A/N: this is dedicated to 4May. Thanks to everyone for reading!
He's seen some rough spots before, with the work. He's been shot, shot at, punched, kicked, fought in hand-to-hand combat, whipped with a riding crop a few times, stabbed, cut, strangled. He's no stranger to pain, violence, or adrenaline.
But he's never been flogged while strapped to a Berkley Horse, wearing a weighted cock ring. He'd cross it off his list, if he'd had it on a list to start with. He suspects he'll have to make a new list in the new file he's made for his time here.
He's also never been stimulated physically, sexually, like this. Let alone while under the effects of an empathogenic drug. It will be interesting to see the results. That's how he's going to look at it, anyway, because he refuses to look at it as anything else. It's an experiment; she said so herself. Just because he's the subject doesn't mean he can't quantify the data. It just means he'll have to put in some effort to stay objective.
Rational thought flees for a few seconds when he feels the first sting of the flogger. She started with his hip: not his buttocks or back. It's an interesting choice and he's not sure what to make of it. Of course, that could well be her game; to make him try to deduce it. The next blow lands on his chest, just below his left nipple. She's not hitting him in a pattern. It's more important to her to keep him off-balance than to give him a systematic workover.
She also isn't hitting him as hard as she could be. Saving her strength? Unlikely. She's simply priming him; killing time until the drug kicks in. What will her next move be once it does?
Her one deviation to her randomness is that she gives five lashes to the bottom of each foot. Oddly, this is the most painful location for her strikes. But then, that's probably why she delivers multiple hits there. Getting his attention. And she succeeds. He looks at her; her face somber, completely focused on the task. She's clearly getting no sexual pleasure out of it. Molly flogging him is only an attempt at a means to an end.
She continues her random assortment of blows until his body is a pale pink. Then she tosses the flogger back onto the table, grasps a handful of his hair, and tugs his head down a bit so it's easier to look into his eyes. He wonders what will happen if one day she's no longer fascinated by him. It's unlikely; he is, after all, quite fascinating. But the possibility does exist. Will she give him to a breeding facility? Sell him off? As she keeps reminding him, there are limited roles in this world for men.
Molly watches him as he thinks. He's magnetizing when he looks like this, eyes wide and the slight hint of lines in his forehead. She's learned that she needs to be as unpredictable as possible with him. He doesn't like it; it throws him off balance. Plus it keeps him interested. Although, it really is time she reduces him to a moaning mess. The Rapture will kick in soon and he'll start to feel euphoric, relaxed, dazed, and energized. The flogging was mild, an appetizer. Now it's almost time for the main course.
She spends the interlude touching him, stroking him with steady, precise movements. From his feet to his hair. She memorizes the texture of his skin, every spot, every quiver and involuntary contraction of muscle. She knows when the drug has kicked in. An almost imperceptible sigh escapes him and his body relaxes ever so slightly. Even drugged he tries to give nothing away.
"Do you like the way this feels?" Molly whispers to him, slowly trailing a hand down his chest to his cock. "I think you do," she adds, as he grits his teeth. "I think you like me stroking your dick."
He blinks. It's the first time she's used a dirty word in front of him. Profanity, yes; her fair share of it and a few other people's as well. But not a crude sexual word. No doubt testing to see if it will add anything.
"My body is reacting to a stimulus. That's hardly an indication of desire," he tells her, trying and failing to stop the response. But even without the drugs he'd be hard pressed to override manual manipulation. Everything in his body screams at the bliss of the contact, the drug-induced euphoria. He's never taken an empathogenic before; only cocaine, nicotine, alcohol, and morphine. And under the influence of the Rapture, he wants more, needs more stimulation.
She smiles as though she knows this. "But you do like it. Your body does. I can feel it coming to life."
As if to prove her point, he becomes even more erect, impossibly erect. It's the sweetest sort of pleasure and pain, and nothing he wants. But he knows that you can't always control how your body responds. The weight around his cock alone makes him all too aware of it; her hand fondling him in addition to that is torment.
"What would you like me to do to you?" Molly asks. "Do you want me to wank you? Suck you off? Would you like to put that big cock in my cunt?"
He's silent, breathing uneven and almost a pant as she uses her other hand to run a thumb repeatedly over his nipple, flicking her nail across it. "Tell me, Sherlock."
