A/N: Last chapter! This is dedicated to ReelaReela and rozez-have-thornz. Thanks to everyone for reading!
When she stops, she cards her fingers through his hair, trails them down his cheekbones. He closes his eyes to block out the sight, for once not wanting to see what is around him.
"Sherlock. Look at me," she says.
He does, staring up at her, his normally sharp blue eyes momentarily dulled by the weight he now willingly carries.
"You made the right decision."
He wants to scream at her that it wasn't a decision; that it was a choice that wasn't a choice. But he knows how far she'll go now to ensure he submits. So he's silent.
Of course she'd figure it out, he thinks bitterly. She's not stupid. Caring may be a disadvantage but try as he has, he's never managed to fully rid himself of it. Now he's sold himself over it. But even though this man is not his friend John, he is still John Watson, and Sherlock couldn't stand by and let him be punished like that.
Lady Molly continues caressing his face. He closes his eyes again in resignation.
She pulls her hands away and he opens his eyes. "Take him to my bedroom," she tells several guards. "Let him prepare."
Sherlock has no idea what this means, but at least he won't be in the Discipline Room anymore. Hopefully she'll let him have clothing soon, too. He's never cared about clothes before. His suits are to present the appearance the world thinks he should have. But here, without clothing, he feels exposed. Clothing carries significance very unlike his world, and the difference makes him long even for a bed sheet.
He's taken upstairs and released from his restraints. A guard points to the lavatory. "Clean yourself up. Bath, hair, teeth," she orders. "There will be clothes waiting for you when you get out. Take your time, within reason."
He feels both anxious and relieved. The room has a huge tub, with water jets and an adjustable shower. There is a wide variety of bath products on a cart. As the water runs he opens them and sniffs each one until he finds shampoo and body wash in acceptable scents. He turns off the taps, grabs a flannel and towel from a cupboard, and settles in.
He's not sure what "within reason" means, but figures a 15 minute soak fits the description. He knows what she's doing. She's giving him some time to adjust to his decision. To come to terms with the fact that she now owns him in every sense but one. Some would call it soul, or spirit; he doesn't like those terms. He settles on essence. Still a bit fanciful, but more accurate, he thinks.
He looks down at his body, pale and lithe, the water running off his taut skin in tiny rivulets. Soon her hands will be all over him, caressing him, her mouth kissing, her tongue tasting. It makes him flinch inside despite his stoicism. He'll be expected not to fight it; to let it happen. Then he realizes she'll likely want more than that; it won't be very enjoyable for her if he just lies there, unresponsive, will it? Can he even become aroused that way? What is he going to do; lie back and think about home and homicides? Will she drug him to coax the physical response she wants from his body, or will he be able to distract himself enough to let his body respond on his own?
He's aware that most people would find it odd that he's calmly contemplating what's about to happen: analyzing what is, in essence, going to be the taking of his virginity under coerced consent. But what else should he be doing? Sobbing? Feeling sorry for himself? Being afraid? He's rarely tasted fear, and at any rate he has nothing to be afraid of. She won't hurt him. Crying and lamenting won't serve any useful purpose. It's only his body. She can have it, if it will stop her from harming John. His mind will be safe, and that's what truly matters.
He hears the sound of someone in her bedroom. Obviously leaving the aforementioned clothes. He scrubs himself briskly and then unplugs the drain, switching to the shower to wash his hair. It does feel good to be out of that tiny white hellhole of a prison he'd endured for 10 days. He may not like to admit to sentiment or caring, but he'll announce boredom anytime.
He dries off, brushes his teeth and hair with what is obviously meant for his use, then opens the door into the bedroom. He stops short as he sees the clothes. Turquoise silk pyjamas. No pants, socks, or slippers. Whatever he'd been expecting, this wasn't it. He slowly puts them on, somehow feeling more exposed than when he was naked. They're a perfect fit, and they feel good against his skin. He wishes he hated that. But the texture of his clothing has always mattered to him; nothing distracting while working, thank you. Just simple comfort. She obviously derived this information when she tested his skin sensitivity. Oh, yes; clever.
There is a silver tray on the dresser, with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. One glass is full. It's the same wine she gave him in the Green Room, but an older vintage. He takes the hint and takes a deep drink. She doesn't want him drunk; he's sure of that. She wants him to be relaxed physically is all; just a slight dulling of his senses. Not because she thinks he'll resist, but to make it easier on him not to want to.
Suddenly he remembers a line from a film. John watched it on the telly while Sherlock was reading one night when there was no case. Some ridiculous old science fiction film. The heroine had been kidnapped and was going to be forced to marry the villain. One of her guards offered her a cup of some magical liquid to make her time there 'more bearable'. The heroine asked if it would make her forget. The other woman replied no; but it would make her not mind remembering.
Ridiculous. He should have deleted it. But he hadn't.
He sits in a chair and takes another drink. He doesn't want to forget what will happen, even if he had a glass of magical elixir. He hasn't given up on convincing her to change this world, and he'll need every scrap of information he can get about her to try and succeed. But as he drains the glass and begins to mellow, to feel his sharpness blur just a bit, he finds that he doesn't mind the distraction the wine offers.
When she comes in the room, he's still sitting in the chair, legs drawn up, fingers under his chin. She's changed out of her leather garb; unsurprising, since she'd only worn the cliché outfit to prove a point. Why hadn't he seen it immediately? Now she's wearing a long, dark green silk dress that flows around her ankles. No underwear beneath, and bare feet. Hair flowing over her shoulders. He expected she'd have a gloating, triumphant look on her face, but she doesn't.
She shuts the door and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Molly breaks the silence. "Pour me some wine," she says softly.
He obeys. As he hands her the glass she adds: "Now pour another glass for yourself."
