A/N: So sorry about the slowness of an update on this. Last chapter was posted in March. I blame lots of things:D The list is vast and far too long to go into now. You can reach my solicitors at an undisclosed address and during an illogical interval.

Just a friendly reminder that in this AU John is not a surgeon or GP. He is a specialist in dream therapy although he has had some medical training. He was also in the army. Also he hadn't met Sherlock until after the events of the Great Game.

Recognize the quote at the beginning during John's musings? It's slightly important to the developing plot;)

Thanks again to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over & putting up with my nonsense:D

3. Deluge in a Paper Cup

He fingered the tea packet, staring at it and swallowed.

An odd mixed feeling of melancholy and unease surged through him.

Would he find a book next? A head shake side-to-side as he placed the tea with his store of supplies. It would be saved for later. There was no guarantee he would get more and he was a little wary over it's sudden appearance. It was uncannily like mindreading and it stirred up some dredge of recollection, like his ideas were taking form in the simplest way. Perhaps he should name this place The Island Where Dreams Came True? (This is where dreams-dreams, do you understand-come to life, come real. Not daydreams; dreams). Not the least bit accurate of course, if they really did he'd know his name.

Taking pieces from his supply of dried wood, he placed them upon the banked coals and was soon able to blow up a catching spark. After feeding the flames, the crab and water filled pot set on a flattened area, he picked up the empty jug and walked back to the stream.

Returning, he waited patiently for the crab to cook. He wrapped the mussels in damp seaweed and buried them over some coals saved from the fire. The sky darkened, the moon, which never completely disappeared, was joined by a trickle of stars. Time seemed jumbled and random. It hadn't been that long ago that he had awakened to a new day and now it was night.

His head ached. There must be a head injury. It would explain the memory loss and the jumps in time.

Sooner than he thought it would be, the crab was ready to be pulled out of the pot. His mind was peacefully blank while he ate. After he tidied he realized how exhausted he was. If he was recovering from a head injury, he needed his rest so he lay down next to the fire. The night was fine and he wanted to watch the stars. His eyes closed and he slipped into sleep. Odd to feel like he was in a dream and sleeping. Barely asleep, he heard it, the incessant beeping and the strange mutterings. Slowly, and for the first time, the voices became clearer.

beep, beep, beep, steady, continual, driving, maddeningly familiar

Watch the levels. He was close to surfacing.

Shit! Okay, there. Got it.

His fluid levels are better than when they brought him here. He should be stabilized now.

Wonder why he picked an island?

He didn't. They did. Well, she demanded it. Said it was vital.

Huh. Weird.

Shhh! Not here.

Don't worry. Anyway I don't really care.

It's fascinating. You should see where he normally goes. Weird location. It's in the middle of a meadow with a fucking apple tree, for god sakes.

Why not use that?

Too many memories associated with it. Ah yes, better. He's responding.

He's ready. Tell them to send her in.

beep, beep, beep, constant, incessant

nothing for a long time and then…

"Hello?!"

Awaking with a start, his heart felt like it would burst out of his chest.

"Hello! Anyone there?"

He stood, feeling dream mussed.

"Helloooo! You there!"

Turning to look behind him, he could just make out a figure away off down the beach.

His heart beat harder and for a moment he felt anticipation. It was gone as quickly as it had come. The person, whoever they were, was too short. They began waving frantically and raced toward him. As they came closer he could see it was a woman. In spite of the promise of human contact and maybe some answers, he was crushingly disappointed. It wasn't whom he had been yearning for.

She ran up to him and flung her arms around him, embracing him hard with a strength that belied her fragile appearance. She was sobbing.

"Oh thank God! I thought we were alone, stuck here. It's been so difficult." He could just make out what she was saying through her tears.

He awkwardly patted her on the back.

"Shh, it's okay! Who are you?"

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she continued to talk very fast.

"We've been here for days. Barely any food. No shelter and he's hurt. He's hurt and so small. I didn't know what to do." She looked at his camp bewildered. "You've set things up beautifully. How on earth? This is amazing. But never mind that. Please, you've got to come. He's so close to dying. Can you help? Can you come?"

"Slow down. Who's hurt? What are his injuries?" Something inside took over and it seemed as if a new part of his brain opened up. Medical information filled his head although his brain felt rusty and full of holes. Perhaps he had been a doctor.

"I'm so sorry." She was wringing her hands. "You must come. He's delirious and doesn't know who he is. He's so young. I've been giving him water but he won't wake up. Please?"

"Okay. Let me grab the blanket and mug. Here take the water."

She looked at the jug he handed her and frowned. "Where did you get this? How? We came here with nothing."

