Nocturnias, you are an incredible inspiration! You rank right up there with dark chocolate, a hot kiss, and a sip of good rum! Rocking the Redhead and Mayacakaia, thank you so much for staying with me through my "teething period"! To Angleico3156789, cling on, baby! To Mione W.G., I don't believe in happy endings, only happy journeys! Thanks also to James Birdsong, susieqsis, Zora Arian, Mangoberri, MorbidbyDefault (me, too!), CreamoCrop, and magicstrikes! I hope I met your expectations! And special thanks to thedragonaunt! Sorry for the delay! And I'm still blushing! Round two, anyone?
There had always been too much space in his bed. When he stretched out there was nothing to push against, to stress. His lungs were working like bellows, pushing out against his ribs, his fingers driving deeper into his palms. His eyes couldn't close tightly enough.
He couldn't have been any older than ten when Mycroft had taken him to see an illusionist, famous at the time, but largely forgotten now. It hadn't been for entertainment; it was a test. They sat apart from the rest of the audience, Mycroft insisting he explain the mechanics of each illusion as it was performed. Each had been slightly harder than the last, impressing all but two of the crowd. The man was reasonably proficient and Sherlock found himself enjoying his ability to misdirect, mislead.
For his final illusion, the man had brought onstage the traditionally beautiful assistant, placing her in a clear Plexiglas box. A silk sheet covered the box briefly and when it was pulled away, a tiger paced the box alone.
Somehow, Sherlock had missed it. His eyes darted around the stage and he could hear his brother's derisive laugh. For months afterward, Mycroft insisted that if it couldn't be explained, then the woman had obviously transmogrified into a real tiger. He knew it couldn't possibly be true, yet no explanation came. He was back staring at that tiger again.
Molly Hooper was not dead. No matter what reason or sense he tried to apply to the impulse, it wouldn't relent. Every time he tried, used all of the skills and judgment he possessed, the truth danced farther out of his reach. Stupid accidents happened all the time, robbing the world of the best and brightest among them. The innocents, those least deserving frequently met the most horrible fates. He should be able to grasp this simple principle, if not calmly, at least with certainty, yet every time, it turned in his hands, cutting deeper. If she had died, he would have felt it. Why the hell would he have felt it?
Always something he missed. He tried his best weapon, trying to find a hint, something overlooked, forgotten. So many of those areas covered with blaring signs "this way madness lay". He couldn't bear to look, had broken into her empty apartment, stealing her diary so no one else could, either. All of the warnings, all the red flags. He never had been any good at heeding limits. When he wasn't looking, some part of him must have crossed that line, the briefest of moments, and now the bill was coming due.
Sleep was coming now and no stimulant could hold it back any more. He couldn't afford his usual lucid dreaming, sitting up in his chair or on the couch, drifting in and out of that bottomless ocean. A slight draft now becoming her whispers, his hair moving as she breathed on his forehead. Without thought, he reached for the stolen fabric hidden beneath his pillow. Maybe if he let sleep claim him entirely, he could drop past dreams. The fabric still smelled of her shampoo and that ridiculously named hand cream she applied and reapplied all day.
In moments, he was in the morgue at St. Bartholomew's and it had never been so empty. No bodies on gurneys waiting to be checked in, no corpses on slabs in storage. No organs stored for the students (or him). Most of the equipment was also absent. No Molly.
The tremors seemed to have followed him into the dream. He knew Molly didn't live at the morgue, but he couldn't help thinking of it as shutting down, stopping if she were gone. His fists clenched. He had to come to terms with this, find some way of processing the truth. He had never really understood why people needed to see the empty shells left behind when someone they cared for died. Transport. A vacant suit of once-living tissue, nothing more. Would seeing her body help? It wasn't an option. If the explosion had left anything behind the water would have washed it away. Perhaps at some point there might be a bone fragment that could be tested. Until then, she would get a headstone with nothing beneath it. He'd never know where the rest of her was. She'd earned better than that.
