This will probably just be a few chapters long. I wanted to explore a reversal of the dynamic I had between these two in Send Me The Thorns. Going off Molly's blog created by the BBC, she's "Little Miss Perfect" to her friends, and she doesn't let other men talk to her the way Sherlock does, she isn't like that normally and it's "just him." I wanted those aspects of Molly to show. This fic contains BDSM (nothing too extreme) and eventually, sex.
Molly Hooper carried two types of business cards in her wallet.
One displayed her name proudly in a bold font the print shop assured her was trendy but professional. An impressive string of letters followed her name, and her brand-new Barts email and phone number lined up neatly beneath it. The stiff, cream-colored card nicely framed the lettering and the silver stethoscope graphic in the upper left corner.
She loved the stethoscope part best of all; it was her little joke, because none of her patients actually had a heartbeat. No one but Molly ever thought it was funny, though.
She'd seldom had an opportunity to give away one of those cards, but then they were fairly new. She expected she'd have the chance to whip out her pristine cards when she began her first post-schooling job, at Barts the following week.
The other business card was handed out more frequently but was kept in a less convenient place in her wallet- stuck deep into a tight pocket behind the club memberships she almost never pulled out.
This card was a glossy black rectangle without adornment, and Molly Hooper's name appeared nowhere on it. The first four lines of it read:
~Discreet and Safe BDSM Dungeon~
10+ years in the heart of London
By appointment only
If one phoned the number listed on the fifth line of the card, they'd reach a perky-voiced woman who would happily set them up with an appointment for whatever kinky and legal bondage and discipline they had in mind.
She loved the black card because it had nothing to do with Molly Hooper, the unglamorous student who practically lived in labs and morgues. The confident woman who emerged in the dungeon, breathless in her white boned corset, would be scrubbed clean of makeup and sweat by the time she returned to the morgue every day to complete her studies.
She lotioned her hands religiously so the skin remained soft over the strong muscles, and no tell-tale calluses showed she'd been expertly flogging a barrister into the wee hours of the morning. She scrubbed her body carefully so there would never be any scents or marks to give away her secret. She kept her two lives clear and distinct from one another; even the thought of an overlap inspired panic in her gut.
Molly was at heart a perfectionist and an asset in the dungeon. Her anatomical knowledge and playful demeanor quickly made her one of the most popular dominas at Elena's. That she looked several years younger than her age was another point in her favor, the clients often preferring girls still at uni. She'd actually begun working in the dungeon during uni; the pay was fantastic and the hours brief, rarely interfering with her medical studies.
She never intended it to be anything more than a quick-money job, but over time, Molly found that she had a raw power that she'd never felt in her medical school. Pathology wasn't very interactive and she usually preferred that. In the dungeon, she relished the short periods when she was fearless and adored.
Over the years, she grew adept at constructing clients' dream role plays and controlling their corporal punishments, and she put her understanding of anatomy to good use. The hints submissives' bodies presented were as easy for her to read as the ones in the morgue.
Well that's a bit disturbing, she thought with a laugh, musing on her strange second career while getting off the tube and rushing up the stairs to work one rainy afternoon.
Molly brushed away the thought cheerfully as she opened her umbrella and hurried down the street. There was no doubt in her mind about her abilities and the value of her work, whether she was in a lab coat at Barts or in a skintight skirt and bustier at Elena's.
Shaking the rain from her umbrella, Molly ascended the staircase to the second floor, ignoring the man in the long dark coat who trailed behind her. The embarrassed clients never wanted to be acknowledged until they stepped through the door to the dungeon, and that suited Molly perfectly. Her inner self was as much a secret as theirs was.
Sherlock Holmes frowned at the album of photographed dominatrices that the elegant receptionist dropped in his lap in the waiting area. The preliminaries always frustrated him, in his expensive quarterly visits when he gave into his desire for release of a particular kind. There were too many phone calls, questions and rituals, and rules to swat away. But he only had to deal with it four times a year, and so it was a tolerable hassle.
"I don't need this. I'll see whichever one is free right now, as long as they are qualified."
"This is our usual procedure," the striking blonde insisted with a firm but gracious smile. "And you want to have a lovely time, don't you? I don't make the rules, anyhow so be a good lad." She winked and Sherlock's nose wrinkled in annoyance.
"Skip the lies, Miss Leopold," he snapped at her, his icy eyes flashing. "You do make the rules here, since you're the proprietor of the establishment, not the help. A phone girl would hardly be wearing what, £4000 worth of jewelry, would she? Not to mention the overlarge breast implants and the shin splints obvious in your gait. Leftover from the lengthy exotic dance career your website alludes to, I imagine."
The woman's practiced smile dropped a notch, and her green eyes glittered. "Yes, this is my place. And you will obey the rules or you won't be playing here, or anywhere else in the city. I'll make certain of it. Is that clear?"
Her polished voice rang with a razor's edge, and Sherlock relaxed.
