It's been a hectic spring, so I haven't been able to update as regularly with my school schedule but hopefully I can get a lot more done in the summer now.

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His brother's smug voice sliced through the tenuous connection. Sherlock's head jerked up and Mycroft's eyes met his with laser-precision. His brother's mouth curled into a smirk and his gaze turned to Molly.

Sherlock realized she was halfway in his lap, with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering. Her pulse flickered against his fingers, her breaths came faster, her lips parted-

Arousal, he realized. He was intrigued. How would her heart rate alter with different touches? He'd never considered that. He shook himself inwardly from that line of thought. If Mycroft hadn't barged in, how far would this have gone?

Sherlock steeled himself and drew the familiar cold calm over him. He settled his hands firmly over Molly's shoulders and removed her from his lap. She jumped to standing, laughing nervously.

"Right! I was just checking…the patient…he um…sorry, did you call me Miss Hooper?" Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. Her eyes darted between the two men. "Have we met?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I have a friend who works at Barts and the unusual name on your arm has been remarked upon." Sherlock sneered at the mention of a 'friend.' One of Mycroft's little informants, no doubt.

"There's no other person named Sherlock in England, to my knowledge. An old family name, like my own. Mycroft Holmes." He tipped his head toward her. "Apologies for the intrusion. I had no wish to ruin the first meeting between my brother and his soulmate."

Mycroft smiled pleasantly at Molly, and if Sherlock could have shot his brother dead where he stood, he would have.

God, he must think I am so unprofessional! Molly thought. Crawling all over his sick brother in a hospital bed.

A thought struck Molly and she ran to the door. She stuck her head outside and saw Nurse Paula sitting on a chair, flipping through a chart disinterestedly. Paula looked up with a raised eyebrow.

"Everything's fine! We're just having a chat with the patient's brother." She hurriedly shut the door. "Right. So you knew about me."

"Yes, I confess I've known for some time. But you know why Sherlock is here. You've read his chart."

Sherlock's jaw jutted and his fists clenched the bed rail.

Molly glanced at him and nodded briefly.

"He wasn't ready to be involved with any woman, and most certainly not a quality young woman like yourself. You deserve better."

"Sod off, Mycroft. Why are you here?" Sherlock pulled himself back up to sitting and threw his long legs over the edge of the bed. He glared at his brother, and Molly found herself wondering what had caused such enmity between the brothers. The grudge between them was obviously longstanding. She shifted uncomfortably in her place, standing between the two men.

"Ericson and Devaney. You were careless."

Sherlock's left eyebrow rose. He frowned for a second and then his brow smoothed.

"They've been removed? Mysteriously no doubt, with little interference from the Yard who were glad to have the case off their hands, I'm sure. Will this be blamed on someone else or did they quietly vanish?"

Mycroft's eyes flitted to Molly and back to Sherlock. The silence stretched out, an unspoken conversation carrying on between them.

Sherlock nodded and slumped back onto his bed, his energy apparently giving out.

It's amazing he's been up this long, after the last twenty-four hours, Molly thought. He's only conscious through sheer force of will at this point, and I was in his bloody lap a minute ago.

The shadows under his eyes seemed to darken, though it was likely his blackened eye getting worse before the healing would begin. Now that Sherlock had fallen silent again, he looked younger but with the jaded edge he had worked so hard to perfect. He stared at the droning machines by his bedside, and chewed on his full bottom lip in thought. Molly approached the bed and tentatively laid her palm over his tense hand. His fingers were cool under hers at first, but the frisson of warm energy sparked as it had before. Sherlock turned to her, and she again felt the shiver of awareness, of knowing him.

His bluish-green eyes sought hers out, and his hand rolled over to clasp hers. Feeling emboldened by his acceptance, Molly slid her hand further up his arm to trace her fingers over the letters of her birth name. His pale fingers tickled the skin of her forearm, finding his name in the expanse of her flesh.

His face softened, and she felt a drop of hope.

"This has all been a bit much, I think. I really really want to talk to you more. I know it's bad timing. I think maybe I should go? Just for now. And let you two talk." She glanced back at Mycroft. "I can come back later- no, tomorrow, actually because you should sleep. Tomorrow morning would be good. Would that be alright?"

"I think that's an excellent idea," Mycroft said. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off his coat and looked at his brother. "These things should be taken rather slowly, even in ideal circumstances, and this is hardly that."

"Get out." Sherlock's voice was hard.

"Sorry?" Molly flinched.

"Not you. Him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'll be waiting outside. We need to speak about Mummy once you've said your goodbyes with Miss Hooper, regardless of your feelings toward me. It's hardly fair to punish Mummy, now is it."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away on the pillow. "Fine. If you must."

Mycroft sighed dramatically and exited the room.

Molly grimaced. "Is he always so-"

"Yes."

"But I didn't finish my sentence."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Is he always so cold? So adversarial? So manipulative? So imperious? So controlling? Yes, any of those. Was it chocolate chip biscuits?"

Molly shook her head in confusion. She nearly laughed. "What?!"

