Anything you recognize is not mine. The inspiration for the title/story comes from "Judas - Lady Gaga." Enjoy.
"The House of M".
The Demon I Cling To
"Oh I'm just a holy fool, oh baby it's so cruel
But I'm still in love with Judas baby."
Rain water was leaking through Molly Hooper's flat as she fumbled with her shoes – a phone sandwiched between her head and shoulder. Looping the straps, she hopped towards the various buckets that had been positioned beneath the hole in her roof and grumbled as it dawned on her how swiftly they were filling up. "I'll be there in twenty, Sarah – just…"
'Molly,' a voice soothed her from the other line, 'You haven't slept properly for ages… please just don't visit today…'
Clutching a few spare pots and pans from her kitchen cupboard, Molly faked a stiff laugh, "No," she chuckled, "I'm perfectly fine… for visiting… I promise." Pulling a red bucket, she quickly swapped it with her stew-making pot and breathed a sigh of relief as not a drop latched onto the carpet.
'If you're sure.' The voice pronounced.
"I'm sure." The clear, silver reflection of the container caught Molly's eye and fixated her attention on the pale-faced, weak woman that seemed to look back at her. A hand stroked her cheek as she tried her best to detain a soft, barren whimper at the sight. She wasn't fine. In fact, she wasn't sure the last time she had slept properly but she needed to visit them.
Rubbing a stray tear that had somehow seeped past the corner of her eye, she muttered something about her make-up being ruined (although she wore none) and quickly made for the door. Pulling her hair up into an immediate bun, she was stopped when she felt the vibration in her hand.
Glancing down at it, she took it as Sarah once more making sure she was well enough to attend to Sherlock and John – but it wasn't her.
As large, hazel eyes stared at the glowing screen – a knock reverberated from the other side of her wooden door. The sound was heavy and loud - but also familiar.
It was their 'secret knock'; an idea hatched from when Molly had been young – to make sure that people of significance were the only ones to ever step through her door. Of course, it turned out that not many did walk through her doorway and…
Open the door, Mollybear.
Chills trembled through her as she dropped the phone in shock. "No," she swore scratching her head as she paced up and down – the rhythm of the familiar knock in her head, "No…" (Murderer… your Jim…Molly…murderer…) She must not open the door; under any circumstance. (No…John…he can't…he's not…he's my Jim…) Flashes of the two, frail bodies in the hospital flared in her mind and she felt nausea waver through her like an incessant tide.
John had woken up after a few days; weak and barely able to heave his own chest, he had told her a brief story before he slipped back into unconsciousness. The whole time, Molly had been stilled from shock. Trauma. (My Jim… not my…not him…) But seeing them, she knew how foolish she had been for trusting the charming employee from the IT department.
The man she had used for relief from her swollen loneliness - the adorable man who had somehow purchased her heart in the process.
He was a killer; she knew it was only time before it was her turn to get hurt.
Attempting to stop herself from crying as she stood, heart beating, staring at the door (the knocks had stopped) – Molly shook as another message appeared. The carpet beneath her vibrated and – petrified – she picked the phone up and gazed down at the shimmering letters waving across the screen:
I know you're in there!
A bare second later:
Don't make me come and get you.
The sudden abruptness of the words made Molly choke and before she could help it, she had stumbled forwards and gripped the door handle. Suddenly, it was the point of no return and the only way to move was forwards. Turning the metal object, she pulled it. It all seemed to take eternity before the door finally opened wholly and the sight of Jim 'Davison' from IT stole her gaze.
Of course, it was not Jim Davison from IT at all; gone was his hair, his clothes… He was holding an umbrella, grinning, in a bluntly expensive suit. The demon beneath all she had adored.
He looked perfectly at ease; a murderer… a maniac…and loving it. Molly wanted to throw up. She knew what he was now - but what she didn't know was what to do with Jim Moriarty. She had thrown the door open for him.
And damn it to hell, she knew now that she should have ran while she could.
"I thought I was going to have to come get you!" He chuckled; this forcing a deafening daze of unease to sweep through her as she forced her eyes away from him.
He looked so different now. His face was the same - every feature identical. But he wasn't Jim anymore. The once handsome face she had fawned over was now an emblem of pure, burning hatred. Of fear.
"What are you doing here?" She mumbled, face already blank with dread.
