Just Another Nightmare

Author's note: So, this story basically came to me one day when I was bored and an idea ran through my mind. I'm not entirely sure where this story will be going, or what will be happening and I don't even know what genre it'll end up being, so please do bear with me. I think it'll follow some of the basic plot lines from the two (almost three!) series' and I welcome any suggestions and hope you enjoy :)

Chapter One

Shouts.

Screams.

Clawing.

Everything moves in a blur, as images fly past your eyes.

Sight, sound, touch; every sense is assaulted and your nerves are aflame with terror.

The flashes of vision are mere milliseconds long, but each one imbeds itself irrevocably in the mind.

There's a room, bursts of light and an air of dread choking the oxygen from your lungs.

Someone is trying to get you, trying to grab hold of you and you're fighting with every last inch of strength you possess.

But they're stronger.

Much stronger than you.

They are pinning you down, with very little effort, despite the fact that you are thrashing with all your might.

There has to be a way out and you desperately want to find it, but you can't afford to be distracted for too long; a fraction of a second will be all it takes for the fight to be over.

You try to move a limb-an arm, leg, anything-to prize some space between the pair of you, but this person knows what they're doing far too well.

They've done it before.

The first time hurt less, because you fought less, unaware of what was really going to happen.

That isn't the case this time.

You know exactly what will happen and how awful you are going to feel afterwards.

And you're terrified.

Not of the act itself-although that scares the Hell out of you-but of the moment just before it all begins, the moment an indelible image is planted into your brain.

The image that will haunt your dreams forever.

And it comes far sooner than you want, although a thousand years would still be too soon to see such a thing.

You see it.

You scream.

The drumming rolled through her veins, as her heart hammered wildly against her chest and she bolted upright in the bed. The darkness was overwhelming and it did nothing to remove the visage from her eyes. The nightmare tormenting her sleep had chased her into wakefulness and it wouldn't let her be. She needed light; something for her pupils to focus on that wasn't…that wasn't…

In sheer bloody panic, the young woman scrambled off the bed, crashing to the floor in a tangle of clothing and sheets, before scurrying along the thin carpet towards the wall. Her outstretched hands collided with the cool, solid surface and she clambered to her feet, her left palm gliding upwards until it met something plastic and square. With trembling fingers, she flipped a switch and harsh amber light bathed the room.

Her frantic eyes scanned every nook and cranny of that room, wishing away any hints of shadow that might be lurking nearby. The drumming continued and the rushing of blood roared in her ears, but she couldn't relax until she had taken in every last inch of her surroundings. From the dishevelled bed, to the small pile of clean clothing she had yet to put away, she catalogued each item she saw, until enough time had passed for her to distance herself from that awful nightmare.

Her breath came in sharp gasps and she forced herself to start breathing properly.

Deep breath in, hold and release.

She repeated the exercise several times and the waterworks didn't start until the fourth repetition. As the tears filled her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks, she suddenly felt as though she was made of lead and, with her back pressed firmly against the wall, slid down to the floor, her backside landing with a quiet thud.

With her hand tucked into the sleeve cuff, she pressed it against her mouth to muffle any sound that might inadvertently escape her quivering lips. Sound wouldn't help. She needed quiet. With all the exertion of a man trying to move a train, she willed her body to calm down. It wasn't real, she told herself. Just another nightmare.

Repeating the mantra to herself over and over, her heartbeat gradually decreased to a more acceptable rhythm and the tears eventually subsided, until all that was left was a bad memory and silence. Silence was good; silence was calm; silence meant nothing was happening. Nothing was far better than something, because something had the potential to be bad. Nothing meant the absence of everything-the good and the bad-and she would rather miss the good, if experiencing it meant risking the bad.

Apparently, this was progress. She didn't scream anymore. Didn't break anything during her desperate scramble for a light source and no longer resorted to the one means of distraction that had ended up isolating her from the world for months.

But she needed a distraction; always did during times such as these. A trail of linen ran from her feet, over to the dishevelled bed and she found the first prospect for the diversion she so urgently sought. Getting to her feet, she started gathering the bedding into her arms, before returning to the bed in order to tidy it.

