It's so very nearly time. She can feel it, the anticipation, thick and heavy in the air. It feels like it's crackling at her fingertips, singing in harmony with the deep, heavy thrum of blood coursing through her veins. She feels like the sun, just before dawn.
She sees him coming, of course. Catches the rapid but measured pace, the poise, the grace, admires the perfect elegance of the creature she's honed him into, polished into startling brilliance just for this moment. She is the sun. He is the mirror. Like the goddess Amaterasu in the cave, he draws her out into the open with the promise of an equal, a rival
( ... )
"If that's what you're playing for, Sherlock, we could be at this for a very, very long time."
She smiles. The prospect is as pleasing to her as she knows it is to him. Leading him on a merry chase across London until it can't contain them, watching him open up before her like a flower. Puzzle after puzzle, petal after delicate, gossamer petal. She'll burn through him until there's nothing left.
"I don't think you need the gun any more, do you? We both know you're not going to use it. I'm not sure why you even brought it."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up and he doesn't move the gun. "You honestly expected this to end quickly?"
He likes the way his finger feels on the trigger. It gives, at least, an illusion of control. Still, rationally he knows it's never as simple as that. Illusions are never quite enough. So he sighs at Molly, meeting her eye.
"I expected you to get bored of holding me at gunpoint one way or another, yes," she admits, smiling softly. Affectionately, almost. She reaches up, slowly, to skate fingertips feather-light, barely even touching the side of his face. It might even be the electricity in the distance between them she feels.
"I can't believe you're disappointed, though. Here I am, giving myself to you. It's quite a gesture, don't you think? Moriarty, that name... Not that you'd get much credit for handing me over, would you? No-one has the slightest idea of just how deep this rabbit hole goes. Not even you, Sherlock, not yet. Maybe never. I've found the heart of you, I've exposed you, ripped you open- and you don't even know my name..."
The touch makes him exhale sharply. It's not so unconscious as to be a gasp, but he's surprised nonetheless. Her fingers are light, eliciting an odd, tingling feeling where she touches him, sensation sudden and unexpected and far too intimate. It makes him feel ill. He wants to reel back, lash out, but she'll enjoy having an effect on him, and yet if he lets her do it it's like surrender. He turns his face slowly, careful not to tense, moving gently away.
The gun is lowered very, very slowly, moving down Molly's body for a few moments before Sherlock's hand drops to his side.
"Not quite ripped me open yet, Molly." And I'm not as clueless as you seem to think about you. He knows what he'll say next and he knows he'll regret it; he knows it will haunt him. And he knows he will say it. It's like having a full syringe in his arm, waiting, full of promises and only made more exciting by how much he hates it.
She watches him unwaveringly as he draws back, her hand hovering in the air briefly before rejoining its partner in raised imitation of surrender- fingers slowly uncurling as if letting the stolen touch drop to the tiles, worthless.
Sherlock's response doesn't disappoint. The gun runs down her breastbone as slow as a caress, and his voice-- oh. It's perfection as he gives himself to her, willingly.
"Oh," she says, savouring the slow pass of the words, soft, light and thrillingly dangerous as they slip out, turning into a whispered hiss at the harsher consonants. "If you insist."
"That wasn't an insistence." Each word is another move on their chessboard, significant, a pebble dropped in a pond sending ripples flowing outwards and never settling. "That was a challenge."
He doesn't even know himself if he's bluffing or not. If he taunts her enough she'll do- something. Anything. He wants her reaction as much as she wants him, hungry for something he can't put a name to. Some strange part of him wants to watch her, study her, reduce her to a logical process and make her make sense, turn her into statistics and psychology and overpower her that way.
It works for everything else, however, and Moriarty is nothing like everything else.
"Sherlock," she rebukes him gently, her expression sympathetic even as her eyes focus on him darkly. "You and I both know what that was." She does almost pity him, in a way- but of every drug in the world, every obsession, every puzzle, test and indulgence, isn't she the one most worthy of his adoration? Of all the things to turn Sherlock Holmes to ashes, to burn him up and consume him until there's nothing left, it should be tiny, insignificant Molly Hooper.
"Coming?" she asks, and turns on her heel, throwing him a smile over her shoulder before walking at a sedate, leisurely pace towards the door.
