A/N: I wrote this pretty much in one sitting and did minimal Star Wars research, relying instead on my (very unreliable) memory about the Star Wars universe. I'm blaming therealbucky05 and allthebellsinvenice for siccing this plot bunny on me. My thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for reading it over and chatting with me while I raced to finish it before bedtime.

Warning for mentions of drug use and some (non-explicit for the most part) sexual situations.

He's Force sensitive from a young age, and unlike certain of his peers, well aware of what that means. It means he finds a way to hide it, to cloak it from others older and supposedly wiser than himself. To keep it locked away, deep within his mind. He envisions a grand palace like one he saw in a holo once, and buries the part of him that can sense the grand design of the Universe in the deepest, darkest dungeon. He locks it, throws away the key, and pretends the Mind Palace ends on the ground floor.

It works; no one ever gives him odd looks or questions him or tests him. He's never presented to the Jedi Council and thus is spared the carnage wreaked upon others of his peer group by the man who will one day be known as Darth Vader. Instead he lives his life in relative obscurity, raised in ignorance and love by his Force-blind parents, patronized by his overbearing git of an older brother, putting his brilliance to use helping to solve the petty crimes the local law enforcement will allow a mere teenager to assist them with.

It's a tedious life, but one he thinks he's enduring fairly well – until one day he finds himself in the seediest part of the capital city with his veins full of some off-world drug that sends his mind floating far from his body and gives him a chemical peace he never knew he craved.

Mycroft finds him there, a few days – maybe a week? – later. Sherlock smiles vacantly at him, mumbles a response when his brother demands to know what sort of poison he's injected himself with, and forthwith finds himself in a Rehabilitation Facility on the fifth moon of the gas giant at the outer rim of their solar system. A private one affiliated with neither the tottering Republic nor the burgeoning Empire rapidly taking its place in the wake of the Clone Wars.

A place where even a Force sensitive adolescent can recover in obscurity and not catch the attention of any remaining Jedi – or the Sith warrior who does the Emperor's bidding.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock demands when Mycroft makes his reappearance a month later. "I used false ID, and I made sure there weren't any damned tracking devices on me or in me. So how?"

It's not until they're aboard the private space yacht Mycroft's chartered that his questions are answered – and those answers give Sherlock an unpleasant jolt. "You were broadcasting your whereabouts to any Force sensitive within a thousand kilometers of you," Mycroft says coldly. "I had a headache for three days before I realized who it was that was being so reckless."

Sherlock frowns blackly; so much for his ability to keep his secret from his brother. When the broader ramifications of what Mycroft has said catch up to him, the frown becomes a suspicious stare. "You too?" he demands.

Mycroft nods, his face set and arms folded across his chest. "Yes. Not until adolescence, when I was fourteen and thankfully too old to be considered for Jedi training. I let it atrophy but I could tell you had it, too. You have no idea how grateful I was that you seemed to instinctively know to hide it. I thought it had died out in you, too, until suddenly I could feel your mind, out of control and drugged to the Ninth Moon of Namor, impinging on mine." It's his turn to frown. "Don't let it happen again, Sherlock. There's far too much at stake here. But of course, you don't need me to remind you of that."

"Most people think the Jedi are a myth, that they were just Republic propaganda, a bogey-man to keep the masses in line," Sherlock counters, but he doesn't need Mycroft's arched eyebrow to tell him how weak an argument that is.

He subsides into a sullen silence the remainder of the voyage home, a matter of only a few hours at sub-light speeds.

His parents greet him with affectionate relief, and a quiet celebration – not only for his homecoming, but for his birthday. He's nineteen now, although he doesn't feel any different than he did when he was eighteen. The universe goes on about its business, the Empire grows in power, and a year later the Imperial Senate is disbanded.

That same year he meets two people who will change his life radically: a down-on-his luck Corellian named Lestrade, and a young woman who answers only to Molly.

