Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1876743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/Molly_Hooper
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Molly_Hooper, Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes'_Father,
      Sherlock_Holmes'_Mother, Molly_Hooper's_Mother, Molly_Hooper's_Father,
      Erasmus_Holmes, Pat_Hooper
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Omega_Verse, Omega_Molly,
      Underage_Sex, Child_Abuse, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Physical_Abuse,
      Verbal_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-01 Updated: 2014-10-24 Chapters: 7/? Words: 32793
****** Religion of Our Own ******
by broomclosetkink
Summary
     Before a sterile morgue in the basement of St. Bart 's, before 221B
     and John Watson, there was an accidental meeting that irrevocably
     altered the shape of their destiny. They call it Bonding because
     obsession is too honest.
Notes
     Apparently omegaverse is my thing, who knew? Be warned, this is not
     your usual A/B/O fic and it's rather a departure from ASA, which is
     porn and not story driven. This fic will contain several triggering
     aspects, each chapter will have trigger warnings for the content
     inside, as I don't want to hurt anyone. An overview of most triggers
     are: child abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse,
     verbal abuse, negligence, substance abuse, underage sex, and buckets
     of angst. Survivors of abusive homes be warned, this is very
     triggering. The more I write the more I realize this is isn't just
     Sherlolly fix, this is my therapy as a survivor. I strongly caution
     those who are easily triggered not to read this, or to have a friend
     pretend and warn you of what happens. I'm not playing: this fix is
     going truly ugly places. Don't allow a key to harm you.
     If anyone reading this is in any type of abusive lifestyle or
     situation, please know there is always a way out even if you can't
     see it. I will personally help anyway I can, all you have to do is
     reach out. I love you. You're stronger thann you think. This is your
     sign...please take it, from one survivor to another, you ARE strong
     enough to survive leaving.
     All my thanks to MizJoely for betaing, friendship, encouragement,
     support, ukuleles, and never failing to brighten my day. She's an
     angel!
     Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters nor am
     I affiliated with the writers, actors, or producers of BBC Sherlock;
     all original characters and the writing its self are my intellectual
     property. In short, none of the good shit is mine.
***** Chapter 1 *****
She's just a girl in the crowd: rather small, average features, her uniform tie
a bit crooked. It's an accident, mere haappenstance that he catches a faint
whiff of soul searing scent over the overwhelming mingling of people and
perfume and rubbish bins and food and everything else. But he does, by some
incredible miracle or cruelty, and as every tiny microscopic particle of his
being condenses and narrows down the world at large becomes so meaningless to
have almost vanished. This is the moment an obsession is born.
The girl hasn't noticed him yet. She's younger than he is, maybe fifteen, maybe
sixteen, maybe younger. Normally he's good at ages, but she's got a face that
lends it's self to agelessness. She's got teenage sharp awkwardness and plump
baby cheeks, but woman round breasts and hips that flare out the fabric of her
skirt. Turning on his heel, so suddenly that someone bumps into him and curses,
he trails after the little knot of school girls at the back of a larger group.
Her hair looks like cinnamon colored silk; his fingers begin to ache. Her skin
is creamy, with healthy roses on her cheeks and soft, faint freckles; his
erection is immediate and throbbing. There's an odd note to her scent, which
says that while she's obviously, painfully Omega, she hasn't had her first
heat; something feral, cruel and pleased floods through him like molten lava
exploding from the earth's core.
Body language is something he reads incredible well, and he can see the moment
she becomes aware of him. First it is a footstep she misses, then it is tense
muscles and a rigid back. Her head lifts high, higher, spine ramrod straight as
she takes in big lungfuls of air. Much more sensitive than a mundane human's
already, her senses are not as keen as they will become once her first heat
falls on her. It's the only reason it takes so long for her to puzzle out what
she's smelling, the scent of male and Alpha and lust.
The girls she's with, utterly insignificant to him and utterly below her,
they're so caught up in giggling conversation they don't notice when she falls
behind. They don't see her pause, sniff the air and begin to trail after his
scent like an untrained hound on its first hunt. He moves away from her,
slowly, slowly, leading her away from her fellow students, from the crowd, from
the busy sidewalk guiding them towards the large museum. Relentlessly she
follows, tracking him all the way into a gray alley filled with rubbish bins
and dirty puddles. He's standing there, waiting, when she rounds the corner.
Her nose twitches as she sniffs, and her eyes are big and round as they finally
set their gaze on him.
Anxiety comes on in a blazing rush. What does she see? He's painfully thin and
gangly, with too long limbs and an unfinished quality to him; his cheekbones
are odd and sharp, his eyes weird, his mouth too large, his bloody hair a wild
mess of curls… heart lurching painfully in his chest, Sherlock Holmes aches,
fiercely, to be in someone else's skin. (It's not the first time, nor the last,
but it is perhaps the most poignant of his young life.)
"Oh," this lovely girl breathes, and he can see that her eyes are brown and her
nose is tipped up. Thinking about kissing it (her nose, her mouth, her
anything), it makes shame stab through Sherlock, because he's supposed to be
better than this, isn't he? Mycroft's probably never done this, scented some
girl and led her somewhere quiet and lonely because he's got a mad idea about
kissing her until neither of them can breathe. Like she'd want to kiss a freak,
he can't help but chide himself in the privacy of his whirling, anxious mind.
She looks him up and down and Sherlock hates himself for the helpless thought
that rushes through him – that with the sunlight slanting over the top of a
building and lazily drifting down, she's lit up like an angel and suddenly
religion is a whole lot more appealing than it was before. He turns his
previous self-loathing onto his nervousness of her unknown thoughts towards his
appearance, because there's no way she's as enthralled with him as he is with
her. Average was his first thought to describe her, but that's so wrong; she's
dainty, luminous, and heart wrenchingly beautiful.
Sherlock has never felt like this before, not once in his life, and he's as
scared as he is hungry.
"Hi," she says thinly. Never able to stop himself from noticing the little
things, Sherlock sees her hands tremble and a flush build up her neck and
spread to her jaw and cheeks. It makes him hopeful and brash.
"Hello," he responds. Deductions clog up his throat and keep him blessedly
silent, for now at least. She's an only child, her parents are having problems,
she has two cats and a small dog, she's new to wearing contacts, and at the
side of her neck Sherlock can see her pulse pulsing under thin skin. It makes
his stomach knot and twist.
"You led me here." This is a statement. Her pulse jumps harder, faster than
before. Sherlock wonders what it would feel like to hold it between his teeth,
and his knees nearly knock together. "Why?" She's nervous, but not fearful.
Keenly interested is his impression, and his impressions are (almost) always
right.
"Because you smell like – like –" Sherlock flounders at the end of a thought he
hadn't meant to speak aloud.
She takes a step forward. Another, then another, and a final one; her shoes are
cheap, scuffed, and in need of replacing. Her calves are thin but round. For
some reason this makes his insides quiver. "Because I smell like… what?" she
prompts, and now she's within arms reach. The breeze gusts, rattling the lid of
a rubbish bin, and he's nearly knocked over by this new flood of her scent.
"Mine," he rasps, overwhelmed a primal instinct he doesn't really understand
and a boy's uncertainty. "You smell like you're mine."
Her narrow mouth quirks, shyly pleased, and her long fingered hands fold
together in front of her body. Sherlock thinks it looks like she's holding
herself back from something, maybe from reaching out to him, and his heartbeat
is a drum solo in his ears. "I do?"
He nods, and is promptly blinded by her smile.
"What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he gives her, wishes it was something not so strange, that
it was an ordinary name for an ordinary boy.
Her smile grows, and there's a dimple beside her mouth. "Sherlock," she says,
as though seeing how it fits in her mouth, tastes on her tongue. "Sherlock… I
like that, Sherlock. It suits you."
If she were lying he could tell. He's excellent at spotting liars. But she's
honest, bare and open, and Sherlock thinks she's probably always this artless
and it makes him even more aroused, which isn't quite as shameful as it was
before. "What's your name?" he asks, because he has to know. He has to have
something to put with this face, this scent, this mix of feelings taking him
over.
"Molly. Molly Hooper."
"Molly Hooper." There's reverence in his tone, and Sherlock knows, right down
to the marrow of his bones, that this is a name that will forever be holy and
sacred in his world. Let the others have their false religions and all-seeing,
all knowing gods; he has Molly Hooper, who is all the savior he's ever going to
need. Already his mind palace is building her a room, but he thinks one won't
be enough. She'll need more. She'll need a space in every room and dusty
corner, a benevolent girl to watch over his most precious gift: his mind. "I
like yours, too, Molly."
Their slightly awkward, wholly elated grins are matched set. "Do you… want to
go somewhere and talk?" his heart beats a hopeful tattoo against his ribs.
For the first time, Molly looks over her shoulder and bites at her bottom lip.
It scares him, makes panic flood his blood as he thinks of her leaving. "I'm
not supposed to leave my class…" she hedges, finally looking back to him.
Sherlock finds he doesn't it like it when she looks elsewhere, not at all.
"Boring," he firmly pronounces. "Not worth your time. And you already have,
which makes it a weak refusal at best. Do you like Chinese? I know a really
great place, best spring rolls you've ever tasted. The owner likes me; I proved
him innocent of his sister's murder."
Bafflement paints it's self across her face… and intrigue. "What?" she
questions, eyes gone bright and Sherlock feels interesting and brilliant and
mad, but in the best possible way.
"I like puzzles, and it was one… sort of. Didn't take too long, really, was
practically painted in neon letters across the wall that it was the boyfriend.
Don't trust the police, Molly, they're incredibly incompetent. Well meaning, I
suppose, but blind. I'm surprised they continue to find their way to and from
their homes day after day."
"You… you solve crimes?" Her brow is furrowed, but there's a smile at her
mouth. She's leaning forward, towards Sherlock, and he can feel the warmth of
her body.
"Sometimes, when I can get away from parents and obnoxious older brother; he's
infuriating, as you'll no doubt discover."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen and you go around solving crimes because the police are too stupid
for you?"
He shrugs. "I'm brilliant. I'm halfway through university, with degrees in
chemistry and criminal psychology. Dreadfully boring, wouldn't bother attending
– I learn much easier on my own, classrooms are a waste of my time."
"Then why do you bother?" She's leaning into him, as though pulled into orbit
by his fast words and brilliant mind. It takes a good deal of effort to keep a
grin from spilling across his mouth.
"I promised my mum. Chinese?" One step and they're inside the bubble of each
other's personal space, a zone he's never before cared to have breached. But
Molly smells like crisp apples and female and something he's never ever going
to able to identify, no matter how hard he tries. It's Molly Hooper and it's
his and there are no variables to this equation. This is the result of millions
of years of evolution, refined until an Alpha can find his most perfect
biological mate by scent, even outside her estrous cycle. This is primal and
base and nothing Sherlock's ever wanted, but now his world has narrowed in
focus, just as it has for other Alphas over billions of years.
Watching her expression fall, her eyes drift to the side and away from him, it
makes Sherlock edgy. "I really need to get back to my group before they think
I've been kidnapped. But I – we – can we see each other later?"
"Yes!" Snagging this offer before the words are entirely out of her mouth,
Sherlock finds it's difficult to be embarrassed when he's so incredibly
grateful she's not trying to completely walk away.
"I'll give you my number. Um, do you have paper or –"
"Don't need it." The truth this may be, but he's also showing off, just a bit.
He hopes she's impressed. "I'll remember it."
Molly's smile is sweet and charmed, brown eyes lighting up. "You're sure?"
He begins to recite pi, and Molly joins in, flashing that dimple beside her
mouth. Sherlock is suddenly a bit light headed.
"I like science and maths," she shares, quietly, like maybe she's expecting to
be teased. "I adore chemistry. I've thought about going into molecular biology
when I go to uni. I'm not sure yet, though, which field is best for me."
He wishes, rather desperately, that he had a book or something to hold in front
of himself. In the words of his lesser fellows, that is fucking hot. "I have an
eidetic memory," he shares, voice gone hoarse.
Bearing suddenly rosy cheeks, Molly's seems to have suddenly developed a
respiratory problem. "I read Basic Pathology for fun." She pauses, hands
balling into tight, white knuckled fists. "Sherlock?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I – can I kiss you?" she blurts in a thick rush, while his mind develops a
hot, white static that blocks out the usual rush and buzz of his mighty brain.
He thinks he makes a noise, but then again, maybe that's just the sound of his
blood and lungs in his own ears. And maybe he nods, but he can't be sure
because he's mostly focused on not tripping over his own feet. Molly meets him
in the middle, crashes against him and stands on her toes, curls her arms
around his neck and squeaks when their teeth clash together. It's a good sound,
Sherlock decides, and then he can't think about good or bad or finesse because
he's never actually done this before and he doesn't want to muck it up, but
she's hanging onto him and making these tiny little puffing noises into his
mouth, and he thinks that's probably a good thing – God, he hopes it's a good
thing – then he knows it's a good thing because she smells like musky sex and
it feels as though someone hits the reset button his brain. It's shutting down,
rebooting, while they're stumbling blindly, trying to resist the urge to topple
to the ground and rut like beasts.
The fabric of her jumper is warm from her body heat, worn soft from dozens and
dozens of washings, and Sherlock vaguely appreciates how it feels against his
palms. Mostly in how it's connected to rucking it up enough to find her blouse,
which he pulls from the waistband of her skirt and finally, fucking finally, he
finds skin. She's soft, like silk, and supple, and she gasps and then moans
when he palms the small of her back.
"Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper, what the hell do you think you're doing!?"
It's like someone turned a garden hose on and began dousing them. Sherlock's
got his teeth bared and two hands fists in Molly's clothes, ready to come to
blows whomever the fuck is interrupting the best moment of his entire life.
There's a sturdy looking boy at the mouth of the alley, ruddy with shock and
outrage, hammy fists balled tight at his side. Sherlock immediately loathes
him.
"Oh my God, Pat, seriously!?" Craning to look over her shoulder, Molly hisses
like a feral cat when she sees the newcomer. Then she presses her face against
Sherlock's narrow chest, hiding there as she tangles her fingers up in his hair
and whispers, "God, no, you smell too good; I'm not ready to leave yet."
"You don't have to," he answers, burying his nose in her hair. Not that he
stops glaring at Pat. No, he needs to make it clear that Molly is his, now, and
that won't be changing… ever.
"Get your mouth off my cousin, perv!" Stomping forward, Pat grabs Molly and
tries to yank her away. It's a terrible mistake; no one should not to do this
to a young Alpha that's just found his mate, as it's rather like finding a
napping bear and prodding it with something sharp and pointy. Sherlock sees red
and snarls, and immediately after Molly yanks her arm free he twists, pushing
her to his side and behind him. He can read this boy's movements as though he's
announcing what he plans to do beforehand, and it's so easy to block his punch
as it comes. Sherlock knots a hand in his shirt, balls up the other and jabs –
quick, short and hard – and blood sprays. Now a thumb to the throat, there,
yes, and Pat is gasping for air and turning mottled red and purple before he
hits the ground.
When he looks back, Molly is watching him with huge eyes, pupils so dilated
they appear black. Her mouth is open and her breathing comes in soft, quick
pants. "That was so hot," she whispers, and every hair on Sherlock's body tries
to stand to attention at the same time.
"I study martial arts. And I box." He wants to kiss her again. Yes, and then
pushing her against the wall and drag up her shirt and find her breasts, those
soft little mounds he felt against his chest. First he'll see how they fit in
his palms – perfect, he's sure of it – then he'll learn how to make her squirm
with his fingers, then his mouth, yes his mouth; he'll suck little pink nipples
in his mouth, and Molly will moan, and he'll run a hand up her thigh and to
find the crotch of white cotton knickers – because he's suddenly certain
they're white cotton, innocent and sweet and very Molly – and then –
Ravenous, Sherlock is mere seconds from falling back upon her when Pat pops up
with a hacking cough.
"Molls!" he breathlessly implores, and the desperation in his voice pushes
common sense back on them both. Blinking at each other, curling their fingers
into palms and shuffling a bit further apart, it becomes a battle of wills
against instinct and nature.
"I've got to go back." There are tears in her eyes, and it sets his teeth on
edge. It's not right, his Molly crying. She rattles off a series of numbers,
and it takes Sherlock a moment before he realizes he's been given her phone
number. "Call me tonight. Please?"
"Yes," he vows, backing away to keep himself from pulling her close and running
away. He's got an emergency credit card in his wallet, and they could get a
hotel room. One with a big, soft bed with softer sheets, where Molly could lie
down and he could explore her like a culture under his microscope.
Letting her walk away is the most difficult thing he's ever forced himself to
do.
-X-
"Saints be merciful, Helen, what did you expect? She's an Omega."
"She's not even had her first heat, Ned!"
"It doesn't change what she is."
"That boy attacked her and then attacked Patrick! Look at your nephew! He's got
a broken nose, his eyes are blacked –"
"He's got eleven brothers and sisters; he's had worse."
"Stay the hell out of this, Steve. Molly's mine and Ned's daughter, which means
this conversation is ours to have."
"She's found an Alpha, Helen; this isn't the end of the world. It's a good
thing. Hell, we should be celebrating! Do you know how long some people wait,
or never find their Bondmate?"
"The hell is that supposed to mean? You just stand there, Ned, stand there and
let your brother and the rest of your family talk about me because I'm not a
bloody Omega, because I'm a normal person –"
"You trying to say we're not normal?"
"That's not what she said, Steve –"
"Sure as hell was what I said!"
"Are you calling our daughter abnormal?"
"Because of your freak genes that you still can't forgive me for not having!"
Pat takes Molly by the hand, tugging her away. Their parents are too buys
shouting abuse to notice the subject of the fight slipping away. They go to
kitchen, all the way at the back of the house, and shut the door. Through the
walls and doors they can still hear their family fighting, though it's more
muffled and less overwhelming. Tears burn Molly's eyes and clog her throat but
she keeps swallowing and blinking, refusing to let them fall.
"I'm sorry I fought with your Alpha." Pat's words are quiet and unexpected.
Nervously, without looking up, he fiddles with a vase of fake flowers on the
kitchen island. "I just… I dunno, Molls, I thought he was hurting you. By the
time I figured out what was going on it was too late, but then I thought,
'they're gonna do it right here and Uncle Ned'll kill me.' I never should have
told Dad, though."
"S'not your fault, Patty, okay? Uncle Stevie's not the problem here… Dad isn't
neither, though I know he can't be comfortable with thinking about me – what
Sherlock and I –" Why was she born with fair skin? Her blushes, which are all
too frequent, be they from anger or nervousness or embarrassment, stand out
vividly with her pale coloring and reddish hair. This one is so fierce it
actually hurts, sweeping to life with such a force she begins to sweat. Once
cool and comfortable, the kitchen now seems stifling and overheated.
"Aunt Helen's a bitch."
"Patty –"
Brown eyes, close to bright shade of Molly's own, give her a long stare. "You
know it's true. She's a bitch and she takes it out on you when she shouldn't. I
wish they'd get divorced."
"Mum doesn't believe in divorce," Molly whispers, unwilling to dwell on how
much she wishes it would happen. It's not that she doesn't love her mum – she
does – but if it were just her and Dad and the rest of the family, things would
be wonderful. Visits with Mum would be okay, and would end hopefully before
Helen Hooper's infamous temper flared.
"The Pope would make an exception for those two."
Sitting side-by-side on bar stools at the island, their shoulders and elbows
bump comfortingly together. There's a lull in the shouting. Molly hopes the
fight's ended, at least for now.
"I'm happy you found your Alpha. That's really awesome, Molls. Don't let them
take it away from you, yeah? How happy he made you." It's impossible not to
shed a few tears when Pat's being so damn sweet, curling an arm over her
shoulders and kissing her forehead. They're a close lot, the Hooper kids, all
those masses of cousins piled onto three street rows, but Molly knows she and
Pat have something special. She's only twelve hours older than he is and each
milestone in her life has been achieved with Pat at her side. Or him stumbling
into the alley where she's snogging her new… boyfriend? Does that term even
apply in this situation?
Her Alpha – that tastes better on her tongue. Sherlock… Alpha… Molly's. There,
that's best. That fits better than anything else, and even as her mother's
voice rises in a shrill shriek out of outrage across the house, Molly's heart
races with excitement. She hopes he calls tonight, that he won't blow her off.
What if he'd been wrong? What if he wants someone prettier? What if he forgot
her number? Worst of all, what if he doesn't like how she threw herself on him…
or thinks she's a freak, too? Knowing these fears aren't rational does nothing
to suppress them.
"Do you think we're freaks?" Rubbing her thumb against the rough grout between
the tiles, she doesn't dare look at Pat. As a Beta, he's got it slightly easier
than an Alpha or Omega, but worse in others. Molly wouldn't trade with him for
anything, if she's honest. A heat comes once in a while, but to switch from one
