Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This one is for Jillypups.

There is smut. And like vague noncon. HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER.

WARNINGS: These triggers go for the entire story, not just for this chapter but encompass the story as a whole. Please heed the warnings. sociopath!Molly, murder, blood, sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, Molly is not who see seems, lots of dubious things, criminal masterminds…it runs in the family, suicide, there's a bunch of creepy udnertones, like kind of really creepy. This is a dark, angsty fic.

Any mistakes are mine and mine alone!

(Just an FYI: Title of the story comes from Macklemore's song Otherside; each chapter title comes from the song Nothing but the Water by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals; and every chapter is based on a song, which will be listed below. In short, I still own nothing.)

On the cusp of death (it won't be us)

Part V: Nothing but the water (is going to bring my soul to bare)

Some legends are told,

Some turn to dust or to gold,

But you will remember me for centuries

Centuries – Fall Out Boy

"I need you to do something." She says into the phone. She doesn't bother with any pleasantries.

"Hello Jim." Jim mocks, his voice cutting in and out but Molly understands him (Molly has always understood him) and rolls her eyes at his dramatics. "How are you? How is retirement? I've missed you so."

"Cut the shit, Jim. I need you to do something."

Jim snorts and she can almost picture him shaking his head. "Fine. I give. What do you want?"

"Mycroft." She says, the name bitter in her mouth, "In all his infinite wisdom, has sent his brother on a suicide mission."

Jim is silent. "Am I supposed to be upset that Sherlock Holmes may actually die this time?"

"Jim." Molly snaps. "I need you to do something to get Mycroft's attention. Something big enough that he will have to make Sherlock stay."

Jim laughs and it's maniacal and a little bit unhinged (they're all little unhinged.) "You run an entire criminal empire and you're still keeping tails on your little pet. I'd say that's cute if it didn't make me want to vomit."

"Just do something."

He sighs and this time she hears the roll of his eyes. "I did tell you that you would need me, didn't I?"

She hangs up in his ear, not bothering to say goodbye. (It's a scary truth, she thinks, how she'll always end up needing him one way or another.)

She can almost hear him laugh from across the world.

"Did you miss me?" His voice and face mock her from the television.

She gasps, hand going to her chest in surprise and she bites her lip to keep from laughing.

She feels a buzz in her pocket and she takes her phone out to see one message from a blocked number.

It's a simple message, a taunting message.

Did you miss me?

She can picture his cheeky dimpled grin as he stares at the sun on a beach, cocktail in one hand and a book, likely Art of War that he can never seem to finish, in the other hand.

She doesn't answer back and deletes the message. But she knows that he knows her answer without having to send anything.

(More than you know.)

He's taken to invading her flat. She doesn't mind, not really.

Any secrets she has are all locked up, waiting for the day he finally gets it and she can finally unlock the doors and let him in, spreading her arms and welcoming him into her mind, her soul, her empire.

Most of the time, he takes the spare bedroom, pacing and muttering to himself while she sits in the sitting area, idly flipping through television channels and sipping on tea.

And then there are nights when he won't use the spare room and instead he'll sit across from her, it doesn't matter where she's at, whether she's at the kitchen table, or on the couch or lounging in her bed, he'll always (always) take the seat across from her and stare at her, his eyes flitting over her face, her body and her breath always (always) catches. Her heart stutters and skips a beat and all she can think about, all she can comprehend is the way he's staring at her so intently, the way his eyes try to tear back layer after layer until she's bare and vulnerable in front of him.

Sometimes, on those particular nights, she wants to laugh at him, softly kiss his lips and tease him until he's an incoherent jumbled mess and then, only then, when he whispers her name in agony, does she want to tell him that she's not vulnerable, she'll never be vulnerable.

Instead, on those particular nights, after he is done attempting to bare her soul open to him with his eyes, they meet somewhere in the middle, all teeth and harsh gasps, hands greedy for more. Moans and groans fill the air, hitches of breaths and pleas for more, more, more, tumbling from mouths and fingers yanking in the bed-sheets, clawing at them in ecstasy, until her lungs burn and her heart beats thunderously in her chest, a feral noise emitting from the back of her throat until stars explode behind her eyes and her back arches as if she were possessed.

