CHAPTER TEN
Demon-Man
AN: WARNING FOR DRUG USE AND SEXUAL CONTENT (also: I'm writing this while listening to the soundtrack of The Neon Demon, Drive and various retrowave playlists on YouTube, just to give you an idea what the world of the NLD is like)
Sherlock Holmes had an idea of where he was but unlike most of the time he was not one hundred percent sure.
The Neon Lights District, I remember that much, he thought blandly, coming out of his stupor.
A needle hung out of his arm and he pulled it out, dropping it to the floor. His hands felt numb and he blinked a few times to get his bearings.
He takes his time but still stands too quickly and as he crashes to the floor all the colors in the world assault his eyes and he's blinded. He hears music suddenly, muffled and loud, beating into his brain like a hammer beating a nail; but the nail isn't moving, the hammer just bounces off making a nails on a chalkboard noise that it shouldn't.
Redbeard...
And then the world drops back into itself and he's falling but everything around him is staying still.
Too much, too much, too much... his brain tries to restart itself but fails and he's still falling while the room stays still.
Sherlock knew he hadn't had much but it had been strong... one needle, that's all it took.
Control, control, he reminds himself.
Redbeard, a voice says and he snaps back once more. The room is still, he is still. He sits up, more slowly this time.
Nothing is spinning, he isn't drowning in his own vomit.
Five years clean, washed down the drain, injected into his bloodstream. His vice, the shit he got hooked on when he was undercover.
Felicity, he thought.
That's what the drug dealers named it. A swirling, fucking bitch of a cocktail. One shot, one injection, one vape from it and you were a goner. The high was intense, excessive, vivid and violent. And every time you tried Felicity it was like playing Russian Roulette.
So far, Sherlock had survived every time.
Where am I? He thought.
He stumbled into a small room that took him a moment to realize was a bathroom.
Crouching and eventually falling hard onto his knees he stuck a couple fingers down his throat and forced himself to vomit. He knew if he didn't do it now the chances of doing it in a less than convenient place would happen.
Sherlock knew he needed water. Something refreshing, something that wasn't Felicity.
And at the thought of it's name he wanted more...
One more needle...
The room seemed to suddenly become real, not just floating formless objects in a square space.
A filthy bed, a couple junkies passed out on the floor. There was no door to the room, just a flimsy cheap curtain. The pretty lights, every color of the fucking rainbow and heaven above, beckoned him closer like a siren.
Like an ever changing wispy hand crooked a finger at him, dragging him to the edge of a neon chasm. It's maw, bright and beautiful, it's rewards fatal.
Sherlock followed the lights like the fabled hero he thought himself to be.
All heroes die, he thought.
Coming back to himself, the high slowly fading, he realized where he was.
Bliss, he deduced.
It had been a favorite club of his. He found it strangely funny he would end up here.
Sherlock got about two feet towards the bar when he was stopped by a giant. Literal giant. The man stood about eight feet tall, his head was shaved and the names of his victims were tattooed on various parts of his body. He was missing part of his left ear and his teeth were the size of small rocks.
"Oh, you." Sherlock groaned.
"He wants to see you." The Gollum grinned, his voice deep and nearly incoherent.
"I'm waiting." Sherlock snarkily replied. He might be more than a little off his ass but he couldn't stop himself from being an asshole.
Roughly the Gollum forced Sherlock towards the spiral staircase. The club always looked so different from high above. The room seemed to spin as he ascended.
Hell isn't below, it's high, high above, he thought as he watched the people dance, gyrate and vape and inject.
There was a couple in the corner rutting horridly, Sherlock wondered if it was even consensual. He didn't think about it.
High above the crowd of sweaty bodies, most of them walking corpses, Sherlock was seated opposite him.
Sherlock observed him. He hadn't changed much. Tall, pale, his gray hair slicked back professionally. His profile made him look dignified, a simple businessman. The sunglasses obscured his eyes, not that Sherlock needed to look into them to know there was no real human staring back at him.
No, Jim Moriarty stopped being human a long time ago.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but watched as Jim's hand gripped his cane tightly in one fist, so Sherlock didn't speak at all. Jim held up one finger to his lips, still not turning his head to look at Sherlock.
"This is my favorite part," Jim said looking down into the crowd. He pressed a button and the area where he and Sherlock and his bodyguards were became encased with glass walls. And then vapor began filling the crowd. They roared, cheered, laughed and went fucking crazy as the Felicity entered their lungs.
Sherlock knew what it meant, it was calling Hazing. Soon the happy high would wear off and the violent face of Felicity would take over. The crowd starting kissing each other, touching, groping, until it wasn't enough and they started beating each other and biting and trying to tear each other apart.
