FIC: The Bones of You, BBC's Sherlock, PG-13, Molly/Moriarty
Title: The Bones of You
Author: Saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: PG-13
Contents/Warnings: none that I'm aware of.
Summary: Moriarty & Molly, before, during, and after The Great Game. A remix of mad_maudlin /10leaguesbeyond 's ' Home is Where' for the sherlock_remix challenge. Also a songfic, so.
Word Count: ~1200
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: caoilin_noir continues to be awesome, Beta/Britpicking for me like a champ. I feel ridiculously blessed to have her on my side.
To read this at the comm, go here. IF you are curious about the music, I have a reference post here, with youtube links and full lyrics. :)
***
After many years of planning and excruciatingly dull effort, James Moriarty now has a very fine network of thugs, criminals, murders, and thieves at his disposal. Which is nice, but it's not very stable. So he also has an inner infrastructure of bribed businessmen, policemen, and low-level politicians; shell companies to grant a delightful sheen of feigned respectability, trusted assassins, shady reporters, and a handful of amoral tech nerds.
It is one of the latter who forwards him a daily report on the habits of one Sherlock Holmes (there are other reports, on other persons of interest, but Sherlock is by far the Most Interesting of them all). He clicks on a link in the email and winces. Augh, he thinks, kittens. It reminds him of the girl who'd lived down the street when he was eight. She'd never found out what had happened to her favourite pet...
Moriarty waves off nostalgic pride for his younger self and keeps reading until it dawns on him. It's like a backstage pass with gilt engraving. Dear Jim, it practically shouts at him, You are cordially invited to begin the Game in earnest. He giggles to himself and picks up his phone, calling one of his contacts. “I need a job,” he says, with no preamble. And of course, he gets it.
How pleasant to have a well-oiled machine at one's fingertips, he thinks. It's almost unfair of me to pit it against a single man.
But then, he never did play fair.
Carve up my heart on a very low flame /Separate my feelings then pour them down the drain
Close my eyes and sweeten me with lies / Pierce my skin with a few well chosen words...
- 'Autumngirlsoup,' by Kirsty MacColl
Oh, how he hates Glee. Moriarty makes a deal with himself: for every minute of this insipid little show that he watches, he gets another minute to 'encourage' Molly to redeem herself, once his Game is over and won.
All right, so he's impatient. But one day, he finds himself humming 'Maybe This Time' while messaging one of his agents in the Tunisian Republic, and he can't stand it anymore. He severs the connection and heads over to Molly's, barely remembering to change into his 'Jim from IT' costume before he goes.
He doesn't know what comes over him. All he sees is Molly's face, emotions flickering behind those wide, transparent features of hers.
Delight (at his unexpected visit)
bleeds into startlement (as he backs her into her apartment, crowding her against the wall)
shifts to a delicious high note of fear (when he takes her wrists and pins them at her sides)
and she says “Jim, what are-?”
Something twists in his gut, hard and sharp, at her breath on his face. He remembers the plan, the Game, and dammit, he can't ruin it all now.
“I don't know,” he says, smiling at her in false reassurance, keeping the edges of his teeth hidden. “I just thought... I wanted to see you, and...”
She relaxes infinitesimally , a nervous smile making the corners of her thin little mouth dart up. “All- all right,” she says. “I just. We've never-”
“Come on, Kitten” he says, leaning in to murmur against her ear. “It'll be fun. Don't you trust me?”
She gives a shaky little nod, and that's all he needs.
My boy builds coffins he makes them all day / But it's not just for work and it isn't for play
He's made one for himself / One for me too / One of these days he'll make one for you...
- 'My Boy Builds Coffins,' by Florence + the Machine
Moriarty has a list of assets on his hard drive. One section is for personnel, their skills and assets and weaknesses carefully tabulated, regularly updated. It's an easy calculation to make, when one tips over from 'asset' to 'liability.' A simple phone call to his girl Moran when he needs one removed from the roster.
