Title: NEMESIS
Author: Silk Xiaolong
Fandom: "BBC's Sherlock"
Genre: Romance/Suspense/Erotica
Rating: M/NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with the BBC, Sherlock, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Author's Note: I'm dedicating this to my husband, who has been very patient, and puts up with me writing it late at night, in bed.

"Do you know what 'nemesis' means? A righteous infliction of retribution, manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an 'orrible old cunt. Me." -Brick Top, Snatch

Molly Hooper knew from the very first day he sailed through the morgue doors that she was doomed.

Prior to this dramatic intrusion into her existence, she hadn't been the sort of girl to look for trouble; through hard work, she had made a nice, practical life for herself, and was quite content. But then he appeared so suddenly with Dr. Stamford, and after she peeled away her stained latex glove, his hand swallowed hers, grip firm on the powder-covered skin. Molly looked up at him, and realized with a start that nice and practical would no longer be enough. Suddenly, she craved more.

Flattered though she would have been to hear Mike refer to her "the best lab tech", her ears had shorted the moment the friendly professor introduced the man he called the "world's only consulting detective". Sherlock Holmes was quite tall, and every bit as imposing as his name: The dark, curling hair, bright hazel eyes, and pale aristocratic face were framed by the upturned collar of his long coat, and the crook of his mouth suggested an arrogance found to some degree in all really beautiful people. Somewhere far away, words were being spoken, but his intensity drowned out all sound.

Suddenly he let go and beckoned her with an almost secretive gesture, then turned on his heel and strode toward the lockers, all without a word. Unsure, she followed after him, face creased with confusion as he swung open one of the heavy doors and tapped an occupied berth with his long forefinger.

"Open it, if you please." His voice was a copperplate baritone which seemed to make the words almost like a command—she glanced at Mike, who nodded his assent. The lab tech struggled with the normally practiced motions as she pulled out the slab and unzipped the body bag, then stood back as he studied the elderly male from head to toe.

"Head wound. Tripped going down the stairs after one too many gins."

Molly did a double-take. Mr. Holmes had rendered hours of collaborated work moot, all with a just few pointed words. It was the same with the next, and the next; one corpse after another accurately diagnosed only moments after she revealed them. Molly couldn't help but smile as they worked their way down the row, delighted by the amazing ability. When he glanced toward her, Molly's eyes flicked down at the body, heartbeat uneven, but wandered back helplessly as he began to examine the throat. They'd reached a particularly tricky one, and he paused for a few seconds, righted himself, and curled his long fingers into a fist beneath his chin. The stoic face split with a boyish grin as though delighted by the cause of the person's demise, and the sight of the dimples did something funny to her stomach.

Molly admitted as the two men went up to the lab that she had never been more attracted to a man, or more confounded.

It took her less than five minutes to get to the cantina for coffee, and her pulse raced in the elevator as she carefully clutched the hot paper cups. Mike was appreciative, thanking her sincerely: the striking creature beside him, however, seemed to have shifted moods, and scowled into his cup as though he suspected her of poisoning it.

"Is something wrong?" She did her best to smile pleasantly, but her lips kept doing funny things she couldn't control.

"Sugar. I take sugar." He set the coffee down on the metal table and was about to return to whatever Mike had exhibited at the microscope, when a dozen sugar packets materialized at his elbow. The hand that held them shook, and while Molly felt like she was feeding giblets to a jaguar, something had her determined to please him. His pale irises were nearly colorless under the brilliant fluorescent bulbs as they glanced at her hand, and when they settled on her face, her meager defenses fell to ruins: while she had heard of people "undressing with the eyes", this was totally different from the sleazy glances blokes threw across the pub. She felt more naked under his gaze than she had ever been on her short forays into sex.

With one inscrutable look, he had her, whether he wanted her or not. Molly would fetch him sugar and coffee to the ends of the earth—she'd buy it out of her own pocket if she had to—if only he might look at her like that again, smile slightly and thank her like that, with that voice and those eyes. No matter how rude he was in the future, or how awful his remarks seemed, Molly always remembered that first day and the gracious way he accepted the sugar—not to mention the fact that he hadn't called attention to the other pocket of her lab coat, which bulged with plastic cups of creamer.

To try to get acquainted with Sherlock Holmes was more an all-out war than a battle. He was a bit of a bastard, and he didn't make any pretense about it. All thoughts of conventional love were doomed to wilt under his biting tongue and his slanted looks. Many times after the visits that required her assistance, she vowed it would be the last time she gave in, that she would never spare him another glance; but then he invariably came back and she lost all track of herself; the very sight of him rooted her to the spot with giddy nerves. Molly could admit that her addiction was foolish, but not that it harmed her. Life had never been so exciting, so unpredictable! Elation punctuated the days he appeared, and she positively floated the rest of the week before things grew dull once more.

In most of the time they spent together, Sherlock remained the very definition of intangible aloofness. When he arrived he immersed himself in work that no one could fathom, and was curt enough to cut when anyone asked after it. Molly understood that at least—she had practically penned the geek manual, and though she was much improved socially since school, she still wasn't as confident as she wanted to be. Ironically it was him, a person with no interests beyond what lurked in petri dishes, who possessed the power to turn her into a dithering mess, which he used against her frequently. Despite this abuse, she couldn't give him up. If he came late on a day shift, she inevitably found an excuse to stay on as well, banishing thoughts of her waiting cat and pre-recorded programs. When he was occupied, her gaze was drawn to his cryptic profile, unable to fathom what went on behind the carefully cultivated mask he presented to the world.

Hospitals produced gossip like a well-oiled machine, and as the sleuth made his presence there known, he was allotted a large share of the speculation. Most everyone found him unbearable, but all were interested in his personal life, or rather, his lack of any apparent one. Molly kept an ear out and tried to sort the wheat from the chaff. Much thought had been given to the man in the three-piece suits who sometimes accompanied Sherlock, but never deigned to give his name to anyone: The head nurse could verify he was a government stuffed-shirt of some sort, but that was as much information as anyone had accumulated. Paul in Radiation had five quid on Sherlock being some kind of spy, or government agent, and that the man with the umbrella was his "minder" or something equally ridiculous. Molly discounted that right off; no one blended in less than Sherlock Holmes.