"Yes, Lady Molly," he says, managing to keep his voice neutral. She settles in the other chair in the room as he does, watching him as he sits back down.
Sherlock takes a drink, studying her over the rim of the glass. "Do I even need to ask what happens now?" he queries wryly.
Molly smiles. "We drink. We talk. You relax."
"Here's to two out of three," Sherlock says, raising his glass to her before taking another drink.
Her smile deepens and she takes a drink from her glass. "I'm hoping for all three. I'd rather not drug you to accomplish it, unless you want me too."
"No," he says, shaking his head.
"I didn't think so. And for the long term; this week I'll take you with me to the lab. I could use another scientific mind for an experiment I'm going to start. You'll be given some time with John. I've had clothes ordered for you."
"And a collar?" he can't resist asking.
She arches her eyebrows. "You know the answer to that, Sherlock."
"Yes. I do," he replies. He takes another sip at her pointed look. "And for the short term?"
"You know the answer to that, too."
"Why?" he asks, curious and perplexed. He holds up a hand. "No. What I mean is: you're apparently offering me the moon. Research, time with my friend's counterpart, to take no other slaves: why? It has to be more than just keeping me compliant. Look at the way women run this world. Why do you care so much about getting me to yield? You control men, you rule them. Was it really just because I kept resisting?"
She glanced down. There was something in her eyes, then it was gone. "I think that's enough questions for tonight. Drink your wine, Sherlock."
He finishes his glass around the same time she finishes hers. It wasn't drugged. The lightheadedness he feels is from the wine and the lack of any regular drinking of alcohol. It's a pleasant feeling. Makes him peaceful and warm and just the faintest bit flushed.
He sees her looking at him. "Yes, it's having an effect on me. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Me, docile, ready to give in to your desires?"
"Sherlock," she says warningly.
"Isn't it, Lady Molly?" he continues, getting up to sit on his knees in front of her. "Well here I am. At long last, it's Christmas." She stands up and glares at him, lips pressed together, as he brings his own lips to her ear.
"Take me, Molly. Take me hard."
"Enough!" Molly snaps, roughly pushing on his shoulders. He falls back onto the floor and she straddles him, pinning his wrists above his head, squeezing the pressure points when he starts to struggle. He stops and looks at her.
"Does it excite you when I fight?" Sherlock asks her. "Does it make you feel more dominant?"
"You don't want to play this game, Sherlock," she growls. "Not tonight. Maybe not ever. So do as I say and shut it."
He glares at her. She cups his face in her hands. "Stop fighting me. You will lose. You already lost."
His eyes flick down and he draws an unsteady breath. He's not so far gone that he's forgotten their arrangement, even though his blood is boiling.
She kisses him, gently, coaxing the corners of his lips with the tip of her tongue. His lips soften and part through no volition of his own. He feels the soft, curving weight of her small breasts pressing into his chest. He hears a low moan and is shocked to discover that it came from him. Was there something in his wine glass he didn't detect? Or is the alcohol here more potent?
"That's it, Sherlock," Molly murmurs. "Just let it happen."
His thoughts grow hazy as she continues kissing him, running her fingers lightly through his curls. With the alcohol in his system, it is almost pleasant to have her touch him. John was right, this John, when he'd said Sherlock was only hurting himself. He'd offered himself to her. Who was he helping by continuing to try and resist? No one. There was no point. Either she got what she wanted from him, or John would pay the price.
This time when he moans, it is a mix of resignation and despair. He might be able to be rational about this, but it still evokes feelings in him. Especially with his emotions heightened the way they are right now.
"Shh," Molly says, her voice oddly soothing. "It doesn't have to be this way, Sherlock. Give over. Isn't that better?"
He knows she's right. She's going to have him. Why fight it? Let her arouse his body, tuck his mind away for safekeeping, give himself to her, and get it over with.
He breathes deeply, forcing his body to relax. It wants her, or maybe it wants his world's Molly. He can't tell now. He could pretend this Molly was her; pretend it was the sweet, kind pathologist he knew and cared about. Why not? Some reckless part of him asked. Pretend she's your Molly. Won't that make it easier?
He couldn't do it every time. It wouldn't help him stay focused on finding a way home. It would be the way that madness lies, letting those lines stay blurred.
But for tonight, just for this, the addict in him wants to lose himself in a fantasy.
So when she kisses him again, he closes his eyes and thinks of kissing his Molly. And when she trails her mouth down his neck, kissing, biting and marking his skin, he imagines his Molly. It is his pathologist who undresses him; who wraps her slim fingers around his cock and strokes him slowly and firmly as he hardens in her hand. Molly and her odd taste in clothes (he doesn't care about fashion; the way she dresses has never affected his opinion of her), her attire gauche by most people's standards, yet cheerful (she's removed her dress, her bare skin is pressed to his; Molly's dress had been sleek and black, she'd tried so hard to get him to notice her), the ever-present ponytail (except that Christmas, he'd been so awful to her; and a few times in her flat after he'd faked his death. Her hair is loose now as well; hanging in a soft fragrant curtain around her face) and that smile.
Her hands are everywhere on him. Her mouth; he's stopped counting the kisses she places all over him. Then her hands continue stroking his dick and his hips rise helplessly. He's never had a physical sensation like this. Not even from the drugs. It's exhilarating and overwhelming and (oh, Molly, I never knew it would be like this) the only thing he can do is give in to it.
When she slides on top of him, sinking down onto him, drawing him into her wet heat, his fingers splay across her back, holding her to him. As she rocks against him, he rises to meet her thrusts, soft moans occasionally escaping him. In his mind, he's with Molly; his Molly. He's gone to her not out of guilt or pity or some sense of obligation, but because he doesn't want to be shut away. There is nothing that he wants to keep from her anymore.
