A/N: Again, many, many thanks for all the lovely and encouraging reviews of this story. Here is the next chapter, featuring the introduction of Sherlock!
They arrived at a rather nondescript building on Baker Street; not a posh area, but certainly not as impoverished as many areas of London had become as its population dropped and Humans became too preoccupied with the day-to-day struggle to survive to have time to worry about things like urban blight. The flat Mycroft Holmes brought Molly to was located over a sandwich shop. The address on the door read 221B.
Molly wondered, not for the first time, what exactly was going to happen to her. Her shaking had subsided somewhat during the twenty minute ride to Baker Street, but it started anew as Master Holmes indicated she should follow him up the stairs to the first floor.
He pushed open the door without bothering to knock. Even if he had, Molly doubted he could be heard over the caterwauling of a violin playing something – well, she wasn't sure what kind of music it was, but it definitely wasn't classical.
Her sense of humor temporarily reasserted itself; perhaps this was her punishment, an afternoon spent listening to that ghastly noise?
All humor faded as they entered the flat. It was clearly the home of a Vampire; there were heavy shutters and blackout curtains on the windows, although they were open to allow the night air to waft through the sitting room and kitchen she found herself facing. The kitchen, what little she could see of it, appeared to be in use as a chem lab and storage facility rather than for cooking or eating; the counters and table were piled high with beakers and other scientific paraphernalia that would have piqued her interest in other circumstances.
The musician – if the abuser of the violin could be called such – was standing in front of the window that looked out over Baker Street. He must have seen the limo pull up, must have watched as they filed out of the car – Lady Anthea was behind her, a silent reminder that if she tried to run she wouldn't get very far at all – and made their way to the door of the building.
He also must have heard them coming, because as soon as he turned to face them, his alabaster skin and luminous blue eyes instantly gave him away as a Vampire even if his residence hadn't already prepared Molly for the possibility.
A Vampire, and God help her, the most incredibly handsome man she'd ever laid eyes on. In spite of the precariousness of her situation, Molly spared a moment to wish that she'd freshened her lipstick and removed her bulky cardigan – she wore a much more flattering camisole beneath it – before leaving Bart's.
Then the rest of her brain caught up with her pleasure-center and reminded her in no uncertain terms that she wasn't here to meet a blind date. She was in a Vampire's home, surrounded by three Vampires unless there were more in the other rooms of the flat, awaiting punishment of some kind for an entirely unintentional slight.
The new Vampire was tall and thin with exquisite cheekbones visible even in the dim lighting of the flat, and a mop of curly, dark brown hair, nearly black, that Molly's fingers insisted they needed to run through, right now, thank you. His mouth, currently downturned in a slight frown, formed a perfect Cupid's bow like none she'd ever seen before. An eminently kissable mouth, that.
Molly couldn't recall the last time her limbic system had betrayed her like this. Certainly none of the Humans she'd dated – totaling exactly four – had stirred such a reaction in her. It was as if this man (Vampire, she had to remember he wasn't just a man, he was a fucking Vampire, why was that so hard for her to grasp?) affected her at the most basic, primal level. If he'd crooked his little finger at her she would have gone down on her knees for him right then and there, even with the other two looking on, done anything he asked of her...
Panic washed over her. Some Vampires had a sort of charm or charisma they could turn on and off at will, and used to toy with their victims, make them think they'd fallen in love when it was a purely physical reaction. Was he doing this to her? And if so, why?
He showed no signs that he found her remotely attractive; his eyes had raked over her dismissively before he focused his attention on the two Vampires who'd brought her here. And his eyes were still that cold blue – no sign of the red that colored their irises when physically aroused. So no, it wasn't something he was doing, unless everything she'd been taught and observed about Vampires and sexual interest was untrue.
While her mind and heart were racing, Master Holmes had taken two steps closer to the other Vampire. He glanced at Molly before speaking. "Sherlock," he said, either in introduction – most Vampires, especially if they'd been posh to begin with, had excruciatingly correct manners even when they were about to rip out your throat – or as a prelude to speaking further.
"No," the other man – Vampire – replied as he turned back to the window. He raised his violin as if about to start playing again. Molly had been so distracted by his devastating looks she hadn't even noticed he'd stopped.
"She was disrespectful to me in front of a witness," Master Holmes said before the bow more than rested on the strings.
Sherlock, as Molly supposed the other Vampire's name to be, froze, then looked over his shoulder at Master Holmes with an incredulous expression on his face. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he snapped, once again looking at Molly as if she were a laboratory specimen. "No, Mycroft," he repeated, more forcefully this time. "You can't..."
"I can and I will," the other Vampire replied, his voice remaining calm and cold. Icy, Molly would say. She remained silent and unmoving, although her fingers had clenched into fists by her side and she'd belatedly remembered to lower her eyes so that all she saw of Sherlock was his black silk pyjama-clad legs and ratty (ratty? A Vampire wearing ratty clothes?) gray slippers. "Shall I rip her throat out or have Anthea do it?"
Molly forgot to breathe, her terror suddenly trebling at those coldly spoken words. Oh God, he was going to kill her...but why, the small (very, very, very small) part of her that could still form a coherent thought wondered, was he acting like it was as much a threat to this other Vampire as it was to her?
Apparently that part of her was much more astute than the panic-stricken rest of her. Her eyes flew up and she recognized a helpless sort of rage in Sherlock's expression, one she'd seen many times before – in a Human's eyes, when some hapless victim found themselves randomly selected to appease a Vampire's sudden peckishness in the halls of the hospital or on the street when she hurried home to her flat.