She didn't rush, as that would have meant having to find the next task sooner. Glancing briefly at the alarm clock on her bedside table, she saw that it was a little past three thirty in the morning. Any normal person would have climbed back into bed and tried to retrieve the sleep they had lost, but she wasn't normal; people with far better qualifications had told her so.

It wasn't until daylight started to filter through the small join between the curtains that she was finally capable of allowing the briefest trickle of relief to filter through her limbs. Daylight, like silence, was a comfort. Everything was clear in the daylight, leaving no room for interpretation by the imagination.

The curtains were opened, but the electric light remained on until the day had fully dawned. One shower, several articles of clothing and a cup of coffee later, she was fit to be seen in public, but didn't venture out just yet. Instead, she sat in the chair by the window, staring down at the street below, watching as the empty concrete was gradually filled with moving bodies and vehicles.

As was common practice during the early mornings, she passed the time by playing a game of guessing the occupation or purpose of each passer-by. Most were faceless, anonymous people that failed to strike any chord of interest within her whatsoever, even though many habitually walked past her bedsit each morning. However, there was always the odd person that caught her eye and she found herself creating the most elaborate biographies for them.

One such person was striding past at that very moment. The main reason she remembered him was because of the article of clothing he religiously wore every single day. It wasn't a particularly spectacular garment, although its stark darkness did stand out remarkably against the pale blandness of the city, but it was often said that confidence was key to carrying off a look and this man had it in spades. He didn't strike her as particularly cocky, but there was a determination to his walk that brokered no argument. The garment in question was a calf length coat and, coupled with dark chin length curls, he had the air of a dandy about him. All he needed was a top hat and he could have easily been a cast member of any Jane Austen adaptation.

She would have loved to have known who he was and what he did, but she was also reluctant to remove the mystery, afraid he could be just another average person, with an average life. She didn't want average-she had more than enough herself-she wanted something remarkable. Unfortunately, remarkable was hard to come by when you spent your life cooped up indoors.

A hum broke through her reverie and looking at the phone on the table a short stretch away, she saw the screen light up. Retrieving the item, she unlocked the phone in order to silence the alarm. A thrill of nervousness danced around her stomach and she cursed the alarm for reminding her of where she had to be in an hour.

Checking the contents of the mug in her hands, she lamented its emptiness and, with a groan, decided to leave her spot by the window and see if the contents of the fridge or cupboards could tempt her to eat. They couldn't. The next twenty minutes were filled with her slowly gathering the necessary items for her latest foray into the outside world.

Six months. That's how long it had been since she last set foot in St Bartholomew's Hospital. A lot had happened between then and the current day and she didn't even feel like the same person who had entered the building all that time ago. Nausea threatened the prospect of her making a spectacle of herself in the street, but she valiantly fought to maintain her dignity. She was not going to be sick in front of the hospital. That would hardly have been conducive to getting her job back.

It was a very large building, filled with identical corridors and rooms that a stranger would easily get lost in were it not for the large signs hanging from the ceilings. She didn't need such directions. Before her retreat from humanity half a year ago, she had spent four years traversing the cold walkways and, doing so once again made her feel as though she had never left. Without missing a step, the young woman marched towards the offices of Human Resources, her pulse gaining momentum with each step. There was no reason for her to be so anxious, she knew, but it didn't stop her wanting to get the day over and done with.

"Molly?"

A masculine voice seized her attention and she turned to see a very familiar face a few yards down the corridor. After a second of ensuring he hadn't mistaken her identity, the middle aged man advanced towards her, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"I thought I recognised you," he said in the broad Geordie accent which years of living in London had failed to eradicate.

"M-Mike," Molly replied, nervousness causing her words to stutter. "Hi."

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he remarked, his hands resting in the pockets of his white coat, as beady brown eyes studied her through tortoiseshell rimmed glasses.

Mike Stamford was the sort of man the term "portly" had been created for. He wasn't particularly tall, only a few inches higher than Molly, with a round face and dimples adorning each cheek. There was an aura of calm and kindliness to him, which she had always been drawn to, but beneath the friendly, unassuming exterior laid a man not to be trifled with. He'd been one of a very small number of people who had made an effort to express genuine concern after she left St Bart's, although she had never responded to his calls or texts. She knew she'd have to make it up to him somehow.