And when she's climaxed twice, and his own orgasm is torn from him, she rests her weight on him and buries her face against his neck, whispering his name. He doesn't respond; his voice is caught in his throat and his eyes brim with unshed tears.
Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall of the study. Lady Molly will be home soon. She'll expect him to eat with her and converse with her. Beyond that, he has no idea.
It's been three weeks since she "played the John Watson card", as he overheard two house servants say. Since then, he's been allowed in her lab twice a week when she gets home from the Counsel. They're working on making medication for children that tastes good and is anti-emetic. Also cataloging some specimens brought in from India. It's interesting enough to keep him occupied.
He's also been allowed to see this universe's John once a week. He's very much like his counterpart, except that he's quite docile. The similarities are enough that it makes the ache Sherlock doesn't even want to acknowledge fade away just a bit, while also making it worse.
Lady Molly (he thinks of her that way in his head now, to separate her from his Molly in his universe) has kept her word on everything she offered him. He hasn't been punished for anything yet, though he's pushed her a bit a few times. He tries to keep it at the line while testing to see where all the lines are.
In return for her keeping her part of their arrangement, he's keeping his. He wears the clothes she gives him without protest. Sometimes she wants to see him in a suit; other times, jeans and a t-shirt. He wears pyjamas to bed every night, but rarely ends up sleeping in them. Even if she doesn't want sex, she likes undressing him slowly, or having him undress for her. Sometimes that's as soon as she walks in. Other times he makes it until time for bed.
He doesn't protest about the sex, either. Well; only barely. He doesn't fight his arousal (and she can arouse him, without drugs, and he's both relieved and dismayed); follows her commands quickly and to the letter. Sometimes they drink wine and talk first, and other times she comes in and snaps her fingers for him to strip for her. He catalogs each encounter in his mind, not because he likes or wants the memories, but because he needs to retain the knowledge of what she likes; how to please her.
As much as he detests being forced into sex (feelings and their chemicals, though he'd be lying if he said the addict in him didn't like the hormonal high), it pales in comparison to how he feels about the collar. Black leather, set with blue star sapphires and emeralds, it is exquisitely crafted. It was handmade just for him. He's never allowed to remove it, and he wishes every day he could rip it off his throat and throw it into the sea. It symbolizes that she owns him here, that he is property. That his life isn't under his control.
He looks up as she enters the room, deducing, trying to determine what she'll want tonight.
Jacket and shoes gone. Anxious to disassociate from her day at Council.
Crumbs on her blouse. Already ate something to save time once she arrived home.
Tension in shoulders. Stressful day.
Pupils dilated. Lower lip slightly plump from being bitten.
Conclusion: highly aroused, seeking physical contact and relief. Sexual activity imminent.
"And what have you deduced, pet?" she asks him, knowing that he hates the nickname as much as she hates being deduced.
"That you've had a rather rough day and you plan to use me as the balm to soothe your wounds," he answers acerbically.
She walks over to him, takes the book from his hands, snaps it closed and puts it back on the shelf.
"Never gets old, does it," she muses, looking at him. "Showing off."
"No," he answers, keeping his voice neutral. The mood she's in could easily turn against him if he's not careful. And while he'd endure if he got a lashing, he can't abide knowing that one phone call and it will be John who suffers instead.
Lady Molly grabs the hair at the back of his head and pulls his head up. He opens his mouth and retreats into his mind as she kisses him, her lips savage on his. He remains perfectly still, knowing that once she gets this wave of anger out she'll be calmer and have a better disposition. He's spent a lot of time learning her moods and how to lessen the negative effects. He's not always successful with the latter. Sometimes there is nothing he can do to please her, it seems. But more often than not he can mitigate the worst of it.
So he remains pliant and lets her get her fill of his mouth and the fingers fisting his hair. When she stops, her fingers unclench and stroke his head soothingly, and her lips gently brush over his where she had ruthlessly seized them only a few seconds before. He sighs almost inaudibly and relaxes slightly against her; two actions he's learned she likes. She likes it when he seems to be responding to her gentleness. He's used that trick more than once in the past three weeks. She's not the only one with cards, even if his are far less powerful.
He finishes it off with looking at her through lowered lashes. "How may I serve you tonight, my lady?" he asks. He asks her that every night. It's part of the ritual she taught him.
"A very warm bath, I think," she says. "A long soak with you will do me good. Add some honeysuckle oil to it."
"As you command, lady."
She doesn't take his clothes off, which usually means she'll want him to do it for her. He suppresses a sigh and goes to run the bath. He memorized her preferred water temperatures weeks ago, so he knows what "a very warm bath" means. He adds the scented oil she requested as the water runs, and sits on the toilet lid, grateful for a few more minutes alone before the night's ordeal begins.
When she enters the bathroom she closes the door. There are two wineglasses in her hands. She's only wearing a floral patterned silk robe. She sits the wineglasses down, her eyes roaming his body for a moment before she says: "undress for me."
This, too, he knows. His hands are steady as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, slips it off, and tosses it in the hamper. This morning she had him wear a long-sleeved, button-up black silk shirt and a pair of white linen trousers, no underwear, bare feet. Perhaps she knew all along how her day would be.
He slowly slides the trousers down, steps out of them and adds them to the hamper. Her eyes darken and she nods in approval. "Now undress me," she tells him.
"Yes, Lady Molly," he replies.
His fingers lightly brush the soft skin below her collarbone as he unties her robe there, then moves down to the tie at her waist. He slowly slips it down her body and lets it flutter to the floor. She moves a step closer and presses herself against him, her breasts warm and soft against his lower chest. She nuzzles her face in, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to one nipple before she moves back and slides into the tub.
"Get the wine and get in," she says.
