AU Mirrorverse Sherlock, inspired by Adi Who Is Also Mou's fabulous story "Mirror, Mirror." Molly Hooper has been torn from the world she knows and thrown into a bizarre, alternate version of London where Sherlock Holmes is the master criminal and everything she's ever known has been turned upside down. Warnings for violence and eventual noncom/dubcon and bad language. And I own nothing but the plot and the words (and said violence, noncom/dubcon & bad language, of course).

Many, many thanks to broomclosetkink for her input, to moonmama for her superlative betaing assistance, and to LoyaulteMeLie for her invaluable assistance in minimizing the Americanisms (otherwise there would be reference to a drunken frat boy in Ch. 5; kudos to anyone who figures out what it was replaced with!).

This will be dark and angsty as stated above but never fear! There WILL be a happy ending for Molly. Reviews always gratefully received!

Chapter 1: Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper

December 24, 2011 – Here

Christmas Eve, 2011. Sherlock and John's flat, 221B Baker Street. A Christmas party, to which Molly Hooper, St. Bart's youngest staff Pathologist, had been invited.

She'd dressed up specially. She'd brought presents for all the other (few) guests, taking special care with Sherlock's gift.

Then of course Sherlock had spoiled everything the way he usually did, by saying such terrible, awful things to her, and before she could even think of a way to react (besides standing there, frozen in place as if his words had been actual missiles that had pinned her feet to the floor); before she could do more than form a desperate wish for the floor to open up and swallow her, she realized that the ringing and buzzing sound she'd thought was simply her own panic in her ears had turned out to be…something that everyone else could hear as well, judging by their puzzled reactions, the way they all (herself and Sherlock included) started looking around the room. Trying to pinpoint the source of the noise and growing vibration.

When she looked up, there it was, centered just above her head, a black whirlpool of exotic (dark, terrifyingly dark) energy that had formed in the ceiling. She managed a single, panicky thought: This isn't what I meant! before the darkness swallowed her up…

…and she awoke in a nightmare.

There…

Christmas Eve, 2011. 221B Baker Street, one of many flats owned and used by Sherlock Holmes, infamous "Consulting Criminal" and the man who'd had a stranglehold on England's underworld since he'd seized it from various factions a decade earlier.

The flat was empty of all life but one, the man himself. Standing near the fireplace, violin in hand, drawing the bow across the strings as he contemplated his latest series of interwoven plots, the ones that would finally get Scotland and Ireland firmly under his thumb – at least, the elements that mattered. The ones that would give him the mental stimulation he craved more than the drugs he'd foolishly experimented with in his early teen years.

A cruel smile curved his lips as his right arm moved, the bow lowered to the strings of the Stradivarius he'd "liberated" from its rightful owner less than six months ago – and then all hell broke loose inside his private, secure, impregnable flat.

It started with a low humming, swiftly rising to an unbearable level of shrillness, intermixed with the shattering booms of thunder, as if a storm cloud was gathering inside his sitting room. A breeze out of nowhere, growing rapidly to gale strength, whipping against his wiry form, pressing him against the white marble fireplace, forcing him to drop the priceless violin as he grabbed desperately at the mantle, anchoring himself against the howling gale.

Squinting against the battering of the wind, he watched through wary, watchful (but never disbelieving, not when it was patently obvious that…something…was occurring, something extraordinary but obviously not impossible) eyes inside his flat.

With a sound very much like ripping fabric, only ten, a hundred, a thousand times louder, the dark, cloudy mass of energy that had formed near the center of his parlor ceiling spat forth a forked tongue of lightning…and an unconscious woman.

After recovering from the shock of such…supernatural events (recovering far faster than any other person would, he knew without a doubt), Sherlock cautiously approached the woman. Whatever otherworldly storm had deposited her there was a matter for future investigation; his flat was constantly monitored, access to the recordings restricted to himself and his private IT team (loyalty secured through a combination of threats and lavish rewards, the carrot-and-stick method being a tried and true system), and he was very interested in seeing that footage.