or the other depending on the situation or partner? That sounds exhausting,
even at a biological level.
"'Course not. I think Aunt Helen's a right jealous bitch, and anyone else out
in the world that doesn't like what we are, well, they can go bugger
themselves." Pat gives her a firm nod and a hair ruffle, and she can see that
it's settled for him. He's always been like that; once he's decided on
something, changing his mind is like attempting to wrestle an octopus. Great
thinker he's not, but Pat Hooper likes being in his own skin and doesn't
rightly care what anyone else says about it. She envies him this.
The phone rings. Excitement has her lunging off the bar stool but fear locks
her muscles in place, resulting in Molly crashing to the floor.
Pat whoops with laughter, pointing in amazement as Klutz-zilla strikes again.
"Forget how to walk?" he gasps out.
Popping upright and now glowing with embarrassment, Molly darts for the wall
phone. Her hands are trembling quite badly. "Hello?" she answers breathlessly.
"Molly?" It's him. It's him, oh God, she'd know that voice anywhere. Crackly on
the edges, like a lot of boys his age, but also rather deep and lovely.
"Yes, hi! It's – it's me. Hello." Collapsing against the wall, she presses her
flaming face against the cool wallpaper. She sounds like an idiot, doesn't she?
Oh God. Oh God. She's got to calm down, needs to breathe and not panic because
panicking never helps anything.
"Hi." There's a smile in voice, lifting it up and making it warm like melting
chocolate, smooth and silky. In the background is a woman's voice insisting,
"Don't forget to invite her to dinner! Sherlock! Sherlock, are you listening to
me?" and a man, "Hush, Maura; let him talk to the girl." It has to be his
parents and Molly grins, imaging these two faceless people hovering over him as
he calls her for the first time, as giddy with excitement as she is.
"You told your parents about me?" Though she's not quite sure why, the
knowledge fills Molly with joy.
"Yes… is that okay?" There are the sounds of movement, loudly creaking
floorboards, the shrill whine of hinges and the solid thump of a door shutting.
Molly imagines Sherlock hiding in his room, away from his excited parents, and
the grin on her face is wide and silly.
"What? Oh, yeah, of course! It's lovely, yeah, just lovely. I'm glad."
"It does seem logical, doesn't it, to inform ones family when you've
encountered –" With a high crack of his still changing voice, whatever Sherlock
was going to say cuts off. For a moment he simply breathes. "Haven't you told
your parents?"
"Oh, um, yeah, I have. No reason not to, like you said."
A pause, and not to far away from Sherlock are discordant notes. Whatever
instrument it is, it's not a guitar; that Molly can rule out for sure. Is
Sherlock a musician? He certainly has the hands for it. "From your tone of
voice, I'm assuming they weren't pleased."
"Oh no, that's not – Dad's thrilled, actually, so's Uncle Stevie, Pat's dad –
it's just my mum, but she…she'll come around." There's a particular quality
Molly's voice takes on when discussing her mother, or at least, the things that
Helen Hooper will 'come around' to (a long list, to be sure): it's small and
choked, a bit scared and very apologetic. Pat says it makes her sound like a
kicked puppy.
"You sound… upset."
"No – well, I mean yes, but – but it's nothing. Mum's just Mum, but she'll come
around eventually, like I said."
Before Sherlock can respond, the kitchen door bangs open. Helen stands in the
doorway just a moment, soft blonde hair catching the late afternoon sunlight
through the windows before she demands, "Is that him?" with flaring nostrils
and bulging veins in her forehead, neck, and hands. Molly immediately shrinks
in on herself, backing away.
"M-mum, um, please d-don't –" Molly clings to the receiver when her mother
tries to yank it from her hands. Molly presses the phone between her small
breasts and attempts to turn away, shielding her connection to Sherlock with
her own body. Hissing angrily, Helen draws her arm back so quickly that Pat has
time only shout a warning – "Molly, look out!" – before her open hand lands
hard across the left side of her daughter's face. It's no glancing blow or
warning tap, but a hard punishment; Molly's ear begins to ring and she cries
out, dropping the receiver. It clatters to the floor, cord bouncing and
jerking.
"You know better than to back talk me, Mary Katherine! Pick up the phone and
hand it to me right now." Unable to keep herself from tears, Molly obeys,
bending in an awkward fashion, as she keeps her neck craned to watch her mother
in case another slap is headed her way. Snagging the phone she reels it up by
the cord.
"Molly?" Sherlock is demanding, his voice pitchy with shock and what seems to
be anger. "Molly, are you there?"
"I'm sorry," she quickly whispers to the mouth piece, earning herself another
slap, this time on her left ear. Shrill, pained ringing erupts and stars
flicker behind her eyes, the sudden pain causing her stomach to roil
menacingly. Dazed as she is, she doesn't she the next hit coming and does not
even flinch back, taking this one with full force across the side of her face.
"I said give me the phone, not talk to him – now, Mary Katherine!" Molly
thrusts the phone forward. As soon as it's in her mother's hands she darts to
Pat, knotting her fingers in the front of his shirt and weeping with in a mix
of humiliation, pain, and helpless anger.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Helen is demanding of Sherlock, vibrating
with an amount of rage that is utterly shocking to her only child. How can she
be so angry that Molly's found her Alpha, the one person in the world that's
meant to be hers? Why? Like Uncle Steve said, it's supposed to be a happy time
in her life, a cause for two families to come together and celebrate. Instead
Mum is shouting at her Alpha, her future Bondmate, as though he's assaulted
Molly. "You don't get to waltz into my daughter's life and start –"
Sucking in a tight breath, Helen turns a sickly shade of white… except for the
two hot roses of rage that ride high on her cheeks. She's silent a moment,
chewing so hard on her thin lips that at one corner she draws blood. "What did
you just say to me, young man? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
By the time Molly's dad barrels into the kitchen, breathing hard and with sweat
on his forehead – she expects he's been out of the house, trying to walk off
his frustration with his wife – Helen is very slowly hanging up the phone. "The
hell do you think you're doing, Helen?" he's demanding, looking moments away
from throttling her. "Was that him? How can you be so fucking selfish –"
"You're forbidden to see him." Little by little, Helen turns, narrowing a hard
gaze on Molly. "Do you understand me, Mary Katherine? Forbidden."
"Over my cold, dead body," Ned snarls, a beastly rumble to his voice.
"My house, my rules."
"Our house, our rules – you might get your way the rest of the time by being an
absolute bitch, but not this time. You're not going to –" she tries to hit him,
snaps a hand out. Molly flinches back, an unconscious reaction to the sight,
but her father catches Helen's wrists with the inhuman speed of an Alpha in a
fury. "You're not going to bully Molly into giving up her happiness. Do you
understand? And if you ever hit her again, you'll regret it."
"What're you gonna do to me, Ned? Beat me? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you,
because you're nothing but an animal."
Once again, Pat drags Molly away. Through the pantry is the old servant's
staircase, and they follow it up to the first floor. Molly's bedroom is at the
back of the house, facing the garden. The branches of the giant old yew tree
scrape across the glass of the furthest window when the wind picks up, and at
night the branches casts strange, long shadows, but she's always like it. It's
comforting in a way she can't explain. But not today; no, nothing can cheer her
up now.
"He hates me, now," she cries, burying her face in her hands and sinking to the
edge of her bed. Embarrassment is boiling up inside her chest, spilling hotly
into her blood. Sherlock heard all of that, heard and knows how stupid and weak
she is, how her own Mum talks to her. Oh God, it's ruined, and she only had him
for a few hours….
"It's not you he hates, love." Pat is quick to wrap her back up, tugging her
back so they're lying on the bed together. She curls up against his side,
pressing her face in his neck and weeping as though she's lost the only thing
her world that matters. And in a way she has: Molly's lost her future with the
boy meant to be her Bondmate, and she's never experienced pain on this level
before. "Twenty quid says you'll hear from this weekend, yeah? Don't cry,
Molls. It's gonna be okay."
Twenty minutes later Helen steps into the room, bearing red rimmed eyes and a
nose swollen from angry sobbing; she stares at the two of them, holding each
other on the bed. "Go home, Patrick," she firmly orders, something venomous in
her tone. He glowers for a moment before kissing Molly's forehead, slipping
free. Defiantly he stares his aunt down as he squeezes past her, bulling his
chest out as though daring her to hit him; Molly hasn't got a doubt in her mind
that if Mum lifted a hand to Pat he'd belt her right back, and seeing how big
and strong he is, she's sure her mother would get the worse end of the beating.
Instead Helen balls her fists up and looks down her nose at the boy, closing
the door behind him once he's departed.
"That's a sin," she announces, and Molly pauses in the act of sitting up to
give her mother a blank stare.
In a thick, hoarse voice she puts words to her confusion. "What do you mean?"
"You know what. It's disgusting how you and he parade around – do you think I
don't see it? He's your cousin, Mary Katherine, and you'll burn in hell if you
don't repent."
It takes a long moment for comprehension to burst over Molly, but when it does
she physically gags and has to clamp a hand over her mouth, fearful she'll be
sick on herself. Her gaze is horror stricken. "Mum, no, never – Pat's like my
brother –"
"I'm not blind, Mary Katherine! I saw the two of you on that bed just now!"
"We were lying down! I was crying, he was hugging me – it wasn't like that!"
"I won't have you lying to my face!"
"I'm n-n-not!" Shaking, unable to breathe, Molly curls her hands behind her
neck before bending until her forehead is on her knees. The world is swimming,
making her stomach toss and turn; her brain feels as though it has turned to
liquid and is sloshing about the inside of her skull which only making the tide
of sickness worse. Bile is strong and acidic at the back of her throat, feeling
as though it's eating its way through all the soft tissues between it and the
outside world.
"Boys only want one thing, and you're tempting your own cousin into such evil –
I can't imagine what you'd do with that Sherlock boy. Call it Bonding and dress
it up however you'd like, but it's still nothing more than a perversion. I
won't have it going on under my roof, do you understand?"
Taking her daughter's broken, gasping sobs as acknowledgement, Helen leaves the
room. Only a month before she'd installed a lock on the outside of the door,
after catching Molly sneaking out to meet several of her cousins and go see a
PG-13 movie without permission. Molly's not quite sure if her dad simply hasn't
noticed or if he turns a blind eye, unwilling to truly see how his wife's
actions are escalating. Molly's not the sort of girl to wallow in self pity or
brood on ugly thoughts, and she's certainly not one for blaming others for her
problems, but this is all simply too much. She's locked up like a rat in a
cage, being denied the promise of a glorious future with her Bondmate, and her
mother is accusing of her incest. Not even her naturally sweet personality can
withstand this cruelty.
"It's n-not fair," she weeps into her knees. Outside the yew's branches cast
swaying shadows on the walls and ceiling, as though attempting to stretch out
and comfort her.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     God bless MizJoely for continuing to beta for me, proving she has the
     patience of a saint. I don't know she puts up with me, to be honest.
     Glorious, rapturous applause for everyone that reviewed, sent me
     messages, and jumped me on tumble to talk about Religion; none of you
     have any idea how much I appreciate and thrive on it! And remember, I
     LOVE concrete, don't be afraid to say something if you see a way I
     can improve!
     Disclaimer: Look at all the shit I don't own.
Mycroft Holmes is steadily advancing up the chain of government command, and
his younger brother suspects he will soon become not a member of and more
puppeteer in the shadows. The eldest Holmes is already carving out space for
his youngest brother, visions of a sibling take-over in mind, and there’s logic
in the assumption. Together they could turn Britain into more than a former
empire or a country that comes in second to the United States on the topic of
global leadership. There is no mind brighter than these three, after all, and
if they were to work in tandem…
The mere thought forces Sherlock to burst into hives. It’s why he avoids
calling in favors to his brother, afraid to rack up a debt that can only be
paid by joining the family business his parents left behind many years ago.
(Oh, yes, Mother’s a mathematician; she wrote books and still gives lecture
tours, there’s no denying it, but there’s so much the public doesn’t – and
never will – know about Maura Elizabeth Vernet-Holmes. As for her husband,
well, William Holmes carries the air of an absentminded professor incredibly
well, but he also teaches his sons hand-to-hand combat and weapons training and
the quickest ways to build and dismantle bombs. Shadow Squadron, his old unit
was called; Sherlock wonders if they still use the same moniker.)
If time had been less of an issue, he’d have called Erasmus and not Mycroft.
There are certainly lesser evils when it comes to dealing with his brothers,
but time is a luxury Sherlock is not in possession of at the moment.
“Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper: I need all the information available.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, one that rings of a cat that has
lured the canary out of its cage. “Erasmus could certainly gather such
intelligence and has far less important matters to deal with than I.”
Smug bastard, Sherlock bites his tongue to keep from muttering. “It’s required
immediately. I’ll hold for it.”
“Tit for tat, brother mine: why do you require such information? Have we
finally begun developing special feelings in our privates at the thought of the
opposite sex?”
“Not that you’d know anything about that. Have you told Mummy about the new man
in your life? It’s becoming rather serious; you’ve even changed your cologne.”
“My goodness, I didn’t realize the height of your obsession. If you’re planning
on emulating me, you must stop playing stupid.”
Sucking in air between tightly clenched teeth, Sherlock briefly fantasizes
punching his brother square in the face. His imagination is as highly developed
and impressive as the rest of him, and it goes in a long way in lowering his
blood pressure and urge to scream profanities. “Yes, I met a girl.”
“Really, Sherlock, stalking? An act that is even beneath you, surely you must
realize this.”
“I’m not stalking her, Mycroft. Just get me the damn information already.”
“Is she an Omega, or this a run of the mill infatuation?”
Clearly the only way to win this game is to lose, at least by their usual
standers. Gods, Sherlock loathes losing to Mycroft. But Molly’s safety is
infinitely more important than his ego – damn, that’s a strange realization,
that someone or something comes above his own sense of pride and self. Has he
ever realized this before? Not when it comes to his brother, that’s for
certain. “Not an Omega; Molly Hooper is my Omega. I believe her well-being is
at risk, and I promise you, Mycroft, if your childish antics cause her to be
harmed I will take my pound of flesh from you. Which you’d thank me for, I’m
sure, as you’ve began putting on even more weight since entered this
relationship with, ah, yes, Doug. Who you haven’t introduced to the family, but
I do believe Mummy could engineer a meeting if, say, someone were to let it
slip that her Mikey-poo is in an actual, adult relationship.”
A pause, now, filled with the sound of Mycroft’s breathing and papers rustling.
There’s the tap tap tap of high heels on the floor, coming close and then
retreating, followed by the soft squeak and thump of a door closing. Sherlock
hopes his assistant got to hear him being outwitted by a seventeen year old
Mycroft likes to refer to as dull. “Well played,” the government official
congratulates.
“Thank you,” Sherlock civilly accepts. “Do change the score to reflect.”
“Yes, of course. Now, here is the file on your Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper:
born February 22nd, 1979 –”
“You’d already called for it,” Sherlock accuses, indignation heating his blood.
“Are you having me followed again?”
“I got to add some very racy surveillance photos to both your files; your team
though the two of you might shag right in that dirty alley. Seemed a bit put
out they hadn’t got more of a show, to be honest.”
“It’s Erasmus. You’ve got Erasmus keeping bloody watch on me!”
“After that stunt you pulled last month –”
“Oh, now you’re just jealous –”
“Sherlock, you nearly started a war!”
“Jealous, as I said!”
“I thought time was of the essence, brother dear?”
Instead of replying, Sherlock sniffs, shooting an annoyed glower at the
ceiling. If he doesn’t let Mycroft have the last word he’ll never get the
required information.
“Glad to see you’ve made your mind up. Alright then… her parents are Edward and
Helen Hooper, nee Flannigan, married on June 14th, 1975 in Our Lady Grace and
St Edward’s, and they immediately set up house in Chiswick in a home partially
purchased by Thorton and Viola Hooper, Edward’s grandparents. They’ve
maintained this house ever since – the Hooper family has done their best
purchase up close to a block of residential area, it looks like most of the
extended family all live there together – scared yet?”
A bit. “The rest?” he bites off, irritated beyond words.
“Mary Katherine – who goes by Molly – is an only child. Her father is an
unmated Alpha and her mother is mundane, unsurprising given the relative
uncommonness of Omegas and Betas, especially in their generation. Though the
Hooper family seems to have a higher than usual Bonding rate. Hmm… she attended
St. Mary’s Primary and now attends Sacred Heart High School, with an academic
record that is rather above average, and has expressed interest in perusing
higher education in the fields of medicine or science. Her father Edward works
for Fuller’s Brewery in the advertising department while her mother is a
homemaker. In 1988 there was an unfortunate accident involving the Edward
Hooper family: driving back after spending New Years with the Flannigan family,
they were struck by a vehicle operated by one Jason Smith, who fell asleep
behind the wheel and drifted into the oncoming lane. Young Molly suffered
several broken bones which required surgery to her left hip and femur, her
father’s back was broken, and her mother suffered severe trauma to the brain
after being thrown through the windscreen. Edward Thorton Hooper Junior, aged
five years, was killed instantly, resulting in a law suit against the maker of
his safety seat which failed upon impact.”
An idea begins to form, and Sherlock dislikes the outline it takes. “Address?”
he demands, committing it to memory as soon as it’s spoken.
“Don’t forget – you owe me.” There’s an impossible amount of smugness in those
words. Sherlock’s answer is to hang up, mashing the end button a few more times
than necessary as he springs from the chair beside his window. He’s quick and
light footed as he makes his way downstairs, hoping to leave without catching
his mother’s attention.
Unfortunately, his father is leaning against the front door. There’s dirt on
his trousers and hands, clear signs of work being done in the garden. He’s
cleaning the out from his thumbnail with the blade of his pocket knife. “Going
somewhere?” he inquires without looking up.
“Out,” Sherlock answers sharply, belatedly realizing this answer provides only
enough to make his father dig harder. “Back to the dorm – I’ve got a project to
finish, and since Mum says I have to participate in my classes…” He shrugs,
pulling a mask of only mild annoyance onto his face.
“And I’d thought you’d be heading out to your Molly’s, after that disastrous
phone call.”
“Were you and Mum listening in?”
“Do you think I could have stopped her?”
That’s a valid point. “She hit Molly, Dad. I heard it.”
“Yes.”
“She hit her!”
“Yes, son – and she made it clear that you are in no way welcome in Molly’s
life.”
“That’s not her choice to make.”
“Until she’s of legal age, I’m afraid it is her parent’s decision.”
“Last year a court ruled that in the case of an Alpha and Omega that are, or
will become, Bonded, then it’s their right to chose.”
“Do you really want to drive a wedge between Molly and her parents?”
“If her parents are so cruel as to try and keep us apart, then there’s no need
for them in our lives.”
With a heavy sigh, William shakes his head. There’s something old and sad about
him in this moment. “Our lives?” he repeats, closing the pocket it knife before
it’s tucked away. “Son, you’re seventeen, and how old is this girl? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen in February,” he grudgingly tacks on, as though that may make it
better.
“You’re too young to even comprehend what Bonding truly means. If it were only
up to me –”
“You’d really leave my Omega in an unsafe position? The future mother of your
potential grandchildren?” Guilt can do wonders, Sherlock has learned… and he
does have a gift for manipulation.
His father levels a stern expression on him. “Don’t try that with me; your
mothers infinitely better at it and if I can resist her, I can certainly resist
you. No, I won’t leave her there without knowing she’s going to be safe – but I
think you’re about to rush off and do something stupid, and I want to make sure
you understand the full ramifications of your actions. If you take her away
from her family, she’s going to need you to be there for her. To be strong when
she’s weak, and to let her in your life despite your mood or tendency to shut
people out – you understand? You’ll have to grow up, and being selfish is no
longer an option. You still want to run off?”
Taking a moment, Sherlock considers. There’s something ugly and scared rising
up in his chest, shouting that he needs to run as far and as fast as he
possibly can. It’s more than his age, it’s the fact that he’s a freak and he
hasn’t got any idea how to relate on a purely emotional level to anyone else.
God knows his parents tried to teach him, but the other children in his life
were so dull and slow he couldn’t stand them, and he was also so busy imitating
Mycroft that he never bothered to try and see why Erasmus was so infatuated
with them. He almost turns this matter over to his father, who he knows will
deal with Helen Hooper and make sure that Molly is well taken care of.
But then he thinks of her scent, already engrained in his memory so clearly he
swears he catches a faint whiff of her. He remembers the way she’d smiled at
him, how her mouth felt under his and the way her fingers curled into the
fabric over his shoulders. There’s something primal and fierce rising up inside
him, drowning out the scared, childish voice calling for a retreat.
“I know,” he finally admits, straightening his back and looking up to meet his
father’s gaze. “I don’t know how to provide what she’ll need from me, but I’ll
do my best. I’ll learn. She needs me, Dad.”
There’s never been such a look of pride on William’s face, at least not in
Sherlock’s memory. The distance between them is eaten up before one large hand
rests on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing. “Take my car. And son… try not to get
thrown in jail, okay? You know how it upsets your mother.”
 
