Title: Secrets of Molly
Ship: Molly/Jim, Unrequited!Molly/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to everyone. This specific incarnation to Moffatt, Gatiss, and Auntie Beeb.
Summary: Even after Sherlock tells her who Jim really is and what he's done, she lets him in when he calls on her. Molly decides it’s time she stopped letting Sherlock and Jim read her like a book.
A/N: This is a very personal story for me. I am very much a Molly and I’ve gone through a lot of the things she goes through in the story. I hope no-one is offended or annoyed.
When Molly filled in facebook quizzes she would always tick the box proclaiming herself to be a 'glass half-full kind of person'.
But somehow it was getting harder and harder to convince herself of that fact.
She'd had a happy upbringing, and had a loving family, a nice flat, a good career, and an excellent education.
It was just recently that those facts had become tinged in her mind with darker thoughts. Her upbringing had been poor, her loving family were all individually happier and settled than she was, most of the people she had studied with had their own homes (and families) by now, and her lowly start in life and un-ambitious nature had left her with a mediocre position and few contacts to improve it.
She wasn't a medical professional for nothing. Recognising these thoughts she'd sheepishly gone to her GP and been prescribed anti-depressants.
For a while, she'd felt like a new woman. She experimented with new hairstyles; bought herself some new clothes, took to exercise again, and went out on a few dates.
Jim had been kind, and she'd felt confident. Almost like she was in charge of the relationship. She had someone she could boast about to her married sisters and invite to family occasions.
And then, acting like her nephew after someone tried to take away a toy he didn't even want, Sherlock spoiled that relationship too.
Molly sat at her parents’ table stabbing at her pasta moodily. They were celebrating their wedding anniversary. It was a loud group - her mum and dad, her two sisters, her brother, their spouses, and (between them) their seven children. Molly was the only one here who had arrived alone.
Still she thought bitterly- as her brother-in-law elbowed her accidentally in the ribs- even if Jim had been here there probably wouldn't have been room for him at the table.
The party went on for several more hours. Her kind (dratted!) family delicately avoided asking why the young man she'd promised to bring along wasn't here. They asked her how her cat was instead.
Molly was already full when she got home, but she ate an entire cheesecake none-the-less.
She chucked the anti-depressants in the bin. There was no use changing the way you thought if your life was miserable anyway.
It didn't take long for her to find out what had happened with Jim, Sherlock, and John.
For the first time in her life she pulled a sickie and went home. That night she drank a bottle of wine and ate an entire bag of salted peanuts even though she didn't like them that much.
The next day Sherlock pointed out that she'd gained almost half a stone since he'd last seen her. She wondered if he was just being spiteful because when he looked at her, he was reminded of Jim.
That night she bought a pack of cigarettes instead.
Molly had never been a rule breaker. She'd shaken her head when offered cigarettes and spliffs at school, college, and uni. She always ate bread before a night out to soak up alcohol, and drank orange juice when she got home to prevent hangovers. Though smoking wasn't technically breaking a rule, there was something about taking it up that felt wonderfully naughty.
That night she forced herself to smoke the entire pack. She eventually threw up and though she felt dizzy and miserable curled around the base of the toilet, she almost felt like she'd achieved something.
Eventually she began to crave the cigarettes like she was meant to and she enjoyed the initial surprise on her colleagues' faces when they saw her out in the smoking shelter.
The next time Sherlock saw her he sniffed. "Have you started smoking?"
"Yes I have," she said with a smile. "Problem with that?"
There wasn't much Sherlock could say in response (though she was pleased to note a look of mild jealousy from the ex-smoker).
She had already deleted her blog after finding out what Jim was. Now she kept a diary, handwritten and hidden in the most imaginative place she could think of (in a plastic bag in the back of her freezer). There was something satisfying in having something that no-one, not even Sherlock or Jim, knew about her.