After he ascertained the identity of the woman now lying – dead or unconscious – on his sitting room floor.

He took in the details of her appearance with the flick of an eye; petite, slender, weight approximately 115 pounds, height five foot three inches, long brown-to-auburn hair, delicate features, mouth a bit small, breasts as well…all in all a moderately attractive woman even though she was currently pale to the point of ghostly whiteness.

Breathing, the slow beat of her pulse visible in her neck. Not dead, then. Good.

On to her clothing. Dressed for some kind of semi-formal (romantic?) occasion in a black, form-fitting sheathe decorated with a band of silver embroidery along the square cut-top and thin shoulder straps, moderately inexpensive in cut and fabric, nothing else of note. Matching black, low-heeled pumps (extrapolation: she was unsteady in anything higher and comfortable with her short height else she'd have worn something more appropriate to the style of her dress) encasing tiny feet (size 5 ½ at most). On her legs, sheer black stockings, one (left leg) rumpled and a bit loose (thigh-highs rather than full pantyhose), with a series of tears or runs from just below the knee to the top of the foot, the lower ones – yes, dotted with drops of blood stemming from what appeared to be scratches beneath the dark material. Interesting, that; put it to the head of the file when it came time to review the data in more detail (tentative conclusion: the fragile fabric had been somehow damaged during the transition from wherever she'd been to here, further exacerbated by her fall to the floor; secondary conclusion: her journey had not been without mishap, closer examination of her body was required to ascertain any additional injuries she might have sustained). Jewelry: ridiculously oversized hoop earrings, a silver band of fabric (cut from the same material adorning her dress) around her left wrist, and a tacky silver gift bow embellishing her hair – pulled back away from her face but falling loosely down her back – nothing to explain who she was or how she'd arrived in his flat.

An anticipatory grin split his features; excellent! It had been far too long since he'd been caught by surprise like this, and to have a mystery manifest itself inside his flat was the best Christmas present he could have been given.

When he finished his initial, cursory examination (there was bound to be much, much more he could learn from examining her underclothing, the residue beneath her fingernails, her very DNA – possible DNA from the scratches in her legs as well, matching as they did...yes, fingers from a human male hand-span much the size and spread of his own), he leaned forward to touch her, then hesitated. Considering her remarkable manifestation inside his flat, it was reasonable to assume he should use a modicum of caution when it came to handling her, even though she remained unconscious and gave off no sense of extraordinary heat or cold or other energy residue.

Retreating to the kitchen, he found a pair of surgical gloves and his riding crop. Donning the first and tucking the latter beneath one arm, he once again approached the unconscious woman's form. Kneeling by her side, he ascertained that she was still breathing, that nothing had changed in the few seconds he'd been away from her side. Good. Although a corpse would undoubtedly prove much less difficult to examine, a living, breathing woman was much, much more interesting. The wolfish grin returned as he reached out and prodded her on the shoulder with the tip of his riding crop.

No reaction, except for the slight rolling of her shoulder due to the impact of the leather-wrapped steel rod.

He shoved her again, harder; the only result this time was that she collapsed fully onto her back, left cheek of her face coming to rest against the hardwood floor.

If she was faking it, she was a superb actress, rivaling any Dame who'd ever trod the boards. Unconsciousness was much harder to feign than most people believed, and if she was shamming she knew exactly what to do. There was no movement of her eyes beneath her lids, and when he cautiously pried one open (dark brown irises, bloodshot sclera), the pupils remained fixed and dilated. There was no change in her breathing or, when he pressed a hand to her wrist, the slow thud of her pulse. No reaction to his brusque touch, head lolling when he shoved her…No, he concluded, this woman, whoever she was – and that wasn't even the most pressing question at the moment – was entirely unconscious.