(But she is, Molly will muse, she is possessed. She's always been possessed.)

In the morning, he's always gone.

(Molly pretends she doesn't mind.)

"Why haven't I heard anything from him?" Sherlock mumbles one night.

She frowns.

"Molly." He calls out, his voice is soft but there is something beneath it, something calculating, something so familiar that it makes her spine tingle and her heart drop to her stomach. "Why haven't I heard from him yet?" She doesn't have to ask who, she already knows.

Probably, she thinks to herself, because he's lounging on a beach, cocktail in one hand, Art of War, that he still hasn't finished in the other and his cock buried deep someone.

Jim always did know how to have a good time. (He was always the carefree one out of them.)

"I don't know." She answers.

He nods and leans back in his chair but he stares at her like he knows she's lying.

He's desperate in the way he moves against her, with her, in her. Like he's trying to memorize every little sound she makes, every move she makes and the way she clings to him desperately.

It's a frenzied thing, him and her, but he moves deeply, presses against her in all the right places. One hand grabs her hip and the other reaches for her hand and they squeeze, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her whimper. Their bodies are slick with sweat and his breath is hot against her neck where his face is buried, lips burning a trail from her pulse to her collarbone and back again. He whispers reverently against her skin and every part of her aches.

She gasps his name; words falling from her lips with ease and all she can think about is him. All she can feel and smell and see is Sherlock Holmes and Molly could die here, in his embrace and be happy (or however close to it she can get.)

She cries out, sobs catching in her throat, an almost inhuman sound escaping her when she explodes. She barely catches her breath when he turns them expertly (she taught him everything he knows) and she straddles him. Still whimpering, she moves above him, watching as his eyes drink her in, eyes wide, pupils blown black.

"Sherlock." She cries out, "Sherlock. God. Sherlock."

(He's the only man to ever make her plead for anything and God, she's never wanted someone as badly as wants (needs) Sherlock Holmes.)

His hand reaches between them and his long fingers stroke her, flicking her clit and she lets out a muted scream, arching her back away from him as she comes again, tears leaking from her eyes at the intensity. She feels him tense not even a moment later, his body going rigid and she feels the warmth, his warmth, and she collapses against him. Bodies sticking to one another, both of their chests heaving, words, for once, failing them and the scent of sex swirling in the air until it chokes them.

She winces when she slides off of him, lying on her back, arms hanging loosely, aching and itching to reach out and touch him, to trace every contour.

Instead, she stares at him for a little while longer and when he turns his head to stare at her, the look in his eyes, almost (almost) makes her stagger back. It almost (almost) makes her feel guilty for everything she (him, they) have done. And really, what haven't they done? They are hunters and Sherlock Holmes has been their hunted, their prey for so long that sometimes, Molly forgets that he actually isn't. Molly sometimes forgets that he's smarter than anyone else (but not her, never her) and she wonders about everything and nothing in the moments they stare at each other, their sweat cooling but the scent of sex still lingering heavily between them.

She doesn't sigh. She doesn't cower. She doesn't lose eye contact with him. She's calm, despite the raging and warring everything inside of her. "How long have you known?"

I was so careful. What did I do to give it away?

"I had my suspicions we met again." He takes a breath and she watches the rise and fall of his chest, watches as his eyes war with an emotion she can't name and when he looks at her, his voice lower than she's ever heard it. "My suspicions were confirmed when your father died."

She feels her body shake with barely restrained fury at the mention of her father. She clenches her fists, her fingernails making half-moon marks in the palm of her hand. "My father-"

"You lied to me." He tells her, his voice hitching just slightly.

This time, she does let out a sigh and her fingers slowly dart out to trace the contours of his face, of his chest, of his body. So, this is the crux of the matter. It's not that she's tried to kill his best friend (though, she supposes it probably is), it's not that she's in league with Jim (though, she supposes it probably is), it's not even that she isn't a Hooper but rather a much more sinister and dangerous breed of Magnussen (though, she supposes it probably is), it's that she's lied to him for so fucking long. "Everything I've done has been for you." She confesses to him. She leans forward, her mouth going to the shell of his ear. "I knew you would be perfect the moment Jim mentioned you." She feels him clench at Jim's name. "I knew you were just like me, the moment I met you."