A small, teasing pout appeared on his lips- almost like he was "disappointed".
"Not even a hello then?" He murmured, bowing his head softly, "My, my dear Molly. How have you changed..."
"Leave m-me alone, Jim." She pleaded, smelling the rain and feeling the dread swell as she realized how intensely he was staring.
How different it all seemed not very long ago. The stare that once made her so self-conscious was now the stare that was making her wither in dread.
"Leave me alone, Jim," He mocked, brown eyes – gleaming – "C'mon, Mollybear. Don't tell me you're mad at me too… everyone seems to be mad at Jim nowadays…" The way he talked... it was so taunting.
Like he was singing a song.
"Just go." She could see his eyes - devouring every whimper. Taking victory from her pain. The wreckage of his crime - the two bodies fighting in hospital came into her mind and only fear kept her breathing.
"Go where?" Jim inquired hotly, before smirking, "Don't tell me you haven't missed me."
"I - I haven't." She answered, chest trembling.
"Oh? I find that difficult to believe, love."
(You're scaring me, Jim) Molly could remember that one time she was given a chance to see his temper; that one little twitch of fate when she had walked into the bathroom and he was on the phone with someone. He had been flustered - swearing - even reverted to some foreign lingo. And when he realized she was listening - he had lashed out vehemently to shut the door.
She had dismissed it at the time; "everyone had a temper" - her mind said.
She couldn't answer him. He knew it very well.
"C'mon," the smirk somehow found room to widen, "Cuddling in rainy afternoons. Remember?"
His voice; it made her skin crawl. Yet equally, every syllable was almost a whine of pleasure.
"Please…" Molly choked, barely restraining her sobs as she eyed him, "Jim… you're a..." Her words died in her mouth as he started to laugh again.
"A – a what?" Jim questioned, eyes narrowing as he inclined his head. Glowering at her, his expression seemed to change as he sprung up his umbrella.
Her eyes could barely move as she found herself lost for words.
"Tell me later, yes?" Jim cocked an eyebrow – an innocent habit – and hopped back off her doorstep, "Now first… we've got a birthday to celebrate…"
Still holding her phone, Molly found herself with a chance. Discreetly, she kept her eyes on him as her fingers located the 'call' button on her phone.
But she wasn't clever enough.
Jim just giggled at her efforts.
"Nu-uh," He scolded her childishly, expressing a wink, "Naughty, Molly. What do you think you're doing with that?"
Before she knew it the phone was seized from her hand and was now embraced in his thin fingers.
"Jim," she begged again.
"It's my birthday, love," He crooned, eyeing her every move with a whirr of ridicule, "Have you forgotten?"
Jim quirked his head, absorbing her expression sweetly,
"Don't tell me you have! I'll be bitterly disappointed," he continued, "I have... been so looking forward to it."
Of course she hadn't. It was here when she found herself with the declaration of his purpose. Why he was here. (Monster… he's a monster… run…Molly…run…)
"Come with me, Molly."
His voice was balanced; but clearly there was no evasion.
"No." She tried her best to muster up as much courage in that one word but her tries failed pathetically.
Jim noticed and fed on it. He laughed – his face screwed up into a nauseatingly amused expression. When it faded – all that was left was a sick, sallow smile.
(He has a beautiful smile… Molly would wake up giggling about it…)
"Molly bear - you always knew how to make wittle me laugh."
He cooed as he strode forwards and captured her arm in a swift, flawless motion. Molly barely had time to shriek as she was dragged down her doorstep, shaded by the umbrella he held. When it dawned on her that she was being abducted, she struggled against his stony grip and screamed.
He just laughed at her efforts.
She stopped instantly knowing he was just gobbling it up for ammunition. His grasp was painful; but nothing hurt her more than the desolate tears scraping past her cheeks.
(Yes…Lucy…I know… I think Jim is the one you know… he's just…perfect)
"You're a p-psycho," she spat as he kicked down her small, wooden gate.
"P'shaw," He taunted, "You know I'm everything but that, sweetie." The word fell from his lips like grit. She resisted (tried very hard to) but failed; there was no strength left in here. She had been attacked at the perfect time – she was too weak.