The possibility of a supernatural – or even extraterrestrial – explanation for her mysterious arrival in his flat was considered and dismissed in the blink of an eye – less than that, actually. The possible scientific explanations he pondered as he retrieved a pair of plastic zip-ties from the flat's small kitchen and deftly bound her hands behind her back.

Once she was restrained, he turned to a closer examination of her body for injuries. There was a raised bump on the back of her head, but that could be attributed to her heavy fall to the floor. All other injuries were minor (the scratches on her legs, a few bruises on her backside and heels) and aside from the scratches could also be attributed as much to her fall as to anything that might have happened during her journey.

The tears in her stockings held the most interest for him as he lightly pressed his gloved hand to her flesh – warm but not feverish – ending with his fingers resting on her ankle, where the scratches were deepest. Yes, his hand-span exactly. Interesting. Very, very interesting. A DNA swab of those scratches moved to the top of the list of priorities he was organizing in his mind.

By the time he'd lifted her slight form – he frowned as he realized he'd overestimated her weight by at least two pounds, sloppy, he rarely missed something so obvious – and carried her to his bedroom, he'd come to some tentative conclusions regarding her unorthodox arrival in his flat.

The most likely possibility was that someone, somehow, had developed some radical new method of transporting a living body from one location to another (was she some kind of gift for him, or a trap – her clothing and attractive features and figure could indicate either possibility, although if it was the latter, then whoever had sent her severely overestimated his ability to be distracted by a pretty face). Another – and far less likely – possibility was that she had been deposited here by more conventional means, that he had been subjected to an incredibly detailed illusion meant to catch him off guard, distract his attention or otherwise keep him occupied while an enemy of some kind used said distraction for his or her own ends.

Based on that conclusion he finished restraining his intriguing visitor by the wrists and ankles before firing off a text to his head of security regarding the matter. After that he contacted various functionaries, demanding their immediate review of all on-going projects, to be followed by detailed reports of their status and any unexpected problems or complications that might have arisen, with careful attention to be paid to anything that had come up in the last twenty-four hours.

After he'd accomplished those goals, he retreated back to the sitting room and from there to the front door. He opened it and called down to the guard standing watch by the building's front entrance. "Milverton! Up here, now!"

oOo

After blasting the man for falling asleep at his post – which he'd obviously done, else he'd have noticed the very loud sound of a 112-pound woman falling from a height of approximately eight feet onto an uncarpeted hardwood floor, not to mention the incongruous sounds of gale-force winds before that event – he sent Milverton on a series of tasks: contact Wiggins from IT and get him to the flat; find a doctor who owed them money, preferably from gambling debts, and get him to the flat as well (personally, it was stressed, and if the doctor proved to be more than half-competent it would go a long way toward Milverton's professional redemption); and finally, contact his brother Mycroft.

Not that he had any desire to speak to his hypercritical elder sibling; however, in order to investigate this odd occurrence with any kind of depth, he would have to bring Mycroft in on it. He had resources even the emperor of the British underworld couldn't get his hands on, and Sherlock suspected this case was going to be well worth the cashing in of Mycroft's considerable debt to his younger brother; the man wouldn't be in line to become the next Prime Minister if not for Sherlock's behind-the-scenes machinations, and well he knew it.

He also suspected it would require that he, in turn, be placed into Mycroft's debt, but he would cross that flaming, debris-strewn wreckage of a bridge when he came to it.

Once Milverton had been dispatched – and his head of security, Sebastian Moran, had sent a man to take his place while he himself stood guard just inside the flat itself – Sherlock returned to his bedroom, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, attempting to glean what additional information he could from further examination of his still-unconscious guest.

She was approximately 30 years of age and of Irish descent, that much was obvious. Her name would no doubt be something along the lines of Bridget or Colleen or Molly, last name something equally common and nondescript. She was a scientist or medical doctor of some kind, although there was scant evidence showing which field held her particular specialty. Considering how she'd arrived in his flat, his initial surmise that she was a physicist of some kind was quite logical; however, closer examination of her hands, particularly her fingers, caused him to rethink that conclusion.

