A/N: Warnings for character death (not Molly, even I'm not that cruel), violence and general nastiness. I own nothing but the aforesaid violence and nastiness, Moftiss & BBC own the rest, lucky them. Just remember folks: It's always darkest before the dawn. Thanks for sticking with this story this long. Gracias to moonmama for reviewing and broomclosetkink for general hand-holding and too many others to mention for their personal levels of awesomeness!
Chapter 9: Crime and Punishment
Molly's paralysis ended as Sherlock called out for Moran while manhandling Sally away from the door. Both of the woman's arms were now twisted behind her back as Sherlock forced her to her knees. Molly rushed over to them, no thought in her head except the need to stop this, to make it right, to fix the horrific mistake she'd just made, but even as she reached out to try and tug Sherlock's hands away from his prisoner, he turned his glare on her, once again freezing her in place and sending an icy shiver down her spine. "Don't, Molly. There's nothing you can do to save this bitch. I suggest you go into our bedroom and close the door; things are about to get very, very unpleasant."
She gave Sally an agonized look before turning back to Sherlock. "No, Sherlock, please, whatever you're going to do...please, think about it!" Molly pleaded even as she stumbled back a step, one hand held out beseechingly. "She's a police officer, if you just...let her go, then the only thing she can accuse you of is assault, she can't have learned anything of use working in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson!"
Sally remained silent during Molly's half-sobbed outburst, but the look on her face was an odd combination of anger and bemusement, laced with the occasional wince of pain as Sherlock continued to hold her arms twisted behind her back. Sherlock said nothing as well, his face unreadable, but Molly couldn't stop trying. This was all her fault; why hadn't she just kept her stupid mouth shut? Couldn't she do anything right?
The door to the flat opened while she was still pleading for mercy and babbling out promises to do whatever Sherlock wanted if he would just let Sally go. Moran strode into the room, took in the situation at a glance and swiftly removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, silently offering them to his employer. He ignored Molly completely even though she stood less than five feet away from the other two, and focused his attention on Sally and Sherlock.
Holding the undercover officer easily with one hand, Sherlock wrestled the cuffs onto her wrists, hauled her to her feet and shoved her into Moran's waiting arms. He then returned his attention to Molly, who'd refused to do as he'd suggested – ordered – and leave the room. He strode over to stand directly in front of her, glaring down at her upturned face, taking in the hands fisted at her sides, the trembling that shook her from head to toe, the defiance and fear warring for dominance on her face...and smiled. A terrible, cold smile that set her heart hammering in her chest and threatened to rob her of her breath. "Very well, Molly," he said softly. "If you wish to remain, by all means do so." Then he grabbed her arm and forced her over to the nearest chair, shoving her into it before turning his back on her and striding over to the kitchen door.
He emerged from that room with a single straight-backed chair in his hold, which he carried over to the middle of the room, placing it precisely so that it was directly opposite the one Molly now occupied. A single jerk of the head was enough for Moran to drag Sally over to it and force her to sit. Zip ties were produced and used to attach her ankles roughly to the chair's legs and her still-handcuffed arms behind her.
When she was thoroughly and efficiently bound to the chair, Sherlock took his place in front of her, gazing down with his hands behind his back as he spoke. "You are a police spy, Sally. Don't try to deny it. Now that I know," he paused long enough to give Molly a nasty smile, "it should be child's play to find the evidence I need to ferret out your true identity. I presume it's DI Lestrade you work for?" he added, gazing down at her intently.
Sally remained stubbornly silent, her expression giving nothing away, having smoothed itself into as blank a mask as Sherlock had ever managed. She gazed at a point somewhere over his left shoulder, ignoring his words. She might have been found out but clearly she intended to give nothing away herself.
Molly felt a hopeless sense of admiration for the other woman's stoic silence, although she wondered how long it would last once Sherlock called for John Watson and his drug cocktail so he could peel her secrets out of her one by one.
"Well, Officer, I can see you don't intend to give me anything I can use. That's fine," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously soft as he locked gazes with his prisoner. "I don't need you to tell me anything, anyway; all I need for you is to deliver a message for me."
Molly, who'd been braced to witness an interrogation like the ones she'd endured at Sherlock's hands, shot him a puzzled look. What did he mean, what was he going to do...
She watched, uncomprehending, as Sherlock held out his hand and give Moran a particularly enigmatic look.
Sherlock's head of security nodded once, reached around behind his back and produced a handgun from beneath his black leather jacket. He silently handed it over to his employer while Molly's brain refused to comprehend what was about to happen – but only until Sherlock raised the gun and pointed it directly at Sally's head.