"No," he says, then moans as she intensifies her efforts.
"You're a bad liar," she whispers in his ear. She brings her lips to his neck, traces the cords of muscle straining as he arches. "Why don't you just admit it? It would be so much nicer for you."
Yes, it would. Give her what she wants, some part of him whispers. She'll end it. Get relief from this. You can always go back to defying her later.
And part of him wants to; dear God, wants it so much he can taste its bittersweet flavor on his tongue. But he can't. Because as soon as he makes even a small concession, he's starting down a path he can't return from. He'll keep pushing the line back until he can no longer cross over it.
"No." The word is almost a snarl.
Molly's eyes flash. "Fine."
She presses the button on the table. It begins to straighten out. Soon it is at a 180 degree angle; completely flat. She presses the button again, and it lowers to the floor.
Sherlock looks up at her. Her face is slightly flushed from anger, though her face is composed. His body feels warm and as though every hair is crackling with energy. If she touches him the static electricity will feel like a current arcing through him, and he isn't sure how he'll respond.
But she doesn't touch him. Not with her hands. She lifts one foot and carefully places it on his chest, smiling at his confusion. Then she slowly drags her heel down his body, stopping directly above his groin, watching as he gasps and jerks upright against his bonds.
The symbolism isn't lost on him. He's reminded of The Woman, and her clever, manipulative, self-serving ways. The Woman used subtlety and duplicity in her machinations. Molly is as transparent here as she often is in his universe, but there is a major difference.
His Molly wants to be at his side. This one wants him beneath her feet.
She continues this little game for what feels like forever, dragging a single stiletto heel over nearly every inch of his body. She even rotates the table so that he's hanging downward briefly as she pulls her shoe down his spine with methodical slowness. Every inch of him save his genitals, neck, and face is scraped pink and slightly raw. At least her shoes are new and relatively clean, he thinks, as she moves lithely around him. Maybe it's been an hour; maybe 15 minutes. The Rapture has made him lose all track of time.
When she turns him onto his back again, the blood rushing away from his head and down his body, she raises the table back to waist level and peers down at him.
"Well, pet?" she asks softly, caressing his face with cool, gentle fingers. She's full of contrasts, this Molly; almost sweet one minute and calmly vicious the next. If he was outside looking in, he'd be fascinated. But the game is different when you're the star; that joke isn't funny anymore. It hasn't been funny since he got here.
"Well, what?" he asks her dryly.
"Have you had enough?"
"No, Domina."
"I see. Shall we begin something else, then?"
"Do I have a choice?" he asks.
"You know your choice."
"That choice isn't a real choice."
"Then we'll keep playing, I suppose."
"I suppose so, Domina."
Molly alters the Berkley Horse so that Sherlock is slanted at a 105 degree angle. She moves back to the table and pours a glass of water and a glass of wine. She brings both to him, holding the water first for him to drink, then the wine.
He hesitates over the wine, aware of the drug in his system. But the glass at his mouth is insistent, and he's not sure whether she'll force it on him through other means. So he takes a long sip. The flavor is incredible. It's a cabaret sauvignon and the dark ripeness of it slides across his tongue and explodes into a soothing fire as he swallows. Yes, extremely heightened awareness. The drug is peaking.
She follows it with more water, puts them on the nearby small table, then massages his limbs. Her hands are strong, soft; her fingers precise and sure in their movement. Her touch makes him bite back another moan. He needs a distraction.
"What did you do?" he asks suddenly. "Before you came to rule London."
Molly blinks. It's his first real attempt at conversation. "I was an agent for her Majesty, Queen Helen," she replies. "Before that, I was a research scientist."
"That's quite a career change," Sherlock says, and Molly smiles faintly.
"I have talents in a lot of fields," she says. "Her Majesty thought that my diversity and skills should be put to other uses."
"Do you miss it? Scientific research?"
She shakes her head. "I still do research from time to time. And I keep up with the journals. Sometimes I wish I could do more, but I chose this life."
"However unsatisfying it might be."
"I have plenty of slaves to satisfy my desires," she scoffs.
"Then why me? Why are you so determined to get me to give over?" he asks.
