A/N: I know I said that there would be a six month time jump, but after debating things both inside my head and with my incredible beta, moonmama, I've decided to cut to the chase and jump to the one-year mark. There are reasons, and anything people feel I skipped over will most likely be addressed via flashback and memories and conversations, so you'll know how things got from where they were in chapter 9 to where they are now. Have faith, and I promise to deliver! Any questions or concerns, feel free to PM, I promise to respond! Warnings for some coerced sexual acts and someone getting shot (but no one dies, promise).

Chapter 10 – Happy Anniversary, Darling

December 24, 2012

Molly heard the door to the flat open and arranged herself artfully across the bed, dressing gown gaping open just enough to show her modest cleavage and the lines of her legs, leaning back on her elbows the way she'd learned Sherlock preferred to see her displayed.

Heart pounding, she waited for him to come to the bedroom. He'd promised her…if she greeted him "properly," he'd promised her a surprise for their "anniversary." A surprise she would like, he'd clarified, and she could only hope it was what he'd dangled before her for so long: more freedom.

To be allowed to go to the shops by herself, to walk in the park on a sunny day without him or one of his guards looming over her (although he'd made it clear that said guards would never be far, at least she'd be able to pretend for five minutes that she had true freedom) – she wanted that so desperately she could feel herself start to tremble, her heart hammering in her chest with the sheer need that threatened to overwhelm her. Or – Dear God, please please please let it be so – the possibility that he would allow her to take up a full-time position as a pathologist, at Bart's or some other institution, would that really be so much to ask?

She allowed herself a cynical smile that threatened to turn into tears. God, was this what she'd come to, after a year of being so tightly bound to this world's Sherlock Holmes? That the mere potential for such small freedoms, freedoms she'd once taken for granted, could hold such power over her?

She swallowed down the tears; she'd become quite good at that over the past twelve months. And here it was, Christmas Eve 2012, and she was even more pathetic than she'd once believed herself. Willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

Just like everyone else on this godforsaken version of Earth.

The bedroom door opened. She cleared her mind of such troubling thoughts and arranged her features into a welcoming, seductive smile. "Happy anniversary, darling," she purred as Sherlock entered the room, hating the words as they came out of her mouth. Hating herself, hating the man in front of her even as her treacherous body ached for his touch.

"Molly." Her name came out in a hoarse gasp, his eyes widening as they took in her welcoming pose. Hadn't he expected her to cooperate, when he dangled promises, vague though they were, in front of her nose?

She rose to her knees with the fluid grace she'd had beaten into her over the past year and held out her arms to him. He stumbled forward like a man in a daze, and her smile grew knowing as she saw the physical signs of his reaction to her tenting the front of his trousers. He was still wearing the Belstaff, but it was open in the front, and when he reached her side she slipped her arms around him beneath the damp wool of the coat, nestling her head against his chest and rubbing her fingers gently up and down his back.

His heart was thundering madly in his chest, not unlike her own, and she smiled to herself, a triumphant smile at having drawn so immediate and visceral a reaction from him. Good. Maybe his promised "gift" would be increased in proportion to his obvious appreciation of her efforts.

She pulled away, reaching up to grasp him by the back of the neck, pressing her lips against his, sliding her tongue between them until he opened his mouth with another gasp and allowed her entry. He remained curiously passive in her embrace, not reaching out to hold her or return the kiss, for a long, puzzling moment.

Just as she was about to pull away, to question whether this was what he actually wanted from her tonight, his arms encircled her, holding her tightly to him, and he finally responded to the kiss, returning it, his own tongue thrusting eagerly into her welcoming mouth. He moaned against her – a first, that; he never ever vocalized more than a gasp even at the height of passion – and she felt a thrill of mingled triumph and desire course through her veins, manifesting in a shiver as she clutched the lapels of his coat and pressed her body even closer to his.