"I don't really know. I woke up one morning and they were lying beside me. Look. It isn't important. We can figure it out later. Take me to the injured person. Young, you said? A boy?"

She shook her head and squared her shoulders. "Of course you're right; we will deal with this later." Her tone was off and he wasn't sure she meant it the same way he did but he ignored it and listened to what she was describing.

"Yes. He is maybe about seven, maybe? Not much older. He has been muttering a lot, in and out of consciousness. Mostly out. He seems feverish and his skin is flushed, but not sunburned. We don't seem to burn, do you? I asked him once during a more lucid moment his name and he didn't know."

Interesting. Someone else who didn't know who they were.

"Do you…you know your name?"

She looked at him, a gleam of something in her eyes he couldn't place. "Of course I do. It's Mary. What's your name?"

"I…I am not sure."

She frowned. "You either? What's going on? "

He shook his head.

They made their way up the beach and rounded a promontory of land he hadn't remembered seeing before this. Soon they came upon a small clearing and there in the middle on the ground, curled up in a ball was a small boy. Dark hair stuck up everywhere as if he or someone had been tearing at the roots. His back was toward them and his skinny arms were wrapped around his thin frame. He was so small he looked much younger than seven. Something about the dark hair stirred a memory.

Long fingers running through dark curls, pulling at them, tugging.

"I can't think! Help me think!"

"It will come. Don't push so hard. Here," he lifted the hand from the hair and held it in his own. He brought it to his mouth and placed a careful kiss on the back. He sat on the arm of a sofa and placed his arm around a lanky man who leaned into his embrace.

A soft kiss on the forehead.

His head hurt and he rubbed at it.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a memory. I can't seem to hang on to them. I'm not sure who I am or remember anything. Maybe it's something to do with this place."

They reached the boy. Carefully laying the blanket across the shivering figure, he laid the back of a hand on his forehead. Definitely a fever.

He tipped the jug and poured water into the mug. He tore a small piece of material off of the edge of his t-shirt and dipped it into the mug and wiped the forehead of the boy.

The boy turned into his touch, the cool cloth momentarily revived him and his eyes opened briefly. They were the darkest brown he had ever seen, almost black. The boy looked at him, frowned, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes once more.

"If we can, we should move him to the shelter. You will both be safer and more comfortable there. Here, let me lift him. You take the other stuff." He bent down to scoop up the frail body. Although the boy felt light in his arms and weighed very little, there was a heavy feeling in his heart when he lifted him. A feeling of unease and dread settled there and the boy seemed far heavier than he looked.

They walked slowly back to his small encampment where he carefully placed the boy down upon the mat of woven palm fronds. Mary covered him with the blanket. They left him for a moment to talk quietly outside.

"I wish I had something to bring down the fever. We'll just have to do it the old fashioned way. Let's get you something to eat. I have a bit of fruit here and some mussels cooking. They should be ready. I hope you like shellfish."

"I'm hungry enough to eat you," Mary grinned at him, an open and friendly smile. He couldn't help but smile back. She had a cute little nose crinkle.

"Well we'll get you sorted and while you're eating, I'll cool the boy down. We can't keep calling him the boy. What should we call him?"

Mary thought for a moment. "I've always liked the name Jim. Let's call him that. But what about you? You need a name, too."

He frowned. Nothing came to mind and he guessed anything was better than nothing. "I have no idea."

She smiled again, warm and friendly, full of mischief. "What about John. You seem like a John."

A warm glow and a feeling of rightness. This. Almost, he could hear a deep, velvety chocolate baritone whisper it in his ear. John.

"Yes. I think that will do," he nodded and smiled a little more warmly, a little less hesitantly in Mary's direction. "Let's see about getting things sorted, shall we?"

As he walked away from her toward the fire, the smile left her face and she threw a worried glance toward the boy sleeping in the shelter and whispered, "Soon, we'll get you back to yourself. Soon."

oOo

Mycroft had been right. The destruction of the lab was not pretty. It was outright carnage. A short, dark haired woman led the team and shot anyone in her path, one neat, well placed bullet to the head of everyone in her way, everyone except John, Sarah and Mike.

Carefully, he watched the copy Mycroft had brought, eyes tracking her as she entered and walked coolly through the facility. She was ruthless and efficient. Well-informed too, as she certainly knew where she was going and how to get there. He almost flinched, almost, when she walked up to John, lying still and small (when had he ever seemed so small?) hooked up to that machine again. He almost but not quite looked the other way as he watched her shoot the agent, occupying the other bed. Had to watch as she struck Sarah across the face, Sarah who tried to protect John, yelled at them to stop, told them they may have damaged John, ruined his mind, trapped him inside. Part of him died a little when he heard that. Listened to the small, ruthless woman as her dispassionate, crisp voice ordered her men to unhook and move John.

