Warning: NonCon. Semi-explicit.
"Sherlock! What happened? You've been injured!"
Molly pushed the door shut behind her, the bag of Thai take-away and her purse hastily dropped to the floor as she rushed to Sherlock's side to get a closer look at him. His poor nose was swollen and red, and there was a bloody handkerchief sitting crumpled up on the low table facing his sofa, where he was currently lying, head back and one hand over his eyes.
As she reached his side, he lowered his arm and looked at her, beaming widely – and a bit uncharacteristically. "Molly! You're here! Fantastic, I'm starving!"
He started to jump to his feet, but Molly stopped him with her hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, your nose...what happened?" she asked again, more insistently this time.
He reached up and patted the end of his nose gingerly, as if he'd forgotten all about it. "Oh, that." He shrugged and seemed to find the ceiling fascinating all of a sudden. "John hit me."
"What? Why?" Molly asked as she sank down onto the low table fronting the sofa, still studying his face anxiously. "What happened?"
He shrugged again, but this time when he attempted to rise, Molly let him, watching as he wandered to the door and retrieved their dinner from where it had landed, still safe in the Styrofoam take-away containers, thank goodness. "Oh, he took me to meet his latest conquest and it didn't go quite as well as he'd hoped."
His voice was dismissive, almost bored, and Molly was on her feet in a shot, blocking him from entering the kitchen, hands on hips and eyebrows lowered in a frown as she said: "You said something horrible to Mary, didn't you. Oh, Sherlock, how could you?" Her voice caught a bit and she found herself blinking back sudden tears as she continued speaking. "She's not a 'conquest,' you git! She's the reason he was able to, to go on after you j-jumped." Oh, the despised stutter was back. Great, just flipping great. She took a steadying breath and finished up. "You had better fix this, Sherlock. John is your closest friend and he loves Mary, really loves her. I think – I think she might be the one."
Sherlock regarded her through the entire muddled speech, face expressionless, the take-away bag dangling from one hand. As she closed her mouth and waited for him to say something – anything – he surprised her by moving closer to her, dropping the bag, darting his head forward...
...and kissing her.
Her brain seemed to freeze at the impossibility of the moment. Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, his arms were around her, and He. Was. Kissing her.
For a few moments Molly simply melted into his embrace. It had finally happened; Sherlock had finally taken the step that would change their relationship, and all she felt was blind joy.
Until the kiss subtly began to alter. Until his tongue was probing for entrance to her mouth, thrusting demandingly between her lips. Until his hands were roaming over her body, tugging at her clothing, squeezing her breasts as he used his superior size and strength to shove her up against the wall. One knee was wedged between her thighs, the hard ridge of his arousal hot and heavy against her hip, and the voice of reason was screaming to be heard at the suddenness of it all.
"Sherlock!" she gasped out, turning her head and ending the kiss, struggling to push his hands away from where they'd latched onto hip and breast. "What, what are you doing?"
"Oh, Molly, don't try to pretend you don't want this." Sherlock's voice was lightly mocking as he refused to budge, digging his fingers more tightly into her flesh, hard enough to draw a protesting whimper from her throat. His face was close to hers, so close she felt his breath stirring the loose hairs on the side of her face and raising goose bumps in spite of her burst of panic. "Isn't this what you've been dreaming about every single night since you first met me?"
His grasp loosened, turned into a series of soft caresses as the hand on her hip inched its way upward, ghosting across her bare skin while the hand on her breast stroked softly, rousing her nipple into a peak before she knew what was happening. He made as if to kiss her again, but she raised one hand and pressed it against his mouth, pushing his head back, squirming beneath his hold in another unsuccessful attempt to free herself from his looming form. "Sherlock, this is – it's too fast. It's not like you, I don't understand..."
He rolled his eyes with an impatient huff. "There's nothing to understand, Molly. You want me, I want you, and I've finally decided there's no reason to pretend otherwise." There was a look of sly malice in his eyes as he added, "Especially now that you've dumped that poor excuse for a lookalike you engaged yourself to – or should I say, that second rate 'Sherlock-alike'?" He tsked. "Honestly, Molly, what were you thinking?"
Then he kissed her again, and she was too stunned to stop him, her brain frozen and her body as well. Then the voice in her mind was screaming at her, warning her that this was wrong, something wasn't right, she needed to stop this...
"Stop!" she gasped out as his lips descended to her neck, his hands now pinning her by her shoulders. "Sherlock, please," she managed to choke out in spite of the rising fear clogging her throat. "This isn't...it isn't you, not like you at all." She peered closer into his eyes as a sudden suspicion hit her. "Sherlock, did you take something..." Her voice trailed off and her own eyes widened as she saw his irises; the blue-green with flecks of amber was slowly disappearing, flooded from the pupils out by a slow, creeping tide of darkest brown, nearly black. She sucked in a shocked breath, frozen by the unnatural sight.
"Mmm, that's very sweet, you're still trying to find some reason for me to act like this, to make it not just Sherlock being Sherlock, a self-centered control freak," he replied with a cold chuckle, not reacting in the slightest to her sudden lack of movement, the way she was still staring, almost hypnotized, watching as his eyes completely changed color. "Typical Molly, always trying to fix things, to make them right, to see the world through rose colored fucking lenses."
