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i climb to the assault, attack the source,
a choir of wormlets pressing towards a corpse,
and cherish this unbending cruelty,
this iciness so beautiful to me.
Charles Bauldelaire, from ‘I love you as I love...’
------
Molly knows Jim Doyle (because that’s how he introduces himself, hands sweating and shaky, stuttering in the cafeteria) is bad news as soon as she sees his daemon grin.
That doesn’t put her off him. If anything it makes her say yes all the more quickly.
------
Contrary to what many people seem to believe Molly Hopper is not a stuttering idiot; she graduated top in her class from med school, she got straight A’s all through school and she can list all the bones in the human body without missing out one. She just has this little problem with communicating this. She’s not entirely sure why or how but somewhere along their journey from her mind to her mouth her words get jumbled or trapped or twisted and what she says and what she wants to say get changed completely.
Malchior finds this endlessly amusing.
“Smooth, Molly,” he whispers from his perch high above the mortuary floor as she stutters and stumbles over her words. She shoots him a glare and he caws indignantly, taking off to land on her shoulder.
When people see Malchior they tend to avoid her, give her a wide berth especially when they realise (or are unhelpfully told) that he’s a carrion crow.
To date only a few people haven’t flinched away when Malchior swoops down, she can count them on her two hands. Her colleagues avoid her, her parents are still uneasy around her and she’s fairly sure if she had any friends they’d be a little intimidated too.
Sherlock Holmes is one of the first people who baulk when he sees Malchior lurking above the morgue. He glances up at the bird without so much as a flicker of interest when he stalks in behind D.I Lestrade.
She’s met Lestrade once or twice before when he’s come to check out bodies. Today they’re looking in to the neatly dismembered corpse of a woman found near the Thames. The police are stumped, there’s no forensic evidence on it so Greg told her he’d bring in a specialist. She expects some slick criminologist, sharp as a tack and far too fascinated by dead bodies.
In hindsight, she supposes, she was right.
Sherlock strides in, coat billowing out behind him, scarf around his neck despite the scorching August weather. His daemon is a little fox trotting neatly at his side. His face is all sharp angles and skin a little less pale than is healthy and his eyes can’t seem to decide whether they’re green or blue or gray or a mix of the three. He takes one look at the body and reels off a list of potential suspects and Greg scrambles to note down everything he says.
When he’s done he glances at as though he’s only just noticed her presence. She knows she’s lost before he’s even opened his mouth. “Thank you, Miss Hooper,” he says curtly.
He glances up at Malchior, watching closely from his perch. “A carrion crow. Interesting.” And with that he turns with military precision and sweeps out of the room, daemon at his heels.
Molly stares after him and Greg smiles apologetically, “Sorry, he’s a little antisocial.”
“It’s fine,” she says, a little breathlessly.
At least Malchior has the decency to wait until Greg leaves to laugh at her.
------
She sees more and more of Sherlock after that. She lets him use the bodies for experiments if only so she can spend a little more time near him.
It’s pathetic really and she hates herself for it.
She knows he’s not interested, will never be interested. She hates the way that when he looks at her he doesn’t see her and when she tries to make him she finds herself unable to speak.
The line between obsession and love becomes blurred, she doesn’t know whether she wants to be with him or be him. She would trade the world for his effortless command of language and logic, to be able to wow the world and not care about the whispers and rumours that follow her. She feels fourteen again with a crush on Graham Malloy in the sixth form who smoked and drank black coffee and spoke three languages, tittering every time he looked her way.
“Pathetic,” Mal hisses.
“Be quiet, you.” she snaps.
I know, she thinks.
------
Mycroft Holmes has the best fake daemon she’s ever seen.
She meets him a few months after Sherlock waltzes in to her life. She’s accosted as she leaves the hospital one night, bundled in to a black car and driven to an abandoned factory. Malchior’s claws dig in to her shoulder and she prays up to a God she’s fairly certain doesn’t exist because she’s only twenty-seven. She can’t die now.
He greets her curtly, runs his cold gaze across her (even colder than his brother’s) and decides she’s nothing special (she can tell by the way he exhales slightly, as though disappointed.) His daemon- or what is supposed to appear as his daemon- is a stoic raven perched just above him.
She’s read about experimentation in to fake daemons using well trained animals. It would be endlessly useful for spies, she supposes, but it’s never worked. Other daemons can tell almost immediately and even people can sense if something’s off. Mycroft’s is different. It gives off the impression of being a daemon, the feeling of being more than just a bird. It moves slightly in tandem with him, reacts when she speaks, gives a harsh caw of laughter when Mycroft remarks on her feelings for his brother.
