A/N: 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.

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.