She smiles at him, trailing her fingers along his face before lightly clenching his chin.
"Because you're the first one to tell me no."
She removes her hands, then goes back to the table, pulling the small rolling table with her. "And if I can get you to submit, I can get anyone. You're as stubborn as they come."
"So that's it? You only see me as an animal that needs taming?"
Molly shakes her head. "You're different from any man I've ever known. In time, you could be a companion instead of just a thrall."
"And again, I get no say in that."
"Oh for fuck's sake, not this again," she sighs. "You are my property, Sherlock. End of story."
"I've never liked stories," he says coldly.
"It doesn't matter," she says, equally coldly. "Learn to."
She opens another box and removes a white tapered beeswax candle. She puts it on the rolling table along with a box of matches, an empty shotglass, the ice bucket, and the tongs. Even Anderson could see where this is going. He could protest, but it would do no good. The only words she wants to hear from him at this point are "I surrender."
He sighs. "Isn't this a bit cliché?" he asks.
Molly glares. He closes his mouth and shivers, the Rapture making its way through his body like a tidal wave of sensation. There are other things on that table she could use; things he'd like even less than this. His skin pricks hot and cold and he decides it would be best to not antagonize her.
She comes back with the table in tow. She reaches a hand into his hair, tugging on his curls close to his scalp. She concentrates on his reactions while he concentrates on not moaning again.
Molly stops, and he breathes a sigh of relief. The relief is short-lived as she strikes a match and lights the candle. Almost idly, she holds it a foot over his chest. Sherlock finds himself mesmerized by the flame, growing and receding, burning ever brighter until it almost seems like the blue-white glow will envelop him.
His fascination ends abruptly as the first drops of wax fall onto his chest, making him hiss. She follows it with ice, rubbing it in a small circle over the wax splatters, though not until a few seconds have passed for him to feel the burn. And feel it he does, like fiery tears on his already sensitive (too sensitive) skin. How much farther is she going to take all of this? Where is the line that she won't cross? Beating him senseless? Making him scream? Carving into his heart with a spoon? Or just leaving him to rot alone in some empty room (his version of Hell)?
More importantly…. Where is the line that he won't cross?
The sting of melted wax drags him out of his thoughts. This time it's on an upper thigh. The sensation is a bit more intense there, and she systematically pours one drop after another in a trail down his thigh. Each one causes his skin to sing out in pain, the ice providing relief but always two seconds too late. There isn't sensory crossover with empathogenics the way there is with psychedelics; otherwise he probably wouldn't feel the pain from the wax. Maybe it would have a taste, or a color. He'd also likely think it wasn't wax, but ladybirds or gumdrops or something else fanciful and entirely wrong.
He's startled out of his thoughts again, this time by Molly sighing. "Isn't there anything that can keep you out of that head of yours longer than a few minutes?"
He ponders the question. "Unconsciousness?"
"Sherlock."
"Antipsychotics? Opiates?"
"Not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Molly sighs again. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Let me go and help me get back to my universe?"
She smiles sadly at him, sets the ice down and ruffles his hair. "You know I'm not going to do that."
"Can't we make a bargain?" Sherlock asks. "You help me get home in exchange for my assent? You can scratch your obsessive itch, I can leave, everyone gets what they want."
"But that's not what I want. I want your assent, and I want you to stay with me."
He frowns. "Then it appears we're still at an impasse, Domina."
"I didn't really expect anything else."
Silence settles around them; a thick, uncomfortable fog that neither of them knows how to dispel. Finally Molly shakes her head, her gaze frustrated but almost fond. She goes to the intercom.
"Get him cleaned up and take him to seven," she instructs someone.
"What's seven?" Sherlock asks when she's finished.
"Your new home."
He isn't sure if that's good or bad. Molly leans down and brushes her lips against his forehead gently, almost affectionately.
"I'll miss you, Sherlock," she says, straightening and turning to leave.
Definitely not good.
"You're giving up? Are you giving me away?" he asks, feeling a touch of unease. If Molly is shipping him off, she might give him to someone who thinks beating him until blood is drawn is a fun pastime.
She pauses and look at him. "Do you want me to?"
"No." As much as he is angry and disturbed over the past 12 days, he'd rather stay with her. He knows her lines, or think he does, and he can handle what she's done.
