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There was something about Jim that made her intrigued. Something about him that was different than most of the men she’d been with. Oh, she had figured out he wasn’t exactly what he appeared to be after the first date. He might have thought he was a great actor, but she was very good at seeing the façades that men who dated her would put on, the ones who just wanted to have a shag, sneak out of the bed while she was asleep and forget to call her the next day. Jim wasn’t like that, but she’d had enough experience with those blokes to tell when someone was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.
It was on the third date that she confronted him. Told him she knew he wasn’t really Jim from IT. She wanted to know what his game was, because two dates was fine enough to run a game on her but three was pushing it a bit. If he really was just looking for a shag and an exit he’d put a lot more effort into it than most, but she wanted to know for sure before she kicked him to the curb. She could see him mulling it over in his head, whether he should tell her or not. And then, for a reason he still hadn’t felt like sharing, even after all this time, he told her the truth.
He said his name was James Moriarty, and he was a fan of Sherlock Holmes. For a moment she thought he meant a fan as in “someone else who wanted to get into his pants” but then he elaborated. He was a criminal mastermind, had been since a young age. Most of the crimes Sherlock solved? He was behind them. She should have been horrified, but she wasn’t. She was intrigued. The idea that he had been connected to most of the bodies that had crossed her way was stunning and shocking and interesting. When he dropped the act of goofy “Jim from IT” she could see the real him, the shark in the well cut suit. She was hooked.
She had realized long ago that Sherlock treated her like something he’d stepped in that had a foul odor. That was the whole reason she’d agreed to go out with Jim in the first place: he was nice, he treated her well, and he showed he liked her as a person, and most of all, he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Oh, the cruel ways Sherlock treated her had started to anger her, and the words hurt more than she wanted to let on. Whatever crush she had had died a withering death in the aftermath of Sherlock’s utter disdain for her. If she could take him down a peg or two or more, she would.
Jim trusted her with his plan, his “great game,” as he called it. He said she needed to act like she was still infatuated with Sherlock, had to act like “Jim from IT” was the man she had chosen to replace him. She had to let him get an introduction, because even though their lives were intertwined James had never met Sherlock in person before. That was easy enough; Molly knew which lab Sherlock preferred, and she knew he was currently working on a cold case that was occupying all his attention. The plan had gone well enough. James met Sherlock as “Jim from IT” and flirted without really flirting. Oh, Molly knew James wasn’t really gay; the blistering hot sex the night before had proven that. Even as Sherlock was telling her “Jim from IT” was gay she remembered writhing under him as he pounded into her, her nails digging into his back, leaving her mark on his skin. Dangerous sex was the best sex, she realized, and if she could pull off acting like flustered mousy little Molly one more time then it would be fine.
She didn’t expect him to come back to her after that. She thought that had been her bit in the plan, her only part to play. But a week later he knocked on her door. James looked every bit the evil monarch, the criminal kingpin she knew he was. He didn’t say a word to her, just came into her home, backed her up against a wall and had his way with her. He was rough and demanding, and she gave as good as she got. The next morning she was sore but she didn’t care. If this was to be her lot in life, she'd play her role well.