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“Sherlock. You’re awake? What’s wrong?”

She was still sucking air into her lungs. It was as if someone had tried to suffocate her. He sat down beside her and pulled her against him. He began rubbing her back. “It’s all right now. Did you have a nightmare?”

Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing began to steady, but it still hurt to breathe, as if someone had clouted her in the ribs. She couldn’t talk yet, didn’t want to talk. “That’s it, just relax. I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you, nothing.”

Her face was buried in his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides. Then, suddenly, she put her arms around his back and held on tight.

“Yeah, I’m real and I’m solid and I’m mean. No one’s going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

He could feel her harsh breathing against his flesh, then she said, “Yes, I know. I’m all right now.”

He tried to pull away from her but she still held on tight. He could feel her shivering. “It’s really okay, Sherlock,” he said again. “I’m not going anywhere. You can let go now.”

“I don’t think I want to. Give me a few more minutes.” She tightened her grip around him.

She was still shivering. “Sorry, but I seem to have packed you the wrong kind of nightgown. You must be freezing.”

“You’re a man. You picked it out because it’s sexy and sheer, just like my underwear.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could be right. It feels really soft and nice. Sorry, but my hormones must have gotten the better of me. Listen now. Let me go, Sherlock, and lie back.”

If anything, she gripped him tighter.

He laughed. “I promise you everything’s okay now. Listen, you’ve got to let me go. Come on now.”

“No.”

He laughed again. He sounded like he was in pain. “Okay, tell you what. I’m cold too. Why don’t we both lie back and I’ll keep holding you until we both warm up.”

He knew it wasn’t a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn’t want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.

He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.

She was stiff. “It’s okay,” he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. “You want to tell me about it?”

He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He just waited. He began to stroke her back—long, even strokes. Finally, she said, “It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again.”

“What do you mean ‘again’? You’ve had this dream before?”

She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn’t shuddering anymore. He was hoping she’d keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. “Tell me about the dream, Sherlock.”

It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn’t on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, “I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her. I don’t know. But in the dream it’s as if I’m the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn’t.”

“I’m not understanding all of this.”

“No wonder. Sometimes I think I’m mad.”

“Talk to me.” He kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t a good move. “Talk to me,” he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman’s body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.

“Every time I’ve had the dream in the past, it’s gone a bit further. He hasn’t yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife.”

He waited, just held her, and waited. He could