Sherlock grimaced and looked away hearing Moriarty chuckle darkly.
"Population control, Shezza, somebody's gotta do it. Right sweetie?" Jim said gleefully, turning his face towards Sherlock.
The Watcher knew that eventually the crowd would be mostly dead and then the Cleaners would come in, picking up body parts, throwing them into the streets, throwing them into a grinder, burying them where no one would ever find them. And Jim the Monster called it "population control". Sherlock called it murder.
It's the reason Sherlock had been investigating him when everything went wrong.
But there was no murder in Jim-Land. There was no such fucking thing. Murder implied it was illegal. And there was no law in the NLD.
Looking at Jim, Sherlock realized the man had aged. A couple new scars adorned his face, when he grinned he had a couple new silver teeth. Jim always did prefer silver over gold. He once called gold "tacky and cheap". But silver... there was something in it that made him obsessed. It was almost sexual in the way he coveted it.
"Why are you here, Shezza?" Jim asked, snapping his fingers as a drink was brought to him by a boy who couldn't be older than seventeen. Sherlock noticed the boy's bruised wrists, his dead eyed stare, the silver bracelet around his ankle signifying who he belonged to.
Jim noticed too.
"Like him? I can get you one." Jim said as he sipped his drink, making conversation about human slavery and trafficking as if he discussing the fucking weather. It made Sherlock's stomach turn.
"No thanks." He replied.
"No? Aww well, I'm gonna kill him soon anyway. It stops being fun when they stop fighting and just, ya know, lie there with those weird eyes. Emotion, Shezza, that's what I get off on."
"Probably because you don't feel them."
"Yeah probably." Jim said with a shrug.
"I'm here for Felicity." Sherlock said finally answering Jim's question. The crime lord shook his head and rolled his eyes.
"And here I thought you missed me," Jim said, feigning disappointment. "That bitch always did come between us."
"Maybe you shouldn't sell it anymore." Sherlock said sarcastically.
Jim giggled.
"Oh, Shezzy, you always could make me laugh." Jim snapped his fingers again and his boy-servant was escorted out. "You two turn your backs."
Sherlock watched as his bodyguards did as they were told. Jim scooted his chair closer to Sherlock's, placing a hand on the Watcher's knee.
"You always were such a cold fish, Shezzy," Jim said huskily, his thumb making small circles. "I only wanted to take care of you."
Sherlock grunted.
"Like you take care of that boy?"
Jim rolled his eyes again and even through the sunglasses Sherlock could see it.
"Oh please they don't mean anything. Just flesh over calcium and collagen and big puffy sacks filled with blood. They're so breakable, Shezzy, but not you." Jim said his hand reaching up Sherlock's thigh.
"You didn't just come here for a quick fix and a filthy fuck from one of my girls," Jim said looking at Sherlock, looking him in the eyes. "You're... eww, are you sad?"
Jim snatched his hand away and wiped it off.
"Jesus, Shez, I thought you came here to finally fuck me sideways and three ways from Sunday but no you're... you're suicidal and I'm sorry but that's such a turn-off for a girl. Now you're making me all... guilty."
Jim raised his drink to his lips once more.
"So you won't sell to me?" Sherlock asked, trying not to sound desperate.
"You already got some, obviously. One of my competitors? I'm hurt, Shezza, really hurt." And the strange thing was, Jim did sound genuinely hurt. He liked his loyal customers and Sherlock had only ever bought from him. And now one of his favorite's had gone to someone else, leaving Jim with sloppy seconds.
"It was a small dose, nothing that would last. I still came here, didn't I?" Sherlock said, he looked back down at the crowd. The dance floor covered in blood and carnage. The Cleaners were already getting to work.
Yes, it's good thing Sherlock had already made himself throw up.
Jim groaned loudly and stomped a foot.
"Fine. But I want something of course." Jim said and he removed his sunglasses, the glass eye looked awkwardly in another direction.
"Name it." Sherlock said ready to barter.
"Fuck-"
"-No-ope. Next."
Jim sighed.
"Blowjob?"
"Be serious."
"I'm always serious when I flirt, Shezza."
"How much would I get for the second?" Sherlock asked and Jim actually looked surprised.
"You'd be playing Russian Roulette with every chamber full." Jim said quietly, a dark look of delight passing over his features.
Sherlock thought for a moment, time slowing down once more. Was it worth it? Selling himself for a fix? He thought about Molly, the way she had looked so terrified and angry at him. The gentle caress of her small hands on his body.
