This chapter is shorter than previous ones but I wanted to get this out before I went away for a few days, rather than make you all wait for a longer update. I think after this one there will be 2 or 3 chapters. The story is longer than I originally intended, but not a very long fic in general.
Thanks to Rayner Fox, Mione W.G., MickeyMonroe, BlueMoonMaples, GeekaZoid, Patemalah, Empress of Verace, Lono, PhoenixCrystal, NoVacancyMind, IvPayne, FarGreenCountrySwiftSunrise, Emilise284, listrant, PoodleWarriors, lollipop-chan, Beth-tauriChick, ebonyfox, MizJoely, LadyBeck, snarlingwolf, Elliesmeow, , Kathmak, morbidbydefault, jandjsalmon, Rocking the Redhead, Jane, The Time Lord Consulting Angel, Conchepcion, and librarygirl157 for their reviews of chapter 3, and thanks to everyone for Favoriting and subscribing to Alerts for the story!
He was gone by morning, and they wouldn't tell her where.
Molly left Sherlock and hurried through the rest of her shift happily. He was a mess, but he was brilliant and handsome under the bruises, and he sparked when they touched. Every cell in her body recognized that Sherlock Holmes was her soulmate.
She hummed "Walking on Sunshine" through the last post-mortem she assisted so loudly that even the chief pathologist stared at her.
"Sorry!" She couldn't stop grinning. "I met him. I met my match. It's complicated, but I'm just relieved. Happy. I can't explain it."
"Oh." Dr. Stamford smiled softly. "Was on cloud nine for days when I met Diane. Don't blame you one bit."
"Oh, you're married? You never mentioned her." Molly bent over the body to examine the opened chest.
Stamford's face dropped and Molly understood even before he spoke. "We lost her three years ago. Breast cancer. It was fast. A blessing in some ways."
"I'm really sorry." She studied the slashed thoracic tissue, and compared it to what she already knew of the deceased.
Mike nodded. "Another life, we'll be together again. As it was, so shall it be. Cause of death, Hooper?"
"It wasn't the great knifey thing that was stuck into his aorta?" Molly wrinkled her nose.
He laughed. "Most likely but it's a high profile case, and there's other wounds, so let's solidify the 'great knifey' theory before we commit."
They completed the post-mortem, and Molly was exhausted by the time she arrived home. She set her alarm early for the next day to give her extra time to see Sherlock before her shift the next day.
That night her dreams were in Technicolor, vivid in ways that should have let her feeling drained when she awoke. The fleeting moments that recurred in her dreams over the years came back in a rush and strung together with a new cohesion and brilliance.
She slept and she remembered.
She sat in the cramped laboratory and simply knew it was her home, the ecolé where she toiled, where she had earned her place despite being female and foreign. The room sang with energy, and she felt at home among the vials and beakers. She was surrounded by leather-bound journals filled with slanted handwriting and smeared spots of ink- data she'd collected with the help of her husband. She felt as though she was on the verge on some great and terrible discovery and that it could do harm if harnessed by the wrong hands. She worried that perhaps she should hide her research away for the time being, until she determined whether her colleagues could be trusted with the information. The power of the elements was not a toy; when would these men learn?
The room was so clear to Molly she could spot the shards of glass in the corner where a broken beaker had been brushed aside , and see the particles of dust floating in the sunlight that streamed through the tiny window. That year, her other self's mind was heavy with worry, but in that one moment, she was safe and content. It was her place and she would return there to figure out what had to be done, as always. She was resolute.
Molly was still marveling at the familiar calculations in the yellowed journals when she woke up. Instead of feeling disoriented and groggy, she felt clear and alive and instantly aware of what she needed to do that day. She had broken through to a new level of understanding about a past life because of the previous day's meeting, which meant he was the one: Sherlock was her soulmate.
She could barely stop grinning long enough to brush her teeth, which was why she was completely at a loss to arrive at his hospital room and find it deserted.
The nurse at the desk couldn't help her. "Transferred out to a private clinic," was her curt response. "That's what the chart says. No names or addresses, nothing for follow-up. No more'n that. Sorry. What's it to pathology, anyway?"
She couldn't think of a valid reply. "Um, nothing. We spoke briefly yesterday, I was just curious." She mentally scrambled for a way to get more info, but came up empty. Even if she got a hold of his brother's phone number on the chart, how likely would be willing to tell her where Sherlock was if he had transferred him so secretly?
She recalled the slithering charm of Mycroft Holmes and his cold eyes. He had known where his brother's soulmate worked all along and he hadn't bothered to inform Sherlock of the fact.
The message was clear.
Molly realized she was chewing on her lip and staring blankly at the nurse. "Thank you."