“The Chinese affair has been handled,” she informs him not ten seconds after he's finished typing. “Anything else tonight, sir?”
“No, Sylvia, that'll be all, thank you,” he says. “Take the rest of the night off.”
Sometimes he wonders why Molly doesn't tip the scale, with all he has to put up with and only one real use for her, and that purpose solely for vanity's sake besides.
What I wanted most, what I wanted most, what I wanted most / Was to get myself all figured out
And what I figured out, what I figured out, what I figured out / Was that I needed more time to figure you out...
- 'Fix You Up,' by Tegan and Sara
“Jim,” Molly says on his answerphone, her tone high and anxious. “It's Molly. Um. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I just. Some-someone told me. Sherlock said you gave him his number, and. It's all right if you.” She huffs a small, broken laugh. “I don't blame you if you fancy him, but. I just want to talk to you, Jim. Please. Call me back.”
He really should have Sylvia tidy up that mess. His finger hovers over the speed dial.
Well, he thinks. It might be suspicious if she disappears too soon.
I've been away for so long. / I've lost my taste for home, and that's a dirty fallow feeling.
To be the dangling ceiling. / From the roof came crashing down...
- 'The Next Time You Say Forever,' by Neko Case
Chlorine and ash on his tongue and Moriarty can't hear a thing. There are flashing lights approaching and he crawls away, pulling himself upright on a pile of rubble.
He can't think. What? Why-? Hidden in an alley alcove several blocks away, he assesses the damage. A large lump is surfacing under the skin over his left ear. He hasn't any identification on him, no wallet, no money, no cards. Where is my mobile? Burned and buried, perhaps beside the bodies of his enemies. No way of knowing. And the nearest safehouse is. Somewhere. He doesn't quite know where he is.
Away. He needs to get away. His mind reels with unaccustomed defeat. Not unaccustomed, he corrects himself, inconceivable. That shouldn't have happened. An echo in the back of his mind says 'I don't think that word means what you think it means.' A line from some stupid film Molly had made him watch. She'd been aghast that he'd never seen it before.
He lets his feet take the lead. Where am I going? he thinks, and why am I in this handbasket?
People turn to stare at him as he staggers and reels, giggling at his own jest.
Come on in / I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones / That I started looking for a warning sign...
- 'Warning Sign,' by Coldplay
“Hey kitten,” he says, and collapses into Molly's arms. She pulls him inside and he's safe. For just a moment, he feels safe.
It's a lie. It has to be. He's more exposed here than in the rubble. They'll put the pieces together and come for him. It's only a matter of time. He shouldn't be here, and yet.
Her hands are cool and competent, the smell of her comforting and familiar. He feels safe.
With soft tugs and a seam ripper / Tough love and tape measure
Stitching up boys is different that way / You fix a bird, you buy a cage
You fix a man and / You fix a man and / And he flies away
- 'Seamstress,' by Dessa
Molly cleans him up, tends his wounds, gives him paracetamol and clothes he never thought he'd see again. When she's done, she kisses him and asks him to stay. Jim kisses her back. He touches her hair.
There is something crawling under his skin that stills beneath her worried gaze. He stares at her, feeling rattled to the core, nothing to do with the explosion. Then he laughs, at her unshakeable belief in him, at his reaction, at everything. It's absurd.
“Two hours,” he agrees. “Wake me in two hours.” She takes him to her bed and curls up beside him beneath the duvet. Her cat tucks itself into a ball at their feet.
The curve of her hip fills his palm, sweet and soft and alive. “Two hours,” he reminds her, exhaustion dragging him down and down.
“Two hours,” she confirms.
“Night, Kitten,” he mumbles. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.
He realizes it's a lie just before sleep claims him.
- END -
Do I have / time? A man of my calibre / Stood in the street like a sleepwalking teenager
No. / And I dealt with this years ago / I took a hammer to every memento
But image on image like beads on a rosary / Pulled through my head as the music takes hold
And the sickener hits; I can work till I break / But I love the bones of you
That, I will never escape...
