Mirror Crack'd
A/N: Ta da! Thank you all so much for the reviews on Mirror, Mirror and also for nominating it for the SAMFAs. Don't know how to thank you lot, so here's a sequel. I'm so sorry for not updating any of my fics for a while, I had exams, but they are done now. I'll probably start updating the others soon, so thank you for your patience.
As usual, warnings for dub-con, mature themes and some violence. John Harrison version of Sherlock is fun to write. But this is mirror!Sherlock, though. Not 'Harrison'.
Love to Lono for the blue-highlights and read throughs. She's been a dear.
The shower pounds onto him, the water is as hot as it can go without burning his skin, which has now turned an angry red. It is an apt representation of his mood, of the slow, boiling rage that is bubbling underneath his very skin.
What has he not given her? He has given her everything- given into nearly every pathetic whim he has seen in her eyes. That stupid cat, for instance, he hates that cat hair is on every sofa in the house, and yet he lets her keep it, fuss over it- he manages to find delight in the soft smiles she graces on a fucking cat.
He's going soft.
He should shoot her; put her out of her obvious misery. Any smart man would.
He groans as he is suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of memories, his mind palace is suddenly filled with nothing but memories of her soft skin, her taste, the mewling gasps she makes when he pounds mercilessly into her-
He's aroused, and the first touch of his hand around his length nearly makes him explode. He lathers his hand in soap, before widening his stance and taking himself in his grasp again.
He focuses on the memory of her tight, warm heat, of her fingernails digging into the muscles of his shoulder, of her eyes, clouded with desire and pupils blown black but still so defiant-
The memory of her voice screaming out his name in the heat of passion has his body clenching and exploding in release. (She screams in passion not for him, but for another man with his face and name, another man she is in love with but he does not give a shit- he's the one who has her now and he is not giving her back.)
His release gurgles down the drain as he falls back against the wall of the shower, breathing heavily and attempting not to think about the man who is his counterpart, the man who holds her heart.
The water has turned ice cold.
She is a vision in red; he makes a mental note to ensure her wardrobe will include more of these dresses. However, it is the sight of her biting her lip, the look of utter confusion as she takes in what is laid out in front of her that makes his heart pound in a manner it hasn't ever before. It is an interesting sensation.
She looks so damn endearing that he forgets that he had had half a mind to shoot her not twelve hours ago.
"You look lovely, Molly," he says as he gestures for her to sit, drawing out the chair for her in the manner of a perfect gentleman.
She still looks confused, so he takes her hand and attempts to kiss her. Her pupils are dilated, but she still turns her head so that his kiss falls on the corner of her mouth instead of her lips.
He frowns, a small crease on his forehead. "It is common courtesy, Molly dear, to compliment your significant other as well."
"Significant-?" she sounds infuriated, but he raises a brow, so she says in a much milder tone, "…you look nice, too."
It is ridiculous to feel so pleased when she says it, especially with that tone, but he is certain she is attracted to him, (he is rather proud of the figure he cuts in the black shirt and suit) and it matters not the way she says it.
"Thank you," he says, and this time he cups the back of her head and forces her to kiss him, because he needs to taste her, convey to her that he truly cares about her. He is careful not to ruin the lip make-up the servants no doubt spent hours on, but it is hard to keep himself in check when she starts kissing him back.
"What is going on?" she says when he relents his hold on her mouth. He chuckles, she is so ordinary, so lost, and it is adorable.
"I believe this is what they call a date. I arranged to have the dining room decorated like this- much easier than having to go out," he sighs, the memory of the last time he ate out at a restaurant, the drug lord he had been conferring with got the oh-so bright idea to stage some sort of coup. Needless to say that the shirt could never be worn again- the drug lord's bloodstains had proven to be very difficult to remove.
"Date?"
"Molly," He snorts derisively. "You are much smarter than this. Surely you know what a date is," he removes the cloche covering her dish, "now sit down and enjoy your pasta."
It is not a request.
The sensual strains of violins permeates the room as they sway on the polished, wooden floor of the dining room, the long table pushed back to make the required space. He's holding her too close to be appropriate, but the line between his needs and wants has been blurred, he no longer knows if he would actually survive without the sweet smell of her hair.
He's going soft.
He's going soft, but he needs her.
He pulls her even closer, and sweeps his hand down to rest on the small of her back, fingers splaying across the subtle curve of her arse. He tightens his grip on the hand holding his when she shivers.
"Did he ever do this for you, Molly?" he whispers, his breath fanning across her mouth as he rests his forehead against hers. "Did he ever hold you like this?"
She's anguished, it is clear, and yet she still won't break.
"He loved me, in his own way. And it was all that mattered."
She still won't love him.
"I love you, my dear," he says, barely controlling his anger, despite his words. "And I am he. I am Sherlock Holmes. And I am better."
Love me, he wishes to say, because Sherlock Holmes never loses, to anyone, not even himself.
Love me, because he needs to feel redemption, a redemption he knows he can only have if a creature of the light like Molly Hooper loves him.
Love me, because I love you.
She futilely tries to move out of his grasp, gently at first, but becoming more frantic when he does not relinquish his hold. If he lets her go, she'll be gone, she'll be back with his mirror form, back to her own dimension, and his hope for redemption will be lost.
He pushes her backwards until the edge of the table-top is digging into her arse, and he is towering over her, putting a hand on either side of her to prevent her escape. He knees apart her legs to stand in the cradle of her thighs.
She's still struggling, and it excites him as much as confuses him. She hasn't struggled against him since their first night together, the first night when he learned of the salvation he could find in Molly Hooper's body.
He bites at her shoulder, glad of the dress that left the pale skin bare. One of his hands reaches back to attempt to tug the zipper down.
"You will accept me," he repeats his words for the previous night. "You are mine."
He wants to kiss her, but knows that she will bite his tongue off. He wonders where she suddenly got her fire from.
His hand closes down on the metallic zipper of the dress.
That is when the bottle of fifty year old wine smashes right against the side of his head and everything goes black.
When he wakes up, his head is bleeding from the shards of glass still lodged in his skin, there is wine everywhere.
And she is gone.
He kills every servant and security guard on duty before ordering a search party and getting medical attention for his wound.
If Molly wants to play this dangerous game with him, then he shall indulge her. He's quite a fan of foreplay.
A/N: Well, is this worth the wait? Did it meet your expectations? It was quite difficult to continue a fic which I had no intention to continue, which is why I've kept the chapters in separate one-shots. There will be another one in this series.
Leave a review, because reviews and encouragement was the only reason I've continued this!
Love,
Adi xox