He made his way back toward her office, only to discover a single body bag waiting on one of the autopsy tables. It froze him in his tracks. Had he needed to see her enough to have conjured her body here? He walked closer to it, gripped with something he tried to deny was dread. It wasn't real; he was only dreaming. He reached out for the zipper, bracing for what he would find.
"Not yet." a small voice whispered. A cold wet hand had stopped his wrist. Molly had let go of him as he staggered back.
She was dressed in that ridiculous red Christmas sweater she had worn the night Irene Adler's first corpse had been brought in. Her hair was down and she was soaking wet, dripping water on the linoleum wherever she went. No visible signs of injury, but her eyes were horrible; no longer suede brown, they had turned the shade of the murky Channel waters.
"I don't believe in ghosts." he hissed.
"You don't believe I am a ghost." she smiled weakly. "I guess I don't need to be. I haunt you anyway."
The water in the morgue was rising, pulling at him. "What do you want from me?"
She was so close now, the cold wrapping around him. "An answer, Sherlock. Give me an answer." Her lips touched him, just brushing, the icy burn of liquid nitrogen. She went limp in his arms, eyes vacant, and lips blue. The rising water drifting her hair out like a halo, pulling her away as he jolted awake.
He dressed quickly, and then dumped the contents of his sock drawer on the bed. Passport retrieved, he grabbed his wallet off the kitchen table, and slammed the flat door behind him. Lestrade could send him her credit card records. It would be just over a one hour flight.
Five days earlier…
Molly hadn't been able to keep her room at the Millennium Hotel for the additional night, but they provided her and her bags a ride to a smaller airport based lodge. It was all right, a bit more industrial than she would have normally chosen, but it was at least clean and well managed. They had transportation available to almost anywhere she could have wished to see before her flight in the morning.
As she checked in, they sent all but her carry-on bag ahead to the airport. Newly coded key card in hand, she made her way up to her room. It was sparse, small but not claustrophobic, and covered in the patterns she knew were used commercially to cover for wear and tear and stains.
All she really had eyes for at the moment was the bed. The queasiness had eased overnight, but she was so tired! Knowing she would have to land at Heathrow, drop her things at her flat, get cleaned up and then immediately get to Bart's, napping sounded glorious. She toed off her trainers, took off the jeans she bought when she and some of the other woman stopped at an American boutique, and slid into the cold bed. The sheets were crisp, mirroring her warmth quickly and she drifted off in moments.
She ended up sleeping most of the day. When she woke up to the setting sun, she had a real debate. Just going back to sleep sounded wonderful, but she really should eat. She had barely eaten anything on the trip so far and wasn't up to mimicking Sherlock. Brushing and braiding her hair out of the way, she reviewed her limited options.
Most of the others would have flown out earlier in the day, but she could call Max and Ian. They had lived here for years and she was sure they could help her find a good cheeseburger. No, on second thought, she wouldn't call them. Socializing on a Sunday night was always difficult when people had to go to work in the morning. Besides, she'd end up talking with them into the wee hours and that bed still had her name on it.
Le Baron Rouge was in a great neighborhood. The web had claimed it was the Parisian version of the bar in the American television show "Cheers". She wasn't sure she agreed, but it had been a nice place. She pulled her pants and shoes back on.
Her wallet in one pocket and her mobile phone in the other, she jammed her overnight bag under the bed. Nothing in it worth robbing anyway. She would ask the woman at the check in desk to call her a cab.
The food was good, and Molly hadn't been alone long. A group of Americans had come in, but none of the party had spoken French. As soon as they had heard her, they seemed to add her to their number. It was fun, if jarringly familiar.
Over beer and food, they had joked about the cultural distortions an ocean could cause. Her profession usually put people off, but apparent plethora of forensic television shows on in America seemed to allow it to pass. She did get the odd "can you really test for…" and "could you get away with…" questions, but she had stock answers (yes and no, respectively. Didn't want to give away all the secrets!).
