NOT MY CHARACTERS. Obviously.

A/N: This is an odd and very experimental fic. I never imagined that I would write anything like it...It was an uncomfortable yet cathartic experience. It was difficult to tread the fine line between making Sherlock's characterization suave versus threatening.

To clarify, I actually really don't think this would ever happen with the canon characters, (hence the whole paragraph of justification), but I suppose that's the fun of writing fanfiction...

For some reason, I wrote the whole thing with pronouns, and never used their actual names. I decided to post it like that because of reasons.

In any case, I hope it's obvious who the two characters are. (Hint: Sherlock and Molly)

/

If she was being completely honest, it was the last thing she'd ever have thought he was capable of doing. For more than one reason. But admittedly these were extenuating circumstances. He was feeling powerless, and bored, and probably a bit lonely, even if he'd never admit it. And she, feeling vulnerable, and useless, and more than a little desperate - she had let him.

/

Her P.O.V.

It wasn't really hard to understand his motivation. In just a few short days, everything had been taken from him - his house, his friends, the work he had thrived on, the reputation he had taken such pride in. Now he was cooped up, indefinitely, in a strange house, stuck with the knowledge that he had caused considerable grief to everyone he cared about and that he was powerless to make it up to them. Naturally, he would be frustrated. Naturally, he would feel the overwhelming need to be in control of something, anything - to prove to himself that he still had something to hold onto; something to tie him down so the spinning of the Earth wouldn't pitch him right off into space. Even if that something was as low as petty manipulation. She could see what was happening, and she didn't know how she felt about it. She didn't think she could stop him, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. Did that make her a victim or an enabler?

Maybe it would really help, reasoned a quiet voice in the back of her head.

And maybe, she ventured, maybe she needed it just as much as he did.

He was standing in the door frame, a tall silhouette back-lit by the soft yellow light in the hall. His features were shadowed and unreadable, but she could see his eyes. They glowed dully, reflecting the nightlight at the foot of her bed.

It was late. She was surprised to see him. She started and sat up quickly.

"Oh! Um - hello," she said, feeling rather flustered. Quite suddenly, she became keenly and painfully aware of the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath her thin, cotton t-shirt. She shifted her arms awkwardly to cross them over her chest and made a somewhat conspicuous attempt to tug the comforter up a few inches.

The figure in the doorway didn't move or give any indication that he had noticed her discomfort. Not that that meant he hadn't. She felt her cheeks flush at the thought and felt terribly uncomfortable.

"Evening," he replied, sounding as impassive as ever.

She marveled briefly at the fact that he could still command such an imperious presence while wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"As well as can be expected," came the answer. "Better, actually, if you consider the fact that the general public is currently under the impression that I died last week."

"Well, right. I -" she cut off quickly. Then, gathering herself, she gazed directly at him with a surprising degree of astuteness. "You know what I meant."

This time he paused for a moment. His head dropped just slightly.

"I'm fine," he said. His voice was clipped, hollow. Even in the dim light, she could see his expression darken as he added, "I'm not the one you should be worried for." His breath caught oddly, as if he'd had to stop himself from saying more. He didn't need to, though; for once, she knew what he was thinking.

I'm not the one who just had to watch my best friend commit suicide. I'm not the one who has to live with the fallout. Relatively speaking, I got off easy.
She could feel the intensity of his self-loathing, and her heart went out to him.
"Well, someone has to be worried for you," she said, smiling weakly. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I? Since...everybody else thinks..." The sentence trailed off awkwardly.

He just stood there, watching her.

I'm so sorry, she almost whispered. It's not fair, not for anyone. She swallowed, trying to stifle the rush of pity and sorrow which was threatening to spill over into her eyes.

I'm so, so sorry.

She wished she could say it. But she didn't. He had no use for sympathy. Besides, she knew he could already read it in her face.

He still hadn't moved or made a reply. He seemed to be waiting. She took a breath and tried a different approach. "Then...is there...That is - Did you want something?"

This time the pause stretched out for an uncomfortably long time, and at some point during the silence, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. It was like a subtle shift in the quality of the space between them.

She suddenly felt very small.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, almost imperceptibly. A smirk.

His eyes flashed.

"I don't want anything."

The strange choice of emphasis jarred in her ears.

She didn't know how to respond. For some reason, her heart had started to race.

"Um..."

She stared at him, feeling utterly lost. Had her brain been this fuzzy a minute ago?

He took a step forward. She made as if to say something, but no words came to mind. Her mouth felt very dry.

His eyes narrowed slightly and his expression became at once both curious and intense. It was that look. She could feel him searching her face, analyzing her reactions. She was an open book.

He took another step towards her. His motions were deliberate and cautious, as if she was a small animal he didn't want to startle. He kept his eyes on her face the whole time, as if watching to see whether she would protest. He turned, grabbed hold of the doorknob, and closed the door behind him in one smooth motion. It clicked shut with a metallic snap that sounded strangely amplified.

"Wh-" She tried again. "What are you doing?" The question was barely more than a whisper.

She knew - she knew - exactly what he was doing.

"It follows logically from my previous statement that I must have come here because of something you want," he said. His voice was quiet. Calm.