His mouth returned to her neck, biting down hard enough to draw a ragged cry of pain from her lips, jolting her from her paralysis. "So sorry to disappoint you, Saint Molly, but Sherlock isn't under the influence of drugs tonight. No one's jabbed him with a needle and brought this on him. It's how he's always felt about you. Shall I let you in on a little secret?" he asked, his breath warm on her ear. "He's always wanted you, just never allowed himself to indulge. It's why he's always treated you like shit, kept you at arm's length but never further away – he couldn't take you for himself the way he wanted to, but he always made damn sure no one else could have you, either. It's why you never could find the right bloke, until he was out of the picture."
She was shaking now, truly terrified at the sound of Sherlock referring to himself in the third person. But that was nothing to the panic that overcame her as he added, his voice inexplicably rising in a mocking Irish lilt: "It's why it was so fucking easy to prance into the lab and give him all the clues he needed to sabotage yet another of your pathetic attempts at a relationship, by outing me as gay."
Oh God. Sherlock had completely lost it; he'd snapped, thought he was Jim Moriarty. It had to be some kind of delayed shock from his visit to the St. Bart's rooftop earlier in the day, a PTSD flashback or something. Or was it possible that it was the effects of some kind of designer drug he'd taken or been given – how else to explain the unsettling, impossible change in his eyes? "Sherlock," she said, keeping her voice as steady and soothing as she could in spite of her fears. "Please, you have to listen to me..."
He laughed, head thrown back as his hands moved up to grasp either side of her face. When the laughter stopped, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing heavily. "No, Molly," he said softly when he'd recovered well enough to speak. "I don't have to do anything except what I want to do. And right now, I really want to kiss you again."
And he did, despite her protests, her attempts to extricate herself from his hold. In desperation she bit down on his lip, hard, and he pulled away with a snarl of rage. She tried to dodge away from him, opening her mouth to shout for help, but one of his hands was around her throat and the other was tearing at her clothing and things had gone horribly wrong so quickly that she could barely wrap her head around it. She was trying not to panic, trying to find a way to free herself, but her vision was slowly darkening as Sherlock's hand tightened its grip on her throat, cutting off her breath as well as her screams; the blood was pounding in her ears, and she was clawing ineffectually at him, her movements growing more and more feeble as her oxygen supply disappeared. Then everything went dark, the last thing she saw Sherlock's inexplicably dark brown eyes boring into hers.
oOo
Molly came back to consciousness slowly, wheezing and gasping, to find that she was lying on some unyielding surface; where was she, what had happened, why was there a heavy weight on her body, a slight burn between her legs...
Memory returned in a rush and her eyes widened as she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock's naked body resting above hers. No, not just resting above her; he was moving rhythmically against her, lowering his head to her throat and nipping it at. He was the cause of the burn, of the sense of weight and not-rightness she was feeling...oh God, he was...no, this wasn't right, Sherlock couldn't possibly be doing that to her...
But he was. He was, oh God, no, he was inside her; she could feel it now, strained to push him off her but he was too heavy and her throat hurt terribly and her head as well, blood pounding in synchronous rhythm with the movement of his body above and inside hers.
"Mmm," he murmured when she finally realized how futile it was to keep struggling, when her hands fell limply to her sides and the tears began streaming from her eyes. "Just as tight and wet and good as I expected. Of course, you could move your bum a bit, give us a better ride, eh?" He grinned down at her, a savage, gleeful grin that was completely foreign to his features, his eyes still that dark brown, nearly black of the predator he'd suddenly morphed into. Not that Sherlock was anyone's pushover, but this feral cruelty was alien to him.
"No? Can't see your way to enjoying your reward? Not even the littlest bit?" Oh, his voice, so cruel, so mocking, far, far worse than anything cutting or unkind he'd ever said to her in the past. Still the hint of the Irish to it, but back into his own deep baritone. He'd gone mad, a temporary madness she knew he would regret as soon as it passed, but until then, until he regained his senses, all she could do was endure what was already happening to her at the hands of the man she loved.
She nearly gagged as he pressed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue along her lips, forcing them open – and whimpered as she tasted herself on his mouth, thrashing her head from side to side in attempt to escape the enforced intimacy. Why had he...
"Had to get you ready for me, Molly, and I've been mad for another taste of you since you dumped me."
There it was again; not Sherlock's voice, but Jim's. Not just the accent and the words, but something more, something harder to define. If Sherlock had ever shown any talent at mimicry she'd understand, but even when in disguise John described his changes in voice only as something slightly different than normal; he'd certainly never indicated Sherlock could literally change his voice. Or was she only hearing what she wanted to hear, some sign that this wasn't actually Sherlock doing these things to her, in spite of the evidence of her eyes and body?
When she chanced a look at his face, she gasped as she saw that his eyes had returned to their normal blue-green, the flecks of amber nearly swallowed up by his blown-back pupils. As she watched, almost distracted enough by the sight to forget what he was doing to her, they once again seemed to bleed dark brown from the pupils out, until his eyes were no longer those of Sherlock Holmes – but were entirely Jim Moriarty.
"Close," he gasped out, his hands digging painfully into her upper arms. She winced, bit her lip, closed her eyes, then snapped them open with something very like shock as he muttered: "There's a love, Molly. How could you doubt me after this?"
Those had been the very words 'Jim from IT' had spoken to her after their first – and only – sexual encounter. She'd never repeated them to anyone, never written them in her blog or jotted them down in an idle moment, never shared them with DI Lestrade when she was questioned about her involvement with him after he'd tried to kill John and Sherlock.
Something was very, very wrong here. Her skin prickled and she felt a coil of nausea as she broke out in a cold sweat. No matter what seemed to be happening to her, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn't Sherlock drugged up or gone mad and raping her.
It was Jim Moriarty.