One seedy affair and he'd have what he wanted. Death in a syringe. A game, it was all a game. Sherlock could feel the germs that thrived in this decrepit little underworld making a home on and inside his flesh. He could feel every cell in his body powering down.
And for some reason, Mrs. Harrison's face appeared, concealed by smoke...
GUILTY...
"I-"
Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence because before he knew it the glass shield protecting himself and Moriarty and his goons had shattered, a gas that was not Felicity crept in. Jim shrieked and his guards immediately latched onto him, pulling him away to some secret door in the wall.
The Watcher felt himself falling again, the shock of the glass shattering had ripped through his eardrums horribly and left him with a head splitting ringing. He was pirouetting again. This time he wasn't just falling the whole world was. It was dropping out of time and reality. It was imploding in on itself.
Sherlock saw the end of the world; a great big boom, muffled by space, swallowed by the darkness and vacuum. He watched from high above all the stupid little people as they screamed at him to save them. He saw Molly standing on a mountain range he must have seen in pictures, for he had never been to a real mountain before.
Molly was dressed in red like the widows of Watchers but her elegant dress was torn, stained with blood, it was immense between her legs. Her head was shaved and her eyes wept but she smiled. The wall of fire was coming for her, like a red tsunami.
No, come with me, come with me, Molly! I can save you! He tried to yell to her but his voice was so far away. And she was fading closer to the wall.
You live alone or we die together, Sherlock, dream Molly said warmly, her voice echoing across the mountain range and down into a deep barren valley.
But Sherlock didn't want to die and he didn't want to leave dream Molly to her fiery fate. He tried running to her but he had no body. He was only a mind, floating in the ether with nothing to grab onto.
Molly, please, he cried, he wept, he sobbed he choked on his own desperation. Finally he tried reaching for her again and she held out her own dainty little pale hand.
They were so close, so close they could almost touch.
And that's when Sherlock actually looked at his hands. They weren't his. They were made of metal with false flesh stretched clumsily over them. The little blinking lights flashing underneath the thin layers. He didn't understand.
Then he looked to Molly again whose face now looked like Janine.
You're not a man, Sherlock Holmes, you'll never be a man! She shouted at him. He blinked and when he opened his eyes again she was holding a dead baby by the leg upside down and letting herself fall backwards into a pool of sharks. He felt himself wanting to retch again.
It's not real, it's not real, it's... it's-
"SHERLOCK!" He felt a hand slap his face repeatedly. He groaned and tried to move but someone held him down. He couldn't see. Whatever knockout drug he had been hit with was highly effective. He was having a harder time coming out of this than Felicity.
"Come on, mate, come on," he heard the voice say again and then himself being dragged somewhere. His foot caught on something and the person dragging him gave a hard tug and Sherlock's shoe came free and he was dragged once more.
Finally after what felt like an eternity he was leaned against a wall and something cold was pushed into his hand.
"Drink this." The voice said, a man's. He gripped the cold object and brought it to his lips and drank the whole bottle of water, like a dying man.
"Good, good. Now relax and try not to make any noise." The man said, Sherlock felt his sleeve being rolled up and his vision cleared long enough for him to make out that it was John Watson beside him. He watched as the Captain took out a syringe of amber fluid and injected it into Sherlock arm.
Felicity antidote, Sherlock thought almost wishing it had been more of the drug.
Let me die, he thought hoping John could read his mind knowing full well the other man couldn't. Remember, Sherlock? You don't want to die.
John had had a hell of a time trying to find Sherlock. He had searched all of the haunts Mycroft had told him about. He had shaken down and roughed up and beaten all of the junkies, drug dealers and scumbags that had tried to stand in his way. He was a one man army and after ten hours in the Neon Lights District word spread of a man willing to break bone and tear flesh to find the man he was looking for.
After a lot of intimidation, threats and following through with many of them, John Watson was directed to the club Bliss owned by the most powerful crime lord in the NLD. But John had dealt with terrorists, mutineers, spies, drug dealers and battered rebel armies, he wasn't afraid of one man.
John could tell that Sherlock was starting to come to. The man looked terrible. He smelt awful and he was shaking so bad he could barely hold the water bottle steady as he drank the whole thing. He felt tremendous pity for Sherlock in that moment. What had sent him over the edge? There had to have been something that triggered it.
Clean five years and then you go and do this, why? John thought to himself.
He secured the shack they were hiding out in. He listened over a radio that the bad guys were looking for them. He consulted his tablet map. They were a mile away from the first pick-up zone. He had two hours to get them there. If they didn't make it they were on their own with the second getaway car which was five miles away.
I suppose air support is out of the question? John thought stubbornly.