Everything happened so quickly after that, that Molly could barely make sense of it. She heard herself screaming as she hurtled herself out of her chair and launched herself at Sherlock, managing to get in two good blows to his face before Moran grabbed her around the waist and forcibly removed her from his employer's body. He wrestled her away like it was nothing, no matter how hard she fought and screamed for him to let her go. In no time he had her hands restrained behind her back, stoically ignoring her attempts to kick back at him, to free herself, to do something that would make him let her go and shield Sally from what was about to happen.
"Nooo!" she practically howled as Sherlock once again raised the gun, aimed, and fired.
Molly slumped in Moran's hold and would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't stopped her at the last second, curling his arms around her waist and forcing her to remain upright. Tears streamed from her eyes as she stared at the blood pouring from the wound so precisely set in the middle of the other woman's forehead.
She barely heard Sherlock as he ordered Moran to take clean up the mess, although her head jerked when he also ordered the man to "Make sure DI Lestrade receives a suitable memento before you dispose of the body." She barely felt it when Moran let her go, when Sherlock hoisted her into his arms and carried her out of the sitting room, shock temporarily robbing her of control and paralyzing her vocal chords.
She only came back to herself when she felt her blouse and bra being removed, her wrists being bound, one to either side of the ornate iron headboard. Oh, God, was he going to force himself on her right now, after she'd watched him murder someone? A woman she now knew to be a decent, loyal police officer in both worlds?
A woman whose death was on her own conscience?
She felt sick, waves of nausea rolling over her body, sweat breaking out on her forehead, but she swallowed the bile in her throat, hating the idea of dealing with Sherlock while covered in her own vomit.
"What…what are you going to do to me?" she croaked out, beyond caring if he took it as defiance; she was already in so much trouble, how much worse could it get?
He paused in the act of tightening the rope around her right wrist, and she clamped her mouth shut on the question she'd been about to ask; the words dried up in her throat at the expression of naked fury in his eyes. She shut her own mouth reflexively, cringing away from the certainty that by trying to shield Sally Donovan, to stop her from being murdered in cold blood, she had effectively brought the same fate upon herself.
"Open your eyes, Molly." The words, so cold, so demanding, brooking no delay. Her eyes snapped open as if on strings, and she focused on his face, her every breath a harsh gulp, her heart pounding arhythmically in her chest. The sweat on her forehead dripped into her eyes; she blinked, but never moved otherwise; she was too terrified to do so even if she weren't bound to the bed like some cheap romance novel heroine.
God, she wished the door would burst open, that the Sherlock from her own world would appear, overpower his evil self and save her. A futile wish, of course. The door remained firmly shut, this world's Sherlock remained standing by the bed, working his sigil ring absently with the opposite hand as he continued to stare coldly down at her.
"Once I became aware that 'Sally Donaldson' wasn't who she appeared to be – and that someone had gone to a great of trouble to hide her true identity – it occurred to me that you might be of assistance. If she was someone you knew in your old life – and the fact is that many people here seem to fall under that category – then it would be logical to enlist your unwitting assistance in helping me ascertain her true identity. In that, you did exactly as I'd predicted: immediately indicated your recognition of her, thus identifying her as a police spy rather than a plant put in place by a rival." His gaze, already icy, went positively Antarctic as he leaned closer and snarled: "However, you destroyed any appreciation I had for your assistance when you not only openly defied me in front of one of my employees, but also when you attempted to interfere with me when meting out punishment to a spy and traitor."
"She was just doing her job!" Molly burst out, unable to contain her own rage and sorrow as it temporarily overpowered her terror. She ignored the tears leaking from her eyes as she lifted her head in order to glare up at him. "She was a police officer, you can't call her a traitor for just doing her job!" Her head collapsed back on the pillow as the sobs began in earnest, tears for the life so cruelly stolen away from Sally Donovan, tears for herself, for whatever fate she was about to meet on this horrible world. "God, Sherlock, just…just kill me and get it over with, I can't – I swear, I can't take it anymore!"
Incredibly, he laughed. She stared at him as he chuckled and shook his head, whatever humor he'd found in her words working to melt some of the ice in his turbulent blue-grey eyes. "Oh, Molly, I'm not going to kill you," he finally said, tense posture relaxing a bit as he continued to toy with his ring. "Why should I, when you continue to fascinate me? I'd thought you well beyond the futile heroics you attempted today, too broken to do more than offer up a verbal protest. No, killing you…that's not on today's agenda."
