Chapter Text
The riding crop was right there, where it had lay since his tests with the corpse that he'd used on that fateful day a few weeks ago. Next to it were the knives. A handful of Kershaw models with sufficient variation of blade shape for his investigation into the patterns of tearing due to rapid withdrawal of bladed weapons from otherwise unmarked flesh.
Sherlock was biting down on the inside of his cheek before he realized it, and a leak of savory warmth in his mouth told him he'd broken the skin. The exact shape of the bite pattern was one he'd probed with his tongue regularly, and always on the left side, for whatever reason.
You can't.
No, he certainly couldn't. There were many things Sherlock appeared to be, most of them dysfunctional, but this was something he could not lay out to John. It would invite questions. It would invite speculation. It would change how his flatmate -- his friend, or as close as he got -- looked at him.
As much as it was difficult to bear the secret, the thought of John looking at him with a definite suspicion of carnal intent was not something he could imagine bearing at all.
He wasn't attracted to John. He wasn't gay. The problem wasn't attraction to John. It never was. It wasn't even attraction. It was simply those damned urges, and the places they sent his mind when he wasn't sufficiently distracted.
He knew it wasn't John because it had never been limited to John. Before he'd met John, the urges would target victims, officers, criminals, anyone. Not that John wasn't an attractive man -- he was, of course. Sherlock simply wasn't homosexual. He wasn't entirely sure he was sexual in any conventional sense at all.
John was just - well, painfully convenient. Sherlock chuckled at the Freudian slip, then shook his head, resting his hand on the grip of the crop.
He had no case, and no case meant boredom.
Boredom, for Sherlock Holmes, was more dangerous than anything else.
. o O o .
Molly sighed and sat back in the chair with a squeak.
Her eyes dragged along the file. Work was a distraction, and a welcome one. Rarely would the calm be broken, but oh, when it was!
He was insane, or nearly so. He was a high-functioning sociopath with eyes that seemed to have only two modes: Pinning something into place, or drilling into something for the sake of analysis. He'd been coming in occasionally for years, according to her other colleagues. Molly had been late to the party, if one could call it a party.
Molly drew a long breath and tried to decide if she wanted to let herself think about it, or if she wanted to shove it all away again. The deliberation was broken after a moment by the high beep of her phone.
[ Coming to St. Bart's. Need to speak in private. ]
[ - SH ]
Of course it was him.
Molly rubbed the back of her neck and drained her coffee. Now it was time to gently fold all her thoughts into a mass to set aside.
. o O o .
Twenty minutes later, Molly had everything in place. The other special registrar was sent off on an errand that would last at least two hours, and that left Molly alone with only security watching the building -- which, Sherlock had assured her, was all right because all the night guards owed him favors.
The door burst open and in came Sherlock.
Molly blinked. She wasn't a master of deduction, but she knew what she was looking at, and she'd never seen Sherlock in this state before. His eyes had a fresh, furtive intensity, and they seemed to search for the sight of her with hunger. When they found her, they did not move, shift, or seem to consider. "Molly."
Molly swallowed. That was crazy. She was imagining things. "Sherlock."
"I apologize for this, but -- I want to speak to you, privately. I have a proposal, and it is one that I suspect could benefit both of us whilst allowing us to both maintain our professional standing and manner."
Molly blinked. "Pretend you're talking to a normal person. It's late."
His mouth opened slightly, then closed, then opened again. He dragged his sight off her for a moment, formulating.
Molly felt distinct relief, somehow, that he wasn't staring.
"Molly, I have a problem that is complementary to your own, and I believe we can find at least a partial relief together."
Molly swallowed. "Pretend a little harder?"
"I believe we both share an unfortunate affection for humiliation. Since I'm a sexual sadist and you are a sexual masochist, and we are both unable to maintain personal relationships to fulfill these urges, I am suggesting we could . . . trade."
Molly shifted against the autopsy table. Was this a dream? This couldn't be a dream. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"You enjoy being hurt and being degraded. I enjoy hurting and degrading. We are both in positions that could be compromised by these proclivities in various ways. I think the solution I'm suggesting is -- "
Time for a bald lie. Molly's reflexive defense about such things was an immediate, absolute denial. She'd spent years perfecting it, to the point she almost believed it herself. Sherlock might see through it, but it was her best effort. "Insane. For one, I'm not a masochist and I'm not into degradation and humiliation. For two, I don't know why you'd think I'd even entertain the notion with you in particular."
