A/N: Hi, all! This story is the winner in the 2017 Sherlolly Smutfest competition, Wildcard Category...even though I never actually got to the smut part before the contest ended. By the time I've uploaded both parts 1 and 2, I promise part 3 will be ready to post as well. BDSM with Dom!Sherlock. Enjoy!

She ascends the stairs, one step at a time, her heart hammering in her chest.

What is she doing, why is she doing this? It's madness, utter madness. Despite Holmes' assurances to the contrary, she is terrified this will destroy her, not set her free. Destroy the hard-won life she's built for herself. Destroy the working relationship she has with the consulting pain-in-the-arse whose apartments she's about to enter.

Destroy her self.

But she ascends the stairs anyway, stroking anxiously at her false moustache, stopping on the first floor landing. Hesitating only a moment before squaring her shoulders and rapping on the door.

"Enter."

Holmes voice draws her forward, and enter she does.

Two weeks prior

"Would you care to join me for coffee, Holmes?"

The words burst from her lips before she can stop them; Holmes pauses in mid-strike, turning to stare at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirked in silent inquiry. "I…dammit, Holmes, you heard me," she says, knowing her voice to be far too defensive considering she is not only a woman disguised as a man, but that the man in front of her knows quite well the truth of her sex.

Ever since his discovery of her true identity that night in the desanctified church he has made it clear that it changes nothing regarding their working relationship. He continues to be an exasperating challenge and she continues to be as gruff and surly as ever to him, although there is a hint of camaraderie when they are alone in the morgue together, as they are now. John Watson has returned home to his wife, Phillip Anderson has presumably done the same to his – although it is equally possible he has instead decamped to the home of his mistress, as Holmes so snidely remarked upon his departure an hour earlier.

Things have, in other words, continued on much the same as they did before he discovered the part she'd played in perpetrating the Bride Deception. However that sameness has been preying upon her mind, nagging at the edges of her thoughts, teasing her with the potential for their relationship to be different; after all, there is no need to keep him at arm's length when he is already fully aware of her deepest, darkest secrets.

And now, she fears (hopes), he will discern her deepest, darkest desires. She feels a flush cover her cheeks as he continues to regard her, the riding crop he'd been using to thrash a corpse now tapping absently against his black-gloved hand. "I do enjoy coffee," he finally concedes. "However the idea of partaking in some street-side coffee shop, surrounded by crowds of people, holds no appeal to me. Join me tomorrow precisely at five." He rakes her figure appraisingly, and her flush deepens. "Come as Molly. My housekeeper will let you in, all you need do is identify yourself as a client and she will raise no eyebrows."

"I – very well," Molly finds herself agreeing. Her voice has crept up into its normal, feminine range, and she deliberately deepens it, desperate to regain control over some feature of herself. "I shall see you then."

"Until tomorrow," he says with a smile that sends a shiver down her spine. He deliberately strokes the riding crop along the palm of his hand; her eyes track its movements and she fights a second shiver, instead electing to turn and walk – not run – from the morgue, at as decorous a pace as she can manage. Although it is strictly against the hospital's rules for her to leave him here without proper supervision, she has no interest in spending another moment in his company.

Not when she is in danger of kissing him, male guise or no.

That, she resolves, is best left to a more private moment.

Although she is a bit dizzy with the idea of kissing Holmes, she is also perfectly aware that, despite the promise implicit in his invitation; despite the way he caressed his riding crop and carefully noted her reaction to his movements, she has no idea what to expect from this visit.

When she arrives, Holmes offers her no clues, mostly because he appears entirely unaware of her presence. "Oh he gets like this sometimes," his landlady clucks when she leads Molly up the stairs to her lodger's sitting room. "Goes off into that mind of his, until it seems nothing short of the crack of doom can wake him back up to the outside world. That," she adds as she gestures Molly toward the chair opposite his, "or the smell of a nice strong cup of tea with a plate of chocolate biscuits on the side." She pats Molly's arm. "I'll just go fetch a tray, my dear. Won't be a minute."

As soon as she bustles from the flat, Molly's attention is riveted on Holmes. The green leather chair in which he sits, fingers steepled beneath his chin, looks sinfully comfortable, with its sensuously curved arms and thick seat cushion. And yet there is nothing feminine about it, just as there is nothing feminine about the man currently occupying it: he is all hard planes and angles, lean and ascetic, positively scrumptious…

Molly bites her lip as she realizes the lascivious direction her thoughts have taken. She can feel a slight flush warming her cheeks and hopes it will fade before Holmes brings himself out of the reverie into which he's fallen. She's never seen him when lost inside his famous 'mind palace' and is curious to see how long it will take him to become aware of her presence.