John checked on Sherlock again and the man was definitely awake but just staring off into nothing. John knew he had to get him talking and moving. The antidote was working but not fast enough. And he was dehydrated, hungry and running on most likely no sleep.
"Sherlock?" John asked, shaking his foot a little. Sherlock blinked a couple times and tears fell from his eyes.
"Thank you." Sherlock said weakly. The soldier smiled and nodded.
"You're welcome."
"Huh. This isn't the first I've been here. I assume Mycroft sent you?"
"Yeah."
"Couldn't come himself?"
"No, but I can't blame him."
Sherlock nodded slowly, ashamed that this was all happening again. Someone coming to save his ass. Only this time it wasn't his big brother and his mentor. It was a man who barely knew him.
John Watson, kicking down doors and leaving a trail of broken bodies and noses behind him. Sherlock knew there had been a reason he liked him. And he couldn't help but feel flattered.
"How much time have we got?" Sherlock asked standing slowly, with John's help.
"Two hours until the first pick-up leaves, a mile away."
"I assume if we miss it there's a second that's further?"
"Yeah."
"Well, let's not miss it."
Sherlock and John missed it of course. The tire marks felt like the bars of cell closing, banging shut. Cutting them off from civilization. And John wasn't sure how much farther Sherlock could go. The man was half out of his mind; mumbling things that were out of the ordinary and forgetting them almost immediately.
He kept saying a name... something that sounded Lolly Looper but John couldn't be sure if it was a name or something else entirely.
What did that bastard do to you? John thought as he helped Sherlock along.
They had to rest again, eventually. Taking shelter in an empty house that John cleared before bringing Sherlock in.
The Watcher was fading, John kept having to slap him awake. He didn't want to have to use the single shot of adrenaline he had, not yet anyway. John needed rest himself.
The two men, beaten and worn out, their muscles aching and burning, hunger setting in, rested in the burnt out shack that at one time had been someone's home. Their journey would have been shorter if they were anywhere else. But they had to be stealthy and avoid unwanted attention so everything was slow going.
The NLD had once been sectors 15-20. But after the Fall and the resistance takeover they were just a shell. A depressing relic of the past. Great houses home to greater families had once been the envy of all other sectors. Families had been murdered as tyrants, executed in full view of a roaring crowd.
Sherlock's family had barely gotten out alive. The Fall had happened when he was a small boy. The ancient family home of Musgrave had been taken and burned to the ground, his parents had been spirited away by Watchers loyal to the family to their private estate in another sector.
It was the first time Sherlock had ever encountered Watchers before and he owed them his life. He had sworn to become one and his father without question or hesitation sent him away to become one of the men who had saved his life and his family.
Stupid little boy, Sherlock thought sadly as he laid down on the dirty floor of the house.
The night the rebels came for them had been a nightmare he had fought for decades. They came with fire, they came with guns, they came with bottles shattering against the windows. But that's not why Sherlock woke up screaming in the middle of the night for years afterward.
Redbeard...
"We can't take the bloody dog with us!" He had heard his parents shouting as the angry mob descended upon the lawn of his ancestral home. Mycroft and Sherlock hid inside a closet, the lithe Irish Setter at their side, keeping watch over his charge.
Loyal to the end...
"Then be a damn man and do something!" His mother ordered his father, she was probably cradling Pride and Joy tightly when she should have been cradling Sherlock and comforting Mycroft.
Footsteps came and then the door to the closet burst open and without a word Sherlock's father grabbed Redbeard by the collar and-
"Sherlock?" John's voice distracted Sherlock from the memory, it was a kindness not an interruption.
"Hmm?" Sherlock grumbled. John reached down and helped the other man to his feet.
"We're not far now, come on, mate." John said leaning Sherlock against himself.
The route John took them wasn't crowded but they were starting to draw attention, even down all the back alleys and side stepping through abandoned buildings and old underground tunnels, people saw them. And people talked, and what those people said was "the asshole who beat the shit out of us is weak, let's get him!"
"Someone's following us." John told Sherlock without glancing over his shoulder.
"I know. Have been for some time." Sherlock replied quietly.
"Little further." John promised.
The people following them were in a group of five by John's count and the sound of the footsteps.
I can take three maybe four, John thought. He felt his heart rate spike but he remained calm, never going too fast otherwise they would start chasing them and he couldn't afford to attempt a run with Sherlock so weak.
"Hey!" A voice shouted.
Shit, John thought.
He kept walking though, limping along carrying Sherlock, the small group kept following.
A hundred feet, maybe, and some change, he kept telling himself. It made things easier, considering they were further than two hundred feet. But it was an encouraging lie.