Then her hands were shoving impatiently at the coat, pushing it off his shoulders as he stumbled back a single step, looking dazed, stunned almost, and she smiled at him, not even needing to fake the blatant need in her eyes this time. He allowed the jacket to fall to the floor, unmoving as she whirled into action, a deep inhalation of breath the only sound he made as her hands fumbled for the belt and buttons and zip to his trousers. She heard him say her name in a strangled voice, something that sounded like "stop, wait, no" (but couldn't possibly be those words), but she was too busy pushing his trousers and pants down, just enough to expose the throbbing erection she'd felt beneath the trapping fabric, to answer him.

Then she fastened her hands and mouth on his cock, stroking and licking and sucking the way she'd learned he liked best, and his hands were on her shoulders, fingers digging in desperately before suddenly removing themselves, pressing themselves into her hair, tugging at her head.

Pulling her away. Forcing her to raise her head and look at him.

She stared up at him, feeling something deep inside curdling with sudden fear. What had she done wrong, why was he stopping her? Was he angry at her sudden sexual aggression? But he'd liked it before, even knowing that it was at best only a partial reflection of her own desires…

His eyes were wild, pupils blown back with passion, breathing harsh, but he managed to gasp out: "No, Molly, stop, you don't understand…"

"No," an identical voice drawled from the doorway. "I don't believe she does. Do enlighten her, Mr. Holmes. Or should I just call you 'Sherlock'?"

Molly froze at the sound of that voice, that impossible voice. Slowly, fearfully, she forced her head to turn.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand behind his back, the other aiming a gun at the two figures by the bed. No, not so much at her as at the second Sherlock Holmes who was slowly reaching to readjust his clothing, fastening the zip and staring at the newcomer with a faint curl of contempt to his lip.

Two Sherlocks.

Two.

Molly felt faint; a roaring filled her ears, her vision started to tunnel into darkness, then she took hold of herself and forced the panic, the terror, back down into the farthest recesses of her mind, forced her reeling mind to make sense of the scene before her.

Two Sherlocks. The one she'd grown resigned to, the one who owned her body, and the other…

The one who owned her heart, her soul if there was such a thing.

The Sherlock from her own world. No wonder he'd tried to tell her to stop. No wonder he'd seemed so shocked by her sexual boldness; he was probably just as shocked by his own body's blatant desire, that must be why he'd taken so long to stop her.

She'd prayed, wished, hoped for this moment – and now she'd ruined it. She'd been so focused on the small freedoms promised that she'd destroyed what might be her only chance at the larger happiness she truly craved.

She felt a tear slip from her eye, then another and another until suddenly she was sobbing, gasping out apologies to her Sherlock, the real one, the man she'd loved so desperately and had resigned herself to never seeing again. She was babbling like an idiot as she tried to convey how sorry she was, to explain why she'd done what she'd done…

"Yes, Molly, I'm sure he understands." That sneering, contemptuous voice cut into her mingled sobs and apologies like the sharpest scalpel, obsidian and ice combined. "I wondered when he might make his move; he's been here for two weeks now. That's how long it's been since my men began giving me confusing and contradictory accounts of things I was supposed to have done and said, isn't that right, Sherlock?"

He sneered the name, obviously feeling no great threat at the sight of his counterpart, and once again Molly knew it was her fault. She'd managed to undo Sherlock, her Sherlock, just long enough for their mutual enemy to arrive and find that he held the upper hand even more firmly than he must have thought he did.

oOo

Sherlock – the one who had, indeed, been on this world for only a short period of time (although a bit longer than the two weeks he was willing to admit to), his fascination with not only the mere existence of such a place but with the similarities and differences between here and home tempered by his concern for Molly – regarded his other self through hooded eyes, consciousness once again bathed in the icy coldness of logic, all the confusing and conflicting emotions aroused (yes, that was exactly the right way to express it) by the sight of the long-missing Molly Hooper lying in so lewd a pose on the other Sherlock's bed firmly under control.

