A/N: WARNING. This is a work of Parallel Universe Dark!Dom!Molly fic. It is BDSM with heavy control/domination/submission overtones. It that is not of interest, please do not read this fic. It is 100% NSFW. I'm covering new ground in this fic. I hope it's enjoyable.
She enters the room softly, but he still knows she's there.
He opens his eyes, takes her in as she slowly makes her way over to him. The cool air on his skin is yet another reminder that he is naked. It has been eleven days since he wore clothes.
Her tiny feet are bare, the toenails painted crimson red. They match her nails, her lipstick, and the silk slip nightdress she wears. Her hair hangs in soft waves down her back. She wears no other makeup, no jewelry, no underwear. In his other life, he would've paid little attention to what she wore or how she looked, beyond the basic deductions for information. Here, everything she does or does not wear is a clue.
She stops a foot in front of him, looking at him with exasperation that borders on affection. But there is a darkness in her eyes as well; a reminder that despite her seeming gentleness, she is the one in control here.
As if he needed reminding. As if she didn't make that clear in some way every day.
She reaches out an index finger; her nail gently scrapes down the side of his face, his neck. She lingers at the pulse in his throat, checking it to see if he is reacting. She apparently doesn't like what she finds, because her hand slips down to a nipple, and she pinches it hard. He doesn't move, makes no sound even when she twists it between two fingers.
She takes her hand away abruptly and sighs. "Still defiant?" she asks, her voice amused and warm.
"And will continue to be," he tells her coolly.
She moves forward, closing the meager gap between them, and presses herself against him. He wants to push her away, but he's too well restrained. Chained and cuffed to the wall by the wrists, upper arms, waist, thighs, and feet, he is limited in how he can express his seething. He could spit on her, but doesn't want to. It's crude; too much of an emotional display. And he doesn't want another beating today like the one he had yesterday. So he turns his head.
She isn't deterred, just takes advantage of his turned head to plant a moist kiss on the side of his neck. He starts to turn his head again, but she grips a fistful of curls and holds tight against his scalp. He goes limp, refusing to give her the satisfaction of him struggling.
She continues with the kisses. "It doesn't have to be like this, you know," she murmurs. "You could be walking around up there. Have clothing. See your friend John Watson. I'd even let you do experiments. All you have to do is say that you're mine."
"I'll never be yours," he says icily.
She sighs. "Do you hate her?" she asks. "Is that why you don't want to give in to me?"
He knows who she's referring to. "No. She's my friend. And she's nothing like you," he adds spitefully.
Her lips tighten. "You can't accept it, can you? This reality. Well you're going to have to, if you don't want to be restrained or punished every day for the rest of your life."
He doesn't reply, doesn't look at her. She yanks his head by the hair, hard. "Look at me," she orders.
He obeys, putting as much contempt as he can into his glare.
"That life is lost to you," she tells him. "Even if they can cross over to here, they won't get far. They'll be captured, just like you were. And it may be weeks, months, or even years before they have the chance. Is this really what you want? To be chained up all the time like an animal?"
He doesn't reply. "I could sell you," she says softly.
He laughs. "You won't," he tells her. "You want me too much. The prospect of breaking me is too good to resist."
"I have dozens of slaves!" She snaps. "I could have dozens more if I wanted." She tugs his hair again, brings her lips an inch from his. "Why do I only want you?" she whispers, more to herself than to him.
"Because you enjoy wanting something that you'll never have," he replies.
"I could have you anytime I wanted," she snarls. "You may have a brilliant mind, but your body is still susceptible to drugs."
"That isn't what you want," he whispers. He moves his lips until they almost touch her ear. "You want me to come to you willingly," he whispers again. He moves his mouth even closer, feels her shiver. " . ," he hisses, pulling away.
She slaps him hard, her warm hand cracking against his cheekbone.
"Never say never, Sherlock," she tells him, trembling with arousal and anger.
He starts to speak, and she slaps him again. After four slaps he is breathing hard, staring at her with loathing in his eyes. She stares back, panting, before grabbing his hair even tighter than before.
"One day, Sherlock, you will be mine. And you'll hate it but you will do it."
"Take your best shot, Molly," he says, dripping venom into her name.
She releases him, then turns to a nearby guard. "Give him something to dull that pretty little mind of his," she orders. She looks back at him with a malicious smile. "Maybe keeping you drugged up for a while will soften you a bit."
He doesn't respond to her, but something uncoils in his chest. He hates being drugged; hates not having his mind clear. But he isn't going to capitulate over it. He'd rather give over to drugs than to her any day.