"Hey!" The voice said again.
"The adrenaline in your left pocket, give it to me," Sherlock whispered.
John subtly slipped his free hand into his pocket and handed it off to Sherlock.
"We can't avoid them forever." Sherlock told him and John knew he was right.
"I can-"
"No. You're tired. You've done enough."
"You're half dead."
"You have no idea what I'm capable of John."
Their eyes lingered on one another. But John nodded, trusting Sherlock. He didn't know why he did but he let the man stand on his own.
Finally the two men turned to face their admirers.
Yes, a group of five. One woman, four men.
Mohawk, Black-Eye, Teeth, Tattoo and Tall- that's what John was calling them anyway. He didn't a damn what their real names were.
"Not from 'round here, are ya?" Mohawk said, gesturing with a blunt blade that looked like it had been carved out of a rusty pipe.
Fucking junkies, John thought then remembered who he had been carrying.
Sherlock injected the needle into his leg and immediately stood straight up gasping for breath.
"What ya got there?" Teeth the woman said, sniffing back snot.
"We're on our way out. Don't want any trouble." John said putting his hands up in a gesture of peace.
"Nah mate, ya don't leave the NLD." Mohawk said through thick crooked teeth.
"Really? Because I would really like to." Sherlock said snarkily.
The group of degenerate junkies didn't seem to like his tone.
"Wanna fight?" Tattoo said pulling out a knife and the others did too, various back alley abortion tools.
"Fuck yeah." Sherlock said pulling off his coat.
"Sherlock-" John tried and failed.
"Come on you fucking pussy." Sherlock said and stepped forward. Mohawk grinned and took a step forward.
"Ya got a death wish you do." Mohawk said smirking.
"You've no idea."
Mohawk ran at Sherlock but was stopped dead, quite literally, when the Watcher took out a gun and put a bullet in the junkie's head. Time seemed to slow from the moment the bullet left the chamber to the instant it struck the junkie in the forehead.
Gunsmoke filled the air, morphing Sherlock into some sort of demon as the neon lights painted his face every color imaginable.
Mohawk dropped hard onto the cement, his skull and brain spraying across his friend's faces.
Sherlock looked at the others.
"Anyone else?" He asked and they seemed to step back a little but he advanced towards them. "Oh come on give me a chance!" He whined.
Teeth tossed a knife at him quickly which he dodged and planted a bullet in her left side. Before she could scream he let loose another round into Black-Eye's chest.
"You all suck really bad at trying to kill me." Sherlock mocked.
Teeth screamed in pain as her blood gushed out of her wound. Her friends took off, leaving her behind.
Sherlock approached her and stood over her with the gun pointed at her head. She reached a frightened hand up, as if it would protect her.
"Stop sniffling, it would hardly impede the flight of a bullet pulling apart your face." Sherlock ordered but the woman only cried harder.
John slowly approached Sherlock, quite surprised at seeing Sherlock in action. He knew Watchers were good but- it was like the man had barely moved.
"Please! I'll do anything." Teeth whimpered.
Sherlock pressed a foot into her wound and she screamed even louder.
"I wounded you, you won't die unless I want you to. Now answer some questions," Sherlock threatened and she tried pushing his foot off her but he was stronger.
"Sherlock-" John tried but the other man couldn't be reached. His Watcher side had taken over, the beast was in control now.
"Who ordered the hit on five Watchers?" Sherlock demanded and John paused.
What? That case was closed, he thought quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, looking in both directions, checking to see if anyone was watching them. If there were anymore gangs hanging about.
"I don't know-"
"Yes you do don't lie to me. Who ordered the hit?" Sherlock asked, pressing his foot harder into her side.
"Please, he'll kill me!" She begged.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, knelt down, this time with his knee gouging her wound and pressing the barrel of the gun into her sweaty forehead.
"What do you think I plan on doing?" He said with an insane smirk. "Come on, come on I don't have all night this adrenaline is going to wear off and my finger is getting very, very itchy."
"Someone contacted the Boss," Teeth said quickly. "Ya know which Boss I mean."
Sherlock nodded.
"Said they needed it wrapped up pretty, in a bow. Needed to look genuine. He fixed it. Said it was a wake up!" Teeth said but nothing she was saying made any sense to John.
However, Sherlock seemed to understand.
"Wake up who?" He asked and she cried harder.
"Please. That's it! That's all I know. Please, kill me-"
Sherlock pulled the trigger.
"Jesus!" John shouted as her head came apart in front of his eyes. Sherlock finally handed him back the gun which John took quickly before punching the Watcher in the face.