Her appearance and attitude had shocked him; had he made a mistake in coming here, did she neither want nor need saving after all? The way she greeted him whilst mistaking him for his counterpart, the invitation in her pose and welcome in her eyes…but no. Underlying it all was a clear sense of melancholy even he couldn't fail to recognize, no matter how much more difficult emotions were to navigate than facts. And the fact was that this was what his Molly had been reduced to by this world's twisted version of himself.

Before he could even begin to process how enraged and helpless and yes, dammit, guilty that made him feel, she'd moved forward, arms wide, eager for his embrace, and he'd found himself stumbling toward her like a man in a trance, unable to resist the need to confirm her physical reality after she'd been gone for so long.

The embrace had startled him all over again, the ardent kiss unexpected – and unexpectedly, awkwardly adding to his already aroused physical state. Before he knew it she'd opened his trousers and had his erection in her sweet, not-too-small-after-all mouth, and things had threatened to get further out of hand if he didn't stop it. Now.

His stunned intellect had finally stirred itself, panicking him back to sanity in time to stop Molly's (God, wonderful, amazing, breathtaking) ministrations…but not soon enough for the trap his counterpart had, in hindsight, quite obviously sprung.

Her captor had arrived far too close on Sherlock's heels for it to be mere coincidence, and judging by his reaction upon interrupting them, he'd waited for exactly that moment, watching and listening from outside the half-opened door, before strolling into the room and taking control of the situation.

He'd come to rescue Molly and ended up as much a prisoner as she was.

As if reading his mind, the other Sherlock, the one who'd tied himself to the side of the devils rather than the angels – few though they seemed to be on this world – smirked at him. "If you're expecting your Dr. Watson to come crashing to your rescue, or our own, dear DI Lestrade, don't hold your breath," he said with another sneer, an expression that seemed to come so naturally to his lips that it was almost a surprise when he wasn't wearing it. "The two of them are currently being detained by my men."

"Because of course you knew exactly where I sent them," Sherlock surmised, keeping his voice as cool and even as the other Sherlock. "To the site of your clandestine attempts to replicate the accident that drew Molly here in the first place."

Molly's tormentor nodded without ever removing his gaze – so odd, staring into the eyes she'd described to him so many times as blue, green, grey and finding himself as incapable of pinning down their exact colors as others always were – from his own.

He wasted no further time in examining this other version of himself. Their few physical dissimilarities were minute, practically non-existent; the only change he'd had to make had been to sacrifice his signature curls and stalk around like a stage villain with a perpetual sneer on his lips and no one had questioned him.

Well. No one had appeared to question him; clearly that assumption was now proven wrong. John and this world's Lestrade had been found and taken captive. The question was, had Dr. Smythe been found out as well?

Before he could find the correct way to frame his question without giving too much away, three things happened almost simultaneously: his other self brought his hidden hand into sight, bearing a riding crop which he raised up and lowered with brutal force onto Molly's bare shoulder. Molly cried out in obvious pain and collapsed on the edge of the bed, huddling into herself as if in expectation of further blows.

He made an involuntary movement forward, instinct propelling him for once ahead of intellect, which was silenced over the furious pounding of his heart, to remind him that his adversary held a gun on him...

Too late. By the time he realized his mistake his other self had turned and fired directly into his upper thigh. With a grunt of pain, he collapsed to the bedroom floor.

oOo

Molly screamed as the gun went off, scrambling madly for the wounded man but coming to a jerking halt as she was grabbed roughly by the arm and hauled against her captor's lean form. She fought like a wild thing, kicking and scratching and clawing, desperate to get to the real Sherlock, to put a tourniquet around the top of his thigh and stop the bleeding, to make sure the bullet hadn't shattered bone or torn open his femoral artery.

A swift blow to the head finally stilled her, silenced her screams and buckled her knees, although the man holding her – the one she would never call "Sherlock" ever again, never – refused to allow her to drop to the floor. Hauling her up once again, he looked over the collapsed form of his counterpart with a sneer. "He'll live. However, he should have learned from his first attempt to save you, Molly, that he will always be doomed to fail."