"I'll come back and see you tomorrow," she says airily. "We'll have some new fun then. Oh," she adds to the guard: "put some clamps and a ring on him when this wears off. Then give him some Blue Silver. I want him to be very aware of his decorations."
As she mounts the stairs he shouts: "You won't win! No matter what you do to me, you'll never have me!"
Molly laughs and blows him a kiss as she disappears from view.
The guard leaves, and he struggles again, futilely, with his restraints. She returns with an injection kit. She swabs the inside of an arm and ties it off. He starts to struggle and she slaps him, harder than Molly did, which says something.
"Fight me and you get a beating," she says.
He goes still. As his head swims, she injects him, then cleans the site off. She pats him on the head like a dog. "Good boy," she croons.
Sherlock feels his head slowly fill with fog. He slumps against the wall, wishing he could lie down. But that would mean begging, and he isn't going to do that. So he braces himself as best he can and lets his mind drift to a universe where Molly Hooper is his friend, where he is a consulting detective, and he is free and safe.
Eleven days.
It's been eleven days since the man who calls himself Sherlock Holmes came into her world through some sort of spatial gate, bringing with him questions and resistance and an inexplicable ache in her heart. From the first moment she laid eyes on him, trussed up on the floor of the council room, snarling angry muffled words into a gag, something had grabbed hold of her and refused to let go.
It was maddening. As ruler of London, she had a dozen or so men; playthings to be used to fill her needs. She wasn't always nice, but neither was she particularly cruel, unless they deserved it. But that rarely happened anymore.
When the plague had come, a little over 400 years ago, wiping out almost all men, targeting them for reasons no one could fully understand, women around the world had united. First to take care of the world. Then, for some, to change it. It was the perfect chance to set things right, to them; to undo all the harm that men had done to women through the previous ages. So once the plague had been cured, steps had been taken. Slowly at first, then everything spiraled. Supporters rallied and it spread. Men became breeders and playthings, never to be allowed to rise to their former positions as dominators, mass murderers, rapists, and abusers again. Births of male children were strictly controlled, and so were what men remained.
And it worked, this system. Women became stronger, physically and emotionally. They were more able to take care of themselves, now that they did not rely on men to do it. Oh, of course, some had protested over the years; but they were reminded the error of the old ways and that foolishness was eliminated. Either that, or the women themselves had been killed. Regrettable, but it would not do to allow a minority of dissenters to upset the balance.
So women ruled, and men were kept in brothels, or as household slaves, or in breeding centers. Women liked men; men simply had to be controlled. And so they were.
Molly had been ruling London for three years now, with her second in command Mary Morstan. Together they made sure everything proceeded smoothly. They collected taxes, handled public works projects, and swiftly dispatched any men who they learned were troublesome and could not be reconditioned. For Molly, it was a matter of science. If physical punishment didn't work, there were drugs. It was rare, between this combination, that a man had to be eliminated.
And then Sherlock Holmes entered and threatened to mess everything up.
Tolerant to drugs, refusing to yield after physical punishment, he'd been brought to the council to determine his fate. He'd been found on the streets and rounded up after a lengthy chase. They had finally had to use a tranq gun to take him down. His story was insane, but there were no records of him anywhere. There was a record of a Mycroft Holmes, who Sherlock claimed was his brother, but that man had been executed for attempting to organize a coup among the men at a breeding facility. Such a waste, that. Mycroft's I.Q. had been off the scale. Too bad for him that although he was smart, so was Irene Adler. Adler oversaw every breeding facility in London, and her skills and intelligence were second to none.
At first, Molly thought no more of it and had ordered he be placed in a brothel. Obviously he was simply lying, as medical exams had shown no trauma or disorders. But this Sherlock was belligerent, refusing to service any of the women that requested him. Beating him was unproductive, and it took more drugs than normal to get him to be docile. So she'd sent for this man, this upstart named Sherlock Holmes.
As soon as she saw him, something in her exploded.
He was, without question, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. And Molly had seen, and owned, many a beautiful man. But he was something different. Even as he lay struggling and snarling, trying to push the blindfold off his eyes, she felt a sharp rush of desire unfurl in her belly. She walked down to him and turned him onto his back, then slipped the blindfold off.
His eyes widened as soon as he saw her, and through the gag she made out one muffled word: "Molly?"
She stared at him, then tore the gag off. "How do you know my name?" She demanded.
"You are Molly Hooper," he said. "You're my friend. Molly, what is going on here? Are you behind this enslaving of men?"
