Disclaimer: The usual ones apply.
A/N: Since I'm slightly paranoid, I'm rating this chapter M due to the third scene. It's not very graphic, but better safe than sorry.
Part Two
The sun crept out the day of Rebecca Merlyn's funeral, a weather-friendly day meant for wearing anything but black. Tommy hated wearing all black. For the funeral, he dressed in a black suit and shirt with the turquoise tie his mom loved to see him wear. "It brings out your eyes," she'd told him, holding it up to compare. His father frowned at the display of color but said nothing. Malcolm Merlyn wore nothing but black, every day of the week. Father and son stood side-by-side, but a sea apart, as they laid to rest the most important woman in their lives. Rebecca had picked out a simple but elegant casket, mahogany with vines carved along the sides. Malcolm had her casket entombed in a black marble vault studded with mother-of-pearl.
Malcolm hardly said five words to Tommy; "Son," when they met in the funeral home and "We'll speak later," as he left. Tommy had nothing he wanted to say to his father and no desire to hear Malcolm's opinion on his life choices – any conversation his father wanted could be delayed for years for all Tommy cared. The pastor gave a beautiful eulogy. Several of her coworkers and friends spoke of her compassion and optimism, her humanitarian works, and the love she gave her community. Malcolm declined to offer any words, but Tommy had something to say.
"My mom was a great person. She was all those things you said, but so much more. I like to think I knew the best version of her. Because she wasn't just my mom, she was my friend. She was my staunchest supporter, my confidante, and she always, always saw the best in me, even at my worst. - - - The world has dimmed with Rebecca Merlyn gone. Goodbye Mom."
Tommy's throat tightened uncomfortably as he squeezed back tears. When he stepped back, to rejoin Malcolm, Moira stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. He sagged into her embrace. She rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. When he regained his composure, he hugged her tighter for a heartbeat and then let her go with a soft thank you. He caught the dip of another frown on Malcolm's face. He didn't care. Malcolm had been ice for as long as Tommy could remember. His father wasn't likely to change now.
The funeral party dispersed after they laid roses on her vault. Tommy remained even after Malcolm left, sunglasses back in place. Moira stood on one side of Tommy and wrapped her arm around his waist in silent support. Oliver stood on the other side and placed a hand on Tommy's shoulder. Oliver's shades were gone, and his eyes red. Thea disappeared for a minute. When she returned she had a bouquet of daisies that she set on top of all the roses. For a second, Tommy would've swore he saw Rebecca standing on the other side of the vault, vibrant and full of life again. She smiled at him and blew a kiss, then shimmered out of existence. Tommy let his tears fall.
SR*SR*SR
Tommy would've preferred to host the reception at the Queens' mansion. Moira would've graciously allowed his request, he knew she would've. Unfortunately, for appearance's sake, they held the reception at the Merlyn manor. Malcolm was notably absent, but his cold presence permeated Tommy's childhood home. Oliver kept Tommy company as he received everyone's condolences. Moira oversaw the caterers and Thea guarded the drinks Tommy would need to get through the rest of the afternoon.
He shook another sweaty palm, barely heard the "sorry for your loss," and murmured his response automatically. Then Tommy blinked and realized the line of sympathizers had ended. It was just him and Oliver standing awkwardly in the foyer with a case of sterile, white roses. Tommy felt a headache brewing behind his eyes. He rubbed his face tiredly and loosened his tie an inch.
"Ready for that drink now?" Oliver clapped him on the back.
"You go ahead. I need a minute."
Oliver went to find Thea while Tommy headed for a nearby powder room. A red-eyed, sad-faced man met him with a hopeless expression. Tommy looked away from the mirror. "This too will pass Tommy," he could hear his mom's whisper in his head. He closed his eyes and turned on the faucet. His head started to pound. He splashed water on his face and reached for the hand towel. His fingers met air. He squinted, grabbed the white towel, and dabbed at his face. He glanced at the mirror and saw the man in chains behind him.
"Christ!" Tommy spun around, but it was only him in the bathroom.
Pain spiked through his cranium. He grabbed at his head. Then he found himself elsewhere. He stood in a basement, poorly lit and damp. The man from the news was strung up against the wall. His body shook with silent sobs. Tommy reached out a hand without thought. His fingers brushed icy skin. The man's head lolled back; his eyes had been gorged out, his throat cut. A black bird pushed its way out of the man's mouth and flew at Tommy's face. Tommy brought his hands up to protect himself. Then he found himself cowering in the bathroom of the manor.
Tommy dropped his hands. His headache, oddly enough, was gone. He chalked what he'd seen up to grief and stress, just his imagination playing tricks on him. Tommy straightened his suit and went to drown his sorrows in some very expensive scotch.
SR*SR*SR
Three women knelt in a circle of bones. They wore shear linen gowns that ended midthigh and nothing more. Not one of them flinched as blood splattered onto their faces, arms, and gowns. Angry, red welts danced across their backs and black scars covered their chests and limbs. The more powerful witch among the three hefted a big knife while the other two chanted in a guttural, unpleasant language.
