Heart Shaped Buttons

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Dates rarely went well for Molly.

Most of the men were either ones she were set up with through friends of friends of friends, or ones who she met through the course of her work in Bart's. This meant that they usually slotted neatly into one of two categories: those who were repulsed when they found out about her line of work and were put off from then on in, and those who were weirdly, unpleasantly attracted to it.

Molly like categories, order... precision, but these particular two had begun to grate on her more than a little.

The first had lead to a particularly promising man with the brightest green eyes she had ever seen flat out recoiling across the table when he found out she had spent the majority of the day digging around in a dead man's ribcage in search of a bullet. She would never forget how quickly his face had turned almost to the colour of his eyes. The steady drain of healthy colour dripping from his face like paint.

The second brought less easily handled consequences. Molly remembered one date - older than her by close to a decade, but charming - who had told her she looked especially attractive with her blood covered latex gloves on. How he had imagined her in nothing but those. What he had imagined doing to her in the quiet, hushed coolness of the morgue after dark. The drip of perspiration gathering on his reddening, but still handsome face and the fanatical glaze of his dark, attractive eyes as he conveyed the fantasies he was sure she would welcome in the warm closeness of a restaurant booth didn't leave her for weeks afterwards.

She fiddled with the sweet, little red heart buttons that fastened her starchy white blouse together and let out a soft sigh. The kind of gentle exhalation that would make Jim crook a finger under her chin and demand a delicate, stubble laced peck of a kiss before retreating quickly if she leaned in for something a bit more substantial. He would tuck a lock of her plain Jane brown hair behind her ear then and say that she was so very lovely and deserved to be treated like a princess.

There was a long moment where she struggled to extract herself from the memory - pulling herself up as though swimming from a great depth. It was almost six o'clock - the time that her latest date was due to arrive to collect her.

Molly didn't drive; living in a city with such fantastic travel links meant that she didn't need to. She also didn't want to... the number of bodies she had dealt with that had been freshly scraped off of the tarmac, embedded with flakes of windscreen that sparkled in the harsh flourescent light like glitter didn't bear thinking about. Her date for the night, however, did and Molly wasn't sure how she felt about that.

She didn't like the idea of being in his car - whoever he was - didn't like the idea of being in a closed space with this new man. That rarely went well. The image of Jim dipping over her in the backseat of the tiny, tinny car she later learned he had had stolen for that precise night floated in front of her in a mocking tableau of her own weakness.

Jim was, in her mind, very separate from Moriarty. She kept it that way to preserve some form of calm and order to her memories. Jim memories were safe and relatively alright to think of - to recall at moments. The few labelled with the stark, black letters of Moriarty - like the one in the backseat of that creaking, cramped little car - were the ones that she kept very deeply in the back of her mind and ignored as far as possible.

Three sharp knocks on the door startled her off of the couch.

She slid the chain out of its slot and unlocked the door before any doubts could form, swinging it open to catch her first glimpse of what would be her third blind date. Tall and slim with a neat crew cut of sandy blonde hair that sat a little too far forward on his forehead, almost drawing attention away from his pale blue eyes. So light they almost seemed transparent, and almost reminding Molly of a certain other man she had spent far too long pining over.

"Molly Hooper, I hope?"

"Hi! Yes, that's me," She said brightly, smiling as widely as possible,"And you must be Tom?"

Tom smiled showing a slightly crooked front tooth and reached out a large hand to shake hers. Her hand felt tiny in his grasp even if he only held hers very lightly.

Toby mewed behind her and padded over to curl around her ankles in an almost possessive manner. He - Tom - looked down with amusement colouring his features and then crouched to offer a hand to her cat. A hand which Toby decisively ignored in favour of rubbing himself against one of her calves and purring up a storm before turning to saunter away with a decisive flick of his ginger tail.

"I don't think he likes me very much..." Tom trailed off, looking up at her with those pale, piercing eyes.

"He'll warm up to you, I'm sure. I... I like you, at least," She said, shyly, not able to watch his face - afraid of the reaction.

He stood slowly and didn't smooth the creases out of his trousers that had formed due to the crouching position he had adopted. This annoyed her for some reason. It wouldn't have before... Before Moriarty.

Fighting to keep the smile on her face, Molly reached for her cute, red handbag and flicked the light switch.

"Let's go then?"

