay, let's go", he says quickly before grabbing his trench coat and following Molly out the gate.

She gets zapped back to the past. That motherfucking Angel zaps her back to New York City, 1962 and—just her luck—it's during the Cuban Missile Crisis so she can't act a bit odd without the government sniffing down her neck, asking where she came from.

She knew she should have been paying attention to the statues. There had been reports of people vanishing out of thin air; their cars and all of their personal effects being found later. Knowing full well that there was a good chance that Weeping Angels were involved, Molly, nevertheless, decided to be a "badass" and investigate Kensington Hall by herself. Since the Doctor and she have been against some Weeping Angels in the past, she thought that she would be able to handle them on her own.

When she wakes up from being "time zapped", she finds herself—somewhere. Okay, well that's a bit vague, but Molly can't exactly think clearly for the first few moments. She was near London in 2011 and then—next moment—she's in New York in 1962—say, October-ish, judging by the climate, sounds, and the newspaper she pulls from under her bottom.

"October 30, 1962", she mutters to herself and then she checks her watch. "12:18 in the morning. Blimey." She struggles to stand up and stumbles her way out of the alley she was zapped in. "Ugh", she moans out and, because of her infinite amount of luck, she walks straight into a body. "Bugger."

"Are you alright?" a concerned, male, British accent asks her and a gentle hand appears on her elbow.

"Yes, yes—I am all...right. A-okay", she slurs out. She casts her squinted eyes up at the figure, makes the sign for 'okay', and winks, "Time travel without a capsule...really nasty business, I say."

"I'm sorry?" his brows furrow together and his remarkably blue eyes becomes overshadowed with confusion. Molly, although not in the best state of mind at the moment, thinks he looks absolutely adorable like that.

"I said, 'Time travel without a capsule is really nasty business'."

"Right", the man lets out and draws Molly to a stoop. "I rather think you've had enough to drink." He crouches down next to her and studies her.

"Oh, what should you know?" Molly drawls out. "You're not even a doctor."

"Oi...I am a doctor!" he tells her, offended.

"Not medically while I'm a forensic pathologist..." she trails off and then glances at the man. "But, 't's awright...professor of English isn't too bad either." She pats his arm. "Nothing wrong with that."

"How did you know I'm an English professor?"

"It says so...on your coat...your nametag." She points to his coat and then lazily shrugs. "But, I just saw that...I knew before." Her hand inches its way to her face and strikes her cheek. She blinks for a few seconds, stunned. "Wow...that Angel really packed a punch."

She abruptly stands up. "So sorry", she says in her normal voice as the man glances up at her. "Travelling across such great distances of time and space without some sort of protection can really do some damage to the head." She nods her head at him and stuffs her hands into her trench coat. "Thanks anyway, sorry again, and goodbye."

She quickly walks away, leaving the man in a crouched and confused position. She takes out her mobile from her coat and tries to turn it on. It's dead. "Damn", she mutters to herself under her breath. She knew she shouldn't have played Tetris on her mobile all day. She swiftly turns around and she sees the man already walking down the street.

She calls out to the man, "Excuse me? Excuse me?" He abruptly stops and she jogs up to him and flashes him a smile. "Could I have ten p—I mean ten cents please?"

"Oh yes, sure", the man smiles back and shoves a hand in his pants pocket to scavenge up some change. "Here you go", he drops a dime in her hand.

"Thank you", she says to him, sweetly, then turns and enters a phone booth. When she punches in the number to the TARDIS, she notices that he's hanging around the booth. "If you're wanting to make sure your investment is sound, don't worry about it", she calls out to him as the dial rings. The Doctor doesn't pick up.

She gently places the phone back on the hook and calmly leaves the booth. She walks pass the man, keeping her eyes off him and says simply to him, "The Doctor is not in." Her eyes quickly flicker to his face. "But, thank you anyways." She nods and walks away.

"Is this Doctor your boyfriend?" he earnestly asks her.

She immediately stops, a surprised look on her face as she carefully breaths in and out to think. "No", she finally says as she turns back around. "He's not."

"Are you in love with him?"

She stiffens. "What makes you say that?" She starts to study him; from what she can tell from the streetlights, he has wavy brown hair, pale skin, a handsome face that she'd surely like to pinch and coo about, and two of the bluest, deepest eyes she has ever seen.

He shrugs and then takes him time to respond. "You sound like you love him."

She pointedly rolls her eyes at him. "Oh this coming from a man who's been a playboy since his one true love broke up with him—what? Two years ago?"

Now it's his turn to stiffen. "How did you know that?"

