A/N: OK, so originally I wasn't going to post this since it is incredibly simliar to my story "The World As We Know It" but I decided to put it up as a one shot. Enjoy!
Blood Will Out: A supernatural Sherlolly romance
Petite. Pretty. Professional.
Mycroft Holmes and his obsessive use of alliteration when messaging via mobile. Irene Adler rolled her eyes as the car bearing her and the woman she'd acquired for her lord and master – here she bared her fangs in frustrated anger at the thought of calling that supercilious bastard "Master", although she'd done so for the past eighty years – rolled smoothly out of London on its way to the Holmes estate.
She glanced over at the unconscious form of the petite (5'3"), pretty (classic English rose in spite of the wavy auburn-brown hair and brown eyes, but she had that porcelain complexion the Holmes men favored), and professional (pathologist at St. Bart's hospital in London) woman she'd so recently 'acquired'.
The third requirement implied a fourth, one that Mycroft had left unstated because he expected her to understand its necessity without being told. Professional equaled intelligent, and above all, the woman chosen by Mycroft for his younger brother's 100th birthday had to be intelligent or else he'd use her up and discard her within days and she, Irene, would be forced to start the entire boring process over again.
Professional. A medical professional, in this case.
"Dr. Molly Hooper, I almost envy you the life you are about to embark on," Irene murmured with another flash of her fangs, this time in an anticipatory smile. She ran her finger down the other woman's cheek and throat, pausing on her pulse point, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath her skin. So fragile, these humans; so easily overpowered both physically and mentally. It had taken a single moment of eye contact and Molly Hooper had become nothing more than a puppet dancing to Irene's will.
Well. Temporarily. Once she entered the Holmes estate she would become Mycroft's puppet even if Irene wanted to keep her for herself. Which she did, but only because the ability to do so meant she would have finally found a way to overpower the man – vampire – who had Turned her and still held an incredible amount of power over her.
It could happen; masters got old and sloppy, lost their touch, spread themselves too thin, but not, unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes. He was still in his prime, barely 115 years old himself, and one thing the Holmes family was not and had never been was sloppy.
Yes, she'd had her moment of rebellion when she'd sided with the Moriarty clan during their clashes with the Holmeses a decade ago, but that had been brief and ultimately worked to Mycroft's advantage. It gave him a hold over his younger brother that he'd been seeking ever since the pair of them had been Turned by their father during the reign of Queen Victoria.
A pity their mother had sided with them when the time came to put Robert Vernet Holmes down. Oh, he hadn't become sloppy or senile, had been barely 500 years old when his sons turned on him, but he'd certainly grown arrogant, too certain of his own power and control to bother with more than the most rudimentary of protections against the possibility of rebellion from his offspring.
It was certainly a lesson learned by both Mycroft and Sherlock. They would never fall prey to such arrogance; vampires had long lives and even longer memories. They would never forget and never allow themselves – or each other – any such weakness.
Robert had grown lax and paid the price. Irene had arrogantly assumed she could take down the brothers Holmes by allying herself with their family's most implacable and powerful rival clan.
She would never make that mistake again. If she ever wanted to be free to chart her own destiny, she would have to find a way to do it herself. Mycroft had wanted to kill her but Sherlock had coolly argued for – not mercy, not quite, but leniency. Reminding his brother that this moment was bound to come sooner or later, and had actually occurred in such a manner as to be useful to the two of them.
God, she hated him for that. And wanted him even more desperately than she had before. He'd known exactly how she felt when Mycroft relented and allowed her to live, and had made it clear, with simply a cold stare and a cocked eyebrow, that she was no longer welcome in his bed
She doubted he'd welcome the woman she'd acquired for him at Mycroft's behest either, but that was between the brothers. Mycroft had unfortunately been rendered sterile after his conversion, whereas Sherlock was still fertile.
It was up to him to carry on the Holmes family name, to produce an heir, and this woman was going to be the means to that end whether she or Sherlock liked it or not.
Because of course the other, unspecified but highly necessary item on Mycroft's shopping list had been fertility. And Molly Hooper was most definitely fertile. She would be capable of producing baby after baby for the Holmes family if Mycroft deemed it necessary that she do so.
And Sherlock, in spite of his outward appearance of equality in the family hierarchy, was about to discover exactly how uneven a balance it truly was.
Irene would have pitied him, if she wasn't looking forward to the upcoming row with such anticipation.
