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Molly sighed as she awoke. The warm light streaming through her bedroom window confused her and for a moment, she believed she was lying in her lover's arms on a rough blanket with the sun rising over them. They'd been in a cave somewhere and she felt stone scraping her back but she hadn't cared, no, she'd been deliriously happy. She flexed her feet and wiggled her toes to reassure herself that they were clean and clad in socks, and not bare and sandy as they were in her dream.
And oh, what a dream. Molly hummed as she showered, recalling bits and pieces of it. It felt like one of the true visions, but she hadn't had this particular one before. It was rather…detailed. Her previous dreams hadn't the same flavor of eroticism to them. With Sherlock off in a clinic for the past four weeks and out of touch, she hadn't expected the dreams to change and deepen like that.
There were new shades to familiar dreams, as well. She knew the old laboratory well, and the woman who experimented there, making discoveries. Sometimes with her husband, a handsome man with a strong nose and a high forehead. His steady dark-eyed gaze was comforting, even when he was sharp-voiced and challenging. He never let her be intellectually lazy. She found that he-her soulmate-functioned as a sort of anchor when the journeys and the dream became overwhelming.
Washing her hair in the shower, she wondered if Sherlock felt the same way, wherever he was.
And finding a remarkable scientist in her own past was a revelation that made Molly glow with pride. But equally exciting was the confirmation that other souls in the past visions were familiar in more commonplace ways.
They said that people often traveled in the same circles, in lives, even though they weren't soulmated, but there was little evidence to back it up.
But when she sunk into the dream of the French scientist, one evening, she saw her other self welcome a cheery Polish governess who taught the girls her native tongue, bringing her children over to visit. Her daughter was bouncing on her lap, while she chatted away with her guest, and it wasn't until the dream was fading away that she recognized the soul of Michael Stamford in the Polish woman's round face.
He taught my children, and now he teaches me. Molly felt like crying when she understood.
An undying cycle.
She wondered if she had met Mike's wife in that life, since she never would in this one.
They had so little time on Earth. No matter how many lives they had, it was never enough. Every bone in her body told Molly to seek Sherlock out, but her medical training told her to leave him be.
But what if he needs my support?
Then he can ask for it, she reasoned. But he left and he hasn't called or sent word through anyone. It isn't prison.
Though she wanted to find him, Molly held back and pushed herself to focus on her training. She was nearing the end, and she didn't want to fall into complacency. It also occurred to her she'd become a rather bad friend and hadn't returned Surya's last phone call when she'd fallen into such a funk over Sherlock.
Maybe Sherlock isn't the only one who needs to get sorted out. Oh hell.
And with that realization, Molly headed into work and made plans for lunch with her friend.
Got so tangled up in the past I forgot about the present.
"Have you started using the dream journal yet?"
Sherlock stared blankly at his therapist. "I could swear I already answered this question."
She smiled slightly. "That was yesterday. And the day before. And possibly the day before that."
"I told you, it won't work. You keep trying to the same old useless therapies on me. My mind is bleeding all over the place every night. You have no idea. A fucking journal isn't going to help me." Ignoring the clinic rules, Sherlock pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
Sheila's eyebrows rose but she said nothing: no scolding about smoking in her office or even asking how he managed to get a cigarette when his entire packet should be held at the nurse's station at all times under lock and key. After six weeks, Sherlock's habits were very familiar to the clinic's staff.
Sheila stood, and crossed the room to close her office door. She locked it and then retreated to her chair. Dipping into her desk drawer, she pulled out a packet of Benson & Hedges. She lit up a cigarette of her own.
"Oh, are we bonding? Sharing a rule-breaking moment, us against the nursing staff?" Sherlock said mockingly. "Such an elementary tactic, Sheila. Really disappointed in you." He smoked furiously.