In the diary she made notes of things she wanted to try that she had always been too scared to. Not pathetic things like bungee-jumping, but things she had always associated with being a bad girl.
Her list was as follows:
One night stand.
Carry a weapon at all times.
Go without underwear for a day.
Get a tattoo.
Get an intimate piercing.
Admittedly it wasn't the wildest list in the world, but it felt wild to her. She trembled at the idea of doing any of them, and resolved to do them none-the-less.
One of the benefits of smoking on a night out was that it made meeting new people easier. She was drunker than usual (no bread to soak up alcohol this time) and looking good (she'd lost a stone since starting smoking).
She screwed a nameless, beer sodden guy in the alleyway the smokers stood in. It was pitch black, and the stone wall hurt her back, but the alcohol, the body contact, and the energy from dancing made her skin burn.
Molly spent the rest of the weekend sobbing in shame hugging Toby the cat. She called herself every dirty name she could think of; 'slut', 'tramp', 'hooker'. She tried in vain to remember what the guy’s name had been, or if she had ever known it.
And yet when she looked in the mirror when getting ready for work on Monday, she felt like her clothes looked different on her. She looked more like a woman rather than a girl.
In a swift impulsive movement she slid down her trousers, ripped her knickers off, and pulled the trousers back up. When Sherlock came into the lab that day she inwardly smiled at her secret knowledge.
The tattoo was next on the list. She'd agonised over the idea, before finally making a trembling appointment with the tattooist. She decided on a line of black butterflies around the bottom curve of her breasts. On a day to day basis they'd be hidden by the wire in her bra. But she'd know they were there.
It hurt like hell. More than she could ever have imagined. Even though the tattooist was female, she'd shaken as she'd taken her bra off and realised this woman would be looking at her naked breasts for the next few hours.
But it looked amazing when it was done.
And it felt amazing when she next saw Sherlock two weeks later and realised he couldn't possibly know about the tattoo. Or the one night stand. And that even if he did, maybe he'd have a harder time predicting her actions from now on.
The weapon needed more thought as it was technically illegal. It needed to be something that would pass through the metal detectors at work.
Really, it was shockingly easy to find a plastic knife online. She only panicked a little bit when it was delivered in case the second she touched it armed policemen would burst into the room.
As she strolled into work the day after it arrived with the weapon wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of her bag, she felt safer than she had since she'd found out about Jim.
After that, the piercing was a breeze. She chose her nipples because it would look hot with her tattoos. She wasn't scared this time, and she barely winced (she was, after all, a doctor).
When she woke up with her breasts gently throbbing the next morning, she reached over, slowly lit her first cigarette of the day, and grinned to herself.
It was like magic after that, so easy was it to stop caring what people thought about her. She had all these dark little things she could tell someone about herself, yet it was so much sweeter knowing and never telling.
For the first time in her life men were asking her out on a regular basis, and instead of being delighted at the attention and saying yes regardless, she agreed to the ones she liked and turned down the others as coolly as Sherlock used to turn her down.
Secretly she fantasised he might still one day realise his mistake, just so she could tell him to stick it.
(Ok, so sometimes she fantasised about saying yes too, but not all the time like before. 60% of the time her mental self told him to get lost.)
Then Jim turned up at her door.
She stared at him with big eyes for the longest second. There was no trace of the Jim she had previously known left in this man in front of her. He was dressed like Sherlock. But unlike Sherlock, he looked like he enjoyed himself too much.
"Molly, Molly, Molly," he grinned. "We need to talk, doncha think?"
He brushed past her and swooped to pick up Toby and pet him. It seemed his affection for the cat had been the only true thing he'd ever said to her.
"You're not gay then," she said.
"No I'm not." His eyes swept over her body. "Have you lost weight?"
"A stone," she said. She was pleased that she didn't blush, or smile. She just shrugged in acknowledgement.
He evaluated her, for the first time he looked surprised.
"You aren't scared of me. Yet you must have heard all about me by now."