He obeys, handing her both glasses while he gets in the tub, his back pressed against her chest. After he settles, she hands him his wine and he leans back fully, glad that the tub is large enough to comfortably accommodate their position. She takes a long drink from her glass, and he follows suit. She's put something in his. Something to relax him a bit more than just the wine will accomplish. There's no point in getting angry or refusing to drink it, so he says nothing.
"What happened today?" he asks instead. This, too, is part of their ritual; him asking her about her day. He doesn't have to be a consulting detective to know that the way she treats him, and has him act with her, is a cross between slave and lover. He's tried a few times to talk with her a little about how this world is run, but she hasn't been very receptive. He isn't deterred, though.
"Arguments. Machinations. Leaders in other cities trying to cause trouble. The usual."
"You don't particularly like this part of your job. Why do you still do it?"
She sighs. "I'm good at it. And it has its privileges."
"Like getting your pick of slaves?" he can't resist asking.
"Sherlock," she says, the warning clear in her tone.
"Yes, Lady Molly."
The hand that isn't holding her wineglass travels in wet circles over his chest, pinching his nipples before resting over his heart. "Have you ever let anyone in here?" she asks.
He's tempted to lie, but she's uncannily good at knowing when he's dishonest. "A few people."
"Like your world's John."
"Yes."
"What about Her?"
He's at a loss. He doesn't know how to explain what Molly means to him. He's never let himself dwell on his feelings for her very long. This opens up a door he wants to leave closed, because missing her hurts. Missing John hurts too, but it's different, and he doesn't want to examine why Molly's different from John in his mind. Not now, anyway. Not with this other version of her touching the collar she put around his neck.
"She's my friend," he says at length.
"And that's all you feel?"
"I don't see why it matters."
"Interesting," she says, and drinks more wine.
They sit like this until they finish their glasses, then she takes his glass and sits both of them down beside the tub. She turns over and faces him, water sliding down her body and glistening in the ends of her hair. She begins trailing kisses down his cheek, his throat, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head back to give her better access. No point in fighting this, either. The sooner it's over, the sooner he can lose himself in the book again, and he's not interested in postponing the inevitable in this situation.
She slides down his body, their warm, wet skin slickly pressing together. Her mouth leaves moist imprints as she goes; past his nipples, above his navel, across one hip. When her lips move down further, grazing the soft, curling hair, he can't stop the twitch. And when she slips his cock between her lips and smoothly slides it down her throat, he can't stop his hips from thrusting with want.
He hates this feeling. It's especially troubling tonight. He'd planned on keeping his mouth shut and getting it over with, but staying silent when he wants to talk has never been one of his strong suits.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks her.
She stops and frowns, slipping him out of her mouth and looking up at him. "What do you mean?"
"The wine, the oral sex…it's unnecessary and we both know it. In the end I'll have to do whatever you want anyway. So your motive can only be to torment me further."
Her frown deepens. "You're not very grateful for the change of pace."
"Is that what I'm supposed to be? All right, then. Thank you, Lady Molly, for making things so pleasant while you compel me to satisfy your desires. It really is too kind of you."
"Why can't you believe that I just want to make it nicer for you," she says. She's still calm, but he hears the anger; an undercurrent that he is in imminent danger of being dragged into. But he can't resist one last remark.
"You're violating me. There is no way of making that nicer."
One hand goes to fist his curls, the other grabs his chin. "You think this is as bad as it could be?" she asks, and now the anger is right on the surface, blazing in her eyes, and unease ripples through him. "Do you? Do you think for one second that even you could tolerate constant beatings, being drugged all day, or locked up for a month? Some slaves probably are, you know. Do I need to remind my clever little pet of who is the master here?"
He thinks of John, and a twinge of wild panic takes hold. Is she about to have John beaten before his eyes? Or something worse?
He almost laughs. He goes from one universe to another, and he's still doing anything to save John Watson.
"I-" he begins, but she cuts him off.
"Shut up. Not a word until I say so."
He closes his mouth. She gets out of the tub, dries off, and leans over him, lightly trailing her nails down his chest with one hand, the other hand resting on his leg scant inches from his dick. He tenses, but remains quiet. Slowly, almost casually, she runs her hand further down while the other one slides over to grasp his bollocks so hard he gasps.
"You've got a big mouth, don't you?" she asks tenderly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you like making me angry."
He stops the snort before it escapes.
"Out of the tub and dry off," she orders.
He gets out and dries himself as quickly as he can. She points to her bedroom. "Stand against the south wall."
The restraining wall. He walks to it.
"Face me. Arms up, legs apart."
He silently complies, watching as she attaches cuffs to his wrists and ankles and secures him in place. She stands in front of him, just looking at him in the glow of the flameless candles she switched on earlier.
She begins to kiss him, taking his lower lip between hers and sucking on it, then running her tongue to his upper lip, licking, tracing the outline of his mouth. Then she slowly begins to kiss his face, making her way across his cheeks to his ears, back to his mouth, sliding her lips along his jaw and down his neck, her tongue darting out in tiny flicks. His breathing is not quite steady.
She swipes the erratic pulse in his throat and travels down his chest, still only touching him with her mouth and tongue, until she reaches a nipple. She takes it into her mouth, tugging softly, licking and blowing on it until the nub hardens. She feels him quiver as she repeats the process with the other nipple. A reflexive response to a stimulus. Nothing more, he tells himself. But he knows it isn't fully true.
Very slowly she moves to the base of his organ, tongue tracing the tiny folds of skin around his bollocks, then licks him from base to tip; first hard, then soft, alternating with the top and underside of her tongue, going back and forth. Her tongue slips up to the fleshy head of his cock, swirling around, running up and down the shaft. She takes him into one hand, pressing gently against the ridged area just below the tip. Her lips envelop him and she begins to suck, paying special care to the back of the shaft. Each time she moves she rests her mouth against the tip, probing the opening, varying the intervals, her other hand continuing to caress.