----X----
 
Molly wakes from a light, restless sleep to the sound of her bedroom door
slowly creaking open. Lungs seize in fear she waits, trembling, beneath her
heavy winter quilt. Her father hasn’t bothered to check on her in the night
since she was small, and she’d actually prefer a robber instead of it being her
mum, who sometimes likes to wake Molly to fight over some imagined or minor
infraction of the rules. Squeezing her eyes she waits, hoping whoever it is
will simply leave her alone.
The floorboards creak, and a scent wafts towards her seconds after Molly’s
lungs, shrieking for oxygen, unlock. Bolting upright in her bed, a breathless
sound of shock only half-swallowed emerges in a bare whisper. “Sherlock?” He’s
halfway across her room, a tall, gaunt shadow in the dim light, but she can
make out his wide eyes and the finger he’s holding to his mouth emphatically.
She nods to show her understanding, something wild and painfully grateful
building inside her chest.
Quiet as a cat burglar he advances forward, crouching down on the balls of his
feet once he’s at her bedside. One careful hand curls around the back of her
neck in a light touch, pulling Molly down until his mouth is against her ear;
he speaks so quietly that his words are more of a suggestion than something she
actually hears. “Pack only what you absolutely cannot leave behind and only
what’s in this room.” He hands Molly her glasses, which were resting on the
nightstand.
The entire time it feels as though her heart is going to hammer right out of
her chest, and she’s shaking with adrenaline, fear, and hope. If they’re
caught, God, Mum will kill them – but she’s so tired of this life, of being
scared and hit and treated as though each breath she draws is a horrendous sin.
Packing isn’t an issue, as she’s got a bag tucked just inside her closet, a
just-in-case precaution. It’s not very large so she crams it into her book bag,
making sure it’s completely shut before she shrugs it across her body. One nod
to Sherlock is all it takes for his hand to find her own and then they’re
sneaking out of her room.
He takes her to the back staircase, and then to the garden door. Waiting for
them is Pat, who appears washed out and ghostly in the moonlight. He shoos them
on with two flapping hands, and Molly catches the scent of oil as they pass –
he must have oiled the garden gate to keep it from shrieking obnoxiously when
he and Sherlock entered. It leads to the alley between their house and the
next, where cars park off the road and they leave their bikes leaning against
the fence. To Molly their footfalls sound like echoing drumbeats, and her
breathing seems to be amplified over dozens of speakers. A dog is barking a
street over, and she almost trips when it beings, looking behind her in a
desperate sort of fear.
Where the lane intersects the main road, they stop. Molly bends, hands on her
knees as she tries to catch her breath. “Are you crazy?” she gasps, pressing a
hand over her chest. “If my mother caught you, she’d have you thrown in jail or
–”
“She didn’t,” Sherlock cuts her off. Carefully he takes her arm, pulling until
she’s upright. Two fingers press under her chin, pushing her face up until the
streetlight displays the swelling of her face. Bruises are already filling in,
black and blue and purple, and the larger one is very clearly in the shape of a
hand. Ashamed Molly closes her eyes, and so she does not see the spasm of rage
that crosses over Sherlock’s face. “How long has this been going on?”
“I-it’s not her fault, really – I know everyone says that, but there was an
accident, and –”
“Years,” Pat answers flatly. “She restrains herself all the time, so the
accident isn’t an excuse, Molls. If she couldn’t stop it she’d beat you bloody
every time you did something ‘wrong’ in public; instead she waits until you’re
back home. Don’t make excuses for her.”
“But –”
“Stop,” Sherlock orders with a cold fury. “Don’t apologize for or excuse her
ever again, Molly Hooper.”
Looking over his shoulder worriedly, Pat speaks. “You’d better go. I’ll cover
for you best I can. Better not come to school tomorrow, okay? Give it a few
days.”
“I’m not missing –”
“I’ll pick up your work, okay? Seriously, just this one time, play hooky.”
Throat too tight to speak, Molly nods in answer. There are no hugs and kisses
or I-love-you’s shared between the cousins, just a look that speaks more than
words and a short grasping of their hands. Then Pat is jogging back to his
house and Sherlock has an arm looped around Molly’s shoulders, guiding her
towards a parked car. She’d always imagined running away would make her feel
powerful and free, but her abused face throbs agonizingly in time with her
heartbeat, and she’s so overcome with fearful nerves she has to pull away from
Sherlock to get sick in nearby shrubbery. He doesn’t seem appalled or even
slightly phased by witnessing her vomiting; instead he hands her a stick of gum
before urging her on.
For a moment, she almost turns and runs home. She’s petrified, overwhelmed with
anxiety. Mum is going to murder her, literally murder her for doing this. But
then Sherlock puts his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the
passenger side of the sedan, and somehow her jitters become less overpowering.
Whatever happens, she’s not in this alone.
She begins crying as soon as they pull away from the curb, and for the first
time it’s not out of fear or self-loathing, but hatred… hatred directed for
firmly at her parents, who never should have put in the position to have to run
away in the middle of the night with a boy she’s not even known an entire day.
She’s furious for all the years of her mother’s abuse and her father’s
negligence, his willingness to make excuses and turn a blind eye to the
escalation of his wife’s cruelty. Most she’s hideously angry that her mother
has twisted her until she’s guilty for leaving, ashamed for abandoning the
woman that has tortured her for the past six years – no, not abandoning.
Escaping. Fleeing.
In a dimly lit parking garage outside Sherlock’s university, he takes her hand
but stares firmly out the window. “What do you need?” he quietly asks.
“You,” she answers with an artless honesty, too raw to search for a less
pleading admission. “Don’t leave me… please.”
He nods and smiles a little, and everything seems much more hopeful and
brighter than it did just seconds before.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     I would normally never update so quickly, but I can't keep from
     writing. At least I'm maintaining a bit of control, posting only when
     I've got the next chapter finished. Thank you to everyone that has
     reviewed and sent me message, I really appreciate it! Bless MizJoely
     for her editing magic!
     Trigger Warnings: Disturbing imagery, imagined sexual violence (sort
     of).
     Disclaimer: Bards will write odes honoring all the shit I don't own.
Molly Hooper is the first girl to be in Sherlock’s bed and as much as it
shouldn’t mean anything – especially considering the circumstances of her
arrival to said bed – it’s all he can think of. If his brain were as big as his
mind, his head would form a new center of gravity and the galaxy would spin
around Sherlock Holmes; his IQ quite literally tests off the charts and he once
taught himself Mandarin Chinese in a few days simply from boredom and lack of
anything more interesting being on hand. All things considered, the presence of
a mere female sleeping upon an object built and kept for the sole purpose of
humans sleeping on it shouldn’t rocket him into stupidity. But it does, it
absolutely does, and there’s nothing else he can focus on. Nothing is more
interesting than the cinnamon hair spread across his pillow or the bruised
little face that’s made lax and peaceful in slumber.
To another boy the pattern of bruising would be meaningless, but to Sherlock it
is a diagram of Helen Hooper’s latest abuse. (‘Latest’ as he has no doubt in
his mind that this has been going on for years, that his Molly has suffered
without aid or help beyond the meager sheltering of her cousins.) First was a
blow brought down hard and fast from overhead, openhanded, a slap so vicious
that the left side of Molly’s face has become a livid handprint of purple,
black, and blue; as the days pass the colors will become more lurid and ugly, a
darker testimony to this girl’s pain. Her upper lip is swollen, undoubtedly
split inside from being forced against sharp teeth, a result of the second
blow. Blood is present in the ear canal, and he fears her eardrum was ruptured
by the third assault which came from the side with a vicious force and was
centered deliberately over her ear. Once the university clinic is opened he’ll
take her there, even if he has to carry her over his shoulder to do so. If it
is ruptured infection could set in, and Molly shouldn’t have to endure any more
pain than she already has.
Without meaning to, without permission, Sherlock’s arm lifts. He trails a
finger, light as a faint winter breeze, across Molly’s swollen jaw. He’s read
more than his share of literature on A/B/O biology, originally planning to use
his knowledge to resist or circumvent any primal urges that might come upon
him, but now the knowledge has transformed into a guide to understanding his
current situation. Or at least attempting to understand his draw to and
feelings towards Molly Hooper, though he’s rather baffled by the logical facts
not truly helping him in this situation at all; like the murky waters of social
interaction and acceptably, a romantic relationship is impervious to logic.
Alphas are programmed to protect and care for their Omegas, fighting and
providing for them to prove they remain a worthy mate and potential father of
offspring and Sherlock understands this down to the molecular level. What he
cannot comprehend is the vast, choking rage that suffuses him with the desire
to tear right back to Cheswick and beat her mother literally to death. He
imagines hot blood on his face and hands, spraying in his mouth, the sound of
breaking bones and wet, gurgling cries as he shatters her face; he thinks of
coming home to Molly after, of kissing her deep so she can taste the blood,
too, of fisting his hands in her hair and knotting her until she screams and
thanks him for protecting her. In his mind she offers her neck up, a willing
submission, and when he sinks his teeth into her flesh she digs her nails into
his back and shoulders, seeking blood and crying, “I’m yours, I’m yours; you
own me!”
Breaking from his fevered imagination, Sherlock balls his hands into tight
fists and stares firmly into a middle distance. If he were younger or less
disciplined, there would be horrified tears in his eyes. He’s no animal, no
mindless beast, but he thinks of killing Helen Hooper and fucking her daughter
after and becomes so aroused it’s difficult to find a reason not to act on his
impulses. There are always stories on the news and in papers of Alpha’s
assaulting anyone that dares harm his or her Bondmate, and the laws are more
lenient in those cases. Would you punish a lion for being a lion, lawyers
argue, and juries and judges have said no, of course not; clearly they aren’t
in control of themselves during those attacks.
Sherlock is better than any of that, however. He’s stronger.
Deep breaths, then: center, find focus, relax relax relax…
The phone rings, the shrill jangling jarring Sherlock from his mind palace. In
truth, he’s grateful for the distraction. He’s quick to jump up and cross his
small bedroom, answering even as he turns back to Molly, checking to make sure
the loud noise didn’t disturb her. “Hello?”
“Has she made you a man yet?” Erasmus asks with far too much cheer than the
situation calls for.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Sherlock simultaneously rubs his forehead, as
though he can massage away the developing headache, while grinding his teeth
together, making pain shoot from his overly tensed jaw to his throbbing
temples. “Do you truly believe now is the appropriate time for intercourse?
You’re always going on about how I need to learn and respect the emotional
reactions of the people around me, and I’m going out on a limb and saying being
beaten by her mother and forced to run away with her Alpha – who she’s spent no
more than seven hours with and the bulk of them sleeping – is the wrong time to
attempt to… ‘get off’ with her.” His lips curl in distaste of the slang, though
his stomach leaps, forgoing disgust to focus on excitement and want.
“Jesus, Lock, I was kidding.” Erasmus has this tone of voice that’s somewhere
between amused exasperation and a confusion that clearly relays his disbelief
at his brother’s actions. He wields it now and to great effect, making Sherlock
scowl and shift uncomfortably.
“How many times must I ask you not to –”
“You don’t like Lock? Fine, Willy it is.”
“No, absolutely not –”
“Ol’ Willy Holmes, genius virgin with a stick up his arse. Willy Will William!”
Damn but he wishes he’d been an only child. “Lock is acceptable.”
“I’m nearly to your door. I don’t want to mess with picking the lock, just open
it.”
“What? Why? What are you doing here?” That’s not panic in his voice, it’s only
forceful curiosity and outrage.
“The police are on their way, and Mum and Dad thought it would be best if
someone was there to keep you from doing something stupid.”
Immediately his gaze turns to Molly, who hasn’t so much as stirred. No snores
escape her sinuses; instead she puffs on most exhales, a soft noise. Every once
in a while her nose or extremities twitch, quick little motions signifying REM
sleep. There’s a fire in his stomach and a certainty that if God Himself
decided to stir from his hallowed sky palace, descending on the earth to demand
Molly Hooper be returned to her family, Sherlock would fight to the bloody end
to see her remain with him. It’s not a purely selfish decision, though there
are certainly selfish motivations; instead the fierceness of it rests on the
foundation of her safety.
He won’t let her come to harm, not so long as he can prevent it from occurring.
Over the line Erasmus sighs, and before Sherlock can comprehend the sounds
coming to him over the electronic line there’s a click and the sound of a door
opening, which echoes out from the front of his suite. “I thought you said you
didn’t want to pick the lock?”
“Yeah, well, I had to.” The university flat isn’t much; two bedrooms, a tiny
bathroom, and a space that is the kitchen, dining room, and living room all at
once. He’d rather be in a flat off campus and alone, but his parents insisted
he attempt to mingle with the common masses, thinking it might do his social
graces some good. His roommate, whose name Sherlock can rarely be bothered to
remember, spends much of his time bunking over with other people to escape the
madness and mood swings.
The bedroom door opens and Erasmus steps in, shoving his bulky mobile phone
into the messenger bag strapped across his body. He’s tall and narrow, like
Sherlock, with bright blue eyes and a plump mouth prone to excessive
expression. His hair falls in soft brown curls about his ears and below his
collar, almost long enough to be pulled back in a short tail. It’s easy to
ready his body language, that he’s forcing his muscles into laxness and is
pouring lead into his feet to prevent him from pacing, a nervous habit that
drives Mycroft utterly bonkers, and it’s all to keep Sherlock calm.
His gaze flickers about the room, reading the details of his younger brother’s
day-to-day life from the clutter on his desk and the little table beside his
bed, his overly packed bookshelf and the stacks of books on the floor. A half-
finished experiment takes up space on the window ledge. After seconds of
stalling, involving peering at the ceiling as though the cobwebs in the corners
may hold some intimate secrets, he turns his eyes to the bed… and the girl
between its sheets. Sherlock watches muscles jump in his brother’s jaw, neck,
and shoulders, catches the emotion that boils in Erasmus’ eyes before he
studiously blankets it.
“It’s worse up close,” he comments quietly, lips twitching. “Mrs. Hooper really
did a number on the girl.”
Responding is impossible, because it’s literally all Sherlock can do to keep
from snarling in the manner of an enraged animal, an action he will not indulge
so long as he can stifle it.
“She’s the one that called Scotland Yard and reported Molly kidnapped. Mr.
Hooper was unwilling to see it done, but didn’t put up much of a fight. Patrick
Hooper, the cousin that helped you last night, his parents and siblings have
formed a human wall around him, so to speak. Mrs. Hooper seemed intent on
clawing his eyes out early this morning, but the second Mrs. Hooper, Pat’s
mother, she’s a fighter. Didn’t take too kindly to the suggestion that Molly
and Pat are… kissing cousins, you know?” Quirking his eyebrow, Erasmus gives
Sherlock a hard sort of look, as though commanding his younger brother to
comprehend without an explanation. It takes a moment longer than it should, but
understanding comes to Sherlock as the sun pulling above the horizon at dawn.
“She accused Molly and Pat of incest?” he surmises. There is a curious sort of
coldness washing through him, chilling and honing his anger into something more
deadly than it was before.
“Seems like she confronted Molly about it, tried to tell Pat’s mum that Molly
didn’t deny it, that she was proud of it; Patrick came out swinging. Literally,
he got out between some older siblings and charged Mrs. Hooper. If his dad
hadn’t caught him…” Erasmus shrugs. “Can’t blame the kid, I’d have done the
same thing. God, Lock, can you imagine? Mum and Dad can be annoying, yeah, but
her parents are fucking insane. ‘Least her dad’s not as bad as his missus.”
“He’s worse,” Sherlock harshly condemns. “He doesn’t protect Molly from that
woman. At least she has something of an excuse.”
“Yeah, I read the files Mikey provided. Seems convenient, though, doesn’t it?
Traumatic brain injury can cause a complete change of character, but I don’t
know… it seems a bit much, right? I can buy that the accident made her
legitimately insane or reversed her personality to the point of absolute
cruelty, but why does it only seem to be directed at Molly? Anyone that defends
or helps her or gets in the way of Mrs. Hooper’s abuse of her, they get
attacked – like how Pat was accused of sleeping with her, right? But it all
centers on Molly.”
Erasmus brings up a valid point, one that Sherlock hadn’t missed. “We need more
data,” he tells his brother with no small amount of frustration. Raking a hand
through his hair, he’s about to present a possible hypothesis when Molly begins
to shift restlessly; her breathing increases and her limbs begin to twitch and
jerk, signifying the presence of a troubling dream. Sherlock wouldn’t doubt
that she’s suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and is unsurprised by
this turn of events. From the short conversation he’d held with Pat Hooper
before sneaking into Molly’s house, it was easy to surmise that the abuse
inflicted on Molly has been far more severe than he’d first expected and will
have undoubtedly left scars on the girl.
Shoving past Erasmus, Sherlock hurries to the bed. He crouches beside it,
taking Molly’s hand in one of his own while smoothing the hair away from her
injured face. They aren’t yet Bonded but his presence will soothe her, his
unique scent registering in her unconscious mind and (hopefully) evoking
feelings of security and pleasure. Without warning emotion spears through
Sherlock with all the force of a bolt from a crossbow, shattering his ribs and
piercing vital organs as he realizes that while so many others have accused him
of not having a heart, they were so very wrong. It was only that it has never
been carried inside his body, but was hidden under the fragile skin and light
bones of this girl, tucked deep inside where none could find or do him harm…
until now.
This realization is as terrifying as it is humbling, and Sherlock can’t keep
from trembling. Carefully he leans down, pressing his mouth to the corner of
her lips to taste her breath and her skin, seeking reassurance that she’s with
him and safe. It’s a blessing that Erasmus is watching, as it is only this
knowledge that keeps Sherlock from shucking his clothing and crawling onto the
bed with Molly, from tearing her clothing off and wrapping himself around her.
It’s not a sexual urge – or not entirely so – but a need to feel skin-on-skin,
a desire for closeness that Sherlock has never experienced before.
Molly begins to wake, her breathing changing and the movements of her limbs
slowing. This close, Sherlock’s keen ears can pick up the faint thud of her
heartbeat behind her ribs, or is that only wishful thinking? She presses
towards him, curling towards the warmth of a body and the scent of her Alpha,
her hand taking a firm grasp on his. “Sherlock?” she murmurs as she wakes, her
eyes not yet open. The sound of his name from her sleepy lips strikes him with
the force of a lightning bolt.
“Good morning,” he quietly responds, aware of each small nuance of her body.
Her eyes open, the corners crinkling sweetly as she almost smiles before the
pain from her bruises asserts it’s self. She winces, one hand lifting up to
gingerly brush against the side of her face and mouth, judging the injuries for
herself. Sherlock catches her hand, keeping her from causing further pain.
“Don’t touch, you’ll make it worse.”
“Is it very bad?” Her speech is thick, and he wonders if her jaw was injured,
dislocated or fractured. The thought brings the anger rushing back, but he
forces gentleness into his motions as he runs a fingertip over the shell of her
ear. He doesn’t miss Molly shiver or the flash of surprise in her eyes, either.
“It’s not very good,” he admits.
A hard knock rattles the door to the suite. A policeman loudly demands through
the door, “Metropolitan Police, open up.”
“Hell, they got here quick,” Erasmus notes.
“Who –” Molly starts to ask; she appears quite confused and rather scared,
pulling the heavy comforter to her chin as though she’d like very much to hide.
It seems that fear has caused her tongue to stick to the roof of her mouth, not
allowing her to complete the thought.
Sherlock shoots Erasmus a dark look. “That’s my brother, Erasmus. Your mother