She glanced at the clock. Half an hour until her shift began, time she'd thought she would spend maybe holding hands with Sherlock and getting to know one another better. She slid her fingers into her sleeve and rubbed the skin where his name branded her.
Molly's eyes welled with tears and she ducked into the elevator. She pushed the buttons impatiently and paced back and forth until she got off on the top floor. She jogged to the stairwell, looking back to make sure she was unobserved when she opened the fire exit to the roof. She propped the door open with a folding chair so as not to trigger the fire alarm, and slipped outside.
Molly inhaled deeply and then slunk down onto the ground.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell," she cried, wiping her eyes. She wished she smoked for a minute, because it seemed like the sort of thing one would enjoy in a moment like this. She wished Surya was working; she really needed to talk someone, because she felt like she was going crazy. In the last twenty four hours, her heart had been completely turned upside down, teased with what she'd always dreamed of, and had it cruelly yanked away.
Panic took of Molly and it cramped her belly. She crossed her arms over her stomach and rocked, soothing herself.
Do not lose it, do not lose it, she chanted inwardly. Little Miss Perfect, that's what Surya calls you, because you can handle anything. You can handle this. You will think of something. Take a deep breathing. No, take ten.
She breathed, and massaged her temples. The air was crisp, and up high it smelled nice. The roof had become her special place not long after she started at Barts. Another student had shown it to her. It was originally a smokers' hideout, but all the students used it to get away sometimes when the job got too hard.
London was really beautiful from up there. She wished she could show Sherlock how incredible the city was once you stepped away from the grime and the violence and the tube and throngs.
We might be good together, once everything was sorted out. I think…we're supposed to be.
She jumped up and paced, trying to come up with a plan of attack for handling the situation, and failing. Her frustration grew, and the minutes ticked by. She was due in the morgue soon but the prospect of burying herself among the dead was no longer the comfort it once was. Molly stood on the roof of Barts, watching the swarm of people below. Everyone was faceless, and her loneliness was never more apparent.
"Dammit, Sherlock, where are you?"
Andros…
I have gone mad.
Andros huddled on the rock, the sharp edges prodding him into awareness of the cold spray once more, pulling him from the trance of his misery. He heard the sounds repeating, gruff utterances that bore resemblance to his name. He sat up shivering and listened.
The waves rose higher around the rock in the sea, crashing and threatening to swallow him. The noise of the ocean drowned out all. He drew his long legs tighter against him but it was useless. The tall body he was so proud of was a hindrance now.
He remembered learning to play the lyre, the musician educating him in trade for his scribe skills. His long limbs and elegant fingers moved beautifully over the instrument and the men and women watched him covetously. He did not watch them back, as none of them bore his matching mark, and his passion remained only for the learning. His father boasted that his son was more admired than the prince himself.
Andros loved his father more than any son ever loved a sire, that day.
But when the king took him for the rock, his father could say nothing. It was the way of things. His father had great cunning, but he was only one man, and the spring reaping was swift. To his great bitterness, his beloved father could not even look him in the eye as they took him in chains.
Andros…Andros…
Andros!
A hoarse voice called through the mist. Through the night, over the waves, something moved.
Andros peered through the dark of night, guided only by moonlight, and prayed he would not fall from his perch and be strangled by the chains. He leaned forward and finally, saw a bobbing yellow light.
A wooden peak floated above the waves now, just below the weak light- the prow of a small boat.
It was not his father after all, come to save him. It was not the king's men, come to put a merciful end to a slow, chilling death.
It was a girl.
As the boat moved over the choppy sea, nearer to his rock, there was only one small figure in what he saw was a crude fishing vessel. A thin arm lifted the lantern high, and the other arm grabbed the edge of the rocking boat to steady her. He saw long dark curls blowing in the wind, whipping around her face. Her face was obscured, but he saw her clothing was little more than rags. A length of rope wound about her waist.
When the waters calmed, she bent and carefully grabbed an oar. Andros watched as she guided the boat over the remaining distance in the dark, the light leading the way.
Andros did not believe in sea monsters but as a gentle wave tipped the boat toward his rock and the prow brushed Andros's foot, he almost believed in gods again. And when she leaned onto his rock and her roughened hand wrapped around his wrist, the pride of Andros was no more and the cold of the ocean fell from his bones. He felt warm all over for the first time since they chained him to the rock.
"Who are you?" he asked in wonder. "How came you here?"
"I saw you, Andros, though you didn't see me. You needed saving. And so I came." Her voice was hoarse, and it carried the rough accent of the fishmongers' village. She smiled and a dimple formed in her cheek.
"My name is Persa. I am yours, you are mine, and the sea will not be having you this night."