He was amusing himself by attempting to deduce more about her than the simple fact of her age and racial origin, that she owned at least one cat – a long-haired tabby – and had dressed specifically to impress a man (but was unmarried and very likely never had been married, no signs of ever having worn a ring on the appropriate finger). Soon the interrogation would begin and she would give him all the answers he required in order to ascertain if she was a threat to be immediately eliminated or an important part of the larger mystery surrounding her origins.

He had all the necessary interrogation tools here in this flat – drugs, the riding crop, some items he'd invented himself as well as various other tools of the trade – but preferred to have an actual physician administer the medication necessary to wrest the truth from her and perform the initial monitoring of her vitals. It was always better to have someone to blame if things went south, he reflected as he continued to study her limp form, dissecting her with his eyes whilst actively considering doing so in the more literal sense if it turned out to be necessary. Certainly medical scans would need to be performed if his growing certainty regarding the nature of her arrival here turned out to be correct.

Today was turning out to be so much more…interesting…than he'd expected.

He smiled.

oOo

Everything hurt. Her feet, her arms – especially her wrists – her shoulders, neck, head, abdomen…

Molly gave up trying to catalogue where exactly it did hurt and went for the Indiana Jones solution – where didn't it hurt?

Well, her nose seemed to be OK, and perhaps the tops of her cheeks. She felt a giggle trying to escape her mouth and managed to clamp down on it with lips that didn't hurt much, either. Nice to know that it wouldn't be painful if she tried to kiss someone…

Oh, her mind kept wandering, refusing to focus, why was that? Why were her thoughts so heavy and fuzzy, like a…a pair of those Bigfoot boots her mother used to wear back in the 1980s? She'd seen a picture of her wearing them once, when she was about six or seven, a few years before her mother had been hit by that drunken lorry driver on her way to pick Molly up from school…big, fuzzy, furry clunky looking boots over a pair of skinny jeans, and her mother's radiant smile from behind her oversized glasses and permed red hair…

"She's awake."

That voice, it sounded familiar…even through the muddled haze of her mind, she was able to latch onto that voice. Why couldn't she remember who it was…male, obviously, a voice that gave her a deep sense of comfort…her father?

No, her father was dead, she remembered that now. Her sad, sad Dad with his cancer and his broad grin except when he thought no one could see him…she missed him, more than she did her Mum, because he'd been all she had after that arsehole ran her down…down…down…

"Damn, she's fading!"

"Then wake her up, doctor. It's one of the reasons you're here, after all."

That was the first voice speaking again, jolting her back toward awareness, pulling her, jerking her along like a puppet being dragged by its strings…that deep, penetrating baritone she knew so well. Even in her current mental fog she'd recognize that voice anywhere… "Sherlock?" she slurred, peering up through bleary eyes that she just now realized had been closed.

An electric silence followed her question, and she found herself focusing on the second of the three shadowy figures standing in front of her. "S'that you, John?" she asked, proud of herself for finally remembering the owner of the other mystery voice. The third shadow hadn't spoken yet, but she laid a bet with herself that it was DI Lestrade. The holy trinity of the St. Bart's morgue, the three men with whom she spent the most time these days, too bad none of them wanted…

"How…fascinating," Sherlock's voice drawled, interrupting her scattered thoughts. "It appears she knows us, Dr. Watson. I do not recognize her. Do you?"

Oh, Sherlock, of course he didn't recognize her, she was in disguise, wasn't she? Dressed in clothes that fit well – a dress, she was wearing a dress, she remembered fighting the zipper – her hair and makeup done with a great deal of care…She giggled, not bothering to hold it back since some kind of lovely, cool slithering of happy floatiness seemed to have entered her veins, bringing her back to awareness, carrying with it a blissful lack of pain and a floating feeling she vaguely associated with high fevers from childhood illnesses.

