I'm really sorry. School started again, and I saw an old ex-boyfriend - I've been spending a lot more time thinking 'What am I going to do?' than 'What are Molly and Sherlock going to do?'
Anyway - guys! It happened! I got a review going "When will you update?" and then didn't update for a solid 2 weeks - I feel like a real fanfiction writer now. So special thanks to Guest :)
"Vincit qui se vincit."
"He conquers who conquers himself."
Molly lifted a shaky hand, pressing the back of it against her raw lips. No relief came from her skin though, her hand just as scorching hot as her lips, and suddenly she could feel that tremors were still ripping through her body.
The god of the dead had left wreckage behind.
The maiden goddess was no child. She had lived many a mortal's life, choosing to remain in her youthful form. But the weight of everything that had happened crashed upon her - kidnapping, the underworld, a kiss - and she choked on a sob. Again, Molly pressed her hand to her lips, but this time to stifle her cries.
She could still feel traces of heat on her arms, waist, face, where Sherlock had dragged his fingers. She gingerly brushed against them, remembering the kiss over and over, again and again.
Not a child, yes, but still, Molly had dreamt of love. She had imagined a man - strong, kind, adoring - to sweep off her feet before finally he took a willing kiss from her.
And to have it be torn away so suddenly, she felt rather...bereft. Rather cold. It had all happened so fast, and now, left alone, she felt incredibly lonely. She missed her world above, the sheltered home she had always lived in.
Molly wrapped her arms around her chest, partly to lessen the sudden tightness, and partly to shield herself from the cold chamber.
…
Sherlock slumped against the wall, rather shaken.
He hadn't meant to lose control. The god of the dead never lost control.
He was poised, threatening - a dominant presence in every room he chose to enter. And he had strode into the room with every intention of letting the goddess know exactly what the rules are - but then she had looked at him, and he had lost his mind.
His hands threatened to tremble, and his throat closed up.
Sherlock was not a cruel man, stories be damned. Cold, yes, but a monster, no. Sentiment had no place in his domain, but nor did brutality. Death did not mean torment, and life did not mean contentment.
But here, leaning against a cold wall in his isolated world, he felt cruel.
He had known who the girl was, a maiden goddess, pure and wholly unsullied. He was to wait until she trusted him, until she loved him. But he had stormed in, ripping kisses from her without hesitating - taunting her even.
Demeter would give him hell.
…
And up above, the world suffered.
The sun did not shine, the rain did not come, life was not forthcoming.
Mortals died in thousands, each day bringing new curses from the goddess. They grieved, sacrificed their animals, their children, driven mad by the death that now ruled on the earth. Everyday, they cried to the heavens, begging for mercy. But the mercy would not come.
"Demeter, you cannot carry on like this." Mycroft stood in her dark home, a faint echo of the place it had been. His voice was grave, heavy with the death of the mortals.
Her back was to him, pale skin striking against fading light, and a light breeze rustled through the room, tossing decaying leaves into a soft dance.
"But how fitting," she intoned lowly, but with sharp edges lying underneath, "that the god of dead should take one prize, and from me, receive many."
A slow, mocking smile curved her lips, and she turned her eyes to look into Mycroft's.
Eyes of sorrow, eyes of madness, eyes of a woman haunted.
Vines, once heavy with flowers, now lay shriveled against the stones. Trees rustled with the winds of an agitated god, strange sounds coaxed out of the dead leaves. The world stood devastated with Demeter's anguish, powerless against the consequences of her abandonment.
"Your error cost the world dearly, Mycroft," she spoke his name brazenly, with a recklessness no other god than one utterly wrecked would have dared.
"Thousands have died."
Her words came out viciously. "And none of them innocent." She held his gaze, and continued with a voice of steel, "I owe nothing to the mortals, and I owe nothing to you." Every word enunciated quietly.
And for a moment they stood, grief and despair mixing between them, before Mycroft bowed his head, and turned to leave.
Eyes no longer destroyed, but alight with wild agony. She was a woman burning.