"Welcome to the family," she murmured to her unconscious prisoner, removing her finger from the other woman's throat and settling herself once again in her own seat in the back of the limo. "Let's hope you're up for it."
oOo
Molly blinked, moved her head restlessly, blinked again and came fully to consciousness with no residual pain or confusion. She remembered exactly what had happened to her in such detail that it could only be because she was meant to remember how she'd come to be in this strange house when she knew she'd been at St. Bart's in the path lab, working on the endless paperwork that followed after each and every autopsy she performed.
She'd looked up, and the other woman – the vampire – had been standing silently in the doorway. Their eyes had met, Molly's startled and verging on panic when she realized who and what she was facing, the other woman's cool and appraising and with perhaps just the slightest hint of pity in their blue depths.
Then the mental haze that Molly had heard about but never experienced had fallen over her mind; incipient panic had been smothered along with free will, and she'd found herself rising from her seat, gathering her few belongings and following docilely along in the other woman's wake. All without the vampire uttering a single word.
She'd remained conscious up until taking a seat in the limo that awaited them outside the entrance to Bart's, then...nothing. Nothing until waking up in this sumptuous sitting room or parlor or whatever the posh vampires called rooms filled with antique furniture and gilt-framed paintings on the walls and Persian rugs on the floor and housing impossibly huge marble-clad fireplaces to dispel the chill.
Furthermore, she was waking up, she belatedly realized, no longer in the clothing she'd been wearing before her abduction. Her lab coat, frumpy jumper and rumpled khakis had been replaced by a wine-red sheathe that fit her like a second skin from chest to mid-thigh – she shuddered to think what had happened to her underclothing and could only hope that she'd been hypnotically ordered to change herself. The stockings on her legs felt too smooth and soft to be anything but silk; nothing so declasse as nylon would do in such a setting, and the black pumps on her feet had a high gloss to match their high heels, which she knew she would have trouble managing if she was still completely under her own power.
She still wasn't panicking, and knew in an intellectual way that wasn't allowed to touch on her emotions that it was because the vampire that had taken her wasn't allowing her to do so. She'd read about the vampire ability to blanket a human mind to varying degrees, but had hoped – prayed – never to experience the effects herself.
Well. So much for that. She was firmly under a vampire's control and had only the vaguest idea why any of them might be interested in her. Beyond the obvious, of course. Her blood type was AB+ and some vampires were known to be picky about the flavor of blood they ingested.
Still, kidnappings had become far less common as vampires and humans settled into an uneasy alliance over the past fifty years or so. She'd read about the bad old days before the vampires had eased off on their endless feuds and reached an accord on how to handle the humans they both despised and needed for their survival.
None of which was important at the moment. There were laws supposedly protecting humans from exactly what had just happened to her, but everyone knew the laws were simply a placebo to make humans feel they still retained some control over their destinies. Yes, day to day the human race went on as it always had – loving, fighting, hating, scraping an existence from a world that was so much more complex than most of them had believed possible – but the vampires were in charge and never let anyone forget it.
Molly had certainly been given such a reminder, and wondered if the despair she knew she ought to be feeling would be allowed to surface any time soon, or if she was doomed to this enforced tranquility for the rest of her life.
However long – or short – that might turn out to be.
"You are not here to act as tonight's dinner course, Dr. Hooper."
She turned her head to face that coolly amused, highly aristocratic voice. The man – vampire – who stepped into the circle of discreet lighting around the sofa Molly currently occupied was tall, with light hair worn closely cropped, wearing clothing that probably cost more than Molly's entire wardrobe, including shoes. His eyes were blue, gleaming in the dim lighting the way all vampire eyes did, shining like the eyes of a wolf in the moonlight.
She shivered, feeling some measure of control over herself being returned. Not fully, there was still the sensation of another mind overlying her own, preventing the deeper, more primal emotions of fear and panic and despair to emerge, but she no longer felt that preternatural calm.
"Why am I here, then?" she heard herself ask, and was properly shocked by her own boldness. Just because she wasn't meant to be tonight's main course didn't mean she wasn't being kept for another meal. Her fancy clothing meant nothing; all the great chefs insisted on the importance of presentation, after all.
"You're here because it is my brother's birthday," came the surprising reply. Surprising not because she was apparently going to be gifted to another vampire, but because this one was bothering to explain himself to her at all. "He turns 100 today and it is time for him to meet his family obligations."
"And which 'family obligations' are those, Mycroft?" another voice, deep and honey smooth and rich as cream came from the darkness behind Molly.