"Don't be a little bitch,"
Molly squeezed her eyes shut – hindering the tears – as she felt his simmering breath down her neck. His lips were to her ears, words uttered with slow, brazen menace, "walk properly…Molly… that's right…"
Animatedly, she did what he said. As they progressed down the pavement, he released her arm– hand sliding down to take her hand instead. Repressing a sob, she felt her fingers entangle in his subconsciously – the smile that instantly graced his face suggested the gratification that one little movement had given him.
He knew that she still thought of him; now he could be certain that a little part of her still clung on to him like an infection.
Now they looked like a couple. It was sick.
Frigidly, Molly glanced up at him, the sound of the rain filling their silence.
"Are you going to hurt me?"
"It's my birthday, remember," he 'tutted' at her with a childish air, "why would I hurt you Mollybear?"
"Stop calling me that." She breathed – only to be rebuked by his grip suddenly tightening so harshly around her hand that she had to gasp in pain. Tears began to fall again as she managed a, "P-Please…s-stop…" and the grip relaxed.
Why did he need her? He didn't; that was why Molly was convinced that she was going to die. Her gaze fleeted across the part of her arm where he had grabbed her – it was sore and throbbing. Clearly, nothing passed by him as he noticed her glancing at it instantly.
"Sorry about that love," an awkward, apologetic smile formed on his face as he eyed her, "but you could have been good and I wouldn't have done that to you."
"Let me go, Jim," Molly attempted again, "Please let me go."
She could see it again - the insanity that dwelled beneath his eyes as he spoke.
"And miss my birthday show? Don't be silly."
"Please," the word was barely audible as something occurred in her head. They crossed the road, hand-in-hand and Molly lifted her head, "I'm under surveillance…Jim," she told him dutifully, "Sherlock's brother."
After the events – everyone connected to Sherlock had been beneath supervision.
And just then, Jim gestured towards a large, black BMW just by his left. It was parked two houses down her own and she recognized it as the car that had been following her to work. A glimmer of hope flared within her but it soon died as the large, red stain on the window of the driver seat came into view. It was messy and disgorged – but it was real. Dead… dead…
Now, she most definitely had nothing.
(Jim is so thoughtful… always so smart and thinks ahead…)
"Oh…god." An urge to vomit suddenly cultivated inside of her as they paused their walk.
"They've not been the only ones watching, Molly."
"They're - you -you -" Her lips were shaking as she uttered the long, blood-curdling word, "killed them?"
"Disposed," the man beside her dictated impassively with a soft shrug, "Killed is such a filthy word. Don't you think?"
Her face was white as she struggled to breathe, "C-Christ..."
Jim merely tipped his head, perusing,
"Oh yes... shame really. Nice blokes." He nodded before grinning again, "Driver's got quite a fist on him... but I took care of that."
Molly wasn't sure how she was managing to stay upright and as if on cue her knees wobbled. She found her balance fading and her legs buckled - Jim observed the change quite swiftly and merely 'hmmd', holding her up.
"When was the last time you ate, Mollybear?" Jim clucked, shaking his head in reprimand as he eyed her pale features.
A cry escaped her lips as his grip on her hand tightened again; she had to clench her jaw to stop herself from screaming.
"Now come on… we've got a matinee to catch…" He said - sounding the least bit impatient.
Barely comprehensible, Molly let herself be lead along, eyes wide and terrorized.
"I have missed you." Jim retorted from beside her as a grey coloured car pulled up from nowhere and sidled up by the pavement they were walking.
"Jim – please," Molly's hand was cramping when he finally discharged it, "Please…I won't say anything… just let me go."
"Oh, I can't do that, love," His accent was silky; voice smooth, "I've already booked our tickets… now hop on and be a good girl. Okay?"
She tried. Molly tried. She let out one last yelp and lashed out against him but it was all worthless in the end. Jim only had to press his lips together, grit his teeth and give her shoulders one long shove.
Before she knew it, she was inside the car sobbing.
"Oh, Mollybear," Jim entered the car, welcomed by the sound of her cries as he positioned himself on the front seat, "... you know how I hate it when you cry."
She didn't stop. The car's engine began and through the blurry haze of her tears, Molly watched as Jim's fingers located the CD player at the front and slowly turned to volume wheel to full volume.
Numbly, she sat. Her terrifying ordeal, serenaded and mocked by the sound of Glee's Don't Stop Believing.