The more she talked to him, the more she was convinced he was telling the truth. A parallel universe… fuck. She'd have to put her best people on it. Meantime, other members of the council were clamoring for him to be reconditioned.
"He can't be redeemed," argued one. "I say eliminate him now."
Molly's breath caught. She quickly stood up. "I invoke my right as ruler to claim him," she said loudly. "He'll be one of my men."
Sound rippled across the room. Disbelief, concern, and yes, even some envy.
"You heard her," Sally Donovan ordered. "It's her right. Let her have the fun of taming this freak." When Sally spoke, no one argued. Her word was law, just like Molly's and Mary's.
Sherlock frowned at Molly. "What are you doing? I demand you release me at once!"
Molly smirked. "Demand, do you? In this universe, Sherlock Holmes, men don't make demands. They obey them. Haven't you figured that out yet?"
"Molly, you are making a big mistake," he said warningly, and she laughed.
She snapped her fingers and some of her guards came to her side. "Take him to my home," she instructed. "Prepare him for me for tonight."
"Molly-"
"And shut him up," she added, grinning as Sherlock was gagged again. "He talks too much."
The look in his eyes had been murderous, but there was nothing he could do as he was carried out. She looked forward to going home for the rest of the day.
Eleven days later, Molly almost regretted her decision. He hadn't responded the way she'd thought he would, and she didn't want to take him fully against his will. That was too close to the rapes of old that men committed. Yet despite his uncooperativeness, his bizarre stories about his world, his demands and his sneering deductions, she wanted him. He refused to talk about the other Molly, but she knew that there were things he wasn't saying.
Finally she'd had him drugged to get answers from him. It turned out this other Molly was a pathologist, and in love with him. How stupid. To be in love with such a horrible man. Oh, she wanted him, Molly did; but love him? She'd snorted. She'd love breaking him.
Breaking him was proving to be a challenge. But she'd never met a man she couldn't handle, and Sherlock Holmes was not going to be the first.
She chose two other slaves to take to her bed that night. Tomorrow, after he'd been drugged and gone all night with nipple clamps and a cock ring, she'd see if that had softened him any. If not, she wasn't worried. He'd see the error of his ways, one way or another. Taming Sherlock had just begun.
He doesn't like cold. Never has. He wears his Belstaff through early summer to ward off the chill in the air. Now he is chained under a vent, cool air constantly hitting his exposed skin. He'd probably mind it more if he wasn't drugged. But the sedative he's been given will wear off soon, and then he is apparently getting a bit of old-fashioned sexual torture.
He's dozed a bit, startling awake from snatches of dreams. Dreams of his universe, of Baker Street, of John and the work, and Mrs. Hudson. And yes, Molly; his Molly, not this cold, calculating woman who rules London and finds it perfectly acceptable to keep men as breeders and playthings. And who has added him to her personal harem.
Well. This Molly Hooper has another thing coming, if she thinks he is going to meekly be a notch on her bedpost. The men in this universe might all be conditioned to be subservient, but he damn well isn't. It is going to take a lot more than a sedative and a beating or two to wear Sherlock Holmes down.
As his head clears, he judges it to be around 3 a.m. His former guard went offshift earlier. The new one, a woman who fits the stereotypical description of an Amazon, comes over and peels back his eyelids, then checks his pulse. She nods in satisfaction.
"Looks like you're wide wake and ready for some stimulation," she says with a smirk. "I hear you like to be stimulated."
He gives her a tight, hateful smile. "How late did you stay awake to write that little comedic gem?" He asks, and is rewarded by half a dozen hard blows from a flogger.
"Nobody told you to speak, pretty boy," she snaps. "Shut it before I shut it for you."
Sherlock goes quiet, not liking the idea of being gagged for who knows how long. The guard is joined by a second guard, and he is released from his restraints to use the lavatory. He contemplates attacking them, but he has already deduced that they are nearly his equals in terms of strength, agility, and combat ability. And there are more of them in sight. They are unarmed; there are no weapons he could use to gain an advantage. He's seen the keycode on the door. He wouldn't have enough time to decode it before he was overwhelmed.
He is allowed to piss in private, not that he much cares. It's only the body; transport. Being watched while emptying his bladder wouldn't distress him. He's got bigger things to be concerned about. Still, he's grateful for those few minutes of solitude. No one is chained up in the room except him, but there are guards. And occasionally they like making snide comments to him, interrupting his train of thought. He's stopped telling them to stop, though. That's how he earned his beating the day before.
When he's escorted back to his place on the wall, the restraints once again secured on him, the same guard reaches down and grabs his cock with no warning. He tries to twist away from her, and she tightens her hold to the point where it hurts. He clenches his teeth.
