It’s fitting and ironic that it starts in the morgue, where so many things end.
It starts on a trolley.
And it starts a week after... him.
He bursts into the morgue, like a hurricane, his black coat billowing behind him and she has to try very hard not to compare him to a vampire... again. He ambles right next to her, so close, in fact, that she can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.
She looks away from her samples and, shyly, peers at him from under her dark eyelashes.
He cocks a condescending eyebrow at her in response and her stomach immediately drops. ‘Really, now, Molly -- must we go through this tired dance? We both know what you want to do to me. So let’s do it, shall we?’ He doesn’t say it, but it’s written so clearly on his face that he could have.
Really, he should have, she thinks. It would have made her feel a little less like an imbecile and more like a... a person. Still, she doesn’t last long after that.
He claims her like she’s his prize. He’s won the game -- well, this round at least -- and it’s well past time to claim Moriarty’s beloved.
It’s a very animalistic fuck. Lots of teeth, nails, tongue, and hot, sweaty skin. She’s very careful not to nick the abrasions on his back; not to scratch his scars from battle, but, all the same, the tips of her fingers ghost over them right before she comes.
He starts to come every night. Every night that she has a late shift, he comes around as if to show to him that she’s his now. That’s the only routine thing about his visits -- well, besides the part where they end up stark naked and roughly grinding each other against the drawers, the worktops, the trollies, pretty much anywhere that’s solid.
People have started looking at her now and she’s not completely sure whether or not it’s because she dated a criminal mastermind. Their looks are a mixture of pity and -- and is that fear? Either they’re scared that they pity her or they pity her because they’re scared of her. She’s also not completely sure whether or not that’s good, but she takes it all in stride.
Two weeks or so into their -- arrangement, he starts to come over to her flat instead. He no longer shows up at the morgue for sex; just body parts. Beside the fact the she has to buy more tea and biscuits, nothing changes. The dynamic between the two remains the same.
“What is this?” she abruptly asks him one night, both of them recovering as they lay haphazardly on her bed. If she had said it in a more fierce voice (with that sergeant’s voice), she thinks she would get a more truthful answer.
So, it comes as a surprise to her when, after almost a full minute of thick silence, he tells her the truth -- or, rather, as much as he thinks she should know. “I just want to see what he saw.”
If she was bolder, cheekier, she would have laughed and replied that once he figured that one out, could he please tell her as well?
Because it’s the truth. Moriarty could have just cut out the middle man and met Sherlock some other way, they said.
So, why her?
Everyone was asking it... had been for quite some time. It was just about time that she asked it herself.
Instead, she settles for gnawing on her swollen bottom lip, thinking about what she could have said, his responses, and all the things that ever was and never will be between them.