Chapter 8: Undercover Blues

February 5, 2012 – There (Two Weeks Later)

Two more weeks passed. Molly was torn between keeping track of the days and giving in to her growing desire to try and ignore how much time was passing, every day ticking away like another nail in the coffin of her hopes of returning home. And yet she was sure Sherlock – the real Sherlock from her world – wouldn't have given up yet. She still remembered absolutely nothing of the events of her disappearance, but from what she'd been able to ascertain about the circumstances, they were perplexing enough that she knew he would keep at it.

But whether or not anyone was still actively looking for her, the Sherlock she was now living with (no, stop, don't try to downplay it, the Sherlock she wasenslaved by) seemed confident that there was no way for anyone from her universe to come to her rescue. He mocked her hopes, telling her that she was trapped, that only someone from this universe would have the drive and arrogance to attempt such a dangerous experiment; surely even the most depraved scientific mind from her own universe would be unable to match the capabilities of a man raised in a world where the soft life she took for granted was at best the fleeting dream of the downtrodden.

"Think about it, Molly," he'd said to her just that morning, when she awakened to once again find his body entwined with hers. "How likely is any experimental physicist in your world to receive any form of government or private funding for such a mad venture, enough to give them the means to actually send a random victim into another world? Or do you still believe that you were sent here on purpose?"

She'd let that slip during her first week of captivity, speculating that she'd been deliberately chosen, that if it was a man-made phenomena that brought her here it had been for some purpose. She wished she'd never said anything aloud, especially at times like this, when Sherlock was in a mood to be cruel, to taunt her with the fact (no, it's just his belief, he has no idea, not really, don't ever forget that) that she was trapped here.

A sharp pinch to her nipple had wrung a cry of pain from her lips and brought her back into the moment as he glared at her. "Well, Molly? Do you still believe that?"

She'd shaken her head. No, she didn't. Much as she wanted to, there was no earthly – or unearthly, for that matter – reason for anyone to have either sent or brought her to this horrid place. If the scientist in question was hoping for an ally, he must be sorely disappointed – if he even knew she was there at all.

Sherlock had seemed satisfied with her response, his hold on her easing somewhat, fingers sliding across the skin of her chest in a manner calculated to cause arousal. His lips were on her neck and she told herself that the shiver that ran over her form as he continued to touch her was one of revulsion, rather than a sign that his attempts to seduce her into fully accepting him as a lover were working.

Of course, if she were being completely honest with herself, she would be forced to admit that he didn't really have to work that hard to get her to respond to his advances any more. She was still struggling against her own body's traitorous reaction to him, especially in the dark, when it was that much easier to ignore the cruelty that could flash in his eyes at the least provocation. When his voice was a lulling murmur against her ear – or a coarse whisper promising vulgarities that seemed to flow straight from her ear to the very core of her female center, a lightning bolt of sex and sensuality she was growing more and more helpless to resist.

That very morning was a prime example. She shuddered just thinking about it; not because he'd done anything to hurt her, but because he'd been almost loving in his attentions to her and her body had responded unmistakably to his soft touch, his gentle words and kisses. And this was after he'd said such cruel things to her, sneering at her for thinking herself special in some way when they both knew she was simply an ordinary woman caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

It was unhealthy, allowing herself to respond to him physically in spite of all the reasons she shouldn't; she didn't need a therapist to tell her that much. But what about her situation was healthy in the first place? Nothing. Not a damned thing. So why not do whatever it took to keep her from completely losing her mind? If it meant occasionally fantasizing that this Sherlock was the real one, the one she'd fallen in love with...

Oh. Was that the problem? Was it because she hadn't just been harboring a crush on the other Sherlock, was it because she'd actually allowed herself to fall in love with him? Was that why she was having so much trouble disentangling her feelings for the two men? The one who'd repeatedly raped her versus the one who'd been so desperate to save her that he'd literally dug his nails into her flesh to try and keep her from being taken away?

Was she so fucked up emotionally that she couldn't separate the two of them in her mind no matter what horrible things this one did? Had she finally crossed the line between trying to catch and hold Sherlock's attention, and out-and-out masochism? And was that really love, or just some sick obsession?

She was glad this Sherlock had left her alone for the afternoon, while he was off doing some horrible business or other she had no desire to know anything about. If he knew she was brooding on such things – and he always seemed to know when her mind was on the mental conflict she felt regarding him – he would do what he always did: he would home in on her moments of weakness, her self-doubts and mounting fear that she would never find her way home again. The way he'd mocked her for believing herself special somehow, special enough to be deliberately taken out of her own universe and brought here, was only one example of his seemingly relentless drive to crush her spirit and twist her into something she still believed, deep down, she was not: someone who truly belonged here.

A conversation they'd had a few days ago drifted into her mind. He'd been interrogating her about her own world, about Sherlock and Mycroft and what she knew of their relationship, asking her over and over again if she actually thought her version of the British government or any private research labs could possibly have created the technology that brought her over. She'd tossed off a tired comment about how such things had always been believed to exist only in the realm of fantasy, and he'd pounced her words as proof that it had to be someone on this side of the barrier who'd brought her over.