She forces herself to take another sip of the tea the landlady brought her, making a face as she realizes it's gone cold. Oh, the infuriating man, making her wait like this! She has half a mind to leave, to return to her own flat and put aside 'Martin's sister Molly' and once again become her false self. She indulges in being 'Molly' so seldom these days, that it feels more like the disguise than when she's wearing the false moustache and wig, the padding and binding and slightly too-large shoes. Indeed, she feels almost anxious when she is being her true self, fretting over the loosening of the tight control she must maintain during so much of her life.

Her musings are cut short by the sound of Holmes finally shifting in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and piercing her with his gaze.

"Holmes, what is this about?" she asks. "You ask me here, then leave me to twiddle my thumbs whilst you contemplate the inside of your own mind – why?"

"Control," he says, and she blinks in confusion.

"You wish to…control me?" she hazards, feeling the tension increase throughout her body. She has spent most of her adult life avoiding the control of others, especially men, and cannot fathom why he believes she would allow anyone – even him – to take control of her in any manner.

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "On the contrary; it is you who wishes to give up control to me."

She can't help the laugh that escapes her lips at this extraordinary statement, and rises to her feet, determined to bring this confusing meeting to an end (never mind how deeply his words cleave into her secret heart). "I have no idea what you're playing at, Holmes," she begins, only to be interrupted by the sharp sound of a riding crop striking the arm of his chair.

"Sit down, Doctor Hooper," Holmes says sharply. She does as he bids – orders, actually – with a thump, staring wide-eyed at him.

He brings the riding crop up and glides the shaft across the palm of his left hand, much as he did yesterday in the morgue. Her eyes track its movements and she feels the flush warming her cheeks again. "You wish to surrender control to me," he says, speaking in low and intimate tones that send shivers up her spine. "Not while at work or in front of others, where you have to be 'Martin Hooper'. Not in the company of your female co-conspirators, who need 'Molly Hooper' to be strong and in command even now that your group activities are no longer lethal." His smile is cool, bordering on sardonic, but without judgement or condemnation. "But here…" He taps the riding crop on the arm of his chair, bringing her attention back to the present. "With me," he adds, bringing it up to rest lightly over his heart, "you wish to allow me to…dominate you. To take control and allow you, for once, to simply be."

Her heart is pounding in her chest and she feels a flush over her entire form as her breathing becomes shallow. How has he been able to discern so much from a single encounter in the morgue, from one simple request that he join her for a cup of coffee?

A single tap of the crop against the arm of his chair alerts her to the fact that he requires a response of some kind, so she nods, unable to speak, her throat tight and her hands shaking slightly. But not with anger or fear; no, she is trembling with a very different emotion: she is stunned, pleased – nay, thrilled – to discover that Holmes has come to know her so well. "H-how did you know?" she manages to ask, her voice hoarse. She sips at her cold tea, then sets the delicate china cup down on its saucer with a clatter.

He shrugs. "Observation. Deduction. Once I had the blinders of prejudice removed from my eyes, I saw far more than you ever meant to show me." A smile quirks the corners of his lips. "Unlike you, who has always seen me very clearly, I allowed myself only to see the image I was presented, and chose not to delve too deeply beneath the surface." His smile vanishes, the stern expression that replaces it sending another unseemly shiver down her spine. "In two weeks, I would like Martin Hooper to come here. John and Mary will be in Brighton, Mrs. Hudson visiting her sister in Leeds, and Lestrade will be under the impression that I'm on the Continent on a case. We will have two uninterrupted days together...if you are willing."

"And...after those two days?"

Sherlock pierces her with a look that quite steals her breath. "Whatever you wish. Our future is in your hands."

"What if what I wish is something more conventional?" she dares to ask, her heart once again beating nearly out of her chest at her audacity. "What if I wish marriage and children?"

He rises, reaches out, and pulls her lightly to her feet when she places her hand in his. He holds that hand curled against his chest, gazing down at her as he replies, "Why, then that is what we shall have. But I suspect that you will not wish to set 'Martin Hooper' aside permanently, not when you have worked so hard for that life, when you find your career so stimulating." He lowers his mouth, turns her hand palm up, and kisses the throbbing pulse in her bared wrist. "Rest assured, no matter what happens after those two days, after you place yourself completely and utterly in my control, I will remain your most faithful servant. Til death do us part."

He kisses her wrist again, allowing his lips to linger, and she gasps when he darts his tongue out and - tastes her, is the only way she can describe it once her ability to think properly is restored. "I shall see you here in two weeks, Doctor Hooper. Or not. It is your choice entirely."

Before she quite realizes how it happens, she finds herself on the landing outside Holmes' apartments, the door not quite fully closed between them. From inside she hears movement, and then the soft strains of a Chopin nocturne rising from a violin.

Two weeks. She has two weeks to consider this extraordinary offer, and all it entails.

Her mind in turmoil, she turns and descends the stairs.