At first he assumes they're sleeping together; Lestrade is in his 30s and Molly is eighteenish, not an insurmountable difference in a galaxy where people routinely engage in sexual or even romantic relationships with members of different species. Judging by the way various females react to him, Lestrade is handsome and sexually attractive, with his silvering brown hair and devil-may-care smile. Molly has a quieter sort of attraction, with her medium brown hair worn in a set of elaborate braids that must take her hours to put together every morning. Her eyes are also brown and her smile lovely, as is her slender figure in its utilitarian coveralls…

None of which is relevant to anything, he sternly reminds himself. Careful observation reveals a more father-daughter relationship between them, even though they're not related by blood, not even sharing a planet of origin. He ignores the part of him that takes satisfaction from that knowledge, having convinced himself that the needs of the body are far outweighed by the needs of the mind.

Regardless of his interest in Molly (strictly intellectual, he repeatedly tells himself), their story is one he's determined to get to the root of. It's the sort of puzzle that helps keep him from going insane, from giving into the temptation and false promise of drugs, and even though he knows they're running from something, he's no more capable of stopping himself from digging into their origins than he is of returning the Republic to its former glory.

They've been there a little over a terrestrial month before he breaks into their ship, a battered YT-1300 light freighter, while Lestrade is spending time at a local bar frequented by the type of women he finds most attractive (unattached and breathing). History tells Sherlock that he'll be gone all night, while Molly will be in her quarters on their ship, whose name he hasn't bothered to memorize - the Quantum-something, he thinks. Or the something-Quantum. Whatever. Irrelevant. The point is, Molly's an early riser and early sleeper, and Sherlock is confident of his ability to slip on board without her knowledge.

Things go exactly as he predicts: he makes it on board without being detected and heads for the flight deck. From there he hacks into their databanks, although his initial elation quickly turns to dismay once he realizes what he's uncovered. He hastily shuts everything down and starts to flee the ship, but too late; Molly is standing in the corridor, blocking the way to the ramp – and holding a blaster on him. It looks enormous, far too large for her delicate (delicate? When did he start noticing her features?) hands, but her grip is steady and her expression fierce. "Who are you working for? Are you a bounty hunter?"

"I'm not working for anyone," he says truthfully, although he sees her lack of belief and finds it disturbing – and not only because he's worried about having a hole blasted through his chest. "And no, I'm not a bounty hunter. I'm exactly who I said I was, Sherlock Holmes, a local, born and raised here. Never even been off-planet except for once, and that was only to the edge of the solar system and back again." He hopes she doesn't ask about the nature of that trip, because to his unpleasant surprise, he suspects he'll tell her the truth. Which will no doubt lower her already lowered opinion of him.

He refuses to speculate as to why he cares in the first place. He's cultivated her and Lestrade's friendship under false pretenses, no matter how reluctantly he's come to admire them, even as he attempts to ferret out their secrets. That part isn't personal, it's just who he is and what he has to do to stave off the boredom that periodically threatens to overwhelm him.

"Then why are you here? What are you looking for?" Molly's voice is still hard, still suspicious, but there is real curiosity in her eyes, as well as something he has a hard time pinpointing until suddenly he understands: it's hurt. She's hurt, she's upset that someone she likes – liked? – has betrayed her.

"I just needed to know," he tries to explain. "I can't…there's something inside me that won't let a mystery go unexplained. And you two are the biggest mystery to come my way since – well, ever."

It sounds lame and it is lame but it's the truth and so it'll have to do. Once again he questions himself – why can't he just tell her some lie that will satisfy her, keep her from shooting him or reporting him to the authorities? Of course, the 'authorities' being mostly under the firm guidance (read: control) of his brother Mycroft, there will be no real consequences for him.

For Molly and Lestrade, however, any government scrutiny could lead to disaster. He understands that now, even though he wishes he didn't. Not so much for his own sake as for theirs.

Something of his thoughts, his discoveries about their histories, must show in his face; Molly's expression turns to distress. "You found it," she breathes. Her hands are trembling, just the slightest bit, and he keeps a wary eye on the blaster. "You read it, how could you do this to me?" Her voice breaks slightly. "I trusted you!"

