A/N: Warnings for noncon w/dubcon elements, if that makes any sense.

Chapter 5: Change In The Status Quo

Molly hummed quietly to herself as she finished sewing up the corpse she'd been asked to autopsy (male, Caucasian, late twenties, ugly gun-shot wound to the left shoulder, cause of death deceivingly clear at first but then shown to be in fact due to a subtle stab-wound to his right kidney), knotting the heavy black thread and snipping it off neatly with the edge of the scalpel she'd been using. It had been so blessedly normal to be elbows-deep in a dead body, here in the St. Bart's morgue, that she'd been able to temporarily forget how deeply unsettling her life had become since Christmas Eve.

She'd been able to completely lose herself in the job at hand, to block out the sounds and sights of everything else, and even, for those few, short hours, to (almost) forget about this world's Sherlock Holmes.

Now, however, as she came to the end of the autopsy, he crept back into the forefront of her thoughts. She kept her eyes down, fighting to remain focused on her task, drawing out the closing-up process for as long as she dared. Putting off the moment when she would be forced to face his evaluation of her work.

Sherlock had remained silent as she performed the autopsy, although she'd heard one or two approving murmurs from Mike Stamford – who looked so remarkably like her own Mike, even down to the expression of avuncular friendliness on his face, that she'd almost broken down when he was introduced to her.

Fortunately for her fragile state of mind, he'd then openly ogled her cleavage and sweatily clutched her hand in his for a moment longer than necessary for professional courtesy, and she'd remembered where she was and how the men of this world treated the women and the moment had passed.

After that, once she'd donned gloves and lab coat and protective visor, she'd been left strictly alone to perform what amounted to her competency. But she'd never been able to completely shut out the feel of Sherlock's critical gaze; even now, she felt his eyes on her and fought back a shiver. She had no hope of ever comprehending the man who held her captive. He was brutal, cruel, breathtakingly brilliant; impatient, demanding, demeaning; all that and more. As complex as the Sherlock she'd been torn away from, but far, far darker.

Evil. This time her mind breathed the forbidden word, and this time she couldn't stop herself from shivering.

She shivered again as she sensed his presence close behind her. She laid down the needle and thread, her hands shaking suddenly, and half turned to see what he wanted.

He was right there, crowding against her, his breathing harsh as he dug his hands into her shoulders and stared at her.

His face was flushed, there was a bead of sweat on his temple and his pupils were so far blown back that there was hardly any blue left to his eyes…she went cold as she recognized the expression on his face. Dear God, he was…

"Yes, extremely," he said, his low growl cutting off her horrified thought before it could finish itself. "Remove your gloves, your lab coat, that ridiculous headgear and come. To. Me."

Then he released her and turned on his heel, riding crop twitching in one gloved hand, making his way across the room to where the body storage drawers filled one wall.

Molly couldn't move, could barely breathe; no, no, this wasn't happening, it couldn't be…

"Dr. Hooper!"

She jumped at the combined sounds of her name being barked at her from across the room and the riding crop striking the empty metal storage shelf he'd pulled out. His eyes bored into hers; his were cold and yet somehow heated at the same time; hers were terrified, swimming with sudden tears. "Do I need to remind you of the consequences if you force me to repeat myself?"

She shook her head, stammered out a "No" and began hurriedly doing as he'd asked – commanded – her to do. Snapped off the latex gloves, automatically balling them and dropping them on top of the corpse she'd just autopsied when her frantically darting eyes couldn't seem to locate a rubbish bin. Lifted the headgear off and laid it on the table behind her, as carefully as she could manage with her hands shaking as they were. If she damaged the equipment, part of her mind was chattering, it might mean even worse consequences than those she currently faced.

That same part of her mind refused to give a name to what was about to happen to her. Just as her eyes refused to recognize the reason for Sherlock methodically stripping off his outer garments – gloves, scarf, jacket – and dropping them onto the low table behind him, and her mind refused to understand why they were now alone in the room or wonder when Mike and Moran had left, why the door was now clearly locked, the shades on the oval windows drawn…

As she fumbled the buttons for the lab coat, head lowered to better concentrate on what she was doing (and to limit her vision, to deny for just that much longer the reason she was removing that coat in the first place), she heard it again, the sound of the riding crop, tapping impatiently on the edge of the metal shelf, and broke into a sweat. Heart racing, breathing gone ragged and gasping as her fear increased, she gave up on the last few buttons, shrugging the blood-spattered lab coat off her shoulders and allowing it to drop to the floor.