He's trembling now, and hardening again from her touch. She stops sucking and wraps her hands around him, sliding slowly back up, brushing his skin with hers. His face is flushed, his chest heaves; his eyes burn into hers for a split second before he closes them and turns away.
Why can't he stop this? Stupid biology, stupid alcohol and whatever else she gave him. Stupid sentiment. But even as he thinks it, he knows that it would have just been a matter of time. She would have kept at him with something else until he caved. John was only a way to expedite matters, and to help ensure his continued cooperation.
She continues to caress. A terrible thing, to be betrayed by your own body. This is the thing he abhors most, the fact that he can't stop himself from reacting. Why must she draw it out? Why can't she just take him and be finished with it? But he knows the answer even as the thoughts appear. His "big mouth." She doesn't want to involve Lady Morstan and John for something this minor, but she has to exert her power over him.
He sighs. One of these days, his inability to shut up may get him killed. Tonight it's going to… he stops the thought. It's getting harder to think. The drug is clouding his mind a bit. He'd say it was pleasant, if it had been his choice and under different circumstances. But it makes what's happening more tolerable, so he supposes he'll be satisfied with that.
All thought, hazy or not, comes to a screaming halt as she lets his cock go and takes possession of his mouth. Her lips rake over his in a gesture of ownership, anger melding with the desire until they are a heated blur. When she finally stops his eyes are glazed, his lips swollen from the force of her fury. Her fingers are tangled in his hair, holding his face still as she looks at him.
"You are my slave, do you understand? You obey me, and you don't let that mouth of yours get the better of you! You are here to please me. Not start fights, not defy me! Do you understand me, Sherlock?"
He looks at her. This face, this furious, commanding expression, is one that his Molly would never have. It makes him miss his world more than ever.
"Answer me, Sherlock. Or do I need to make a call?"
"No!" he says quickly. "Yes, Lady Molly. I understand."
"You'd better. And there had better be no more comments like that from you. I've been good to you. Don't make me regret it."
Looking at her, he's suddenly struck by the horrific fact that she honestly believes what she's saying. She's like a slave owner from before emancipation. She treats her slaves well, so she's not a bad person. The fact that she thinks owning slaves is fine doesn't bother her.
It gives him food for thought, and an idea or two. But not for tonight. He needs to repair what damage he can, not cross a line that can't be uncrossed.
She runs a thumb over his mouth, gleaming wet from her kiss, tender to the touch. He winces slightly. She pulls on his lower lip, tracing patterns with her nail until his lip quivers. Only then does she trail her hand down. His nipples are hard. She moves lower.
He closes his eyes, but she orders him to open them and look at her.
He shivers. She always allows him to close his eyes. This is going to be different, apparently. Her gaze never leaving his, she continues with her caress. He hardens again. She slips a hand to his bollocks, lifting them; stroking them as her other hand pumps his shaft. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, distress, vulnerability, and yes, that unwanted wanting. But it's only in his eyes. He remains silent, as she commanded.
She frees him and orders him to the bed. He moves quickly and gracefully, lying on his back as she kneels beside him. A moment later she lifts his arms up beside his head. Not to restrain him, but so she can straddle him. Her fingers clench his chest slightly as she centers herself over him. He can feel her arousal leaving a moist oval of heat on his stomach just before she lifts up, moving a hand to his hardness and lowering herself slowly until he's sheathed inside her.
She pulls herself slowly upward until she's almost free of him, then plunges back down, taking all of him into her. She settles against him and begins grinding her hips with long deliberate strokes. He bucks against her, hears his breaths turn into gasps, and knows that his body has given over even if the rest of him hasn't. She slows her pace, and a moan escapes him.
Didn't he tell himself not to fight her? It would've all been over by now, she'd be asleep soon, and he'd be in peace. Now she's drawing this out as well.
He desperately wants it to end. He can't be defiant again, though, which leaves one other option. He hasn't said it to her since that night she threatened to punish this John. But it would go a long way in changing her mood, and get her to get on with it. So he swallows the bitter sensation and whispers it.
"Please."
His surrender is fuel to her fire, just like he knew it would be. Her movements become more primal as she continues rolling her hips, the built-up need taking over, not willing to wait. She cries out, the rush of her orgasm catching him by surprise with its quick ferocity. She clings to him, riding the waves as they wash over both of them, her muscles clamping down on him like a vise, milking him until he, too, climaxes, moaning again deeply as he does.
As she collapses against him, he isn't certain whether it was a sound of sorrow, unwilling pleasure, or both.
"Sherlock."
He looks up from the microscope as she says his name. She's leaning against the doorframe, wearing a burgundy silk slip dress and black leather heels. They're going out, then. She'll have laid his outfit out already on the bed; black linen trousers, indigo long-sleeved silk shirt, black cashmere socks and black leather wing tips. And an indigo leather leash. Nothing but the best for her precious only thrall.
Four months. That's how long he's been here. One hundred days today that he's been hers. Ah, yes. That's why they're going out. He'd rather stay there; being out and seeing other men on leashes, some made to crawl, doesn't appeal to him. But as with almost everything else, the choice isn't his to make.
He's had discussions with her, off and on, about the wrongness of slavery and a society dominated by either gender. Even though he knows full well in his own world many areas are still largely a man's game, things have changed and will continue to change, such as slavery being illegal. It doesn't happen overnight. But it does happen. Sometimes she tells him to shut up; sometimes she debates him, and sometimes she simply listens. She never says one way or another if she agrees or not.
He sighs and switches off the microscope. "Yes, Lady Molly?"
"Go and get changed. We're going out to dinner."
"Yes, lady."
He goes to the bedroom and of course he was correct, save one detail; the leash matches her dress, not his shirt. He shrugs and changes clothes, finding no pleasure in his cleverness.
