Ok, so yet again a villain called Jim has got myself and my partner in crime (Scully) out of retirement. This is just going to be a few chapters of shameless Mollyarty. Hope you like it.

Chapter 1

"I'm on the side of the angels, but the devil is my best friend" - The Damned

Molly Hooper was, of course, aware of the condition of which she was currently suffering: Stockholm Syndrome. Although it didn't feel like suffering per se; not any more, at least. "It'll be easier once you stop fighting it, love," he had said to her in cruel, sickly sweet mocking tones as he bent her arm so far up her back that it had been useless to her for a good few hours when he eventually let her go, and she saw in hindsight that he was indeed right. She had long since stopped fighting it.

She noted that these days he didn't so much as bother to hide his gun, it laid as idle as its owner on the bedside table. He knew he had her. Once upon a time she would have seized it from him, hands fumbling and unsteady, pointing it in his general direction and screaming her empty threats at him for long minutes until he reminded her that no one else, including herself, knew where the hell they were and that he was her only chance of ever getting out alive. Moreover, she would only be granted that opportunity if she were very lucky. If he grew bored of her or she angered him too greatly, she would merely become another chalk line on Jim Moriarty's body count.

He barely looked capable of such temper and cruelty as he slept beside her, arms tucked under his pillow, lips in a boyish pout. He looked younger than his 35 years, much younger, but of course she couldn't be sure that was his real age; there were days when she doubted everything around her. She had learnt the hard way not to voice these concerns to Jim. On one of her particularly bad days, early on when she had refused to eat for long periods of time and stopped communicating with Jim, he had threatened her with so many innovative methods of torture and she had only stared back at him catatonically with empty, emotionless eyes. Moriarty wore himself out like a tantruming child, shoulders slumped as he knelt down to level with her. She'd never seen him defeated before, and hid a tiny smile of triumph as he slung her over his shoulder and dumped her roughly into bed.

As he pulled up the covers around her, he shot her a warm smile that didn't quite match the expression in his eyes; it was almost as if he were wearing a mask, a cheap Halloween mask that wasn't convincing anyone, but yet was somehow doubly scary because of it. Despite her fear, she'd been so starved of any human compassion for months now, and she took the bait. Breaking her silence, she whispered in hushed, pleading tones: "I don't know what's real anymore; are you real...am I even...alive? "In an instant Jim had straddled her, knocking the breath clean out of her chest. His hands encompassed her throat and compressed until the room faded from view; all she was aware of was Jim's bitter snarling in her head: "Of course you're alive, Molly. You're alive because I let you be alive, and you will be alive as long as I want you to be, do you understand?" She was incoherent, eyes rolling back into her head. "I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" She wanted to answer him that time, really wanted to, but her voice wouldn't come and Jim was sounding further away despite the fury in his tone. Moments passed, quick-quick slow...

"Ok, Mols, breathe..." What was that in his tone; this was new?

"Breathe,Molly!" Yes, that was...worry, wasn't it? Concern, even?

"BREATHE,YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

And, like a pet obeying its master, she shot to life, her sore throat gulping in big breaths of air. Gradually the room came back into view and she laid there flat on her back, staring up at the low cottage ceiling just enjoying the air in her lungs; she had never relished the sensation of breathing so much before. Eventually she became aware that Jim was now in bed beside her, his arms around her middle and his head resting on her shoulder. "You need to snap out of this now, Molly, no more of this nonsense..." His teeth nipped at the skin of her shoulder as he spoke. If she had known better, she would have said that he had scared himself, or rather she had scared him. Was he scared of losing her? Or was he fearful at the realisation that he was scared of losing her? Either way, it may have been a small victory for Molly, but a victory nonetheless.