She looked up slowly, dreading what she was about to see as much as she'd once longed for just such a sight.

He'd unbuttoned his shirt in the time it took her to finish removing the lab coat, revealing the smooth, pale contours of his well-muscled chest. Her feet moved her forward even while her mind remained numb, unable to formulate so much as a single coherent thought other than he told you to come to him, do it or else…

As she took another hesitant step closer his lips lifted in a crooked grin while his fingers nimbly completed the task of removing his cuff links – all while his gaze remained fixated on her. He slipped the gold links into one pocket of his trousers before shrugging the shirt off his shoulders, allowing the silky fabric to drop to the table holding his outer clothing.

Molly heard herself whimpering as he gestured impatiently for her to join him, watching through terrified eyes as he toed off his expensive leather shoes and reached, slowly, deliberately, for his belt buckle.

He'd laid the riding crop on the edge of the cold metal shelf, a silent reminder of the price she would pay for disobedience – but honestly, wouldn't it be just as well if she allowed him to beat her, to bruise and bloody her body again, even to break her wrist or shatter her kneecap as he'd threatened in the past? Wouldn't that be better than letting him…

"I would still use your body, Dr. Hooper – Molly," he corrected himself as he performed his usual magic trick of reading her thoughts in her eyes and body language, his already-deep baritone a shade lower than normal.

Husky with desire.

There, she'd named it. He wanted her, was going to take her, right here in the morgue, on that same cold, metal shelf where the riding crop now rested. All her most twisted fantasies, the ones she'd entertained herself with on many lonely nights as she longed for some way to make Sherlock notice her as an attractive woman instead of just a conveniently tractable pathologist, were about to be granted.

If there was a God, he was a sick bastard, no question about it.

oOo

Lamb to the slaughter.

What an apt saying that was at the moment. Molly Hooper had come to a trembling stop only a few feet in front of him, and looked like she expected nothing less than to be devoured whole. That observation brought with it such a delicious mental visual that he felt his already considerable erection harden further.

She was doing as he demanded, not fighting him – at least, not yet. All to the good. Whether she fought him or not the outcome was inevitable, and he would enjoy himself immensely either way.

He quite looked forward to the idea of pinning her down on the cold metal shelf, pressing his body onto hers, forcing her legs apart with his knee – perhaps with her hands restrained above her head, held in place by one of his while he used the other to explore the soft contours of her breasts, her hips, her thighs…

"Remove your clothing," he ordered, deliberately phrasing his words to bring up what must be one of her most unpleasant memories since her arrival here – if not of her entire life.

She flinched, her eyes automatically jerking sideways to take in the sight of the riding crop, bringing a wolfish smile to his lips. Oh yes, she remembered. He watched with avid eyes as she fumbled with the buttons of her satiny turquoise blouse, waiting with what amounted (for him) to inhuman patience until she finally managed to undo the last one and remove the top with fingers that visibly shook.

She didn't bother putting it on top of his clothing, just let it drop to the floor as she had the lab coat, her movements not intended to be alluring but affecting him that way nonetheless. Her lips were trembling, she was fighting tears…oh yes, absolutely delicious.

Impatient for contact, he reached out and pulled her to him, pressing his lips against hers, tongue demanding entrance as she gasped in shock. Surely she'd expected this…but no, perhaps not. Kissing was an intimacy she clearly did not associate with assault, which was apparently how she was classifying this encounter in her mind.

She would learn, soon enough, that this was not exactly what was happening here. He was no mere rapist satisfying an animalistic lust. What was about to happen between them was as far above such a gross act of violation as an Opera diva was above some simpering pop singer in a cheap lounge.

No, he was giving her something he rarely gave anyone; himself, made temporarily vulnerable. If she'd had the presence of mind to hide a scalpel in her garter she could easily have slit his throat, stabbed him in the gut, injured or killed him and made a run for it.