"Why?"
He laughs, and there is a little humor in it, dark though it may be. "Because you're the devil I know."
Molly nods, unsurprised. "I'm not giving you away. But a change will do you good. I'll see you eventually."
"Eventually? What does that mean?" he asks.
She doesn't answer; just turns and walks to the stairs and starts to ascend.
"Domina?"
No reply.
"Molly!"
The only sound he hears is silence.
Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
He's not sure why he's counting how many times he's paced the room so far today. Perhaps counting gives him some measure of comfort. Perhaps it helps pass the time along with the pacing.
Perhaps it keeps him from screaming.
Not that he's being tortured. Far from it. For nine days he's been left alone, naked, in a white room that only contains a bed and a tiny lavatory with a toilet, shower stall, and a sink for furnishings. White walls, white ceiling, white floors. Blinding with its glare. No window and the door is Glare White as well. Camera and built-in microphone with a speaker too high up for him to tamper with. There is a swinging hinge in the bottom where his food and water are pushed through.
No, no one has harmed so much as a hair on his head. Physically.
Mentally, he's going mad.
Nothing in the room that he didn't examine within the first sixty seconds of being there. No one has been in the room. There is nothing for him to do. He considered demolishing the lavatory out of spite, and had gone so far as to start kicking the sink when he was informed over the speaker that if he didn't stop immediately, he'd spend his time tied to the bed.
His Mind Palace is boring. He knows everything in there. He needs something new. Some stimulation. At this point, he'd almost rather Molly tie him down and torment him some more than be locked in this empty white cage. At least he'd get some sensory input.
Twenty-one days total now. It feels like a lifetime.
He's startled from his thoughts by footsteps, then the sound of the door being unlocked. As it swings open, to his surprise, this universe's John Watson comes in. Unlike Sherlock, he's clothed; a dark brown shirt and pair of trousers. The black leather collar marking him as Mary Morstan's is still around his neck.
Sherlock stands up as the door shuts behind John, looking at this man who is his best friend yet is a stranger. The paradox is unnerving a bit. John's eyes stay on his face, puzzled and obviously discomfited.
John clears his throat. "Would you mind to cover yourself up, please?" he asks politely, so very much like the other John that Sherlock can't help but smile.
"The body is only transport," he says, but obliges the other man by whipping the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around himself. "Better?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm not interested in seeing another man's 'transport,' is all," John says, and Sherlock laughs a bit.
John's face scrunches in confusion. "Why is that so funny?"
"Because it's very like what someone I know would say," Sherlock answers, uncertain as to what exactly John has been told and not wanting to suffer for revealing things he shouldn't.
John nods. "I've been told about you. Lady Hooper says that you…know me, in this other universe, and I know you."
Sherlock nods. "Yes."
"Are we friends, then?" John asks.
"Yes."
John nods, and appears to be turning that over in his head. "I have a few friends here," he says. "Some servants. A thrall named Greg."
"Greg Lestrade?" Sherlock asks, voice almost eager.
John nods. "Yes. He belongs to Lady Donovan."
Sherlock snorts. "You know them? In your universe?" John asks.
"Lestrade is a detective inspector there. Donovan-"
"-Lady Donovan," John interrupts, and Sherlock sighs.
"Fine. Lady Donovan is a sergeant. And neither of them would be thrilled to know this about their counterparts." Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"
John looks down and seems disquieted by the question. Sherlock sighs again. "Lady Hooper."
"She did have me sent for," John admits, moving to sit on the end of the bed. Sherlock sits on the opposite end and they face each other.
"She knows you're my friend. She thought it would get a response out of me; oh, she's clever, very clever. So why are you here, exactly?" Sherlock pauses and laughs; a dry, self-depreciating laugh. "Of course. She wants you to try and change my mind; get me to submit."
"Would that really be so bad?" John asks. "You know what life is like here, Sherlock. What Lady Hooper is offering you-"
"What Lady Hooper is offering me is to be her boy toy," Sherlock interrupts angrily. "The world I live in doesn't keep men as breeders and slaves; people are not owned and possessed in civilized countries."
"No? Not even illegally?" John asks.
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "All right, yes, there is slave trading. But it's wrong and it's fought against. As it should be here."
