Mirror, Mirror

A/N 1: I originally was going to wait a while before posting this, but I'm going to be out all day tomorrow, and I dunno when I can come online to post this. So, I apologize to dearest Tiff for not waiting for her opinion on this. Love you lots, darling and I hope your Alan Rickman day goes well.

Now, this fic came into being after a combination of watching Star Trek and getting my heart smashed again by a guy. But to be fair, I delved deeper into Star Trek after I got my heart smashed…eh. So, anyways, I was watching the Mirror!verse episode with my mom (and trying not to finish her box of strawberry ice-cream) and the idea for this fic came into being.

And like I was going to give up a chance to write a John Harrison version of Sherlock.

Finally, love to Lono. Without her support and blue-highlights, this would not have come into being.

The room is cold, so she burrows deeper into the duvet. She wonders if he'll make an appearance tonight. She hopes he's tired from his dealings with the drug lords; she hopes he'll forego coming into her bedroom tonight.

The bruises on her thighs and arms haven't fully healed yet; his bites stand out, blood red and sore, on the pale skin of her neck.

The door creaks open and her heart misses a few beats. His shadow falls over her bed, and she can feel the raw energy rolling off of his body.

"Molly," the familiar baritone says, and he extends a hand. She could pretend to be asleep, but she knows he will see through that easily. So she takes it and lets him pull her up, the short night gown she is wearing flutters around her thighs. She keeps staring at the ground; she will not look at him and be reminded of him, of her world and of everything she lost in the blink of an eye.

"Look at me," he commands, and cups her face with those slender fingers, thumb brushing over her lips. She forces herself to look at him in the eye, forces herself to not be reminded of the world in which those eyes were kinder and gazed into hers with love and tenderness.

His eyes are cold and cruel. They have the same sharpness about them as her Sherlock's, but they have seen war and despair. His hands are the same, but they have stabbed and shot and throttled, she can feel the raw, unrestrained power that flows through them as he puts them around her neck.

His hands are not calloused from playing a violin.

"You will need to forget that world," he says as he rests their foreheads together. "You are mine now, Molly Hooper."

She tries not to sob as he strips her of the flimsy cloth, rips away her panties from her body and pushes her into the bed. She closes her eyes as he begins to disrobe, the dark clothing he wore falling to the floor without a sound.

Maybe if she keeps her eyes closed she can pretend this is her Sherlock instead of one in front of her.

She both clings to and wishes to forget the memory of the day she ended up in this world.

There had been rather violent thunderstorms in London for the last couple of days, and Molly had been in her morgue when the lights blew out. A sudden whoosh sound and she had fallen flat on the floor, and it seemed as if the world was spinning out of control. The next thing she knew, the lights were back on and everything had seemed as it was before, except she was sprawled on the ground. Then she got up.

The body on the slab she had been working on was missing. In fact, she saw no signs anywhere that an autopsy of a fifty-year-old banker had been performed in the room at all.

Yet Molly was certain that she had been in the middle of an autopsy; she had blood on her gloves.

She was staring at her gloves when the door of the morgue burst open and a very familiar voice wafted in.

"…and make sure that the bodies are properly-,"

"Sherlock, darling," she had said, not looking up from her inspection. She knew his voice and presence anywhere. "Uh, wasn't I performing an autopsy just now?"

She had looked up and frozen. A gun was casually aimed at her by a pudgy looking man in a lab coat. She was certain she had never seen him in her life. And Sherlock-

When did he have time to chop away his curls? Sleek black, short hair now rested on his head and he was wearing clothes that were completely foreign to Molly.

"I thought you said the morgue had been cleared, Milverton," he growled at the pudgy faced man, and his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

There was something very wrong here.

"I-it was, my Lord," the man, Milverton, said and flicked open the safety of the gun. Molly's mouth went dry.

"Sher-Sherlock," she managed to rasp, "-what is going on?"

"Stand down, Milverton," Sherlock said and the man obediently put down his gun. Sherlock's eyes, cold, cruel and sharp, raked over her form before a sneer twisted his face. "Bring her to my office," he said as he turned toward the door, leather boots squeaking on the polished floor. "Something tells me this will be fascinating."

He had not wasted any time extracting every memory out from her, and he latched onto each and every one of them with an almost childlike glee.

"Fascinating," he had said again when she lay panting and sore and bleeding on the floor.