But there’s still something odd about it.
She only knows for sure because Malchior swoops up for a closer look.
“Is your real daemon here too?” she asks when he flutters back down.
Mycroft curls his lip, “She’s around.” He taps his umbrella absentmindedly, “I get the feeling, Miss Hooper, that there’s rather more to you than meets the eye. Most people don’t look that close.”
“Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”
He smirks, “Indeed.”
------
Sherlock never touches his daemon.
Or talks to her.
Or even looks at her.
She follows him silently, trotting along always a few paces in front or a few paces behind and curls up under or on the desk/gurney/surface he’s working on. Molly’s never even heard her speak.
She wonders if they’ve been severed but from what she’s heard Mal would be able to tell. She asks Mycroft the next time he kidnaps her (this time he offers her money to spy on Sherlock which she turns down promptly.)
Mycroft’s gaze goes cold (or at least, colder than usual) “That is between my brother and his daemon, Miss Hooper.”
Molly wonders for the first time if Mycroft actually knows.
------
"Your brothers daemon," she says one day when Sherlock's examining the body of a dead woman. Mal's on her shoulder for once, he usually doesn't perch there unless they're alone, it's seen as unprofessional to rely too much on one's daemon. Her gaze falls upon the little ball of fur curled up on the desk beside him. "What is she really?"
Sherlock's lips curl in to a smile, "Good," he purrs and her heart sings at the praise. Malchior huffs. "Most people don't notice unless they spend an extended amount of time with him which I assume you haven't." His gaze rakes over her.
"It's a very good fake," she agrees.
Sherlock turns his attention back to the body. "The raven? That's because it is a daemon. Not Mycroft's obviously."
Molly shudders, wonders if there's some poor person in a cell somewhere daemon-less. "Are they....is he separated?"
"Yes," Sherlock drawls, bored now. She can tell. "Standard procedure for anyone in the British secret service."
"He's a spy then?"
Sherlock sighs.
"Was a spy," she amends. "So what is she?"
Sherlock gives her a look, "What do you think, Molly?" And his daemon shutters open one startlingly green eye.
"I..." She stammers, maybe a snake, she thinks, a spider. Maybe something bigger, something quietly powerful and intelligent. She smiles and Malchior takes off to land on his perch above the morgue.
------
Her first date with Jim is dull but she can see the ripple of darkness under his calm brown eyes, the way his long fingers tap out a constant beat on the table top, the way his laugh is just too high pitched to be normal.
But it’s his daemon that gives it away, the scruffy, loping coyote that sprawls at his feet. Malchior watches her closely, never once looks away.
“What’s her name?” she asks as they leave the restaurant.
Jim does a good job of acting flustered, “Oh, uh, Anansi.” He smiles coyly. “I know it’s a bit of an odd name-”
She cuts him off with an equally fake smile. “I think it’s lovely.”
His daemon grins and a thrilling jolt runs through her whole body.
------
"A panther," she says, next time Mycroft kidnaps her.
Mycroft looks faintly amused. "Did you come to that conclusion on your own Miss Hooper?"
"No need to sound so surprised," Mal mutters darkly.
"Yes," Molly answers firmly.
Mycroft smirks, stands up. "I assume you haven't thought anymore about my offer?"
She stares back unflinching. "Was I right?"
The raven daemon flutters after Mycroft as he turns and walks out of the disused factory.
------
John Watson's daemon is a dog.
Firm and strong and loyal.
A dog.
She doesn't understand Sherlock's fascination with him.
Sherlock's daemon is more animated then she's ever seen her, eyes watching John's husky trot about with her little brow furrowed.
She doesn't think Sherlock understands either.
------
If Sherlock is ice, all sharp edges and cool composure, Jim is fire, alive and passionate and always moving. Sherlock’s mind works like a computer, calculations and lists and steady, steady information but it can overload, it can fade with time. Jim’s mind is a machine, lightning fast and constantly whirring but in need of a constant stream of fuel.
Of course, he tries to hide all this from her.
They should be opposites but they’re not, she sees so much that they share.
------
“Wasn’t Anansi a spider?” she asks one day and Jim grins all sharp and toothy and dangerous.
“Good,” he purrs and Anansi cackles.
When he kisses her Molly bites down until she tastes blood (enjoys the little whine it pulls from Jim) She's seen the way Jim looks at Sherlock, like he's a puzzle he can't quite figure out, she's seen him talking to the man with the tiger daemon down the street when he thinks she's not looking.
She should run, leave, tell someone.
But she won't.
"We tried being a spider," she hears Anansi say. "It was too obvious."