The knife sliced cleanly through the chest cavity of a creature not quite human, but not fully a wolf. The body had once been a man trapped in chains. The man whose eyes were sometimes yellow, sometimes blue. The man who was once a wolf in a park. The man from the news. From collarbone to navel, the dark-haired witch cut a deep, straight line. Blood sputtered and oozed from the rapidly cooling body. She peeled back the skin on either side of the incision and stuck one hand into the body.
There was a squelching noise, then out popped her hand with the dead man's heart. One of her companions held up a bowl without ceasing in her chant, the leader dropped the dripping organ into the container. Then she reached back into the body with both hands, she dug in deep, up to her elbows, and yanked. Out came the man's intestines. The dark-haired woman deposited those into a larger dish that the third witch offered. Then all three women started a faster, more menacing chant. The crimson knife flashed again.
"The time has come."
SR*SR*SR
The nightmares refused to stop. In fact, they seemed to grow worse each passing day after Rebecca's death. Tommy no longer dreamed of his time in the third-world country. His every resting moment was consumed with the pain and suffering of those he didn't know and had never met. Tommy almost wished to go back to his old hauntings. Those at least he understood.
He stood again on the street he'd dreamed of the last two nights. He couldn't see any street signs, not that he'd be able to read them in a dream. He did however recognize an old brick warehouse with a painted mural of the city's history on one side. That warehouse had been featured in local papers years ago as part of a citywide youth initiative to encourage interest in the arts. The street ran alongside the warehouse in a more crime-ridden section of Seattle. The sun peeked out, just after midmorning.
He watched as a black man in sweats and an old Army t-shirt walked down the sidewalk, a gym bag over his shoulder. A sound distracted the man who looked behind him and at the side streets. A cat shot out from under a Dumpster and ran into another alley with a hiss. The man shook his head at his own jumpiness and resumed his walk. A cloaked figure slipped out from a side street, behind the man. A blade flashed. The figure stabbed the man in the back. The knife struck again, higher up on his back, and the man collapsed to his knees.
"Tomorrow," a voice whispered in lustful anticipation. That same voice had been counting down the days since this particular nightmare began.
The figure pulled back the man's head and drew the blade across his neck. Blood sprayed everywhere.
Tommy jerked awake in a tangle of sheets. The clock read 2:30 in the morning. He didn't bother trying to get back to sleep.
Dawn found him sketching on the couch in his borrowed room. He'd picked up the hobby in his undergraduate studies, a way to help him understand the human body better. He sometimes worked on landscapes but enjoyed sketching faces more. He had an album of portraits of patients from his time abroad; some of them he'd saved, some he'd lost. He'd wanted to share those pictures with his mom, he'd known she'd understand. He'd never get the chance now.
Tommy rubbed at his eyes. He was so tired. He looked at the sketch he'd been mindlessly working on for the last half hour. He stilled. The face of the man from the city block stared back at him. Tommy ripped the sheet out of his pad, crumpled the paper up, and tossed the sketch into the garbage bin. He tucked away his art supplies in the fancy case his mom had bought him and left his room.
He found Raisa in the kitchen and sat with her as the coffee brewed. She clucked over him not getting enough sleep and offered to make his favorite meal for dinner that night. Tommy took her up on that offer. With his second cup of joe in hand, he wandered out to a patio that overlooked the Queens' expansive backyard and pool. The air was crisp and refreshing and he wore a jacket to ward off the early morning chill. Returning from his pre-dawn run, Oliver found him on one of the pool chairs.
"What's got you up so early?" Oliver dropped into the chair next to him.
"A dream I can't shake," Tommy shrugged as if it were no big deal.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Oliver asked, but Tommy shook his head no; "After my dad died, I used to dream about him a lot. I didn't want to talk then, but I found it helped to visit him."
Oliver left him to his thoughts and headed to shower before breakfast. Tommy finished his second cup and returned to the house. He paused in the doorway and instead of heading back to the kitchen, he took the stairs to his room. He had some place to be.
SR*SR*SR
Tommy borrowed one of Oliver's cars and drove into the heart of Seattle. He found his way to the building from his dream. There was no man on the sidewalk, dead or alive. The sun though wasn't high enough. Tommy parked the car and waited. After a few minutes of tapping on the wheel, he got out of the car and leaned against the hood. The car he'd borrowed was low-key and he was dressed casually in sweat clothes and a jacket. He couldn't see anyone out in this area currently, but even if someone could see him, he didn't scream 'lots of money.' He felt reasonably safe from any potential hold-up. He spent the next several minutes convincing himself that he was insane. Nothing was going to happen.
Then he spotted the walker. The man ambled down the sidewalk just like in the nightmare and he was headed in the same direction. Tommy had good eye sight but from two blocks away he couldn't make out distinct facial features, not enough to know if this man had the same face as the one he'd sketched hours earlier. The man wore the right colored sweats and the same shade of shirt as in the dream. He carried a gym bag over his shoulder, the same way Tommy had envisioned. The man strolled closer, Tommy took two steps away from the car. It couldn't be the same man.