She hadn't of course, although it would have been most stimulating if she had.

She was struggling against him now, straining to free herself from his grip, to pull her mouth away from his, a soft little mewl of "no no please no" spilling from her lips as she managed to turn her head just the slightest bit.

Those words were enough to drive him over the edge; no longer content to toy with her, he anchored one hand firmly in her hair and encircled her petite (but delightfully curvaceous) body with his other arm, trapping her against him. Hauling her closer, then using his greater weight to force her backwards, until her rear bumped into the edge of the metal shelf meant to hold only cold, dead bodies.

Tonight it would be holding two very live, very warm bodies instead.

oOo

She fought him; how could she not? She scratched and shoved and kicked, doing her level best to get him off her, knowing it was a losing battle but not having given up enough of her self-pride to allow him to just steamroll his way over her. Not this time, not when it was so grossly intimate an outrage he intended to perpetrate against her.

She did, however, find herself stopping short of biting his tongue, although she dearly wanted to. The thought of the beating she would no doubt receive if she drew blood, if she actually injured him in any way, didn't bear contemplating. Why court additional pain? He'd already said he would…would…take her, even if it was after he'd beaten her.

He was using his body to push her backwards until she was stopped by the edge of the metal shelf against her bum. Panic truly manifested then; her fingers clawed at his skin, pulled at his hair; her legs kicked out, she squirmed and twisted and eventually bit…and none of her actions did anything to deter him.

They didn't keep him from hoisting her off her feet and slamming her down on the cold metal shelf. They didn't stop him from rucking her skirt up around her waist and shoving her bra and knickers askew while she fought to recover her breath. They didn't stop him from removing the rest of his own clothing, from clambering on top of her and nudging her thighs apart with his knee, from pressing himself onto and eventually into her. They didn't keep his lips from her throat, his teeth from nipping at her, from drawing blood from the tender skin covering her racing pulse. They didn't stop his hands from holding her so tightly there were going to be finger-tip bruises on her hips, her wrists, around her throat from when she tried, just once, to scream…

When it was over, when he'd spent himself, spilled himself inside her – no condom, but thank God she had a birth control implant, it was one bit of her that hadn't been molested – he rested on his elbows, staring down at her, eyes moving as he appeared to catalogue the damage he'd caused. He'd pulled out strands of her hair, nipped her lips so hard they were swollen and sore, broken the skin on her throat and drawn blood, yet now…now there was something else growing in his eyes, a sort of dark possessiveness that terrified her even more than the brutal act she'd just endured.

"Well, Molly Hooper, you continue to intrigue me," he said, making no move to roll off her, to remove his unwelcome (but oh-so-welcome if it had been her Sherlock, part of her treacherous mind whispered) presence.

She knew what he meant and hated herself for it.

Because when he'd driven into her, thrusting his hips against hers…he'd not found a bone-dry entrance, dried out by terror and loathing.

No, he'd found, to her everlasting shame and humiliation, warmth. And wetness. In spite of the pain, in spite of the terror, in spite of the way she fought against him and the memory of how brutally he'd treated her since her arrival in his world…some part of her had welcomed him. Wanted him.

The part that could never completely hate him, just because he was Sherlock Holmes. No matter how twisted, how cold and calculating and ruthless and – yes, the word fit – evil he was, he was still Sherlock.

And God help her, some part of her would always respond to that.

oOo

Molly was silent the entire ride back to Baker Street, which suited Sherlock perfectly. Sexual release was one of the few things that could still the endless workings of his mind, but rarely for longer than the duration of the act and its immediate aftermath. The fact that his mind was still fully preoccupied with what had just happened between the two of them thirty minutes after the actual act was…a miracle.

Not that he believed in miracles, or any benign (or otherwise) superior being that could bring such things about, but still. One used the language one had grown up hearing.

He contemplated her out of the corner of his eye. She was huddled into herself but had stopped crying, at least. Her tears had been of pain and fear, yes, but also of shame and humiliation because of her own reaction to their first sexual encounter.