------
"Gay," Sherlock says dismissively. It's almost laughable. He doesn't see what Molly sees, he doesn't see the dark ripple of danger in Jim's dark eyes.
------
Jim turns out to be a maniac and Molly's not all that surprised. True, she didn't expect this but she knew there was something.
She's expecting Mycroft this time. Sherlock may claim that they're arch enemies but she's sure that Mycroft Holmes would tear he world apart for his little brother. Of course Mycroft's latest assistant turns up at the most inopportune moment, her hair is dripping wet and he's wrapped in only a towel.
"Do we have to get dressed?" Malchior sighs when they open the door to find Anthea and her mantis daemon staring at her. "Can't he just come up here? I mean we're hardly a security threat and we have just found out our boyfriend was a psychopath. It was very traumatic."
"Sorry," Molly mumbles because Malchior's always been a little too forward for a daemon but he's never been that forward. Maybe he's a little more hurt about Jim and Anansi than he let on.
But far from look taken aback Anthea smirks, "I'll call him."
Mycroft gets there ten minutes later, Molly has just enough time to dry her hair and pull on a top and some sweats. She puts the kettle on as an after thought. When she opens the door she's slightly surprised to find the raven nowhere to be seen.
"It hardly seemed necessary since you knew she was fake," he says by way of explanation. He casts an unreadable glance around her flat, watches Toby scurry out of the room with interest. "Such a lovely home." He remarks flatly.
From his perch atop the bookcase Malchior ruffles his feathers and caws in annoyance. Mycroft glances at him before turning back to her, "I would like you to tell me everything you know about Jim Moriarty."
Molly sighs and does. She tells Mycroft about the man with the tiger daemon, every phone call she overheard, every little detail about himself that he let accidentally slip (and there weren't many.) When she's done Mycroft is watching her carefully, hands steepled under his chin and oh, he looks so much like Sherlock sometimes.
"I fear my brother was wrong about to dismiss you so easily, Miss Hooper. You are quite the remarkable woman." He says quietly.
"Oh, thank you," Molly murmurs, feeling her cheeks colour. "Will you catch him? Jim, I mean."
Mycroft stands. "Eventually, Miss Hooper. But I don't presume to think that we will be able to hold Mr Moriarty for any length of time. So do keep an eye out."
"We can look after ourselves," Mal mutters from his corner.
Mycroft smiles at him. "Oh, I am fully aware of that, Malchior."
Molly watches from the window as Mycroft gets into a dark car and maybe it's her imagination but she's sure she sees a flash of dark fur and green eyes when he opens the door.
------
She sees Jim again, of course. Finds him lurking in her flat one night when she gets home late, Anansi sprawled inelegantly across the floor. He's sitting on the sofa, scratching Toby behind the ears absentmindedly. "Hello, my dear." He grins.
Malchior shifts on his shoulder, makes a low noise of warning deep in his throat. "I could call the police," Molly says.
Jim giggles. "You won't though."
"No," she agrees. "I won't."
He smirks like he knows her, she smirks because oh, how wrong he is. She shuts the door and takes a few steps towards him. "I could call Mycroft Holmes, though."
She doesn't miss the shudder that runs through Jim at that, or the way Anansi draws into herself. "You wouldn't." Jim says and his voice is just a tiny bit unsteady. "Besides," he purrs. "Our little Mycroft won't do anything to me. He can't."
Molly frowns and Jim chuckles, stands. "I'm about to put on a show, Molly. A wonderful little show. I think you'll like it."
"If you hurt him," Molly begins.
Anansi chuckles, "Still all wrapped up in dear Sherlock. Haven't you worked out that he doesn't even see you?"
Malchior puffs up his feathers, "Oh, like he sees you?" he says with a harsh caw of laughter.
Jim's smile doesn't falter, doesn't fade, it grows as he steps closer to her."Oh, Molly. Dear, sweet Molly. He'd love you, you know. This you. The tigress not the cowering kitten. Why do you hide it?"
He reaches up as if to stroke Mal's dark feathers, he doesn't of course, that would be absurd. Instead he brushes back the hair from her forehead. Molly shudders involuntarily. "I am what he needs me to be."
Jim giggles, "Oh. You are precious." He backs off and strolls past her to the door. "My numbers on the table, kitten. If you ever feel like coming to play."
------
She finds her father's gun in the back of a cupboard at home. She stares at it.
"We could use it," Mal hisses. On Jim.
"No." She says but she pockets it anyway.
------
Jim calls her at midnight the day the court declares him innocent. "You picked up," he lilts and Molly can hear his grin. "Did you like my first act? I think it went better than expected, really."
"What are you doing, Jim?" She asks, cutting him off.