He felt sick. Never had he hated someone as much as he hated her. She had John.

John. His John, who had been alone and vulnerable; he hadn't been there for him and he should have been.

Speaking to his brother over his shoulder, he couldn't look directly at him. He couldn't forgive Mycroft for allowing this to happen. He couldn't forgive himself.

"What do we know about her? She's the key."

"We know very little. We suspect much."

"Tell me. Everything."

There was a rustle of paper and the sound of footsteps as Mycroft moved to Sherlock and held out a file, stamped with the usual warnings and tags in bold red.

"She has a few aliases we are aware of. Likely more we are not. She has covered her tracks well. Marta Gajda, Melaina Petro, Maria Morris, Marlene Moran. Her real name has yet to be identified. We believe she may possibly have been a colonel in the Russian army, but that is guesswork as is her country of birth. Crack shot as you can see." Mycroft's smile was wintery. "Our latest intelligence suggests she was stripped of her rank for questionable morality and went freelance. She may or may not have ties to the CIA. They would be interested in her special talents."

He pulled a photograph from the slim file. "We do have one lead though that will be of particular interest." The picture was held out to Sherlock who took it and studied it. Two figures came into focus and a jolt of recognition shot through him. A small, sharp bolt of loathing filled him. The photograph showed a grainy picture of the woman talking to a very familiar face, someone whose last known whereabouts had been the roof of Bart's hospital. Someone he had watched blow his own brains out. A gun to the mouth will do that.

A singular individual whose body had never been recovered.

"We believe she may have been in the employ of James Moriarty and are strongly convinced she was the sniper tasked with shooting Molly Hooper when he was persuading you to jump."

Sherlock sat back, one finger at his lip as he thought.

"There has to be a connection between her and John's abduction. Do you think this is revenge?" Mycroft heard it, although few others would have except John. Sherlock's speaking voice to anyone else was calm and controlled, but underneath there was a slight, very soft tremor.

"We do not know. There is not enough information."

"Find it, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "Find out everything. I don't care how many favours you have to use. I don't care how many I'll owe you. Do everything in your power and get me information."

"It's already being done. I suggest you get some rest. I will return in the morning."

Sherlock paid Mycroft no further attention as he saw himself out. Returning his focus to the computer, he watched the video from the lab again. And again. And once more, hoping to see something, hear anything.

At some point he pulled off his jacket and tossed it to the floor. He must have kicked off his shoes as well although he didn't remember doing it.

Finally he sat back, slumped in his chair. It was dark in the flat. Night had crept up on him and he hadn't noticed. He felt weary and closed his eyes to rest, just for a minute, just briefly to clear his head.

And then he'd watch it again and again until he found something or Mycroft brought him more information. Sleep stole upon him and he dreamt.

He was walking through a meadow. Impossible candy floss clouds filled an unreal blue sky. He was back. With an ache and longing, he hurried toward their place, their special home. Perhaps John was there, already waiting, had somehow found his way from wherever he was. Perhaps he could help him. Over the rise of a hill he came to the oddity of an exact copy of the living room in their flat except there were no walls and an apple tree grew in the corner. Over to one side beneath its swaying branches was an addition that hadn't been there when they first created it together, a large bed, canopied by the fresh green of the tree. He could hear the distant hum of bees.

John was not there, even though he had hoped. Deep down inside he knew he wouldn't be.

He tried calling out John's name. The fey wind that caressed his cheek and blew the clouds picked it up and carried the sound of his voice away. Hope and faith sunk down inside him. Frustrated he kicked the turf knowing he couldn't stay here. It was not the same and it was even lonelier without John than back in the real world.

Picking a direction at random, he started walking away from their shelter. He walked for what seemed like hours and when he wondered if he should turn back, he felt something change.

Over one more knoll, past one more clump of bushes, he came to a hill, which looked out over everything. There was something, in the distance, a glimmer, a bright gleam sparking only the way water does in the sun. With it came the smell of the sea, rich and full of promise. It tugged at his heart. That was where John was. He knew it. He set off walking as fast as he could and felt the shore come closer, the ocean breeze pick up. He would be there soon when…

A loud noise woke him. A car had backfired in the street. He shook his head and sat up. Sleeping deeper than he meant to and from the look of things longer as well. Returning to look at the video with fresh eyes, he hoped he would pick up on one small clue.

He didn't even think about how close he might have come in his dreams. How could he when he never remembered them?