So NaNoWriMo has finally released me and I was able to return to fanfic! This is a long overdue post for the contest at Reaper_Lives! over on LJ. The prompt was "I never knew it was you," and something about that kickstarted a concept that has been in my head a very long time regarding John and Sam and the rather squicky amount of chemistry they had considering they were supposed to be siblings. I will never be comfortable with incest or twincest, but really, it was impossible to counter after watching Doom. That said, I think I found a way to work the whole idea and make it work. Hopefully.

Besides, I totally agree with Seren23 that Rosamund Pike is the only person to play Christine Chapel. So there.

Disclaimer: I own NONE of the half a dozen movies/tv shows I've alluded to, though I do own copies of most of them, and yes I paid for those.

BTW, I'll give ecookies to everybody who guesses all of the influences here!

He's dying. Mangled and bleeding, he lies in the wreckage around him, moaning despite himself. His opponent is alive he thinks, though he isn't absolutely sure. It's hard to be sure of anything in the midst of pain and blood and a broken body. Someone else's vehicle has just become his tomb; he knows too well that no one will claim the body, that no one will come to cry at his funeral. He tells himself fiercely that he doesn't care. It's a lie, but it's his last, so who could blame him.

The first time John dreamed of a life that wasn't his own, he came awake all at once, just as he'd been taught to in his years in special forces. He found himself in that wrecked storeroom where he'd been sure to die, by the door he'd tried so desperately to barricade as one last defense for his sister. But he hadn't died. He moved to a mirror over a sink and wiped away the blood from his face. No wounds, no scars. He'd healed, he thought with both wonder and horror. The C-24 had actually worked.

His sister had saved him, he realized. His brilliant, selfless, aggravating, breathtaking sister saved him.

He hefted the weapon that still hung from his vest and checked the clip. She was alive, somewhere in this hell; she had to be alive. Footsteps silent, and body stronger than it had ever been, he stepped out into the hall, ready to save her in return.

He doesn't love the woman in his bed, and he knows she blames him for it. Hell half of Austin blames him for it. Even his closest friend and partner blames him for it. He tries, damn it; they'll never know how much he tries. Her soft blonde hair and bright eyes call to him each time he sees her, but somehow the shade of her hair is too dark, the color of her eyes just barely wrong.

She's not whoever it is that he's searching for. He knows it in the way he knows the feel of his horse beneath him, and the shape of his pistol in the dark. It's instinct, he'd say if anyone is actually willing to listen. Instinct warning him away and out onto the plains to search for the mysterious something or someone he yearns for.

She's comfortable and beautiful beside him in bed, but she's nothing more than that. Can be nothing more than that.

So he lies, to her, to his partner, to himself if he dares admit it, finding excuses for the reasons he leaves her alone and unmarried, even after the birth of the boy that is so clearly his son.

The next time John woke from a dream of a life that wasn't his own, it left him angry for days. Angry at the man he dreamed about for the callousness he'd felt, and worse, somehow even angrier at the woman he'd glimpsed through his eyes. She was just wrong, damn it, and why couldn't she have left the other John alone.

It wasn't rational, the anger in him, and he knew it, but it sure as hell didn't change the way it made him feel. He barely slept for fear of reliving that dream for the next few nights, not that his enhanced body needed as much sleep. Still, his avoiding of his bedroom did serve a purpose in the long run; it got Sam, with her aggravating need to answer questions, thinking.

She outright bullied him until he told her what he'd dreamed about, and then with a skill only sharing a womb can give a sibling, managed to ferret out the fact that he'd had a similar dream of yet another life during the change itself.

Next thing John knew, she was researching the soul as a phenomenon and theorizing on the concept of past lives with a wild abandon. It was the C-24 unlocking memories, she told him, giving him access to fragments of lifetimes he might have lived before.

She seemed enthralled by the entire thing, and John had to force himself not to scream at her, to storm out of the tiny apartment they'd shared for nearly three years. Why couldn't she let it go, he wondered. Was it not enough that he wasn't fucking human anymore? Did she have to make him even more of a freak?