Good. He allowed a satisfied smile to curl his lips. This would be a much more enjoyable method of keeping her in line than merely beating her for any transgressions. She'd been unable to keep herself from wanting him – from confusing him, at the most primal level, with his counterpart from her own world, the one she so desperately wanted and had never had – and that was another weapon in his already considerable arsenal.

It pleased him a great deal to know he was one up on the man she held so dear in her memory. The one she was endlessly mentally comparing him to – and generally finding him lacking. He knew it, she knew he knew it, but neither of them spoke of it. She kept quiet out of fear of his reaction – a valid, reasonable response on her part – and he…he wasn't entirely sure why he, himself, never brought the subject up. It wasn't because he felt threatened by this other Sherlock; far from it. He welcomed the idea of one day confronting his counterpart, besting him – killing him.

If, that is, he could ever put his hands on the physicist who had brought Molly into this world. In spite of his and his brother Mycroft's best efforts to discover the man's identity, he (or, he reluctantly reminded himself, possibly she) remained elusive. It wasn't one of the many government lackeys, working either in the open or in secret on various projects Mycroft and his political cronies would prefer to keep secret (not from him, never from); it wasn't some private physicist, at least none either brother had been able to ferret out.

Another reluctant conclusion Sherlock had come to was that it might possibly be a scientist or team of scientists working on Molly's side of the ethereal barrier that kept their worlds vibrating at their own frequencies of existence. Unlikely, but not impossible, although he doubted anyone from that soft, complacent world would have the motivation, the ambition (no, arrogance) to go beyond the merely theoretical when it came to such daring research.

And if it was, indeed, someone from Molly's universe who had managed this astounding feat?

Well. Now that he knew it was possible, he would find a way to properly motivate a physicist on his own world to duplicate it. Not to return Molly to her world; no, she belonged to him now, and he never gave up his playthings unless a better deal was to be had. Even then he generally found a way to – how had his mother put it, when he was a child? – ah, yes. Have his cake and eat it, too.

The only thing that could possibly induce him to give up Molly Hooper now, he concluded with a great deal of satisfaction, would be if his other self offered to trade himself for her.

The remainder of the ride was spent in mutual silence, his productive, hers clearly brooding. And when they reached the Baker Street flat, he instructed Moran that he was not to be disturbed for anything less than a breakthrough in the Hooper case, as he referred to his on-going research into Molly's origins, or the end of the world. The man nodded, gave some brief orders to the driver and the man standing watch outside the front door and then reentered the vehicle as Sherlock and Molly entered the building.

oOo

Her head was pounding. She'd never had a headache this bad. Of course there were other aches and pains further down on her body, but those she refused to catalogue or even acknowledge. Not yet. Nothing below the neck existed for her at the moment; what was it her Sherlock always said? The body was merely transport for the mind, the only part that mattered; she needed to just pretend, for a little while longer, that she could manage the same sort of detachment.

Shock certainly helped. Helped her continue to hold back the torrent of accusations and "Whys?" and "I hate yous" and invective and additional sobs that were fighting to make their way out of her mouth.

She didn't need to see the riding crop to know how this Sherlock would react to that sort of thing.

Her throat ached as well, from holding back those unshed tears. Oh, she'd cried, during and immediately after, but he'd made it clear that she was to show no signs of distress once they were in public view, and she'd been cowed and ashamed and far too jumbled up emotionally to be able to muster up even the slightest crumb of resistance.

No, she'd nodded and dressed herself and scrubbed the tear-stains from her cheeks and allowed him to escort her out of the morgue. God, the body she'd autopsied was still lying out on the table, uncovered; the equipment she'd used still sitting on the tray covered in blood and bodily fluids for someone else to clean up. She'd had to bite back on the urge to beg him to allow her to put things to right before they left.

She recognized the incipient hysteria bubbling up inside her and managed somehow to shove it back down. Not that she didn't want to just let go, to completely lose control, but by doing so she was terrified she wouldn't be able to rein her sanity back in again. Unlike her crying sessions early in her captivity, if she allowed herself to give in this time she might not be able to return that particular genie to its emotional bottle.

