This was not supposed to be happening. Sherlock paced the rooftop of 221, staring unseeingly into the darkness that hid very little from a Vampire's view.

He'd worked very hard at keeping people – Humans and Vampires alike – away from him. He'd always believed it kept him safe, kept them safe. Recent circumstances had started to alter that perception on his part; he'd actually formed cordial relationships with the Humans he worked with at New Scotland Yard, most notably Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and a former Army doctor named John Watson who'd been retained as an on-call coroner working directly for NSY rather than at one of the hospitals.

Unlike the young woman currently occupying his flat – and his thoughts – John went to crime scenes and was, if not entirely at ease around Vampires, he was at least comfortable working with Sherlock now that they'd known each other for almost three years. He even hoped that one day the doctor and the Detective Inspector would trust him enough to let him help with their efforts to overthrow the existing order in favor of something a bit more balanced.

Like himself, they dreamed of the day when Humans and Vampires might find some way to co-exist. After all, Vampires didn't need to drain a Human of their blood to feed, and there were actually many Humans who enjoyed being fed from. And not just the ones who'd been brainwashed into believing it their duty, either.

Then again, there were others who would rather die than allow themselves to be used as a food source for their so-called lords and masters. His 'guest', he suspected, fell squarely in the middle, where most of humanity existed: neither craving the thrill of being bitten nor willing to kill themselves rather than submit.

He blew out an impatient breath, raking his fingers through his hair as his pacing increased in speed. He'd managed to survive as long as he had without taking any sort of slave or mate, and now his brother, in one simple move, had forced him into accepting a woman who was meant to be both.

The question was, what exactly was he going to do about it?

His rock-hard prick told him quite plainly what his body, his transport, wanted from her. Ever since he'd scented her when she'd first been escorted into his flat by his brother and his 'PA', as he preferred to call the woman known only as Anthea, he'd felt an inexplicable pull toward her. He'd seen no details other than the top of her head when she'd exited his brother's black nondescript government car, but even that brief glimpse had stirred...something. Something that had caused him to kiss her only moment earlier.

Well. More than moments, actually; now that he allowed himself to notice the world outside his mind, he realized he'd been on the roof for very nearly a half an hour. Far too long to leave her alone in his flat, wondering about his motives for abandoning her so suddenly. Was she still standing where he'd left her, too terrified to move lest he punish her for doing so?

With an internal curse, he loped back to the iron ladder that allowed access to the roof. Even if she had no desire to become his mate (although her own reactions appeared to mirror his, something to be investigated as soon as feasible), her life was still at stake. If he didn't do as Myrcoft demanded of him, his brother wouldn't hesitate to rip her throat out and leave her body at Sherlock's feet.

That, he vowed, was a fate he'd never allow to befall her.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Wherever he'd vanished to, Sherlock – Master Holmes, she would have to be very careful to use his proper title or else potentially face further punishment – didn't return for half an hour. During that time Molly remained standing in the same place, her clothing piled on the floor, not daring to so much as throw her jacket around her shoulders without permission.

All the while her mind kept chasing itself in circles, wondering alternately why he'd kissed her and why he'd so abruptly pulled away. Especially when it was clear he felt some sort of attraction to her...but why? There was nothing special about her; she wasn't beautiful, not in the conventional sense, certainly not in a way most vampires defined beauty. She'd spent her entire life attempting to be the opposite of the type that normally attracted sexual attention from the Masters, and yet here she was, lusting after one of them herself.

When Sherlock did show up, simply appearing the way Vampires could when they felt like moving at their fastest speed, she cried out in startlement, then bit her lip and hugged her arms to her chest to try and control her renewed shivers. This time they were as much from cold as fear; one of the reasons she'd covered her chest was a futile attempt to keep Master Sherlock from noticing her erect and aching nipples.

He razed her with another one of those appraising glances, head to foot, then reached down and picked up her jacket, tossing it over her shoulders without comment. "Pick up your belongings and come with me," he ordered, turning and stalking toward the hallway at the back of the flat.

Molly did as he ordered, plucking up the courage to ask: "W-where are you taking me? M-master Holmes," she remembered to add. If she was to be a member of his household she had to learn the boundaries of what he would and would not allow.