He shut her out as best he could for nearly a week before she stormed her way through his walls. All they had was each other, she reminded him at full bellowed volume. He wasn't allowed to leave her alone. Not now. Not ever. For as long as John could remember, there had been one thing more intimidating than his twin in full tirade, and that was his sister weeping.

His anger broke in the face of that, and he cradled her to his chest. She was right; she was always right. He wouldn't leave her. He couldn't leave her.

He's a boy, so nearly a man, but still just a child. So is she, a golden slip of a girl he's known since before she was brought into this world and his mother's dearest friend had allowed a curious boy to touch her belly as it grew.

She is his, he knows and she knows, and even his father knows. They will wed when they are both old enough, for their village wise one has said it will be so. The wise one has said there can be no other bride for the headman's son. He has said they have loved before this life and their souls have journeyed far to love again, and it will be a curse upon their village if such devotion is hindered.

He doesn't like the wise one, if truth be told. The old man is cruel. Still he is glad of the wise one's words for it means his dear one will not be taken from him. They will wed, he tells himself with a strange sense of rightness deep within him.

All that is left is for him to journey with his father to attain manhood. He must go across the water with his father to seek out new slaves and riches to present as her bride price. It will take many months before he returns, but when he does, he will be a man and she will be a woman.

The morning the men leave the village behind, he feels a terrible foreboding settle in his chest as he watches her wave goodbye, and he hides his tears as he suddenly knows he will never see his golden love again.

The third time John woke from a memory, he crept silently into his sister's room in the old farmhouse they'd bought and settled in out in the middle of nowhere. He watched her sleep for hours as he tried to fight the knowledge creeping in with that new memory. For he'd realized he knew the little girl from this new memory, knew her better than his own face. Hell, in this life he had shared a womb with that same golden child. He thought about the wise one's words, and his heart broke inside of him as he silently raged against fate for this damned twist of fate.

John tried to forget that dream over the next few weeks, tried to push it away as he pushed away his sister's concern that he wasn't sleeping again. For once he was able to succeed in lying to her, and he only wished he could succeed in his other goal as well. He couldn't forget the dream though, and he realized yet another side effect of the change His memory never faded; the glimpses of this dream and the others were permanently etched into his mind.

It's later that month that he remembered a story Mac had once told him. It was one of the only times he and the quiet tech had spent apart from the rest of the team. The pair of them had been sent on an op overseas in Japan, a relatively easy assignment with Mac's bilingual side to help them. They'd wrapped up the mission in record time, and then had proceeded to spend the 6 hour wait for transport getting shitfaced in a little sake house one of the locals had recommended to Mac. There, the sake had run away with John's mouth, and he'd found himself telling the other man about his past, about Sam. At the end of John's rambling tale of sibling estrangement, Mac had surprised him with a legend that had almost cut John off at the knees. Male and female twins were considered tragic, Mac revealed, for it was thought that they were the reborn souls of past lovers who had loved so deeply and sought so hard to find each other that they had been reborn in the same womb. John had scoffed then, drunkenness covering his then-disgust at the cockamamie story. Legend or not, incest and/or twincest was not a concept he found even remotely appealing.

That night, the memory of Mac's words ringing through his mind, he slipped back into his twin's room again to watch her sleep, and he forced himself to remember that they were siblings, not lovers. It was a line he wouldn't cross; a betrayal that he feared would send his sister away from him and his protection for good. That wasn't something he could risk; she was the only thing he had, the only thing he loved, and god knew he couldn't stand to lose her.

He would watch her from a distance for as long as she let him. That distance was the line he would never cross, he promised himself.

He is a soldier, a centurion, and one who has the honor of Caesar's regard. How not? He is strong, courageous, loyal. He has earned that regard and the rewards that come with it.

One such reward is waiting in his bed one evening. A lovely little thing, he muses, exotic with her light hair and eyes, and blissfully his own.

He had found her after a battle, alone against the rough attentions of men with no regard for her wishes. She had not gone with those men quietly, though, and that is what had caught his eye. She was fighting when he came upon them, fighting with a defiance that called to him, even though she was clearly outmatched.