In the cantina she overheard one of the surgeons remark around a mouthful of meat pie that the two men looked alike, and the next time she saw them together she decided that he was right. Similar in height, their eyebrows and foreheads were of nearly identical shape. Sometimes when the unknown official tilted his chin a certain way, his thinning gingery hair looked like it might once have contained a rakish forelock. Related then, but how, she didn't know, and felt far too timid to ask.

Another strange thing that captured attention was the old woman. Molly, not being someone who usually worked with patients, didn't know of her visit to the hospital or Sherlock's odd presence at her bedside until Meena came down to the lab one day, bursting with the news. The pretty nurse said that she herself had found him in the dark curtained-off recovery area while the lady was still under the effects of her anesthesia from a hip procedure. He had been seated silently in this random woman's hospital room while she slept, like people often did for ones they loved. Meena had found it rather sweet, but her supervisor hadn't: There was some noise about it within the administration—mostly from doctors who had been stung by Sherlock's insults to their competence—the general complaint being that Sherlock had no right to interfere with patients.

"Mike marched right in there and put a stop to that," Meena breathed excitedly, "you should have seen him! He was steaming."

Molly's brow furrowed, confused. "So what does that mean? Who was she?"

"I dunno! Everyone's trying to figure that out! She's released now."

"Did anyone actually ask Mike?"

Meena looked surprised by the suggestion. It took Molly several days to work up the courage to approach him herself.

Mike Stamford seemed amused when she shyly asked after Sherlock, and whether he was okay after the incident, though they both knew it wasn't unusual for him to not come to Bart's for weeks.

"Hadn't told him about it, actually." The jolly man answered as he sat back on his chair. "Didn't think he needed to be bothered with it."

"Who was it?" Molly blurted, then blushed. "The woman, I mean."

"Oh—it was his landlady, a Mrs. Hauton or Hudson—she was in quite a lot of pain, and he made her come and have the surgery. The NHS wait was too long, and she hadn't the money to go private, so he paid her way." He chuckled when he saw her stunned face. "He's not a complete git, though he does a good job at convincing people."

"How do you know him?"

Mike shrugged. "Got me out of a jam once. Er—I'd rather not talk about that," he said, and looked slightly abashed. "But then his brother made contact and asked me to set him up here for the cases he takes on with Scotland Yard."

"His brother? Is that the man I've seen him with, the one with the umbrella?"

"That's him. Pulls a lot of weight, because there's no other way I would have been able to convince the administration to let him have access."
So Sherlock Holmes had a brother, and a landlady he was fond of. She turned this over in her mind.

"Do you know why I'm telling you this Molly?" Mike asked quietly, face uncommonly serious.

She shook her head.

"It's because I know he can trust you." Then he grinned cheekily. "I know a little more—would you like to hear it?"

No two people on the earth could be less alike than Molly and Sherlock, as it turned out. The Holmes family had money, and Sherlock had been to Cambridge and Oxford, but was thrown out of both. He had never had a romantic relationship as far as Mike knew, and no one he would label a friend. He was married to his work, and that was perhaps their one area of common ground. After he returned to Bart's on more cases, she considered (cherished) the idea as they sat together in silence and poured over things that no normal person would ever care about. Molly seemed to be the only one who Sherlock deemed fit to converse with on a regular basis, and was the only person allowed to touch his tools or experiments. She also had to be the one who sat patiently and let him talk at her in long run-on sentences when he needed to sort ideas. Molly might have gone so far as to call them "lab partners". But when Dr. Watson started renting from Sherlock's landlady as well, the sleuth had no further need of her in that capacity. She tried not to be too disappointed, because Dr. Watson was really very nice, and he softened some of his flatmate's prickly edges. Rumors flew thick immediately after Sherlock gained his towheaded shadow, and even Molly wondered at the easy banter between the two; but she did catch Dr. Watson looking down her blouse when she leaned over a body one day, which lead her to believe it wasn't exactly true, at least on the veteran's behalf. Sherlock had a knack of taking up all the room in a person's heart, and Molly could only imagine what it would be like to have him in bed—lunacy, probably.

"Patience is a virtue": It had been her mother's motto for so many years, until her father had died. So, she was patient, mostly because she wanted to believe. The brunette knew she shouldn't hope that someday, Sherlock would look at her again and see something with those preternatural eyes that he had missed before, then suddenly reach out and pull her onto his pedestal. It wasn't healthy to believe those things. Yet a romantic she remained. To stop dreaming at this point was to give up, and to give up was not to love him anymore, which was impossible. She would have to bear it and try to shelter her tender feelings at the same time.

The true test began one stormy night in early spring during a long shift that was hardly half over. Most everyone had left, so Molly had little to do but enjoy the antics of cats on the internet for a few hours. She had just settled in comfortably when a notification pinged her inbox. She opened the folder and had to scan the title multiple times before it clicked that someone had left a comment on her oft neglected blog, for the entry made yesterday.

Curious, she opened the message, the username making her temporarily halt.

"Jim…." Molly frowned. She hadn't ever known any Jims…the message was one sentence and very simple, a question about her job and something about her nose: Molly's hand flew to the offending body part. Was this stranger actually reading her silly diary? She was more embarrassed by the knowledge than she thought she had a right to be, considering she had posted it in the most public forum imaginable. It had simply never happened before.

She decided to demand the identity of her singular "fan", but didn't expect such a prompt reply: Apparently he worked in the upstairs IT department, and was stuck in the hospital for the night as well. Thunder trembled the antique building around her. She didn't know how many minutes she stared at the illuminated screen, trying to work out what this person was doing reading her awful blurbs, when another message appeared.

Are you all right? You've gone quiet…

Molly chided herself. She was being very silly—he worked at Bart's, right upstairs! How dangerous could that be?

It had been a long time since a man had flirted with Molly, or paid compliments of any sort. Intrigue charged her fingers, and they typed a little faster on the next reply. When he asked to meet for coffee in five minutes—just upstairs in the canteen—she hesitated only a moment. Didn't people always talk about how you should be careful with whom you met on the web? But there was nothing to do, and the thrill of having a secret admirer of sorts nudged her onward. She accepted, shut down the computer and darted through the heavy security door to the staircase. Did she really have a cute nose?