The last dungeon he'd patronized had told him to find somewhere else to play after he annoyed the employees with overly accurate deductions. They'd let his challenging of them go on far too long, he realized now. It was the wrong house for him. But this place might work. Already the prospects seemed brighter.
He sat back in the upholstered chair, and flipped open the photo book, going through the pages quickly. On the fifth page, his fingers froze.
Yes, this is the right place.
He pointed to the stylized photo of a slim young woman perched on a table with her legs crossed. She wore stilettos and a white lab coat with her head turned away from the camera. The fabric barely reached the tops of her thighs, and revealed less than a swimsuit did, but somehow she seemed more exposed than she would have nude. It was buttoned up to her modest cleavage, where a lacy pink bra peeked out. Her light brown hair was loose, and fell in soft waves across her breasts and her tilted face. Only the tip of her nose and her rosy pink lips were visible behind the silky curtain of hair.
"Her. I want her. Please," he added as an afterthought to placate the owner. He ought to have flattered her to begin with, but politeness was rarely the first tactic that came to his mind. His pale fingers began to drum on his thigh.
"Mistress Sophia. Excellent choice, one of our best," Elena said. "Fill out the card; we need a bit of info before we can start."
In the photo, the mistress had a wrist callus, a tiny scalpel scar on her finger, and a barely visible monogram on her authentic and new-looking lab coat.
Sherlock had always wanted to play with a mistress who had hands like a doctor.
"You're up, Sophia."
At the sound of her domina name, Molly poked her head out of the small room with a telly where the dommes changed and relaxed between appointments.
"Sorry I was late, let me slap some lipstick on. Someone left a huge mess at the lab that I had to clean up. I got to help with this really amazing case this morning where the victim's face had been torn-"
Elena cringed. "Let's not talk about corpses, yeah? Anyway, I may owe you an apology for this one," the owner said, waving toward the waiting room. "He's a weird one. But he's youngish and fit, which is a change of pace- nice arse that could use a good smacking. Here's his questionnaire."
"Thanks. Hour session?"
"Yes. I recommend you start by slapping the hell out of him."
Client no. 562214
Preferred activities: corporal punishment- moderate level, OTK, hair pulling, extensive bondage, sensory deprivation, sensation play
Favorite toys/tools: cane, tawse, suede or leather flogger, crop, wooden hairbrush, nipple clamps, blindfold
Fetishes (example: feet, leather, latex or rubber clothing, boots, etc.): Wear what's in the photo.
Health/physical concerns/restrictions: N/A
Dislikes: Role play is tedious. Verbal humiliation and speaking in general is unnecessary.
Hard Limits: No penetration or blood play, no CBT (CB bondage is acceptable), no body fluid contact, no permanent marks. No public scenes.
Additional Notes/Requests: You design the session. I'm not here to do your thinking for you.
Molly strode into the room, confident she could handle the mouthy client. His questionnaire responses had made her giggle, with their snark. Truth be told, she preferred a sub who knew exactly what they enjoyed over someone who would just shrug and tell her to try "whatever." Sessions were in her control, but she wanted it to be fun for both of them.
In the changing room, she had slipped her lab coat on (not her monogrammed one from the photo but she doubted he'd notice), with matching stilettos, and shimmied into a pair of frilly knickers. They covered her bottom fully and went well with the dainty white lace bra she wore.
Molly slicked on dark pink lipstick, and touched up her mascara. She shook her hair out of the loose bun until it fell in shining waves over the shoulders of her white coat. Looking into the mirror and cocking a hip, she grinned and felt the excitement of a new client bubbling in her belly. She gathered her favorite toys in her bag, and asked Elena to start the timer.
She thought she was ready for him.
When she entered the room and looked into the face of her client, Molly realized she wasn't so sure anymore.
He finally heard the clackety-clack of her high heels as she walked toward the room he was assigned.
The wait was short, no more than ten minutes- more than enough time for him to grow bored with deducing the details of the most recent sessions that had occurred in the room. He slipped off his black jacket and draped it over the arm of the sofa, tapping his fingers impatiently on the leather surface as the minutes passed.
The walls were a soothing sky blue, and the white leather furniture was luxurious and nonthreatening. A series of pastel landscape paintings complemented the color scheme. The St. Andrew's Cross bolted to the wall and the armoire full of toys and ropes were the only indication that he wasn't in the parlor of a middle-class home.
The sound of her stride interested him. There was almost a skip in her step. If she were a medical student- and his deductions indicated she was- she should be old enough that her step was heavier, more serious. Clearly she eschewed the typical platform shoes that so many dominatrices wore, since the thin-sounding floor strike matched that of a stiletto rather a platform.
A sudden thought occurred to him. The info beneath her photo had said she was five foot three. Would she be imposing enough to top him if she wore lower heels and was more petite than the women he usually chose?