She laughs- a rich, genuinely amused peal of laughter. "Oh, he's not that bad. He's probably infuriated with me," she confides, shooting him a smile as she falls into step with him. "Spitting feathers. But then again, he doesn't know you like I do, does he?"
She pushes the door and holds it open for him, half out of habit, really. She's very used to being invisible. Once outside she pulls her coat around her tightly against the cold-- there's nobody visible on the road, no car lying in wait, no obvious getaway vehicle. She rubs her hands together and puts them in her pockets, fingers curling round the USB stick possessively, unseen.
"How about you hail us a cab, Sherlock? That seems a lot fairer than asking you to trust my driver, doesn't it? I think we should at least start out by playing fair."
Sherlock notes everything, as always. She's still half-caught in her role, then. Interesting. The cold hits him but he doesn't react visibly, simply wishes he'd brought his coat and scarf along with him.
"We'll walk first, Molly," he says, sounding lightly reprimanding. "You've had cab drivers in your pay before. And don't you think it gets boring when we cheat?" He shoves his own hands in his pockets, slowing his stride to something approaching a stroll and walking on.
"I suppose I have, haven't I? Poor little man. Not bad though, was it?" she says brightly, heels stabbing a sharp staccato on the concrete as she starts a brisk walk to the left, towards a parade of shops. Closed at this hour, of course, beyond the garish neon of a twenty-four hour convenience store and a chinese takeaway displaying plastic-crafted dragon lanterns. "I would have loved to know for sure. That you'd won. You did win, didn't you?"
Touchy subject. Sherlock smiles. "Against him? Of course I won. He wasn't anywhere near as clever as he thought he was." It's strange to be walking down here in the state he's in, nerves sparking at every sensation, mind still calculating furiously and automatically, strange to be walking with her. As if they're friends. The lie thrills him.
Their shoulders brush. He can't help twitching away at the shock of contact when he's on such high alert. Too much. "What's our destination?" And then, because it gives him a hideous kind of buzz to treat her like they're so close, so very intimate, a thin soft veil over the reality that's as hard and cold and bleak as gunmetal, he adds, "I'll find us a shortcut."
"Oh, would you? How sweet. Well, let's see? Your place or mine, Sherlock? I've already been to yours, of course, but I wouldn't mind stopping round for a cuppa..."
Her eyes are bright with a kind of mischievous light as she focuses on his, sharp like a crow's. Considering her fingers, still tight with white knuckle grip around the memory stick in her pocket, a magpie might be a more fitting metaphor. She's well aware what she's offering him, but then again, it's only fair to level the playing field a little and let him catch up.
His eyes meet hers, look away into the distance thoughtfully, and then return, accompanied by a tiny, polite false smile. "Yours will do fine, then."
Your place or mine? It's what couples say, isn't it? Well, two people who have a romantic interest in one another. Two people who've just met, which to some extent makes sense. He's only just met Moriarty, hasn't he? But- no, surely not. However she twists this, it's not.
"An address?" Sherlock inquires, observing her as closely as ever and for once hoping that he's wrong. Their shoulders brush again, the same spark of electricity flashing between them, and he manages not to shudder with a mix of disgust and something dark and sick and utterly unnameable.
He's going to have to watch himself in this situation, isn't he? He's going to have to be very careful indeed.
She rattles off the address cheerfully, chewing her lip once she's done- nervous little Molly Hooper asking Sherlock Holmes out on a date. It's nostalgic, already. Comfortably unreal, like going back to a playground ten years later.
It's not her flat, of course, but the occupant- a quiet archivist attached to Barts, is away for the week. It's close, comfortable and she likes the decor. Cat flap, too, key in the mailbox in the entrance way, combination locked. It'll do nicely. It'll probably take Sherlock a minute or two, at least.
She sees him coming, of course. Catches the rapid but measured pace, the poise, the grace, admires the perfect elegance of the creature she's honed him into, polished into startling brilliance just for this moment. She is the sun. He is the mirror. Like the goddess Amaterasu in the cave, he draws her out into the open with the promise of an equal, a rival ( ... )
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She smiles. The prospect is as pleasing to her as she knows it is to him. Leading him on a merry chase across London until it can't contain them, watching him open up before her like a flower. Puzzle after puzzle, petal after delicate, gossamer petal. She'll burn through him until there's nothing left.
"I don't think you need the gun any more, do you? We both know you're not going to use it. I'm not sure why you even brought it."
