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I’m not jealous.
That was the first thought that flitted through his head when he fingered the photographs that he found in the hideout that he knew Moriarty had last used only months prior. He recognized the miniature golf course as one of the ones in Paris, a place that was well known to any associate of Moriarty’s as a place the criminal mastermind went to when he was in the city when he wanted to do something “normal” people would do. The sneaky bastard had slipped through his clutches once again after somehow faking his death up on the roof, and he’d made enough noise to draw Sherlock to this location, and these photos were left almost in plain sight.
He looked at the photos again and felt his hand crumple them slightly. I’m not jealous.
Jim from IT had played a long game with Molly. Had wooed her quite carefully. There had been a trip to Paris that he had brushed off as being frivolous, a ploy to get in her good graces and cement her as a beard. He was gay. Gay! It was obvious he didn’t care for her. But Molly had been excited, happier than he had seen her. When she smiled it was like there was a 900 watt light bulb behind it. He had never seen her happier so he kept his trap shut. She had ignored him in the lab, she would ignore him now, no point in making waves. And...he didn’t want to hurt her, not really.
I’m not jealous. He hadn’t been jealous then. Surely he wasn’t jealous now?
She had come back happy, and these pictures were proof. Mini golf clubs crossed in front of a replica of the Eiffel Tower, with her looking up with a smile and Moriarty looking down, bashful grin on their faces, the two of them almost touching if the damn monument hadn’t been in the way. Molly with sunglasses on and Moriarty standing behind her and someone, a driver or a bodyguard, holding a camera up above them to take a shot from an angle, smiles on their faces. Moriarty and Molly standing on either side of a miniaturized Arc de Triomphe, clubs crossed over it, Moriarty looking slightly bored (or perhaps very serious, he couldn’t tell) and Molly looking very triumphant. She had had an enjoyable time and Moriarty had wanted to make sure he had seen it.
He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.
The lie came easily, just as it had then. He was always so good at lying to himself when it came to Molly, to his feelings for her, to the depths of them and the seriousness of them. To what he would be willing to do for her, to give up for her.
To what he would do to ensure her safety.
And now, with these photos in his hand, he knew that Moriarty knew she was his greatest weakness. The bastard had to know that if he wanted to cut him to the core, he wouldn’t have to go after Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or even John. Oh, no. Going after them would hurt him, yes. It could cripple him. But to devastate him? All he would need to do was go after Molly. Snuff out her life and he would be a wreck.
Somehow, after all these years, she had wormed her way so firmly into his life that she was a cornerstone in his world. A lynchpin in his very way of life. It was as though to remove her and his entire world would unravel, bit by bit. She had taken up residence in his mind palace, directing him with cool, calm clarity in all the logical things he needed to do to get through the tasks that needed to be done, and yet when the tasks were over and he needed to wrestle with the aftermath of his actions she was there, with kind and comforting words, the keeper of his heart. If she was so important in his head and his heart, what would it mean if the real her was snuffed out by the psychopath who resided in chains in the deepest depths of his mind?
Who, unfortunately, stalked the earth right now and could easily kill her between one heartbeat and the next?
He was terrified he just might find out.
He knew he couldn’t warn her personally. He knew that that was what these photographs were: a warning. They were Moriarty’s personal message to him: “I know your weakness. You say you have no heart? You lie. It’s her. And I’ll take her from you so easily, in any way I can.” Moriarty had led him here and left them for that purpose. He would have to relay the warning to his brother and hope he did the appropriate thing and take measures to keep Molly safe. She did not deserve to wear a target on her back. She did not deserve to be a pawn in this twisted game. He glanced back at her smiling face and shook his head.
She deserved better. Better than Moriarty. Better than him, to be frank, though he wished he could be with her. But if he couldn’t, he could at least protect her. He could give her a future. After all, you gave the best to those you loved, didn’t you?