When I'd been in med school, and my professors found out I was going on to study forensic pathology, they'd often tell me same thing- "Let your home life and work be seperate. You can't bring your daily sights home with you."
As I sat there, staring at the pizza I had made myself, I couldn't help thinking about how the too-thick cheese looked like the skin of the burnt corpse I'd had to examine earlier. My stomach made an unhappy noise and flipped as my mind compared the sauce to blood.
Appetite gone, I took the rest of the pizza, packed it into a plastic container and went to shove it into the fridge. Lately, I hadn't had much of an appetite anyway. It took me a while to find a place where the container would fit, with the shelves already packed with similar unfinished dinners just waiting to go bad. Note to self- get around to throwing some out.
I stood up and ran a hand through my hair, leaning against my sofa. The sofa was a nice cream colour and comfortable, and there was a mirror on the far wall which I refused to look into, knowing it would only show tired eyes and a frown. Probably wrinkles too, which would remind me that I'm 32 years old and living with a cat, and not getting any younger. I was just so incredibly exhausted.
Hit with a sudden impulse, I strode over to my desk and sat down, flipping open my laptop. It was pink, and I stared at my desktop ( a picture of a kitten) for a moment before I opened up my blog.
For the millionth time, I checked my last post.
"I won't be keeping this diary anymore. It was all a lie. Everything he said. But, got to stay positive. Nobody wants an unhappy person working in a morgue. Not that they want a particularly happy one either."
No comments. I swallowed hard and my eyes lingered on the large "0" before I closed my laptop shut.
It'd been two weeks since I'd found out my boyfriend was the incredibly intellegent mad bomber who'd been threatening London. It was odd to think, but it'd already been longer since finding out who he really was than the time we'd spent dating. I guess it only felt like we'd been together for months and months.
It all made my head spin. I remembered those last two days vividely in my mind, memories striking me like jagged shards of glass...
"Jim, just talk to me," I'd pleaded persistantly. "Be honest with me, please."
His back had been turned to me, and my living room was too dimmly to see his face. We'd never gone to his place; always to mine, or out into town or to The Fox.
Jim had been wearing a loose fitting black shirt, sleeveless, with some sort of graphic I'd thought was cute coupled with a washed out pair of jeans. His clothes had always been slightly mismatched, but always very well kept and clean.
When he didn't answer, I continued.
"You've been hiding from me Jim, I've always thought so," I was frusterated now, and my voice had cracked, " And Sherlock's hardly ever wrong-"
"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?" He suddenly screamed, whipping around to face me.
I'd stumbled back, my own eyes almost as wide as his own beedy, eratic ones. I'd never seen Jim like this- the sudden change in him, the sudden anger radiating out of him and the atmosphere completely crushed by his newfound power- I was terrified. Speechless.
I found myself sinking into my couch, unable to stand.
"Sherlock Holmes." He spat out. "Is wrong."
His voice was a hiss, and his face had twisted into fury.
Under his breath, I heard him mutter something along the lines, "...it's always been about him...brilliant...let me think."
After a moment of heavy breathing, he stood up a little straighter and looked down at me cooly. I knew he was waiting for me to speak. I had wanted to say something. But at that moment all I could think of was there is a monster in my house. What happened to my sweet Jim? The one I snuggled with watching Glee, the one who told fantastic stories and made me giggle like a school girl?
The man I looked up at was not Jim.
After what seemed like an eternity, he tilted his headand smiled. I noticed how dead his eyes were. How had I not noticed before?
I sat there silently, staring up at him as he looked down fondly, before he suddenly turned, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
"You'll be hearing more from me soon, Mols." He said in a voice nothing like the one I'd known, and with a wave of his hand I was left wondering if the exchange that had just took place had been a dream.
I didn't hear anything from him for the next two days. I was starting to get worried, before I was woken up at 3 in the morning from a phonecall.
"Hello, uh, Molly?" I recognized the voice of Lestrade on the other line, "Sherlock wants to talk with you, you should probably get down to the station."
My throat seemed to have closed up. Normally on hearing Sherlock's name I would have blushed, or gotten butterflies, but now it was just the opposite. The thought that Jim had gotten hurt had crossed my mind, and I'd thought about the Jim I had dated- with the adorable smile and kisses as polite as they were soft. Was he hurt? Whatever it was, if Lestrade had called me at 3 in the morning it wasn't good.
"What's happened?" I asked.
There was a pause. "I think I'd better let him explain this one to be honest. I'll see you soon, alright Molly?"
I remembered entering the station, entering the room where Sherlock and John and Lestrade were waiting and the hush that fell over the room. How I'd sat down nervously, fiddling with the strap of the bag I'd brought.
"H-has something happened?" I asked tenatively. I was avoiding everyone's eyes, but once Sherlock's grey coloured irises locked mine I was caught.
"Your 'boyfriend', his name was Jim. How well did you know him?" He spoke urgently.
"U-uh." I stuttered, trying to think, "I only knew him for a couple weeks, I mean, he was just nice..." I trailed off, and I saw Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"You're referring to him in the past tense. Why?" Sherlock's tone was sharp.
"We had a fight the other night, after you said he was g-gay." I spoke quickly, stumbling over my words slightly. The recent stress of the fight, coupled with the worry, coupled with Sherlock staring straight at me... it was enough to make me feel like the tinniest of mouses.
"And you haven't heard from him since?"
And they proceeded to fill me in on who Jim really was, and what he had done, both in the recent bombing and at the pool. The mastermind, the criminal, the man I met only a few nights before in the dark living room.
After that the moments blur together seemlessly. Moments of disbelief, shock, hopelessness, anger, pain. Realizing he'd only used me as everyone does, as Sherlock so often did. That 'Jim' that I'd been so sure I was in love with, going to marry, did not exist.
I'd been drilled for information by Sherlock and Lestrade, but once they realized I didn't have anything useful they let me go.
"You won't have to worry about Moriarty. He won't come after you, he was only trying to get closer to me," Sherlock told me. I think he must have thought it was comforting.
"Even still, I'll position some more officers in your neighbourhood, too make sure you're safe." Lestrade chipped in with a firm hand on my shoulder. I gave a small smile before nodding thanks.
Leaning on that couch with dinner in the fridge, I checked my phone again for anything from him.
And there was nothing.
AN:/ New fanfic yay! A Molliarty one because I love this pairing so much. I hope they're in character. This is just the beginning, things will pick up very soon :) Thanks for reading and please review! Peace~