John shakes his head. "You're determined to upset the natural order of this world, aren't you?"
"Natural order? This is a machination from centuries ago, not the way it's been since the dawn of time!" Sherlock exclaims. "How can you even think that?"
"It is the natural order now, and has been for quite a while," John says. "Why would I change that?"
"Why? Because you should be free! You shouldn't be anyone's property, catering to her whims and wearing her collar!" Sherlock shouts.
John sighs. "I like My Lady Mary. I don't mind being her property."
"Don't mind…" Sherlock shakes his head. "You've been conditioned. All of you; well, most of you. The man who should have been my brother here was executed for trying to change this existence. Doesn't that tell you something?"
"It tells me he couldn't let himself be happy with his lot in life," John says, and Sherlock snarls in frustration.
"Why can't you just accept this?" John asks, and Sherlock is aghast by the easygoing complacency in his voice. "Lady Hooper told me she's offered you the chance to do research, to be her only thrall…do you know how rare that is? You're not going to get back to your other life, you know. The site where the gate was is guarded 24 hours a day. With weapons. And weapons are almost unheard of in the cities. She's not going to let you go, don't you understand that?"
Sherlock is silent. John continues. "I know you think you're standing up for some principle from your other life, but the truth of the matter, Sherlock, is that you're not hurting anyone but yourself."
Cool blue eyes meet warm brown ones. "Stop this, Sherlock," John says earnestly. "Accept it. Make your life as pleasant as possible. We can probably even be friends; if I like you there, I'll probably like you here, once I get to know you. Aren't you tired of all this?"
"The only thing I'm tired of right now is listening to a man who is my friend in my universe spouting off this nonsense," Sherlock says coolly. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a kip."
John shakes his head; it's his turn to sigh now. "Well, I can see you're not going to change your mind anytime soon."
"Not ever," Sherlock says, curling up on the bed as John stands.
John looks at him for a moment. "Right, then. Have it your way. I get the impression that you usually do."
He goes to the door, and a moment later it opens.
"How's that collar feel, John?" Sherlock shouts after him. "Is it too tight?"
There is no response. The door closes, and Sherlock is left alone again with his anger, his thoughts, and the blinding white of his sparse room.
Nothing happens that night, or the next day. But the following evening, he's taken from seven back to the Discipline Room. Instead of being chained to the wall, however, he simply stands, hands cuffed behind his back and shackles on his ankles designed to let him walk but not kick or run. This has never been done before, and he immediately knows something very significant is about to take place.
Molly enters the room, wearing black leather bustier, pants, and boots. She smiles at the sight of him. It's the first time he's seen her in 10 days.
"Sherlock," she says.
"Domina," he replies.
"Did you enjoy your quiet time?"
He rolls his eyes. "Enjoy ten days of boredom? You must be joking."
She smiles again. There is something he doesn't like about this smile. It's not one that he's ever seen on either version of Molly before, and he doesn't know what it means. It's affectionate, yes; but it's also predatory. And it makes him uneasy.
"Why are you smiling at me like that?" he asks.
"I've missed you," she replies. "I'd hoped that boredom would make you change your mind, but that doesn't seem to be the case. So it's time for a new approach."
"Another one? You're like a magician who's running out of tricks," Sherlock says, smirking. "You'd be better off to pack up your bag and leave the stage before the crowd boos you off."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Molly says. Her smile doesn't fade. If anything, it's more pronounced.
"I've got one more move I can try; one more trick to perform."
"Oh?" Sherlock asks with a combination of curiosity and disdain.
She nods and turns to one of her guards. "Bring him in."
Sherlock frowns. "Bring who in?"
Molly doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to wait for very long (through anything over 15 seconds feels like too long to him). The door opens and John is brought in on a leash by Mary Morstan. John bows to Molly and the leash is removed from his collar. Mary stands beside him. She is obviously upset, but she's also resolute.
"John."
"Lady Hooper. How may I serve you?"
Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow. He can't figure out the angle of her new game yet, and that bothers him more than a lashing on the back would.
"John, I gave you a task yesterday. To convince Sherlock to put an end to his refusal to serve. Correct?"
"Yes, Lady."
"And did you succeed at that task?"
"No, Lady Hooper. I did not."