In his usual icy, disdainful manner, of course. She could hear the words as clearly as if he were saying them now.

"The technology we have here is slightly ahead of your own, because the government and private industry have far fewer restrictions placed on them, you already know that," he'd said with a sneer. "The ridiculous limitations placed on human experimentation in your world places you hopelessly behind us in the fields of medicine and weaponry alone!"

"Your medical advances aren't much good if they're only used to keep the elite alive!" had been her heated response to that particular taunt, which Sherlock had offered up in his most irritatingly supercilious tones, sounding so like her own Sherlock impatient with someone's perceived idiocy that her mouth had run ahead of her brain.

Still, she wouldn't take it back, even if this Sherlock punished her for her defiant words. It stung, every insult he hurled at the universe she no longer occupied. Yes, it hadn't been perfect – far from it – but even at its worst she would swear on her dying breath that it was infinitely better than this place.

Luckily Sherlock had been more interested in worming every reason for her protest out of her, intellectual and emotional, than in punishing her for losing her temper with him. They were still lying beneath the covers after their first sexual encounter where he hadn't had to either drug her or pin down her struggling form – their first time together where Molly had made the conscious decision to do as he'd suggested in the first place.

Lie back and enjoy it. That, she understood now, a week later, had been the beginning of her current free-fall into complete moral ambiguity. She should have continued to fight him, to force him to drug her; at least then she would feel as if she'd retained some shred of self-worth.

Her only hope now was that she would never fully give in to him, to be the willing partner he (sometimes) wanted. Even though her determination to keep herself from fantasizing she was with the real Sherlock kept wavering, it had finally sunk in that this version saw nothing wrong with what he was doing to her. And not the way a sociopath from her own world would view it as being all right as long as it was something he wanted, either; this entire, sick society, on both sides of the law, barely even labeled sexual assault a crime. There was a culture of "blame the victim" that people on her own world were working hard to eradicate, while on this world it was simply shrugged off as "she asked for it" or "she deserved it" or, worst of all, "she wanted it."

It was just one more thing for her to hate about this place. Just as she hated so much about herself, especially the ambivalence she felt for the way things were between them now. She hated the way she'd been forced to compromise her moral perceptions in order to make things easier on herself – and hated herself for being so weak as to feel the need to do so in the first place.

The sound of the flat door opening jolted her from her thoughts; her heart sped up and she jumped to her feet in sudden terror. Why was he back so soon, when he'd clearly indicated she wouldn't see him until later that evening?

She was relieved, but only the tiniest bit, when Mrs. Hudson entered the room instead, closely followed by Wiggins, whose first name she'd never heard and had no desire to learn. The skinny, rat-faced IT man was holding some complicated pile of electronics, and she couldn't help taking a nervous step backwards as he entered the sitting room and set the machinery carefully on the low table in front of the sofa.

He smirked at her, clearly enjoying her nervous expression. "Not for you this time, luv," he said cheerfully. "Mr. Holmes likes to be here whenever you're involved, you know that. Gonna give the flat a once-over for bugs, seems like the Yard has been watching him and knows he's spent an extra amount of time here over the past month."

"Wiggins, you know Mr. Holmes dislikes gossip," Mrs. Hudson said, her tone severe and expression disapproving.

Wiggins shrugged, unfazed by her words. "He never told me not to say anything to his little pet, either," he shot back.

It was the most interaction Molly had seen between the two, and there appeared to be a fair amount of animosity there; she filed it away, possibly useless information but who knew what she might be able to use at some future point?

Now that she knew she wasn't the focus of the visit, she relaxed a bit, but did not return to her seat on the sofa, choosing instead to remain where she stood, watching as Wiggins went to work. Mrs. Hudson remained by the door, watching coldly, her expression as unfriendly as ever whenever Molly's eyes accidentally met hers.

God, she hated this version of Mrs. Hudson almost as much as she did Sherlock. At least there was no deep-seated emotional conflict when it came to the housekeeper; she was a bitch on wheels and Molly had only met her counterpart twice back on her own world. Enough to know that the two women were complete opposites, but not enough to form any kind of emotional attachment.

Great. Her mind just kept running in circles, endlessly comparing this world to her own no matter what the distraction. It might have been better if Wiggins had actually been about to perform some weird science kind of experiment on her; maybe that would be enough to get her thoughts under control.

She folded her arms across her chest and tried to blank her mind, just watching Wiggins as he moved around the sitting room. He disappeared down the small hallway leading to the bedroom she now shared with Sherlock and all the tension she'd let drain from her body came right back, shooting down her spine and stiffening her body. She hated the idea of anyone seeing the evidence that two people slept in that bed; had she put her clothes away from the day before or left them hanging on the back of the chair? Were any of her underthings in view? She hadn't bothered to make the bed, knowing it was laundry day, but she hadn't stripped it down, either, a task she reserved for herself. But she hadn't expected Mrs. Hudson to appear until dinnertime, to drop off her meal and take the laundry downstairs with her afterwards.

She nearly jumped when the other woman spoke. "Once Wiggins is finished, get yourself ready to go out."