"Oh, I abandoned those tactics by the second week. Do you think you're special, Sherlock?" Sheila took a drag of her cigarette, closed her eyes and exhaled blissfully. "Do you honestly think you're the smartest man to ever waste his life snorting or shooting up? The only person who ever couldn't handle their soul dreams and overloaded their brain chemistry to prove it? I know you're a genius. You bloody prove it every day. But these therapies do work- even if they seem incredibly pedestrian and stupid to you. There are studies to back them up, and I would be more than happy to share the data and journals with you if you're interested." Sheila gestured with her cigarette as she spoke. "And yeah, you're smarter than the lot of us when it comes to crime and physics and ballistics; but I've seen a hundred brilliant people like you come through these doors. Most of them come through a second time. And a third. Some of them I never see again because they OD first."
Ralph flashed through Sherlock's mind before he could stop the image. Ralph the chemistry student who had educated him on how cocaine could short-circuit the soul dreams and free him from the desire to be with his Margaret.
My Molly, he corrected himself.
Ralph who'd died the winter before in an abandoned house in Manchester. They didn't find his body for a week, but the last person to see him had been his dealer, so there was little mystery about the cause of death, even before the post-mortem results came in.
"Everyone thinks they're too smart, too good to do the legwork of rehab. At first." Sheila took a last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray she produced from a drawer. "So what's it going to be, Sherlock? Legwork now, or will I see you again six months after we discharge you in a few weeks?"
With iron lever and hammer, she freed him from his shackles and Andros fell from his small rock perch onto her narrow boat. Persa stumbled backward, and the lantern flew from her hand into the deep, extinguishing their light.
Andros! She cried out.
Persa slid on the wet floor on her vessel, losing her way in the abrupt darkness. As she turned to find him, the waters rose under the boat and knocked her to the port- and over into the waves.
Andros turned to see the shape of the girl rolling into a wave and without a thought for himself, his long arms reached out and caught her like a slippery fish.
He grasped her tight into his arms and they fell to the floor of the rocking boat. Persa gasped against his chest, betrayed by the sea she loved so well. Andros held her against him, stroking her hair back and feeling the warmth flow between them. The chill had sunk into his bones in the long night but with every touch, the stars seemed brighter.
When she was standing again, the unpredictable waters were nothing to Persa and her vessel. With moon and stars to lead her, she guided them homeward. By the time the first pinpricks of sunrise touched the sky, they had reached the pebbled shore.
Andros fell to his knees and kissed the sand like a drunken fool at a tidal festival.
The girl smiled, but there was little time to spare. Persa pointed overhead, to the hilly cliffs that appeared sheer and impenetrable. She took Andros by the hand, drew him up, and showed him the way to her home.
She led him past the coves where he had played as a child, beyond the cave where he witnessed the spring reaping of other young men of the rock. They picked their way over the paths, hugging the smooth-seeming cliff face until they turned a sharp corner-
-and nearly fell through an entryway into the side of the hill.
The rising sun spilled light into the dark cave but Andros shivered, still soaked in his thin garb. Persa built a fire in the pit, and with the illumination, he saw the place was indeed her home. Crude drawings were etched into the walls, depicting a man, a woman and a child linking hands. A crate of fishing supplies lay along the wall, the hooks made of bone, the lures of tern feather. Hempen rope, frayed but usable, coiled around the lot. An old cloak was laid out by the fire atop a worn blanket. On each side of the entryway, he now realized, were clusters of sea roses and red valerian and daisies, flowers that grew wild in the fields west of the village and by the ocean. Their sweet scent tickled his nose, along with the smells of salt, sea, and smoke.
Her earlier embrace had broken his chill, but pure heat rolled through Andros when Persa's hands pulled his vest over his head.
"Soaked," the young woman muttered. "Those too." She tugged at his waist and he allowed her to strip the uncomfortably wet trousers from him in a daze. She drew him down to kneel beside her on the blanket by the fire, pulling the threadbare cloak over him. She clasped his hand and smiled shyly.
Strange for her to be shy with my hand but not my clothing, Andros thought. But it was no matter; his eyes met hers and he felt the wondrous connection again. Energy coursed from her arm into his and within minutes, he felt such an overwhelming flush that the cloak became stiflingly hot.
Persa lifted his arm, exposing the skin above his wrist. She stroked the intricate pattern inlaid there, the one he was born with. The lines twisted over his flesh, interlacing like grapevines in the shape of a crown, pressed upon his arm. She bent her head, pressed her lips to his mark and shuddered. Persa looked up, tears shining in her dark eyes.