He whirled as soon as the last words left her lips, glaring at her so harshly that she stumbled to a stop, clutching her clothes and purse to her chest in renewed terror. Her nervous system was going to collapse soon if her emotions kept spiking up and down so severely.

"My name is Sherlock," the Vampire said as he continued to glower at her. "I would prefer to be addressed that way unless," he added with what appeared to be a great deal of reluctance, "we are in the presence of other Vampires. It wouldn't go well for either of us if I allowed any sort of familiarity amongst others of my kind."

His ire – and arousal – seemed to have dampened, although he still didn't appear anywhere close to happy. Molly simply nodded, then resumed following him down the dimly-lit hallway.

He stopped outside a door, pushing it open and indicating that she should look inside. "Bathroom," he said succinctly. "I never use it so it will require a thorough cleaning. I'll set up accounts for you to access so you can purchase whatever it is you'll need. Food, too," he added as an afterthought, frowning. "There isn't any in the flat but I'm sure my housekeeper – her name is Mrs. Hudson, I'll introduce you when she gets back tomorrow – has something downstairs. I'll take a look."

"I'm – not really hungry," Molly ventured, emboldened by his puzzling behavior – and by the memory of the searing kiss they'd shared, the one he was now acting as if it had never happened. He acted and spoke like no other Vampire she'd ever interacted with; most would have a servant showing her around, or simply expect her to learn things on her own with no direction from them.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he trained his disconcerting gaze on her face once more. "Fine," he said curtly, then turned and headed for the door at the end of the hall, which ended at a staircase. He jerked his chin toward it. "I'll have to move some things around, but you'll need a place to store your belongings once they arrive." He hesitated, seemed about to add something, then apparently changed his mind. Instead, he reached for the door opposite the bathroom and jerked it open, indicating that Molly should precede him into the room.

"My bedroom. Ours now, I suppose."

Any hope that his abrupt leave-taking and once-again cool demeanor meant that she was to be spared the humiliation of being forced into a life of sexual slavery (not that it would be all that difficult a burden to bear with this particular Vampire, part of her traitorous mind whispered) died with those indifferently spoken words.

When he fell silent after essentially sealing her fate, Molly forced herself to focus on the room in front of her, shoving her panic and fear and (how was such a thing even possible under these circumstances) desire into the back of her mind. There was no way to slow the pounding of her heart or keep her breaths even and calm, but she tried anyway as she took in what details she could from the meager light spilling in from the hallway.

It was nothing like what she'd imagined a Vampire's bedroom would look – not that she spent a great deal of time doing so, but considering who'd been running the world for more than half her life, she'd have been hard-pressed to avoid thinking about it at all. For one thing, it was small, not much larger than the one in her own flat – former flat, she reminded herself with a pang of near-grief. Oh, not for the flat itself, but for the limited freedom and life it represented. A life no longer her own. At least Sherlock was going to allow her to keep Toby; she'd have to make sure and set up his litter box in the bathroom and keep it scrupulously clean.

Aside from a dresser, a wardrobe, a single chair by the door, and the bed, there didn't appear to be anything else in the room. The wall appeared bare of decorations and there were no rugs on the hardwood floor beneath her feet. The windows featured the ubiquitous heavy metal shutters and blackout curtains – the one thing the myths got right was that Vampires burned to a pile of ashes under the direct rays of the sun – both currently open, as was the window itself, to allow the cool night breeze into the room.

Molly shivered as she felt the wind on her exposed skin, jacket or no jacket, and Sherlock must have noticed because suddenly he was in the room, pulling the window down and slamming it shut. "Get under the covers," he ordered, his voice suddenly rough with some unnamed emotion, eyes glittering eerily blue-gold in the darkness.

Molly obeyed, a lifetime of ingrained obedience to any Vampire's command causing her to drop her belongings onto the floor and scramble beneath the covers before she was fully aware of doing so.

She watched through wary eyes as Sherlock moved away from the window, coming to a stop only when he reached his dresser. He leaned against it and continued to regard her in silence for a few minutes longer before once again speaking, abruptly and without preamble. "My brother thinks I'm still too close to my humanity. He's been trying for years to force me into taking a personal slave, but not just a slave, oh, that isn't enough for Mycroft."