"I." He says, his voice hard, though he lies unmoving in her bed, the bed-sheets twisted around them, trapping them to the bed and to each other. "Am nothing like you."

She lets out a soft laugh as she traces his ear with her tongue. Her blood pounds through her veins, flaming her body and her chest hurts. Why does her chest hurt? "Sherlock," she says softly into his ear, "you are meant for so much more than this. You are perfect Sherlock, but with me, you could be magnificent. Everything I have built, everything that I own, can be yours. It should be yours." She moves to his face until there's a hair's breadth between their lips and she considers it a victory when he doesn't pull away from her, when he doesn't push her away. She places her hands on his chest and feels a shiver run through his body. "Everything I've ever done has been for you."

"I never asked for any of this." He tells her just as softly, breaths exchanging with one another and he smells like long-gone cologne and peppermint and fuck, he's intoxicating.

She shakes her head, her hair falling around them, shrouding them. "You were bored. You are bored. You were bored when I first met you. It's why you turned to drugs; you were bored when I saw you ten years later and now look at you, you're drowning in boredom. Domesticity suits many people, Sherlock, but not you. Never people like us."

"I am not like you." He repeats again, as if saying it enough times will convince her (him, them, everyone) that the sentiment is true.

She gives him a sly smirk and maneuvers her body so that she's lying atop him, her breasts crushed against his chest, her nipples hardening and his cock trapped against her stomach. She doesn't say anything, just reaches her hand down between them, eyes never leaving his, and grasps his cock in her hand, stroking it until it hardens. She shifts until she's straddling him, hand continuing to stroke him and watching Sherlock lose control underneath her. With her legs on either side on him, she pumps once, twice and then sinks down onto him, letting out a hiss as he fills her up. She doesn't move right away, instead, she leans down, her nipples brushing against his chest hair and she bites back a groan as the sensation sends electricity through her body, the angle drags him deeper into her and she lets out a hitched breath as she steadies herself on her hands on either side of his head, trapping him to her. She presses her lips against his, not kissing, just breathing him in. "Admit it, there is a part of you that is aching to be with me. To join me." She whispers, "Come away with me. We could be unbeatable. Unstoppable. We could rule together, you and I." She rights herself back up and then moves slowly, watching him watch her watching the both of them lose any semblance of control, of self, "Sherlock, come away with me, please."

Please. Please. Please.

(Sherlock Holmes has always been the only man to ever make her plead.)

When he leaves the next morning, she assumes he thinks she's sleeping.

"Sherlock?" She calls out hazily, her body sore. She opens her eyes to see him at the threshold of her door, shirt half-buttoned and pants unzipped. He looks thoroughly shagged and ruined. "I'm giving you until midnight tonight. Come with me."

He's silent for moment and then he speaks, his voice low with vague interest. "And if I don't?"

She yawns and stretches out in bed, concealing her wince as her muscles and body scream in protest. The sheet fall away from her and she watches him stare unabashedly at her nude body and her hardened nipples in the cool morning. She gives him a lazy smile and turns over on her side. "I'll burn your heart out." She promises him.

"You're not coming." She says into the phone, as her watch pass the midnight mark.

"You knew I wouldn't."

"I did." She concedes, her chest exploding and her heart sinking to her stomach. "Though I had hoped you would prove me wrong."

"Out of respect for how long we have known each other, I'm giving you twelve hours before I find you."

She lets out a laugh and grins, all teeth, no lips. A true Magnussen smile, she thinks. How long they've known each other…of course, leave it to Sherlock fucking Holmes to compartmentalize everything they've shared to how long they've known each other, as if he and she aren't one and the same. "Oh, Sherlock. You'll never be able to find me. Not with your brother's contacts or with John's contacts and not even with Mary's contacts. I'll always be within your reach and just when you think you have me, I'll escape. It's what I do. You want to know you why? Do you want to know how?"

"How?"

"Because I'm smarter than you. Because I will be your greatest challenge. Because I will be your greatest game."