"S'me, Molly," she slurred out, trying as always to be helpful. That was her, helpful Molly from the Morgue. Maybe the bow in her hair was throwing him off? "Sorry, know I look diff…diff'rent outta the morgue. I didn't think I looked that diff'rent innna dress, thought you noticed ever'thing, Sherlock…"

That seemed to use up what little store of energy she still retained, although she was enormously proud of herself for getting her entire speech out without once stuttering. Well, maybe once, but that hardly counted since it was because her tongue felt so thick and her brain still refused to focus, although thankfully her eyes were starting to do so…

Yes, that was Sherlock, frowning down at her from an even greater height than normal…why was that? She matched his frown with one of her own, although she knew she'd never manage to look anywhere near as forbidding as he could do without even half trying. She moved her head – careful, don't want the pain to return, after all – lowering it to look down at herself.

She was sitting in a chair. Oh, that explained it…except it didn't. Well, it explained why Sherlock seemed to loom over her taller than a Christmas tree, but it didn't explain anything else.

Like why her wrists were tied to the arms of the wooden chair she was seated in. Or why there was an IV inserted into the back of her left hand, some clear fluid drip, drip, dripping into her veins…oh, that must be the source of the cool loveliness that was keeping the pain away, keeping her mind adrift as well…had she been in an accident? But why was she tied to the chair, why were her feet bound as well – no, she couldn't move them, either. "Sherlock? What's going on? What's happened?"

No slurring that time, but she couldn't take any credit for that; it was all because of the panic that was countering the effects of whatever drugs she'd been pumped full of, the adrenaline rush giving her temporary clarity of speech and mind.

She took in the scene before her as everything seemed to snap into focus. She was in Sherlock and John's flat, she recognized that much. Facing the kitchen, staring up at three men. John Watson, wearing hospital scrubs (there was something wrong about that, although she couldn't for the life of her remember why that should be) looking decidedly unnerved; Sherlock Holmes, regarding her over folded arms with his usual inscrutable countenance, and another, black leather jacket-clad man she didn't recognize, holding a gun casually in one hand and with cold dark eyes trained on her face.

"Well, Molly, nice of you to finally join the party," Sherlock said with a sardonic lift to his eyebrow. He was standing the closest to her, only a few feet away, and she gaped at him as he dropped into a crouch in order to peer more closely into her face.

"What's going on?" she repeated as she tried to keep her eyes open and focused, to keep her mind at least semi-sharp as the adrenaline rush faded. Her name, he'd said it so strangely, but it was his other words that struck a chord. Join the party, why did that resonate… "What happened to the Christmas decorations?" she blurted out as the most incongruous detail – outside of her own, inexplicable imprisonment – finally came into focus.

She'd been at his and John's Christmas party…Sherlock had been horrid, she'd been utterly humiliated, he'd gone silent as if suddenly realizing exactly how horrid he was being, she'd wished the floor would open up and swallow her…then nothing. A complete blank between her last thought and now.

"I was hoping you could answer that, Molly," Sherlock drawled in response to her first question, although she could practically see him deducing her, taking her apart bit by bit before (possibly) putting her back together again. And he was still saying her name with such a strange inflection, and he'd – cut his hair? "Tell me, how did you arrive at my flat?"

"Why am I tied up?" she asked weakly, not ignoring his question so much as needing her own answered first. "Did I…do something?" Had she blacked out and gone on some sort of berserker rampage? Was that why the decorations were missing; had she torn them down, snapped like a crazy woman after Sherlock's devastating – and accurate – deconstruction of her motives for coming to the party dressed as she was? Had she – horror of all horrors – been the one to chop off his lovely curls?!

She recognized incipient hysteria and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Surely that ridiculous scenario couldn't possibly be true…but she still had no idea why she was tied to a chair in Sherlock's flat, being confronted by two men she thought she knew and one she was positive she'd never seen before – some kind of private security officer or bodyguard?