"You shouldn't have," he replies, knowing how brutal he must sound. But for her own safety and that of the man who's protected her all these years, she needs to have this lesson thoroughly imprinted in her mind. "You shouldn't trust anyone, Molly. Ever. And," he adds grimly, "you should leave. We're a galactic backwater, but the Empire has a long reach."

She flinches, but starts to nod, starts to lower her hands – then seems to realize what she's doing and tightens her grip on the blaster. "We can't leave you here," she says. Gesturing with the blaster, she indicates he should move back towards the interior of the vessel. "As soon as Greg gets back, I'll tell him we have to leave that someone's found out about us. Once we're in hyperspace, I'll tell him about you. Then he can decide what to do with you. Probably drop you off somewhere far from home so you can't tell anyone what you found out until we're far gone."

This is an unexpected – and rather interesting – twist. He never believed she'd actually kill him, not intentionally, especially after he's managed to keep her talking this long. There's just nothing of the killer about her, and he's learned to recognize the type by now. "And what if I don't want to come with you?" he asks quietly. Because belief isn't certainty, and he needs to gauge her reaction to his question in order to decide what to do next.

"Then I'll have to kill you," she says. Predictable, but it's not her words that he pays attention to, it's her…aura…for lack of a better term. For the first time in years he deliberately loosens his iron grip on his Force sensitivity, allows a tendril to escape from his mind and show him Molly's true nature.

What he sees is stunning, there is no other word for it. Once he recovers he finds her staring at him, brown eyes wide, mouth opened in a small 'O' of comprehension. "Violence," Sherlock says, taking a step forward, never removing his eyes from hers, "is not the Jedi way." Then he moves again, and again, until suddenly she's in his arms, the blaster dangling forgotten from one hand, and he's kissing her. She doesn't push him away, doesn't demand that he let her go, just kisses him back and holds him just as tightly as he's holding her.

They find their way to her quarters, shedding clothing as they go, the blaster the only thing she takes care to place carefully in a locker before bringing him to her bed. It's the first time either of them has done this and there's a certain amount of fumbling and false starts, but instinct soon kicks in and they're moving together in a heated rhythm that simultaneously sets his blood aflame and soothes his mind like nothing else ever has.

When they've reached their mutual completion, Sherlock realizes it's not just their bodies that are entwined, but their minds as well. Slowly they disentangle their thoughts, Molly shyly, Sherlock reluctantly, until they once again find themselves only inhabiting their own bodies and minds. "That was…" he begins.

"…amazing," she finishes softly, reverently. She reaches up and tenderly brushes a disheveled curl from his forehead. "I never knew…it's been so long since I've been around anyone who could understand."

"Tell me?" he asks, brushing his fingers through the sweaty tangles of her hair. Her elaborate braids have come undone due to the vigor of their exertions, and he's fascinated by the texture of it.

Almost as fascinated as he is by her story. The computer held the bones; she gives him the details.

"I was seven when it happened," she says, her voice calm and controlled. But he can see the emotions she's keeping such tight control over, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "I should have been there, was supposed to be there, but I found out my brother was on Coruscant, and even though we're supposed to sever all family ties, I – I just wanted to see him. One last time."

"So you snuck out."

She nods. "Yeah, I snuck out. And got myself lost." Her lips twist in a bitter smile. "I was terrified, kept thinking it was the worst mistake I'd ever made. Turns out it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me – until now," she adds, glancing at him through her lowered lashes.

He smothers a laugh and wordlessly encourages her to continue.

Her momentary lightness disappears as she speaks again. "Greg found me, a little girl wandering around places she shouldn't be. I think he has kids of his own somewhere," she says somberly, her voice catching a little. "I've never asked and he's never said. But he very kindly offered to take me back where I belonged, and I could tell he didn't mean me any harm, so I told him. He was a bit surprised to find himself helping a baby Jedi get home, but took it in stride."