called the police, and we’ve got to answer the door. But don’t worry, alright?
I’m not going to let you take you back.”
Her fingers press into the spaces between his own seeking comfort and safety.
Sherlock allows it, rather shocked by how pleased he is with Molly’s
instinctive need for closeness. He hasn’t ever cared for such things before,
but then again, it was never her instigating physical contact.
“Hate to break up the love fest, but…” Shrugging as the police pound on the
door once more, repeating his earlier words but twice as loudly, Erasmus jerks
a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll answer that. Don’t take too long, Molly,
they’re going to want to see you.” He disappears through the doorway, his boots
heavy and loud on cheap linoleum.
Their eyes meet, and a silent communication is had. On an instinctual level
Sherlock knows that Molly needs strength and he wordlessly offers it, mouth
twisting into a thin but encouraging smile even as he squeezes her fingers.
There is a subtle loosening of her muscles that signifies not only her
understanding but her acceptance, though she’s by no means set entirely at
ease. Only a very stupid person would be carefree and unconcerned in this
moment, and Molly is undoubtedly one of the more clever persons in the world.
Not as clever as Sherlock, but then again, who is? Bright enough to almost keep
up with him, to hopefully keep him interested and engaged.
“Your brother’s harboring a minor,” a man is not quite shouting in the front
room. “If Mr. and Mrs. Hooper press charges, he can be put up for kidnapping,
you get that? Now where the hell is Molly?”
The girl in question squints towards the open door. “Greg?” Her voice is far
too quiet to be heard by anyone other than Sherlock, but she untangles their
hands and swiftly slides from the bed. She stumbles a bit, adding weight to the
theory that her ear drum is damaged or ruptured, but finds her balance as she
crosses the room. Sherlock rises and follows, pushing his hands into his
pockets (all the better to keep from reaching out or, even worse, grabbing
Molly and pushing her once more out of sight) and affecting an expression of
unconcerned boredom.
In the main part of the suite, there are two policemen. It’s the younger that
holds Molly’s attention. “Greg?” she repeats, coming to a halt.
“There you – holy fucking hell, Molls, your fucking face!” Swiftly the man in
question shoves past Erasmus, bolting to Molly. He’s swearing the whole time,
his face turning a hideous shade of puce as outrage clearly sweeps over him.
“Did Helen do this? Huh? Was it your mum? God fucking damn it, I told Jeanie we
needed to do something, but she swore up and down Helen was all bark and no
bite. No fucking bite, eh? Fuck.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks, honest.”
Sherlock can’t keep from bristling due to the extremely familiar way the man
handles her, gently scraping hair away from her forehead and holding her chin
between thumb and forefinger to turn her face this way and that, surveying the
damage dealt. Looking him up and down, Sherlock takes in the tiny details that
spells out the basics of this man – this Greg’s – life: late twenties, newly
married, smoker, childless, devoted to his work, considered capable of his job,
avid football fan, harbors a secret addiction for trash tabloids, and a mundane
human.
Stepping back, Molly meets Sherlock’s back and immediately leans against his
body. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out her reason has more to do with
calming the irritated Alpha behind her and not due to any discomfort on her
part. “Sherlock, Greg Lestrade; he’s married to my cousin Jean. Greg, this is
Sherlock Holmes. He’s… he’s my Alpha.” Where her face is unmarred, her skin
picks up a cherry red glow.
“Alpha?” repeats Greg, brow furrowing. “Helen said –”
“Undoubtedly you were told I was an undesirable boyfriend that stole Molly from
the bosom of her doting mother to have my wicked way with her,” Sherlock snaps
off, settling a hand on Molly’s hip almost without thought. It’s strange how
easily this comfort and need for contact is quickly becoming, and later, when
he’s alone, perhaps he’ll even allow himself to be discomforted by this swift
change to a basic tenant of his personality. “And of course you weren’t
informed that Molly had not met just any man or a passing Alpha, but her future
Bondmate. It does tend to complicate things, doesn’t it? As well as serve for
the reason Mrs. Hooper attacked Molly.”
Understanding lights the constables gaze before he rolls his eyes heavenward,
drawing his hand down his face. “Bloody hell, that woman is mad.”
“She’s sick,” Molly rebukes, twisting the hem of her shirt between nervous
fingers. The way she curls her shoulders and lowers her chin speaks of a wish
to be hidden, and she flinches at any quick or unexpected movement made near
her. It makes him utterly furious, and his teeth grit together once more.
Across the room Erasmus is giving him sternly imploring looks, silently
cautioning against losing his temper. Restraint is difficult but somehow
Sherlock manages it, though his control is threadbare and worn to the point of
snapping from the onset.
Lestrade doesn’t fight the point, simply turns back to his partner and begins
to confer about law and procedure. Future Bondmates are legally superior to
parental rights, so long as both parties are fifteen years of age or older, and
with Molly clearly being the victim of abuse in her parent’s home, Helen Hooper
really hasn’t got a leg to stand on legally. Still, procedure must be followed
and so an Alpha Sergeant is called in to confirm their claim of Unbound mates
by scent, and while they wait for her arrival Lestrade uses a disposable camera
to take pictures of Molly’s face.
“You been to a doctor yet?” he inquires, thumb busy rolling the film. Her
wordless response is negative. “If you want to file charges I’ll need to take
you to a hospital –”
“I’m not filing charges against my mum.”
Opening his mouth to argue the point (maybe thinking I can’t kill her if she’s
with the Met, but no one could make him admit to it), Sherlock is stopped only
by the vigorous shaking of his brother’s head. The motion is emphatic and
serious. It’s galling to do so, but he defers to Erasmus’ knowledge out of a
desire to comfort Molly, not further batter her with a fight over the proper
course regarding her mother. After seventeen years of not caring about the
emotional well-being of those around him, it’s incredibly disconcerting to be
so wholly focused on the state of such, even if it is only one person that
holds this level of regard. Soon he’ll be discussing his feelings with Erasmus
and Mycroft will mock them both.
Still, after the Alpha arrives – a stocky woman with fuzzy, bottle red hair and
ultra-thin eyebrows; Bonded, three children (adopted), ate toast for breakfast
– and confirms that Molly and Sherlock are actually an Unbonded pair, he slides
close to Lestrade and murmurs, “I’m taking her to a clinic once you leave. It
will be recorded by a medical professional.”
“Good,” the constable answers, watching the sergeant and his own partner
attempt to talk Molly into changing her mind regarding the battery charges.
“She’s a good kid, sure as hell doesn’t deserve the shit Helen puts her
through.”
“Can’t have been going on very long, could it?” Of course he knows it’s been
going on for ages, but information is offered best when given in the form of a
correction. Normal people are so easy to manipulate that it’s honestly a bit
boring.
“Nah, poor kid’s been suffering for ages. I’ve talked to her about getting
help, even tried to get her to come live with Jeanie and me – that was even
before the wedding – but Helen’s got her so far under her thumb she got sick
just talking about leaving. Literally, I mean, she got sick. How’d you manage
it, then? Getting her out of the house?”
His answer is a shrug, because it’s only now that Sherlock allows himself to
comprehend the magnitude not of what he’s done, stealing Molly in the night
like the spoils of war, but of what it means that she willingly came with him.
It was not simply to escape her parents and the abuse she suffered in her home,
no, it was because from the first moment she laid eyes on him Molly trusted
him. What madness, such a sweet, innocent girl putting her faith in Sherlock
Holmes, a boy that is clumsy and incompetent when it comes to matters of the
heart and human relationships. She should have run away, put as much distance
between them as possible, but instead she asked him stay with her and slept in
his bed without a hint of fear that he may harm her when she’s at her most
vulnerable. Even Unbound as they are, her instincts guide her to trust Sherlock
with her very life, and that knowledge is… intoxicating.
“Guess it’s the Alpha thing, yeah? However you did it, you’re a good kid for
risking your own arse to help her. Thanks.” Lestrade claps Sherlock on the
shoulder, a friendly gesture that matches his open smile. Sherlock is baffled
by this turn of events, wholly unused to such genuine displays and overtures of
friendship.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he blurts, hands back in his pockets and a rigid set
to his back. It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it is, but his mouth won’t
stop. “My actions were to benefit Molly alone. Leaving my Omega in that place
would have resulted in future actions that would’ve assuredly brought us
together in a worse situation. Worse by my standards, of course, as I would no
doubt be in handcuffs and on my way to lock-up by now, had it been the case.”
Nodding just once and very slowly, the constable eyes Sherlock as though he’s
only just realized he’s engaging a new species in conversation. “Okay then,” he
responds, eyebrows lifting. “I’ll try and keep Helen off your backs but legally
speaking there’s only so much I can do. She should look into finding a
barrister. Oi, Mick, you ready?”
Lestrade’s partner hands Molly a card, taking great pains not to accidently
touch her. Sherlock appreciates the delicacy being shown to his Omega,
especially since she looks close to fainting at any given moment. “You call me
anytime, day or night, Molly. We’ll keep you safe as long as you let us.”
“Thank you,” she responds, a small smile curling her mouth as her eyes drift up
and over, finding Sherlock. The color warms until they’re the shade of
preservative amber, which turns Sherlock into an absolute blob of adoration.
“But Sherlock will keep me safe.”
The other woman, whose name Sherlock never bothered to get, shakes her head.
“He’ll do his best, but there are limits even for your Alpha. You understand?
There are things he can’t do, or shouldn’t do, or will get him in a lot of
trouble if he acts on his urges. Not that I’d blame him for it –” she turns,
giving Sherlock a fiercely sympathetic nod – “but the fact remains the same.
You think it over, yeah? Give us a call if you change your mind. Stay safe,
Miss Hooper.”
Lestrade hugs Molly before he leaves, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Stay strong,” he whispers into her hair, giving her arm a squeeze before he
follows his partner across the flat and out the door. For a while there is only
a quiet so profound that the wall clock counting each second seems deafening.
Erasmus’ boots squeaking annoyingly as he shifts his weight. Nervously, Molly
swipes her tongue across her lips to dampen them, watching Sherlock from under
her lashes.
“The clinic is open,” he announces, desperate to fill the void. “Are you ready
to go?”
“Ready to – what? What clinic?” There’s panic in Molly’s eyes, and she even
shuffles a few steps back.
“Your jaw is dislocated,” Erasmus declares in a quiet voice, leaning against
the wall so carelessly that an outsider might think this a conversation he has
everyday. “It needs x-rays done. And you should be checked for a concussion or
a hematoma, just in case.”
Gnawing at her bottom lip, it takes her a moment to formulate a reply. “But –
but I never go to a doctor after. I’ll heal up fine on my own, really. What can
a doctor do for bruises, anyway?” Her smile is wan and rather sad, which
disturbs Sherlock to no end.
“This time you are going to see a doctor.” Standing so straight his spine seems
to have turned into an iron rod, Sherlock issues his command in such a way that
all arguments are rendered null and void simply by virtue of his order.
Her nod is a small, withered thing, and her gaze drops to her toes. “Okay. B-
but I should at least shower before –”
“If you shower you’ll destroy evidence. Just put your shoes on and come with
me.”
She looks up, engaging Sherlock in a staring contest that is more war than
anything else, a battle to see who issues commands and who obeys. It takes only
a short amount of time for her gaze to flicker to the side in defeat. Sherlock
is not immune to the frustrated heave of her chest under the t-shirt she slept
in, or by the absence of a bra as made clear by the little pebbles of her
nipples present under the soft cotton. Turning slowly, Molly makes her way back
into the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her.
Sherlock exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“You guys are going to make adorable babies,” Erasmus sighs, appearing a bit
misty eyed. “I can’t wait to be an uncle.”
Huffing at the absurdity of his brother's far too sentimental opinion, Sherlock
stomps into the narrow kitchen to scrounge up something for Molly to eat. It
isn’t until a bagel pops out of the toaster that he realizes exactly how far
his instincts are taking him and he can’t help but feel resentment burning in
his gut. Not for Molly but for himself, for an aspect of his biology that he
can control as well as he does the winds. It doesn’t stop him from preparing
the meager meal and is mostly forgotten when she emerges from his bedroom in
fresh, though wrinkled, clothing and her long hair in a neat braid. Taking a
seat on a flimsy stool set at the galley kitchen’s little bar, Molly accepts
his efforts to provide and begins nibbling the cream cheese slathered bagel.
He can’t help but be proud when she eats every bite despite the pain in her jaw
and says, with no small amount of adoration in her eyes and voice and smile,
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
Ignoring Erasmus, which is much easier to do than usual as for once he’s being
quiet, Sherlock reaches out to smooth a hand down the back of her head.
“There’s no need,” he murmurs, knowing it to be true.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you to everyone that has supported this story; I know it's not
     an easy or particularly enjoyable read.
     Trigger warnings: Medical exam, discussion of abuse s, a character
     making a rape "joke." (Which I do not condone or support, before
     anyone accuses or flames me.)
     Disclaimer: I own nothing copyrighted, protected, or good. Just the
     writing and OCs.
The exam takes nearly two hours and Molly is absolutely wrecked by the end of
it. Her jaw is carefully but quite painfully put back into place; her eardrum
is bruised and swollen, as well as her ear canal being badly irritated; she
receives stitches for an older laceration hidden by her hair, the doctor
quietly furious that it has been nearly week since the wound was received and
had been left untreated (“It’s alright,” Molly tries to sooth the older woman,
“I’ve had worse, really.” It doesn’t work, only serving to further upset Dr.
Lee), resulting in the deep wound being painfully cleaned out before the
stitching takes place; her cheekbone has a hairline fracture and there’s
nothing that can be done aside from allowing time to heal it; and, of course,
there is The Conversation.
“See this?” Dr. Lee says, pointing to an x-ray of Molly’s torso. “See these
shadows? Calcium deposits where your bones have healed. One, two, three, four,
five, six; six different, separate places where your ribs have been broken, or
badly dislocated resulting in bones chipping. How many times has your arm been
broken? A lot, I can see it from this x-ray. Three, maybe four? Your collarbone
is still healing from a fracture, just here. Your hands –” another x-ray is
shoved onto the lighted board, illuminating another point of shame – “your
fingers were deliberately broken. None of this was an accident, I can see that.
I’m not angry or disappointed with you, Molly, but I’m scared and worried. Tell
me what’s going on at home.”
“Nothing,” she whispers, hiding her eyes under the length of her fringe.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to protect anyone that hurts you. What you tell me
never has to leave this room if you don’t want to it, okay? But you need to
tell someone.”
Deep breaths that hurt to take, shivering that Molly couldn’t control. “My mum
had an accident when I was nine,” she shakily explains. “She was thrown from
our car and suffered a TBI, and… and she… she can’t help it or control it. If
she were herself, she’d never do any of this.”
Up and down, up and down; Dr. Lee nods like a bobble head. “Traumatic brain
injuries can completely change a person, so I believe you, Molly. I’m sure she
would never have dreamed of hurting you before her injury. I understand that
she’s sick and not able to control herself. I really do. But her illness is
hurting you so badly that I’m worried if you return home that one day something
very tragic will happen.” Code for murder, Molly figured. It’s only ever been a
matter of time, and how sad is it that she’d long ago accepted that if she died
young it would be at the hands of her mother?
“My… my Alpha took me away,” she admits, daring to look up. “I’m staying with
him right now.”
“Good.” There is genuine relief in Dr. Lee’s eyes. “That’s really good, Molly.”
The pelvic exam is probably the worst part, feeling like she’s put on display
and wanting to be anywhere else, even dead. At least the doctor is gentle, and
she tells Molly everything she’s going to do beforehand, so Molly knows exactly
what’s happening and what it’s for and the reasons it’s being done. That helps,
gives her something to focus on. The silence is more difficult to handle,
leaving Molly too much time to think on her humiliating position and the truths
being laid out for a stranger to see.
“I’m thinking about going into medicine,” she blurts out.
“I think you’d make an excellent doctor, Molly. Are you leaning towards a
specific field? You’re going to feel a pinch, I’m taking a biopsy now. One,
two, three – and that part is over. Good job.”
“Um,” she squeaks, trying hard not to cry or jump because that bloody hurt, “I
– I’m not sure. Pathology, maybe, but there’s a lot of different branches, so I
dunno…”
“One of my best friends is a forensic pathologist; last year he helped put a
serial killer in prison. Okay, we’re all done. Here are some napkins to clean
up with, and you can sit up.” At least there was no sexual assault to add to
Molly’s shame, and she can see the thankfulness in Dr. Lee’s kind eyes for this
small mercy. After everything is finished she’s given a shot in the bum for
pain, which burns like wildfire going in and is quick to make her weak, sloppy,
and hardly able to walk. A nurse and Dr. Lee help her dress. The doctor herself
half carries Molly to the waiting room, where an agitated Sherlock is waiting.
His hair is badly mussed, as though he’s been raking his fingers through it,
and the few other patients waiting seem to be giving him a wide berth as he
paces.
“Hilo,” Molly greets, hand flopping on her wrist in what she’d meant to be a
wave. “I can’t feel my face anymore. I’m hungry. It’s hot in here.”
“We gave her something for the pain,” Dr. Lee explains, shifting her grip as
Molly loses her balance and nearly slides to the floor. “Oof! You okay there,
sweetie?”
“You’re pretty.” Patting Dr. Lee’s silky black hair, Molly gives her a sweet
smile. “And you smell good. Doesn’t she smell good, Sherlock? This is Sherlock.
He’s my Alpha. He smells better than you. Don’t feel bad, he smells better than
everyone.” Pitching forward, Molly attempts to stagger the short distance
between herself and Sherlock. Considering it feels as though her legs are made
of rubber bouncy balls, it doesn’t go so well; thankfully Sherlock catches her,
the wiry strength in his gangly limbs keeping her upright.
In careful undertones, they discuss Molly’s aftercare while the subject of
their conversation drifts on a cotton wool cloud of narcotics somewhere above
their heads. She thinks the conversation turns, briefly, to her home situation;
certainly her Alpha’s voice becomes a deeper rumble than she’s ever heard from
him as he vows “She won’t be going back to there, never again.”
He’s so good, muses Molly, petting his chest. Two days they’ve known each
other, and he’s already rescued her, taken her to find safety away from her
mother. Turning her face into his chest she breathes deeply of his scent,
seeking the salt of sweat and the still changing musk of a male not yet fully
grown into manhood. Her jaw throbs in a dull, distant way, warning her to turn
her face to the side and be more mindful of her jaw, but she keeps her nose
where it’s at and allows her eyes to shut.
She must have fallen asleep, as she wakes in the passenger seat of Sherlock’s
car. He’s leaning over her, close and closer still before the world shifts as
Molly is tumbled back. Laughter wells in her throat and spills out, her hazy
eyes taking in the way his eyes change colors in the morning light. “Stay
here,” he orders, resting a hand on her stomach for just a moment. “I’ve got to
go in the chemists.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, only just realizing that he inclined her seat so she could
lie back. His thumb moves over the cotton covering her stomach, a warm motion,
and Molly enjoys it in the seconds before she wraps herself in the warm
darkness and returns to sleep.
She dreams of a cloud that grows hands and reaches down to brush hair from her
face, thunderous voice sighing, “Poor kid looks like she got hit by a train.”
Then it begins to snow and her skin becomes ice, but her skin is burning and
aching so she welcomes the cold as one would an old friend. Pat joins her, a
positively giant bowl of ice cream in his hands, but he’s only brought one
spoon and refuses to share.
“You suck gimmie ice cream,” she grumbles, and pine trees take up a chorus of
laughter at her expense.
 
