A/N: I've updated so quickly... I'm amazed at myself. Anyways, thanks again for the follows and reviews. It really means a lot to me! Please, any feedback is good feedback! Again, this is unbeta'd and only Brit-picked by me, so beware.
Warnings: Possibly sensitive material.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Moonlight flooded the room through slotted blinds, highlighting the dust in the air. The light seemed to pass right through Molly, and she left no shadow.
Molly. Right.
Sherlock's mind immediately listed off the facts.
First assistant.
Worked at Bart's now.
Obviously infatuated with him.
Socially awkward, shy.
Emotional.
Left in tears.
Why was she here? Why now?
Sherlock disrupted the eerie stillness of the room, surging forward to grasp at Molly's sleeve. He felt faint warmth, but no solid figure. Odd.
Sherlock furrowed his brows. She appeared be here, but was not. Only one logical solution, then.
"I'm dreaming," he stated, regarding her with a perfunctory smirk.
Molly looked down and brushed her hair behind her ear.
"Yes and no," she answered, glancing at him and away again.
"What do you mean yes and no?!"
Sherlock crossed his arms, grey eyes stormy.
Molly flinched at looked up at him with wide eyes, "Oh, please don't be angry, Sherlock! I'm just here to… to show you something. Your Christmas Past."
"My Christmas Past?"
Molly straightened up, and her eyes glinted with determination. She studied him for a moment and nodded.
"Yes."
Sherlock scoffed.
"Go away, Molly. I don't have time for this – this idiocy. For you. Haven't we already covered this? Or did I not make myself clear when I said you were a sniveling, pathetic excuse for a human being?"
Molly remained indifferent. Then she smiled softly.
"You've not convinced me to leave, Sherlock," she said, and she stepped in close to him, "In fact, you've convinced me that what I have to show you is all the more important."
The false heat of her hand gripped his wrist suddenly, and Sherlock found himself flying down the streets of London, lights on shops blurring past, car horns distorting as the whipped by, soaring faster and faster until – stop.
Sherlock stood on the sidewalk outside a large, wrought-iron gate with marble posts and walls. A large golden plate hung on the post, engraved with "Hendrick's Boys' Academy." A traditional building stood on the other side, bell towers touching the clouds.
Sherlock reached out to touch the marble, the colour nearly the same as his skin. His hand passed straight through.
"We're merely observing, Sherlock. We cannot interact with our surroundings."
Molly's voice next to him startled Sherlock, and he looked sharply at her.
"My old school. Why?"
She smiled in response to his glare.
"Perhaps you should see for yourself."
Sherlock turned back to the gate with a grunt and walked straight through it. A group of young boys burst from the building, talking and chuckling.
"Have a good holiday, Sebastian!"
"You too, Harry! See you, Jacob! Merry Christmas!"
"Yeah, Merry Christmas, mate!"
Sherlock blinked, taking in each young face.
"I know them; they were my frie- my classmates. I…"
Sherlock trailed off, looking back at the building with a frown.
Molly touched his wrist, and they were inside.
It was an auditorium - the stage and seats all antique wood. Lights highlighted the stage and the young boy slumped on the edge, a violin resting beneath his chin, bow poised to play.
A sorrowful song filled the air, haunting melodies and minor chords weaving and flowing, and Sherlock's heart clenched. He remembered how that felt. How it felt to be so utterly alone and unwanted.
Sherlock found he couldn't look directly at Molly, staring instead at her worn loafers.
"Why are you showing me this, Molly?" He whispered slowly.
She smiled at the boy, then the same man in front of her.
"Because you are human, Sherlock Holmes."
Her hand was at his wrist again, and Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as they tore through London at an alarming speed. He heard sirens screaming, ambulance horns blaring, bright blue lights flashing and burning his retinas. He saw those vehicles pulling into a driveway – his family home? – but only for a second. They kept speeding along, the sirens a phantom noise, pounding inside his skull.
Then it stopped.
They were inside a clean, bustling hallway. Nurses in scrubs walked the hallways, some with carts, others with clipboards, all moving with a sense of purpose.
Bile burned the back of Sherlock's throat. Oh god not here.
Molly's warm eyes met his frantic stare, and she led him forward to a small, sterile room.
A younger, twenty year old, version of himself sat curled up in a lounge chair, his body feeble and shaking. His inky curls hung limply against his gaunt face, deep bags stained under his eyes.
He stared at his brother perched opposite him with barely concealed desperation.
"Mycroft, I… I hate this. Please…" Sherlock all but whimpered.
Mycroft frowned and settled a hand on his bony shoulder.
"I know, Sherlock, but it's for the best."
Sherlock snorted and brushed Mycroft's hand away, pulling his knees to his chest.