"Um, yes, it has," she said, beginning to twiddle her fingers to keep herself calm. Six months without regular human interaction had made her already clumsy social skills even rustier.

"How are you?" he asked, that genuine concern showing in his expression.

"I'm okay," Molly answered, trying her very best to sound genuine. It wasn't a total lie, as she was definitely a lot better than before, but still very far from okay. "Feeling much better now."

"Good, good," he said and her attempts seemed to have been successful. "And what brings you here today? Are you planning to come back soon?"

"Well, that all depends on Derek, I supppose." Molly threw a glance over her shoulder at the door a few spaces behind her. "But, if all goes well, I should be back in a matter of weeks."

"That's great news," he said, his smile widening once again. "You've definitely been missed. No offence to the lad covering you, but he doesn't have your skills with paperwork."

Molly managed to crack a smile at his comment and a prickling in the back of her eyes proved how much his enthusiasm meant to her. She hadn't seen Mike Stamford-or anyone else, for that matter-since her "episode" and the reaction to her return was probably her biggest concern. She wasn't sure what sort of gossip had been flying around since her departure and didn't know if her return would be a welcome one, but at least one person seemed glad to have her back.

"Well, I won't keep you," Mike continued. "My pupils await, annoying little buggers," he chuckled. "And I'm sure Derek will have no problems with you coming back. I look forward to seeing you bring some colour back into the place."

Molly couldn't do much more than smile and blush at his words in return and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to rest on her arm. It took all of Molly's resolve not to flinch and shy away from the touch, but she managed to restrain herself to a small twitch when his palm connected with her bicep.

"Remember," he said, his voice lowering and eyes meeting hers. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask, alright?"

"Okay," she replied, nodding and, regrettably, counting the seconds until he ceased physical contact. It was nothing personal, but touch wasn't something she particularly craved. She had to stop herself audibly sighing when his hand eventually dropped from her arm.

"I'll see you soon, Molly."

Mike turned to walk away, but after a few paces, she called out to him and he spun to face her again.

"I…um…" she stammered again, unsure of how to word what she wanted to say, but ploughed forward regardless, needing to get her thoughts aired. The twiddling of her fingers increased. "I got the, um, messages that you sent. I know I didn't reply and I'm sorry about that, but I want you to know that I did get them and, y'know, appreciate your concern."

Mike remained silent, watching her for a short while, an unreadable expression on his face. "Don't mention it," he eventually replied. "See you later."

With a last smile and wave goodbye, he continued walking away down the corridor and Molly watched his retreat, until he passed through the double doors that would conceal him from sight. The prickling behind her eyes increased, until a wave of moisture soaked them and relieved tears threatened to fall from her lashes. She held them back and wiped her eyes dry, before taking a couple of deep breaths.

Once suitably composed, Molly turned and continued towards HR, scared shitless and in no way ready to discover her fate.

Almost an hour later, Molly Hooper exited St Bartholomew's with a mixture of elation and trepidation. In two Mondays' time, she was to resume her position as a pathologist at the hospital. Derek had read through her latest psychiatric reports, as well as had a long, detailed discussion with her, regarding the possibility of her returning to work. It had taken quite a lot out of her, but she reckoned it could have been the exhaustion following prolonged exposure to the adrenaline that had been coursing through her body for the past few hours. Being up at three am was also a strong contributing factor.

After a few breaths of fresh air, or as fresh as London air could get, Molly felt her pocket vibrate and fished out her phone, seeing the screen light up. Unlocking the device, she read through the text message she had just received.

Supposed to be nice weather today. Fancy the park instead of the office?

There was no name at the end of the message, but it wasn't necessary. She knew the identity of the sender very well, as they had been her one regular human contact for the past six months. Considering the proposal, she decided to check the weather for herself, before answering. Apparently the sender of the text was correct; it was going to be a beautiful day. Another moment of contemplation and she replied.

Sure. Where are we meeting?

It was a couple of minutes before the reply came through.

By the Pavilion Café. We can either stay there or head somewhere else.

She agreed, before returning the phone to her pocket and heading for Victoria Park.

A/N: So there we are! Just to let you know, some of the character's backgrounds will be pretty AU, so consider it a warning for those who aren't into that sort of thing. Hope you all enjoyed and I'll update as soon as I can :)