----X----
 
Waking is quite possibly the most difficult thing Molly’s ever been forced to
endure, as the process is as strenuous as digging herself out of a well-packed
grave with paving stones placed atop it. Somehow she manages to force dry,
crusty eyes open to confront the weak sunlight of a winter sunset spilling
through gauzy white curtains. The window is rather small and quite old
fashioned, as are the walls, and it’s nowhere she recognizes. There’s panic,
but it’s only a small amount, as the entire place smells of wood smoke and
something half-wild and young. It takes a moment to place it as Sherlock, but
then she does and limbs that were attempting to grow rigid return to the
gelatinous state previous employed.
Out of her line of vision there is a long, shrill squeaking of wood on wood.
Realizing she is lying on her stomach does much to aid the movements of her
head and neck, allowing Molly to tip her chin down and peer across the room.
Sherlock is rising from an ancient looking rocking chair that sits in front of
a hearth that is glowing and crackling with a warm blaze. Books are piled
around him.
“Where are we?” she asks hoarsely, sounding more like Uncle Craig (who always
has a lit cigarette in his mouth) than a fifteen year old girl.
Sherlock’s answer is concise, “My parents’ home,” spoken as he’s crossing the
space between the chair and his bed. The soft mattress dips as his weight
settles on the edge of it, rolling Molly towards him so her hip presses against
his thigh. He’s watching her with an expression that’s so well governed she has
no hope of guessing what he’s thinking, so she watches his hand lift and slowly
– very slowly – reach towards her. His fingers are exquisitely long and well-
shaped, which is rather a strange realization to have as she’s never really
thought about the shape of boy’s fingers before now.
Carefully his palm molds over the curve of her hip bone, fingers pressing up
until they’re under the hem of her shirt and resting on bare skin. Molly thinks
his breathing changes, becomes quicker, shallower, maybe. Neither of them move
or speak or dare to do anything but carefully watch each other. Sherlock’s
throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing before his gaze lifts and turns away, his
cheeks and neck flushing… though he doesn’t withdrawal his hand.
“How’d we get here?”
“I drove us.”
“I don’t even remember leaving the clinic…”
A smile touches his mouth, and Sherlock looks down at Molly with such
incredible fondness that her heart seizes in her chest. “No surprise. You were
extremely drugged.”
A groan rises up from the depths of her stomach, forcing its way out in much
the same way she forces her limbs to move. She aches all over, probably from
being in one position for too long. It’s a bit awkward, rolling onto her back
when Sherlock’s light weight is sagging the mattress in the opposite direction
but Molly manages it. Stretching her arms above her head, straining the muscles
in her legs and feet until they burn, she yawns hugely before falling limp once
again.
They both pretend not to realize that Sherlock’s hand is now on her stomach,
spread out on thin fabric that’s warm from her body. It’s only in looking down
her body, past the swell of her small breasts to the slight rise of her stomach
where his hand is half under the thin fabric, that she realizes she’s wearing
pajamas. Pajamas she certainly wasn’t wearing earlier. The blush hits with such
force that she swears the bedding must be on fire.
“I didn’t undress you,” Sherlock announces, a sarcastic sort of smile on his
mouth. It’s at odds with his eyes, eyes grown dark and narrow and are focused
on Molly in the way a starved predator would look at weak prey. “Mum thought it
would be… improper.”
“What are you, a psychic?” It’s only partially a tease.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly, I’m merely observant: from your expression when
you saw your clothing I saw you were surprised, and surmised your thoughts
based on the situation. It’s a simple process of deduction.”
“Deduction?” she repeats, awed and baffled by the staggering intelligence of
the mere boy in front of her. “That’s… wow.”
“Good wow or bad wow?” inquires Sherlock, whose mouth has grown tensed at the
thought of rejection. Molly imagines his childhood couldn’t have been easy, not
if he was ‘deducing’ classmates and teachers.
“Good wow; really good wow. I’m impressed.”
“Impressed?” he parrots, eyebrows crawling nearly up to his hairline.
“Yeah, I’m impressed. You’re impressive.” Molly thinks, oh boy, he’s going to
kiss me again, and her stomach swoops as though she’s on a rollercoaster.
There’s firelight in his hair which turns the curls into a dark halo; her
fingers itch to touch them. She leans up on an elbow, turns her chin up and
does her very best to ignore how swollen and ugly her face feels, because
Sherlock’s looking at her like she’s precious and beautiful and she doesn’t
think anyone has ever looked at her like this before – she wants to savor it –
and his fingers move on the flesh of her stomach, a caress that makes her
whimper and flinch and –
The door flies open and Sherlock leaps from the bed as though he’s a cat that’s
been doused in ice water.
“I thought I heard voices! Is Molly awake, then?” A woman bustles into the
room, flicking a light switch to send electricity to an overhead fixture. Molly
blinks several times, eyes watering from the sudden brightness when before the
room had been so nice and gently lit by firelight. “Oh good, you are up. Poor
thing, how’s your face feeling?” In a flash she’s by the bedside, taking the
place her son only just vacated to brush her hand through Molly’s hair, looking
her over with obvious worry.
There’s no one else this could be but Sherlock’s mother. There’s a likeness to
them, the same startling eyes and angular beauty, though Mrs. Holmes’ looks are
more feminine than her son’s. Her hair is such a pale blonde that it seems to
be soft gilt, pulled up with a careless sort of elegance that Molly immediately
envies. Her hands are cool and infinitely gentle, and she smells of cooking
herbs, sweet perfume, and something Molly can only describe as kindness.
“It hurts,” she admits, wincing when Mrs. Holmes gently touches her cheekbone.
“I’m sure it does, sweetheart. Sherlock, refill the cold compress with ice,
please. Her swelling is worse than this afternoon.”
Wordlessly Sherlock picks up the rubber bag to obey, sparing Molly a short look
from behind his mother that makes her blush flare back up again.
“Do you feel like coming down to dinner or would you like a tray in bed? You
really do need to get something on your stomach, especially before you take
your medicine.”
“Oh, I – no, please don’t go to any trouble – I’ll come down, if that’s
alright.”
Mrs. Holmes smile is beatific. “You’re no trouble at all, Molly; you’re one of
the family now, aren’t you? Our Sherlock’s Omega… I tell you we couldn’t be
happier he’s found you. And at such a young age! It’s really a blessing,
especially considering your situation – well, now, if he hadn’t fetched you
Will and I would have done, though it might have gone a messier route. Probably
best this way. Now then, I’ve lain out a dressing gown and slippers, you slip
these on and I’ll help you downstairs.”
“I – I can manage on my own, really –” Genuinely baffled and uncomfortable with
such fussing, Molly has no idea how to respond to it. She’s a fish out of
water, no doubt about it, but it still makes something inside her grow soft and
warm. Mrs. Holmes is very… very motherly, and it’s both unexpected and
desperately missed. Her aunts have only ever been allowed so much leeway in her
life, especially after the accident and Mum’s changes… and there was only so
much Molly could admit to, too frightened by her mother’s threats to tell her
family precisely how bad it was becoming. The adults had remained mostly
blinded, while the children had known to the last one, all of doing their best
to keep Molly away from home as much as possible.
“Sweetheart, if you can walk a straight line after the shot you were given,
I’ll eat my hat.” Giving Molly a wry smile, Mrs. Holmes pats her back in a
comforting sort of way before helping her into the dressing gown. It’s old and
warm, worn into a state of snuggly softness by the years, and it smells of Mrs.
Holmes’ perfume and lavender soap. Molly is content to wrap it around herself,
feeling quite warm and safe, a feeling so unusual that tears prick the corners
of her eyes. She’s so used to having fear turning her stomach sour, as even
when she’s away from home her mind is never far from returning home, but the
combination of Sherlock and his mother’s attention works miracles.
Mrs. Holmes was correct in assuming Molly couldn’t walk a straight line on her
own, and even with help she bangs off the wall a few times. Her limbs are weak
and wobbly, and there’s a strange thickness in her mind that prevents quick
thoughts or cleverness. With help she makes it down the narrow staircase to the
ground floor, where she’s swept into a rustic kitchen brimming with delicious
scents, sounds, and men. Four pairs of eyes are turned to Molly and four mouths
grow silent, simply watching as Mrs. Holmes takes her to the long table and
sits her down on the bench seat.
Molly adjusts the robe, pulling it more tightly around herself and flushing, as
it’s incredibly awkward to be in a room full of strangers (and Sherlock, who
exists in the same realm of unknowing as Schrodinger’s cat in the sense that he
both is and is not a stranger), nearly all of them males, while in her pajamas.
It’s Sherlock who breaks the awkward silence, offering her the compress.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding the many pairs of
watching eyes.
“Keep that on until it’s time to eat,” orders Mrs. Holmes, tapping the bag of
ice with an imperious finger. “Your poor little face is at least twice the size
it should be. Boys, keep Molly company while I finish up.”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes a seat beside her. “Shall I juggle?” he
drawls, daring to snag tomatoes from the table top. His father – as there’s no
doubt that he’s Sherlock’s father – casually whacks his son in the head with a
folded newspaper. “Really, Dad?”
“Last time you got meatloaf stuck on the ceiling,” the brother from this
morning – Erasmus, wasn’t it? – points out.
“I think it’s still up there.” As one they look up, searching the ceiling for
the meatloaf. With her throbbing face half covered by the compress, Molly fails
in holding back laughter.
Mr. Holmes settles an amused smile on her. “Dinners are always interesting.”
“After dinner we’ll show you naked baby photos of Sherlock,” Erasmus announces
with a positively devilish grin. The nameless brother rolls his eyes in an
extravagant sort of way, propping his chin on his hand and appearing bored to
the point of tears.
“We will not.” Despite an attempt to sound menacing, Sherlock’s voice cracks.
This provokes cackles of amusement from Erasmus, who flat out points and
laughs.
“Forgive the juveniles, Miss Hooper, it’s not often they’re allowed in public.”
Undoubtedly the eldest, the man in question stares at Molly in such a way that
she’s positive he’s digging ever secret she’s got out of her mind. When he
offers his hand in greeting it’s soft and dry, but his grip is loose and
fleeting. “Mycroft Holmes.”
“Oh, um, hi. I’m Molly.” She gives a wave, an awkward little thing that dies an
early death.
Erasmus mimics his brother’s haughty expression, nose just a bit in the air as
he offers his hand in a way that suggests he’s wary of something foul being
smeared on it. “Erasmus Holmes, Miss Hooper, we’re ever so… pleased… to have
you in our home. Come, let us pretend we’re having tea at the palace and have
no idea who you are.”
Molly has to bite her tongue – hard – to keep from snickering.
“Erasmus,” Mr. Holmes mildly warns, but with a quirk to his mouth that suggests
he’s as amused as anyone else.
It’s very easy to be in Sherlock’s home, to listen to his brother’s bickering
and his parents referring, to be banned from helping lay out the dinner table
and having Mrs. Holmes hover like a mother hen. She brings Molly a large glass
of milk and two pills, an antibiotic and painkiller (which she’s thankful for,
as by now her heartbeat resounds in her cheek and temple and ear with the force
of a kettle drum), and she swallows them both before digging into dinner.
Dinner is stew and flaky bread and steamed veggies, all items that are
relatively easy for her to eat even with her jaw having shocking little range
of motion. She’s quiet, choosing to listen and soak in the conversation around
her, awed as it turns from Mr. Holmes’ half-finished project of cleaning the
garden shed out to advancements in DNA testing that Molly, as drugged and tired
as she is, has a hard time following. On another day she would have been in the
thick of it, asking questions and making mental notes, starving for knowledge;
but tonight, with the world all fuzzy and golden from the linger effects of the
shot and the painkiller, she simply lets it roll off her as water does on duck
feathers.
It’s even easier to slip into a state that’s like being piled in a bed of loose
feathers, all soft and downy, head lolling on her neck.
“No resistance whatsoever to even mild narcotics,” says Mycroft, sounding
rather judgmental.
“Shove off,” Sherlock snaps, and then Molly’s nose is full of the scent of him.
Her eyelids are so incredibly heavy but she manages to open them, taking in the
blurry figures of the Holmes family in a series of blinks, not truly
registering that she’s leaned so far to the side that she’s half in Sherlock’s
lap.
“We’d better get her up to bed, she’s already in another world.”
“She can sleep in my room again.” To Molly’s mind, Sherlock’s words sound more
like a demand than a suggestion. “I’ll sleep on the lie-low if I get tired.”
“How come I never got to keep girls in my bed when I was his age?”
“You could have had as many girls as you liked in your room, so long as you
weren’t with them.”
“Sherlock really is your favorite, isn’t he?”
“He’s not staying in there with her, Ras, and I love all my boys just the
same.”
“She’s drugged, Mother; what could we possibly do when she can’t even lift her
own head?”
“Do you even have a penis? Ow! Mum, Jesus, I was joking!”
“That’s not a joke, Anthony Erasmus.”
“Oh, come on –”
“Don’t sass your mother.”
“Yeah, Ras, don’t sass Mum.”
“Sherlock, your Omega is dribbling on herself. Please take it somewhere else.”
A shuffle, the sense of movement, and finally a loud yelp. “Sherlock! Mother,
are you just going to let him –”
“Sherlock, sweetheart, let your brother go. And Mycroft, don’t call Molly an
‘it.’ She’s a person and, more importantly, she’s a part of our family now.”
The last thing Molly remembers is something damp and soft on her forehead, a
kiss, maybe; a hand in her hair, stroking; and Sherlock’s voice, though what he
says is lost into the darkness of oblivion.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Bless MizJoely for all the many things she does, chief among them
     putting up with my neurotic ramblings and fears regarding my writing
     as well as betaing. And, you knowing, being a kickaass writer. Thanks
     to everyone that leaves reviews and takes the time to follow this
     story. I adore you all!
     Trigger warnings: discussion of abuse
     Disclaimer: Sometimes I'm awed by all the shit I don't own.
The three Holmes brothers as children were, on the very best of days,
precocious; the worst involved terms like sociopaths and sanitariums. The world
as a whole regards genius as something best kept under glass, or safely locked
away in stories other people tell. History looks at a brilliant eccentric with
a sort of hopeless fondness, such as a family might possess for an odd but
endearing uncle that likes to spend his leisure time in well tailored dresses
and elaborate haberdashery; at least there are quite a lot of amusing stories
to tell at parties, and there's a certain sort of pride in having someone
genuinely different in one's life, given how so many work so terribly hard to
be as normal as possible. When the unconventional behavior is in the present
moment, and unapologetic for being perceived as abnormal, people tend to take a
less kind view.
Erasmus considers himself to be the luckiest of the three. By virtue of being
the eldest, Mycroft took on the role that might best be titled Absolute Grand
Supreme Overlord of Micromanagement (as Erasmus and Sherlock made a great show
of announcing every time their elder brother come into a room, often with
Erasmus trumpeting a fanfare… at least until Mum 'accidently' threw his bugle
in the drive and proceeded to 'accidently' drive over it). Sherlock was treated
with a sort of idolatry only the baby of a family will ever receive, getting
away with far more than his preceding siblings would have ever dared attempt;
when a punishment was dealt out, more so as he become older and their parents
fully realized the harm they were doing with their leniency, Mycroft or Erasmus
would take the blame and punishment to protect the curly haired monster.
Erasmus did so less and less as the years passed, but Mycroft has never able to
see precisely how his own brand of indulgence is ruining little Sherlock.
Middle children have their own predispositioned psychological quirks and
character flaws: the need to be different, to stand out and be noticed being
the most relevant for Erasmus. He recognizes this in himself and feels it to be
a perfectly acceptable characteristic, so long as it isn't allowed to consume
him. It's led him to be the closest one of the three ever came to conformity
when in school; to make friends, play stupid games, read fantasy novels, and
buy dirty magazines and hide them under his mattress; he likes learning about
people from their own words and thoughts, rather than simply deducing them and
using the knowledge to keep a gap between himself and the Others; he is
comfortable in nearly any social situation and can make friends with very
nearly everyone he meets, which absolutely makes him the black sheep.
All of this has, in one way or another, persistently pushed him into the one
continuing belief and corresponding actions, and it is this: Nicholas Brandon
Mycroft Holmes is the worst influence in the world on their little brother, and
if left unchecked will be his absolute ruin.
In the foyer of the Diogenes' Club, Erasmus pushes his hands into the pockets
of his leather jacket while rocking back and forth on his heels. He also hums,
quite loudly, the guitar riff for Smoke on the Water. It earns him looks of
outrage, shock, and scolding from the elderly gentlemen enjoying their
afternoon tea and finger sandwiches from the trolly. Beaming cheekily, he
begins muttering the lyrics while rolling back even harder on his heels in an
effort to make his boots squeak as loudly as possible on the marble floor.
Footmen in starched uniforms and booties over their shoes arrive to forcibly
drag him away. He's half tempted to knock them out – it'd be so bloody easy –
but they're only doing their job. Though the one on the right is rougher than
he needs to be (likes causing pain, wants to cause more, won't be long 'til he
does more than roughs someone up in a pub fight), the other seems incredibly
apologetic about the while thing. Without ceremony he's shoved into the
audience room, the one space in all the club house where members and their
guests may indulge in conversation.
Waiting for him is Mycroft, who's scowling quite bitterly from the onset. "You
must be out of your mind," he announces once the footmen have left them in the
privacy contained by closed doors.
"Hello, Mikey."
"You can't possible be serious about any of this, can you? This will ruin him,
Erasmus, utterly ruin him. I won't have it."
Dropping into a deep leather armchair, Erasmus stretches his long legs out
(purposely crowding into Mycroft's space) before crossing his ankles and
slouching in a way he knows drives his brother perfectly mad. "That's almost
precisely what you said when Sherlock decided to go for criminal psychology and
chemistry instead of microbiology or law."
"And as then, I am in the right. Molly Hooper is dangerous."
"Jesus, Mycroft, what's she going to do, be his friend? Take his precious
virginity? Damn, you're right, that's bloody evil." Scathing boils up his
throat and grows blisters of resentment on his tongue.
"Sherlock is meant for bigger and more important things than a skinny little
girl that will force him to conform. All his potential, his brilliance, utterly
wasted. He will resent her and it will end badly, surely you can see this."
"Bondmates don't 'end badly' unless someone tries to get in between them.
What's wrong with Sherlock having met his literal perfect match? They'll
support each other, no matter what; I've been around Molly more than you have,
she's enamored with Sherlock just as he is, not an idea of what he could be."
Snorting, Mycroft waves a hand in the air. "What, you don't believe me?"
"She's a fifteen year old child, Erasmas. How about when she's twenty-five,
thirty-five? When her biological clock begins ticking more and more loudly,
when her friends and cousins have settled down to have children and live
shallow, meaningless little lives? What happens to Sherlock then?"
For a moment Erasmus holds his tongue, digging his teeth into the thick muscle
to keep silent. The pain does nothing to stem his frustration, doesn't dim
years of resentment, and quite without meaning to release it, he begins to
speak. His words are quick and staccato, sharp and furious. "My God, Mycroft,
are you truly so terrified of being alone that you'd ruin our brother's one
chance of happiness so you have someone in the world as lonely as you are?"
"What utter –"
"You can lie to everyone else, Mum and Dad and even Sherlock, but you know you
can't lie to me. Don't even try. Your relationship with Dave is going to end
soon, you can see the signs already. You're too cold, too distant, too busy
with your work and too involved with matters you can't share with him without
risking CIA or Russian hit squads or someone else taking him out for knowing
too much. What's worse is that he bores you – everyone bores you – and the only
thing crueler than this is that you desperately want to be one of them; but
you're too afraid of rejection to step outside of your cold little world to
risk having a life beyond political manipulation and short lived relationships
you enter only because it's dreadfully lonely to come home to an empty bed
night after night. The only true comfort you have is in knowing, without a
doubt, that you are not the only man in the world to feel these feelings have
these thoughts, that you're not the only one that is somehow apart from the
humanity spawning all around us like salmon in a stream. There's Sherlock,
who's just as scared and lonely and closed off as you are, because you've spent
his entire life shaping and molding him into your perfect companion. And he's
too young, too blinded by a little brother's awe, to see that you do him far
more harm than good." His words ring and echo off the wood and plaster and
window glass, lingering even after he's finally fallen silent. Chests heaving,
hands clenched, mottled with humiliation and rage and fear, two brothers stare
each other down from across a divide that will never again be breached.
When Mycroft speaks, it's in such a way that his jaw never unclenches and his
lips barely move. "What do you require, dear brother?"
From an inside pocket of his jacket, Erasmus produces the list he's drawn up.
Carefully, without breaking Mycroft's gaze, he leans forward and passes
possession of it off. "I've done what I can, but there are arrangements to be
made that only you can see done."
Both of them are raw, open wounds, and there are no more words to be spoken.
Erasmus knows guilt will see that the arrangements are made, as well as he
knows that the eventual reprisal of his daring to speak the truths long agreed
to be kept hidden will be brutal. In the end, they both do what they believe to
be best for Sherlock, the little boy that remains eternally oblivious to the
war being waged over his soul.
While exiting the Diogenes' Club he whistles. Loudly.
-X-
"Good morning, Molly. How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Holmes greets Molly by
running a hand over her hair and pressing a light kiss to her forehead, as
though she's a favored niece that's spent a lifetime coming in and out of their
home. Molly's not sure what to make of it, how to react to such immediate
acceptance and care from people who amount to strangers. Her smile is small,
her manner awkward and hesitant as she pulls the oversized dressing gown a bit
tighter around her thin frame.
"Good morning. Um, well, I'm feeling better. Groggy." She doesn't admit how her
face pounds with each pulse of her heart, how it feels hot and tight; she
doesn't explain that there's a dull sort of distance to sounds when they're
picked up by her left ear, making everything seem rather distant and unreal.
What would complaints do but worry Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? There's nothing they
can do to help, and she'd rather not have another painkiller forced on her
quite yet. Later, but only if the pain becomes too much, if there's no way to
solider on.
"Of course you are, those pills sent you into orbit. Take a seat and I'll make
you some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"
