A/N: Heed the warnings, folks, this one is DARK. Noncon, dubcon, torture, blood...yeah. I started this fic probably seven years ago and only recently figured out how I wanted it to end (aside from, you know, Sherlolly triumphing). Ambivalence is just as much of a killer of inspiration as ignorance.
Molly's head hurt, worse than any migraine or hangover she'd ever suffered through. Her neck was sore, and her back, and her legs and arms... She tried to move the latter, only to discover with rising horror that she was tightly bound. She moaned in pain and confusion, only to further discover that there was a gag of some kind in her mouth. She struggled to open her eyes, wincing as even the dim light felt as if it was stabbing into her brain.
The room was empty, giving her no clues as to her location or how she'd arrived there: grimy white walls, no windows, no furniture, cold (dingy and possibly once white) linoleum floor, a simple overhead light fixture flush with the water-stained white ceiling. One door, metal, with a small, wired-glass window in it at just above head-height, if her sense of proportion wasn't thrown off by the throbbing ache in her head and her eyes' unwillingness to focus for long periods of time.
She gave herself a moment to try and remember anything that might give her a clue as to who had done this to her, and why. Come on, Molly Hooper, she silently urged herself. What's the last thing you do remember?
Her eyes widened as an image of Sherlock formed in her mind, lying on an autopsy table...he was dead...no, that wasn't right...she'd helped him fake his death! Oh, yes! Memory came rushing back, disjointed and fuzzy, but she remembered what had happened, how Moriarty had plotted to discredit Sherlock, to force him into a situation where he had to sacrifice either his own life or that of his friends.
Well. The ones Moriarty counted as his friends, not all the ones Sherlock would have included on that list, because she would have had an assassin's gun trained on her as well if Moriarty thought she mattered. Although, considering her current circumstances, perhaps she wasn't as overlooked as she and Sherlock had both believed she had been.
The sound of the door being unlocked and opened captured her attention. She struggled into a sitting position, bracing herself against the concrete wall. Her eyes widened and she couldn't help emitting a strangled gasp as Sherlock's bloodied and battered body was dragged into the room by two hulking, black-clad men, then dropped unceremoniously to the floor not far from where she was sitting.
She couldn't tell if he was alive and unconscious or...something she refused to consider. The pain in her head made it hard to focus her eyes, but she blinked and blinked and, between one blink and the next, Jim Moriarty was crouched down next to Sherlock. Impossible for him to have appeared so quickly, how did he get there so fast?
She discarded that question in favor of watching anxiously as he rolled Sherlock onto his back and peered into his eyes. She made another choked noise and suddenly found Jim's attention transferred to her.
He rose to his feet and strolled over to her. Her eyes widened at the sight of the knife he was holding in one hand. She tried to lean away from him as he crouched by her side and gave her a manic smile. "No, luv, none of that, I'm afraid. Nowhere for you to go, really, so why bother?"
She flinched as he reached up and cut away the gag, tossing it to the floor before moving to work on the ropes binding her legs. "Sorry about all this," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "but the boys say you put up quite a fight before one of them was finally able to give you your jab and send you off to sleepy-land."
A jab…that must be the dull ache in her neck. And the reason for her headache and blurry vision and the way her thoughts kept scattering. She'd been drugged, no wonder she had no memory of how she'd come to be here.
"Wh-what are you going to do to us?" Molly whimpered as her legs were freed, aching and cramped. She stretched them and coughed dryly as she waited for an answer, her eyes darting between Sherlock's still form – was he even breathing, why wasn't his chest rising and falling as it should be? – and the madman currently cutting the ropes binding her wrists together. "Why did you bring us here?"
No answer came, of course, just a low chuckle as the last of the ropes fell away from her wrists. As soon as she was freed she lashed out, fingers clawed, an attack he easily dodged. Ignoring the sting of returning circulation she stumbled to her feet, attempting to scramble past Moriarty, to check on Sherlock, but he kept her in place with one hand on her shoulder. He didn't appear to be exerting any real force, but she couldn't free herself, couldn't push him away or do more than squirm ineffectually in his hold. He laughed, a low chuckle of amusement that sent bolts of fear down her spine, clenching her stomach so that she had to force herself not to vomit as she fearfully met his eyes. "What do you want with us?" she whispered once her gag reflex was under control.
Moriarty reached out with his free hand and tipped her chin up, studying her face as if he'd never seen her before. "Oh, what don't I want with you, Molly Hooper?" he crooned, his Irish lilt more pronounced than ever, eyes lit with an unholy glee that seemed to cause silver and gold flames to dance within their cold, dark, sharklike depths. "I want to bite you and fuck you until you scream – in pain or in pleasure, either one will do. But mostly I want to let Sherlock do that to you, bind you to him and me both, another way to force him to do my bidding when the mental control I'll have over him after he revives inevitably slips. He's far too clever, far too intelligent for me to control him forever, which is why I waited until now to make my move."
When he revives. So Sherlock wasn't dead. Thank God. Molly felt a sense of relief that was swiftly erased as she tried to process the rest of Moriarty's words. None of the rest of it made any sense to her, with the exception of one terrifying phrase. I want to bite you and fuck you…
His smile widened as she cringed away from him, his hold on her never loosening. Her growing terror and confusion sent shivers through her body she couldn't control. At least, she thought with a burst of gallows humor, if I wet myself I won't ruin my clothing.
That thought somehow managed to calm her a bit; the shaking subsided even though Moriarty was still watching her, deducing her the way Sherlock usually did, which thought also somehow managed to calm her fears. No, not calm them, not exactly; she was still terrified, because it was clear that Moriarty was even madder than she'd believed, but it did help her to set those fears aside, as does the memory of a certain conversation she'd once had with Sherlock: He wasn't my boyfriend. We only went on three dates. I ended it.
That reminder – she, Molly Hooper, dumped the most dangerous criminal in England – helped to still her racing thoughts and slow her breaths even if her heart is still pounding in her chest as if she's run marathon after marathon with no respite in between. "I don't understand," she finally said, pleased that her voice, although shaky, is no longer the stuttering mess it had degenerated into when she'd first regained consciousness. "Jim, I don't understand what's happening here. Please, explain it to me."
He appeared genuinely surprised by her words, and not in a pleased sort of way. No, if anything a flash of annoyance crossed his features, darkening them further. Instead of cowering away from him, she was proud of bringing about that reaction in him, of being able to surprise him when clearly he thought he had her all figured out.
Then he lunged forward, moving so quickly she could barely register the attack until he was on her, pressing her to the cold tile floor, his eyes flooded with red and his teeth…Oh God, his teeth, the top canines elongated into something out of a horror movie, emerging from sheaths like a cat's claws. only sharper and far more dangerous, snapping at her throat as he hissed, "Oh, Miss Molly wants explanations, does she? Wants to know what's happening here?" His words were a savage mockery of her own, and the calm she'd been so proud of evaporated like dew on a hot summer's day...in hell. "Well, I hope this clears things up!"
Then he sank his fangs into her throat, tearing at her flesh, and the word she'd been skittering around ever since he mentioned biting finally burst into her mind, bloody and terrifying and full of pain.
Vampire.