Sherlock cut into her thoughts impatiently. "Yes, yes, his firearm and protective stance obviously indicate his position as my bodyguard, but I suppose we can't expect too much from you in your current state, especially with the drugs running through your veins. But you still haven't answered my question, Molly." He leaned forward, thrusting his face close to hers, causing her to flinch involuntarily and pull her head back. "How. Did. You. Come. To. Be. In. My. Flat?"

He punctuated his last word with a downward motion of his arm, bringing the riding crop she belatedly noticed he held in his left hand against the hardwood floor with a sharp "crack."

She started, swallowed nervously, and replied: "I…I took a cab. For the party?" She hadn't meant to make that last statement a question, but since it was increasingly obvious that this flat hadn't hosted a Christmas party any time in the recent past, she found herself doubting her most recent memories.

"You took a cab." Sherlock gazed downward, his tone meditative, then suddenly looked right at her, capturing her gaze with his own. "To my flat." She nodded, eyes wide, wanting desperately to break that electric, terrifying contact, but too frightened to do so. She wished John would say something; why was he just standing there, like an extra in a police procedural? Why wasn't he jumping to her defense, telling Sherlock to stop being an arse, demanding that she be untied?

For that matter, why wasn't she doing any of those things? Well, she'd never been able to stand up to Sherlock before, so that was no great mystery, but she should at least be protesting her treatment at his hands, shouldn't she?

She opened her mouth to do just that, only to snap it shut as the riding crop went whistling past her face to slam painfully onto her thigh. She cried out as Sherlock returned to his full, imposing height and glowered down at her. "Don't bother. You won't be released until I'm satisfied you're no threat. Now. Answer my question – truthfully this time. How did you come to be in my flat?"

She shrank back against the chair, fully cowed by his unexpectedly brutal treatment of her. Yes, Sherlock could be harsh – but only verbally, at least to her. He'd never raised a hand against her in the past, yet here she was, with a stinging thigh and tears of pain prickling the corners of her eyes. "I took a cab," she whimpered, not understanding why he wouldn't believe that. Did he think she would take the Tube with a bag full of Christmas presents, wearing a skimpy, clingy dress under her winter coat, wobbling on (for her) high heels? "I swear, Sherlock, I took a cab…"

"Doctor?"

Without turning around, Sherlock addressed John. He responded quickly, nervously. "She can't lie, not with what she has running through her veins. She took a cab here, or at least she believes she did."

"Interesting."

Molly braced herself for more badgering from Sherlock, only to blink with surprise as his face relaxed into something approaching a smile. "Very well, doctor. Now, if you'll be so kind as to take some blood samples and do a DNA swab of both our 'guest' and the scratches on her left leg, I believe your services will no longer be required this evening. The IV is inserted, the dosage has been corrected, the rest I can certainly handle on my own."

The dosage has been corrected. Dosage of what? Molly still had no idea what was being dripped into her veins, but was frankly too shaken and terrified to ask, to do more than numbly sit there and wait for whatever fresh horror awaited her.

John was nodding his head in a series of short, sharp movements in response to Sherlock's words. He was sweating, Molly realized and his hands were trembling. He was as terrified as she was. "Right, all right, then. I'll make sure the results are ready by the end of day tomorrow…wait, no, it's Christmas, can it – can it wait until the day after, sir? I'm supposed to…my sister, she'll be in town, and I promised…"

He stumbled to a halt, eyes lowered as he waited for a response he clearly expected to be in the negative.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, then nodded. "First thing Monday, Dr. Watson. Bring the results yourself."

John nodded again, a look of naked relief on his face as he turned toward the small table where Molly now saw a black medical bag rested. She cringed away when he approached her, in spite of the falsely bright smile he'd plastered on his face.