"No I'm not scared," she said. "I hope you aren't looking for a way to get at Sherlock. I only ever see him at the morgue. He doesn't know anything about me."
Jim laughed. "Oh trust me darling, he knows everything about you. He knows about everyone."
Molly's fingers moved up to her blouse and she fumbled with the buttons. Thankfully she'd taken her bra off already to clean her piercings.
“Do you think he knows about this?”
She opened her shirt and stared at Jim as he took in the dark tattoos enhancing the curve of her breasts, to the two beads of silver glistening at the edge of each of her pink nipples.
Jim laughed uproariously. "No you're right," he howled. "If he'd known about that he'd have been in here screwing your brains out like any man with a cock would be."
He gave a high pitched giggle. "Of course, I'm not so sure his tastes run in that direction. He really was the pot calling the kettle black."
He stalked forward and bent his head to slide his tongue across her sensitive nipple. She gasped.
“You know,” he said conversationally as he reached to tug at her other nipple, “I was going to send him a message tonight. I was going to write my name across this flat with your blood.”
Molly’s mouth parted as swooped his tongue across her tattoo.
“You started smoking too,” he grinned. “I can taste it. I can smell it.” He looked like a man who has been given an unexpected present. “For me? You shouldn’t have.” he asked.
Molly caught his wrist as he moved to play with her piercing again. “No,” she said firmly. “For me.”
“I love being surprised,” he murmured. “It happens so rarely.”
Molly had cleared the teddy-bears out of her bedroom. The Twilight poster was gone. Now it was sparse and decorated with only some books, her wardrobe, her make-up, and the cat-basket.
Instead of the giggling, awkward sex they’d had in here before, tonight they were filthy. She’d fretted he hadn’t enjoyed it the first time, because he’d left almost as soon as he was done. This time he didn’t stop ‘til he had come three times and her four. He was covered in stinging cuts from her nails. Her lips were red and sore. He was done but, as yet, he hadn’t moved out of the bed.
Molly reached over to her bedside table and fumbled about amongst the condoms she kept there. She was looking for something special.
“Give me a minute,” smirked Jim. “Even evil geniuses need a break.”
She turned her head to smirk back and hooked her leg around his waist to slide up to straddle him. She leaned down and kissed him, hard.
When she pulled away he glanced down at where her hand hovered over his chest. The plastic knife she carried with her at all times was in her hand and pressing into the centre of his chest just hard enough to sting.
For a second, the tiniest second, he looked surprised. Then he said coolly; “You aren’t going to do anything.”
“I cut open bodies all day,” she said, “I could. I’m braver than you think.”
“But you won’t.”
“And I’m not who you assumed I was,” she whispered. “You and Sherlock made me change. Maybe I’ve changed more than you think.”
He smiled at her, and stretched with theatrical unconcern. “Piercings and tattoos are hardly revolutionary,” he yawned.
“This is a warning,” she threatened. “I’ll screw you, but I’m not getting sucked into the perverse world you share with Sherlock”
“Are we going to have sex again now?” he demanded.
She slid off him and walked over to where her clothes had been chucked. When she was dressed she tossed his at him.
“But darling, we were having so much fun.” He patted the bed.
Molly was riding high on the feeling of being in control. She chucked the knife back in the drawer and shrugged.
“We can have fun another time *Moriarty*.”
He laughed. “I could kill you without even trying,” he said.
She shrugged. “Then you won’t ever be able to have fun again. Like I said, I’m braver than I look.”
Jim looked at her and unlike Sherlock, she knew that although he could probably tell her what she had for breakfast, he wasn’t sure of whether she meant what she said or not. He looked impossibly turned on.
“Molly, Molly, Molly,” he purred. “You’re more interesting than I thought.”
Like I said, a very personal story. That said, I forced myself to remain in the character of Molly. So it’s not actually about me. Let me know what you think.
- Current Mood: thoughtful