She shuddered, her next words laced with remembered pain. "The closer we got, the worse I felt. I could there was something wrong, something dreadfully wrong, but I wasn't old enough to understand what it was. And then, when we got there…" She covers her face with her hands, and Sherlock instinctively takes her into his arms, murmuring soothing nonsense until she gets herself back under control. "When we got there," she continues in a near-whisper, her eyes wide and haunted, seeing something not in the cramped shipboard quarters, "it was…they were all dead. All of them. Everyone I'd been studying with, all my teachers, everyone dead or fled."

"So Greg took you with him," Sherlock says, taking up the tale where she leaves off. "Took you to his ship, took you off-world and away from the Jedi Council and out of the reach of whoever had done that."

She nods. "It took us almost a year to find out that it wasn't an outside attack, that Anakin Skywalker, one of our own, had turned to the Dark Side." She shudders again, her heart beating fast against his chest. "He and his master have all the records. They must know that I wasn't there. So we've been running ever since."

"And then I blundered into your life and decided I couldn't live without knowing your secrets," Sherlock says, true regret in his voice. She looks up at his unsmiling face. "Forgive me, Molly. If I'd known…"

"There's nothing to forgive," she tells him with a smile. She tugs his face down and kisses him, slow and soft and warm. "I'm just glad I wasn't wrong to trust you after all."

There's a beeping sound from the vicinity of her discarded coverall; she starts and jumps up, hurrying over to hunt through the pile of fabric for the pocket where the comm device is stowed. Sherlock leans up on his elbows, admiring the curve of her body as she bends over, smiling at both the sight before his eyes and the memories of what they shared – and will hopefully share again. Not just the physical joining, but the mental and emotional bond they formed through the Force.

She stands up and thumbs the small device open, her expression first puzzled, then guarded. Sherlock, alerted by her sudden unease, stands up and pads over to stand by her side. He glances down at the small screen, then grunts in annoyance. "My brother," he says, reaching for the small, black rectangle. "May I?"

She lets him take it, begins dressing hurriedly as he listens to what Mycroft has to say. His carefully practiced expression of boredom dissolves, and he bites off a curse as he breaks the transmission. "We have to leave. Contact Lestrade, get him back here now or we leave without him."

She tries to protest, but he cuts her off, throwing his clothes on and raking his fingers through his hair. "Molly! Someone knows you're here, there's an Imperial cruiser on its way from the Daccus system. It'll be here in less than thirty minutes. Get Lestrade back NOW!"

She nods, no more delays, and he's grateful for her unquestioning acceptance of his (temporary) authority. He races to the flight deck, knowing he can only do so much to prepare the vessel for flight; he has limited experience with any sort of spacecraft, let alone something as temperamental as a YT-1300 freighter. But he's always had a way with machines and since they've already been compromised there's no reason for him not to let the Force guide him. He closes his eyes and breathes, allowing all distractions and fear to flow out of him until suddenly his hands are moving confidently over the controls. He feels the surge of the engines and opens his eyes, smiling grimly as he hears Lestrade's strident tones demanding to know what the seven hells of Mythdor is going on.

"You!" he snaps as he storms onto the flight deck, Molly in his wake. He takes in Sherlock's disheveled appearance and Molly's unbound hair and snarls a curse that makes her flinch. "You little bastard, what the hell have you done - "

"No time for that," Sherlock snaps. "We have to get out of here before that Imperial cruiser arrives. Or would you rather Molly was dragged away by a team of Stormtroopers just so you can berate me for having sex with her - consensual sex, I might add?"

For a moment it looks as if Lestrade is actually weighing the options, then he visibly deflates. "Right, kid, off my flight deck, off my ship," he orders, shoving his way into the pilot's seat as Sherlock vacates it. Molly takes the co-pilots seat, her face white and pinched looking. Sherlock longs to hold her, to tell her it'll be all right, but he can make no such guarantees and says nothing, just steps back and out of the way.

When Lestrade spares a second to glare at him, he shakes his head; he's not leaving, either the flight deck or the ship, and the Corellian seems to accept that, no matter how unwillingly. Within minutes they're out of the atmosphere, Sherlock's homeworld a rapidly disappearing dot on the rear viewscreen. Then they're jumping to hyperspace, the stars in the viewport stretching into white streaks before their eyes. It's a sight Sherlock's never witnessed in person before, and he finds it enthralling.