Metal struck metal, clanging loudly and echoing from an unclear direction. Tommy jumped. The man stalled and checked his surroundings, behind him and the side streets. A tabby cat bolted from underneath a green garbage container, hissing, and streaked across the street. Tommy lost his breath as the man shook his head at his own frightened behavior. Sweat pooled in Tommy's palms. No, this couldn't be happening.
The man continued walking down the street. Tommy found he was frozen, unable to call out a warning. Now was the time for the cloaked figure to appear. None did, but a woman with long, dark hair stepped out of an alley. The same alley the figure had exited in the nightmare. She stalked up behind the man without him noticing. Something glinted in her hand.
"Behind you!" the words tore from his throat. Tommy sprinted towards the man, pointing.
The man heard him. Spun around. The knife aimed for his kidney caught him in the gut instead. The man backhanded his attacker without good aim and stumbled away from her. She dropped the knife as her head jerked to the side. She scowled, seeing her victim still standing and a witness running closer. She scuttled back into the shadows. The man dropped to his knees, clutching his injured side. Tommy reached him seconds later. This he knew how to handle. He tore off his jacket and put pressure on the wound, easing the man onto his back.
"Hold on there. I'm calling for help," Tommy said calmly. The man grunted, watching everything behind Tommy's back. Tommy dug out the new phone he'd purchased the other day, keeping one hand on his makeshift bandage. With steady fingers, he dialed 911. It had been real; his nightmare had come true! How?
SR*SR*SR
The uniforms held Tommy near their patrol car while the scene was secured, and detectives called. The bus had already taken John Diggle away; Tommy had asked the man his name, among other questions, to keep him distracted during the wait. Tommy had asked for some wipes afterward, to clean Diggle's blood off his hands. As he continued to wait to give his statement, Tommy ran through the story he was going to tell, because he certainly wasn't going to mention the nightmare that had brought him here.
Onlookers began to gather, speculating about what had happened. Tommy wondered how many of them had seen the action from afar and would come forward. He rubbed his hands up and down on his arms. With his jacket gone, he was starting to feel the chill that permeated the fall day and mostly cloudy sky. He must've missed the detectives' arrival, there were plenty of vehicles coming and going now, and a reasonable quantity of moving bodies. One moment he was alone, lost in his thoughts. Then a hand on his shoulder brought his head snapping up.
"Whoa, easy there," a blonde removed her hand from his shoulder.
She was beautiful. Hot, actually, but Tommy tried not to objectify women anymore. She looked vaguely familiar, but Tommy couldn't place her. She wore her hair in a bun, a nice blazer, and matching slacks. Tommy blinked in surprise at the golden shield on her hip. She appeared much too young to be a detective. "I'm Detective Lance. You're Thomas Merlyn?"
"Doctor. Dr. Tommy Merlyn."
"My apologies, doctor," Detective Lance replied with a downward quirk of her lips at his dress. As if to say, appearances can be deceiving; "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"Do I really have a choice, detective?" Tommy asked respectfully. She offered him a small smile.
"Walk me through what happened here today."
"I saw Diggle walking down the street. Then this woman came up behind him with a knife. I yelled a warning. He turned around and she stabbed him, just under the twelfth rib and to the side. She ran away, and I applied pressure, called 911."
She had him go through the events twice more. Then started asking for more details; did he see where the woman came from, where she went? What happened to the knife? Somethings Tommy couldn't recall, others he remembered at her inquiry. "Did you recognize the woman? Have you ever seen her before?"
"No," Tommy answered honestly, shaking his head.
"What about Mr. Diggle?"
"First time we met was today. Didn't even learn his name until after I called for a bus," that was mostly the truth too. He wasn't going to volunteer that while sleeping he'd seen John Diggle die.
Detective Lance nodded and added a few more lines to her notepad. "What were you doing in down in this part of town?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're a Merlyn, this isn't exactly your stomping grounds," she arched an eyebrow.
"I've been away, was driving around to refamiliarize myself," Tommy lied. She wrote something else in her pad but didn't question his answer. Instead she pulled out a card and scribbled on the back before handing it to him.
"Thank you, Dr. Merlyn, for your help. If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call me," then she offered him a flirtatious grin; "And if you ever just want to talk, my personal cell is on the back."
Tommy flipped the card over and there indeed was another number with her name underneath: "It was nice meeting you, Dinah." He gave her his most charming smile.
Ten minutes later, Tommy sat in Oliver's car, driving back to the Queens' home. He fingered Dinah's business car prospectively. What an odd morning he'd had. Woken by a nightmare that almost turned true; he'd saved a man's life, twice, and gotten the number of a gorgeous detective in the process. Well that last one wasn't so odd, but normally he had to work for a number a little more and he'd never been flirted with at a crime scene before. Overall, a very unusual morning, which he had no desire to repeat, but he wouldn't mind seeing Dinah Lance again.