She was saying her goodbyes when she started feeling a bit short of breath. Not a real concern, but she wanted to get back to the tiny bed in the tiny hotel. As she signed the receipt, the bartender offered to call her a cab. She didn't understand most of what he said, but was suspicious she didn't look well.
The air was a bit cooler outside, but she was feeling clammy. Drugged? No, she never had her eyes off her food or drink long enough for someone to slip her anything. She tried feeling for her pulse in her neck. The symptoms all seemed to indicate her blood pressure dropping, but that didn't make sense.
The heat came first, the sensation of a blanket fresh from the dryer being wrapped around her head to toe. Leaning against the building, she moved her fingers, knowing her pulse had to be there somewhere. Now it was ice water hitting her skin by the bucket. Sweating seemed to make it even colder.
Her eyes darted about wildly, trying to see if anyone in particular was watching her, noting her distress. Nothing. When the cab arrived, she'd go to the hospital first. Something very wrong was happening.
The heat came again and her stomach twisted like she'd been punched. A dead voice, unheard for more than a decade whispered from deep inside her mind. "I've been dreaming of mirrors again."
No. Don't let the memories come now. Too much to deal with. The ice water was back and her legs were turning to jelly. Get back inside, get help. The door seemed to have retreated down a long corridor. She fumbled for her phone, dropping her wallet. Was it 999 here, too? She couldn't remember.
The voice in her mind as the pavement rushed up. "An army of mirrors reflecting people to death." She never felt the concrete grab her.
John was trying to rush back to the flat before Sherlock woke up. He hadn't wanted to leave him alone, but they had run out of both milk and sugar, both their own and Mrs. Hudson's. She offered to keep an ear out while John shopped. When chaos swirled, there was a great benefit in holding to a few simple unchanging things. Tea was definitely one of those things.
"Funeral March of a Marionette" began blaring from his jacket pocket. Mycroft had been calling since the crash, ordering John to check every possible hiding space, which he was willing to do, and to report everything his younger brother did, which John would not. Some things were just not Mycroft's business.
John fumbled the phone open. "What now?"
"Why is my brother at Heathrow?" Mycroft was not amused. "And why did you feel a desperate need to go to a Tesco instead?"
"What?" couldn't one of the brothers just go from 'a' to 'b', instead of 'a' to 'a suffusion of yellow'? "Sherlock's at the airport?"
"Yes, John. I'm beginning to wonder if you understand the term 'watch him'. It usually involves actually having visual contact."
John had come around the corner and could now see Mrs. Hudson outside the door of 221, wringing her hands and looking for him. "Do you know where he's trying to go?"
"His flight to Paris is due to take off in ten minutes. You have to go after him, John. Is your passport up to date?"
He handed Mrs. Hudson the bags, clasping her arm momentarily and trying to assure her he had things under control. "Yes. If there's a problem, can't you just hold the plane on the tarmac? Arrest him if all else fails?" He started up the stairs by twos.
There was a long pause. "No one is to know this, John. Do you understand?"
He dug into the satchel of papers he kept by the door. His passport was valid for another two years. He slid it into his inner pocket. "Of course."
"We have reason to believe the passenger manifest from Dr. Hooper's flight is fraudulent. It appears someone replicated the baggage manifest instead."
John froze, rooting in the closet for his overnight bag. "Mycroft, was Molly on that flight or not?"
"We have to assume that she was. The airline is reluctant to let us see the security camera footage that could confirm or deny any of the passengers from that flight. It may take several more hours until enough pressure has been applied for the airline to acquiesce."
He rested his head on the door frame. "You want Sherlock at that end when you find out, don't you?" He shook himself. "I can be ready in ten minutes."
"A plane will be awaiting your arrival. We've booked you into Dr. Hooper's last known hotel. A sum has been transferred into your checking account that should cover any expenses. Find Sherlock, John. This may get very…messy."