Then he leaned forward, all humor gone from his expression as the icy mask returned. His face was so close to hers she could feel the puff of air he expelled with each whispered word, harsh and hot against her cheek. "However, such defiance, especially in front of one of my men, cannot and will not be allowed to go unpunished."
Then he straightened up, turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving the door open.
Leaving Molly to fight her roiling nausea and wait in terror to see what he had planned for her punishment.
Sherlock returned within minutes. She heard him coming down the hall, calling something unintelligible over his shoulder – instructions to Moran, she guessed, warning him not to interrupt – before reentering the room, kicking the door violently shut behind him.
Molly stared at him, not bothering to hide her fear; no matter how stoic a face she presented, he could always see right through it, and right now she absolutely did not have the energy for any kind of game playing. She was too raw, every nerve on edge, after witnessing Sally Donovan's violent murder at this man's hands.
Hands, she noted, that were carrying several things: a box of matches, a Bunsen burner, a pair of thick leather gloves, and a long-handled pair of pliers.
While she continued to watch, her terror mounting even though she had no idea what he was about to do to her, he placed the things he'd brought into the room on the top of the dresser, impatiently sweeping away the other items that littered its surface – hairbrushes, combs, perfume bottles and the jewelry box he'd given her that she only opened when he forced her to – onto the floor. She winced as she heard at least one of the delicate glass bottles smash open, and the scent of lilacs filled the room.
She couldn't see what Sherlock was doing since his back was to her, blocking the movements of his hands, but recognized the sound of a match being struck and the hissing of the gas ring as it caught. He dropped the spent match to the floor as heedlessly as he'd tossed aside their combined belongings, then turned to face her.
His face was as expressionless as she'd ever seen it, but the fury was clear beneath the cold mask he presented to her. When he spoke, she shivered as if that arctic chill was something she could actually feel, manifesting itself around her prone and bound form. "Clearly you have not yet reconciled yourself to the permanency of your presence here, Molly, in spite of the many ways in which I've sought to remind you of the exact nature of your situation since your arrival."
Unwillingly her eyes jerked to the right, taking in the sight of the riding crop resting on the side table under the room's single window. Her reaction didn't bring the smirk to his lips it usually did; a bad sign.
Even worse was the way he deliberately raised his left hand and worked his ring off his finger, staring coldly at her the entire time. Her heart, already pounding in terror, went into overdrive. What was he going to do with it, exactly?
The answer to that question, of course, could be summed up in two words: Nothing good. He laid it down on the dresser, then lifted up the gloves and put them on as methodically as he would if he were her Sherlock preparing for an experiment. Only this time, she was the experiment – but the gloves were more than simply protective, not just thin nitrile or latex, but heavy work gloves, as if he were gardening and didn't want to be scratched by the thorns. Or handling something too hot…
Her mouth dried and spots danced before her eyes as it suddenly snapped into place. The gloves. The Bunsen burner. The pliers. The ring. The way her clothing had been removed from her chest…all of it adding up to one horrifying possibility.
No. She could be wrong…she had to be wrong. The pliers could be for him to pull teeth, the ring removed simply because it chafed beneath the gloves. God, she'd much rather he was about to simply torture her than do what she suspected – what she knew, deep in her agonized soul – he was about to do to her. A whimper escaped from her lips before she clamped them tightly shut, watching as Sherlock carefully placed the pliers around the base of the ring as he held it just as carefully over the low flame.
He turned to face her once he'd adjusted things to his liking, a grim smile on his lips as Molly felt all the color drain from her face. "You belong to me, Molly Hooper," he said, his voice almost contemplative. Conversational. "You still don't fully believe that, still think someone is coming to save you, to take you away from this place and return you to the boring little life you lived before." He held the ring up before his eyes, gazing at it critically before once again lowering it so it rested just above the flames. "Today's events have proven that you need a more permanent reminder on your person, something to show you and the rest of the world exactly to whom you belong."
He raised the ring up again and walked over to the bed, kneeling down on the mattress and lowering his face until it was just above hers. She was shaking her head, denying what he was about to do, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood in her terror and the stubborn determination not to let him hear her beg – not for mercy, not for anything, ever.
His eyes flicked to her chest as if he were selecting exactly the right spot...then the ring, the metal heated over the open flame of the Bunsen burner, was lowered, and despite her intentions otherwise Molly Hooper opened her mouth and screamed as Sherlock Holmes burned his initials into the tender flesh on the outside of her left breast.
Nother Note: Next chapter will be a time jump to Molly's one year anniversary in this universe, but there will be flashbacks and in-story explanations of things to cover the missing time. Just FYI.