- 'The Bones of You,' by Elbow
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Author: Saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Molly/Moriarty
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: PG-13
Contents/Warnings: none that I'm aware of.
Summary: Moriarty & Molly, before, during, and after The Great Game. A remix of mad_maudlin /10leaguesbeyond 's ' Home is Where' for the sherlock_remix challenge. Also a songfic, so.
Word Count: ~1200
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: caoilin_noir continues to be awesome, Beta/Britpicking for me like a champ. I feel ridiculously blessed to have her on my side.
To read this at the comm, go here. IF you are curious about the music, I have a reference post here, with youtube links and full lyrics. :)
***
After many years of planning and excruciatingly dull effort, James Moriarty now has a very fine network of thugs, criminals, murders, and thieves at his disposal. Which is nice, but it's not very stable. So he also has an inner infrastructure of bribed businessmen, policemen, and low-level politicians; shell companies to grant a delightful sheen of feigned respectability, trusted assassins, shady reporters, and a handful of amoral tech nerds.
It is one of the latter who forwards him a daily report on the habits of one Sherlock Holmes (there are other reports, on other persons of interest, but Sherlock is by far the Most Interesting of them all). He clicks on a link in the email and winces. Augh, he thinks, kittens. It reminds him of the girl who'd lived down the street when he was eight. She'd never found out what had happened to her favourite pet...
Moriarty waves off nostalgic pride for his younger self and keeps reading until it dawns on him. It's like a backstage pass with gilt engraving. Dear Jim, it practically shouts at him, You are cordially invited to begin the Game in earnest. He giggles to himself and picks up his phone, calling one of his contacts. “I need a job,” he says, with no preamble. And of course, he gets it.
How pleasant to have a well-oiled machine at one's fingertips, he thinks. It's almost unfair of me to pit it against a single man.
But then, he never did play fair.
Carve up my heart on a very low flame /Separate my feelings then pour them down the drain
Close my eyes and sweeten me with lies / Pierce my skin with a few well chosen words...
- 'Autumngirlsoup,' by Kirsty MacColl
Oh, how he hates Glee. Moriarty makes a deal with himself: for every minute of this insipid little show that he watches, he gets another minute to 'encourage' Molly to redeem herself, once his Game is over and won.
All right, so he's impatient. But one day, he finds himself humming 'Maybe This Time' while messaging one of his agents in the Tunisian Republic, and he can't stand it anymore. He severs the connection and heads over to Molly's, barely remembering to change into his 'Jim from IT' costume before he goes.
He doesn't know what comes over him. All he sees is Molly's face, emotions flickering behind those wide, transparent features of hers.
Delight (at his unexpected visit)
bleeds into startlement (as he backs her into her apartment, crowding her against the wall)
shifts to a delicious high note of fear (when he takes her wrists and pins them at her sides)
and she says “Jim, what are-?”
Something twists in his gut, hard and sharp, at her breath on his face. He remembers the plan, the Game, and dammit, he can't ruin it all now.
“I don't know,” he says, smiling at her in false reassurance, keeping the edges of his teeth hidden. “I just thought... I wanted to see you, and...”
She relaxes infinitesimally , a nervous smile making the corners of her thin little mouth dart up. “All- all right,” she says. “I just. We've never-”
“Come on, Kitten” he says, leaning in to murmur against her ear. “It'll be fun. Don't you trust me?”
She gives a shaky little nod, and that's all he needs.
My boy builds coffins he makes them all day / But it's not just for work and it isn't for play
He's made one for himself / One for me too / One of these days he'll make one for you...
- 'My Boy Builds Coffins,' by Florence + the Machine
Moriarty has a list of assets on his hard drive. One section is for personnel, their skills and assets and weaknesses carefully tabulated, regularly updated. It's an easy calculation to make, when one tips over from 'asset' to 'liability.' A simple phone call to his girl Moran when he needs one removed from the roster.
“The Chinese affair has been handled,” she informs him not ten seconds after he's finished typing. “Anything else tonight, sir?”