He giggles, "Oh, I'm just playing a little game with Sherlock. Bigger than our last one. It's going to be wonderful. Want to join in?"
Molly thinks about the gun. Beside her Malchior bristles. "No."
Jim hangs up.
------
She phones Jim back. "Let's meet for lunch." The gun makes her bag feel twice as heavy.
He agrees. Sherlock catches her as she's leaving, "But I've got a date," she protests.
"No," he tells her.
------
"You look sad," she says, voice thick with worry. "When you think no one can see you."
Sherlock's hand brushes his daemon's fur.
------
"How long will you stay?" She asks, Mal sitting quietly on the counter.
Sherlock looks up from the armchair he's settled in. His daemon is in his lap. Molly thinks its possibly the oddest thing she's ever seen. "A day. Maybe more. I have to make arrangements."
She licks her dry lips, "Mycroft was at your funeral. Your mother wasn't though."
Sherlock nods, one hand curled in the little fox's fur. "She wouldn't have wanted anyone to see her so upset."
"Mrs Hudson cried," she says. "And John..." She breaks off, thinking about John's blank look, about the way his daemon limped and leant heavily against him. "His limps back."
Something flickers across Sherlock's expression. "Yes," he says faintly. "I suppose it would be."
I wish you'd tell him, she wants to say but Malchior hops onto her shoulder, digs his talons in. Reminds her that for now Sherlock is hers.
"I'm going to make bolognese. Do you want some?"
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise.
She turns to the fridge. "Is he dead?" She asks quietly. "Is Jim really dead?"
Sherlock sighs, "Yes." He says gruffly. She's not sure if he sounds relieved or disappointed.
When she sighs she's not sure about herself either.
------
Mycroft is waiting for her when she leaves for work the next morning, leaning against a dark car. She feels a hot flush of anger for what he's done, selling his brother's life to a mad man but he looks so wretched that some of it dissipates.
"You needn't go in today, you know," he says quietly. "They would understand."
Molly nods, smiles nervously. "I'd rather keep busy."
Mycroft inclines his head, "Would you like a lift?"
Malchior shifts uneasily on her shoulder. She nods, "Thank you."
She clambers in to the spacious car after him, Malchior perches on his lap and she strokes his back soothingly. There's a panther by Mycroft's feet watching her with bright green eyes and Molly feels an absurd surge of triumph. Mycroft sighs, rubs his daemon behind the ears. He's pale, Molly thinks, there are dark circles under his eyes. She wonders if its the guilt or the grief that effects him worse.
"He's alive, you know," she says without really meaning to.
Mycroft gives her a look. The same look Sherlock gives her when she's said something obvious. "Well if course he is. Do you really think I wouldn't have told him what I'd done?"
"What? That you sold his entire life story to a psychopath?" She says, with a little more venom than necessary.
Mycroft sighs. "I did what I had to."
To Molly's surprise its Malchior who speaks next, "Why?"
"Because Jim Moriarty gave us the ability to stop several terrorist attacks, a few assassinations, some illegal arms trades and allowed us to intercept plans for a biological weapon being sold to a hostile group. Oh, I tried to get the information out of him in other ways but..." He sighs again, fixes her with his steely gaze. "I did what I had to to protect our country."
"You ruined his life," Molly points out.
"He's alive, isn't he?" The panther snaps, her voice a deep rumble.
Mycroft shoots the panther a sharp look. "I'm sorry about her," he says cooly. The car rumbles to a stop, Mycroft reaches down and pulls out an envelope. "Give this to him, will you?"
Molly stares.
Mycroft sighs. "My brother. He's staying with you, is he not?"
She takes it hesitantly. "What is it?"
"A passport, some money."
Molly nods. "Okay." She opens the door, is about to climb out when Mycroft calls after her.
"Watch out for my brother, Miss Hooper. He needs people, now more than ever."
"He has you," Malchior points out.
Mycroft chuckles sadly, "Yes. He does. Not that he wants me."
------
Sherlock leaves later that evening. He's cut his hair short, dyed it red. He's dressed in jeans and a loose grey hoodie, it's almost as unnerving as the fact that his daemon is perched precariously on his shoulder.
"Be careful," she says, voice shaking slightly.
Sherlock smirks, "Oh, you know me, Molly, I'm always careful." He says wryly. Then he swallows, "Watch out for John, Molly." He bends and his lips brush her cheek softly.
"You know I will." She says firmly. "And Sherlock, if you ever need anyone, ever I just... I'm here, okay?"
Sherlock smiles as he straightens up.
"Thank you." His daemon says, voice rough with disuse.
"Be seeing you then," Sherlock says and with that he's gone.