Molly crept into the dim dining room and surveyed the mostly deserted space with some apprehension. Three people remained this late at night: A dinner attendant wiping down tables, a janitor collecting bags of rubbish, and a dark-haired man, youngish, seated at an angle to the long table and reclined on the back two legs of a hard plastic chair, engrossed in a mobile. Was that Jim? Molly secretly hoped so—he looked quite…fit. The man seemed to notice her hesitant approach and looked up, his eyes hooded, almost sleepy. She smiled uncertainly and crossed the remaining distance between them; Jim stood with a smile and slipped his mobile into his attractive jeans. He wasn't tall, but he was taller than her, and something about the assuredness in his actions when he lightly touched her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek made Molly feel every millimeter of the difference.

"I wasn't sure you would come." He said, and his voice was warm, a round Irish note to the vowels. "Hope I didn't scare you or anything—saw you in the corridor the other day, and I asked someone who you were." He grinned and slid a hand in his pocket, cords in his thin arm standing out, quite devastating.

"No—I—you didn't scare me." Her hand fluttered between them, not sure how to express her pleasure without seeming overeager. He pulled out the chair he had been seated in moments ago for her, and she accepted the gallantry with another blush.

"I'll just pop over to the hatch and get the coffee." She watched him jog out of the room surreptitiously, his lean body worthy of admiration. The tentative excitement rose again in her throat, less tempered now by doubts. This was the guy that had read her blog? And he was still interested in her? Molly twiddled the badge on her lab coat self-consciously; then remembered that the shapeless white garment didn't do anything at all for her figure and completely washed out her skin (recent knowledge courtesy of Sherlock). She quickly shrugged out of it and straightened the neckline of her blouse before Jim returned bearing two of the familiar flimsy cups. He set one before her with a retiring smile, glanced at her from under almost girlish lashes. "There you are," he offered, "I just started here, so not sure how the coffee is, really."

"Awful," she confessed, "but I'm so used to it I love it." She grinned, nervous, and he grinned back as he shoved in his chair. It the low light his eyes were incredibly dark, but when he smiled they crinkled wonderfully. He was lovely, she thought, and thunder rippled through the night again. What was the harm? It felt good to chat, and be paid attention to.

"S-sorry?" She stuttered and blinked owlishly as she realized Jim had just said something.

"I was wondering how you and your new cat were getting on."

They chatted for half an hour about mundane topics, discussing her family, her new cat, her career, her uni—but he was so interested, laughed, asked questions. Molly was so focused on this that she didn't notice she hadn't found out much about him, other than that he was indeed Irish, had no family like her, and also enjoyed cats and coffee….
The mobile in her discarded coat trilled a familiar and well-anticipated tune, and like reflex, it was in her hand before she could even consider her impromptu date.

45/M/possible poisoning, coming in right away. Two coffees. SH

Her heart leapt, and for a few seconds she floated on the thrill of so much good fortune in one day, before she realized she was being rude to the sweet IT tech.
"So sorry! I…my…." she stuttered, but Jim continued to smile in that film star way, and Molly blew out her breath and tamped down the anxiety Sherlock always gave rise to. "Sorry, bit of an emergency."

"Boyfriend? Sherlock, isn't it? Sorry," he said quickly, as she felt her mouth go round and the blood drain from her face, "I did read your blog."

"Oh! No, no, Sherlock isn't—I don't have a boyfriend," she managed, cursing her own stupidity. If only she had remembered to omit Sherlock's name in her online ramblings in the first place…"Er—we're just friends, Sherlock and I." Molly inwardly winced at the fib; she very much doubted Sherlock would count her as such.

"Forgive me for being nosy—but he doesn't sound like much of a friend. From what I've read." Jim smiled apologetically.

"Oh. Well, that's just…Sherlock." She squeaked awkwardly as she began to gather her lab coat and bag. His smile turned shy again, and to her shock, he reached across the table and took her hand before she could stand up. Molly squeaked.

"Sorry—I know I'm being really forward—I usually don't do this, but I've been wanting to find you and ask since I saw you in the hall. Would you be willing to have dinner with me sometime?"

The pathologist tried to speak, choked on her own saliva, and felt her face flame as she managed a fierce nod.

"Great," Jim looked very pleased. "I promise you won't regret it."

When a very wet Sherlock stormed into the morgue with DI Lestrade later, he stopped short in the middle of a belligerent sentence to the harried-looking man beside him, eyes clapped on the woman who daydreamed at the computer, so engrossed she barely looked up.

"Are you alright?" She asked when she noticed his stare, nonplussed. His face was like stone under his dripping hair, and he said nothing.

In a flash, Molly realized she had forgotten his coffee.

"Sorry!" She cried, and laid her clipboard on the table by the corpse Sherlock had requested. "I completely lost track of myself. He's all yours, Sherlock—I'll just get you lads a cuppa then. Be right back!"

Lestrade's eyes lingered on the door she had disappeared through with that telltale expression males only assumed when they imagined coitus with a woman. Then he threw Sherlock a look that the sleuth instinctively felt offended by. "Someone's got a one-up on you." The detective inspector chuckled.

Sherlock Holmes sniffed dismissively and went about his business with the bright orange victim on the slab.

Jim was a charmer. While he was gentlemanly toward Molly, she was happy to find him not lacking in excitement. Each time she "bumped into him" in the corridor or "had a problem with her spellcheck", his wit and charisma seemed to double, anticipation really taking hold. They set a time and place for dinner; somewhere very nice that Molly had always wanted to go to. Hot rollers burned her scalp as she slid on her good knickers and the pretty bottle green dress she had never thought she'd have occasion to wear, then proceeded to agonize over her makeup for an hour. After all was done she scurried about and threw everything out of place in various drawers, cupboards, and wardrobes around the flat, and as a final touch, she placed some hopefully unobtrusive candles in her bedroom—just in case.

He rang the buzzer right on time. In her haste she tripped going down the last stair in the new heels, stumbled headlong toward the door, and by sheer luck managed to catch her fall on the handle. Perhaps it was an omen, she thought with a rather hysterical giggle. Nervous hands smoothed her skirt and fluffed her curls, and as she stepped outside she made sure to smile: but at the sight of him, it faded to a light gape.

Usually the men who took her out wore denim, nice shoes and a jumper on dates: She had expected much the same from Jim, considering he dressed casually every day at work. But tonight he almost looked like a different person, his tufted brown hair slicked back, resplendent in matching navy trousers and jacket, hands seated casually in his pockets. He moved close, and her body broke out into a full sweat at the scent of his cologne as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, mouth slightly rough with the five o' clock shadow that never seemed to go away.