Molly shrugs and promptly winces, because it makes her head swim funnily.
"However, I'm not picky. You don't have to cook for me, Mrs. Holmes, really."
"Of I course I don't," she promptly agrees, flashing a smile over her shoulder
as sets a burner alight. "But I want to."
Mr. Holmes leaves the table and his game of Mahjong to fetch the compress from
the freezer. He hands it over with a smile, patting her shoulder in a
comforting manner before resuming his seat. "It'll help with the pain," he
advises lowly enough to keep his wife from hearing. There's a knowing sort of
expression in his eyes, which makes it clear that he wasn't at all fooled by
her earlier she presses it to her cheek, thankful for the burst of painful-
pleasure that comes with it. He returns to his game, pondering the tiles even
as he resumes speaking. "Do you enjoy school, Molly?"
Her answer is immediate. "Oh yes, very much. Well, I don't like all the
teachers – Sister Bertha is really…" she pauses, searching for a diplomatic
term. "She doesn't really like teaching. She gets angry if we ask questions or
if she thinks we're not paying attention. But I like learning. I, um, well – I
guess I'm a geek." With a shrug she adverts her eyes, unable to quell a flush.
"Taking enjoyment in learning is nothing to be ashamed of," Mrs. Holmes
proclaims over the sound of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet.
Soon the leading questions and timid answers morph into a conversation that
continues through Molly's slow and pained devouring of her breakfast, the
addition of Mrs. Holmes, and two more games of Mahjong. She tells them about
her family, all her cousins and especially Pat, how there are three whole
streets of Hoopers and how all they all go to the same schools and church and
have a massive Sunday luncheon once a month. The topic of her parents are not
skated around so much as they are determined ignored, none of the involved
parties feeling now is the right time to enter such a thorny issue. Instead the
conversation flows to future plans (medical school), the time off from school
Molly is being forced to take off ("I really don't think I should be missing
for something as minor as this," she admits, not catching the profound exchange
of thoughts being shared by the married couple as she categorizes her attack
and escape as minor), and Sherlock.
"He was born early," Mrs. Holmes confides, a sweet smile curling her mouth as
she recalls the birth of her youngest child. "Well, you know how Sherlock is.
Once he's set his mind to something there's no changing it, is there? Had him
in the back of a taxi; the poor driver cried as loudly as any of us."
"Hospital had to check him in as well, as he fainted dead soon as we parked and
he stepped out. 'She's had a baby!' he shouted, then collapsed. Whacked his
head so hard he had to get seventeen stitches, I think it was. Poor fellow was
traumatized, never saw anything like that in his rear view before." Chuckling,
Mr. Holmes stares off, as though repeating the memory in the privacy of his
mind.
By the time two hours have passed Molly can feel exhaustion pulling at her, and
she's in more pain than she knows how to deal with. Her stitches throb, her
cheekbone feels as though it's on fire, her jaw aches dully, and it feels as
though someone has jabbed her in the ear with a knife. On top of this all she's
shaky, a side effect of the painkillers, she's sure. Still, she's quite
determined to take a hot shower and put on clean clothes. A bath would have
been preferable, but Mrs. Holmes seemed worried she'd fall asleep in the
bathtub – which is actually a completely valid point, Molly must admit – and
there's no use in arguing.
Technically she's not supposed to get her stitches wet, but needs must when it
comes to the matter of unclean hair. Unfortunately it only makes the site hurt
worse, and when Molly emerges in wreathes of sweet smelling steam there's no
more being strong and hoping Aspirin will dull it to acceptable levels. Instead
she accepts the narcotic Mrs. Holmes hands over with a glass of water, knocking
it back and wishing its effect was immediate.
In the waiting, Mrs. Holmes sits her down on an ottoman and begins brushing out
Molly's long, wet hair. "I always fancied having a daughter," she admits,
careful with any knots or tangles she encounters. "Not that I don't love my
boys, I do; I wouldn't trade one of them for a dozen girls. Well, at least
there's you now, isn't there? I'm sure we'll soon be good friends."
"I'd like that," offers Molly with an almost raw amount of honest. Soon she's
heavy and drowsy, and by now her hair has been blown dry and brushed once
again, and finally pulled back into a comfortable braid.
"Back to bed," Mrs. Holmes quietly orders, guiding Molly to her feet and
towards the staircase. She takes the time to tuck Molly in like she's a little
girl, brushing wisps of hair off her forehead and even kissing her temple
before leaving the room. Molly thinks if she's wasn't drugged into a state of
numbness she'd cry. Instead she passes out and dreams of her forehead against
the cold glass of a car window, lolling weakly, and the sound of her mother's
voice; "Look at our sweet angels, Ned, they're both asleep… aren't they
precious?"
Mummy sings along with the radio and Molly falls further into the dark void of
unconsciousness, unquestionably certain that there is no harm on earth that
could come to her or little Eddie while their parents are near.
-X-
Sherlock feels it's an unfair tactic, but his parents bribe him into attending
classes and finishing wretchedly boring schoolwork by dangling time with Molly
in front of him like he's a rabbit being tempted into a garden. What's most
frustrating is that he bloody well obeys and can't even blame this on Alpha
instinct, because he wants to talk with her and see her smile and enjoy the
calm that comes from their scents intermingling. Instinct or not instinct he'd
be drawn to Molly Hooper, which shouldn't be more terrifying and less soothing
than it actually is. Well, if he's fallen victim to the weakness of emotions
and chemical intoxication, at least it's because of more than the urge to rut.
Instead of returning to his dorm, Sherlock leaves his final class at a brisk
walk (because he refuses to run) to catch a train back home. It's a ride he
normally wouldn't take during the week but if he were locked up with his
parents day and night, he'd go bloody mad. Poor Molly must be desperate for
some company. The commute is boring and uneventful but provides ample time to
finish much of his work, scripting a fifteen page essay and saving it in his
mind until he can type it up. It's a rather short walk from the station to
home, fifteen minutes on a nice day, but the clouds are bruised gray and purple
and open up moments after he sets out. Between the icy rain and frigid wind,
Sherlock fears he's going to get frostbite and loose his extremities.
Banging in the front door seven minutes after breaking into a run, he begins
shedding sopping layers. A lake begins to form around him. "Mum!" he shouts,
though his voice is muffle by the unwieldy cling of his jumper, which fights to
suffocate him rather than be pulled over his head and off his arms. "Towel!
Several, preferably!"
After a few moments of struggle, his mum helps tug the damn thing off, allowing
him to take in a glorious gasp of air. He's smacked with the scent of Molly –
crisp apples and wood smoke and soft girl – as well as unfamiliar Alpha and
Beta. Before he can stop it there's a snarl welling out of his throat and
curling his lips off teeth – too sharp and cruel to be a 'normal' human's – but
all the air is taken out of him when he sees Molly standing in front of him,
his jumper dangling from her hands. It's ridiculous, it really is, but his
brain is quick announce that his Omega just helped in the task of stripping
him, and it has the effect of turning the outside world off. Sherlock's
perception narrows to he and Molly, the pounding of his heart and the sound of
her breathing, her smell and skin and the smile on her mouth.
"Uh… hi," he breathes, staring.
"Hi," she repeats, unable to suppress a wide smile.
"Disgusting," grumbles a cheerful voice, breaking the moment. Looking up,
Sherlock finds Pat Hooper and an older Alpha male, Bonded by the scent of him,
with the same ruddy complexion and blunt features of the younger. Undoubtedly
this is Pat's father. Nose that's been broken several times and scarred
knuckles, lines where tape has been removed on his fingers: a boxer, then. His
age and family indicates he mostly likely doesn't travel the circuit but he
still practices, mostly likely as a coach or is a manager or owner of a boxing
gym. Sherlock might have been interested if every protective instinct in his
Alpha male brain hadn't gone into overdrive. It takes a supreme force of will
to keep from hustling Molly into another room.
"We weren't expecting you this early!" his mother appears with a basket for his
wet clothes and towels over her arm, tossing one to the floor to begin soaking
up the rain Sherlock brought in. "Why did you phone? Daddy would have picked
you up, no sense in being out in this. Oh, Sherlock, you're going to be sick,
mark my words. Go change out of the rest of those wet things – and don't leave
them in the floor!"
He doesn't want to leave Molly with her uncle, a grown man that allowed a young
girl to be hurt. But he also doesn't want to cause a scene, not when he sees
how worried she's suddenly become. If it were anyone else he'd barrel on,
deducing the uncle to rage or tears, calling him out on his horrid acts of
leniency; he is not anyone else, he's Molly's blood, and she doesn't want any
more fighting. So Sherlock, uncharacteristically silent, nods before draping a
towel over his head and squishing to the staircase.
Everything in his room smells of his Omega, especially the bedsheets and
pillows, overlaid so prettily on his own scent that as Sherlock strips, dries,
and changes into warm clothes, his eyelids become heavy and he develops the
urge to bury his nose in a pillow. Even better would be to bury his nose in
Molly's neck, so soft and warm, to wrap her in his arms and be held in hers; to
be comforted by shared body warmth, the rhythm of her breathing and heartbeat,
the involuntary movements of her muscles; to fall asleep that way, tangled
together, and to wake with moonlight washing away even his sharp edges and
fears, making him brave enough to scatter kisses over every bit of her bruises.
Maybe she would sigh or whisper his name, or no, she'd say his name on a soft
exhale and push her fingers into his hair. He'd kiss her mouth and she'd sigh
again, and moan, and hold him closer; like their first meeting in the alley
he'd push his hand under her shirt but this time to feel her stomach, moving
with each shallow breath, but there'd be no interruption. But he's not
mindless, of course not, so Sherlock would ask, "Molly, may I…?" Blushing would
be inevitable, of course, but she'd be flushed too so it wouldn't matter. When
she nodded he'd exhale, shakily, and run his hand slowly upwards, taking care
to feel the notches of her ribs under her skin, to watch her eyes and mouth and
the tiny muscles that provide involuntary tells.
He imagines her not stopping him, of clenching her jaw shut to keep silent and
her eyes falling shut as he palmed her breast, brushed his thumb over her
nipple –
"You have to come down and be sociable," his father announces while the door to
Sherlock's room bangs open. Rudely ripped from his fantasy Sherlock emits a
noise of outrage that is not, despite what Mycroft and Erasmus have had to say
when hearing similar noises, a squawk. He's standing in front of his wardrobe
with a long sleeved shirt in his hands and heavy lounge trousers on; quickly he
drops his arms so the fabric he holds covers his groin.
"Doesn't anyone in this house ever knock!?" he demands, colossally embarrassed.
"Molly does, but don't worry, we'll soon have her broken of those silly habits.
I won't have manners in this house, not so long as you're living under my
roof." Clearly William is attempting to goad his son, and there's a knowing –
and amused – glint in his eyes that Sherlock doesn't like. "You're taking your
time, aren't you?"
Sherlock sniffs, "I wasn't aware that I was on a time limit."
"Mr. Hooper would like to speak with you, and they don't have all night. Hurry
up, son. And no sniffing the pillows or anything, you'll get… distracted."
Sherlock very nearly hurls a book at his father, who laughs smugly as
disappears from the open doorway. Of course he has a very good idea of what
Sherlock is thinking and feeling and wanting, as he's gone through the very
same thing. Which is perfectly natural and expected, but thinking about his
parents in the aspect of an Alpha desiring his Omega is enough to banish his
erection.
He arrives downstairs fully clothed, with thick socks Auntie Etta knitted him
for Christmas last year (he doesn't plan on admitting how much he loves getting
her socks, and actively grumbles about it, though she always gets a hug, kiss,
and thank you when out of sight of the rest of the family) on his still icy
feeling feet. Molly and Pat are sitting together on the loveseat at the
farthest end of the lounge, going over the homework he's brought her. His
mother is serving tea, and Sherlock moves to join the adults, wanting to hear
what Mr. Hooper has to say to him.
"Steve Hooper, nice to meet you, Sherlock; it's a blessing, Molly and you
finding each other when you did." He stands and shakes Sherlock hand like
they're equals, something Sherlock appreciates as many adults don't bother
doing this with teenagers, even those whose IQ is triple their own. Once the
greeting is over with, Sherlock takes a seat beside his father on the sofa.
"Kids, come here." He gestures to Molly and Pat who share a look of foreboding
before setting aside schoolbooks and worksheets, choosing to stuff themselves
in an arm chair. It doesn't take a genius to see that Pat is going so far as to
physically brace his cousin for the conversation that's about to take place.
Mr. Hooper has a very open and expressive face; if he attempted to lie, he'd be
perfectly abysmal; at this moment he's clearly torn apart by a vast array of
emotions, too undiscipline to properly suppress them for later analysis.
There's a weariness to him as he accepts a cup and saucer from Mrs. Holmes. The
voice he uses is quiet and sad. "We need to talk, sweetheart."
Molly's answer is a nod, short but strong. There's a terrible sort of knowledge
in her eyes, a resignation to accept whatever is about to come her way. Perhaps
it's only Sherlock's fears influence his outlook, but it seems that if her
uncle were to announce he was taking her back to her parents she would quietly
pack her bag, thank his parents for their hospitality, and leave. Fortunately
he thinks Pat Hooper would be an ally in fighting against any suggestion of
this nature, and it's clear the sort of sway he holds on Molly; between the two
of them, Sherlock thinks they could convince her to stay.
"Yesterday after the police left your parents… had a bit of row. We had to call
the police back, and they arrested your mother. She was incredibly…" Mr. Hooper
trails off, apparently unsure of how to describe what happened.
"Aunt Helen knocked Uncle Ned in the head with a meat tenderizer," Pat bluntly
supplies. "He's in the hospital but he's going to be fine, so don't worry. By
the time the police came back round that crazy bi… woman had set your bed on
fire and then drove off. No, don't worry, seriously, Molls; Aunt May pulled
Uncle Ned out of the house and into the garden and phoned the police, he was
seriously wasn't hurt by the fire or anything."
Turned the color of sour milk, Molly's eyes have become round and glassy from
both tears and horror. Sweat glistens on her face and neck, and her free hand
has knotted in her borrowed dressing gown so tightly that her knuckles have
become bloodless and white. "She could have killed him."
Her uncle steps in with firm reassurance. "But she didn't, love. Your dad is
fine, I swear it. Cursing about hospital food as we speak, I'm sure."
"What happened to Mum?"
Father and son share a look, both appearing terribly uncomfortable with this
part of the narrative.
"She came to the school," Pat admits, staring at his knees. "The police found
her there."
"Why'd she go there?"
"I dunno; she was probably looking for you, that's what I figure."
"Yeah, Molls, that's a probably what –"
"Don't lie to me, Patty." With a ramrod straight spine and a narrow slash of a
mouth, Molly narrows a harsh glare on her cousin. "Not you. You're the only one
that never has, so don't you dare start now."
Flushing shamefully, he meets her gaze. "She was looking for me. Burst into
geometry like some kind of horror movie monster, screaming about incest and
sins and how I'd been perverted and damned by an – by an incubus. Father Caster
slapped her with a ruler when she tried to drag me out of a chair, broke it
across her head. Swear she looked him like she was going to rip his throat out
with her teeth, I'd never seen anything like it before; I mean, she was crazier
than that time she caught us trying to sneak you back in after going to see
Rocky Horror. Cops came right after, guess Uncle Ned told him where she was
planning to go, and it took both of them, Father Caster, and Sister Bertha to
get her down. She kept everyone out of the hall, right, and came in and saw the
police trying to hold Aunt Helen down and she was screaming and fighting and
calling me demon spawn, and Father Caster was crying and praying because she'd
headbutted him and he was bleeding, like, GOUTS of blood from his nose, it was
super gross. So she shouted, 'Helen Louisa Flannigan!" and Aunt Helen called
her a witch in a habit and so Sister said, 'God forgive us both for our sins,'
and belted her so hard across the face that Aunt Helen's head, like, literally
rebounded off the chalkboard and it knocked her out. The police were like, 'Uh,
Sister, we really shouldn't use brute force.' Know what she said? She ruffled
her habit, you know how she does, and she was like, 'Young man, even Jesus
Christ our Lord and Savior will make exceptions in His divine law when it comes
to the subject of Helen Hooper, poor mad soul that she is.' Then you know what?
She offered to take you in if no one else had, because she thought you
shouldn't stay with any of us – because, you know, it's right there and Aunt
Helen could find you real easy." Finally coming to an end, Pat exhales.
"God forgive me, Pat, I'm so sorry. I never should have left, I knew she'd take
it out on everyone else if I wasn't there –"
"Sweetheart, we're all thankful that you weren't there. If she'd been able to
get her hands on you…" Mr. Hooper shakes his head, horror glinting in his eyes.
"I knew it was bad, but I swear to you Molly, I had no idea exactly how bad
it'd become. Why didn't you tell anyone? "
Sherlock snorts derisively. "Is there some level of abuse that is deemed
acceptable to society that I have yet to become aware of? I took Molly to see a
doctor, you know, and do you know how many times her arms have been broken? Her
fingers and ribs? They had to stitch up a wound on her scalp that's at least a
week old and badly irritated from not having been properly treated. So all of
these things being done to her is fine but when someone from outside your
family learns about it, well then, then it's gone too far."
"Molly is naturally clumsy," Mr. Hooper answers rigidly, equal parts angry and
ashamed. "I've seen her trip over nothing on a flat surface."
"Oh yes, I imagine it was quite easy to allay any worries or concerns by
convincing yourself that the pattern of injuries as well as your sister-in-
law's known mental instability was simply a strange coincidence."
"Sherlock," his mother breathes, quiet but firm. With a sneer he sinks into the
sofa, arms folding across his chest as he grits his teeth to keep silent. His
father puts a hand on his knee, both restraining and understanding.
"What happened to Mum?" Molly asks, and Sherlock has the urge to toss his hands
in the air and shout, 'Why does that even bloody matter? Who fucking cares
where that bitch has gone, unless it's a shallow and unmarked grave?' Truly, he
doesn't understand her continuing attachment to the woman.
"The police took her into a hospital; apparently after she woke up she was
furious and more out of control than even before."
"She spat on Greg and bit him," says Pat. "Guess he came awfully close to
strangling her. He has to get rabies shots now."
"Patrick, please."
"What? It's the truth."
"The hospital decided to keep Helen to evaluate her mental state." The words
sound odd coming from Mr. Hooper, and it's obvious he's regurgitating what he's
been told. "There's talk of finding somewhere that she can get help."
"An institution, you mean." It isn't a question; Molly seems quite sure of
this.
"Yes, sweetheart, an institution… but you never know, with help it's entirely
possible things could get a lot better. That maybe, I dunno, she'd go back to
her old self."
Molly doesn't respond, to this or any other banality offered during the
remainder of the visit, which goes on only a brief while longer. Dinner is
subdued and quiet, and when she goes up to bed Sherlock follows, glad his
parents offer up no objections – though his father does tap his watch
meaningfully. Once they're behind the closed door Molly draws in a shaking
breath, sitting down.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Can… would you care to… I need…" Gesturing helplessly, she looks up with tear
glazed eyes. Her voice cracks as she admits, "I really need a hug."
He nearly trips with how speedily he rushes over, glad she's told him what to
do. This is so far out of his element that he honestly has no clue what the
proper procedure is, but proper or not, whatever Molly wants or needs is what
he'll provide to the best of his abilities. Taking a seat beside her, Sherlock
winds his arms around her, exhaling shakily as she leans heavily against his
side. She wraps her arms around his chest and locks her hands together, hanging
on to his skinny frame as though she'll destroyed by releasing him.
She doesn't cry, and while Sherlock thinks it would be an appropriate release
of emotion, he's selfishly glad. He doesn't like her tears, finding that they
set him on edge. Instead she simply breathes, turning her nose into his shirt
as though taking in his scent. They sit like this for a long time, though
Sherlock isn't sure precisely how long – not that he cares. When she tugs he
follows, clambering onto his bed and curling behind her. Drawing his arms
around her, Molly scoots close before threading their fingers together and
resting their hands against her stomach.
Sherlock's not quite sure how long it is before he falls asleep, and he's only
vaguely aware of his parents coming into the room a while later. His mother's
voice is gentle as she urges, "Leave them alone, Will. She needs him after all
that." More solid is the weight of his father's hand smoothing messy curls away
from Sherlock's forehead, the press of his mouth against Sherlock's temple. He
thinks the same treatment is given to Molly, but maybe he only dreams opening
his eyes long enough to see it. A blanket is settled over them both, warm and
soft, and a fire is stoked to high heat in the hearth before the door is once
again shut, leaving him to fully topple back into dreams.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     A meeting with Mr. Hooper changes the landscape of the future once
     again.
Chapter Notes
     I'm so sorry for the wait between chapters. Please don't expect quick
     updates for quite some time, it won't happen; my mother had several
     strokes which ended in a massive stroke. I'm in Indiana where she
     lives, helping her and packing her up to bring her home. It's
     horrifically difficult in that she's not... she's not Mom anymore. I
     mean she is, but... it's just hard. I'm keeping a brave face for her
     but I'm not doing very well in handling how it's changed her,
     physically and mentally. On the upside, she's so gentle and kind and
     the mom I had when I was a little girl, so there's that. But it hurts
     to see her hurting. Things are going to be rough for a long while;
     updates will be sporadic. Updating WILL continue, however, as I have
     no plans to abandon my baby. Please just be patient. And bless
     MizJoely, who is beautiful and kind and the best beta a girl could
     ever ask for. Any mistakes are due to my own brainfarts, and is no
     reflection on her.
     Thank you to everyone that leaves such wonderful reviews, who
     messages me and follows me on tumblr and fangirls over Religion! You
     don't know how much I need that all right now, and how much it cheers
     me up. Thank you so, so much!!
     Disclaimer: I own nothing.
On Saturday the Holmes family (excluding Mycroft) and Molly go to see Ned
Hooper in the hospital. Erasmus chooses to wait, pulling a paperback out of his
bag to read while leaning against the wall and pretending not to keep an ear
open in case he needs to step in. Sherlock wishes he could stay with his
brother but his parents made it clear this morning while Molly was showering
that while it was his choice, she would undoubtedly appreciate his presence by
her side. “Bondmates draw strength from each other. She’s a brave girl all on
her own, no doubt about it, but you’ll give her a sense of security to really
own that bravery. Do you understand?”
 