He's standing before the ornate mirror, buttoning his sleeves, when she comes in. He sees her eyes sweep over him. She smiles. "Perfect."
She goes to the bed and picks up the leash, standing before him. "We're not going to have a fit tonight, are we?" she asks.
"No, lady," he answers evenly. She's referring to a few other occasions over the past 100 days when she put his leash on and he balked. Along with other incidents, it led to fights, and punishments. Finally he'd pushed her too far. The last time led to three lashes on John's back while Sherlock shouted in anger, guilt, and pleading. He's finished with that particular rebellion.
Truth be told, after seeing John's taut, pain-lined face after those three hard lashes, Sherlock has all but stopped resisting anything she wants. His pride and anger aren't worth someone else's suffering.
She attaches the leash to the collar, watching him expectantly. He stands still. Satisfied, she slips the strap into her hand. "Come on," she says softly. "I have a present for you before dinner."
Her "present" is to take him to the police station. He stares at her in confusion as Donovan steps out into the hallway. She looks distinctly unhappy, but then her face takes on a more neutral expression.
"Well, Freak," she says, "Congratulations. Her Ladyship says that starting tomorrow, you're to be allowed to help with cases."
"Sally," Lady Molly says, more from her addressing him as Freak than telling him the reason for their visit.
"Sorry," Donovan says, though she clearly isn't.
Sherlock stares at Lady Molly, truly surprised. Men aren't allowed to do this sort of work. Have his words affected her, at least a little? Has he reached some part of her after all?
She catches his stare and shrugs. "You're brilliant. The most brilliant man I've ever known. That's more important to the victims than tradition."
He's at a loss for words at first. The chance to have the Work again, even here, is wonderful. To be able to make a difference, to satisfy his need for distraction, to let his brain come to life once more. He has no doubt she won't let him do it as often as he'd like; he is still very much her possession, he's sure. But even if it's one case a week it will help.
"Well, Fre-I mean, Sherlock? Aren't you going to thank your Lady?" Donovan asks snidely.
"Of course," he murmurs. He kneels before Lady Molly. "Thank you, my lady, for this gift," he says, trying to look as earnest as possible.
She smiles and leans down, cupping his chin in one hand. She raises his head and kisses him. It's a full-on kiss, her tongue seeking entrance to his mouth. He opens to her, lets his body relax, puts on the appearance of a perfectly docile slave, aware that Donovan is watching him for any signs of rebellion. She'd love a chance to cause trouble, and though he loathes his enslavement, life with Lady Molly is much better than being used as a breeding stallion or being tormented on a regular basis.
When she's finished, she strokes his cheek; a gesture that almost seems loving. "You see, Sally?" she says to her second in command. "He's not a bad slave."
"Hmph." Donovan (he refuses to call her Lady Donovan in his head; compared to her, the other Donovan is a saint) looks disappointed. Doubtless she thought when he found this out he'd get cocky and misbehave. She'll find out soon enough how very not stupid he is.
He smiles at Lady Molly, as adoringly as he can muster. It's worth it to see Donovan scowl.
"Is he really that good?"
"He's my most prized possession," Lady Molly says.
Sherlock sighs inwardly. Well. Rome wasn't built in a day. This is a start.
"Get up, Sherlock," she says, tugging on his leash. "Time to eat."
They are dining at one of her favorite restaurants; a fondue place a few miles from her home. As is the custom, she sits in a chair and Sherlock sits on a large cushion at her feet. She unfastened his leash for the time being and sat it on the table. He glances around. Some slaves aren't allowed to sit without their leash attached. Some women attach the collars to chains, and to rings in the floor. Others hold the leashes. Some men are not even allowed to sit but must crouch at their owner's feet.
Yes, a gilded cage is still a cage. But it's better than an oubliette.
Lady Molly orders tea instead of wine, which he's grateful for. She gets some chicken kabobs and pita bread with hummus, cheese fondue, and a plate of fruit with chocolate fondue. As she eats, she reaches a cup and bites of food down to him, and he obediently drinks and takes the food with his lips and tongue from her fingers. At her home, she allows him to sit in a chair, though she sometimes feeds him instead of giving him utensils and a plate. It seems she's not ready to be rebellious in public with this, but he doesn't complain. For the first time in four months, he gets to help with a case; he's not going to jeopardize that.
"You're pleased," she says. "That you get to do the work you're used to."
He chews the strawberry she places in his mouth and swallows it before answering. "Yes."
She doesn't say anything else, eating and drinking with a thoughtful look on her face. He's tempted to ask her why she did it, but he's reasonably certain he knows the answer. He knows that on some level she is trying. She probably never really had reason to question the order of society before him. She'd never been so fascinated by a slave before. If she had questioned it, she'd pushed it aside. Now, he thought, he'd brought it to the surface.
He is still musing on the new turn of events as they left the restaurant. Doubtless she'll want sex tonight. That is nothing new; she's compelled him to have sex with her several times a week over the past four months. He has it down to a science now. He's never been one to indulge in fantasies, sexual or otherwise, since his early teens. But when she pulls him to her with that look in her eyes, he's learned that letting his mind roam is the best way to deal with the situation.
Sometimes he thinks of Molly. He hadn't planned on it; he'd intended it to be a one-off to help him cope that first night this Molly had taken him. But there are moments-a kiss here, a caress there-when he lets himself pretend it is the Molly he knows. The one who loves him. He isn't sure if he should feel guilty about it or not, but he doesn't. It is a distraction, it isn't hurting anyone and it helps him get through Lady Molly's demands. It is a logical solution to an illogical problem.
The fact that he is genuinely responsive to the idea of it being Molly is one that he doesn't allow himself to think about.
"Sherlock!"