She had quickly learned her place in this terrible world, and Sherlock rarely went anywhere without her after she had proved her worth by successfully discerning the pathogen that was killing his hired grunts. He had then made her replicate it, and she had, because disagreeing with this Sherlock resulted in either being brain-and-blood splatter on the London roads or (if he was feeling merciful) a direct shot to the head.

Once she refused to attend the executions of his rivals, and he had made her the executioner for the day as punishment.

There is no John Watson in this world anymore. He died in one of the many wars that waged through this Earth.

"You must never run away, Molly. It would be very…unwise."

"Where would I go even if I did run away? I don't exist here, this is not my world."

"Good girl."

She had fought him the first time he forced himself into her bedroom. She had beaten ineffectually at his chest, trying to buck him off but he held her tight, straddling her waist, his weight heavy on her body.

"No, no, no," she had hissed, trying to throw him off even if she knew she never could.

"You are only wearing yourself out, Molly," he had said calmly, and soon enough, she could not find the strength to move any more. As he placed kisses over the exposed column of her neck and clavicle, tears burned at her eyes. She twisted her head away from his- she would not kiss him.

"I thought you loved me," Sherlock had said as he gripped her face tight to force her to look at him. She glared at him through her tears.

"You are not him," she had grit out as he loomed over her, close enough to feel his breath ghosting over her skin. "I love him, not you."

"Unfortunate," he had said, and bitten her neck hard enough to break the skin.

Mew.

"What the hell is this?"

"A kitten, obviously. There was dander and fur on the atrocious jumper you were wearing when you first arrived here. Inference, you had had a cat in the other reality."

"But why are you-,"

"Oh I always have ulterior motives." And he leaned down to mash his lips against hers.

He is being exceptionally tender tonight. Her body spreads open on its own when he moves to lie between her legs, but she refuses, as always, to voluntarily kiss him. He nuzzles against her, lips pressing random kisses on the side of her face he can reach.

His slender fingers slid down her body, caressing and kneading and pinching, and she can't help the moan that escapes from her when he reaches her center. She is wet despite her mental conflict.

His mouth follows the path of his hands, and she arches off the bed, muscles tightening in the sheer pleasure of it. She loses control of her own body and her hands latches onto his hair, mussing up the sleek back brush of it.

Her orgasm hits so suddenly, it is almost a surprise to her, the endorphins flowing through her make her pull him up and kiss him, tasting herself on him; her eyes are closed so she does not see the mixture of shock and glee evident in his eyes. Her legs wrap themselves around his hips as he thrusts into her; babbles and the moans flow out of her.

She is ashamed now; but she no longer has any control over herself.

He starts to get rough as he pounds into her, pushing her body up against the bed with such force that the headboard bangs loudly against the wall, and he bites and kisses her neck, and god-

"Mine," he hisses as she feels her body start to tighten with another imminent orgasm, and she can tell he is close as well. "Molly, Molly,"

She bites her lip and looks at him, face red and sweaty, hair mussed and in disarray, and he looks so much like him, and this eyes are looking at her with the same tenderness and desire as he used to, that she can't help herself.

She closes her eyes and the world explodes around her, digging her nails into his biceps, she screams his name into the night, not caring who hears.

He groans in reply, and as he pulses within her, she hears him whisper, voice deep with desire and lust, "I love you."

She flinches, and it feels as if someone has grabbed her heart and twisted it.

She moves away from him as soon as he slides out of her, to the other side of the bed, her back to him.

She feels his fingers trace patterns on the bare skin of her back.

"I love you," he says again breathlessly, and if she closes her eyes, she can imagine she's back at Sherlock's bedroom, her Sherlock's bedroom and the man saying those words to her is the man she fell in love with.

"No," she says, to him as much as to herself.

She hears him sigh and the bed creaks as he gets up. She has to admire his energy.

He is putting on his clothes when he says, "You can never go back, Molly. That rift in between the worlds will never reopen. Even if it did, I would never let you leave. So it would be easier for both of us if you just accept it. And me."

He kisses her bare shoulder and leaves, slamming the door shut and leaving Molly Hooper alone in the dark, naked and smelling of sex, trying to contain herself from losing what is left of her mind.

A/N 2: You all hate me now, don't you? I'm sorry. It turned out a lot less darker- so I guess you shouldn't all…kill me right now. But I apologize for all the "this shit is shit and what the fuckery". I watched a lot of Doctor Who and Star Trek, okay! Don't hate me for the wrong-sciency-and-illogical bits.

Love,

Adi xoxox

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