“Yes,” had been his answer, and it was true – when considered from a purely
psychological stand point. Emotions, as always, remains dangerous territory for
Sherlock, and his comprehension of emotional motivations still needs to be
cultivated. Despite Mycroft’s insisting otherwise, he’s beginning to believe
that the only way to trulycomprehend matters of the heart is to explore his own
emotions, to embrace, at least to a point, the up until now lesser side of his
being that is ruled by emotion. Because now, as Molly clings to one of his
hands with both of hers and presses close to his side, it seems to him that she
draws strength from each point where their bodies meet.
 
Strange as it may sound, it feels good to think that he can be of help to her
through nothing more than his physical presence.
 
With his parents several paces behind them, waiting for Molly to make a move,
Sherlock and Molly stand outside the drawn curtain surrounding Mr. Hooper’s
bed. Her eyes are closed and she’s taking deep breathes through her nose and
exhaling from her mouth in quiet, drawn out puffs. Sherlock allows her this
time to prepare herself without badgering her to go on, which even he can see
is quite unusual from his normal behavior. It does lend some credence to his
new hypothesis, though it will take much more study and application to gather a
conclusive result. Half a minute later she meets Sherlock’s gaze with a nod,
though her fingers somehow manage to tighten their hold on him as he frees a
hand to open the curtain.
 
With pillows tucked behind his back and neck, Mr. Hooper seems to be sleeping
while sitting up. His head is quite thoroughly bandaged, but from the bruising
and swelling marring his face, Sherlock can see that the damage his wife
inflicted was more serious than his brother led them to believe. A tiny sob
works out of Molly’s throat, and she finally begins to shed the tears she had
refused to release last night. Following her to Mr. Hooper’s bedside after she
releases him has nothing to do with concern for the patient and everything to
do with the desire to remain Molly’s support. His father would do the same
thing for his mother, and to Sherlock there is no better example of a romantic
partner.
 
Stationed just behind her as she leans over the bed rail to take her father’s
hands, Sherlock gives her distance without moving too far away. It’s a delicate
balance to master, and he hopes he’s not utterly botching it.
 
“Oh, Daddy…” Tearfully she touches trembling fingertips to his massively
swollen, black and blue jaw. Call Sherlock callous, but he’s unmoved for the
man’s plight; after the trauma and humiliations his daughter has suffered, in
Sherlock’s eyes this man deserves even worse.
 
At the soft touch, Mr. Hooper’s eyes flicker open. It takes him a moment to
focus on Molly’s face, not unexpected given the morphine in his IV drip.
“Mouse?” he groggily questions, reaching up to feel her own face. Molly winces
back when his medicated hand is too heavy on the flesh covering her fractured
cheekbone, and despite knowing it wasn’t intentional Sherlock bristles. He’s
quick to take a half-step forward, placing a hand on her hip to draw her away
if the need presents itself.
 
“Mouse, your face…” Tears well in Mr. Hooper’s eyes as he speaks. “You look
about as good as I do.”
 
She’s quick to brush her own injuries and pain off. Sherlock actually bites his
tongue to keep from correcting her misconception on the importance of her well-
being over anyone else’s, especially either of her parents. “It’s nothing,
Daddy, I promise. But you… what happened?”
 
“Your mum and I had another fight, but this one got out of hand… I know you’ve
told me about it, but I’d never actually seen her really lose control like
that, I didn’t understand how bad it was…” Swallowing hard, he gestures to his
head. “She clocked me good with a meat tenderizer. That’s what I get for
getting in a fight with a kitchen, eh? Lots of weapons in there.”
 
Shock dulls Sherlock’s reflexes, as his brain literally refusesto process the
exact meaning of Mr. Hooper’s words for a several seconds. When the computation
is complete, however, such rage that he has never, ever experienced before
washes over him. Red spots flicker in front of his vision and a bitterly frigid
pulse of heat pulses through him, creating a short burst of static in his ears.
“She told you?” he hears himself saying. Molly’s looking at him in horror, Mr.
Hooper is just now recognizing his presence, his parents are coming closer; but
all Sherlock can reallyfocus on is the miserable garbage lying in the bed.
“Molly told youhow bad it was and you did nothingto protect her?”
 
Molly’s hands move to his stomach and chest, as though to hold Sherlock back
from her father. “He really didn’t know how bad it was, I swear he didn’t.”
 
“You toldhim how bad it was, Molly. And he didn’t believe you – he did
nothing.Those can’t be the first bruises she gave you and there’s no way you
could have hidden them from someone you were living with, especially if they
were on your face, as many undoubtedly were. The only conclusion is that your
father knew ‘how bad’ it really was, and choseto ignore it, to do nothing.He
chose to allow his wife to continue brutalizing his daughter because it was
easier than stepping up and being and an actual parent, isn’t that right, Mr.
Hooper?”
 
“You’d be the Alpha, then.” There’s a weary sort of defeat to the man, and the
way he tips his head to the side – wholly unlike a Alpha and much like waving a
red flag at a bull – makes Sherlock’s teeth ache for flesh, for the taste of
blood and the screams of pain. He doesn’t even pretend to deny the accusation.
 
Blinded to everything but his mounting anger, Sherlock is surprised when his
father places a hand on his shoulder. The grip is much too tight be anything
other than an acknowledgement of precisely how close his son is to losing
control. “Step out,” Mr. Holmes orders quietly. “I’ll stay with Molly.”
 
“But –”
 
“Now, Sherlock.”
 
His gaze moves to Molly, who boasts a fearful expression and tear tracks on her
cheeks. Shame washes over Sherlock quite without warning, taming his fury;
she’s gone through more than enough, she doesn’t need her new Alpha having a
testosterone fit at her father… no matter how much he deserves it. So he nods
tightly, somehow wounded by Molly’s sigh of relief. Pushing up on her toes, she
kisses his cheek, a damp, fleeting contact that only adds fuel to the fire of
Sherlock’s already too complex emotional and physical reactions.
 
When he passes his mother on his way out of the room he receives a soft smile
of approval, as though he’s done something right. Mum is always pleased by the
most outlandish and meaningless things, however, and there’s never any telling
what will make her happy or send her into a fury. Outside the room Erasmus is
leaning against the nurse’s station chatting a well-endowed nurse up. Rolling
his eyes, Sherlock takes up the task of holding the wall up.
 
According to his watch, which he checks compulsively and far too often, it’s
nearly five minutes before his brother returns. He’s got a phone number written
on a Post-It note and a smug turn of the mouth. “Get kicked out, little
brother?” Erasmus questions.
 
Sherlock scowls and it’s all the answer that’s needed.
 
“I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. At your age, if I were in your
shoes and it was just some girl I liked I’d be bloody furious… if it were my
Omega, hell, I’d have a hard time keeping myself from ripping his throat out.”
He has noidea how true his words are. “Well, want to know what I found out?”
 
“And here I thought you were showing genuine interest in her.”
 
“Oh trust me, there’s a lotof interest for lovely Nurse Grace over there, but I
also like to mix business with my pleasure. It’s like killing two birds with
one stone.” Erasmus leers in such a way that Sherlock feels as though heneeds
to shower, and it’s not even aimed at him. Thankfully the expression is short
lived. “Mr. Hooper is going to having surgery tomorrow to reduce the
intracranial swelling and remove some skull fragments that could pose some
threat; I got Grace to promise to call Mum and Dad to let Molly know the status
once it’s over. He’s got permanent hearing loss in his left ear and may have to
undergo physical therapy, but that’s not for certain yet.”
 
For a while they’re silent. Voices murmur from inside Mr. Hooper’s room, his
parents’ coming quite frequently, and he wonders what’s being said. After a
while, without looking at Erasmus, he says in a voice that’s surprisingly
neutral, “He said, ‘I know you’ve told me about it, but I’d never actually seen
her really lose control.’ Molly went to him for help and he did nothing.”
 
Sherlock witnesses his brother’s hands balling into fists and the wrath flare
in his eyes, sees how the blood vessels in his neck push out while he takes
deep and even breaths. “I assumed as much,” Erasmus admits once control is
regained. “But I’d hoped to be wrong.”
 
“If he died in surgery my only regret would be that it would cause her even
more pain.” Does this make him amoral? It must, at least to some degree, and
Sherlock doesn’t care. It’s true he was briefly troubled by the psychological
profile he compiled of himself, finding that he was in the spectrum of a high
functioning sociopath, but there isn’t even a hint of discomfort in him now.
High functioning or highly selective, which is a term more suited to his case,
thinks Sherlock; however it’s applied to him, the fact remains that there are a
bare handful of people that have gained profound emotional attachment from him,
and Molly Hooper is perhaps the most important of them all despite the newness
of her presence in his life. Any pain she suffers, no matter how slight, is
intolerable, and – here is something like fear – there’s little doubt that if
he was pushed far enough, Sherlock would end a life to see her safe and
protected.
 
Brooding on the ramifications of his psychology when applied to being an Alpha
with a Bondmate occupies Sherlock for the duration of Molly’s visit with her
father, which ends shortly after the half hour mark. Emerging from the room
before his parents, Molly eyes are red and swollen and there are tear tracks on
her cheeks. Her breathing suggests a prolonged bout of crying she’s struggling
to recover from. Grinding his teeth together, he forceshimself into an outward
show of calm, simply offering her his hand without speaking. There’s a
gratefulness to her as she accepts it which he doesn’t wholly understand – it
may help her, but it keeps him from doing something she would regret, which is
his main concern at the moment – and for a moment she closes her eyes and rests
her forehead on his upper arm, allowing Sherlock to guide her down the corridor
for several steps.
 
They all crowd onto the lift, quiet as they’re assaulted by dreadful
instrumental music pouring through tinny speakers. It’s not until they’re back
in his father’s sedan, Molly small enough to comfortably fit between Sherlock
and Erasmus in the backseat (unknowingly making Erasmus feel as though he’s
about thirteen again and should be kicking the back of his dad’s seat to see
how long it’ll take to make him shout and threaten to drop him off on the side
of the road), that she speaks. Her words come after a trembling exhale. “Dad
signed me away,” she quietly announces, more tears trembling on her eyelashes
before tumbling free. “Your parents will be my legal guardians as soon as the
paperwork is approved.”
 
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Erasmus all determinedly pretend they aren’t in a
confined space and can’t hear her speaking. His mum turns the radio on,
flicking stations until she finds one that suits her for the moment – Jimi
Hendrix wailing Foxy Lady – while his father sings along in a truly disturbing
manner and Erasmus mutters about public decency and parental displays of
affection that double as foreplay and shouldn’t be performed in public. It
fools no one, least of all Sherlock, but the effort is noted and appreciated
it.
 
For once, he’s surprised by a revelation. He’d seen his mother tucking a folder
with documents into her large purse, but he hadn’t imagined they were
guardianship papers; the signs were there, he’s sure, but he was too busy being
Molly-dazed to notice them. Blast.
 
“I… don’t know what you want me to say,” Sherlock chooses to admit after
several moments of deliberation. An icy rain begins to pelt the windows and
roof, and from the driver’s seat his father is grumbling, “Fucking brilliant,”
at the weather and abusing the horn simply as a show of roadway dominance.
 
Molly chews at the corners of her mouth, brow furrowing. “Whatever you want or
think; I don’t want you to… to not be yourself with me.”
 
It does wonders for Sherlock’s own peace of mind to have her make this
proclamation, more so than he’s willing to admit. In truth it fills him with
glowing, buttery pleasure, because this whole time he’s been terrifiedthat if
he’s Sherlock Holmes and not a more normal boy then she’s going flee for the
hills. What’s worse is knowing no onewould blame her if she did, because who
would want to be tied to a freak like him for the rest of her life? Of course
this is a double edged sword, because while Sherlock wants the freedom to be
himself, he also very much wants to notbe, as he’s rather too blunt and
heedless of the emotional injuries his keen observations can inflict. If he
would murder those that caused that her pain without thought or guilt, how can
he be the one to attack her with knife-like words and carry on as selfishly as
he always has? These two things cannot exist together, or should not, or will
not be allowed to, which is perhaps more accurate than he’s willing to admit: I
will not be the worst kind of hypocrite.
 
So he licks his lips and stares first at his knees, knobbly through the heavy
fabric of his slacks; then looks out the window, foggy and wet, with indistinct
shapes of buildings and cars and people running from the frigid rain; not
finding an answer there he moves his gaze to their hands, still connected,
fingers interlocked in a way that is more than spaces filled or a passing
touch, and finds he’s choking on too many ideas and thoughts and maybe-words.
Finally he sighs and looks to Molly, realizing, I should have looked to her in
the first place,because by now her red rimmed eyes are worried and her mouth is
becoming raw from the pressure of her teeth.
 
Finally he speaks. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I’m glad you’re going to be
safe. We can be your family now.” It’s his truth, though perhaps not the
entirety of it, which is much too… much,too raw,to be spoken with three extra
pairs of ears pretending they aren’t straining to catch every word passing
between he and Molly.
 
Her smile is somehow quiet, in a way that Sherlock can’t pin down, but is
perhaps the most brilliant he’s ever seen from her. They don’t speak of it, not
now when everything is so fragile; and while there’s no doubt that she’s still
sad, there’s also no doubt that she’s happy. If nothing else, it’s a very good
start towards a new beginning.
 
Mum is flipping through radio stations again, and Erasmus complains until she
goes back to Meatloaf singing about the one thing he won’t do – for love, that
is –and quite before anyone is wholly prepared for it Erasmus has baited Molly
into having a duet and there is an embarrassing amount of air guitar being
played.
 
“You kids!” Mrs. Holmes laughs, fishing her ever present camera from her purse.
The flash catches Molly laughing, the bruised side of her face turned away from
the camera, not entirely aware of the adoring way Sherlock watches her.
 