"Don't you know better than to fight?" she asks, twisting his dick as she pulls. His breath hisses and he goes still. It's not worth risking damage to himself over. Her grip eases; her touch becomes gentle but firm. She knows exactly how to make him erect against his wishes, and despite his retreating into his mind, that is exactly what happens. She slides the shiny silver metal onto him, and he quivers from the coldness of it contacting his skin.
She removes two ornate nipple clamps from her pocket; silver scrollwork embedded with tiny sapphires. She pinches his nipples first; rolls them between her fingers until they, too, harden. She secures the clamps, then steps back to look at him. She shakes her head.
"I don't understand you. Do you know many men would love to be chosen by Lady Molly?"
"They can have her," he answers.
"You're only hurting yourself by fighting her. Eventually you'll give in."
"No," he says tightly. "I won't."
The guard shrugs. "Suit yourself. But it's stupid and you know it." She takes out an injection kit. He watches her as she prepares his arm. "What is Blue Silver?" he asks.
"Oh, you'll like it," she tells him as she injects him. "It's a stimulant."
A sexual stimulant, he realizes a few minutes later, as his body flushes somewhat. The clamps and ring seem to tighten further, even know he knows it is simply his skin becoming more sensitive. He no longer feels the chill of the vent. Instead, he is warm; uncomfortably so, because it is in all the wrong places. His already hyperaware mind cannot stop focusing on physical sensations; the cuffs, the chains, the bits of metal and leather that bind him and hold him captive.
"How long is this delightful experience going to last?" he asks through clenched teeth.
She shrugs. "A few hours. Maybe that will take you down a bit, hmm?"
"You lot would love to think so, wouldn't you?" he retorts.
The guard shrugs again. "Doesn't matter to me. I get paid whether you're good or not. But you can't be this stupid. You know she'll up the ante."
"I don't care," he answers insolently.
She cups his chin, tilts his head and studies him, amused. "You will."
She lets go of him. "I'll bring you some water later."
Sherlock watches her go. He sees them look at him; all his agile, muscular guards. Some have expressions of amusement, some disgust. At least two would like to touch him. But they won't; none of them will. He is considered to be Molly's property; anyone else who touches him could be fired, punished, even killed under the old code (thought that is rarely practiced anymore). He keeps quiet and listens. He needs to learn everything he can.
He shudders in his bonds, the drug making him slightly lightheaded and aching. His body wants release; he cannot deny it. If he were a lesser man, he might give in right about now. But he isn't, and he is determined not to give Molly that satisfaction no matter what. So he shivers, and sweats, and endures the ache of the arousal, and wonders when Mycroft will determine exactly what's happened and how he can get back home.
It is late evening when Molly goes downstairs to her home's discipline room. It's rarely needed to bring anyone here anymore for actual punishment. She usually uses it for fun with her slaves. But Sherlock has been here for 12 days now, and he's shown no signs of willingness to submit yet. He's been beaten, drugged, deprived of privacy and a certain amount of comfort, and endured mild sexual torment. And all he has done is glare at her, tight-lipped, and what little acquiescence he's offered is only because he is confined to a wall and can't effectively stop her from touching him.
He must be from another universe, she muses. No sane man would endure all this when he could have the life she's offered him.
"Hello, pet," she greets him, knowing that he hates being called that. Sure enough, he scowls at her. Molly's eyes drop to his erection, angry and red against his slightly sweaty skin. The clamps on his nipples suit him well; silver and sapphire blue, as cold as he seems to be.
And he's magnificent to look at; Molly thinks that only one man out of a hundred might be so fine a specimen. Her fingers twitch to touch him, but she restrains herself. It's time she tried something new with him, and the more she can throw him off guard, the better.
She stands in front of him and looks up into his eyes. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
Sherlock doesn't answer her, just stares. Molly slaps him, hard. "I asked you a question," she says, voice perfectly modulated. "When I speak to you, I expect you to respond right away. Otherwise there will be consequences. Understand?"
His jaw tightens, but he answers her. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" she asks. "You look a bit hot and bothered."
"So would you if you'd been drugged," he says.
Her mouth lifts in amusement. "That's your own fault."
"My fault?" he echoes. "None of this has been with my consent! It is not my fault whatsoever!"
"I suppose you'd see it that way," Molly replies thoughtfully. "Anyway, we're going upstairs now. Keeping you down here isn't having satisfactory results."
"So now I'm an experiment?" he asks.