"You look fantastic." His warm hands grasped hers then slid up and down the bare skin of her forearms, and when their eyes met she shivered, her thin bolero doing nothing to shield her from the cool spring night. The cab waited on the street and he ushered her toward it.

The atmosphere of the restaurant was as nice as she had imagined, but she instantly felt underdressed, the retro frock turned suddenly shabby. She let the maître d' take her wrap reluctantly and Jim seated her once again. A jacketed waiter reached past her to pour a glass of wine; she kept her back ramrod straight and waited until he left to clutch it, desperate. How on earth she was going to save herself from total embarrassment? Luckily, her companion sparkled as always, and between the witty banter and the wine, Molly was soon at her ease, vision tunneled on Jim. He was outrageously funny and had her in stitches, and while she could feel the looks from people at other tables, she paid them no more mind. Jim didn't seem to care what others thought, so why should she? He focused solely on her, and barely looked away even to order. They entered a lengthy discussion about Bart's, the quirks of their respective lines of work, and hilarious things that had happened to them while on the job…and somehow, the conversation turned to Sherlock Holmes again. Alcohol loosened her tongue and Molly spoke freely about her "friend" and his extraordinary skills, happy to have something to talk about that had her companion rapt, sexy black eyes glowing in the candlelight. So she just kept right on with it; described her favorite cases and stories, even some of the man's more silly quirks. It was only when their meals arrived that she realized she had blathered on about one man while on a date with another for nearly a half an hour, and her mouth snapped shut. Guilt rounded her shoulders.

Jim noticed immediately. "Are you alright?" He reached across the table and gently took her hand in his before she could pull into herself. His calloused thumbs swept over her hand and her heart skipped a beat despite herself.

"Yes, of course. I-I just realized how much I was talking."

"I like it when you talk." His gaze smoldered and Molly swallowed hard, curling her hand around his fingers.

Outside she realized the wine had truly gone to her head. They clutched at each other, and their laughter echoed as they stumbled up the street, like any of the hundreds of young couples that she had seen and felt envious of before. Jim flagged a cab and bundled her in, nuzzled her hair and neck as he mumbled the address to the driver. Molly closed her eyes, felt soft and almost tentative lips place a single kiss on her jugular. And then he tilted her chin and kissed her deeply, and though she had expected it, her mind suddenly wandered back to Sherlock, her impossible dreams of Sherlock doing these things to her: The eyes, the hands, it was simply wrong. She broke off and angled her eyes away, disgusted with herself.

"What's wrong?" His plaintive breath tickled the round shell of her ear.

Molly was a nice girl, who had been raised to never try to hurt anyone. Jim was sweet, so sweet, and very handsome; he was treating her the way she had always wanted to be treated. No matter how much she longed for it, Sherlock could never give her those things. Don't question it, she thought resolutely. Just let go.

Her apartment was warm and cozy when they came through the door, and she scurried to fetch wine glasses and bottles while Jim politely made friends with Toby. Eventually they seated themselves on the sofa, and Molly bit her lip as he manned the corkscrew, let the adrenaline slowly creep into her system. They flirted, drank, and watched mindless telly until she got up the nerve to crawl into his lap and plant her lips on his.

Jim chuckled against Molly's abruptly wanting mouth and pulled away, dropped his head back on the sofa with an expression that could only be described as smug. His hands became friendly with her bottom, smoothing over the satiny fabric of her dress while he licked the taste of her from his mouth with a thoughtful grin. "My my, aren't we bold."

Molly blushed, then wriggled on his lap slightly and watched the interest rise higher at the back of his eyes. "You make me feel bold." She leaned into his hungry hands, relished the sensation as they trailed upward to her neck and drew down her zipper audibly. The moment he touched bare flesh, he lunged for her mouth with the aggression she craved. She moaned into him, slipped her arms from her sleeves so she could bury her own hands in his neat hair as her teeth sought his full bottom lip.

The bodice of Molly's dress fell around her waist, the lacy gray bra exposed, and he took shameless advantage. She shuddered hard against him, grip greedy on his wiry frame. The nice tie was yanked askew, his collar and buttons opened hastily in her inebriated lust. Hot fingers dared to slip past her knickers before they gripped the soft flesh of her bottom tight, jerked her to him and ground against her through their clothing.

She had never felt so wild. It was everything she had ever wanted—well, not everything, obviously—but it was someone who really knew what they were doing and was willing to do it to her, someone who really wanted her…her desire to give was boundless and being allowed free reign; even if it wasn't quite what she had envisioned, she took with both hands…and god, he really was amazing at snogging and her knickers were soaked….

Feeling daring and wonton, Molly broke the kiss. He hissed at the sudden denial and tried to go at her again, but she pushed his shoulders back against the settee roughly before she slid boneless down his body, smile shy and eyes glazed. Her knees met the floor, and he chuckled again as she pulled his belt free, ran her hand over his hardness through the soft linen reverently. He leaned back, waited, almost dared her, and she didn't look away when she undid the button and zip and brought him into the open.

Molly felt powerful and minxish as she petted him lightly with both hands, testing by squeeze and feel: Jim seemed more than happy to oblige her and shifted his hips as she stroked him once from root to tip. His eyes were nearly shut when she began to adorn the spongy head of him with kisses, and his hands fisted in her hair as she prodded with a pondering little tongue. The brunette felt bold indeed. She wanted to explore where she had only dared fantasize about in the past, and she slid wet lips over his rigid flesh, just enough for a curious taste.

He groaned, pulled on her curls. The sensation made her gasp, lick at him harder.

"Fuck, look at you." His voice was dark and his hands stroked her hair from her face impatiently. "Such a good little girl."

Her eyes met his, but they didn't really see him, so focused was she on her work. She was careful and a bit dainty with her ministrations; but eager, so eager, and Jim let her prove it to him, and Molly didn't shirk. She swallowed slowly afterward, looked into the blackness of his eyes, as she licked him from her lips.

The man's face was tense. "On your back."

Her body burned as she lay down on the rug and tossed the useless dress over her head, courage humming in her veins. She was only in her matched set and stockings now, and while her first instinct was to cover up, the look on his face stopped her. He mounted her, his eyes restless, his clothing and hair disheveled and face devious, and she gasped as he bit at her bare thigh, her waist, her bicep and shoulder, growled deviously as his hands found her knees and hauled them up.