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Bless my amazing beta, MizJoely, who makes silk purses from sows'
     ears. And thank you to everyone that's been waiting, and leaving such
     lovely reviews and kind thoughts about my mom. I appreciate you all
     so much!
     Updated to remove errors, all thanks MizJoely, patron saint of the
     good ship Sherlolly. ;)
The two weeks since Molly left her home, in what Erasmus stubbornly refers to
her ‘grand rescue’ (though she has a difficult time hearing that term used,
probably because it’s far more true than she’s comfortable admitting), have
been fourteen days of absolute upheaval. It all still feels very unreal, and
there’s a moment each time she wakes in the mornings that she believes she’s
going to open her eyes and find herself back in her room, that Sherlock and his
family were nothing more than a bittersweet dream. There’s still an awkwardness
to living with them that she can’t escape, though she’s beginning to see the
openings and edges where she can slot herself into the flow of their lives;
sometimes she thinks, it’s like they’ve always been waiting for me, while
others she can’t help but despair, I’m nothing like them, this will never work
out.
To her, Sherlock is a safe island in the middle of a storm tossed sea. They
aren’t together as often as she’d like, as often as she suspects he’d like, as
he’s still a university student and his Omega appearing in his life doesn’t
take away the daily responsibilities of his education. He takes the train home
at least twice during the week, and these are the nights Molly likes best,
especially when Erasmus is present. Dinners are loud, filled with interesting
conversation, laughter, and brotherly bickering. Mycroft’s appearances are less
often, for which she’s grateful for, as he tends to look at her as though she’s
something filthy and subpar; there’s a certain tension to his mouth when he
speaks to her, a glint in his eyes that clearly states an Omega from a lower-
class, Catholic family is by no means up to the standards he’s set for his
brother.
The parts of her that have been conditioned by her mother’s abuses, they make
her want shrivel up and hide away from Mycroft and his not-quite-sneers. The
other bits, the ones that are becoming brave and strong simply by the virtue of
Sherlock’s smiles and lingering touches, are less inclined to hide. Who does he
think he is, casting judgement on her? He may come from a wealthy family with
above average intelligence, but in the end he put his trousers on one leg at a
time, just like everyone else, and if he doesn’t like her, then he can shove
off and mind his own business. What’s between she and Sherlock is just that,
between the two of them. And Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have made it exceptionally
clear that they want her with them, in their home, and as a part of their
family.
They give her a room, and somehow this is the single most meaningful gift she’s
ever been given in her entire life. It was a guest room until just a week ago,
furnished in the muted sort of way that made it clear it belonged to no one in
particular, with moderate colors and little life besides a tall, flowering
plant near one of the two windows. It was Mr. Holmes that brought her to it,
pushed the door open and gestured for her to step inside. “You like it?” he’d
asked, hands pushed into his trouser pockets.
“It’s lovely,” she’d answered, and he’d beamed.
“Well, so long as you’ve got no objections, it’s yours, now. You can decorate
however you’d like, and we’ve sent for your things – one of your aunts will be
bringing it over soon. Maura’s planning on buying new bedclothes and such, so
you can put your stamp on it.” She’d managed not to cry, but her vision was all
fuzzy from the tears in her eyes, and her cheeks hurt from the massive grin on
her face.
Lying in her bed, in the first place that Molly can remember as being hers
without conditions or locks to keep her inside, she luxuriates in the safety.
It’s addictive, feeling safe; if she had to go back to her parents’ today, she
doesn’t think she’d be able to survive the constant stress and fear. Which
makes her so guilty she could vomit – what kind of daughter is she? – but also
begins to shape her ideas for the future. She knows her life is going to be
with Sherlock from here on out, knows they’re bound together in a way that she
thinks is more destiny than simple biology (though she imagines he would scoff
at the idea of such a thing), and she’s glad of that. Because one day, when
they’re older and more ready, they’re going to have a house of their own, and
it’s going to be just like this: calm, happy, and, above all else, safe.
Especially for the children they may have (Molly can’t help but blush and
squirm, both ashamed for wanting something so far away and so silly, and so
overwhelmed with a dizzying sort of desire that it makes her hands curl into
fists, as though she’s trying to cling onto the fantasy of the children she may
bear).
There’s a knock on the old, solid wood of the door. It opens with a creak of
ancient hinges, and Mrs. Holmes steps inside. The fire has died down during the
night, but from the warm light of the simmering embers Molly can see the pillow
creases on the older woman’s face. “Molly,” she calls in a soft, cajoling tone.
“Wake up, sweetheart.”
She sits up with a yawn. The quilt falls off her shoulders and puddles onto her
lap, and she shivers at the cold air. “I’m awake,” Molly admits, giving Mrs.
Holmes a crooked smile.
“You’re quite the early riser, aren’t you?” Paddling across the dim room, as
the sky outside is still dark and there’s little to no moon to speak of, she
takes a seat on the edge of Molly’s bed. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to
going out, today?”
“Oh, yeah!” Nodding enthusiastically, Molly has to force herself from bouncing.
“I’m dying to get out! I mean, it’s not that I don’t like spending the days
with you and Mr. Holmes, but – but I’m used to going to school, and doing
stuff…” Lamely trailing off, she blushes, looking down.
Mrs. Holmes’ laugh is kind. “I understand completely. I thought we’d give
Sherlock a ride into the city since we’re heading in ourselves, and he’s got an
early lecture, so we need to be out of here by seven at the latest.” Her mouth
twitches, and there’s a bright sort of knowing her eyes. “He’s a beast in the
mornings when he actually lets himself sleep, but I suspect you’ll have an
easier time getting him up and moving than I would. Do you mind?”
Molly’s stomach twists into delightful knots. “Oh, um, yeah, sure; I can
manage.” She’s got the feeling her attempts at nonchalance in no way fool Mrs.
Holmes, but it’s thankfully left unmentioned.
After putting her feet in a pair of warm slippers, ones from home and brought
in the two small boxes of possessions delivered by her Aunt Lily, Molly heads
to the toilet. In a household of their size, what with Sherlock and Erasmus
constantly staying over, she’s discovering it’s rather a privilege to get to
brush her teeth and have hot water without someone shouting through the door to
hurry up. She uses the toilet, brushes her teeth and gargles and washes her
hands, even tries to straighten her messy hair before giving it up as a bad
job, and then scampers to Sherlock’s door. First she tightens the belt of her
dressing gown, shifting from foot-to-foot nervously, debating on knocking. He
probably wouldn’t hear it – by now she knows that when he gets into a good,
deep sleep bombs could go off and they’d be lucky if he so much as rolled over.
Nothing for it, then; she’s going to have let herself in.
Despite having been sent in by Mrs. Holmes herself, Molly feels like she’s
doing something naughty. Probably because she’s hoping Sherlock won’t be a
complete bear and that maybe before the morning is over he’ll kiss her.
There’ve had spare few enough of those in the past week, as it seems Erasmus
has been intent on playing chaperone. Just last night he’d strolled past
Sherlock’s open door, where they were reading (pretending not to stare at each
other and doing a terrible job of it), and reminded them, “Keep those hand
where I can see them, kids!”
And it was just as Sherlock had sneaked a hand over and laid it on her thigh,
making Molly’s blood pound in her ears and her fingers shake. It’d taken a
supreme force of will not to hurl a book at Erasmus’ head.
With that memory in mind, she opens the door just enough to slip inside, and
shuts it behind her. If she were braver, and more willing to break the rules of
the house, she’d lock the door. She knows that would go over about as well as
setting the sofa on fire, though, and stays her hand from it. She takes a
moment to let her eyes adjust the darkness; the fire burnt down so long ago
that there’s not even a warm glow to guide her, just the light of an early
winter morning before sunrise.
Carefully she makes her way across the room, sliding her sock-clad feet against
the floor to avoid bumping into something or tripping. Once she’s at his
bedside she takes a deep breath for courage. With her heart pounding, she leans
over him, feeling very daring as she takes in the outline of his lean body
under the quilt. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gives him a soft shake.
“Sherlock,” she calls, lowly, not wanting to startle him. “Sherlock, it’s time
to wake up. Sherlock.”
He groans, and it makes her blush right to the tips of her ears. Pushing
himself up on a forearm, he cocks his head back. Molly can see his eyes
glinting in the gray darkness. His nostrils flare as he takes a big whiff of
air in, and it has the effect of making her knees knock together because it’s
like he’s scenting her. “Molly?” he asks. His voice is rough and low from
sleep, and she’s got the mad urge to tackle him to the bed and snog him stupid.
His hand comes up, half-blindly searching, landing against her stomach and the
knotted belt of her robe. Unable to bring herself to move, Molly can only take
a breath in and shudder because the weight of his hand is against her belly,
and for some reason it’s very – very good – “What’re you doing?”
She replies in a choked voice, “Its morning. Your – your mum sent me to wake
you.”
Nodding, he scoots further towards the head of the bed before sitting up. When
the quilt falls down she can see that he’s not wearing a shirt, can see the
skin on his sharp shoulders gleaming, and she has to dart her gaze up to the
ceiling and take several deep breaths. Which he can undoubtedly feel through
that hand, the fingers of which he hooks into the knot, almost – but not quite
– pulling it loose. “What time is it?”
“Oh, um, a little after five.”
There’s a flash of teeth when Sherlock smiles, and then he’s tugging the fabric
of the belt until the knot unwinds and the ends flop down. “Take the robe off,”
he orders, but there’s no need because Molly was already shrugging it off her
shoulders before he’d begun speaking. It puddles on the floor behind her feet.
Still, she feels the need to half-heartedly point out, “Sherlock, your parents
are waiting for us…” Even though she’s got a knee on the edge of the mattress,
even though he’s pulling the covers back so she can climb in beside him. The
bed is made for one occupant, but Sherlock squirms back until he’s against the
wall, and Molly slides in between the sheets. Having left her slippers on the
floor, her bare feet rub against his the soft fabric covering his legs as she
settles in, heart lurching with a painful sort of excitement as she lowers her
head to the indent he left on the pillow. He leans over her, hand hovering in
the air above her stomach before it finally drops, fingers spreading out so
he’s palming the soft flesh covered by thin cotton.
“Is this alright?” A fierce sort of adoration seizes Molly when Sherlock asks
this question. She doesn’t have experience with boys, at least not in this
area, but she’s spent a lifetime watching her older cousins explore the path of
relationships and sex, both in and outside of the dynamics of an Alpha and
Omega and even Beta. From what she’s seen, boys of Sherlock’s age are often
prone to expectations, to demands; how many times has she heard female cousins
grumbling about boyfriends that act as though they’re owed some sort of rights
to their girlfriends’ bodies?
“It’s great,” she answers honestly, unable to keep what she’s sure is an
utterly besotted smile off her face.
Carefully he runs a hand over the side of her face, where the once livid
bruises are fading into a dull, ugly mottling of yellows and greens. “Does it
hurt?” he asks, and Molly doesn’t need light to know that he’s wearing a dark
frown; it’s the same expression he always wears when they discuss her healing
injuries. She’s quick to flutter a hand between them, accidently smacking his
chin in the process.
“It’s fine, really, I hardly – oh, no, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you, I’m
so sorry!” Sherlock’s laugh is a quiet, throaty sound that makes something low
in her stomach tie into a hard knot. Before she can realize his intentions, his
fingers have pushed into her hair and he’s lowered his head, brushing his mouth
along hers in a light sweep that makes her toes curl. He exhales into the space
between her parted lips, making Molly’s head spin. She wraps her arms around
his back and neck, feeling each point where bare skin meets bare skin and
wishing her nightshirt would simply dissolve away so she could feel more, like
his stomach on hers and her breasts against his chest. The thought of it makes
her moan and tighten her arms, the thought so erotic that she’s got sparks
flaring behind her closed eyes.
She kisses Sherlock as though she’s starving for him, and as though each wet
press of tongue and scrape of teeth is the only thing keeping her alive. It
certainly feels like it, right now. There’s a little part of her that’s
panicking, that is urging her to stop or at least slow down, to pull back and
ask if she’s doing anything wrong, if he actually likes this – but he’s
settling his narrow body over hers, between legs she hadn’t consciously parted,
and she’s convinced that whatever she’s doing, it’s right. Especially when he
groans and the sound practically reverberates into her, and when he runs a
lightly shivering hand up her side and, after a bare moment of hesitation,
palms her breast. Molly has to break the desperate string of kisses, throat
aching and head pushing back into the pillow as she gasps for air she suddenly
can’t seem to get enough of. It feels as though she’s grabbed onto a live wire.
“Judging by your – your accelerated pulse and respiration, you like this,”
Sherlock breathlessly states, and Molly squirms helplessly when he squeezes the
little mound of warm flesh. Her head bobs quickly up and down in the
affirmative. “My research indicates that many women enjoy different types of
stimulation – especially in this region – and I think it would be beneficial to
– to judge several different stimuli and gage their effects.” He has to stop
and swallow, and she’s entranced by the bob of his Adam’s apple. “With that in
mind, I propose a test, the parameters of which involve partial nudity and
stimulation from my mouth –”
“Shut up and take my shirt off,” she gasps, already trying to tug the fabric
up. Her elbows flail and she finds removing her nightshirt difficult, mostly
because Sherlock isn’t moving off her and she can’t lean up far enough, but
she’s got it pulled up to her shoulders when his head drops. The first touch of
his tongue makes Molly moan; too loudly, she’s afraid. She immediately clamps a
hand over her mouth. The fingers of the other hand find Sherlock’s hair and dig
into the thick curls, hanging on as he makes a deep, hungry noise against her
skin and sucks her nipple into his mouth. She’s never felt anything remotely
like it and suddenly understands why the nuns insist on total abstention,
because this feels so sinfully good that she knows there’s no stopping now that
she’s had a taste.
There’s a heavy throb settling between her thighs, harder and more insistent
than the banging of her heart, even. Molly squirms, but it does nothing to
relieve this ache. Without really meaning to, she shifts her hips up, seeking –
something, she’s not sure what – and cries out against her palm when she
presses against what is undoubtedly Sherlock’s erection. For a moment he’s very
still, face turned into the valley between her chest and one hand clamped hard
on her hip. Each breath he takes is gasping and shallow.
Slowly, he licks the underside of one breast, and Molly swears she’s going to
scream – which is ridiculous, because none of her romance novels ever said that
was a place that was supposed to make her feel good – and then pushes against
her. She chokes on air, reaching out to dig her blunt nails against his sides.
“Do that again,” she demands, and promptly bites her lip in an attempt to keep
quiet when Sherlock forcefully obeys. Hooking her feet behind his knees, Molly
follows the movement the next time he repeats it, and it’s even better this
time.
Sherlock grunts and it sounds like her name, and Molly can’t keep herself from
writhing. She’s overwhelmed by how good this all is, and how brilliant he
feels, his stomach pressing against hers when he straightens his back and rises
over her. They’re moving together in hard, artless movements, rutting like
animals in heat. And maybe that’s not too far off because when he takes one
breast in hand and pinches her nipple, a little too hard but she’s not going to
complain, Molly growls. Legitimately, honestly growls. Later she’s going to be
horridly embarrassed about that, but now, well, she’s got other things to worry
about.
“Mine,” she pants, kissing his shoulder, the line of his neck where sweat is
beginning to glisten in the dim light. “My Alpha.”
He laughs and it’s a choked, breathless sound of giddy madness. His nose bumps
into her own, runs over her cheek before moving further down, and then his
mouth is at her ear. “I want to give you my knot,” Sherlock pants, a raw
admission that makes the bottom drop out of Molly’s stomach. Under his weight
she twists, legs lifting so her thighs are at his sharp hips and she’s curling
under him, practically offering herself up for the taking. She’s clawing at his
sides, his chest, some instinct she hadn’t even realized she possessed driving
her to score his flesh until he gives a furious thrust and pins her with his
body, grappling until he’s managed to get her wrists in one broad palm. She’s
awed at how big his hands are, how he can pin her arms over head and grind
against her until she’s tipping her chin back and showing him her throat in
blind submission. It makes stars pop and blink in front of her eyes, and no
matter how much air she sucks in she can’t get enough, and now there’s a hard
shivering in her limbs. It feels like there’s something, something she doesn’t
have a name for and it’s chasing her – or maybe she’s chasing it –
As quickly as they’d been caught, her wrists are free. Sherlock is holding
himself on his knees, mouth twisted in a scowl as he tangles his fingers in the
fabric of her pajama trousers, tugging and pulling. “We can’t, Sherlock, we
can’t,” she’s choking out, even though her hands have joined his. They’re
getting in each other’s way, his bony wrist knocking her fingers away, her palm
catching his thumb and pinning it to her stomach. She’s terrified he’s going to
– that they’re going to – that right now, in his bed with his parents and
brother downstairs going about their morning – they’re going to have sex. It’s
too quick and soon and not the right time at all, but while logic is howling
like a panicked animal, the rest of Molly is squirming, fighting to get the
fabric down far enough that maybe, maybe –
Pajama pants and panties bunch together at the top of her thighs, and the
chilly air winds through the now bare thatch of hair. It’s shocking because it
makes her realize that she’s – between her legs, she’s wet, and she tries to
push up on her elbows and scoot away. The biological response of the female
body isn’t new to Molly, at least not in terms of text books and the science
that goes into sex, but surely this can’t be right. She’s done something wrong,
because yes, the vagina is meant to lubricate but this is too much, way too
much, and she can’t let Sherlock find out, she’ll die if he’s disgusted –
“You think I’m going to knot you now?” There’s a ragged edge to Sherlock’s
voice when he speaks, and his words come in a desperate rush. He bats her hands
away, gaze focused between her legs, and there’s just enough light that he can
see too much for Molly’s liking. “I want to. I want to.” He exhales in a rough
tremor. His palm is warm and heavy against her pubic bone as he presses against
that mound, and Molly’s frozen, a high noise of desperation in the back of her
throat as she does her best to keep absolutely still. “God, I want you. It’d be
so easy, so good, but I won’t. Not yet. Because when we do – and we will –
we’re going to need more than this. More than a quick fumble, trying to be
quiet so my parents don’t hear us… I just want to feel, Molly. May I? Will you
let me feel you?”
So dizzy that it feels like the bed is rocking and swaying under her, Molly’s
arms give out and she topples to her back again. Her eyes are tightly closed,
because she’s hoping not seeing will help distance her from the mind numbing
everything going on, but it only makes it worse. She can feel everything more
acutely; her hard, tight nipples and how they’re aching, how heavy and swollen
her breasts feel; the pulse between her legs, forcing her hips to lift up
against Sherlock’s hand, seeking more pressure, more something; the sound of
his breathing, fast and urgent, like he’s been running for miles, and how it
makes her stomach swoop out from under her again.
Jerkily she nods, not quite meaning to. “Yes,” she hears herself murmur, and
she hasn’t got time to take it back or think it through, because Sherlock’s
making this low, masculine sound of pleasure and his hand is – moving –
Molly’s eyes shoot open after he’s pushed his hand between her thighs, after
his fingers are curled to hold the most private part of her body so intimately
that her nose and eyes burn with a sudden rush of tears. Gaping up at him,
feeling very much as though he’s stripping her skin away and displaying every
painfully sensitive nerve ending to the world, she’s able to see the way his
mouth drops open and how his narrow body shudders. His middle finger pushes
past slick outer lips, sinks into wet flesh just above the aching opening of
her body.
He groans, “You’re so wet,” his other hand reaching out, curling over one bare
breast and clinging as though he needs to be anchored. It is obvious how
affected he is, how he likes the excessive moisture, and Molly’s previous
worries are entirely forgotten. She arches her back and pushes against him,
wordlessly crying out. Carefully he begins to stroke with light touches,
learning the new landscape presented to him. It’s almost by accident that he
ghosts a touch over a place that makes her knees jerk and her throat close, and
if Molly’s eyes hadn’t snapped closed she would see the smirk stretched across
Sherlock’s face. “There,” he murmurs, as though he’s talking to himself, before
he carefully parts the folds of her center and sets his fingertip against the
bundle of nerves.
She knows it’s her clitoris, can see the anatomy diagram flashing behind her
eyes, but the knowledge is secondary and is overwhelmed by the flood of
sensation. It’s so good it’s almost painful, and she’s writhing, legs spasming
as she alternately tries to press her thighs shut and strains to open wider.
Her range of movement is hindered by the sleep pants and knickers shoved down
on her thighs, but it doesn’t keep Molly’s muscles from jerking and twanging.
Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, louder than Sherlock’s heavy, excited
breathing. It’s like he’s playing her, like she’s the strings of his violin,
and that pressure from before is surging back, harder and more intense.
“Oh my God, stop, something’s happening,” she gasps out, taking the sheets
under in two great fistfuls even as her shoulders arch off the mattress. She
doesn’t know if she really wants him to stop but thinks maybe he should,
because this can’t be normal, can it? This – this feeling of hurtling through
space, flying into something so massive her conscious mind can’t even truly
comprehend it.
Sherlock pauses and Molly pries her eyes open, staring at the ceiling and
gasping for air. She can’t stop shivering, can’t stop her hips from pressing
up, seeking to renew the pressure. “Haven’t you ever done this before?” he
asks, and all she can do is shake her head back and forth, because words are
suddenly beyond her. “Never? You’ve never touched yourself?”
“No,” she admits, and thinks she’s going to swallow her tongue when his fingers
dip down to the entrance of her body, pressing against the tight ring of
muscle. Something that’s half a groan and half a laugh is pulled out of
Sherlock as he does this, and it’s only when he brings his attention back to
her clit that Molly realizes he was slicking his fingers in her moisture. It
makes sense, the need for easy friction, but that’s as far as her mind can go
before it’s shutting down under the hot wash of pleasure.
“It’s okay,” he breathes, leaning over her. The kiss he gives her is sloppy and
quick, but Molly wants more, whines when he pulls away. “I want to make you
feel good, Molly. My Molly… my Omega… it’s okay, it’s alright, I’m here. You’re
safe. There, you can feel it, can’t you? Your muscles are tensing, I can feel
it, here, how you’re tightening up inside…” His thumb presses against her
entrance, circling, and yes, Molly can feel it. Can feel something, pulling and
stretching her, like she’s a rubber band being stretched back, farther and
farther – and if he doesn’t stop, oh, if he doesn’t stop she’s going snap –
“Sher – aghhh –” The last remains of logic force Molly’s arm up, over her open
mouth, where she bites down on her own flesh to stifle a wail. The tension
can’t go any further and, like a train that’s run out of rails but has a full
head of steam, she catapults through darkness into some great, unknown abyss.
Stars are blazing past her in hot flashes and it’s like – it’s like she’s been
turned inside out, but it’s so good, it’s the best thing ever – and she can
feel her whole body shaking and shuddering, can hear Sherlock gasping, “God,
you’re beautiful, my Molly.”
The initial, blinding rush fades and she finds herself limp on her back,
twitching and jerking and moaning against the inside of her wrist. She opens
her eyes to the sight of Sherlock, in the blushing light of sunrise, tugging
his pajama trousers down. His isn’t the first penis she’s seen, not by a long
shot, because she’s a girl from a huge family and Pat remains untouched by
shame of his body and has a habit of walking around starkers in his room even
when she’s over. Exhausted and hazy as she is, she’s feels her interest perking
because Sherlock’s penis is nothing like the ones she’s seen before, floppy and
vaguely worm like. It’s angrily red and stiff looking, and very wide, so wide
that her eyes grow in size as she contemplates ever attempting to take him
inside her body.
Curious, she watches as Sherlock takes himself in hand strokes – realizing that
he’s using the same hand he’d only just used to give her such monumental
pleasure with, which makes her stomach fall out and her toes curl – head
dropping forward as he does. He’s watching her with hazy eyes, mouth damp and
open, tongue touching the corner before he whispers, “I could watch you come a
dozen times.” A grimace of something like pain crosses his face and Molly can’t
keep from reaching up with trembling hands, cupping his cheeks and pushing her
sluggish, weak body up so she can kiss his mouth. At the first touch of her
tongue on his bottom lip he jerks and exhales hard, shuddering above her, and
she can feel something hot and wet splashing across her lower stomach.
Something fierce and hot flares through her as she realizes that he’s
orgasming, that he’s feeling the same feeling she felt, like he’d ripped her
soul out and held in his hands, and it was simply because he’d watched her.
He ends up lying beside her, an arm wrapped over her stomach and the other
pillowing her head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely, snagging excess sheet and
wiping her belly clean. He’s blushing. “I should have asked, first, before I…”
Trailing off, he seems at a loss for words.
Molly shakes her head. “I don’t mind. Really. I – I liked it, actually. I – I
know that’s probably weird, but –”
“Who cares?” He kisses her artlessly, joyously. “I liked it, too.” Together
they squirm, tugging their clothing back into place – though Sherlock seems
decidedly put out to have her breasts out of view, which does wonders for ego
as her cousins always made fun of her little chest – before he tugs the quilt
up and covers them both. His eyelids are drooping.
“We need to get up.” She may be reminding him, but she’s also rolling onto her
side and curling against his body, burrowing her face into the crook of his
shoulder and inhaling deeply of his sweaty, musky scent.
“Mm,” he gives vague agreement, “in a minute.”
Erasmus wakes them twenty minutes later by yanking the quilt off their bodies
and leering. “You little pervs,” he praises, waggling his eyebrows. “Better hop
in the shower and air this room out before Mum catches a whiff, there’s enough
pheromones in here to light up a neon sign.”
It’ll be days before Molly can look him in the eye again.
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