But Sherlock's drug hadn't worn off and neither had his bloodlust. The two men grappled in the puddle ridden street, knocking into abandoned cars and setting off alarms.
"You fuck!" John shouted and Sherlock head butted John before pinning him to the ground.
"John, get a fucking hold of yourself!" Sherlock yelled at him. John held perfectly still, trying to get ahold of his breathing and his anger.
"Why... why did you-"
"Do you have any idea what her people would do to her if she came back?"
John slowly nodded.
"Then you know what I did was a mercy." Sherlock said sternly before releasing the soldier. He held out his hand and begrudgingly John took it.
John knew Sherlock was right. He had seen first hand what people in the NLD did to each other for squealing. Snitches didn't get stitches in a place like this. They just tore them apart limb from limb.
"Not far now." John assured him after they had been walking in silence.
By the time they got to the car the drug had worn off. John placed him in the backseat where Sherlock curled onto his side and fell asleep.
John had never been so happy to be inside a car before.
They had been driving for an hour before Sherlock finally spoke again,
"Don't take me to my brother."
"Sherlock he'll want to see you."
"No. Please, John, not him."
"Where do you want me to take you?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment before rolling over with a hard groan.
"Take me home, John."
John didn't ask Sherlock on the way back to the city why Sherlock was asking some junkie about a case he thought had been considered closed. A case closed by none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, head of the POI.
It nagged at John but he knew now wasn't the best time to ask. He'd wait, he would make his own deductions.
They pulled up to Holmes Manor a little after 2:30 AM. John helped him inside.
Sherlock was standing on his own two feet now.
"You're still welcome to come to dinner this weekend." Sherlock said nonchalantly as if John hadn't just dragged his ass halfway across the goddamn Neon Lights District.
A place John had promised he would never go back.
And yet you did, that voice told him.
John couldn't help but laugh a little, trying to keep his voice down knowing there were people still sleeping in the house.
"Yeah, sure," John said and he finally realized how tired he was. He yawned and rubbed his face.
"Get some sleep, Captain." Sherlock said as he began walking towards what looked like a back staircase but John didn't pay it any mind.
"Oh, and John," Sherlock called through the darkness, his voice reverberating through the still house. John turned and face the voice.
"Thank you." Sherlock said and all John heard after that were the sounds of footsteps going up a staircase.
John smiled to himself and exited the house.
When John returned home he didn't think of Lolly Looper, he didn't think of the dead junkies or why Sherlock was asking questions about a closed case, he didn't think of Mycroft Holmes or Anthea.
John fell asleep peacefully, thinking about her.
X
Molly Hooper woke with a start and realized quite quickly she wasn't alone. She recognized his smell. She tensed and felt her eyes begin to water. Since yesterday she had practiced what she would say to him. She would tell him to never touch her again, she would insult him and call him a lunatic.
And when she sat up to wake him she stopped and all anger was washed away. He was injured, badly. His face was bruised, his cheek cut from where she had scratched him and his clothes were a mess. She touched his forehead and he groaned. His skin was so pale as the sun began to rise, the sky turning a shade of orange and pink.
What happened to him? Molly thought worriedly.
Putting all her anger aside she set about examining him. Her father had taught her more than a thing or two about bandaging someone up. He had come home often enough with his fair share of wounds and Molly had always played nurse.
"Fix me up, darling, make daddy pretty again." He would say with a bloody lip or swollen eye. And she would giggle and kiss his cheek, thinking in a childish way that it was all a game.
Molly ran her fingers over his cheekbone and down his chin.
When his eyes opened slowly and gazed up at her she didn't remove her hand. She saw his jaw clench and his eyes watered. He tried looking away as the tears rolled down his cheek and onto her hand but Molly firmly held him in place and shook her head.
"Never again." She told him and he nodded. "Good. Now, sit up."
Molly went about undressing him until he was down to his underwear. He sat on the edge of her bed and she fixed him up. His ribs were badly bruised and there were cuts on his hands.
He looks like he picked a fight with God, Molly thought. Or God picked a fight with the Devil...
Molly washed dried blood off his hands and was thankful none of the wounds were very deep. She had seen him like this once before, very briefly. Another early morning for her it had been and a late night for him. He had stumbled in and had needed Mrs. Hudson and the butler to help him up the stairs.
But now there was no Mrs. Hudson or butler.
It was only she and him.
How I wish it could always be, she thought sadly.
After a brief sponge bath that took place on her floor with just a small bowl of water she dried him with one of her shirts. It wasn't much but she couldn't bring him to the servant's washroom.