The other men had nearly subdued her when he chose to act, ripping her from their hands, and then cutting them down as they sought to win back their prize. Only one had survived, but he was of no rank to challenge one of Caesar's favored men.

So, the woman was claimed, but in no way cowed. Something in him had been proud of her strength, had gloried in her courage, and he'd been reminded of the Amazons of legend. Their queen had been a proper match for Heracles, himself.

He found himself longing for the regard of such a woman, and with a devotion that had surprised even him, he sought to woo her, to win her affection instead of forcing it from her. And won her he had.

When she comes to his bed, it is by her choice, by her desire, and he finds he loves her for it, like he has loved nothing else in his life.

The final time John dreamed of a life he'd lived long ago, he woke in tears, sobbing silently in grief for what he'd lost. Samantha, his bright and beloved Samantha had been dead for nearly a century, and John was alone, despite the wife he'd married in recent years, despite even the little girl down the hall, the daughter who'd been the light of his life since her birth.

The dream was a wake up call, he realized years later, after the vicious divorce and his escape to Starfleet. After he'd been befriended by the hellion called Jim, who'd dragged him back among the living whether John, or Bones as Jim insisted on calling him, liked it or not.

He had loved nothing in his life like Sam, would never love anyone like he'd loved her, and his soul would only long for hers until the day he died. He would never be content with another woman, not really, but, maybe... just maybe that would be alright.

He wasn't alone at least; he had Jim for a friend, and half a dozen other acquaintances he might allow himself close enough to consider friends someday too. He could be content with that life at least. He was sure of it.

He managed to live that way for most of their three years at the Academy, and then like a bolt of lightning his world was turned upside down at the sight of a stunning blonde who strolled past him on the quad and into his life without a word. Her name, he found out later, was Christine Chapel, and she was a nurse assigned under him at the clinic.

But her eyes, her face, her form, hell even her fucking scent belonged to a soul he'd thought long gone for good.

He sharply reminded himself to keep calm in the face of her, to move slowly toward any kind of relationship, wanting, needing to be sure he wasn't merely tricking his own mind due to loneliness. He had the time after all, time to watch and wait, to be sure he knew her as well as he hoped he did. In time, they were professionally inseparable: he became the CMO of a flagship and she became his Head Nurse. To his amusement, and her chagrin, she gained the reputation for fearlessness, even in the face of one of the most intimidating surgeons in Starfleet history.

No one could know how much he needed her, that he craved her mere company far more than he could ever express. Years past until he could finally work up the courage to let her know he loved her. He'd had it all planned, candlelight, non-replicated roses, the whole romantic shebang.

Fate, however, had other plans. Days before the date she didn't know he was about to invite her on, they were sent on a last minute relief mission. It should have been a snap; they were among friendlies, after all. It wasn't like there should have been any kind of danger. Instead, their shuttle pilot had suffered a freak seizure, and their shuttle had crashed.

She was dying in front of him, bleeding out despite everything a doctor might try to save her life. Everything a doctor might try anyway.

John realized he couldn't lose her again, not even if the only way he could see of saving her life might cause her to hate him for the choice.

In the end, he didn't hesitate. Her blood tasted sweet and salty at once, and her pulse beat strongly against his lips as the C-24 flooded through her system.

…...

She clings to her brother's still hand, praying to every deity she's ever heard of that she isn't wrong about what she's done. That her brother will not wake a monster. That the gun he's tried to give her won't be used. God that is so clearly her brother, she thinks, trying desperately to ignore the sound of monsters outside the door, a selfless hero to the end. He's trying to protect her, even at the cost of her taking his own life. She wishes things were different, that they hadn't spent that last ten years at odds and out of touch, literally worlds away from each other. She wishes she could tell him she loves him now, that he wasn't too far gone to hear her.

She takes a deep breath and releases his hand, then reaches to take the weapon he'd offered with trembling fingers. She releases the clip, more familiar with handguns then he would likely believe. It was the one concession to his memory she'd allowed herself in the years gone by. She sighs as she counts out the bullets: full clip, but no where near as many as she will likely need. She slams the clip back, and stands with purpose. It will have to be enough.