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Outside the night was cold and crisp - their breath rising in spirals before them. Tom's car was sleek and unassuming - the kind of silver car expected from a man holding a middle manager position in a medium sized company. Molly found herself pausing on the pavement, her fingers forming rings of condensation on the car door handle as she tried to force herself to move.

"Is it still locked?" Tom asked, over the background noise of distant cars and sirens.

"No," she pulled it open quickly,"no, it's fine."

She slithered onto the cold, leather seats and told herself that her sudden outbreak of goosebumps were solely because of the frigid temperature inside the car. She stared fixed, at the green tree air freshener dangling from the steering wheel. Tom slid onto his seat with a pleased exhalation and rubbed his hands together.

"Bloody cold today," he grumbled, good naturedly - turning the key and fiddling with the many buttons on the dashboard.

The car purred to life around them and mercifully hot air blew out at her feet and body.

"Seat's heated too," Tom smiled: clearly a gadget man.

"Ohh," Molly said, trying to appear excited merely because he was excited.

She held her handbag awkwardly on her lap - feeling some semblance of comfort hugging it to herself. She knew Tom noticed because his eyes flickered to it before he looked up at the road ahead. Molly did not look at the back seat. She deliberately did not look at the back seat. Tom's fingers flexed on the steering wheel a little, and the movement nearly made her jump. She had to get a handle on herself.

"I was thinking the Italian on Archer Street?" He asked, easing up on the clutch and reaching for the handbrake.

Molly nodded enthusiastically, braid almost flicking over her shoulder due to the movement.

"I love Italian... I mean, garlic bread is just the best, don't you think? It's just such a good comfort food. Garlic bread and red wine make me feel warm just right down to my toes and -" She halted, stammering and stared out at the cars streaming by as they pulled onto one of the busier roads.

There was a tense moment of silence in which she fiddled with the handle of her handbag.

"I don't think this is going to work..." Tom sighed.

Molly actually did jump a little this time. "What! Why...? I mean..." Mortification rose in a hot gush.

"Well... you see... I'm more of a white wine kind of man." He shot her a bright, crooked toothed smile and she knew - she knew - that he was one of those men with those terrible, lame senses of humour that thinks they're hilarious.

And she had never been so glad for it, and she laughed a delighted, relieved laugh just because she decided she could stand to validate this man. This harmless, safe man who's jokes would only ever be terrible and never sharp or uncomfortable or barbed insults in disguise targeted at the most delicate areas of her self esteem.

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The date itself was slow and comforting and the conversation never strayed from the comfortable areas of work, and books, and the weather. It was like watching an old familiar film that she knew every piece of, every word, every camera angle change. Molly found herself smiling more and more, leaning over to touch his forearm with light fingertips and just generally feeling good.

They tottered outside - well, she tottered slightly on her low heels - after several hours and quite a few courses of delicious food which she had insisted on splitting the bill for. He had seemed surprised when she had argued with him, but had given in. The stood out at the pavement while he dug through his pockets and for a moment - when the light caught the side of his face - Molly wanted to kiss him.

So, when he turned back to face her, she did.

He seemed surprise- most men normally were when she initiated, and she often initiated - but he leaned in and cupped her waist with the hand holding the searched for keys. The cold press of the metal - even through several layers - made her twitch and wriggle slightly. Molly tasted the white wine on his breath and broke the kiss. She had frowned at that when he had ordered a glass, but Tom had insisted he would be well within his limits and perfectly able to drive.

"Urgh..." She said, smiling playfully.

"What?" He asked, leaning close to press a chaste kiss on the side of her mouth.

"White wine breath," she laughed, turning her head to the side.

He let out a pleased sigh, "I'm sure I'll convert you..."

...

They drove in silence for a few minutes before the flash of blue lights appeared close behind the car. A few seconds later, Tom realised he was being signaled and pulled over at the nearest clear space. The police car pulled in close behind and the sirens stopped. Molly clutched at her handbag almost convulsively.

"I'm sure it's just a broken tail-light or something..."He said, as someone knocked on the car window.

She nodded as he rolled it down and let a blast of freezing air in. Molly didn't recognise the man in the police uniform, but his voice made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up like row after row of tiny soldiers.

"Will you step outside of the car for a Breathalyser test, please?"

"Of course," Tom didn't look at her as he stepped outside and shut the door quietly behind him.