"I never knew you at all." He admits and Molly can almost hear the regret, can almost hear the sadness and frustration in his voice. Because Molly was a constant in his life (even when she was gone and they were separated, she haunted his every fucking move, his every fucking thought.) She was his first everything. She's imprinted on his heart and soul and mind. It's not until this exact moment that she realizes she consumed him just as much as he consumed her.

Disappointment, she thinks, is a bitter pill to swallow, isn't it?

"I'll tell you all you need to know." She replies. "I'm Molly Magnussen. I run the largest criminal network in the world. I am everywhere. I do not forgive. I do not forget and I will burn your world to the fucking ground. I will burn your heart out, Sherlock." Just like you did mine. There's silence on the other line and if it weren't for his breathing, she would think he hung up on her. "Sherlock?" She calls out softly.

"What?"

"Let the final game begin."

She hangs up and then drops her phone to the ground, slamming her heel on it, watching and hearing it shatter.

She tilts her head back and takes a deep breath.

(I always knew you would damn us or save us all.)

The moon is brilliant in the sky, illuminating the house and yard with apple trees for miles; shadows dance across the grass and Molly can almost see herself as a child running through the grass and trees, munching on apples while sitting on her uncle's shoulders. She can hear everything from up here, see everything from the ledge. London, she thinks, is a beautiful and haunting place where lost souls come to conquer and many fail.

(But not Molly. Never Molly.)

It isn't until her hands are numb and she can't feel her fingers or her toes, that she smiles into the night, where no one can see her and her eyes gleam as she takes in her past, present, future and all the lights from the moon and the stars and thinks, mine.

She turns around and walks down from the roof, down the stairs and down hallways that she used to run down as a child. She can almost hear conversations behind closed doors, can almost imagine her mother, father and uncle, can almost remember the smell of peppermint and gingerbread, whiskey and cigars. She can remember the constant lessons as she fortified the walls of her mind fortress and how her uncle and father told her that one day, this will all be yours, Molly.

The smell of gasoline is potent and she only realizes how much so, when she finally steps back outside. She stares at the house with walls and rooms full of secrets that Molly will take with her and she digs in her pocket, her fingers catching on a box of matches. She doesn't hesitate when she lights a match, staring into the flame with gleaming eyes and she tosses it to the ground, the gasoline and fire catching.

She watches the house she once laughed, cried, played, schemed, grew and shattered in, burn to the ground. It's only when she hears the distance sounds of sirens does she get in her car and drive away, a plan already finalizing itself in her mind. It's all a game and games are what Molly is good at. Games are what Molly excels at. She looks in her rearview mirror and sees the house turn to ash and she smiles, because this, this is the beginning.

It has always been her beginning.

(Out of the ashes rises a phoenix. Or so they say.)

(She always knew she would be the last one standing.)

CUE THE SQUEALING AND FLAILING OF ARMS. HOLY MOTHER OF HANNAH, THIS IS DONE.

Honestly, this piece was really exhausting and really, quite dark and oddly, I'm kinda pleased with it. The ending though, I tossed and turned with that ending and had different scenarios, but ultimately, I liked this one the most because it's so open-ended and I LOVE open-ended stuff. Except for the series finale of The Sopranos. That shit was NOT FUN TO WATCH.

BUT SERIOUSLY. LET ME LOVE YOU ALL SO MADLY AND DEEPLY. LIKE WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS HOW GRATEFUL I AM THAT YOU WELCOMED THIS SHIT-STORM OF A STORY IN YOUR LIVES. YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST AND I LOVE YOU ALL TREMEDOUSLY.

HUGE HUGE HUGE SHOUTOUT TO : evelynhunters, BenAddict Holmes, Kavana, Guest, Phoenix-chick12, InMollysWildestDreams, Deductions-of-Sherlolly, purplepam, Empress of Verace, and LadyK1138 and EVERYONE who has read/favorited/followed/kudos'd/bookmarked/ANYTHING. I think that's everyone, but if I missed someone, I AM SO SORRY!

BUT SERIOUSLY. THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH!

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB

P.S. Jillypups, I told you this shit would be dark. Hope you enjoyed!