Molly nods. "He's a difficult subject. I can sympathize with the outcome. However, the fact is that you failed. Do you know what happens when a thrall fails to perform as asked, John?"
"Yes, Lady Hooper," John says. His eyes are downcast and he's clearly upset.
And suddenly, Molly's "trick" becomes all too clear.
"What happens, John?"
"He's punished, Lady Hooper," John answers, his voice even despite his agitation.
"Now wait one damn minute!" Sherlock snaps.
"Correct. So you will be punished now."
"You can't do that!" Sherlock exclaims.
Molly ignores him. "Mary?"
Mary is still upset, but after a second's hesitation she says: "prepare him for punishment."
"You can't do this," Sherlock says angrily. He moves toward them but is held by two guards. Two other guards start rapidly stripping John of his clothes. Sherlock averts his eyes, focusing them instead on Molly and Mary. "You can't do this!" He shouts again. "It's not his fault that I didn't change my mind!"
"But it is," Molly says. "He had a task to perform. He failed. Now he has to face the consequence."
Naked now, John is led to the wall.
"He didn't fail. He had no chance of succeeding!" Sherlock yells. He is ignored as John is secured to the wall, back to the room. John's expression is stoic, controlled, but his face has paled.
"A shame. He's never had to be punished before," Molly says.
"This is monstrous! You can't punish someone for the actions of someone else!" Sherlock says, his voice steadily rising in fury. He pulls against his guards, but they hold him in an iron grip.
A guard hands Molly a riding crop.
Sherlock looks at Mary. "Lady Morstan. Surely you don't agree with this!"
"It is the law," she replies remotely, looking at John.
"The law? What kind of law allows someone to be beaten for not being able to change someone's mind?" Sherlock shouts.
"Enough, Sherlock," Molly says. She moves behind John. "Stop or he'll get double the lashes."
Sherlock watches in horror as she flexes her muscles. Molly raises the riding crop to deliver the first blow. John closes his eyes.
"Stop!"
The raw agony in Sherlock's voice makes Molly stop in mid-air. She looks at him; everyone looks at him.
He doesn't care. He knew as soon as she started asking John questions what she was planning to do. He knows why she's doing it, and it has nothing to do with the law. Molly lowers the riding crop.
"Please," Sherlock says, voice slightly cracked from screaming and distress. "Please, Domina. No one should be punished for the actions of someone else. I'm the one who's not cooperating. Punish me instead."
"Punishing you isn't effective, as we've learned over the past twenty-two days," Molly replies. She turns back toward John and raises her arm again.
He only has one thing to bargain with; one choice to make. It isn't a choice, but this time it's for the right reasons.
"I give up!"
Again her arm freezes and everyone looks at him.
Sherlock's eyes are fixed on Molly. "I'll do whatever you want. I won't fight you," he says hoarsely. "Just don't hurt him. Please."
"Sherlock," John says in amazement.
Sherlock's guards loosen their hold on him. He walks to Molly and, with surprising grace for someone who has his hands cuffed behind his back, drops to his knees in front of her.
"Please, Domina," he says quietly.
Molly's eyes search his. She nods. "Release John," she tells the guards. "Give him back his clothing."
Sherlock sighs in relief.
"Sherlock, you can't do this," John says, staring at him in disbelief as he's released. "You're going against everything you stand for if you do this."
Sherlock turns his head and smiles sadly. "I'm going against everything I stand for if I don't, John."
John looks at him for a moment. He seems to understand; to know that this was never about him to begin with. And he seems to know he can't change Sherlock's mind, and that he shouldn't have to. He nods, his eyes conveying his gratitude, then begins to dress.
Molly reaches down and turns Sherlock's face back to hers. "I'll give you everything I offered," she says softly. "In a few days, you can see him again. As long as you keep your word, I'll keep mine. Understood?"
"Understood, Domina," he says.
She smiles, and now her smile is happy and soft. She looks so much like the Molly in his world it hurts.
"You may call me Lady Molly now." Her fingers run through his curls; a thumb brushes over his mouth.
He swallows his pride and anger and looks up at her. "Yes, Lady Molly."
And when she kisses him, he lets his mouth open to hers, lets her explore and possess it. His mind is in turmoil, but he is at peace with his choice.