She shivered at the sound of that voice, not simply because it was threatening – all vampire voices were threatening on some level – but because it struck a chord somewhere deep inside her, caused her most feminine instincts to sit up and take notice.
All of which translated physically. The skin on the back of her neck prickled, her nipples hardened beneath the expensive fabric wrapped around her body, her knees felt wobbly and her female center responded with a jolt. If she examined her knickers, they would no doubt be soaked through.
Her heart was racing as well, and if the vampires were unaware of her other physiological reactions, they surely heard that sound, attuned as their senses were to the workings of the human cardiovascular system.
She turned her head to look at the newcomer and felt her breath catch in her throat at sight of him. He was tall, not much taller than the other vampire – Mycroft, he'd been called – but leaner, with dark curly hair and intense blue-gray eyes that looked her over with a coolness bordering on icy before meeting those of his brother.
She knew her guess as to his identity was correct even before Mycroft gestured toward her. "Sherlock, allow me to introduce you to Molly Hooper," he said, his own voice as cool and distant as that of his brother. "Your bride."
Oh. Bride. Of course. Molly knew if Mycroft hadn't had a tight lid on her emotions she'd be running screaming from the room right about now.
Vampires could reproduce two ways: via Turning and via the more usual methods. Well, male vampires could do so, anyway. Female vampires were always sterile, unable to become impregnated. But male vampires – some of them – retained human-style fertility. Living sperm in an Undead body, a contradiction science never could reconcile no matter how hard it tried. Sort of like the concept of a Unified Field Theory.
Molly's mind might not be panicking but it certainly was wandering off into unproductive mental back alleys. Another coping mechanism, her own this time rather than something forced on her by the master vampire currently having a staring contest with his younger sibling.
"I have no need of a bride," Sherlock said in response to his brother's announcement, lip curling in a sneer. Just enough to flash some fang.
"On the contrary," Mycroft responded with a sneer of his own. "You owe the clan offspring. It's always been part of the bargain we made when we took power from our father, Sherlock. Just because you've chosen to ignore it, to put it off to the last possible moment, does not mean you can evade it indefinitely. It is your 100th birthday, and it is time for you to fulfill your obligations. With this woman," he added, breaking eye contact just long enough to glance at Molly. Who wished desperately that she could become invisible, especially once Sherlock joined his brother in studying her.
She was no femme fatale, no drop-dead (bad choice of words, that) beauty. She was moderately attractive at most, she knew that about herself, had been in enough pubs and dance clubs to recognize that she wasn't the first woman most men's eyes turned toward. Not enough bosom, no pouty lips or smoky eyes, the going standards for beauty these days. Yes, her figure was trim enough; she had a slender waist and decent hips and a not-enormous bum, but her legs weren't, well, leggy enough, and she couldn't tan to save her life even if she didn't spend most of her days in the basement morgue at St. Bart's.
"Why me?" she found herself blurting out, then blushing furiously as Mycroft smirked and Sherlock's eyebrow raised itself in an inquisitive arch. "I mean – surely there are more attractive women out there, why are you forcing your brother to...settle for someone like me?"
Mycroft's lips curved in what it took her a moment to recognize as a genuine smile. "Sherlock, I believe Irene has chosen splendidly. Take her to your rooms, why don't you. Get to know her better. See if you can deduce the answer to her question."
That last sounded as a definite challenge, one that Sherlock met with an angry scowl. "I have no intentions of taking her anywhere, Mycroft," he ground out. "Nor do I intend to procreate simply to satisfy your thirst for power..."
"It is not a simple matter of power, Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice thundered through the room, causing Molly to wince and press herself deeper into the sofa cushions even though neither vampire was paying the slightest bit of attention to her now. "It is a matter of balancing family obligations with what is best for the people under our power!"
"You mean the human vassals you control? The slaves?" Sherlock sounded contemptuous, but just as Molly began to fear that she was being given over to one of the vampire that thought of humans as little better than cattle, he added: "You know how I feel about our treatment of humans, Mycroft. We should retreat from the halls of power and live in the shadows, the way our ancestors did. Allow the humans to rule themselves again."
"I agree." Mycroft's softly spoken words were clearly not what Sherlock had expected to hear, and Molly watched, fascinated, as he showed confusion for the first time since entering her sight. "However, you and I both know that far too many of our brethren do not. The Moriarty clan, for example." Sherlock stiffened at the sound of that name, although it meant nothing to Molly; the intricacies of vampire politics had never interested her, never seemed to directly affect her.