The speculations raced through his mind, the data gathered and crammed into a steady stream of overflowing information. Sherlock frowned and tried to push it away. The longer he went between appointments, the harder it became to manage the rush of information that assaulted him in daily life.
He needed this. He needed her to hurry. He needed her.
She stepped into the room, dropping her oversized black toy bag on the floor without looking, out of habit. Pushing her hair back, she turned to greet the client, who sat silent and black-clad on the sofa.
"Hello, I'm Sophia!" She had barely gotten the greeting out and extended her hand when the man turned and stood. "Oh."
"Oh what?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. His voice was posh and educated, a deep baritone. He frowned and a stubborn line formed between liquid blue-green eyes that were tilted like a cat's. His cheekbones were high and his nose proud and patrician. His dark hair was a touch too long and curly like a poet's, only there was nothing romantic about the sharp lines of his face. He towered over her, and his hand was strong when it clasped hers after staring at it surprised for a few seconds.
"Oh nothing. I just…it's nice to meet you. What should I call you? Elena didn't give me your name." They shook hands, and Molly had to remind herself this was her job and not a bar.
Because he was bloody beautiful. Not in the way that most people would think, no, he was something else. Strange and smart-looking, with iris color that kept shifting and hands like a concert pianist. His angles and oddness called to mind the darkness and light of a Caravaggio angel.
…and he's almost unreadable. I have no idea what this man is thinking, Molly acknowledged to herself, trying to quell an unfamiliar panic. Oh god. He's a sub?!
As if reading her mind, he took a step back and looked her up and down in assessment. "I'm Sherlock. Yes, that's my real name. And no I don't want to share anything else about my life. You've read the card? Good, let's begin."
Instinctively, Molly stood taller and found her center, the place where she could hold firm and remain in control of even the brattiest of subs.
"Yes, I've read it. Thank you for being thorough. It saves time. Take off your clothes and place them on the table."
His eyebrows rose at the sudden shift. He bent down to remove his shoes and socks, and set them on the floor by the table. Molly watched dispassionately, hands on hips with a mild smile on her face.
He pulled his black shirt from his trousers and unbuttoned it quickly. He folded it and laid it on the end table as ordered.
"Good." Molly bit the inside of her cheek and forced the expression on her face to remain unaffected. But his torso was lean and firm, and he had just the right amount of light hair sprinkled across his chest. She wanted to drag her fingernails across his chest just to see how sensitive his nipples really were, before slipping on clamps.
She smiled politely. "Continue."
His fingers found the button on his trousers, flicking it open and unzipping. A push dropped the trousers and boxer briefs underneath to his ankles. He bent and picked them up before folding the clothing and adding them to the pile.
He stood in his original spot and didn't speak, but Molly could sense that he wasn't completely with her yet. He seemed unconcerned with his nudity, no more vulnerable with his cock exposed than he was a moment before. (And a nice cock at that, her unprofessional side whispered to herself.) Usually losing their clothing stripped away the pretenses of powerful men who needed submission, but it wasn't helping with this one. She wondered again what sort of man had fallen into her dungeon. Her mind flashed back to the questionnaire and the information, the weaknesses exposed there.
Control had to be established with this one, or he'd break her before the hour was out.
She stepped close and peered up at him, her brown eyes gentle and warm. She gave him her most disarming smile. She allowed herself the pleasure of sliding her hands over his warm chest, feeling his nipples and rough chest hairs tickle her palms.
"Hmmm," she murmured, exploring the terrain of his torso. His nipples tightened as her fingernails scraped over him again. She looked up, and watched as his stormy eyes darkened. Her hand slid up his throat, over the tempting cords of his neck, and up into his wild curls.
Her hand tightened into a fist.
Molly's mouth curved upward again, her face cheery, but this time she let the power show. She gripped his scalp firmly and tugged until his mouth dropped open with a quick breath and his eyes narrowed. She yanked a little harder, seeing how he barely reacted, and this time was rewarded with a hiss inward. He leaned forward, to alleviate the discomfort, and she pulled harder, digging her nails into his scalp, kneading with the sharpness of her fingers while his hair tangled further with her digits.
"On your knees now," she commanded, her voice firm and cold. She didn't need to raise her voice to assert herself; she tugged downward and he went on his knees before her as fast as any obedient sub ever had.
"There will be no more backtalk." She slid her other hand into his locks, and dug deep, fisting the curls from the scalp so as not to pull hairs out. With both hands secure around his hypersensitive scalp, Sherlock nodded. She watched with interest as his cock began to harden and thicken.
"I understand, Mistress," she corrected him.
"I understand, Mistress," he repeated after her. She released his curls from her hands, and smoothed her palms over his cheeks, appreciating the strong bones there. He leaned into the touch like a cat, and Molly grinned.
"If you truly have an objection, you have your safe word 'coda' in place. Beyond that, I am always Mistress to you, Sherlock. Now, I'd say, we're finally ready to begin."