"Best for Father, maybe. He just wanted to get rid of his pathetic, disappointment of a son."
Mycroft regarded him sternly, "that's not true, Sherlock. We all want you to get better. You are better than this, and you know it!"
Sherlock stood and loomed over his brother.
"Am I, Mycroft?! It would appear not, because I'm here. Don't you see?!" Sherlock latched onto Mycroft's shoulders and shook him, "the drugs… they make it stop. They make my mind stop, my thinking stop! I'm so tired… so tired of thinking so much! I need… I can't…"
Sherlock fell to knees in front of his brother and cried.
Here, Sherlock tried to look away from the pitiful memory of himself, but Molly's stern face made him turn back.
Mycroft had slid to the floor next to his brother and held him as he shook and jerked, hands resting at his back and in his hair, rubbing soothing circles.
"It'll be okay, Sherlock," he whispered, "Shh, I'm here. I'll always be here, Sherlock. Please, just… just don't give in."
Sherlock looked away from the scene and back to Molly.
"Please," he croaked, "take me away from here."
Molly's eyes were sad, brimming with tears, but she smiled, nodded, and grasped his wrist.
They moved through London again, but Sherlock was almost in a trance. Warmth permeated the air, and Sherlock looked to his surroundings to see sunlight and the people of London out and about. There was something comforting about the atmosphere, but Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it. It was only when they stopped outside a familiar building that Sherlock realized what that feeling was.
They strode into his building, past the waiting room to the interviewing room where he and John sat.
John. Sherlock's stomach fluttered.
John looked nervous, but only just. He clasped his hands on the table, and his tongue came out to wet his lips every so often, but he still wore a kind smile.
Sherlock studied his résumé, though that was mostly for show. He knew he wanted to hire this man, but wasn't sure why. Still, his eyes darted across the page.
Army, RAMC. Afghanistan.
Shot, invalidated, medical discharge.
College drop-out.
Worked several part-time jobs.
Sherlock met John's steady gaze.
"Looks like you've seen a lot of excitement, done your fair share of paperwork as well."
John wet his lips again, hands shifting on the table.
"Yes. Yes, far too much – enough for a lifetime."
Sherlock smirked.
"Care to do some more?"
"Oh god, yes."
"Could be dangerous."
John smiled.
"Even better."
Sherlock stood abruptly, and John rose to follow, leaving his cane abandoned under the table.
"Come along, John, you'll start today," Sherlock said as he left the room, "I'll show you to your office. There's much to do!"
John followed with a grin, not a hint of a limp.
Sherlock remembered that day oh so well.
There was something intriguing about John right from the start, something mysterious and dangerous beneath those jumpers, and Sherlock couldn't allow a puzzle like that to simply walk away.
Sherlock found himself smiling at the memory. And to think John was still with him after all this time…
With a jolt, Sherlock remembered that morning. Remembered it was important to squash these feelings when they arose.
Sherlock sniffed and turned back to Molly.
"Are we done here?"
Molly blinked dubiously for a moment before nodding slightly.
"Oh. Oh, y-yes, I suppose so."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Stop stuttering, Molly, it's unbecoming. What do you mean, you suppose? What else is there?"
Molly looked down to the ground and began to fidget.
"Nothing! I guess… I just thought that maybe seeing John would, I don't know… He's just so special to you, I-"
"He is not special to me."
Molly's brows furrowed and she peered up at Sherlock.
"But of course he is! You lo-"
"Stop. I don't care about John. I have no time to concern myself with others, which should be obvious to you by now, Molly."
Molly brought herself up to her full height and jabbed a finger at Sherlock's chest.
"You are a liar, Sherlock Holmes! You care about him just as much as he cares about you, but you won't admit it because you're scared! You're a coward, and you need to stop hurting him like this! He's too good for you, Sherlock! He-"
Sherlock pushed her hand away and tangled his fingers in his hair, gritting his teeth.
"Leave me be Molly!"
Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes.
He was back in his flat.
His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and a sudden rush of vertigo hit him.
Sherlock sank into his couch, lighting a cigarette and bringing it to his lips.
The smoke had just drifted up to the ceiling when distant bells chimed the arrival of a new hour.
There was a loud knock at the door, and Sherlock all but groaned.
"Go away," he called, propping his feet up on the table.
The knocking grew louder, and the door flew open.
A familiar figure strolled in, and Sherlock glared over the top of the sofa.
"Lestrade."
The DI smiled in that tormented sort of way, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock stared. No shadow.
"Not a case, then, I assume."
"Nope."
Sherlock sighed, his head thumping against the back rest.
"God damn it."
Review. The best has yet to come!