With the door shut, the nightlight was the only source of light in the room. His skin was ghostly and pale in the dim white glow. More so than usual, anyways. The shadows cast by the low angle emphasized the contours of his already ridiculously prominent cheekbones.

She suddenly couldn't help noticing the graceful slope of the muscles in his neck and the definition of his collarbone under that surprisingly flattering t-shirt which was straining just slightly at the shoulders and goodness he was extremely tall...

Presently his gaze stopped roaming her face. Their eyes met and she couldn't blink or look away. At that moment she knew beyond doubt that both of them knew that whatever he was about to do to her, she wasn't going to stop him.

As her face confirmed what he already suspected, she saw his eyes glitter triumphantly.

And then it was like she had woken up from a surreal daze - with a jolt her mind registered the undeniable concreteness of the man standing at the foot of her bed and, at the same time, she felt a rush of feelings course through her body that genuinely frightened her in its intensity. It flooded into her chest and her throat and made her skin burn. She felt all at once confused and scared and overwhelmed and very, very turned on.

Unfortunately, her head seemed to have shorted out. Her poor brain was still trying to catch up.

"I - I don't -" she stammered.

He cut her off. "Come, it's hardly worth it on your part to pretend you don't know what I'm referring to," he said. "Surely my aim has been clear to you for at least the past...oh, twenty-five seconds." He took another step towards her, this time with greater intention. "If you wanted to try to stop me, you've had more than enough time to indicate any urgent sentiments to that effect."

He was very close to her - a looming figure next to the bed.

"This is what you want," he stated simply. It was just a fact.

"And, as it happens," he continued. "It's also what I need."

This was too much.

"I - I thought you didn't..." She looked at him in confusion. "I mean, you never really - um..." she faltered.

He looked faintly amused.

"I can assure you that there is nothing exceptionally unique about my physiological makeup," he said. Looking at him from this angle, she felt rather inclined to disagree. His eyes were boring into hers. She desperately tried to remember how to breathe.

"...certainly," he continued, "not anything that has rendered me incapable of a function as basic as physical arousal."

Nope. There it went. What was oxygen?

"Just because I find intellectual engagement to be a far superior source of stimulation," he went on, "doesn't mean I'm entirely above pursuing alternative options...Especially provided with such..."

She felt the mattress dip as he leaned against it.

"...extenuating..."

He was suddenly sitting up right in front of her, with one knee poised on either side of her legs.

"...circumstances."

She'd never heard his voice sound that low. It was like she was feeling it rather than hearing.

Presently, something clicked.

"Does...does that..." she said hesitantly, "make me just some sort of 'last resort'?" she couldn't stop a note of hurt from creeping into the words, in spite of herself.

"I hardly see how that's relevant," he answered dismissively. She realized with a pang that he was entirely, frustratingly right. Again. Of course. She was so hopelessly attracted to him that it hardly made any difference why he had suddenly decided to start acting so...accommodating. It occurred to her that anyone in her place who had a shred of dignity would refuse to be so blatantly taken advantage of. But there he was, sitting inches from her with an undeniably hungry expression on his face that she had only ever seen him wear in her wildest fantasies, and somehow, she couldn't summon the willpower to care about silly notions like 'dignity.'

"But..." her heard her mouth speak of its own accord, as a last-ditch effort on behalf of what remained of her rational brain. It was still too unreal. It couldn't be happening. If it really was happening, it was most definitely a very, very Bad Idea.

He stared at her curiously. "I don't see why you feel the inclination to nitpick about context," he said, sounding genuinely bemused. "I imagine it will feel about the same, regardless."

She made a sort of strangled whimpering noise in the back of her throat.

He leaned forward and rested his hands on her shoulders, his face clearly relishing the effect he was having on her. Gently but firmly, he pushed her down until she was effectively pinned against the mattress, directly beneath him. His eyes had gone quite dark.

"And by 'about the same', I do mean 'incredibly pleasurable.'"

She shuddered from head to toe. Every nerve in her body seemed to have gone hypersensitive.

Then, for some reason, she felt inexplicably terrified. She truly didn't believe he was going to hurt her, but all the same, a word popped up unbidden and glared shrilly in her mind's eye: psychopath. She knew all too well what the press and people on the street and the entire hospital staff had been saying about this man, and even as she watched him looming over her and breathed in his intoxicating smell, a small panicked voice inside her head saw fit to remind her that he very much could hurt her, if he remotely felt like it.

He froze when he felt her tense up, frowning down at her. After a moment he sighed in annoyance.

"You really ought to stop second-guessing yourself," he scolded. "It's unhealthy to over-think every minor decision."

"Oh..." she breathed, not knowing what to say. She was still trapped by his eyes, even as he lowered his head slowly until their noses were almost touching. When he spoke, it was hardly louder than a whisper.

"Now for pity's sake do shut up and quit being so difficult."

And then he started to kiss her, forcefully on the mouth, and it was such a compelling argument that she had no choice but to just go with it.

/

A/N

Okay, wow. So...that's that.

I wrote what happened next, but I'm hesitant about posting it. Add a Comment/Reply if you want the Smut Chapter!...er, that is, the Gratuitous Foreplay Chapter. (Plus a brief bit from Sherlock's POV!)