Shocked out of his thoughts by a familiar voice, Sherlock whips his head in the direction of the sound. There, 30 meters away, stands John with an assault rifle, surrounded by half a dozen armed men and women. Sherlock meets his eyes and knows in that split second what he has to do.
He pulls hard and fast against the leash, feels it jerk free from Lady Molly's slack grip, and runs.
Everything happens at once.
Lady Molly shouts to her guards to stop him: stop them.
Sherlock runs faster than he's ever run in his life, following John and the task force who've come to rescue him.
He feels the leash slapping against his legs, but can't spare the time to remove it. Every second is precious.
He hears someone order him to stop or she'd shoot. He keeps going. A bullet meant for his shoulder whizzes by. Another grazes his left arm. He keeps running. Dimly, he hears this Molly shouting not to kill him.
They're going to another part of the city, he realizes. The gate has opened in a different location. That's why John and his team have been able to slip in. How they'd found him, he has no idea.
He's been running for sixty-seven seconds when he sees them heading into an abandoned warehouse. He feels as though his lungs are going to burst, but he keeps going. Behind him, he can hear the others. Some are within 10 meters of him. Shots are still being fired.
Just as he makes it in, a bullet hits his right shoulder. It's deep and cuts into him like a white-hot poker, and he can't suppress a shout of pain, nearly slumping to the ground. One person opens fire to hold them back while John helps him get the rest of the way inside. The door is locked and another guard rushes over.
"Hurry!" John shouts.
He scans Sherlock quickly, then picks Sherlock up and heaves him over his shoulders while the other man trains his gun on the door. They head quickly for the gate, which is glowing with violent orange light. There is pounding at the door. Gunshots.
They pass through the gate; vertigo and pain making Sherlock reel. He struggles to stay focused. A low metallic whisper ripples through the air during their passage, and they emerge. On the other side is welcoming cool night air, the smell of petrol, the familiar glow of lights: London. His London.
As soon as everyone is through, John shouts for the gate to be closed. They must have figured it out, then. He can't see through the light, but he can hear sounds from the other side. More gunfire, the door being blasted open. Lady Molly's voice, calling his name, sad and desperate.
The portal is closing rapidly. There isn't enough room for anyone to try and fit through it in time. Everything goes quiet on the other side.
Then, as the last of the glow flickers and diminishes, he hears her. Her voice, still sad, is resigned but also resolute, with an echo of affection.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
The gate is gone.
"Sherlock?"
John's voice cuts through Sherlock's awareness. He glances down at him.
John raises his eyebrows. "Is there a reason you're standing outside the morgue doors instead of going in?"
His tone of voice indicates he knows the answer is yes, and that he knows perfectly well what the reason is. It doesn't take a consulting detective to know that Sherlock is hesitating because Molly is in there. And Sherlock, Mr. Has No Feelings to Speak of, is hesitant to be around Molly.
Sherlock has told him enough about what happened for John to know that Sherlock is having trouble reconciling the two Molly's. Not that he blames this one at all. After all, she's not the one that… well, forced him to be her slave. Including sex. Sex that Sherlock didn't want, let alone want to get any sort of pleasure out of. John's honestly not sure which of the two facts bothers his best friend the most; being forced to have sex, or the fact that he physically enjoyed it.
The problem is that even Sherlock, one of the most rational and clear-headed of men, can't see this Molly without seeing the other one, to an extent. Somehow, though, John doesn't even think that bit is the whole story. There's something Sherlock hasn't told him; something that he's keeping locked up tight in that mind of his. John isn't pushing, though. Sherlock will tell him if and when he's ready.
Sherlock has been back for two weeks now, and whatever exactly it is, it's causing a lot of tension and making Molly upset and hurt. She doesn't know any of the particulars of Sherlock's captivity. All she knows is that a man who told her she counted, who told her she was his friend, has shut himself away from her. Something is going to break soon. John can feel it.
When they go in the morgue, Sherlock coolly but politely asks to see the body. Then he wants to do some lab work. The three of them have just settled down on stools in the lab when John gets a text from Mary.
He gets up after reading it, causing Sherlock to look at him. "Where are you going?"
"Mary needs me. Nothing I can do with this bit anyways, so I'll see you later."
"But-" Sherlock begins.
"Later, Sherlock," John says. His eyes flick to Molly as if to say talk to her. Sherlock looks faintly uneasy.
John shakes his head and tells Molly bye. Perhaps, he thinks, this came at the right time.
Silence fills the lab. The weight of it presses down on Molly until she can't stand it anymore.
"Why are you angry with me?"
Sherlock's head jerks up in surprise. "I'm not."
"Then why have you been avoiding me since you got back?"And don't say you haven't been," she adds as he opens his mouth. "I may not be a consulting detective but I know when I'm being avoided."
He sighs. He knows it's not fair to her. He needs to move past it. But it's not just a question of what that other Molly did; what she made him do. There's something else, something that he hasn't wanted to examine and still doesn't.
As he tries to decide how to respond, Molly speaks again. "What happened to you, those four months you were gone?"
He swallows hard. Molly gets up from her stool and moves to stand closer to him, though still maintaining a distance. "Greg said you were in some kind of alternate universe. That everything was different. He wouldn't tell me anything else; said it was confidential police information. But it was something bad, wasn't it?"
Sherlock struggles to meet her gaze.
"We were all…different there, weren't we?" Molly asks. "But we were there. Other versions of ourselves."
He wants to stop her, but he can't. There is a disconnect between his brain and his mouth and all he can do is listen, wishing for the first time that Molly was not so clever.
"She did something to you, didn't she?" Molly says quietly. "This other me. What did she do, Sherlock?"
He glances down. He can't look at her. He doesn't know how to tell her that this other version of her stepped across the threshold between right and wrong and that he was her slave in every sense of the word for four months. Or that…
"Sherlock, if you're not ready to tell me, just say so. But please say something. Anything is better than me not knowing."
The laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is a dark, joyless laugh. Finally he's able to meet her gaze.
"There was a time I'd have thought the same thing," he says softly. "Now…I'm not so certain."
"Tell me what's wrong," she says, voice soft and earnest, and he closes his eyes, hearing the echo of two and a half years earlier when she said those exact words to him.
Just before she risked her career to save his life and carried his secret for all that time.
He opens his eyes and looks into hers.
"I didn't exist in that world," Sherlock says. "But you did."
Something in his tone sets off alarm bells in her head.
She stares at him. "Tell me, Sherlock. Please."
And he does.
Not everything. Because… he can't. He can't give her explicit details. Well, he could: it's all there locked away in the Mind Palace. He can't bring himself to delete it. It's too monumental; too extraordinary, regardless of how horrible it mostly was.
But to look at Molly Hooper, this Molly Hooper, and tell her the explicit details of exactly what her other self made him do… he can't bring himself to.
So he tells her the basics; that he was captured in this world where women ruled and men were slaves and breeders and serviced women. And that this other Molly had chosen him to be her slave and was rather unhappy when he wasn't interested in being submissive. And that she'd finally threatened John to get him to cooperate.
He stops after that. Molly's face has gotten progressively paler since he began. When he stops, she looks devoid of color. Her eyes are wide and staring at him in horror.
"You mean…she…"
The look on his face is all the answer she needs.
"Oh, my God," Molly says. She's shaking. Her thoughts are so jumbled she doesn't know where to begin to try and sort them out. A rush of emotions fills her: anger, pity, and a crushing irrational shame. No wonder Sherlock hasn't wanted to be around her. He just spent four months being held captive and raped by this other Molly. She feels dirty and sick.
She knows, she knows it wasn't her. But it was her, too, in a way, and he…she…
"I…I'm sorry…"
"Molly," he says, but she shakes her head.
She can't face him right now. How can he even bear to be in the same room with her? She has to…
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, choking back a sob, and runs.
A week later, Molly is in her sitting room, aimlessly flicking channels from one crap show to another. But the telly isn't enough to keep her distracted. Nothing is.
She'd called Mike Stamford after leaving the lab, telling him she'd suddenly taken very ill. She hasn't been back to work since. She can't bring herself to face Sherlock yet.
It is a wonder he didn't hate the sight of her now, Molly thinks, holding back tears. She doesn't know what to do. Her heart hurts for him, that this other Molly had forced herself on him, held him captive, made him her slave. And it hurts for her, because now her friendship with him is probably ruined.
She is started by the knock on her door. The pizza. She isn't very hungry but she needs to eat something. She hurries to get her cash to pay and opens the door.
Sherlock stands on the other side, holding her pizza in one hand.
Molly stares at him, biting her lower lip and eyes wide.
"I told him I'd bring it up to you," Sherlock says.
Molly can only nod. "Right. Well, thank you."
He cocks his head. "This is the part where you invite me in, Molly."
"Oh. Yes. Of course. Please," she says, stepping aside for him to enter.
Sherlock sets her pizza on the worktop while she closes the door and puts her money down on the end table. As she moves into the sitting room, he strides in and stands directly in front of her.
"You've been avoiding me," he says.
She nods. "I couldn't… I didn't think you'd want to be around me after…"
"That wasn't all," he says. "That wasn't everything that happened."
Molly exhales with a shudder.
"There were times when I was with…her…that I thought of you. I pretended she was you," he says suddenly.
Molly's mouth gapes open. "You… pretended…why?"
He glances down, then takes a deep breath and meets her eyes. "Because it was easier for me to bear it that way. Because I wanted to pretend it was something I wanted, not something that was being forced on me."
"Something you wanted? But-"
"You've spent the past week imagining that I must hate the sight of you, if not hate you. Feeling irrational guilt over what other Molly did. You aren't her, Molly. You have nothing to feel guilty about, or ashamed of. All you have ever done for me is be kind to me, and be my friend when I'd done nothing to deserve it." He glanced away briefly, then looked at her again.
"It's true that I needed some time to…disassociate the two of you and come to terms with what happened. I still haven't fully processed it all. But I couldn't let you go another day without knowing the truth. It isn't just because of what she did. It's because of what I did."
"I didn't want to look at why I wanted to pretend so much with her. Logically, though, I knew I had to. I had to admit the truth: that my captivity, as terrible as it was, brought all the feelings for you I've suppressed to the surface. And I find myself unwilling and unable to put them back into a box."
Molly starts trembling. "You wanted to pretend because… you have feelings for me."
He nods.
"More…than friendship."
He nods again.
"Fuck me," she says in astonishment, then claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh, god. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
She stops her horrified rambling apology when Sherlock chuckles.
"I know what you meant, Molly," he says softly.
She looks down, suddenly feeling bashful. He does the same, and they stand that way for a moment before Molly looks at him again.
"Got any cases right now?"
He shakes his head.
"Would you like to help me eat this pizza?" Molly asks with a hopeful smile.
He smiles back faintly. "Pepperoni and feta cheese?"
"Yes."
"I am a bit hungry; I suppose pizza is as good a thing as any to eat," he says.
"OK," she says, her smile bigger and brighter now.
Just before they reach the kitchen, he puts a hand on her arm. She glances at him quizzically, then with a sudden flash of insight understands the look in his eyes.
She briefly covers his hand with one of hers and squeezes. "It's fine, Sherlock," she tells him softly. "We'll get there."
Sherlock stares at her, realizing once again that he has underestimated Molly Hooper. His Molly Hooper.
So happy and thankful is he that he's home, that he's with his Molly, that before he can stop himself by overthinking it, he leans in and kisses her cheek.
"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says softly.
"For what?"
He smiles again, more than before.
"For being you."