Story [Sherlock] "Yorick's Grin", MMM Fright Fest, Molly/Moriarty

?Yorick's Grin?

Genre: Romance, Horror
Rating: PG-13
Time Frame: Post TGG, my M&M!verse
Characters: Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty

Summary: ?There is a head in the fridge,? she says calmly, as calmly as she can.

Notes: Because it has been too long since I have written for these two crazy kids. And mixing horror with mush (eh, a squick factor and twisted affection, at any rate) for the latest MMM demanded nothing less than a Molly and Moriarty mix.

And, that said, there are a few other stories in this verse that may make this piece make a little more sense. (If you are dreadfully curious, that is.) Other stories in this plot arc are "he kindly stopped for me", "victor, meet spoils", and "glass shatters softly."


That said, enjoy.


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

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[blockquote][i] ?Yorick's Grin?
by Mira_Jade[/i][/blockquote]


And here, Molly Hooper often found herself reflecting, was how a woman was grown from the ground up.

One did not need flame, crucible, or forge. One only needed potters clay and fertile ground. Each had been presented ? available and willing, and so with bloodied hands there had been a press. A pinch and a pull. A caress and a molding. There had been no smoke, no fire or ashen sky ? just papercuts and careful roots sunk deep. Ordinary convictions, strengths, set in low and covered with shadows ? presented to the world with polite smiles. Nothing had changed. Blank eyes. After all, one never showed teeth unless there was something to prove.

Less and less did she feel as if she had something to show to the world around her. Months pass, and she felt herself trade and exchange little pieces of herself for those brilliant and new. The world was a greyscale, the spectrum of morality something that rarely ever showed bright and incandescent and pure.

She found now, that the places behind her eyes ached during the day. The months pass, as they often do. She passes them much as ever, with the corpses cold on her table and her nights quiet and without fanfare. Except, if she has found something to fill her evening hours with ? the decay and the rot of the city from its roots up, like termites ? then no one around her was wiser to it. Jill from the ER still invited her to lunch every now and again as was her wont, and Murray the man with the mail cart still had that soft grin that he saved just for her. He was getting on in age now, and there was something soft in the weathered crags of him that Molly appreciated.

If she were to notice a smile there, a wave here that she would have passed before, then that was all part of the passage of time as well. She can feel finger prints upon her ? marks from her molder. She no longer needed those glances ? those anchors with those around her. Once, for this she would have thrived, and now . . .

There was a man who worked the floor above her. A doctor with kind eyes and a healer's heart. He complimented her hair once, a week or so before. Said how the dark cast of it suited her. He liked it when she let it down in the cafeteria, free from the constrains of the health code she adhered to with her bodies.

He bought her coffee one morning, sat with her through lunch that day, and when asked for motive, he simply said that he was offering her a little more conversation than she would find with her corpses in the morgue below. Molly had smiled politely at that ? all polished about the seams ? and didn't bother to counter him. If he didn't already know, then he never would. The dead had everything to say where the living had only smokescreens and asides and trivialities on their lips day after day. Truth was her fingers on bruising flesh, pressin