It would have been so easy, so very, very easy to do as he'd urged her, to simply give in and allow him to have his way. The illusion that it was her Sherlock on her world wanting her and doing the things to her that this man had done…oh yes, that was a very, very difficult temptation to resist. But resist it she did, because if she gave in to fantasy, she would be one step closer to falling over the emotional cliff she'd been avoiding all this time, one step closer to letting her sanity slip away.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

oOo

She should have realized that the ordeal she'd undergone at Bart's had only been the beginning. Why hadn't she recognized that; why hadn't she seen that the fire she'd somehow kindled in him had only been further stoked by that hurried encounter in the morgue?

If she'd had any hopes or expectations of being left alone once they returned to Sherlock's flat, she quickly learned the errors of her ways when he shut the door behind them, shoved her up against it and commenced snogging her like a half-cut teenager desperate to get laid.

She tried to push him away, struggling against his suffocating hold but once again unable to bring herself to end the forced kiss by biting his tongue. Instead, she went still, allowing his hands to roam her body, to wrench her coat off and undo the buttons of her blouse and squeeze her breasts in his hands. She allowed his knee to wedge her legs apart, staring over his shoulder as she fought a grim battle with her lacrimal glands, determined to stop fucking crying for once.

Her sudden cessation of resistance did not go unnoticed. Sherlock pulled away from her with a frown, eyes flickering over her passive form, taking her apart and apparently not much liking what he saw.

"I prefer it when you try to fight me," he said after a moment, during which she turned her face up to his; even when dealing with shock and terror, she knew better than to ignore him when he was speaking to her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm really not in the mood," she finally said, only mildly amazed at how soft and disinterested her voice sounded. And polite; never for fuck's sake forget to be polite to the man who'd just raped her. "For fighting, I mean. I should think you'd be able to deduce that I'm not in the mood for sex either, but that doesn't seem to be something you care about, so..." She raised one shoulder in a shrug, then braced herself for the backlash that was no doubt about to fall upon her.

He surprised her by not immediately raising the riding crop and beating her for what he would certainly characterize as insolence or disobedience. Instead, he continued to appraise her, a thoughtful expression coming over his face as he stepped away from her and dropped his hands to his sides.

"Passivity doesn't suit you, Molly," he said crisply. "Nor does it suit my needs. I would much rather have you fight me than simply lie beneath me like a dead mackerel when we're having sex."

She wasn't expecting such bluntness from him. Her indrawn breath and widened eyes were clues anyone could have interpreted, let alone Sherlock Holmes. "Please," she started to say, then stopped herself, clamping her lips shut and once again forcing down the sudden lump that had risen in her throat, blinking rapidly to forestall yet more tears.

He moved back into her personal space, reaching forward with those long, slender, clever fingers to take her by the chin and tip her face up to meet his icy gaze. "Molly, this is going to happen whether you like it or not. However," he added, voice deepening as he leaned closer, his lips almost touching her ear, "I promise you, if you simply relax and allow your body to react the way it clearly wants to, this can be enjoyable for both of us."

She swallowed. Hard. Turned her head away, but slowly, making it clear that she wasn't defying him, simply demonstrating her need for more space. "Please," she whispered again, this time knowing what she wanted to say and praying he wouldn't take her words as defiance. "Please, Sherlock, I can't...not right after...can you please just give me some time? One night?"

She closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to the lobe of her ear, nibbling it delicately before pulling his head back and placing both hands on her shoulders. She stood absolutely still as he gave her a careful, searching, look.

With an abrupt nod, he dropped his hands. "Very well," he said, his voice back to its normal clipped coldness, the velvety purr gone. "One night. After that, however, I will resume sleeping in my own bed whenever I stay here...and you will be expected to join me."

He didn't add "or else," opting to tap the back of her hand with the riding crop, and she nodded, swallowing hard, head swimming with sudden relief. Nothing about him could have prepared her for the possibility that he would be open to compromise, but it was the only thing she'd asked of him since her arrival and she supposed he had taken that into account before granting her request.

Or perhaps he was merely waiting for her to fully recover from the state of shock she was clearly displaying.