"Mmm, pet. You're perfect, just delightful," he laughed throatily again, "I wonder if you've ever had a boy go down, hmm?"

Her face flamed, and the answer was obvious.

"First time for everything." He smirked, and tore her good knickers, the elastic fabric burning hot across the skin of her hips for a second before they gave with a crackle and startled a drunken little yelp from her. His hands coaxed her knees as wide as they'd go with his hands, and her body convulsed, ticklish, as she felt his breath caress her stomach, her abdomen, nether regions, thighs...she watched him with trepidation as his hands tightened, and he looked up, meeting her gaze and giving her an exaggerated wink. Then he kissed her unspeakably, with all the force of before, but on her wet vulva, and it was so intimate she cried out, waves of hot and cold shock coming down over her head and drowning her.

His tongue was savage, merciless, and went to work at her as though determined to taste every crevice, to debauch her completely. Molly was amenable to that, if only he would find a way to soothe the points of her body that suddenly burned white-hot. No one had ever done this before to her, but she could tell Jim was well practiced when he stabbed his tongue into her deeply and curled it just where she needed pressure, making her struggle against his grip as her thighs shook. He groaned into her before his focus settled on her clitoris, lapped and worried the node with firm suction, then pressed down almost painfully with the flat of his tongue, hot breath flowing over hypersensitive nerves.

"Ungh!" Her fingers gripped his hair and she cried out, sobbed helplessly against the pleasure as he sucked and kissed. "Oh god!"

She thought he muttered something like "that's right" into the vulnerable hollow of the join of her groin and thigh before he licked her there, then caused her volume to spike and her shoulders to contort against the floor by lightly lapping at her clit again. It was wrong, it was bad, it felt so good; Molly clutched helplessly at nothing to get away while she simultaneously tried to ride his face, but to no avail: he was too strong. Powerless to do anything but give in to him, tension bowed her back, and at last she let go with a wail as her stocking feet slipped and slid against the rug.

His smile was shark-like as he asked her to lead him to the bedroom, and she had to lean on him to walk, her legs trembled so badly.

The next morning when she awoke Jim was, by some miracle, still there, and still utterly pleasant. Molly stared dreamily at him over her tea. At lunch he rang her to ask her out, and they sat at Regents and munched on egg rolls, and the sun made a feeble attempt at spring. It was perfect, utterly perfect, and the pathologist was dazed by the sudden perpetual euphoria. People stared as she passed; men took time to talk to her who had never before, and women gave her knowing smirks in the corridor. They all knew, but she didn't care, she didn't care…everything was perfect.

Their next date, however, was not. Jim was supposed to come to her flat for a homemade dinner, but an hour and a half passed with no sign of him. Molly had sent a couple of texts, but there was no reply. Worried, she moved the food on the table back into the tiny oven and sat on a chair in the narrow foyer. When the familiar static finally echoed from the call box she rushed for the buzzer, pressed against the wooden door with bated breath to hear his footsteps approach. When she opened it, he entered as though nothing was amiss, but his greeting was quiet, and he seemed distracted. She went to ready the table and noticed that from the moment he walked through he drummed his fingers on every surface he stood near. She tried to remember if he had done that before. They sat down and her eyes flitted between the lasagna she forked onto his plate to his blank countenance as he stared into the middle distance between them at her gram's chrome-legged kitchen table, not even moving for his fork. Molly asked him if he was all right, and his focus zeroed, sharpened on her was eerily reminiscent of someone else she knew; but there was no analysis in Jim's eyes when they met hers. There was nothing there at all. Her heaping spatula paused in midair, body frozen like a mouse staring down an adder. His face looked pale and sweaty, strained, neck corded, gaze flat.

And then it passed. "Sorry pet," he blinked rapidly, scratched the corner of his eye, "bit tired." And he looked down at what she'd set before him, smiled with every tooth in his head, and took a gigantic bite. His eyes bulged and a zealous sound of appreciation emitted from around the food. Molly realized she was dripping tomato on the tablecloth. She quickly set the spatula down and tried to shake the unease that had overtaken her.

The odd behavior continued all through dinner, and Molly began to think of polite ways to ask him to leave. She began to put the dishes in the sink to soak when he stood from the table and rounded on her, locked surprisingly strong hands on her body and lifted her onto the messy worktop. All the reasons for him to go flew out of her head at the look on his face. He hiked up her skirt, pulled her new knickers to the side and put his mouth on her pussy again, which caused her head to collide with the cupboard above her painfully. Whatever he did with his tongue on her clitoris, it wiped the rest of the questions from her mind and she screamed, really screamed. He was on his feet like a shot, hard cock at the ready, and pushed in with one long thrust.

"Jim!" Molly cried, and he made a savage noise next to her ear before his hands locked on her hips, held them in place as he began to hammer into her, and his shoulders fairly vibrated under her grip. His gaze was primal concentration as he stared down at where they connected and fucked her even harder, pulled up her thigh harshly as he angled downward into her upturned pelvis. Molly curled forward around his shoulder with a winded shout, and she barely felt her tailbone and lower back thump painfully into the wood as she touched something deep inside her. The limited space folded her nearly in half and every shunt of his hips drove the breath out of her. She hiccupped out a moan, managed to curl her leg around the curve of his hip and lever upward slightly with her knee to grind her pubis against him. Her fingernails stabbed through the t-shirt and all her muscles pulled incredibly tight before she released; he arched with an obscene groan as her hard spasms pulled the orgasm from him. Long moments passed as they just breathed hard before he pulled out, and she slumped against him and the cupboards, supine. Jim leaned into her a moment more before he blew out a hard breath and straightened with a lazy laugh.

"Much better." His smile was more normal this time, and she couldn't resist the answering curl of her mouth, deafened by the sudden rush of blood in her ears. That had easily been the most wrenching climax she'd ever had, and Molly could do little but dangle her slack arms around Jim's neck and slump against him, let him transport her to her soft and waiting bed.

It felt very early when she woke suddenly later, feeling strange, heavy and full of dread, as though she was sick, or had woken from a nightmare. Her mind stirred slowly.

Jim.