Well, it certainly was affecting her now. She knew there were ancients houses and clans with varying degrees of interconnectedness and rivalries; and apparently the Moriartys weren't friendly to whatever house she'd found herself a 'guest' of.
Or to humanity, she realized as Mycroft continued to speak, his voice softer but no less intense. "Suppose the Holmes family removes itself the way you suggest we do. We relinquish our place on the Council, we cede our properties and protectorates to allies and those we name friends. We return to our 'roots'," he added clearly using the word with disdain. "We move to the ancestral pile in Normandy, gate ourselves off, restrict ourselves to humans who are willing to give us their blood. What happens then, hmm? Tell me, Sherlock, what happens to those we ostracize ourselves from? Do you really think such a weakness – and we both know such actions would be construed as weaknesses – would long go unexploited? That friends and allies wouldn't be corrupted, subverted, or even outright destroyed after we withdrew our protection? Do you honestly believe our enemies would not take advantage of our withdrawal to attack us?"
Whatever objections Sherlock might have raised seemed to have been effectively silenced by his brother's words. Words that raised the hackles on the back of Molly's neck, but not out of any kind of sexual awareness this time. No, this time she clearly heard the threat in Mycroft's voice.
As did Sherlock. With a curt nod, he glanced down at Molly and then back at his brother. Once again a single eyebrow moved upward, and this time the result was a sudden easing on the soothing blanket of calm in which Molly had been wrapped since meeting that woman's eyes in St. Bart's.
A woman who now revealed herself to still be in the room, although she'd remained silent the entire time, silent and hidden in the shadows. She chose that moment to saunter forward to gaze up at Sherlock with a heavy-lidded glance of pure seduction.
Molly hadn't exactly liked her when she kidnapped her from her job; now, she positively hated the other woman, and all because of the relationship she read between the two vampires based on that look. After all, just because a vampire took a human bride didn't mean he gave up any previous relationships. Not that Molly should care, of course. And probably wouldn't once her mind was back under her own control.
She ignored the fact that the only control Mycroft seemed to be exerting was whatever was necessary to keep her from completely freaking out. The only way she would know if that spike of jealousy was due to his machinations...or something purely her.
"Do you object to my choice, Sherlock?" the female vampire asked, her voice as seductive and husky as Molly expected it to be. She felt herself completely ignored as the other woman approached Sherlock, placing her hand on his chest in a possessive gesture. "I can certainly find someone who has more confidence in her own looks, which this one apparently lacks. Someone with a little more fire to her, if you prefer."
"No, thank you," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding cold and distant – although why that should cause Molly's heart to do a little happy-dance, she couldn't say. Couldn't, or wouldn't. "I'm sure you found someone who meets my brother's exacting standards for a brood mare. You've become exceptional at dancing to his bidding ever since your little dalliance with the Moriartys."
She stepped away from him, snatching her hand back with a hiss of fury. Molly watched as it clenched into a fist, and wondered distantly if the female vampire was actually going to strike him.
No. She dropped her fist to her side, easing the fingers apart before turning deliberately to face Mycroft. "Am I excused for the evening...Master?" she added, with a not-quite sneer on her lips. She sounded frustrated, and Molly couldn't help but feel a certain amount of mean-spirited pleasure in the other woman's discomfiture. After all, she'd chosen Molly out of all the other possible candidates in the world, or at least in London, brought her here and literally delivered her into a lifetime of servitude. Being sneered at by Sherlock was the least she deserved.
Mycroft had nodded his consent and the vampire – Irene, Molly supposed she would have to remember the woman's name since it was clear she was part of the household – left without a backward look. If she'd been a cat, her tail would have been twitching and all the fur on her back would have been standing on end.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have intervened when you wanted to kill her," Sherlock said, his voice meditative. Molly felt another shiver run up her back; even with her emotions dampened she was reacting to that deep, mellow sound like a bitch in heat. What would it be like once – if – she were allowed free rein of her reactions?
She felt Sherlock's gaze on her and raised her head to meet his eyes. They were a distant, icy blue-grey, the irises ringed in a darker blue that only served to emphasize their clarity. She felt she could lose herself in that gaze, and hurriedly dropped her eyes again, although she was certain she'd already given everything she felt away.
"Perhaps. Time will tell," was all Mycroft said, his voice holding a measure of humor in it that Molly suspected had more to do with her reactions to his brother than to their discussion of Irene. "Since you've already declined any sort of festivities commemorating your 100th year on Earth, perhaps you'd care to show Doctor Hooper her new home?"