She purses her lips together. "Quite simple, really, but I've got more important matters to concern myself with." She turns around and mutters to herself, "It looks like I'm going to have to go the long way." She throws a wave over her shoulder. "Evening."

"Oh come on", he catches up to her. "Please, do tell."

Molly giggles. "Oh no...I'm having much too fun with this."

"Then let me buy you a cup of tea."

"Bribing me with, what I'm sure is delicious tea, won't work, dear." She gently grabs his arm. "But, that doesn't mean I won't take you up on your offer."

He takes her to a darling, Bohemian café in lower Manhattan that serves some exotic type of teas and delicious scones, where they talk about nothing in particular until Molly excuses herself to try the Doctor again.

"Please don't be engaged", Molly mutters to herself as she drops in the dime and types in the number for the TARDIS. "Please don't be engaged." The Doctor does not answer. "Who are you talking to this time of night?" she angrily yells at the phone and bangs the receiver against the phone booth. She calms down, sets the phone back down, and exits the phone booth with an air of false dignity.

As they walk out the door, after almost three hours, she finally remembers to ask him his name.

When he wakes up, he's not tied to a chair. Finding this is less surprising than finding dear, sweet Dr. Molly Hooper sitting across from him, with a quaint, slightly smug smile on her face.

"Jim", she purrs out, "How nice it is to see you."

"Hello Molly", he says, not exactly sure how she got in or, even, what to say to her.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm here."

"The thought has crossed my mind", he says carefully. He can't let anything loose; somehow she got in; pass more than a dozen big, veiny men that wouldn't hesitate to kill a woman, even a sweet, puppy-like woman like Molly. He slyly lets his eyes survey the table in fount of him: two glasses, a bottle of expensive vodka (his), and a 9mm pistol right in the middle of the table (his, again).

She opens the vodka, and then pours the alcohol in both of the glasses. "I wanted to have a chat with you, Jim", she says coolly and pushes his vodka to him. "Or should I call you Moriarty? Names can be so funny", she tells him in a singsong voice.

He eyes it; he's sure that Molly would go the idiot's route and try to poison him. It would be ironic, though.

Molly lets out an exasperated sigh, rolls her eyes, picks up his glass, and takes a sip of it. "Happy now?"

He nods, but still does not touch the drink. He doesn't drink alcohol; never did. It seems to poison him and set his brain on fire, even with just a sip. It unwinds him and makes him lose control, and he doesn't like it when that happens. Even still, he buys only the best alcohol—just because he doesn't drink it doesn't mean that nobody else does.

Molly takes a sip of her vodka and smiles as she sets the glass down. "Great vodka. You have nice taste. But, I'm sure that you get told that a lot, especially in that Westwood, which is nice, by the way."

"Yes, yes it is. I wore a similar one when Sherlock and I finally had our little chat at the pool."

"Oh, yes, I remember that", she nods at him. "Sherlock and John were quite gammy after that."

"And aren't you afraid that I can do the same to you? Even something worse? What I did to you was a bad thing, Molly", he leans in his chair towards her, trying to bait her. "Don't you think so?"

She laughs; she laughs a real belly laugh that seems to come from the tip of her toes. "I'm not afraid of you", she gasps out. Her face and voice suddenly returns back to its calm demeanor. "Honestly, I never was. I've been against more frightening things than you with less protection. And, oh, phish-posh...I haven't thought of that in months."

That makes Moriarty pause for a moment to think. "What do you mean 'in months'? It's only been a month and a half", he cagily lets out.

"As I said, I haven't thought of it in months", Molly retorts back, dismissively.

Moriarty scrambles for the gun. However, Molly stops him in his tracks by coolly pointing a gun at him. "Whoa, whoa—take it easy there, Jimmy boy." He slowly sits back down she adjusts in her seat. "Now, I'm partial to guns—any feelings of tolerance and acceptance of guns quickly died out with the Doctor—but I have no quarrel shooting you. Once I leave and you see what I've done to your men, you'll know that I'm easily capable of anything without using a gun."

She stands up and lazily shrugs. "Will I kill you?" she lightly chuckles and starts to walk slowly around him. "No. It's not my job nor is it my business to do so."

She stares intently at him before he finally asks her, warily, "What do you want?"

"Ah, now there it is...I was wondering when you were going to ask me that. What I want is very simple; you'd have absolutely no problem fulfilling it, I'm sure." She looks away, that quaint smile back on her face. "I have a job for you—as I said, it's very simple. So..."

She sits on the edge of the table and leans in so close that her face is only inches away from his. "Dear Jim, would you please fix it for me to get my Doctor back?"