Like everyone else, she'd learned to turn, not quite a blind eye, but a deliberately unfocused eye on such occurrences. She'd never believed it possible that a Vampire – one of the Masters, rulers of the world – could wear that same look.
"She's got two completely different sets of records as well," the female Vampire volunteered from behind Mycroft, studying her mobile as she spoke, sounding bored. As if none of this mattered, as if Molly's life wasn't on the line. "According to our database she was born in 1979, but according to the Human database, she wasn't born until 1981."
Oh God. Molly must have stopped breathing for moment, because suddenly she was gasping for air. It made no difference to the Vampires that there were two sets of records – that was frequently the case for the children of collaborators, a very small attempt to make them feel safe among their own kind, as her own parents had done – but if anyone outside of this room (and still alive in every sense of the word) were to find out, Molly's life could end even if she walked out of this situation unscathed. There were too many Humans who bore an unreasonable hatred toward any child born before the Great Takeover who had been allowed to escape the reservations all other children of that era had been forced into.
Sherlock appeared to understand this as well; his eyes narrowed and he moved into the other Vampire's personal space in order to stare him down. "You wouldn't," he said, his voice, his eyes, his stance all a challenge.
A challenge Master Holmes accepted calmly – and appeared to dismiss. "I would," he affirmed. "You know I would."
Sherlock studied him a moment longer, then abruptly stepped away and turned to face the window, both hands behind his back, clutching the violin and bow almost tightly enough to snap the fragile wood. "Fine," he growled without turning around. "Leave her."
"Her belongings and cat will be delivered tomorrow," Master Holmes said, and two minutes later Molly found herself alone in the flat with Sherlock, wondering what the hell had just happened.
They were moving her belongings – and Toby – here...why? Oh God, had she just been delivered to this Vampire to be his personal slave? That wasn't...it wasn't supposed to work like that. She had a job, she had a life, she'd done her very best to avoid situations that could lead to something like this, worked hard, kept her head down, dressed the opposite of provocatively...yet here she was.
Sherlock turned and raked her with an appraising stare that felt much more intense than his first glancing – and dismissive – look at her. She held still as he deliberately eyed her from head to toe and back again, trying her best to calm her pounding heart and chaotic, panicky thoughts. Hot and cold flashes swept over her and her trembling had increased to the point that her teeth were chattering in her head.
His next words did nothing to calm her. "Remove those hideous clothes," he snapped. "I need to get a proper look at you if I'm to accede to my brother's wishes and save your life."
Brother...the other Vampire was this man's brother?
It wasn't important. Not now. The part of her mind that was wholly occupied with self-preservation was chattering at her that a Vampire had just given her an order – and that if she valued her life, she'd damned well get busy stripping off her clothes. However, she couldn't help wondering as she did so how this was going to save her life...and why this particular Vampire would even care whether she lived or died.
She while her chaotic thoughts continued to dash around like a school of panicked herring within her mind, her body was busy doing as she'd been ordered, removing her clothing with shaking hands. She toed off her shoes as she removed her cardigan, trousers, and socks. She was just reaching to pull her lacy blue camisole over her head when she heard Sherlock speak. "Stop," he said, his voice impossibly close – when had he moved?
She looked up without thinking, to see his face only inches away from her own. She sucked in a startled breath at the close-up view of his incredible eyes, which were still lit with the phosphorescent glow all vampires had in low lighting, the shimmer they could mask only in full darkness.
"Your figure is more than passable, much trimmer than your choice of clothing would suggest," he said, his voice low and husky. Molly started to duck her head, but he reached out and grasped her chin in his cool fingers, turning her head to one side and then the other. Examining her features with an intensity that threatened to turn her knees to jelly.
Where had her terror gone? Why was she reacting to him so strongly, when a lifetime of conditioning told her she should be begging for mercy or running for her life? She thought she might faint when his long, cool fingers reached out to grasp her hands, turning them this way and that as he examined them. "You work as a pathologist or doctor...no, definitely a pathologist," he proclaimed, not even bothering to acknowledge the flicker of surprise in her eyes as he continued to speak, deducing her much the same way his brother had back at the morgue, coming to the same – correct – conclusions before he fell abruptly silent.
He released her hands and suddenly leaned closer, breaking eye contact to nuzzle the side of her neck. Scenting her, she supposed; Vampires had much stronger senses of smell than Humans, and breathing in a potential partner's musk was part of their mating ritual.
Mating ritual. Oh, God, had she just thought that? Surely she was wrong about this, about what was happening here...
No. Not wrong. That was definitely a tongue she felt sliding along her neck, and lips, and his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her against the firm length of his body. Vampires had cooler body temperatures than Humans; they took about two breaths a minute; their hearts beat at roughly a quarter of the speed of a Human heart; and the blood that flowed through their veins was thicker and darker than Human blood, but it performed the same function, brought about the same result.
Such as the heated erection she felt against her midsection as he slid his hands behind her back and brought his lips to hers for a searing, forceful kiss.
Molly found herself responding enthusiastically; her nipples hardened as they pressed against his body; her hands slid up the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the back of his neck before raising up to tangle themselves in his hair. The sheer sensuality of the moment threatened to overwhelm her; she gasped and pulled her mouth away from his for a brief moment...
And found herself suddenly alone in the room.
Sherlock had vanished with Vampire speed to who-knew-where, and she had no idea what had just happened – or what she was supposed to do now.