She doesn't look back at her twin's prone form as she forces her way up into the vents and then out into the halls. She'll draw them away from him, has to draw them away. She is the eldest after all, and by God, she will protect her brother, even if it's the last thing she does.

The first time Christine woke from a dream of a life that wasn't her own, it was to the familiar sounds of the infirmary, soft beeping of the equipment, and the slight squeaks of regulation footwear on the tile floor. And there, she breathed in deep, catching the scent of a man as familiar to her as her own name. She opened her eyes slowly to see his hazel eyes staring down worriedly into her own, as if waiting for something.

"John?" she whispered, still half caught in the dream. His obvious flinch had her mind racing; this was her boss, Dr. McCoy, not the solemn eyed brother from her dream, but yet... Flickers of memory raced through her mind... of the shuttle and a crash... and the surreal sight of McCoy in tears and a vow that he would not lose her again. Then... had he bitten her?

She sat straight up in bed, her body somehow stronger than it should be, and she nearly fell as the move pushed her farther than expected. McCoy, John's, strong hand caught and steadied her until she could find her balance, and as she stared at him in a vague dawning horror at what he'd done, he flinched again and looked away. He rambled off her condition, clearly fabricated for those around them for she knew her body to be strong and healthy, and not at all recovering from her injuries, but long recovered. Christine wondered if she was the only one to notice the southern drawl was all but gone from his voice.

The doctor made his escape as soon as he could, the guilt written on his face for anyone who knew him. It took her longer than she would have liked to follow him, forced to remain until the others might believe she was hale enough to leave the infirmary.

Then though, she tracked him down with surprisingly little effort, her newly enhanced senses making his trail easy enough to follow. She found him in one of the smaller ops decks, a place Leonard McCoy would never have ventured, though John Grimm seemed relatively comfortable there.

And it was John Grimm, the man from her memories, she realized as she studied him. John who told her of his life, and what he remembered of her's.

It was Christine who demanded the rest of the history she glimpsed in his eyes. A history that she somehow sensed between them, as she'd sensed his presence as she woke. Christine, who took the few trembling steps forward to bridge the gap between them.

It was Christine who leaned in and kissed him with countless lonely lifetimes' worth of waiting for her soldier to return to her.

She lays awake in a bed that's far too large, waiting for her husband. The gown she wears is high necked and long sleeved, and she nearly smothers beneath it and the pile of blankets above her. She doesn't dare kick them off though. No that would be unladylike: no proper lady would expose herself to the cool night air as she dreams of doing.

A clock strikes the hour. It is late, and clearly her husband will not be returning from whatever bed he'd found. She wonders when this has become her marriage: nothing but laying alone night after night, of waking alone instead of with the man she loved. She is sure she loves him in her quiet way and is even sure that he loves her in that absent way of his. For a long time, it has been all she hoped for.

Now though, now she watches her sister's eyes glow when she speaks of her husband, sees the flush on her sister's cheeks that says she thinks of him.

That look is missing from her own face, indeed has never really been there. She lays awake in the dark and wonders if she has misjudged. If the fondness between them is nothing more than a pale imitation of what her sister feels. She wonders if she has never been truly in love at all.

She decides that is probably true. If she were in love, surely she would not feel as lonely as she does.

The next time Christine dreamed of a life that wasn't her own, she woke slowly, still weeping silent tears for the heartache that life had held. For the love she hadn't seemed to find. Then strong arms came around her, folding her into warmth and strength and safety. Her lover's voice murmured in her ear, telling her that it was alright, that he was here. That it was only a memory. She was safe. She leaned into him and breathed deep, her lips curving in a smile as her lover nuzzled her neck sleepily.

It was only a memory. And each time she dreams, she will remind herself that it was only just a memory. She is no longer that woman, nor any of the women she might dream herself to be. She is Christine, who knows she was once Samantha. He is John, still her John, though the world knows him as McCoy. And in this life, whether it lasts a year or a thousand, neither of them will ever fear to wake alone.

Whew. It's finally done. I hope you liked it!