"You need to sleep." Molly told him. He shrugged, painfully it looked like.
"I need to work."
Sherlock tried standing but Molly pushed him back down on the bed. She was half standing, half kneeling. She straddled one thigh and her hands ran over his chest, bruised and scarred from whatever he did for a living. She traced each scar with her fingertip lightly. He sucked in a breath and placed his hands on her hips gently, barely touching her at all.
"I thought you said 'never again'?" Sherlock said quietly. Molly met his gaze and leaned down and kissed him.
The pill had worked and she was feeling much better.
And she hated that he could make her forgive him so easily.
Sherlock didn't respond immediately and by the time he did she was already pulling away, removing her shirt, standing again to take off her shorts and underwear.
He remained still on the bed.
Sherlock was shocked. He thought he had frightened her away, he had needed to frighten her. But now here she was, wanting him, offering herself to him-
No, she's doing something else...
Molly gripped his face in her hands and kissed him with a little more passion, tracing his lips with her tongue. He willingly parted his lips for her as she kissed him deeply. His hands running up her sides.
Although the next thing he knew she gripped his chin in her hand and pulled back, the same hand traveling down to land in the center of his chest, pushing him flat on his back.
Is she... taking me? He thought and the idea thrilled him.
Molly straddled his lap once more; friendship, loyalty, honesty could all be fucking damned. She wanted him. She needed him, he was essential. She had missed him and hated him and had wanted every opportunity to throw him out on his ass. But she couldn't and she wouldn't.
Molly could imagine herself doing that to him vividly, but when the moment came to conduct such a thing she simply could do nothing but be there for him.
Something had awakened inside her when she woke up to find him bloodied and bruised in his bed. Something deep she hadn't felt before when she had been near him.
Even when she wanted him to take her, he had been in control. He had had all the power; making her feel smaller than she was, weaker than she was. Now he was the weak one, the one in need of tenderness. She planned on showing him all the tenderness she was capable of.
It was in this tenderness that would be her greatest rebellion.
Molly let her lips hover over his, he tried leaning up to kiss her but she pulled away only a couple of inches not allowing him any closer. His hands gripped her tightly before relaxing and a tingling thrill shot through her whole body, landing directly in her core.
Submit, she thought lustfully in her head to him. She reached down and grasped his wrists in her little hands and pushed them above his head, laying her arms flat against his before finally kissing him fully on the mouth, giving him what he desired.
And Sherlock did submit to her. He let her kiss him any way she wanted, roughly, hard, whimsically, slowly, desperately... whatever she wanted.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock gave up control to, not just another person, but a woman. Since his mother he had vowed he would never let that happen again, he would never let himself be at the mercy of a woman.
But Molly Hooper was different from every woman he had ever met. She didn't put on airs. She didn't pretend to be something she wasn't.
Molly felt more liberated than she ever had before, emancipated from a former self. She wasn't ashamed of her body, she wasn't ashamed of the heat and wetness that pulsed between her legs. She wasn't ashamed of her personal, primal appetite for him.
Molly pulled away and kissed his neck and chest, licking his nipple as he had done to her and he groaned loudly. She released his wrists and he ran his hands down her sides before their mouths met again in what could hardly be described as a true kiss. He sat up and pulled her flush against his chest as their hips moved in sync with one another.
"Fuck, Molly," he whispered into her ear as he kissed and licked down her mouth. Molly moaned sweetly in reply. She felt his cock gliding smoothly along her cunt, it felt so good. So right, so perfect.
But not enough.
"I need you, Molly," Sherlock seemed to beg.
Molly continued moving her hips and her womanhood along his hard shaft before remembering what Dr. Lynn had said. She stopped her movements and Sherlock appeared concerned.
"Wait, I need to tell you something," she said and he listened, however he looked strained while doing so. "I... I had to go to the doctor- I'm fine. But he knew I had been... well, he could tell I'd had intercourse. He said I need to start using these things called condoms even if I can't get pregnant and well you need to wear and if you don't know how or what it is I can't do this." Her words tumbled out of her mouth like water spewing from a hose.
And yet there was confidence in her voice he hadn't heard before.
Sherlock felt like a fool. He had been careless. He had been clean for five years and knew he was clean now but that didn't mean anything. It was smarter to be safe even if he didn't have anything and even if she couldn't get pregnant.
"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock said to her sincerely. "You're right. I'm fucking idiot."
"Yes, yes you are." Molly agreed and he smiled at her. "So, will you do it?"
Sherlock nodded and she reached into a little box under her bed and handed him one. He told her to watch him put it on so she knew how. It was strange and slightly humorous just watching him put it on and staring at his... well, he called it "cock".