"This won't hurt a bit," he assured her, but his voice was mechanical rather than soothing and Molly decided she didn't much care for his bedside manner. She knew he was better than this; why was he acting this way? She wanted to ask him what was going on, but one wary look at Sherlock warned her to just sit tight and allow John to do as he'd been told…although why Sherlock needed samples of her blood and DNA, she had no idea.

She winced as John placed rubber tubing around her upper arm – the arm opposite her IV, of course, although there really was no "of course" about any of this – and swiftly drew three vials of her blood. Thank God his hands had steadied, but he'd jabbed her like she was actually one of the oranges all medical students trained on, and her wince of pain had skidded the needle along the vein just a bit. She'd have a hell of a bruise when this was all over.

Once he was finished drawing her blood, he pulled out a swab and directed her to open her mouth. She did so with a great deal of reluctance, but the sight of Sherlock looming over them, one hand idly tapping the riding crop against his leg, left her with no doubts as to her punishment should she refuse to allow the doctor to take the sample. John then knelt down, and, with a perfunctory apology, pulled her left stocking away from her leg – she winced as she felt the sheer fabric pulling on what felt and looked like a series of vertical scratches on her leg, Sherlock was right about that, but he was always right, wasn't he, even when he was being a prick, which he was today so much worse than usual...

She bit her lip to keep the hysteria running through her mind from passing to her vocal cords and out through her lips. Sherlock – this off-kilter, fun-house mirror version of Sherlock – didn't look like he'd take kindly to her falling apart on him. At any rate, John had finished tearing the already-ripped stocking, shredding it in order to get the required samples from those scratches (how had she got them, when had she got them, what the hell was going on) before rising back to his feet.

"A-anything else, Mr. Holmes?" John stammered as he finished labeling the samples and placed them carefully in his bag.

Sherlock shook his head, still studying Molly in that completely unnerving way he had – more unnerving than usual, never mind the fact that she was still tied to a chair. "I can take it from here, doctor," he said, his voice dismissive.

John shuffled his feet nervously and cleared his throat. "Erm, about that thing, the thing your man mentioned when he, um, collected me from the A&E…"

Sherlock waved a hand just as dismissively. "Yes, yes, Moran will see to it. Escort the good doctor out and join your man at the door for the rest of the night, will you?" he threw over his shoulder. "And see that, hmm, thirty percent of Dr. Watson's debt to Angelo is canceled."

John looked absurdly grateful, and Molly wondered what debt Sherlock was talking about…and since when did John call him "Mr. Holmes?" She was feeling more and more like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole and unable to tell down from up.

The strange man – Moran – grunted acknowledgment of Sherlock's words and waited with ill-concealed impatience as John closed up his medical bag and grabbed a coat. Her sluggish mind caught up with his actions as she realized that John was leaving…why? He lived here, where was he going? Molly's panicked thoughts must have been clear in her eyes; Sherlock narrowed his, his attention completely captured by her once again. "You didn't expect Dr. Watson to leave…why is that?"

"He lives here!" Molly blurted out, then cringed in expectation of another lashing with the riding crop, which twitched in Sherlock's hand like a living thing. But no, it must have been his surprise at her words, not imminent attack, as it stilled again.

"I believe there are a great many things you will find not to be as you seem to expect them," Sherlock murmured as the other two men vacated the flat, Moran shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock approached her again, circling behind her, watching her, unspeaking for an agonizingly long period of time that probably only lasted about a minute. Then he seemed to come to some decision; with a sharp nod of his head as he stopped in front of her, he removed a switchblade from his jacket pocket and flicked it open.

Molly cried out and shrank back; in this topsy-turvy world she'd woken up to, he'd already whipped, jabbed and drugged her; there was no telling what else he was capable of, he could very well intend to slit her throat with that wicked looking blade. Without a word he approached her, and she felt the words, the pleas, bubbling up in her throat but unable to force their way past the lump that had settled there – please, don't hurt me, I'm sorry, I don't know what I did but I'll make it right, don't kill me, please, Sherlock, pleasepleasepleaseplease…