It wasn't a request; there was steel behind those words, steel flashing in his dark blue eyes as he met his brother's angry gaze. Molly darted her own gaze between them, sensing that Sherlock's acquiescence in this matter would seal her own fate.
After a moment, he turned away from his brother with a shrug, then held his hand out to Molly. She placed her own hand in his, quaking a bit as he spoke. "Let her go, Mycroft. I can take her from here."
She felt a slight lifting of her mental blanket as Mycroft transferred his control of her over to his brother. She felt Sherlock's mind settle over hers as smoothly as cream, no jostling or rough edges as the transfer occurred. She wondered once again if her mind would ever be her own again, but all she did was follow obediently as Sherlock tugged at her hand and guided her out of the room.
They paused on the threshold as Mycroft's voice floated after them in the darkness: "And Sherlock, don't try and put it off through some misguided sense of chivalry. This needs to be dealt with immediately."
Sherlock made no response, simply tugged on her hand and lead her out of the room.
oOo
They traversed what seemed like miles of darkened, stone-walled corridors and several sets of narrow staircases before finally entering what she assumed to be Sherlock's private suite of rooms. As they did so, just as the door closed behind, them, Molly felt the artificial calm vanish from her mind.
All the panic, fear and disorientation she'd been forced not to feel came flooding back into her mind. Without thinking – virtually incapable of thinking at this point – she wrenched her hand from his loose grasp, spun on her heel and bolted for the now-closed door.
She never saw him move, but suddenly the man – vampire – who had been behind her was in front of her, blocking her desperate grab for the door handle, his hands on her shoulders and an expression of inhuman calm on his pale features.
"Let me go," Molly cried, struggling against his hold.
She may as well have fought against a mountain, tried to force a river from its bed. Sherlock's hands – cold but not as icy as she'd always assumed a vampire's would be – felt like steel cuffs on her biceps, and he didn't so much as budge as she continued to struggle in his grasp.
She sobbed and cursed and fought and finally collapsed limply against his chest. She didn't fight him when he gathered her in his arms, lifting and carrying her as easily as he would a child.
Her eyes shut tight against whatever fresh horror awaited her, Molly was unsurprised to feel herself being carefully laid on what had to be a bed. His bed. She felt his arms slide out from beneath her and tensed, waiting for him to join her, to cover her with his body and do as his brother had essentially ordered him to do.
Have sex with her and get her pregnant.
She cracked her eyes open after a long minute passed, during which she felt his presence nearby but not on the bed as expected.
She peered over to find him standing by the side of the bed, arms crossed as he studied her through hooded eyes. When her eyes met his, he spoke. "I'm not going to attack you – what is your name again?" he asked, eyes flashing with irritation, shining eerily in the meager candlelight. Didn't this place have electricity? It was the 21st century, after all!
"Molly," she finally answered him. Even without the weight of another mind on her own, she found her hysterics had ended – or at least, were temporarily nullified. "Molly Hooper. I'm a –"
"Doctor, a doctor of some sort although I could learn a great deal more about you if my brother hadn't decided to play dress-up with you," Sherlock interrupted her impatiently. He remained standing in the same place, arms crossed over his chest as he peered down at her as impartially as a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.
That emotional neutrality helped; although she was still tense, although terror and panic still lurked and waited for the merest excuse to rear their ugly heads, for now she found herself as curious about him as he appeared to be about her. "I'm a pathologist," she said after a moment. "At St. Bart's." A spasm crossed her features and she fought back another onslaught of tears. "At least, I was. I don't suppose I'll be..."
"It's doubtful my brother will allow you to retain any ties to your former life," Sherlock said, dismissing her forlorn hopes with his coolly-spoken words. Still, it was probably for the best; why try and fool herself into believing things might someday go back to normal? At least he wasn't lying to her.
She simply swallowed and nodded. "Right. Of course not." Blinking rapidly in order to keep the tears from welling up, she sat up and clasped her hands over her knees. "So what happens next?"
For the first time he looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to answer her question. "I said I wouldn't attack you," he said, sounding very hesitant indeed. "I know you don't want this any more than I do, but if we don't get it over with my brother is sure to make both our lives a living hell until we do."
She shivered at the mention of his brother; as cold and clipped as Sherlock was, he didn't terrify her nearly as much as the leader of this particular vampire clan. It was probably as much to do with the sexual attraction that she was feeling toward Sherlock – an attraction she most definitely did not feel for his brother – as anything, but only time would tell.