Blearily Molly sat up and pulled back the quilt, but her lover wasn't beside her. She snuffled and opened her eyes a little wider when they fell on a shadowy figure at the end of the bed, struggled to focus. Naked shoulder blades and vertebrae were pronounced and awkward in his thin body, the ridges highlighted faintly in the light of the street lamps, and he hunched, as though in pain. The heavy sensation grew within her, and she wanted to say something, reach out, speak, but Molly found herself unable to move for the second time that evening. Was that really her lover, sitting there?

She exhaled his name, barely even a whisper, but when his head angled around, it was just Jim. It was dark enough that she didn't notice him set something on the nightstand as he moved toward her on the matress. "Hello pet." He whispered in his pretty voice as he rolled her beneath him. "Did you have a bad dream?" And then he pressed his mouth to her and spread her easily, rocked into her, gentler this time, slower, taking his time as he swallowed all her gasps ravenously. When she came, he absorbed each cry of her pleasure, his lips sealed to hers as though trying to suck the life out of her, then shuddered silently in orgasm. Finally, he relented and rolled away. She gulped air desperately, and the endorphins and slight oxygen deprivation relaxed her toward sleep once more. Molly didn't register Jim's movement until a cruel sting pierced the underside of her bicep. She cried out and her hand moved toward the pain, but he caught her fingers and pressed them against his smile. Instinct urged her to move even as the motivation drained from her limbs, mind drifting.
"What a good little pet," he murmured, his hand passing over her face as oblivion claimed her.

When she awoke, he was gone, and while she remembered his arrival, she couldn't really make out the rest of the evening; her head seemed to have swollen to chewed gum, and she wondered how much she drank...but the clock said she was nearly late for her shift, so Molly pushed it to the back of her mind and gulped down some coffee to clear the cobwebs.

Sherlock and Dr. Watson made a visit that day, which woke her up more than caffeine ever could. Sherlock demanded time in the lab with the some shoes, and then firmly asked her to leave them in peace until his sample matched and she could make herself useful; but not to go too far, he didn't want to have to send John to fetch her. Used to these "requests" Molly sighed and went to putter around in the filing room a couple doors down, her usual haunt. When the computer sounded its findings, she jumped up from the small stepladder and hurried down the hall. Sherlock was smiling triumphantly, and that almost made the half hour in exile worthwhile.

That was when Jim decided to pop in. Molly greeted him brightly to cover the butterflies that rioted suddenly in her stomach. Sherlock would invariably say something awful to the poor man. What she didn't expect was for her boyfriend to practically elbow her out of his way to be introduced to the detective, who steadily ignored the way Jim hovered over his shoulder. Curiosity finally got the better of him though; he spared the IT tech a glance, before spitting a word that made Molly's stomach twist and her brain go numb all over again. She could barely muster her attention enough to respond to her so-called boyfriend's parting words, or to agree to meet for their dinner date. As soon as Jim left the room, she pounced on the man seated complacently at the microscope, for once as thoroughly angry as she should be. How did he always manage to turn her world upside down so quickly?

"What do you mean, gay?!" Molly demanded, and Sherlock launched into one of the swift, clipped exhibitions of his powers of observation, looking quite pleased with himself and throwing in a dig about her weight, before producing the most damning piece of evidence: Jim's number, tucked under the petri dish he had knocked off the table in a fit of giggly clumsiness.

The unlucky woman could do nothing but run from the room and charge into the nearby deserted lockers, where she intended to find a corner in which to curl up and die, or have the imminent bawl that was pressed so insistently behind her eyes and nose. Instead she just looked around the room, breathed hard and rubbed her palms on her trousers, panicked. Sherlock was never wrong about these things. If it were true, then that meant—could a gay man really falsify the kind of experiences that they had shared together, even if not attracted to a woman? It didn't seem possible to Molly, but then again, nothing was impossible if Sherlock said it was so. As much as she had longed to strike out verbally at him in return, she couldn't bring herself to deny her faith in his abilities. But that was so unfair to Jim: If he were gay, then why on earth would he pursue her as he did? The pieces simply didn't fit.

She found herself in the ladies' without really knowing how she got there, her fingers closing around the old porcelain basin of one of the taps. Tears were coming now, visible in the mirror, and she brushed at them angrily. Molly didn't know who to be angry with: Jim, Sherlock, or herself. Sherlock naturally rose to the forefront of her mind. No matter his motives, his delight in his own abrasiveness hurt. And Jim, the way he had been around Sherlock…But if it were true, if Sherlock was right, then was Jim at fault at all? People couldn't help being gay.

They could help sleeping with other people though….

At war with herself, she uncertainly took out her mobile and flipped to Jim's number. Should she call him, text him?

And say what exactly? Oh hello darling, I just wanted to ask you if you were actually homosexual?

She backed against the wall and slid to the floor with a groan, mobile clutched to her chest. No, no, she couldn't do that: Breaking up with people that way was low, very low, and not polite at all. And she had to hear Jim's side of it all first.

She would ask him at dinner.

Cabs were a difficult place to apply gloss in at the best of times, and her hand kept missing as her thoughts began to jostle nervously in her head the closer she came to their meeting place: What should she say? What should she do if he told her he was indeed gay?

So wrapped up in her worries was she that the cabbie had to tell her the fare twice as she struggled with her wallet and perspired lightly in the spring coat she wore.

Jim waited for her inside, fingers flying over the touchscreen of his mobile. Molly at last thought to wonder who it was he texted—she had never even heard him mention friends or family of any sort. Be calm, she warned herself as she smiled weakly, accepted his kiss and seated herself. Go slow.

But it was hard to follow her own advice when the first enthusiastic words out of Jim's mouth were "Loved meeting your friends today!"

The half-hearted smile she was trying on wilted further. "Oh. Really?"

"Especially that Sherlock bloke. Fascinating." His face was animated and he nearly bounced in his chair, and if he saw her slump, defeated, he didn't mention it. "It's all so exciting, isn't it?"

Forehead crumpled, Molly looked up from menu she grasped to keep the tears at bay. "Exciting?"

"Yes, yes, exciting!" There was something slightly manic in his words. "Everything is really happening now, isn't it? We're all getting to know each other so well!"

He looked at her expectantly, but she was at a loss for words, the plastic menu flexed out of shape in her hands.

"I don't understand. W-why do you care so much about him? Sherlock I mean?"