So enthralling, in fact, that he never sees the blow until it lands on his chin, dropping him ignominiously to his ass on the metal decking. He vaguely hears Molly's aghast cry as she hurries to his side, kneeling next to him and holding him while Lestrade glares down at the pair of them. "I'm not a child," she exclaims, glaring right back at him while Sherlock attempts to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. "This was my choice, Greg. Besides," she rushes on when it seems like Lestrade intends to yell at her, "he's like me."

That stops the older man short; his expression becomes confused, then calculating as the looks Sherlock over. "Force sensitive?" he asks disbelievingly. "You sure?"

"Quite sure," Molly says firmly, helping Sherlock to a sitting position. She pulls a square of cloth from one of her coveralls many pockets and hands it to him, instructing him to hold it to his nose for now.

"How do you know he's not the one sent the Empire after us?" Lestrade asks. "How do you know he's not manipulating you, using you? What if this is all a trap?"

"If I was working with the Imperials, why would I lead you away from them?" Sherlock asks irritably. He sounds stuffy, which takes some of the impact away from his words, which in turns makes him even more irritable. Molly rests a gentle hand on his shoulder and he subsides, contents himself with simply glaring at Lestrade rather than getting in a few punches of his own. "And if I was a bounty hunter," he continues, anticipating the next argument, "I wouldn't have to drag you somewhere off-planet to earn my pay, I'd just get it from the cruiser's commanding officer."

"We Force Bonded," Molly interjects quietly. That shuts both men up; Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and mutters something about how Sherlock better pull his weight before striding over and around them, leaving them alone on the flight deck.

"Force Bonded? Are you sure?" Sherlock asks. He's heard of the phenomenon, but only as a theoretical occurrence, not as something anyone has actually experienced.

Molly nods. "Didn't you feel it? When we were…" Her voice trails off and she blushes. Her hands flutter in the air before her, as if trying to shape a concept she can't find the words for. "That's not something that usually happens, at least, not from what I've learned and experienced. It's something rare and precious."

"Like you," he says impulsively, and her blush deepens.

He leans forward, intending to kiss her, but she makes a face and pulls back. "Um, let's just get you cleaned up first," she says, indicating his still-bleeding nose. He nods, allows her to help him to his feet and follows as she brings him back to her quarters, stopping only to grab a medikit on the way. Once she's patched him up and cleaned the blood away, she kisses him, again and again until suddenly they're lying on her rumpled bed, their clothes in a pile on the floor, holding one another as if their lives depended upon it.

Sherlock wonders if it will alway be like this, all frantic clutching and holding, kissing and nipping, the slick press of flesh-on-flesh. Or is it just the adrenaline of the moment, of finally discovering the joy of intimacy? Then he feels Molly's mind entwined with his and knows it isn't just lust, not simply experimentation or relief from boredom.

It is, simply put, the purest, most beautiful thing he's ever experienced in his young life. Something he would die to protect. He spares a moment to think of the home and life he's left behind, but can't bring himself to regret a single thing he's done. Not when it's all led him here, to Molly, the one who matters most. Yes, he supposes he'll miss his parents and (to a certain extent) his brother, but he feels like he's gained more than he's ostensibly lost.

He isn't sure how to tell Molly any of this, but feels her acceptance wash through their bond, and realizes he doesn't have to say anything: she already knows. Just as he can feel her happiness at having him in her life, even as they go on the run.

"Hooper," she says suddenly as he moves to enter her. He wrinkles his brow in confusion. "That's my last name," she says. "I haven't used it since that day. But I wanted you to know."

"Molly Hooper," he says, smiling down at her. Then he moves his hips and they're joined physically and she gasps and calls out his name, twining her arms around his neck. Within seconds their thoughts are merging, images and emotions traded and shared as they chase their completion.

Afterwards, lying contentedly in one another's arms, he whispers it again, loving the sound of it, the way it rolls off his tongue. "Molly Hooper."

The one he's been waiting for his entire life, and never knew until now.

The woman who counts.