Time. Hah. It would appear she would have plenty of that in her future, if she wasn't going to be allowed to return to her job. At least she had the consolation of knowing that she wasn't leaving behind any grieving family members; her parents were both dead, she had no siblings and no extended family members, no children (not yet, part of her mind felt constrained to point out to her), no husband or boyfriend...hell, come to think of it, she didn't even have any close friends who would miss her!
Something of her reflective thoughts must have shown on her face, because Sherlock abruptly sat on the edge of the bed and peered intently into her eyes. She shrank back, just a little, then did her best to stiffen her spine as she held his gaze.
"You're alone in the world." He stated it as a fact, but she nodded, a bit surprised that he'd read her so well. If she didn't know any better, she might have accused him of actually reading her thoughts. "Interesting. Irene seems to have chosen better than I initially gave her credit for."
The mention of the other woman caused Molly to bristle a bit. "Yes, I know I'm a disappointment in every other way, at least she picked someone no one else would miss," she ground out, then dropped her eyes as tears once again threatened.
Surprisingly, he didn't take offense at her tone; even more surprisingly, he chose to call her out on her self-denigrating words. "Why do you think you're a disappointment? You have no idea what I would look for in a mate, were I given a choice in the matter."
Those last words were spoken with an undercurrent of bitterness Molly recognized all too easily, since she felt exactly the same way. Part of her was still marveling at how easily she was interacting with him, a man (vampire) she should only view with fear and loathing, even as her lips parted and she spoke once again without thinking: "Wouldn't you have picked someone more like Irene? Beautiful and poised and self-confident?"
He blinked at her slowly, a smile stealing across his face as he continued to study her. God, if she'd thought he was gorgeous before, he was positively devastating with his eyes crinkled with amusement. It lightened his entire aspect, made him seem much more human and approachable. "Dr. Hooper, you do realize you've just described yourself, don't you?"
She stared at him, certain he was toying with her in spite of the god humor in his voice. "You can't really mean that."
He leaned forward, his gaze even more intense than it had been before. "I never say anything I don't mean, Dr. Hooper," he replied, his voice just as intense – nearly hypnotic – as his eyes, which seemed to have settled into a darker blue-grey as he spoke.
"Molly," she whispered in response as she felt a shiver of desire run up her spine. He wasn't controlling her at all; there was no sense of another mind overlaying hers as there had been earlier, which meant all her reactions now were strictly her own. Which further meant that all the things she'd felt before – the attraction, the jealousy – had also been her own emotions, nothing imposed on her from the outside, else they've have vanished as swiftly as her calm had once Sherlock released his hold on her mind.
She wanted him, plain and simple, was responding to him on a very primal level that had nothing to do with intellect. Whether that deep-seated desire would last beyond tonight was a puzzle to be solved another day; right now, all she wanted to do was give in to what her body was telling her. Even though that also meant giving in to the life that had suddenly been forced on her.
A worry for tomorrow, when the harsh realities had time to set in. She wet her lips and leaned forward just the slightest bit, knowing her movement to be an invitation, heart pounding as she waited for Sherlock's reaction.
oOo
She wanted him. He'd sensed it from the moment their eyes first met, even though the intolerable situation should have overridden any desire she might have felt. Especially once Mycroft ceded control of her to him and he allowed her her mental freedom. Yes, she'd panicked and lashed out but it hadn't required any further mental manipulation to calm her down again. A point in her favor, that; not every human that found themselves suddenly plucked out of their lives and forced into such a situation could cope nearly as well as Molly had.
Actually she had a lot of points in her favor, he had to admit. His words to her hadn't been empty flattery; she truly was beautiful, poised and self-confident. Perhaps not in the obvious, trite ways women like Irene Adler were; she didn't seem the type to use her looks as a weapon, to manipulate people into doing as she wished them to do. No, her beauty was as much in her spirit as her outward appearance, her poise evident in the way in which she'd handled herself after being released from all mental control, and her self-confidence was clear in the way she spoke of her profession – previous profession, he reminded himself with a pang. Molly Hooper would no longer work as a pathologist at St. Bart's hospital, but he would find some way for her to use her skills.
She wasn't the type of woman who would be content simply spawning child after child and spending her days caring for them, noble as such a calling was. She would need intellectual stimulation and he was exactly the mate to provide her with such. Just as she, he realized as she leaned forward, lips slightly parted in an obvious invitation, was exactly the mate to keep him from lapsing into boredom outside the bedroom.
His brother, he decided as he leaned forward to capture his new bride's lips with his own, had chosen well.