She pushed up her ragged sleeve to the elbow, displaying herself proudly.
The inky-black mark on her skin was identical to his own.
A tear slid over her cheek, but her mouth curved in a smile. "I saw you. In the marketplace, by your father's side." Her voice was husky. "Saw your mark as you played the lyre, and I knew you were mine, though you were above me."
Andros laid his arm over Persa's, their marks held together. The heat burned between them anew. She gasped, her brown eyes delighted. His hand tightened around hers, and his mouth widened in a smile of his own.
"Never above you. With you, always."
"Oh." The hoarseness in her voice began to fade. "It is you." And then with a great laugh, she was in his arms.
They were a tangle of sliding brown limbs as the sun rose. The fire died, but their touching kept them warm. They shared the bonding words of their people, those that cannot be unsaid and unheard. The vows were whispered between gentle kisses, hands pressed palm to palm. They were joined, bodies and souls as one.
Sherlock came awoke slowly, reluctant to pull out of the dream. The taste of her was on his lips, and the sound of a gull's cry rang in his ears still. He stretched his arms, and tucked them under his head. He couldn't remember the last time a soul dream had been so fluid and coherent, and so satisfying. He-
Legwork.
His eyes snapped open and fell on the notebook by the side of his bed. Sherlock sat up, swung his legs over and hopped off the mattress. He padded over to his discarded trousers on the floor to locate his cigarettes and matches.
If he was going to be an obedient dog, it would be on his terms.
Sherlock smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he managed to capture every detail of the dream but in the end, he was satisfied it was as accurate as possible. He threw his pen down, disgusted with himself for doing what had been asked of him, but also strangely happy. He had accomplished something. He remembered Andros.
It seemed he had Andros's pride, and some of his abilities. That was intriguing. He had the urge to Google ancient papyrus preparation techniques to see if anything was familiar. Computer access was limited at the clinic, but there were supervised periods at a communal computer lab. He'd break into the lab later if he were bored enough.
But for now there was the meeting with Mycroft to deal with.
"Thanks for the care package, big brother. See you next week!" Sherlock moved to stand.
"Sit down." Mycroft had only just arrived. Sherlock smirked, and settled in.
"You brought me low-tar?! What have I ever done to you?" Sherlock swore at the carton of cigarettes.
Mycroft rubbed his forehead. "I've also brought you an opportunity. Once you're discharged, if you're serious about continuing this consulting business, I'll arrange a connection with the Metropolitan Police. As long as you stay 100 percent clean."
"I can make my own connections." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"It'll take years for an unlicensed recovered drug addict to develop police connections. This is a shortcut. And their crime solve rate is abysmal this year."
"What do you want in return?"
"I want nothing in return. Your sobriety. Mother's happiness."
"And?" Sherlock stared. What was the missing piece? Mycroft always had an angle. He was distracting Sherlock from something. Mother was the emotional angle to distract from…what other emotional angle? What other one was there but Molly?
"Did you ever plan on telling me about Molly? Really?Just between us brothers."
"I would like to think so, but you were at rock bottom. I was doing her a favor, and believe it or not, you. If you had met your soul mate when you were intoxicated, you would have driven her away for good. I was looking after you, Sherlock."
"I can take care of myself. You're not my father, Mycroft."
Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Well, Father didn't take care of much when he was alive so that's hardly a basis for comparison. I have always taken care of things. When you got expelled from three schools, I found new ones. When you informed Mother of Father's indiscretions and she was unavailable for a time, I looked after you. You don't remember those things, Sherlock, because you were too busy making those messes that I had to clean up."
Sherlock stood. "See you in two weeks. No more low-tar. That's a violation of the Geneva Convention."
Mycroft lifted his chin. "She's being patient but she'll start searching for you soon, you know."
Sherlock looked back. He knew it wasn't Mother that Mycroft was referring to. He swallowed. "I assumed she would be looking. But she won't find me, will she."
"Not until you're ready for her to." Mycroft cleared his throat. "With her training completed soon, her position will remain at Barts. She'll be there. I'll be watching."
"As always, big brother."