Molly had no idea what the madman standing next to her was talking about...until suddenly she did. It had been a year, but she still bore scars from the scratches on her ankle. Scratches that exactly matched the spread of this man's hand. She'd speculated that Sherlock had tried to save her...and as she looked down at him, watching as he clutched his bleeding leg, she understood that she'd been right.

He'd tried to save her. Hadn't just let the otherworldly force drag her away. It shouldn't have made her feel better, but it did.

His counterpart sneered out a command as she remained passive in his hold, still trying to process the realization she'd just stumbled upon. "Use your belt as a tourniquet, man, unless you prefer to bleed out in front of our Molly."

She watched through tear-blurred eyes as Sherlock slowly, painfully removed his belt and did as he'd been instructed (thank God, it looked like the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his thigh, maybe the injury wasn't as bad as she'd first thought), his eyes never leaving hers. He even managed the shadow of an encouraging smile for her sake, although she was unable to return it. She did, however, manage to stop the flow of tears; where she'd never been able to be brave and strong for herself alone, she knew she could do it for him. Especially knowing how hard he'd tried to keep her from being taken.

Something of her resolve must have translated itself into her body language, because her captor released his hold on her arm only to grab her cruelly by the hair, twisting the auburn stands around his hand and forcing her head back so he could examine her face. A smile crawled across his lips, and Molly fought down the urge to shudder, to back down and beg for his forgiveness. She would never do that again, not even to spare herself any unpleasantness or pain...

"But you would do anything for him, wouldn't you?" he asked as if reading her mind, his voice a soft, dangerous purr. He forced her head around to face Sherlock, so pale and drawn, the tightness of his lips revealing the pain he refused to show otherwise, blood still seeping from his wounded leg. "So nice that my pet has regrown her spine, but I'm afraid it's too little, too late, Molly."

His hand tightened on her hair and she gave an involuntary cry of pain as he forced her onto her knees. "Now, Molly," he said, his voice still soft and deadly, silky smooth with the promise of future pain. "I believe I interrupted you when you were attempting to give 'me' my anniversary present. Do continue. And if you do well enough, I might let you bandage up his wound."

"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice low and shaky but at least she was able to ask the question. She gave herself points for that much, for sticking to her guns and not immediately caving in to the man who'd held her prisoner for a year.

The slow smile he gave her promised nothing good. "Oh, you won't like what I do if you disobey me, Molly love. Not. At. All."

The gun he still held, which had been pointing toward the bedroom floor, now raised and pointed directly at Sherlock. His eyes bored into hers, hypnotic and deadly. "I'll kill him. Then I'll make you watch while I torture John Watson to death."

"Don't do it, Molly."

The identical voice was hoarse and laced with pain. But even as Sherlock spoke, even as he urged her not to give in to her captor's demands, she knew she would never be able to allow him to die just because she wanted to spare herself the humiliation of was about to follow.

Instead, she gave a slight shake of her head and reached up with hands that somehow remained steady, undoing the black leather belt, the metal button, the zip. Pushed down the immaculately pressed trousers and silky black boxers. Freed her captor's erection, and pressed her lips to the tip.

Did as he ordered her to do. Took his heated shaft into her mouth and bobbed on it until he came. Swallowed and wiped her mouth when he finished, feeling curiously numb as she leaned back on her heels and gazed blankly at her hands. Raised them, finally, and rearranged his clothing, pulled up the zip, tucked him carefully away before finally lifting her gaze to meet his.

He was smiling. He reached down and tilted her chin further up with the tip of the riding crop. "Good girl," he purred, then stepped away from her. "Now that that's been properly taken care of, time to deal with our unwelcome visitor once and for all.

Smiling, he raised the pistol and pointed it directly as Sherlock's forehead. "Good bye, Mr. Holmes."