Chapter Text
Summer Rainault had always known she wasn't alone. One doesn't grow up tasting other people's emotions, even in a rural North Carolina town, without sensing the distinctive emotional weirdness of developing psychic abilities in at least one or two of one's peers. They didn't talk to each other - who wants to share differences in adolescence, when you want so desperately to fit in? Nevertheless, she knew of others.
She didn't know the word for her gift for a long time. That was what she called it, in her own mind: a gift. Or sometimes a curse. Sometimes it seemed that anyone she was drawn to also had a gift, even if they didn't know. She grew adept at understanding the causes of emotional states, to the point where sometimes she wondered if maybe she wasn't also capable of seeing the future sometimes. Other times, she just knew things, things she had no reason to know.
Not until a psychic from across the country sought her out did she find the words for these abilities that were shaping her life. Empath. Precognitive intuition.
The two of them ignored the constraints of distance and worked together. Summer learnt to block; two became four. She practiced flexible shields; four became five, then six. She trained herself to be aware of the emotional states of those around her; and more psychics seemed to be gathering into her friends all the time. And then basic, ordinary human passions brought it all crashing down, and the fledgling circle, shattered, scattered back to its component parts.
For her own part, she chose to escape across the ocean. She never told any of them how she was still connected to them by a series of empathic links she couldn't bring herself to sever. Trying to lock herself in her own mind, it never occurred to her that the reason she was drawn to take the basement flat at 221 Baker Street, London, was that the building was full of psychics.
She didn't even try to look with her gift, worn ragged by trying to escape it. So until her idle tasting of the neighborhood emotional atmosphere crashed headlong into a mind as walled as a fortress, she didn't know. And knowing, in that time-skipping, intuitive way, had always depended on sight to begin with. The hand not dragging the folding cart, stacked with Tesco bags, behind her came up to rub futilely at her temple from the shock of that impact.
Then she actually looked at the man holding the door into 221 Baker Street, and that was how Summer Rainault, empath and precognitive intuitive, came to meet John Watson, telepath and telekinetic, and Sherlock Holmes, finder and consulting detective.
She didn't tell them, to start with, but she'd never been in the habit of hiding her gift, exactly, just using the information it gave her, and letting people conclude whatever they wanted about how she got it. It made living downstairs from Sherlock Holmes interesting, for a start.
It didn't surprise Summer in the least, then, that John had put his head in the doorway of her flat practically the moment the two men came home from Buckingham Palace, shrugging apologetically. She'd already had to put up an extra shield, because Sherlock was streaming excitement like a small child, and galloped up the stairs like an entire herd of horses (or possibly deer; he really was much more skittish than most horses). So she said, thinking firmly of walls, strong and solid, with blackout curtains at every window and all the doors closed, "Can you please ask him to tone it down just a bit? I really can't spend all my energy shielding him out."
And equally naturally John said, without the smallest evidence of surprise himself, "Of course, you're an empath, I'll see what I can do but you know how he is," and then gone off upstairs and done ... something, because very quickly the sense of pressure against her mind eased, and she was able to drop back to normal light shielding.
When John brought home a heavily-drugged Sherlock, in company with an empath, that was a surprise.
Yes, Greg Lestrade was definitely a surprise.
Summer already had reason to know how hard it could be, keeping emotions hidden from other psychics; hadn't it been her task (yes, partly self-appointed, but nevertheless) to be at minimum aware of the state of her circle? She knew she hadn't a hope in hell of concealing the abrupt overrush of desire. (Truth be told, that was there for all three men, but Sherlock could be oblivious when it suited him, and John was so closely shielded from outside impressions she rather thought she'd have to turn up naked in his bed.)
But she tried. And after noticing Greg's wedding ring, she tried even harder.
After all, it was one thing to allow (accept might be a better word, but she always did like to pretend she had a little control over it) empathic links to her housemates - it was another thing entirely to form one with a man she barely saw, no matter how attractive his mind (and body) were. Especially a married man. She wondered if his wife knew about his empathy.
She wondered, in the shadows of the night, when she could taste the three upstairs (John a shape of shadow, like a cloud over the sun; Sherlock vibrant and kaleidoscopic, like an unexpectedly deep and rapids-filled stream; Greg like an enormous oak, casting calm like shade and drawing the lightnings), she wondered if she could bear to fit herself into a circle again. She wondered if John knew the depth of Sherlock's regard, or Sherlock comprehended the reality of Greg's respect.
She wondered if Greg knew her feelings, or her gift, and what would happen if she acted on any of those feelings.
For any of them.
Christmas in Baker Street.
Summer had hesitated for a long time over the invitation, but Mrs Hudson had cajoled, and Sherlock had deigned to say, "Please," so there she was, burying herself in the corner of the sofa and trying desperately to be unobtrusive. She tried not to catch John's eye as she was thinking how hideous his jumper was, although she couldn't avoid Sherlock's persistent gaze while he gave them a series of Christmas carols which were so beautiful.
Then her fingers brushed Greg's when he handed her a drink; all the thoughts went right out of her head and the two of them froze, gazes locked together. A little part of her mind winced in sympathy with John as all her shields collapsed, but the rest was wholly occupied in clamouring, "He knows, he knows!"
Gravity was probably the only force that could break their hands apart, their eyes falling away as the physical connection broke. Summer was certain her face was red (beet-red as one of her telekinetic friends used to say). She was desperately grateful to touch Molly's healer-mind, opening the street door and distracting everyone from the awkward moment.
Even that slight brush was painful on senses that hadn't been exposed so deeply in years, and Summer forced herself to tune everything else out while she spun up new shields. It took a while; she was deeply conflicted. Grounding and centering had never seemed so hard before. No sooner had she got even the first shield up than Molly's blast of embarrassment nearly took it down again.
Grimly, Summer hung on, blindly dragging up a second shield, then a third, each one stronger than the last. It felt like being wrapped in cotton, but that was far better than being prey to the violent emotions Sherlock seemed determined to provoke tonight. If she'd had enough brain left, she'd wonder what had gotten into him, or if this was a normal thing for the holidays. As it was, it was taking far more concentration than it should to keep up any shields.
A hand brushed her shoulder, and abruptly the 'noise' from outside her own skull dropped to barely a whisper. She opened her eyes and glanced around, seeing John wince hard at the same time as she noticed it was Greg's hand gripping her shoulder. As John strode over to Sherlock's bedroom door (what the hell had just happened?), and Molly, Jeannette and Mrs Hudson just looked bewildered, Greg's hand tightened almost to the point of pain and he whispered in her ear, "We need to talk."