Chapter Two

Molly slipped out of bed, into her dressing gown and out of the room. She walked down the passage to William's bathroom, peeping through the bedroom door en route, to check on her sleeping son. William was an early riser but not quite this early. He was still sleeping soundly. Having used the bathroom, she walked back along the passage and through the sitting room to the kitchen to put on the kettle, closing all the intervening doors behind her. During her sleepless night, she had formulated a plan of action in the way her scientist's mind always dealt with challenges. Whatever it was that was troubling Sherlock, he needed all the support she could muster so top of her list of people to call was his best friend, John Watson. John was on night shift at St. Mary's this week. His stint would be coming to an end about now and he would be on his way home. Molly pressed his speed dial number on her mobile and he answered almost immediately.

'Hi, Molly. You're up early. Is William OK?' John enquired.

'Yes, John, William is absolutely fine, thanks,' she reassured him. 'But I do need to speak to you about Sherlock.' As she began to speak, she felt herself choking up. It had been a terrifying experience but her focus up to this point had been to comfort and care for Sherlock. Now that help was at hand, however, her own feelings came rushing to the fore. John heard the emotion in her voice and was immediately concerned.

'What is it, Molly? Have you two had a row?'

'No, John, no, nothing like that. He ..er..he had a nightmare, I think..' She was finding it hard to speak now as heaving sobs began to wrack her body.

'I'm coming round, Moll, OK? Just hang in there. I'm just leaving work. I'll be there in about twenty minutes, OK?'

'Yes, thank you, John. I am OK, honestly. It's just been a long night, that's all. See you in a minute.'

They both rang off and Molly grabbed some kitchen towel off the roll on the counter top and cursed her over-active lacrimal glands. Why did she always cry? But then she remembered Eve Matthews strenuously advocating on behalf of crying as a safety valve and decided maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, after all. The kettle boiled and she made herself a cup of tea, carried it into the sitting room and curled up in her favourite chair. She was just finishing the tea when the entry phone buzzed. She went through to the hallway to let John in. He greeted her with a warm, comforting hug and then held her at arms length to give her an appraising once-over, before she hung up his jacket and invited him through to the kitchen - to make more tea. Seating himself at the table, he opened the conversation.

'Tell me what happened.'

As Molly related the events of the previous night, his face vividly reflected his shock and concern for both his friends. He reached across the table and took Molly's hand, rubbing his brow in thought.

'Whatever it is that's causing this, the genie is obviously out of the bottle. I was hoping if he dropped the case it would all stop but it looks as though it's actually made things worse.'

'I need to ring Mycroft and ask him to get Eve Matthews back. If this has anything to do with what Sherlock was doing whilst he was away, it must be buried really deep for her to miss it during his debrief. It has to be something pretty awful.' Molly could hardly bear to think what that could possibly be.

'But he was so upset, John. He was horrified that he could have killed me. That's why I called you. He needs all our support to get through this.'

As Molly finished her sentence, the door to the passage opened and Sherlock entered the sitting room looking strained. John got up and walked through to meet him, putting his hand on his friend's arm.

'Hey, mate. Bad night, eh?'

Sherlock placed a reciprocal hand on his friend's shoulder and gave John a weak half-smile then moved past him into the kitchen, where he bent to wrap his arms around Molly, resting his head on her shoulder. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, turning her head to press kiss his temple. John witnessed this rare and touching public display of affection between his two friends with mixed feelings. He was delighted that they had finally found something together but deeply saddened that this black shadow was now hovering over their future happiness. After a brief moment, Sherlock straightened up and turned to switch on the kettle. He busied himself, making a restorative pot of tea for all three of them and John returned to his seat at the table. Tea brewing, Sherlock sat down too, elbows on the table, and steepled his fingers into the prayer position.

Molly opened the batting.

'Eve Matthews could help, don't you think?'

'I can't think of anyone better,' Sherlock agreed. She could tell he wasn't relishing the idea of renewing his acquaintance with the psychotherapist but he was resigned to the necessity of it.