She looks at him in surprise. "You've always been an experiment. You've the makings of a scientist, from what you've told me. You know how this works."
"Conditioning me, are you?" he asks bitingly. "Going to mix up some positive and negative reinforcement? Or are you just going to skip right to electroshock treatment?"
Molly laughs. He's a huge pain in the arse, but he's funny. And a challenge. "I don't favor anything that painful and crude," she tells him. "There are much better ways of getting you to come around."
"Oh? Should I be grateful that all you've done is abuse me so far? Beat me, drug me, chain me up?" he asks mockingly.
"Shut up," she growls, clamping a hand over his mouth. He subsides, but gives her a dirty look.
"Your little spoiled life from that other universe is over," she says. "I'm not your Molly Hooper; stupidly in love with you. I am in control here, not you. And it's time you learned that. Now one more insolent word out of you and I'll have a bit and harness put on you and prance you around like a stud horse. Understood?"
He nods slowly, never stopping his glare. She removes her hand. "Bring me some leashes," she tells a guard, "and some cuffs. I'm taking him upstairs."
"What's upstairs?"
Molly breathes softly into his ear, her voice carrying an undercurrent of delight and warning. "You'll see."
It turns out that the leashes are to attach to his nipple clamps, so she can pull him by the nipples. He's released from the wall, hands cuffed behind his back, and cuffs put on his ankles so that he can walk but not run or kick. She leaves the cock ring on him as well, wanting him to be as distracted by the physical as possible. He stays entirely too much in that head of his, and that's part of the problem. She's going to have to take some of that control away from him if she ever wants him to wave the white flag.
Once he's ready, she winds the leashes around one hand and gives a sharp tug. He's pulled forward and a small gasp escapes him. She looks at him curiously. He seems surprised by his own body's responses sometimes, which makes her wonder exactly how experienced he is. She decides to find that out this very night.
She leads him upstairs, down a hallway, around a corner. A few turns and twists later and she's entering a code into a door. "I hope you're smart enough to realize these codes change each time, from a predetermined list," she says wryly.
"Of course," he says smoothly.
She pulls him into the room, and his eyes start roaming immediately, deducing and cataloging. Her bedroom. King size bed, wrought iron headboard and footboard, ideal for restraints. Speaking of those, there are three sets attached to the bed; one at the top, one at the bottom, and one about 2 1/2 feet down. Plush carpeting, she likes it warm and cozy. Is also probably on the floor at times with a slave. Cherry antique wooden furniture mixed with more wrought iron. Two doors, one leading off to the loo, and the other is closed. A section of the ceiling at the foot of the bed retracts; obviously to lower some sort of bondage equipment. She actually lives in this bedroom; it's not strictly for show or just for sexual encounters.
She tugs him to the bed. "Lie down," she orders.
It's awkward with his hands cuffed behind him, but he does, his hands pressing into his buttocks as he lies back against the headboard. She pulls the restraints from the sides of the bed, turns him over a bit, cuffs him into them, then removes his other cuffs and pushes him flat on his back. She removes the nipple clamps, then pushes his thighs apart, spreading him, but decides not to add the ankle cuffs. She wants to see how much self-control he has. "Keep your legs open, or you'll be sorry," she warns.
He considers closing them out of spite, but he's not eager to provoke her too much yet. He's curious as to what she's planning.
She stretches out beside him on the bed, turned to face him. He keeps his face forward, carved from stone. Her eyes drift over him. Pale, muscular but not overly so, his chest and shoulders are marked here and there with faint silvery scars. She touches each in turn, examining it, turning over probable causes in her mind. Some look like stab wounds; others are unmistakably from a bullet.
A consulting detective, he'd called himself. Mysteries fascinate him; the thrill of solving something unexplained. It's a trait she shares with him, actually. Before this, she'd been a liaison and agent for the Queen of the UK. She was good at it, and she was good at controlling London with the help of Mary and Sally. In fact, John had been a gift from Molly to Mary when she'd chosen Mary as her First in Command.
In Sherlock's reality, John is Dr. John Watson, his flatmate and best friend. She still remembers the look of shock on Sherlock's face when he'd seen Mary leading John around on a leash outside the council. The fact that John had not known who he was had broken his heart, even though he'd never admit it. But Molly had seen the look, before he closed himself off again. She'd filed that information away for future use.
She continues touching him, clinically, then not so clinically, testing his skin's sensitivity and pliancy. She licks him in random spots, blows cool air on him, sinks her nails into him. He's very good at controlling his reactions, she muses. Of course, he can easily anticipate what she's about to do. One more experiment and she'll up the ante for him.