"Elevated pulse rate, pupil dilation, distinct muscle tremors and visual targets, a handful of complex microexpressions -- your body doesn't lie, Molly. Neither does mine, right now." He stepped closer, his eyes on her again, predatory. "I'm letting you see it. I'm letting you see what drives I normally have taken decades to learn to suppress in the interest of intellectual pursuit."
The last syllable was crisp, sharp. Molly felt a quiver pulse through her body, and she felt herself backing up against the autopsy table -- but she couldn't make herself evade, couldn't make herself move to the side even though nothing physically blocked her. "You look like you want to hurt me."
"Not you specifically, Molly Hooper. Please do not mistake my intent. While you are attractive in a sort of conventional, unaware sense, and reasonably intelligent for one of the normal people, I have no interest in specifically causing you unwanted harm."
"Unwanted."
"Yes. I enjoy inflicting pain. Sometimes the simple process of getting rough with someone who's evading arrest is enough for a time. Sometimes I give myself a project that happens to include burning or beating or attacking a corpse, and this helps to stifle the need as well. Unfortunately, my primary tactic in preventing my urges from becoming overwhelming was solitude."
"Was?"
"Yes. Now, I live with John Watson, and the urges have a target. They are increasing in both frequency and intensity." He was leaning closer, looming, perhaps without realizing. "If I do not find some way to hurt someone capable of reacting for a protracted period of time consensually, I fear I will lose my grip and find a way to do it nonconsensually. While I might still have enough sense to get away from John before he came to harm, that would simply make some other unfortunate innocent the target of my unfortunate drives."
Molly gasped. She'd had that dream -- from the other end. She'd dreamed of Sherlock breaking into her flat, gassing her or injecting her, holding her down and hurting her until she wouldn't fight back. And then --
"Molly, please understand that this is difficult for me. I do not have a lot of acquaintances. I have fewer I can trust. I do not wish to discuss this with John in any capacity. It changes how people look at you, and I'm sure you're aware of that."
"Yes." Molly squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "I understand. I believe I understand every aspect. So why me?"
"I am not bereft of ethical constraints, Molly, even if they are self-imposed and not borne of some deeper neurological structure present in most of the populace. I do not want to traumatize anyone psychologically to such a degree, nor do I wish to commit sexual assault. As I do not have a wide circle of acquaintances, cannot possibly trust 'professional' submissives, and do not wish to lose control, I thought of you."
Molly blinked. "You mean I'm the only person you know with submissive tendencies."
"Not quite, but you are the only person I know with those tendencies who is also in no position to interfere with me, and would not seem to be an immediately viable target for blackmail."
Molly took a sharp breath. "Describe what you'd need from me."
"Your screams, your pain, your squeals whether they are of delight or agony or both. Your writhing and resistance."
Molly forced herself to keep her voice level. Her heart raced in her chest but she kept her breathing at a stable pace. "Resistance?"
"I am aware you have a fighting spirit, Molly. I want to see it exercised, if this is going to be something we attempt. There's no fun in someone who is broken in advance, or snaps like balsa. You are stronger than that, despite your nonconfrontational nature and your intimacy issues."
Molly tried to look irritated at him. "What a brilliant compliment."
"It wasn't intended as an insult, despite your sarcastic tone and apparent unhappiness with the phrasing." He took a breath and his eyes took a scan of her body for a moment. "Molly, ask yourself a question: Would you have given me a second thought if I'd been some other genial face around the morgue?"
Molly tried to process it. Sherlock -- neutered, for lack of a better word. Normal.
"Precisely. The disappointment on your face tells the story." He let his mouth form a small smile, looking down at Molly. "You may not feel comfortable about the things I say, but you enjoy them on a deeper level, on a primal and undeniable level."
She swallowed. "I . . . yes. That's still not a reason to simply give you free reign over my body."
"Would you like to hear a reason?"
Molly forced herself to shrug. The distance he stood was less than four inches from her, and she swore that she felt the heat radiate from his form.
"It will free you, Molly Hooper. It may have always seemed like something horrid or dirty, wretched and defective, and perhaps it is. That's a judgment I am distinctly unqualified to make. However, it frees you to be hurt and treated badly, for whatever reason, just as it frees me if I can degrade and inflict pain. It frees your thoughts, your mind. It frees you from trying to handle a need inextricably linked with some sort of emotional attachment. I think you'd agree those tend to be messy and problematic at best."
The last sentence struck her as odd, but it struck some chord all the same, and the word 'free' had caught like a burr in her mind. Molly hated herself for speaking, but couldn't hold it in. "I want -- I want to be free. I want to feel free."