'I'll ring Mycroft, then,' said Molly, with an affirmative nod. 'He can arrange for her to see you as soon as possible. It's going to be alright, Sherlock. We'll deal with this together.'

He looked down at the table then at Molly and replied,

'I can't stay here again until this has been sorted. It's too dangerous for you and William. If anything were to happen to either of you…' He couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence. 'Well, we just can't risk that.'

'You mustn't isolate yourself though, Sherlock,' John interjected. 'None of that 'Alone is what I have, alone protects me' bollocks, alright?'

Sherlock had to allow a brittle smile.

'You'll never let me forget that, will you?' he huffed.

'Not a chance,' John replied.

At that point, the sitting room door was pushed open again and William appeared, dressed in his Spiderman pyjamas, his dark wavy hair tousled from sleep. At three years and a few months old, he was quite tall for his age, already wearing '4/5 years' clothing. He no longer attended the hospital crèche. At Mycroft's insistence, he was enrolled in the Foundation department of a good prep school nearby. The hours of attendance were not so convenient for Molly's work schedule as the hospital crèche had been but Mycroft, once again, had come up with a viable solution. He persuaded Molly to allow him to employ a live-out nanny, who collected William from school and took care of him at home until Molly arrived home from work.

Marie was a pleasant young woman, well qualified and with impeccable references from a colleague of Mycroft's, for whom she had previously worked. Molly had been rather dubious about giving someone else responsibility for her child - and access to her home - but Marie's former employer assured her that the nanny was accustomed to working for high-profile families, was completely trustworthy and discrete and also security-aware. Sherlock left it to Molly to decide whether or not to accept Mycroft's offer.

She had to admit it really was in William's best interests to transfer to a more academic environment. He was clearly very bright and was becoming a bit disruptive at the crèche, primarily due to boredom. Even Sherlock had to acknowledge that Mycroft would have done very thorough research on all the nearest prep schools to find the one that offered the best possible standard of education for his favourite - and only - nephew.

He and Molly visited the school, met all the relevant people, asked all the important questions and could find no fault in the place. They met with Marie and then invited her to the flat to meet William. She impressed them with her like-minded ideas on child care and William seemed to like her so she was taken on for a six months probationary period, which was now about half way through.

As William made his appearance, Molly looked at the kitchen clock and exclaimed,

'Oh, god, look at the time. I'd better get you ready for school and me ready for work.'

Sherlock intervened.

'You go and get ready. I'll sort William. So, Will, what would you like for breakfast today?'

William clambered onto a chair and, after due consideration, declared,

'Weetabits please, Daddy.'

'As you wish,' Sherlock replied.

John also looked at the kitchen clock and declared that he needed to go home and 'get some kip'. Mary would wonder what had happened to him. He'd called her on his way over to let her know he would be late but not gone into detail about why. He took his leave and walked to the tube station to catch a train. Knowing Sherlock had never been boring, John pondered as he stood uncomfortably in the over-crowded carriage, but he couldn't help but wonder at the complications that his friend had to deal with in his everyday life. Nothing ever seemed straight-forward for him. John was never more grateful for his own circumstances.

Thinking back to the how, where and why of his first meeting with the Consulting Detective, he marvelled at his own good fortune. He was in a very bad place, back then. Recently invalided out of the army, thrown back into civilian life with no idea in which direction he might go, he had been wracked with guilt at the realisation that far from being traumatised by his war experiences he actually missed the adrenalin rush that living on red alert had given him. Things could have gone very badly for him – there was a family history of alcohol abuse – had it not been for his chance encounter with the 'high-functioning sociopath' whom he now called his best friend. He owed Sherlock his life, in a very real sense. And, in turn, Sherlock owed John his. This made for a very special bond between the two men. They were comrades-in-arms and would follow one another to the ends of the earth. John would see Sherlock through this new crisis, if it were the last thing he ever did.

ooOoo

Molly returned to the kitchen, ready for work, to find William all dressed and ready, too, polishing off off his bowl of Weetabix. Sherlock pushed a plate of toast across to Molly and, gratefully, she grabbed a slice, picked up her bag and stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek.

