A/N - This fic is inspired by a moodboard created by mel-loves-all for the 2018 Sherlolly Halloween, which—in turn—had started as a prompt offered by me (from the lyrics of "Counting Stars" by OneRepublic) when Mel was looking for some inspiration last year. We've come full circle, friends.

Please look for mel-loves-all's original moodboard post on Tumblr (I'll try to include a way to find it, but you know FFdotNet. You're going to have to work for it.), if you'd like to leave some love there.

tumblr = mel-loves-all

post = post/ 179244731608/ halloween-at-221b-a-sherlolly-celebration

Mel-loves-all's notes about her edit - "Original Prompt: from darnedchild (Everything that kills me makes me feel alive)

**** darnedchild after reading your prompt, my mind totally went towards a Sherlolly AU where Sherlock encounters a dangerous, but sexy Succubus called Molly. Oh course it would go there. LOL!)***"

We're going AU, obviously. Aspects from the show up through "The Reichenbach Fall" will be included, but are not the main focus of the story so please forgive me for any liberties I've taken with the show canon. Currently unbeta'd because, once again, I'm running behind.

The fic summary belongs to mel-loves-all.

Everything that Kills Me

makes me feel alive

Part 1

Sherlock maintained many bolt holes spread out across the inner (and a few of the outer) boroughs. Far more than his associates were aware of, much to the annoyance of dear brother Mycroft.

Some of the bolt holes were so rarely visited even Sherlock would occasionally forget they existed, until the time came to dig through his mind palace to find a place to shelter down for a few hours to think or rest.

One of those places was a mostly abandoned groundskeeper shed near a leaning tomb at Hamstead Cemetery in Camden.

The location wasn't ideal as far as basic amenities, but it was certainly quiet and out of the way enough that he normally wouldn't be interrupted or pulled out of his thoughts. And when he'd reached the point of exhaustion, anything with a vertical surface to lay on would be good enough.

Which is how he found himself on a bare cot, in a small room containing a few forgotten pieces of lawn equipment, and only the soft light of the moon filtering through the single window to offer comfort.

He closed his eyes almost immediately. His mind blanked in the way that only happened when he had pushed himself past the physical limitations of his body (or miscalculated his high enough to mute everything, including his thoughts), leaving him with no choice but to sleep.

Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed when an unexpected voice jolted him awake. Unexpected and almost familiar.

"… avoided the temptation. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I gave in? How hard I've had to work to control my urges? My hunger? I'm practically starving. And here you are, when I'm at my weakest, looking so … delectable. I could just eat you up."

His head snapped up, and he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the hopes of identifying the speaker.

"Would you like that, Sherlock?"

He jerked upright, his hackles rising at the sound of his name.

A form stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.

Irene Alder.

As she took another step closer, he realized something seemed off about her. Much like the barely audible difference, almost a whispered echo, in her voice; he was looking at the face and body of the Woman … but not. Her eyes were blue, but even in the faint light he could tell they weren't the same blue that he remembered so well. Her lips were stained Irene's favourite shade of red, but they weren't the right proportion. Smaller. Thinner.

Not a doppelganger, but close enough to be the Woman's twin. She would have fooled a less observant man.

"Who are you?"

"Don't you know?" She ran her hands—tipped in long nails painted the same colour as her lips—down her body. They paused to bunch or smooth her diaphanous gown at each dip and curve as if they were unfamiliar to her. As if she wasn't used to the feel of the body she wore.

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" She took one more step toward him and reached out to touch the side of his face. He shuddered at the contact. "No?" Her red, red lips pulled into a pout. "That's disappointing."

"You are not Irene Adler," Sherlock accused her.

She titled her head and looked down at him with a hint of curiosity in her expression. "Is that her name?"

"Don't pretend you didn't know. Why else would you have gone to the trouble of looking like this." He waved his hand at her. "Although how you've managed to pull this off—" He blinked as something she'd said echoed through his mind palace until it clicked into place. "You said 'is'. Is, not was. How did you know she's still alive?"

She shrugged. "I don't, but you do."

The woman (but not The Woman, he was absolutely certain) slid her leg over his and settled onto his lap before he could protest. She tried to wrap her arms around his neck and pull herself tight against his chest, but he held her off with his hands at her waist.

"Oh, Sherlock. I know you want her; you desire this body. Don't fight it. All you have to do is say yes. Welcome me into your arms, and you can take it. Do everything you've ever dreamed of to your pretty Irene." She leaned in to kiss him and he jerked his head away.

"What are you talking about? Get off of me."

She clenched her thighs along the outside of his and refused to be dislodged, but she did pull back enough to leave space between their upper bodies.

"You want her, but she's not the one, is she?" She brushed a curl off of his temple. "No, there's another, hidden deep in your mind."

She inhaled deeply and her eyelashes fluttered. He would almost swear that her blue eyes flashed golden brown for less than a second.

"You're not just trying to hide her from me, you've locked her away from yourself. Except for when your heart races with desire and your cock grows firm with the lust you cannot deny. Who is it that makes your blood burn, Sherlock? What name is on the tip of your tongue when you spill your seed into your fist?"

Sherlock grimaced in disgust and finally succeeded in pushing her off his lap. "Don't be vulgar."

There was no missing the golden flash this time. Then she gasped in delight, "Oh, there she is."

Her features began to blur and shift, causing Sherlock to doubt his own eyes. Perhaps even his sanity.

Her hair lightened and grew longer. Her face softened and grew more elfin. The very proportions of her body changed. And when she opened her eyes, they were the familiar soft, warm brown he recognized from the pathologist from Barts.

Molly Hooper.

God, she was lovely.

She looked down at her body, then back up at him. "Interesting."

Unlike the fake Irene, he couldn't find anything that indicated that she wasn't the real Molly Hooper. Even her voice was Molly's, no hint of the eerie echo from before.

But that was impossible.

Sherlock blinked several times and shook his head. "What are you?" he rasped.

"You can't be real." He shook his head again. "I'm dreaming. That's the only explanation."

She reached toward him once again, then froze when a ray of pre-dawn light stretched across the floor at her feet. "There's my clever boy. That's exactly what this is. A dream. Just a dream." Her eyes cut toward the window and she frowned before turning back to him. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to play with you any longer. It's late, and you must be tired. Close your eyes and let yourself rest." Her voice was almost hypnotic. "Sleep, Sherlock. Sleep."

He tried to fight it, but she was right. He was tired. So very, very tired.

The last thing he felt before he fell asleep was the hot press of Molly's lips against his own and the warmth of her breath as she whispered in his ear, "Dream of me."

It was mid-morning before he woke and managed to stumble back to Baker Street, only to be intercepted by John in the sitting room.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You look like hell. What did you do last night?"