He began to pace, and Molly was surprised to hear bitterness in his voice as the words poured out of him. "Taking a slave, I could easily just use that as a cover, easy enough to fake brutality in public but revert to form once in private. That's why he brought you here – what is your name?" He stopped pacing, his movements having brought him close to the head of the bed and she gazed into the sapphiric glitter of his eyes as he peered into her face.

"M-molly," she replied with a stammer. "Molly Hooper."

"Sherlock Holmes, as you've undoubtedly worked out for yourself by now. Charmed," he replied as he resumed pacing, moving in short, agitated steps from the window to the foot of the bed, past it to the chair by the door and back again. "It's why he brought you here, Molly," he said, repeating his previous words but with what she could only construe as the added courtesy of tacking on her name. "He wants me to use you, to Mark you and undoubtedly get you with child. Visible signs of my ownership," he added, practically spitting out the last word, distaste clear in his voice.

All warmth drained from her face at that thought of being forced to produce offspring that neither parent, it seemed, were interested in producing. Yes, she'd thought about having children someday – but Human children, not half-breed Nosferatu. Even with this Vampire, whom she could still feel her body aching to touch.

While her mind stuttered over the information she'd just been given, Sherlock had continued speaking. Oh, wait, no he was asking her something – oh, God, was she going to have to ask him to repeat himself? As if today hadn't been filled with enough mistakes on her part...

Either Sherlock hadn't actually asked or else he was continuing to behave like the most atypical Vampire she'd ever interacted with, because when he spoke again it was to ask: "What is your reproductive status, Molly?"

"T-temporary birth control implant," she stuttered in response.

Although she didn't see him move, suddenly the side of the bed sagged beneath Sherlock's weight, and she felt as much as saw him peering intently at her. He sighed, and she had the impression he was running his hand through that gorgeous dark hair of his. "Of course you're cleared for eventual procreation," he muttered, sounding resigned. "Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way."

Another sigh came from the darkness, this time close enough for Molly to feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. "If I know my dear brother – and believe me when I say I know no one better – there will be an appointment set up for you at the nearest fertility clinic within the next few days, during which your general health will be assessed and your birth control implant removed."

Molly couldn't help the shiver that ran over her form at Sherlock's matter-of-fact words; from what she'd seen and experienced of his brother, she wouldn't put any of it past him. He obviously had plans for his younger brother, plans in which she figured prominently; the only question was, why? Why her, and why was Lord Holmes – Mycroft – so determined to make Sherlock do something he so clearly didn't wish to do?

She only realized she'd voiced her questions aloud when Sherlock responded to her words. "Well reasoned, Molly. At least Mycroft picked a woman of acceptable intelligence as well as acceptable attractiveness."

Molly blinked; had Sherlock just called her attractive? And intelligent?

She couldn't help blushing, partly in embarrassment and partly out of some weird sense of pride. Again, the thought that Sherlock might somehow be manipulating or at least affecting her emotional state flitted through her mind. Again, she rejected it. If he could control her that well she'd already have done whatever it was he wanted her to do.

Or rather, whatever his brother wanted her to do. Which Sherlock had already spelled out.

Which meant... "Sherlock?" she ventured to ask as he made no move to either leave her be or...well, not leave her be.

Her response came in the form of another sigh as Sherlock leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Yes, Molly, I am going to do as my brother wants, as I have no wish to be the cause of your death. And yes, I said you were attractive and intelligent and I meant both compliments. Although I am indeed doing this against my will, I am also attracted enough to you that it will not be as much of a chore as it might have been otherwise." She felt rather than saw the smile as he brushed his lips against her cheek and added: "And I have no doubts as to your attraction to me, since you've smelled of more want than fear ever since I kissed you."

She had no response for that, knowing it to be true, feeling a thrill course through her as he continued to ghost his lips over the soft flesh of her face and neck, ending at her throat, grazing it with his teeth. Teeth which now included fangs that had elongated into feeding mode, although she suspected he had no need for nourishment at the moment.

No, he'd said his brother wanted him to Mark her. And in order to save her life, he was going to do just that.

She couldn't decide whether the idea of being so Marked by Sherlock Holmes was more terrifying – or more arousing.