"Go out where?" Molly asked, turning to stare at her in consternation. But Mrs. Hudson refused to answer, her icy eyes warning Molly from pressing the issue.

She wasn't terrified of the housekeeper the way she was of Sherlock, but she knew a lost battle when faced with one, and kept her lips sealed on the many, many questions that wanted to spill through them. She'd find out where she was going when she got there, she supposed, repressing a sigh of mingled impatience and resignation.

oOo

Three hours later Molly walked back into the sitting room. It was the first time she'd been escorted from Baker Street accompanied only by Sebastian Moran, the first time she'd ventured from those rooms in over a week, and Sherlock, she'd finally been informed by the grim-faced housekeeper after Wiggins had finished his work and left, wanted her impressions of the things she'd been shown.

She managed to keep a shudder from going over her form, but only just. One of the things she'd told this Sherlock about his counterpart was a description of what she knew of his homeless network, his series of down-and-out informants and lookouts, which had intrigued the man she was about to speak to. So he'd sent Molly out to view some of the less salubrious neighborhoods of this foreign London, and it had been an eye-opener, to say the least.

An uncomfortable, unfavorable eye-opener. There were so many people living on the streets, so many people not covered by any sort of government-sponsored system that she still felt sick thinking about it. So many thin, grimy faces; so many children – dear God, the children – staring as the chauffeured vehicle in which she was being driven slowed down and passed them. She wanted to throw open the doors, and for the first time since her residency, practice medicine on living human beings.

She still felt sick. She knew it showed on her face, in the way her feet dragged – just as she knew that he would be waiting for her, ready to pounce on her with questions and deductions and that sick light of gleeful curiosity in his eyes.

And so he was, sitting on the sofa, one arm outstretched along its back, facing the fireplace. "Come along, Molly. Join me, share with me your observations."

Stomach knotted, fingers twitching nervously, Molly obediently made her way over to the sofa and sat next to Sherlock. "It was horrible," she said flatly, eyes focused on the white marble of the fireplace. "Absolutely horrible." She turned to face him, eyes wide in her too-pale face. "That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? That I was devastated to see all those people living in such horrific conditions, and the children..." She raised a shaking hand to her face, swallowing the sobs that threatened to tear themselves out of her throat. "God, Sherlock, how can you people live like this?"

The sound of the door to the flat opening caught her attention, and her eyes automatically assessed the newcomer – a maid judging by her uniform – as she backed into the room, tea tray balanced carefully in her hands.

"Mr. Holmes? Mrs. Hudson said you asked me to bring up your tea…"

Molly gasped, shocked by the familiar voice and face in so foreign a setting, so shocked she allowed her mouth to run far, far ahead of her brain. "Sally?" she said, her voice rising incredulously. "You work here?" Dear God, the policewoman was reduced to the status of a maid in this universe? She knew the "glass ceiling" here was set far lower than in her own world, that racial equality was even further from a reality, but surely someone with Sally Donovan's intelligence and drive could do better than…

Oh. God. No.

Ice swirled through her veins as she realized what she might have just done.

Nononono…she hadn't just broken the policewoman's cover, please God, don't let her have just destroyed this woman's life by giving her away to a ruthless enemy…

Oh, but she had. She saw it in the look of malicious triumph Sherlock shot her as he slowly rose to his feet, with his hands behind his back as he strolled to the "maid," who was still standing by the door to the flat, a wary, concerned expression on her face.

Sherlock circled her, shutting the door behind them, the lock catching with a soft "click" without ever removing his eyes from her. Molly remained as frozen as Sally was, half-risen from the sofa, one hand braced on the back, the other covering her mouth as she stared at the other two.

Sally made a valiant effort to act as clueless as a lowly maid ought. "Sorry, sir," she babbled, the hands holding the tea tray showing just the slightest shake – or was she acting? Impossible for Molly to tell. "I see I'm interrupting." She managed a step backwards, away from where he'd stopped directly in front of her. "I'll just leave this on the table and get back to the kit…"

Moving with the swiftness of a falcon striking, Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The tea tray crashed to the floor; Molly cried out as Sally tried to free herself from his grasp, still pretending – or was she? – to be a terrified servant who'd inexplicably caught her employer's unfavorable attention.

"Give it up, Sally," Sherlock snarled. With another of his lightning fast moves, he had her face slammed up against the door, one arm twisted behind her back. The cry of pain she gave was no act, not this time. "I knew you were working for someone, but whoever set you up here did an expert job at covering your tracks. I've never run into so many brick walls in my attempts to discover someone's true identity, but thanks to Dr. Hooper, at least now I know who you work for." He leaned in close, his voice a snarl as he said: "Did Lestrade really think you'd be able to find something on me, Officer?"

A/N: Uh-oh, things aren't looking too good at the moment! Hold onto your hats, folks, the rides about to take another downturn! (You've been warned...) Thanks as always to my reviews and followers and readers and wonderful beta moonmama and inspiration-in-human-form Adi Who Is Also Mou! Couldn't have done it without any of you! Chapter 9 is done and 10 is begun so updates will slow a bit...but will keep coming. Stay tuned!