Either way, when she made a tentative move away from him, he allowed it, dismissing her as rapidly as he'd seemed to turn her into the center of his attention.

Thank God. There was only so much of Sherlock's intensity she could stand, and she'd had more than her share of his attention today.

"I'm going to take a bath," she said softly as she removed her coat and hung it neatly next to his. He grunted a response, handed her his gloves and scarf to put away, then headed for the stairs leading to his laboratory – John's room, she thought with a pang as he left her alone.

With dragging feet she made her way to the bathroom, discarding her clothing as soon as she'd closed the door behind her. She drew the bath, ran the brush he'd provided through her hair, pinned it up neatly on top of her head, then sat down on the toilet lid, buried her face in her hands and gave in to the sobs she'd been fighting since leaving the morgue.

This is going to happen whether you like it or not.

The shiver that ran up her back turned to violent shudders that shook her from head to toe as she heard his voice in her head, a threat carried on the back of a matter-of-fact promise.

I promise you, if you simply relax and allow your body to react the way it clearly wants to, this can be enjoyable for both of us.

Oh, God, he meant that. He really wanted her to just – what was that ancient saying about being in danger of rape? – oh, yes. Just relax and enjoy it.

Hysteria once again reared its ugly head, and she managed to tamp down on it again by busying herself with the bath she was running; rummaging in the wall cabinet for the lavender bath salts Mrs. Hudson had purchased for her along with shampoo and other "feminine necessities" (Sherlock's words), checking the water temp, selecting a towel and washcloth and making sure the soap was at hand.

Small pleasures. The only thing this new life had offered her so far was pain and degradation; therefore, she reasoned in her incipient hysteria, the only way to keep her sanity was to focus on the small pleasures she could manage for herself. She stepped into the hot water before the tub had finished filling, the urge to scrub herself clean of whatever remained of his presence overwhelming her.

She didn't scrub herself raw, although the impulse to do so was certainly there. The only thing stopping her was the sure knowledge that, no matter how hard she scrubbed, nothing was going to wash away the filth now staining her soul.

She hadn't come when he fucked her in the morgue, but she had actually felt…something. Something besides panic and terror, something he'd recognized and would no doubt use against her the next time he... Another shudder, another spate of sobbing as she sunk deep into the blistering heat of the water, clutching her arms around herself in a protective gesture that offered no comfort whatsoever.

She'd felt some physical pleasure when he entered her, for lack of a better description. What kind of a person did that make her? Maybe she wasn't so different from the people of her new reality as she'd like to believe.

Maybe, she thought darkly as she stared down at her betraying body, she should have slit her own wrists when she had the chance.

oOo

Sherlock found that he didn't mind doing Molly this small, inconsequential favor. Anticipation, after all, made the moment that much sweeter. He allowed her to duck out of his embrace, to cleanse herself in a bath that lasted only five minutes longer than he'd predicted it would – accompanied, also as predicted, by the sounds of deep, wrenching sobs – to wrap herself in the oversized dressing-gown Mrs. Hudson had provided for her. The one not meant to entice a man into a woman's bed, but rather to actually serve the useful purpose of keeping said woman warm.

It was one of the few practical garments he allowed her to wear, along with several pairs of snug-fitting designer blue jeans and some warm jumpers – cashmere, of course, nothing but the best for Sherlock Holmes' woman.

The smile that had been lurking about the corners of his mouth broadened into a grin as he thought of Molly Hooper in that context for the first time. Of course, those who were unaware of who she was and how she'd arrived in his flat assumed she was just his latest piece of arm-candy – not quite as stunningly beautiful as the women he normally allowed to grace his side, but he could care less what others thought of his taste. He was Sherlock Holmes; he did what he wanted, went where he wanted – took what he wanted.

He glanced down at his mobile; it was nearly six, time to let Mrs. Hudson know if he planned to eat in tonight.

He shot off a quick text to her, requesting a light meal for himself and an invalid's tray for Molly. After a moment's thought, he added an extra line, one Mrs. Hudson would understand quite well.

Weak tea. Formula 12-17b, low dosage.

Molly had begged him for the night to herself, and he'd agreed to allow it.

As always, only on his terms.