Holding her gently in his lap, her legs still wrapped around his waist, he let her continue.
Kissing him again with increased vigor that he had agreed to put the condom on. He held tightly to her like a life jacket as she raised her hips and with a hand guided him into her.
Sliding all the way down on him with a single push, her head fell back briefly. He kept his hands on her hips, wanting her to set the pace in her own time. But she took one of his hands in her own and brought it up to her breast encouraging him to touch her.
"Fuck." He whimpered as she began riding him slowly, their chests pressed together once more.
After a short time Molly increased her speed and the force of her thrusts. Sherlock began panting and he leaned in to take one of her hard nipples into his mouth. Molly moaned as his tongue ran over it and how he nipped it gently with his teeth.
She felt him beginning to take control again but she refused to relinquish.
No, no, she thought. She did what she had to do.
Molly placed her hand on his collarbone and with all her strength shoved him back against the mattress. Surprise was one word for the look on his face. She remembered quickly he had been injured and to make up for her force she rubbed his chest with the palm of her hand, however it remained firmly pressed into his sternum, as if to say, "don't you dare move".
Sherlock felt a twinge of desire shoot them him at her power. She had been awakened and now she was realizing that strength.
A darkness he had never seen before in her took shape as she fucked him. And Christ, it was intoxicating. He simply let his hands rest on her thighs as she took what she wanted from him, raising his hips to meet her halfway.
"Oh, oh..." She whimpered and stopped. Sherlock tried to sit up but she held him down once more. "No. No- oh god- don't, don't try it." She warned him.
Sherlock groaned in frustration. He was torn. He was relishing in her power but desiring to fuck her raw as he had before, the animal in him whining and howling at his submission. But she wouldn't relent.
Molly continued once more, sliding up and down his shaft, leaning down to kiss him. She leaned over his chest to hold down his wrists again.
"Molly, please," He begged and she couldn't help but smile.
"What, Sir? What can I do?" She whispered in a sweet little voice.
Molly felt she was close to giving in to him.
"I need you." He moaned as she kissed his neck in warm and wet open mouthed kisses.
"You have me." She replied, stilling her hips, knowing she could outlast him already.
"No. I need to-"
"Fuck me." She finished and ordered.
Their eyes locking he didn't hesitate when he overpowered her and wrapped an arm around her waist and flipped her onto her back, knocking the air out of her chest, this time her wrists were pinned down.
And his animal burst from it's cage.
Sherlock's hips pounded into hers, damn the pain he felt. He fucked her brutally and gently all at once. Slow, hard thrusts that caused her to gasp every time. He pressed her right leg up higher than the other until it was slung over his shoulder and he was able to go deep, so much deeper.
"Oh yes, so good." She whimpered fiercely. "Take me, take me."
Sherlock was emboldened by her words. So unlike her and yet they had been waiting just below the surface to come out.
Snapping his hips harder, his cock hit every inch inside of her. Slow, deep, penetrating.
"Did you need this?" He whispered to her and she nodded.
"Did you?" She replied and his response was another wet kiss. When he pulled away their mouths were still inches apart and he felt his cock twitch inside her when he saw she bit her lip.
"Fuck me, Sir, fuck me, fuck me..."
Molly's voice faded away as he removed her leg from his shoulder, lying it flat on the bed with her knee curved.
And that fantasy, that small, insignificant image of Molly's belly swelling with his child formed again. It seemed to power his thrusts like a battery.
He never wanted to stop as he felt his end nearing.
Slipping a hand between them, he thumbed her clit and she clenched her teeth hard as the pleasure overwhelmed her little body. He felt like an ancient man branding his woman. The thought was so utterly disgusting and wrong. But she was his, she would always be his.
Molly was alter-ego, the person he wished he could. She was his friend, the kind he longed to be. She was silent companion, the girl on the staircase, the shadow on the wall. His sweet, humble little paramour.
Tell her, say it! His mind wailed at him.
I love you, she thought as she came, clutching him to her body, wishing they could meld into one person so that she could always be with him.
"Damn, fuck." He groaned hard into her neck as he felt his release take hold of him like the jaws of life.
Neither remembered what happened next. Too caught up in the bliss and emotion and utter satisfaction, they simply fell into a deep slumber.
Molly unaware of the trauma he had inflicted upon himself earlier and Sherlock unaware of the irony that was life and the little tricks it liked to play when one was fast asleep without a care in the world.
For only if they knew what lies they had been told. What lies great men in his high places tell their people. What lies fathers tell their daughters to keep them safe.
If only, if only...