Not quite what you asked for but uh. This is what happened! Enjoy anyway, eh?
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She's always been the sensible one.
When they were small, she never caught trouble because of the little plots and plans and planted seeds. She could keep her mouth shut and her head ducked, even as she overheard every stupid little secret that rained carelessly out their schoolmates' lips. She kept her counsel to just the two of them, and between whispers they'd find the best plans, planting new versions of old truths and watching to see how they'd grow.
She fancied them sowers, he fancied them reapers, but the difference didn't matter. Not really.
The ending was always the same.
Over the years, the sharp thing that lived in her brother's head had grown and carved out its own place in the world. It was all still playtime, and the seeds he planted sometimes ended on her slab in the morgue. Her domain, where she could slice away evidence in the right places, arrange and add others, watch corruption and misinformation make fools and heroes. Sweet Molly, competent Molly, who no one noticed unless they needed something--that girl could get away with anything.
And while brother-dear played and tried to win the game against Sherlock Holmes, he forgot the long nights of careful whispers, the lay of the land and how she could help. And while he stood on a rooftop and pretended to die, she stood quietly below, waiting to make the exchange, steal Sherlock away from his so-called fall.
Because while Jim was out reaping, sister was sowing, and when Sherlock came to her with his plan, she had been ready and waiting. She gasped and let him sweep her along, but behind her back, she sharpened her scythe. The ending was always the same.
Re: Irene and Molly are sisters, or Moriarty and Molly are siblings
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She's always been the sensible one.
When they were small, she never caught trouble because of the little plots and plans and planted seeds. She could keep her mouth shut and her head ducked, even as she overheard every stupid little secret that rained carelessly out their schoolmates' lips. She kept her counsel to just the two of them, and between whispers they'd find the best plans, planting new versions of old truths and watching to see how they'd grow.
She fancied them sowers, he fancied them reapers, but the difference didn't matter. Not really.
The ending was always the same.
Over the years, the sharp thing that lived in her brother's head had grown and carved out its own place in the world. It was all still playtime, and the seeds he planted sometimes ended on her slab in the morgue. Her domain, where she could slice away evidence in the right places, arrange and add others, watch corruption and misinformation make fools and heroes. Sweet Molly, competent Molly, who no one noticed unless they needed something--that girl could get away with anything.
And while brother-dear played and tried to win the game against Sherlock Holmes, he forgot the long nights of careful whispers, the lay of the land and how she could help. And while he stood on a rooftop and pretended to die, she stood quietly below, waiting to make the exchange, steal Sherlock away from his so-called fall.
Because while Jim was out reaping, sister was sowing, and when Sherlock came to her with his plan, she had been ready and waiting. She gasped and let him sweep her along, but behind her back, she sharpened her scythe. The ending was always the same.