Molly sat for a few tense minutes, alone. She couldn't see Tom... or, the man she was sure was Moran. Moriarty's favourite, well, what could she call him? Henchman sounded ridiculous. A few months ago she might have ran, but at this point she knew it was best just to wait, knew the Moriarty had planned this, knew that the faster she found out what he wanted the faster he would leave her alone. At least for a while.

After seven tense minutes the car door clicked open and Moran looked down at her with a blank expression.

"Get the fuck in the car." He pointed at the dark car parked behind the police car when she eventually summoned the nerve to move - clutching her handbag to her like it was the key existance.

"Ah-ah, give it the fuck to me."

She wanted to complain - to hiss, to snarl, to hit him with it - but she knew from past experience that would not end well. He flipped the top of the bag open and rifled through it. Others might have made a show of this, might have attempted to humiliate her, but he was nothing if not methodical and almost uninvolved even as he sifted through her tampons, birth control pills and emergency condoms. He extracted her phone and handed the bag back to her apparently satisfied that there were no deadly weapons within.

"Off with you," He gestured to the dark car.

"Hey! Wait just a minute! What about Tom?"

A few months before, Molly would not have known the click of a revolver.

She swallowed tensely, and muttered,"Alright, alright."

"In the fucking car," He drew out each word as though she was simple,"How many fucking times do I have to tell you."

Molly turned around and began to walk, but the impetuous part of her demanded that she do something. That she not be so spineless. "Fuck you," she said, calmly, as audible in brief silence of the night as a gunshot.

Moran only snorted in reply.

She reached for the handle of the car door and felt a sudden disorienting stab of déjà vu. She wished she hadn't left the house tonight - wished she had curled up with Toby and one of those old, cheesy horrors she couldn't work out why she liked so much. Her cold fingers tugged the door open and she half fell inside - knowing what she would find, but wishing it wasn't so.

Jim - Moriarty. Jim Moriarty sat inside the car with his hands folded carefully in his lap. He didn't speak to her. She closed the door behind herself and turned to stare at the head rest in front of her.

"Well, we'd better be off," she heard the amusement laced through his voice like poison in an innocent drink.

She nodded - actions far more calm than she felt. She moved to put her seat belt on - it felt wrong sitting in a car without one, knowing what would happen - and unwillingly met his eyes. It was different from the shy way their eyes used to meet at the cafeteria, the sly way she would peek glances at him in the long corridors of the office. Now his eyes were dark and heavy with the kind of promise she didn't want to think about during the daylight hours, but which would creep irresistibly into her dreams, her unguarded thoughts.

"That tie is a little childish, don't you think?" She said huffily, unsure whether finding the empty eye sockets of the tiny skulls easier to stare at than Jim's eyes was creepy and a sign that she was deeply unhinged.

She worked with bodies and bones all day long. Finding something she worked with soothing was certainly not creepy, Molly attempted to convince herself.

"You're one to talk," He replied, with that warbling, sing-song tone he used that sent shivers racing across her skin. Leaning deliberately too close, he ran his fingers down the buttons

"I think they're cute," Molly replied, defensively.

"Cute as a button," he chirped back, tapping the end of her small nose lightly and grinning at his own turn of phrase.

He was compact - nothing like the taller, leaner man she normally wanted - but his frame so close to hers was unnerving. She knew he was stronger - that he had a strength she couldn't match. His finger paused at her nose before trailing down to trace her slender, smooth lips.

"Jim! What the hell are you even -" She started to stammer, throwing herself back until she collided painfully with the car door. The locked car door that didn't budge under her scramblings.

"Not Jim, Molly - my dear - Moriarty." He cut through her sharply, raising the same slender hand and then flicking it down.

The car started to move, a coloured partition sliding up to block her view of the blonde driver. Molly felt her lower lip begin to wobble, her nose begin to burn slightly, a lump form in her throat as she stared at his dark eyes - almost entirely in shadow. She refused to let herself cry in front of him and stroked the end of her braid in a comforting motion as she spat out words that almost didn't seem to come from her.

"Just do it."

He raised a dark, sculptured eyebrow at that,"Do what, Molly, my dearest girl? I only came to take you on a little moonlit drive... You used to love those, my lovely."

Her fingers trembled as she threaded them into her smooth braids. The image of the pale sickly light of the moon reflecting off of his tie clip as he fucked her mercilessly into the threadbare cushions of the backseat glinted before her. The smell of sweat and fake leather above all else.

