Hi! No, I'm not sorry for the cliffie of the last chapter. Well, at least here is the chapter which explains some of it - and sets the grounds for a huge milestone - can you guess what it is?
By the way, the next chapter should be up on the 11th - the story will be one year old then!
He touches Watson's cheek once, and whispers, "Wait for me, John.", before he looks up to me and nods.
I pull the trigger.
I wake with a scream. The image of Sherlock being sprawled on the floor, fingers still nearly touching Watson's face, their blood from the matching bullet-wounds on their foreheads mixing, is ingrained in my brain, and I fear that when I close my eyes again, I'll see it again.
Mycroft wakes as well and looks at me, still sleepy, but quickly regaining more and more awareness of the situation.
"Kiara? What's wrong?" His voice is croaky, if only barely, because of just waking up, and sounds worried, and even though he didn't appear in my dream, I feel the panic creeping up.
Twisting into a better position, I reach up and touch his neck, searching for a pulse. It is there, beating strongly but getting quicker, and somewhere at the back of my mind I wonder why. The rest of me is just glad his heart is beating.
"Kiara? Kiara, can you hear me?" His voice is definitely rougher now, filled with worry and maybe apprehension, but there is no way I can answer now. What if there's a hole in his forehead, what if blood is seeping into the pillow and his heart is simply beating his last beats?
Keeping my hand on his neck, pressing down slightly to be able to feel the pulse, I use the other one to touch his forehead, his cheeks, his temples, his nose, the side and back of his head which I can reach. And I am constantly waiting for feeling wet, warm blood on my fingers, but there's nothing, just the normal Mycroft.
"Kiara, stop. Stop!" He orders, and I halt, only because I trust him to know what to do, but maybe he's not feeling it? Maybe there is a wound, what if something happens now?
Two strong, but careful hands suddenly grab my arms from behind and pull me back, off the bed and into the arms of the waiting person.
There is no direct instinct for me to fight back – maybe because Mycroft is not reacting in a way that would be suitable if there were a dangerous person behind me; maybe because I can smell, and when he starts speaking, also hear Sherlock's voice, and feel the bandage on his hand; and most probably because I realise how it must look to them. Me pressing down, even if just lightly, down on Mycroft's neck, not reacting to his questions. The major part of my brain is still in panic and shock though.
Without really fighting, I turn my head to look at Sherlock, at least slightly, and try and twist to see his face. Is a bleeding bullet-wound on his forehead? I did see it happen, I did it myself, so could it be real?
It's now that I also understand what Sherlock is saying – mostly my name, but he's also reassuring me where I am, and telling me he's not there to hurt me. It seems so genuine, so caring, that I feel the shame and guilt doubling. How could I shoot him, if only in a dream? How could I think about killing Sherlock, Watson and Lestrade with such enjoyment, with such cruelty?
"Sherlock, I'm not having a flash-back, I'm okay," I say through gritted teeth, fighting the dream with all my might.
"What happened?" He fires back, not letting go of me, and I can feel myself loosing.
"I just had to check you're alive. Sherlock, do you have a pulse? Is your head okay?" Babbling, I slacken in his arms, not finding the strength to hold myself up, and finally lets go of me, turning me around and looking at me in a confused state.
It's no use just seeing his intact forehead, I need to check, so I grab his arms and pull him towards the bed, and make him sit down, hands already on his face.
"I shot you. I shot you, Sherlock!" The sentence nearly ends is a sob, which I strictly suppress. I don't start crying just because of a bad dream. Or maybe I am.
Sherlock seems to understand though, and just sits there, with closed eyes, and waits for me to finish – and like with Mycroft, I check his forehead more than once, and also his temples and cheeks, and then with both hands his complete head.
His pulse is also beating strongly under my index and middle finger when I check for it, and I can feel myself calming down. I don't even have to check his leg. It's weird, but for me it's logical that if I didn't shoot him in the head, then his leg is fine as well.
When I'm finally done, Sherlock just opens his eyes and looks to me with a questioning glint in his eyes. But it's not that easy. I'm not a person to tell any and everybody about my problems, and even though Sherlock and Mycroft are the two persons I trust most, it's still something my first instinct tells me to bury and hide deep inside me.
When I see Sherlock though, waiting for an explanation after trusting me not to hurt him despite being completely shaken, I know I have to tell him.
"I dreamt I shot you. Deliberately, cruelly, having fun while doing so. I dreamt I shot you, Lestrade – and Dr Watson."
It's a few hours later that I realise why my brain might have shown me that distorted memory. I'm sitting on the roof-top again, just as I did on New Year's Eve, dangling my legs over the seven metres free air. And maybe it's that connection to New Year's Eve, when Mycroft had been inclined to forgive me, even though I hadn't known then, that makes me realise what my biggest weakness in our fight against Moran is – Sherlock and Mycroft.
They are also big strengths of mine, but if we are used against each other, which I'm sure Moran will attempt to do, we're helpless.
And in a way, I want to confront Moran directly. Not just a shot by a sniper in the head or heart, I want to talk to him, want to know what could possibly make him turn like that. And then I want to watch the light in his eyes diminishing and dying.
As set in the plan we made soon after we arrived back in England from Germany, we decide to go and attack Moran, whose location we now know, after we compared our and Margery's information, on Sunday, the 28th of April, exactly two weeks after the flight back.
It's three days till then, not much, but hopefully enough.
Mycroft looks confused when I tell him I'll be sleeping on my own again, but when I block his questions three times in a row, he stops asking. I still feel guilty when I see the hurt glimmer in his eyes.
Sherlock is a bit trickier. He notices as well, of course, but he keeps asking. After half a day I decide to just leave the room whenever he starts.
It's hard to research in my own room, to not talk to them more than necessary, to break off any further contact, but it's the only way I can detach myself from them. I know that if any of us get hurt while attacking Moran, I'll forever blame myself, but at least my emotions won't have been in the way.
The second day is the hardest. The first was almost normal, it sometimes happened that I didn't talk to them very much, but never for more than a day. I also have nightmares all the three nights.
The third day is easier. I can feel myself slipping in old behaviours, by thinking about Father, looking at pictures and remembering the way I was and the way I reacted in the dream, and if it weren't exactly what I wanted, I'd be scared how close I am to being psychopathic.