'Oh, sh….oot!' she said, correcting herself just in time, side-eyeing William. 'I haven't called Mycroft.'

'No matter,' Sherlock interjected. 'I'll go and see him myself. I've nothing better to do today. It's top of my priority list. Honestly, I will go,' he assured her. Molly reached up and kissed him again, took William by the hand and left.

Playing the househusband did not exactly come naturally to Sherlock but he was learning. He loaded the dish washer with the breakfast things and set it to 'Rinse', tidied everything away and wiped down the surfaces. John would be amazed, he thought. His former flatmate had never managed to get him to even wash up a cup! Going into the bedroom, he stripped off and went into the en suite. Showering and shaving gave him time to think. If only he could remember what he had been dreaming about the night before - or any of the other nights when he had done weird things - but he could not recall a single detail. That, in itself, had to be odd, didn't it? He wondered whether a visit to his Mind Palace might yield something but he couldn't think where to begin. What part of the case was the trigger? He began to make a mental list:

Dwarf

Decomposing

Bridge

River

Park

Frozen

Defrosted

Found by a dog walker

Eaten by rats and crows

Two years ago

That was already quite a list. Sherlock felt sure he could add to it if he really set his mind to it. Having dried, dressed and brushed his hair, he walked through to the front hall, put on his coat and scarf and let himself out of the flat. Walking round the crescent to the main road, he texted Mycroft to ascertain his brother's whereabouts. In my office, came back the reply, so he hailed a cab and asked the cabbie to take him to Whitehall.

Sherlock was admitted to Mycroft's office by his PA, Anthea. Mycroft looked up from a paper he was reading, opened a drawer in his desk and, placing the paper inside, closed and locked the drawer.

'To what do I owe this pleasure?' he asked, indicating with a wave of his hand for his visitor to take a seat. Sherlock removed his coat, laid it over the back of one of two leather wing chairs and sat down. Placing his elbows on the arms of his chair, he pressed his palms together, under his chin and ordered his thoughts. At last, he spoke.

'I need to see Eve Matthews again. There's something going on inside my head that I don't understand.'

Mycroft took in this information, pursed his lips, reached across to press the intercom button on his desk and said,

'Tea for two, please, Anthea.'

Sitting back, he mirrored his brother's posture with his hands and the two men looked at one another until the door opened and Anthea came in with a tray of tea. She placed it on the table between the two wing chairs and, looking towards her boss, picked up the subtle signal that she need not serve the tea. She nodded and left the room. Mycroft rose from his seat, walked around the desk and poured two cups of tea before sitting in the other leather chair. Both brothers took a sip of their tea. Ritual observed, Mycroft raised an eyebrow, to request more information.

'I've been suffering a variety of sleep disturbances recently, which leads me to believe that I am suffering nightmares but I don't remember the dreams.'

'What sort of sleep disturbances?' Mycroft asked.

'Tossing and turning, talking, shouting, sleep walking and then, last night – ' he paused, battling with the stress voicing the next part.

'I nearly strangled Molly,' he said, at last.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows this time.

'And you don't remember the dreams at all?'

'Not a thing.'

'And what do you think has triggered these dreams?'

Sherlock explained about the case he had been working on for the Met.

'Well, I think you are quite correct. You do need to see Eve Matthews,' Mycroft agreed. He took his mobile phone from his pocket, selected a speed dial icon and rang the number. When the recipient answered, he said,

'I have an urgent assignment for you.' He paused for the psychotherapist's reply then said, 'Thank you, that will be most satisfactory,' and rang off. Looking up at his brother, he said,

'She'll be here in ten minutes.'

Sherlock nodded and continued to sip his tea.

ooOoo