“No, Sylvia, that'll be all, thank you,” he says. “Take the rest of the night off.”
Sometimes he wonders why Molly doesn't tip the scale, with all he has to put up with and only one real use for her, and that purpose solely for vanity's sake besides.
What I wanted most, what I wanted most, what I wanted most / Was to get myself all figured out
And what I figured out, what I figured out, what I figured out / Was that I needed more time to figure you out...
- 'Fix You Up,' by Tegan and Sara
“Jim,” Molly says on his answerphone, her tone high and anxious. “It's Molly. Um. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I just. Some-someone told me. Sherlock said you gave him his number, and. It's all right if you.” She huffs a small, broken laugh. “I don't blame you if you fancy him, but. I just want to talk to you, Jim. Please. Call me back.”
He really should have Sylvia tidy up that mess. His finger hovers over the speed dial.
Well, he thinks. It might be suspicious if she disappears too soon.
I've been away for so long. / I've lost my taste for home, and that's a dirty fallow feeling.
To be the dangling ceiling. / From the roof came crashing down...
- 'The Next Time You Say Forever,' by Neko Case
Chlorine and ash on his tongue and Moriarty can't hear a thing. There are flashing lights approaching and he crawls away, pulling himself upright on a pile of rubble.
He can't think. What? Why-? Hidden in an alley alcove several blocks away, he assesses the damage. A large lump is surfacing under the skin over his left ear. He hasn't any identification on him, no wallet, no money, no cards. Where is my mobile? Burned and buried, perhaps beside the bodies of his enemies. No way of knowing. And the nearest safehouse is. Somewhere. He doesn't quite know where he is.
Away. He needs to get away. His mind reels with unaccustomed defeat. Not unaccustomed, he corrects himself, inconceivable. That shouldn't have happened. An echo in the back of his mind says 'I don't think that word means what you think it means.' A line from some stupid film Molly had made him watch. She'd been aghast that he'd never seen it before.
He lets his feet take the lead. Where am I going? he thinks, and why am I in this handbasket?
People turn to stare at him as he staggers and reels, giggling at his own jest.
Come on in / I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones / That I started looking for a warning sign...
- 'Warning Sign,' by Coldplay
“Hey kitten,” he says, and collapses into Molly's arms. She pulls him inside and he's safe. For just a moment, he feels safe.
It's a lie. It has to be. He's more exposed here than in the rubble. They'll put the pieces together and come for him. It's only a matter of time. He shouldn't be here, and yet.
Her hands are cool and competent, the smell of her comforting and familiar. He feels safe.
With soft tugs and a seam ripper / Tough love and tape measure
Stitching up boys is different that way / You fix a bird, you buy a cage
You fix a man and / You fix a man and / And he flies away
- 'Seamstress,' by Dessa
Molly cleans him up, tends his wounds, gives him paracetamol and clothes he never thought he'd see again. When she's done, she kisses him and asks him to stay. Jim kisses her back. He touches her hair.
There is something crawling under his skin that stills beneath her worried gaze. He stares at her, feeling rattled to the core, nothing to do with the explosion. Then he laughs, at her unshakeable belief in him, at his reaction, at everything. It's absurd.
“Two hours,” he agrees. “Wake me in two hours.” She takes him to her bed and curls up beside him beneath the duvet. Her cat tucks itself into a ball at their feet.
The curve of her hip fills his palm, sweet and soft and alive. “Two hours,” he reminds her, exhaustion dragging him down and down.
“Two hours,” she confirms.
“Night, Kitten,” he mumbles. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.
He realizes it's a lie just before sleep claims him.
- END -
Do I have / time? A man of my calibre / Stood in the street like a sleepwalking teenager
No. / And I dealt with this years ago / I took a hammer to every memento
But image on image like beads on a rosary / Pulled through my head as the music takes hold
And the sickener hits; I can work till I break / But I love the bones of you
That, I will never escape...
- 'The Bones of You,' by Elbow
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.