Jim's face twisted as though she had just asked the stupidest question imaginable. "Uh, hellooo, your big hero, world's only consulting detective? Y'know, that guy you've been pining away at for ages? Such an honor, you know, to meet someone so inspiring, so utterly brilliant and unique."

Her jaw slackened, but he wasn't through, and his voice grew louder, began to swing from tone to tone like someone carelessly bashing fingers on a sour piano. "Is it really true what you said, about him being able to read people? To look right at them and just know what they're like, and everything they do? I'm terribly interested in that, terribly interested—do you reckon he'd be good in bed? I mean, JUST IMAGINE!"

She had never felt so small in her life. People looked at them, stopped talking. She couldn't really wrap her mind around the words he'd just practically shouted. A vague question of how he had known came to her, but the shock had her thoughts in the wrong order. Molly half expected him to continue the rant, but the odd insanity seemed to suddenly pass again; he relaxed back in his chair and took a measured sip from his waterglass as though nothing had just happened.

"Jim," it came out a croak, and she tried again. "Jim, please. That's just the way he always is. He just—he can't help it."

"But don't you see, that just makes it all the better? No, no, don't listen to me," he turned away in apparent despair, scrubbing at the side of his face, "I'm such a righteous bore when I'm disappointed, I get all woo-oo-oo." He twirled his fingers, eyes rolling with the wild little sound effect. "Listen," he said seriously, "don't pay it any mind." His smile was patronizing.

"Jim, I don't think you're gay! At least, I really hope you're not gay. I mean, it's okay and everything if you are—but I like you and I like being with you!" The sudden torrent of words poured from her like water, and while she tried to keep her voice down, it broke a few times around the thing stuck in her throat.

He sighed and leaned on one hand, as though the conversation had grown stale.

"So you're breaking up with me because I might be a homosexual? A bit discriminating for a girl like you…you should take what you can get, you know."
Her mouth opened and she tried to say something, but could only gape. The strange man across from her seemed to like this, a simple smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

"Oh, you're so understanding, aren't you?" The soft taunt was clear. "Look at you, the picture of innocence in all this." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "But we both know the truth, don't we pet?" His brows waggled significantly and his voice became low, guttural, mouth twisted around the deliberate words. "You just loved getting stuffed by a guy you barely knew. You loved it when I put my mouth on your sweet little puss, and you loved it when I fucked you silly."

Molly was dumbstruck. She couldn't fathom what was happening, or even who this awful person was across the table from her. His words came in, and she heard them, but they were so barbed she simply shut down like she did when Sherlock cornered her, but this was so much worse.

"I can't deny it, I liked it too." He leaned closer. "You have an exquisite little snatch. Just sublime."

And then he was on his feet. "Well, this has been quite lovely, but now I'm afraid I've got to dash." He exclaimed airily, and tucked the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated pout. "It was loads of fun. Maybe we can do it again some time. See you around, pet."

With the toss of a wave over his shoulder, he swaggered away, and she simply sat there and shivered like a frightened rabbit as she watched him go. The restaurant was acutely silent.

"Is everything alright, Ma'am?" The nearest server came over to ask once the chatter had started back up.

Molly avoided the sympathetic woman's eyes, jumped to her feet. "I-I've got to go," she muttered, and made a break for it.

The night was spent in tears. She didn't know exactly what just happened, but she felt she had insulted Jim somehow, made him lash out. Maybe Sherlock really had outed him, and he was embarrassed…Molly went down the list, struggled to reconcile the man she had seen today with the man that had spent the better part of the week with her. He hadn't showed up for his night shift, and his supervisor had texted her. She posted a plea on her blog in case he would read it, begged him to call her and tried to impart how worried they were. What if he had done something awful, had hurt himself? It would be all her fault. She huddled by the radiator with her laptop, sniffling.

The ping that signaled a new message had her scrambling, but it was just a notification for John Watson's blog update. Molly sat up straight in her cocoon of blankets: Apparently they had solved the case! Even though she still smarted from Sherlock's comments, she couldn't help but be proud that she had aided him yet again. Eagerly she brought up the link with every intention to forget her troubles in a good mystery.

Ten minutes later, the hand that shut the laptop trembled. She was unable to look at the same indelible words any longer—especially the parts where Dr. Watson remembered her by name—oh god, couldn't he have blacked it out like the rest?

All those bombings…so many of the crimes she had read about in the past…those people...all the work of Jim Moriarty! It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be, it was too ludicrous...

Through the shock and horror, fear was starting to creep in: He had been here in her flat, he had sat at her table, used her toilet, pet her cat, been in her bed…oh god. Oh god oh god….

She made it to the sink just in time, stars bursting across her watery vision and floating away slowly as she heaved, tried to breathe around the shame. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't be….

Shrill and sudden notes echoed through the flat and she jumped with a shriek. Her mobile clamored and clanged across the tabletop, the general ringtone for an unrecognized number. She just watched it warily and counted the rings. The blog made one thing clear: Jim, or Moriarty, was still on the loose…what if…?
The ringing stopped and a voicemail blip appeared on her screen. Molly brought the device to her ear slowly.

To her horror, it was worse than Jim. Detective Inspector Lestrade's message was short and clipped, asking her to call him back. Her stomach began to roll again…yes, worse than Jim would be all of the Yard and Sherlock to know what she had done with Jim…The Detective Inspector picked up on the first ring.
"Lestrade." His slightly husky voice came over the line quite authoritatively.
"H-hello, this is Molly Hooper." Her voice was meek. "You wanted me to call you?"

"Ah, yes, Molly." His tone was all business, and the feeble hope that the call was a social one was snuffed. "We were wondering if you could come down to the station and answer some questions about the past week." She sank onto the nearest chair, her worst fears realized.

"I-of course," she choked. "Am—Am I in any kind of trouble?"

"God no!" He sounded alarmed. "No Molly, you're a victim in this, that's clear. We just want to—gather some information."

When she swallowed her throat was so dry it clicked. "Okay." It was nearly a whisper, and when he spoke again his voice was deliberately very gentle over the line.

"I promise that what we talk about will never leave my confidence. If you want, I can come over to yours and we can talk there instead."

Molly bit the knuckle of her thumb. "…Alright."

To his credit, when he arrived he was very professional, but also kind, even though it was clear it had been a bad night for him. His questions weren't as invasive as she feared, and she was able to answer most of them without hesitation. When he cautiously asked her if Jim had hurt her, however, she couldn't help the flinch.