"You are not the only one." Sherlock's smile spread wider, then softened. "I would owe you. I would owe you a great deal, Molly Hooper. I know you could find your way to having someone hurt you or treat you poorly. I haven't the luxury."
Molly stifled her first response: If I could find my way to it, I would have. What he said was no doubt the same sort of sarcastic anti-compliment as his critique of her appearance and the changes she attempted to effect on it. This man who held court with the Lestrade, who was rumored to have a powerful brother in politics, and who had eyes capable of dismantling crime scenes and seemingly souls? He would owe her. "That . . . might be useful."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "You have a talent for understatement, Molly. Now, then. If you agree to this, you will have absolute veto control. You can opt out any time by using a safeword, one you may choose. If that happens, we may terminate activity permanently or until you are ready to resume them. However, Molly, unless you do opt out, I will simply take what I wish, do what I wish, and while I know you'll fight -- it's only natural -- I also know you'll lose."
Molly shifted on her feet. Warmth surged through her body, and the moment was stamped into her mind. An urge blossomed, part in her chest, part in her stomach, and part between her legs. I cannot wait to get privacy so I can touch myself about this. "I can opt out at any time, but until I do, it's at your whim. I understand." She took a deep breath, then another, then lifted her eyes to meet his again. "What about, um . . . sedatives?"
Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment. "How forward of you, Molly."
Molly forced herself to keep still, not to shake. She wasn't supposed to ask questions like these. She wasn't even supposed to be in the same conversations as questions like these. "Let me clarify. I mean, if I'm sedated I can't consent at that point, can I? And that's a bit further than I think I should go in one fell swoop. But I do . . . enjoy being dosed."
He tilted his head. "Curious. Well, while I won't claim my interest is purely sexual, I do believe I'd like to have the option for certain avenues to release." He cleared his throat. "Allow me to suggest a sort of compromise. I won't do anything to you save for transporting or restraining you whilst you're unconscious, drugged, or sedated -- until and unless you give me that further permission. Anything else that I do will be while you're conscious and aware. After that, if there are lines to cross that you'd like to discuss keeping intact -- the 'hard limits', as it were -- then we'll discuss them then. Will that be acceptable?"
Molly blinked. For a moment, all she could imagine was being groggy, halfway to a chemical hangover, her face wet with snot and tears, with her body underneath a powerful, lithe figure who was violating her most vigorously. She clenched her teeth to keep from moaning, then nodded. "Yes. I agree to the revised terms."
Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. Now, I won't claim I know your schedule -- we'll fix that soon enough. Have you got the evening free?"
Her throat clenched. "This very evening? My cat -- "
"Has a gravity-fed self-filling dish for water, and a separate one for food. You mentioned it the second week you were working here, when you were asked about a double shift." He shook his head. "There needs to be honesty in this sort of arrangement, Molly, both between us as well as with ourselves. Search yourself a moment. Have you obligations? Or have you simply got the reflex of avoiding company, and do you want to give up another evening of your life to that reflex?"
Why did she feel even more trapped by the fact he'd been keeping track of her that long? She didn't want to go home. Not alone, anyway. Admitting it wasn't something Molly Hooper did, unless pressed by an authority.
Sherlock's smile became shark-toothed. "I've already selected a location for this. Will you give me your full trust, Molly Hooper?"
Molly swallowed. "My safeword is 'red'. Barring that, yes. You have my full trust." She wanted to scream or touch herself, she wanted to feel a blade or a fist, she wanted to feel used and thrown away. First things first -- lock up and shut down. She turned away from him to go get her keys. "I'll get closed up, and we -- "
"No. I can do it much faster, and I have been waiting to indulge for too long to be patient now."
She broke into a squeak as a sharp pinch flared on the side of her neck, a small hypodermic. A strong arm slipped under her waist. Her sense of balance swung wildly for a moment, and she realized she'd been picked up like a bag of crisps off the shelf. Thin whines came from her, but they were not in protest.
"Shhh, shhh, shh. Talking isn't for you right now, Molly. Sleep is what you'll need for the time being. I know how to lock up for you."
Consciousness disintegrated for her, and she saw the lights switch off while her senses left her and a moan floated from her throat. A prodding sense of something in her lower back as she was pulled back, pressed against his form. She was dimly aware that it was likely his erection, and felt like it was quite firm indeed. There was a vague sense of movement, of her position shifting in space.
The last thing she heard before passing out was a chuckle bordering on a laugh. The last thing she was aware of was his scent, closer than it'd ever been to her.
The last thought she had was, What in the hell is wrong with you, Molly?!