Chapter 2

The ride to Cordlin was long, and it was full of plenty of time to meditate over what Sherlock was doing. He had lost it, yes, that is what he had decided. The fall had hurt him more than he thought. It made him insane. It was insanity to go back to that cursed island. He should just tell the cabbie to turn him around and go back to 221b Baker Street. To John, to Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson, to Molly, to normalcy. But he wasn't one to go for normalcy, was he? He was always the unusual type. And that was saying something, considering where he came from.

Sherlock had forgotten where he had come from until the dream. He had deleted the memories, or, as the dream proved, pushed into the oldest, best hidden file cabinets in his mind palace. In fact, he had been convinced for years that he was from a hidden Old Money family or something along those lines. How else did his brother have the job he had?

By his roots, Sherlock thought darkly. He would bet everything he owned that Mycroft had got his job by not only through his brilliance but also the fact that he held one of England's darkest secrets in his blood. That dark secret was Rollrock Island.

Not many Britons knew of the island. The only ones who did were citizens of the island or of Cordlin and its nearby villages. If they weren't, they knew of the place by knowing people from either or from having a very high government occupation. Other than that, the island just didn't exist.

But to people who knew about it, it definitely did exist. It was a place most wished didn't. It was a dark place, teeming with curses and old magic. Another reason why Sherlock had hidden those memories. Magic was something that he didn't get along with. And it wasn't because he didn't believe. Oh no, he didn't have an option but to. That didn't mean he couldn't choose whether to accept it or not.

Sherlock felt awfully guilty about leaving John behind. This was his first case he had done alone since the two had become partners, not counting his dismantling of Moriarty's web. Already it wasn't feeling the same. There was a pang of loneliness about it, and a feeling of dread. It was almost as if the good doctor was his good luck charm, and without him he was doomed to fail.

"Here we are, Cordlin," the cabbie told him. Sherlock thanked and paid the man before getting out and grabbing his suitcase from the trunk.

The dust picked up by the receding vehicle settled and he could see the scene in front of him. Cordlin was a small town when compared to places like London. Compared to places like his hometown of Potshead it became a city rivaling the greats.

Cordlin citizens had been up since before dawn. Most of the men had been out on their boats for hours and a few had already come in with the morning's catch while the other men opened their stores for the day. Women had a few shops of their own, but mainly they tended to the house or helped their husbands behind the counter. Here men wore traditional suits for business and worn slacks and shirts for labor. Women wore dresses and it was very rare to find one wearing pants. It wasn't a religious thing, no; it was definitely because this place was lost in time. For all the citizens of Cordlin knew, there was no time difference between the early 1900s and now. The only exception was the technology which was roughly 1960s.

At least here there was technology. Sherlock knew that as soon as he got on that boat for Rollrock he would be going back to a time before Edison. To a time where one didn't need a car because they never travelled farther than walking distance of the home and they never needed electricity because everyone in the town was hearing distance and a candle could give you the same amount of light as any lightbulb.

Compared to the rest of England, where citizens didn't look at you twice for being tall, black haired, and pale, he stuck out like a sore thumb in Cordlin. All of its citizens were more or less red haired, short, and stout. They had the weathered look of someone who grew up by the sea, yet it was not as distinct as that of an islander. There was also the fact that Cordliners could see an islander from a mile away.

Islanders used to fit the description of the Cordliners. But then the men began to wed and breed with the sea-maids and slowly its stock changed to that of what Sherlock and his brother looked like. All male, all black-haired (some had curly and some had straight depending on which parent you took after), and all had either the big dark eyes of the mam or the pale eyes of the dad.

So it came to no surprise to Sherlock when the crowds began to instinctively eye him distrustfully and moved out of the way when he walked too close. They parted like the Red Sea and he heard murmurs pass around about him.

"An islander, definitely."

"But he took a London cab here. Didn't you see how modern it was?"

"Then he's going back. There's no way he's not from the Island."

"Stay away from him."

"I wonder what he wants."

"Maybe he just looks like one."

"You keep dreaming that."

Sherlock made his way to the docks. The day was sunny and the waters reflected it, a dazzling array of light on the sparkling blue sea. Seagulls cawed at each other and tried to steal fish left unattended in the nearby market. The smell of salt and the tide hit his nostrils yet it wasn't unpleasant to him.

"Excuse me, are there any boats going to Rollrock today?" Sherlock asked a sailor who was busy unloading crates of fish that had been caught earlier that morning.

"One's heading out now. The Highlander. You hurry and they just might let you tag along, Islander," the sailor responded. He indicated with his body the boat in question. It was a ferry, but it was almost empty.

"Thanks." He scurried down the dock, his suitcase clacking on the wooden boards as it rolled behind him. He made it to the boat just as two sailors were about to pull up the gangplank.

"You going to Rollrock?" he checked.

"Yessir," one of the sailors replied. "You need to ferry over there?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. I just wanted to hold you up. Of course I want to go to Rollrock!"

The sailor looked a little put off but said, "Get aboard then. Anyone going to the island doesn't have to pay. Not many ever go."

Sherlock did as told and put his suitcase in a secure place below deck so it wouldn't get wet before going above deck again. The boat had pulled out of the harbor and was gaining speed as it headed across the small channel to the island. The wind buffeted his black curls and sent his scarf whipping backwards around his neck. However, out on the sea the wind wasn't so cold or as tough as the wind on land. It never was for him. And as he gazed out on the watery depths that always matched his eyes he wondered if that was normal for other people or just for him.

Probably for just me, he mused.

"Mycroft, I really don't want to ask you again," John growled threateningly. He had been fruitlessly interrogating Sherlock's elder brother for the past five minutes. As soon as he had realized that was the only way he was going to get answers he had gone straight back to Mycroft's office and had barged in before Anthea could get security to stop him. For the next five minutes they had stayed in a stalemate, John asking questions and Mycroft refusing to answer.

"Then don't," Mycroft sneered. He had not moved an inch from his chair even though John had long since gotten far too close for comfort.

"Damn it all!" he cursed, slamming his fist on the desk. It made a resounding crack on the wood but John refused to wince or shake off the pain. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Like I said countless times earlier in this meaningless discussion; Sherlock doesn't want you to know."

"No, you don't want me to know. If he hadn't wanted to me to know he would have made sure I never tagged along to the meeting in the first place!" the doctor argued.

"He didn't know at the time what it was about. Now that he does, he wishes for you to not to get involved. And although I love to spite to my little brother like I know he loves doing to me, I must grant him this wish. It's about time he gets to do a case where he is most familiar," Mycroft smiled smugly and leaned back in his chair.

Where he is most familiar? Did Mycroft just give me a hint to his location? John thought in bemusement. Self-answering that as a yes, he decided to play along. Sinking his head in fake defeat he muttered, "Fine. I'll leave him alone. Just…make sure he stays safe."

As he turned to leave he heard Mycroft's soft reply. "I'll try. But when it comes to where he went…there are no promises."