"I…" She struggled for a moment, tried to find words. "No, not really. He just was very strange in the end."

Lestrade frowned. "How so?"

Molly pressed her lips together. "He just started saying…awful things. And talking about Sherlock…" She turned away, Mike Stamford's endorsement of trust ringing in her ears. "I told him everything about Sherlock. I didn't know, I swear!"

"It's all right." Lestrade's hands were warm and protective on her shoulders. "It's not your fault. He's a mastermind, an expert con. I'd stake my career around the fact that you're innocent here, Molly."

"He did say he would see me around," she murmured, "he did say that."

"I can have someone watch the building if you're afraid he might come back."

The inspector's handsome face was sincere and Molly found herself managing a weak smile.

"That's alright…I'm sure he's far away by now. I was just a…pawn." Bitterness crept into her voice despite her best efforts, and the hands on her shoulders squeezed.

"It's only natural to feel this way." His voice was quiet, calm, but by the look on his face she could tell he wanted to ask her more. She tried to inject some reassurance into her voice—anything to put him off that."

"I'm really alright, Greg." He smiled at the use of his name and she thought perhaps his hands lingered a second before he pulled back and stood.

"If you need anything," he reminded her firmly at the door, "just call."

The next day at the hospital, everyone stared, and the morgue had a sudden influx of random visitors who all just needed to come down there on one errand or another, apparently. Molly just ducked her head low over what she was doing and tried to ignore the curious interlopers, glad that her mother was in Australia and probably wasn't aware of the existence of Sherlock Holmes, much less her daughter's indiscretions with a terrorist. She had to miss her lunch to upstairs for a talk with her bosses, mostly about personal responsibility in the workplace. Her humiliation was nearly complete, she thought as she trudged back to the lab. She waited for the doors to fly open and that familiar dark figure to billow in and deal her the final blow, but it didn't happen. She had expected he would have wanted to question her as well, but there was no sign of him for some time, nor was there any further word about Jim Moriarty from any "official" source. They had forgotten her. She would have to fight off the wolves on her own, and she wasn't sure she would ever be able to completely live this down. When Sherlock did finally come around it was months later, and he didn't mention anything about it. Apparently he had come to the same conclusion about Molly that Jim had: she wasn't important.

But he did seem more affable in their dealings that summer, sometimes even asked her opinion or thoughts on cases (though she doubted he actually listened). Dr. Watson also went out of his way to engage her, and the look in his eyes when he asked after her made Molly think that it was probably out of guilt—but she appreciated the gesture and couldn't help but have pride in the fact they took her opinion under serious consideration—or at least, John did. As the year drew to a close things seemed to have gone back to normal, so when she received a hasty invitation from the blond doctor for a get-together at Baker Street, Molly had been thrilled. They really did count her as one of them, as a friend.

The holidays had lost a lot of its cheer when Molly's father had passed on the night before Christmas Eve five years prior. Since then, Molly's mother had moved halfway around the world to get away from the memories that London held for her, and Molly was alone for the occasion. She had tried to put up lights and other decorations in her flat, but it simply seemed like a waste. There was no one to see them, anyway, except the cat. However the snow that had started to fall and the invitation to a Christmas party sent a little thrill through her she hadn't felt since she was a child. She put on a rather daring black number with sparkly silver straps, and added some festive accessories, even slipping a spare bow from the parcels she had amassed for everyone in her hair. By the time she left her flat, London had donned a glittering winter coat, and she blew foggy puffs of breath happily as she got into her cab.

But when she arrived, it was to find the master of the house in a fit of pique, unwilling to be cajoled by holiday fun. John, however, seemed very merry and perhaps a little drunk as he helped her out of her coat with a low "Holy Mary!" Mrs. Hudson cooed, and she felt Greg Lestrade's eyes on her back, but it was difficult to enjoy their admiration when the man she had dressed up for wouldn't even spare her a glance, but Molly smiled nonetheless and accepted the drink Greg Lestrade handed her. Sherlock had haughtily installed himself at the computer and irritably stared at the screen, and she tried to ignore the way he seemed to brim with repressed energy in his seat as she asked after everyone politely. He reminded her of Jim when he got like this, and she prayed that a tirade wasn't to follow—but then he rounded on John and Greg, then turned on her as quick as a snake and proceeded to have a little fun at her expense in front of their handful of mutual colleagues while she stood there under his heartless breakdown of everything she was. It felt like betrayal, what he was doing now, cracks in the tenuous and unspoken covenant between them since Jim Moriarty had shattered the peace. When he flipped the card on the confiscated parcel his face fell. The revenge was not sweet for either of them. Molly wasn't sure where she found the words to quietly admonish him, but it was clear they had an effect, and he bent his proud neck to kiss her. But then he swept away moments later on suspicious business to add insult to injury, and her gift sat on the table, neglected, much like Molly herself.

A late call into the morgue and there he was again, with his brother and a naked dead woman, no less. Yet another cab ride home, and Molly pressed her forehead against the cold glass, but instead of London flying by, she could suddenly see a long succession of empty holidays stretching out before her just like this one. She wished she didn't feel as though her heart were breaking at the thought. When she finally returned to her flat she didn't bother to turn on the lights, just collapsed onto her sofa, more than a bit lost. She pressed her face into the cushions, breathed in and out, and let the sensation lull her. A noise turned her head to the feline sitting on the lamp table beside her, looking like a content, fat hen. "Hello darling." Her voice was weak even to her own ears. "Merry Christmas."

Toby hissed and jumped to his feet in response, tail bristled.

"Toby?" She raised her head, startled.

"Damned cat." A low voice muttered behind her, and she whirled on the couch with a shriek, which startled the tall shape that had just emerged from the bedroom wearing gloves in the dark. "Fuck," he growled, and lunged at her before she could scramble from the sofa. His weight drove the air from her lungs and pushed her flat against the cushions, and before the terror of what was happening could really take hold, an acute stabbing pain emanated from her arm. She shrieked again, but the sound was stuffed into the padded seat.

"Nighty night princess." She heard him whisper as the faded chinz pattern became double, then triple. "Pleasant dreams."

But when Molly Hooper slipped into the ether, it was nightmares that greeted her, the unknown drug spiraling through her veins.