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He likes the way his finger feels on the trigger. It gives, at least, an illusion of control. Still, rationally he knows it's never as simple as that. Illusions are never quite enough. So he sighs at Molly, meeting her eye.
"Disappointing."
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"I can't believe you're disappointed, though. Here I am, giving myself to you. It's quite a gesture, don't you think? Moriarty, that name... Not that you'd get much credit for handing me over, would you? No-one has the slightest idea of just how deep this rabbit hole goes. Not even you, Sherlock, not yet. Maybe never. I've found the heart of you, I've exposed you, ripped you open- and you don't even know my name..."
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The gun is lowered very, very slowly, moving down Molly's body for a few moments before Sherlock's hand drops to his side.
"Not quite ripped me open yet, Molly." And I'm not as clueless as you seem to think about you. He knows what he'll say next and he knows he'll regret it; he knows it will haunt him. And he knows he will say it. It's like having a full syringe in his arm, waiting, full of promises and only made more exciting by how much he hates it.
"Try harder."
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Sherlock's response doesn't disappoint. The gun runs down her breastbone as slow as a caress, and his voice-- oh. It's perfection as he gives himself to her, willingly.
"Oh," she says, savouring the slow pass of the words, soft, light and thrillingly dangerous as they slip out, turning into a whispered hiss at the harsher consonants. "If you insist."
She steps back.
It's done.
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He doesn't even know himself if he's bluffing or not. If he taunts her enough she'll do- something. Anything. He wants her reaction as much as she wants him, hungry for something he can't put a name to. Some strange part of him wants to watch her, study her, reduce her to a logical process and make her make sense, turn her into statistics and psychology and overpower her that way.
It works for everything else, however, and Moriarty is nothing like everything else.
Reply
She does almost pity him, in a way- but of every drug in the world, every obsession, every puzzle, test and indulgence, isn't she the one most worthy of his adoration? Of all the things to turn Sherlock Holmes to ashes, to burn him up and consume him until there's nothing left, it should be tiny, insignificant Molly Hooper.
"Coming?" she asks, and turns on her heel, throwing him a smile over her shoulder before walking at a sedate, leisurely pace towards the door.
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She pushes the door and holds it open for him, half out of habit, really. She's very used to being invisible. Once outside she pulls her coat around her tightly against the cold-- there's nobody visible on the road, no car lying in wait, no obvious getaway vehicle. She rubs her hands together and puts them in her pockets, fingers curling round the USB stick possessively, unseen.
"How about you hail us a cab, Sherlock? That seems a lot fairer than asking you to trust my driver, doesn't it? I think we should at least start out by playing fair."
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"We'll walk first, Molly," he says, sounding lightly reprimanding. "You've had cab drivers in your pay before. And don't you think it gets boring when we cheat?" He shoves his own hands in his pockets, slowing his stride to something approaching a stroll and walking on.
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"I would have loved to know for sure. That you'd won. You did win, didn't you?"
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Their shoulders brush. He can't help twitching away at the shock of contact when he's on such high alert. Too much. "What's our destination?" And then, because it gives him a hideous kind of buzz to treat her like they're so close, so very intimate, a thin soft veil over the reality that's as hard and cold and bleak as gunmetal, he adds, "I'll find us a shortcut."
Reply
Her eyes are bright with a kind of mischievous light as she focuses on his, sharp like a crow's. Considering her fingers, still tight with white knuckle grip around the memory stick in her pocket, a magpie might be a more fitting metaphor. She's well aware what she's offering him, but then again, it's only fair to level the playing field a little and let him catch up.
Reply
Your place or mine? It's what couples say, isn't it? Well, two people who have a romantic interest in one another. Two people who've just met, which to some extent makes sense. He's only just met Moriarty, hasn't he? But- no, surely not. However she twists this, it's not.
"An address?" Sherlock inquires, observing her as closely as ever and for once hoping that he's wrong. Their shoulders brush again, the same spark of electricity flashing between them, and he manages not to shudder with a mix of disgust and something dark and sick and utterly unnameable.
He's going to have to watch himself in this situation, isn't he? He's going to have to be very careful indeed.
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It's not her flat, of course, but the occupant- a quiet archivist attached to Barts, is away for the week. It's close, comfortable and she likes the decor. Cat flap, too, key in the mailbox in the entrance way, combination locked. It'll do nicely. It'll probably take Sherlock a minute or two, at least.
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