"Whatever you're planning. Put me out of my misery now. Just... Do it." Her voice was firmer than Molly thought she was capable, and that thought added a little steel to her crumbling moral.

"Misery?" His voice was pitched deliberately high and light, "When have I ever made you miserable, my dear?"

He rolled the word miserable around in his mouth as though it was something that should be savoured. She struggled with her thoughts - the dark creeping ones, and the boiling hot indignation.

Men were always surprised that she was the instigator.

She pressed her mouth against his harshly - grabbing his damn Westwood suit jacket in her pale, small hands and clutching him to her. He bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood and dragged her onto her back with that hidden strength that always took her breath away. Shoving a knee inbetween her thighs he took the time to smooth down his lapels before diving back down for another consuming kiss.

He was everywhere - the dark, rich scent of him swarming up her nostrils. He palmed a breast before reaching for her adorable heart shaped buttons.

"Nothing like wearing your heart on your... shirt," he chuckled to himself, and she felt the sting. He always knew what to say.

The slow, methodical way he plucked each button apart had her writhing and gasping beneath him within minutes - her skirt hiked up enough to reveal her demure white underwear and the tops of the dark stockings she had chosen for tonight. He made another sharp comment about the dichotomy of her personality - running his fingers around the dark, seductive black lace of her stockings and then over her entrance hidden by the almost virginal white cotton of her knickers.

Her bra sent out a similarly conflicting message - white and cotton, but only just enough to cover her nipples and with a ribbon of black the snaked across her breasts like a smear of ink. He didn't rip it off of her like the men in the romance novels she was so fond of - instead took the time to unfasten it and slid the straps down her milky white shoulders. He rhythmically pressed tiny sucking kisses to her skin in what she recognised as the Fibonacci sequence.

Her breasts were so small that he could suck almost an entire one into his mouth before he bit down harshly. More harshly than she though she would ever like. The teeth marks that were sure to emblazon her skin purple the next day would frame her nipple like an offering.

Every time they were together she would wonder how it happened, but if she cared to scrape past the superficial sheen of anger she conjured up to protect herself she was met only with a black well of desire that terrified her - a dark chasm that stretched to some unknown place in her psyche. The kind of place that made her think of latex gloves smeared in blood and being fucked by a criminal mastermind in the backseat of car that had only just been used to transport dead bodies.

She was jolted out of that thought by him plunging into her and whispering gleefully into her ear that she was wet, soaked, so very bad.

Molly found herself meeting him thrust for thrust and turning into a clawing, whining, moaning thing consumed by need. He was vicious as always - fingers digging in just a touch too hard, slowing his thrusts when she asked for faster, lightening them when she begged for harder, and finally only reaching down to rub her clit with practiced fingers when she was sobbing for relief.

There was a moment of silence when he leaned in so close to her face that their breath mingled while they felt the car still moving beneath and around them. The background noise of the city flooded back to her like a tidal wave.

His hands smoothed down her chest in a proprietary way before he pulled her now very crumpled shirt together at the bottom. His fingers began the slow task of threading each tiny heart into the almost too small hole on the other side of the fabric. She knew he was doing it more slowly than necessary. Knew he was slipping his cool fingers over her fevered flesh deliberately. Finally he reached the top, running his fingertips over her neck and sternum, feeling her pulse with a kind of glee - probably the knowledge that he could end it in an instant.

She let out a soft little sigh and he froze and looked down at her with fathomless pits of eyes. Crooked a finger under her chin. Brushed a kiss on her cheekbone, stubble scraping a trail of heat. Tucked a strand of her splayed, disheveled hair behind the sweet, damp curve of her ear.

"You are so very lovely, my darling morgue maiden. I'll treat you like a princess. Maybe lock you in a tower, hm, far away from anyone else. No more white wine, no more Italian dinners, no more silly little men with silly little jobs in silly little cars."

Molly knew then that Tom was dead.

"How would you like that, my dear?"

The way he looked at her was the way she imagined the snake looked at Eve as it coiled around the Tree of Knowledge - all knowing and full of forbidden promise.

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Addicted to the new (well, not so new anymore...) Sherlock series. I am certainly looking forward to the new (definitely very new) episodes in the New Year! I ship just about everyone paired with... just about everyone else on the show - no regrets - but I do have a certain fondness for this pairing. This little oneshot did start out as a Molly/Sherlock effort but Jim From IT was having none of that.

Hope you enjoyed it!

~ Phe