"Your scent. Doesn't match morgue smells or cleaning supplies or personal products. Vanilla in the recipe certainly." Sherlock sat in in the bed and tugged on her sleeve, pulling her close.

"Oh. Um, just vanilla sugar ones actually. My mum's recipe. She used to make them for my dad before he passed away."

Sherlock leaned over the rail, steadying himself on Molly's arm. She smiled softly and wrapped her arms around his neck carefully, avoiding putting pressure on his body. He tilted his head and pressed his nose to the crook of her neck.

"Ah there it is. Vanilla, and sugar, and butter, no chocolate though. Should've noticed that. Would have if I weren't ill."

She laughed. "You have a very peculiar skill set, has anyone ever told you that?"

"They seldom tell me anything else, Molly Hooper," he rumbled against her throat. "Your parents, were they a soul match?"

"Yes." Molly ruffled a hand through his curls. They were soft, despite everything he'd been through. She suspected vanity would press him to keep certain habits up, no matter how bad his drug habit had gotten. "My parents grew up together, same neighborhood. There was never any question of being with someone else. They always knew. They were happy, even when times were rough like when Dad was out of work. Some people think that's not exciting, but I think it's nice, being able to plan your life together. Of course it was simple for them. Common names. No Sherlocks for them."

Sherlock lifted his head and arched an eyebrow at her. Molly grinned mischievously.

"If their names were common, how did they know for sure?"

"The usual way, silly," Molly chided him. "When they were old enough, Mum grabbed Dad, dragged him under a mulberry tree, and snogged his brains out. They lit up like Christmas, and their soul marks told them all they needed to know. That was that. Didn't your parents talk about this stuff?"

Sherlock's face froze and Molly sensed she had hit upon landmine unintentionally. His voice was chillier when he responded. The frown line between his eyes formed anew.

"No. My family was different. Not every soulmatch is perfect. People are flawed. Some cheat, they lie, they steal, they hurt."

"That's true," Molly agreed. Her hands settled on his shoulders loosely. "But our soul matches can help us be the best we can be. In the end, only a person can choose what he or she will be." She made a face. "That's a little more philosophical than I wanted to get before saying goodbye tonight."

"You have to get back to the morgue. They'll wonder where you are, though a soul finding is a good excuse."

"Yes it is." Molly smiled brightly. "There is one more thing though. And Mycroft be damned, he can wait another minute."

"I like that attitude." Her hands at his neck played with his hair and he was amazed to find how comfortable and somehow familiar the intimate action was. He usually hated being touched by people. The sensory stimulation was too much, but with her it was just…right. Whenever it started to become too much, he noted, she instinctively pulled away without him saying anything. A side effect of the soul mark? He made a mental note to investigate.

"What else?"

"I just wanted to…" Molly stared at him with big brown eyes for a long moment before leaning in to brush a kiss over his cheek. By the time Sherlock reacted, she had pulled back, stuck her hands in her pockets and was headed for the door. "I'll come visit tomorrow and we can sort things out then."

Warmth bloomed where her lips pressed on his cheek. Sherlock stared, his mind utterly blank. She had kissed him chastely but he'd been certain she meant to kiss him much more than she had. In fact, if there'd been a mulberry tree in the vicinity, he suspected he would've found himself dragged up against it the way Mr. Hooper had found himself a generation ago.

If their bodies warmed together when they lightly touched their soul marks, he wondered what would happen when they did much more.

He was pondering that with fascination when the door swung open and Mycroft reentered. Without giving Sherlock a chance, he launched into his speech.

"I'm sure you'd like to have a go at me for the situation with Miss Hooper but that must wait. You'll be moved to a clinic first thing in the morning. Your physicians have approved it." He smiled tightly. "You'll have the best care, private doctors, and the emotional entanglement of meeting a soulmatch right now is a nightmare on top of everything. Now that you've met Molly, the memories and feelings will intensify and your first instinct will be to run back to cocaine or whatever else you can get your hands on." Mycroft's eyes were ice cold.

"You don't know that." But he did. Sherlock hated himself for the defeat in his voice. If only he wasn't so damned physically weak still.

Sherlock pondered Molly, the way she had bravely kissed him even though he must've been an intimidating mess from the moment she walked in the room and found her soulmate was- well, him. Molly who smelled of chemicals and sugar and hospital, and made his body hum with warmth. He thought he had erased every faint memory from the dreams years ago, but there was a look of understanding and gentle humor in her that haunted him. She had walked into his room and undone his self-control with minimal effort. He remembered her.

Nausea gripped his stomach. He seized the bed rail.

"I'll go. On one condition."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose.

"Molly will not know where I'm going. Make sure that information isn't left in my files here. There will be no further contact."

His brother's brow furrowed for the briefest of moments before smoothing out. "Done."

Night fell. The boy sat on the rock and awaited his fate.

The chunk of granite, slimy with high tide's leavings, was uneven and provided only a narrow seat for him. He was a young man, truly, with his father's long legs and far-seeing eyes. He saw his mother's lantern burning on the beach as she mourned for him already, knowing the creature would rise from the sea to claim him for sacrifice. For the cruel spring, for the gods, for the king who demanded the most beautiful and clever youth to be given over to the waves. The water would come and swallow him whole.

So they said. The boy had his doubts. He doubted everything he could not see for himself or find proof of in his father's stacks of papyrus. That was where the trouble began. He could not believe and so he learned. His father was proud, oh he was so proud of his brilliant son. He had taught him the scribe's skill well. But the king was petty and his father's boasts coast dearly.

The boy shuddered. His courage faltered. The light on the shore died with his mother's hopes for his survival. The winds on the sea rose and rattled the chain that trapped him on the rock.

Spray from the waves soaked his thin clothes and he wondered if the cold would take him before any monster would. Perhaps that was the truth of these sacrifices to a creature that no soul in the village had ever seen. When he was a boy, each spring he would hide in the caves by the beach to catch a glimpse of the doomed soul chosen for the spring bounty being led to the rock. He would sit amongst the barnacles and rotting oars, and wait with excitement churning in his belly. It never occurred to him it would be his turn someday.

The sky overhead was black and the stars burned white and cold. The boy rested on one elbow, uncomfortably bent on the jagged rock. He stared upward and for the first time, it occurred to him to ask the gods for help.

He was not a boy for prayers. His father taught him to rely on his intellect and his skills, the papyrus and the inks. But now he threw his head back, and for the first time since he was a small child, cried out for the gods' aid, pleading with the stars.

The stars blinked back silently.

The boy dropped his face into his hands, the elegant fingers that once so beautifully created scrolls of learning and wisdom under his father's watchful eye. Now they were only a bowl for his tears.

He wept for knowing that the gods didn't care, not for his life or any of the youths who had died before him on the rock. His pride fell away, and his sobs drowned out the roar of the waves around him. The winds whipped around him, rising and forming into a wordless call.

I am going mad, he thought with a laugh. It sounds almost like someone is calling my name.

He gazed up at the stars, looking for a pattern in the chaos. Distantly he heard the eerie cry again and thought, It does. It does sound like someone is calling for me.

Andros…

Sherlock sat up in bed, clutching his stomach and grimacing. He stumbled out of bed and fell to his knees in the tiny bathroom. He didn't bother turning on the light. He flipped up the toilet lid and sat on the floor, but knew that he would only be dry-heaving again. He hadn't eaten the evening before, despite the clinic nurse hovering over him, frowning.

Two weeks on, his body was clean and free of toxins, but the dreams were tearing through him. He couldn't remember them all and didn't want to. Pieces of the visions returned to him throughout the day but made no sense. In the hated group sessions (mandatory, they insisted), the doctors recommended keeping a journal to sort out his past life memories and work through any lingering issues that might have driven him to use substances.

Sherlock hauled himself off the tiles and turned the faucet on. The brutally cold water washed away the lingering nausea and snapped him out of the frenzied dream world.

As his doctors had explained it, the proximity of his soulmate combined with the sudden absence of drugs drove the synapses in Sherlock's brain wild. Sodding Mycroft had insisted on disclosing the brush with Molly to his keepers at the clinic.

Every night his brain was on fire with fresh remembrances of the past. The sensations were making him ill, the smells, sounds and sights too potent. He couldn't control the sensory input when he was in the dream state. It was his waking sensitivity magnified a hundredfold. He tried to convey that to the therapist in the first meeting but the psychologist stubbornly repeated his usual coping strategies, and Sherlock stormed out in disgust.

Not having to see his brother was one upside of being at the clinic. No family visits were permitted except once per month. He supposed Mummy would come then, and there would be guilt.

Most days, Sherlock distracted himself from thoughts like that by deducing others at the clinic, determining what substance had brought them in, and what their family secrets were. The wealthy had the most boring secrets though, and the game was already growing stale.

Feeling more in control, Sherlock exited the loo and changed into a clean set of clothes. Another good thing about the clinic was that it had forced him to realize how much of his time he had been spending focused on scoring drugs rather than on ways he could acquire new cases. Sure, he had pursued cases, but in retrospect, he saw that his cocaine use- and his illegal activities while using- had been less discreet than he had realized.

Only the intervention of his brother had kept him from prison, and owing Mycroft for that stung.

He now had to find new ways to fill up his days when he didn't have a case, and the longing for stimulation, the never-ending itch, nagged at him.

Sherlock dropped to the floor and began his morning exercise routine. Push-ups, sit-ups, and then onto his baritsu. He had to improvise for that, lacking the right equipment, but the form was what mattered. He had been on his way to being a true master of the skill and he resolved to track down his old teacher in Chelsea to resume lessons when he made his way back to the city.

He pushed and sweated, flexed and grew stronger. The weakness fell away, and his tone returned. When Sherlock looked in the mirror, he found that with the black eye faded and his hair trimmed for the first time in a year, he saw someone he might actually be able to live with.

Until night fell, and the dreams returned, and he heard someone calling his name.