Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider or Sherlock. Those rights go to Anthony Horowitz, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.

I was reading several stories in which either John or Sherlock is Alex. I then stumbled upon a similarity between Sherlock and another character. Now I have this!

Yes, it is supposed to be multi-chaptered. No, I am not abandoning any of my other stories.

Never Forget, Never Tell

Chapter 1- Like It Was Yesterday

The gate creaked ominously, as if to warn the empty graveyard about the intruder. A figure entered hesitantly, unsure of his motives. He took a deep breath before striding forward calmly.

A gust of wind threated the man, but he kept walking. His black coat billowed out behind him and his blue scarf flowed like a river. His curly, black, hair bounced around on his head, while his blue eyes narrowed with discomfort.

The wind died as quickly as it came and the man finally found himself in front of a new gravestone. The tall man kneeled down and traced the words engraved on the, otherwise plain, memorial.

Here Lies Buried
the Body of
Alex Rider
1986-2001
Taken before His Time
He will be Sorely Missed

He remembered the funeral well, false words had been spoken by uncaring officials and deceitful tears had been shed. He had been the only one to miss the teenager; his tears had been true, just like his words.

The only highlight of the day had been that he had known that Alex would join his family in heaven, if there was such a place, but that thought had filled him with nothing but anger. If only MI6 had left the Riders alone. Alex would never have had to die to meet his parents.

Once again the man cursed MI6. He wished for the violent deaths of Tulip Jones and Alan Blunt. If he put his mind to it, he could probably kill them.

That could cause problems though.

After all, it was them who had provided him with this identity. It was them who hid him and his brother from harm.

The day of the funeral was the day he became Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered it all, the good times, the bad times, the anxious times and the down-right-weird times. There had been quite a few of the last one. When you combine a daring genius and an insane one, problems ensued.

As he finally let himself remember, his barriers dropped. Tears spilled down his face and silent sobs shook his body. From within his pocket, Sherlock removed a red rose and placed it in front of the stone.

"Remember mate?" He murmured softly as tears trickled down his neck. "You told me that red was your favourite colour? I thought it would be blue, Chelsea and all that. It was red though. You said it was 'cause red was a homely colour. I never quite got what you meant. Blue was always my favourite colour, still is."

He sighed softly before changing the subject. "Remember when we pranked Ian?" His language was completely different to Sherlock's. It was more relaxed, yet sadder and less confident. "His hair was pink for a week!" Sherlock- except he was not quite Sherlock- chuckled. "Don't forget that time when we hacked the school computers and changed my report? I never did so well back then."

The not-quite-Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. "I wish we could go back. Back before Jerry changed, back before I fought with him, back before you died, back before MI6 took you." He sobbed a bit harder before attempting to pull himself together. He failed miserably.

Rain began to fall from the darkened sky, mixing with the tears on the man's face.

"I've kept up my charade." Not-Sherlock tried to lighten the atmosphere. "I keep body parts around the flat, perform experiments with milk, use acid on the table and all that. It's a wonder John puts up with me."

Not-Sherlock took a shuddering breath before uncertainly speaking. "He's not you, though. He was never you, he never could be you. Once I suspected he was Snake. K-Unit Snake, you know? No Scottish accent though. John was in the SAS about the same time as you, though, so if I were to mention Cub he might recognise the name."

He cried harder his sobs almost audible now. "I miss you mate. It's been 11 years and I still expect you to jump out and shout at me for worrying too much. Like you used to, you know?" He opened his mouth to continue before he heard the gate creak on the other side of the graveyard. He snapped his mouth shut just as another voice called out to him.

"Sherlock?" John Watson's voice carried over to the Consulting Detective as the doctor began to pick his way across the graveyard. "What are you doing here? I hope you aren't thinking of stealing a body!"

"Why are you here John?" Sherlock asked with his mask back in place.

"Looking for you. Why are you here?"

"Why does everyone else- except yourself, it seems-come to a graveyard?"

"Ah." John was silent for a moment, as if the thought of his flatmate having dead friends was a shock. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock said dismissively flicking his hand as he did so. It was not 'fine' but he had to keep up the mask of the uncaring sociopath. Being a friend of Alex Rider earned you powerful enemies. They had one thing in common; they all made Moriarty look like an ant.

"Alex Rider." John read slowly, he glanced at Sherlock for a moment before asking. "Who was he?"

"A friend, who died." Sherlock gave the obvious reply.

John raised an eyebrow; he was beginning to suspect that there was a little more to this than Sherlock was saying. John doubted that Sherlock would tell him anymore, but it was worth a shot.

"How did he-" John asked inquisitively, assuming that Sherlock would be unaffected by his attempts to glean information.

"Car accident." Sherlock interrupted, but John felt there was something wrong with that statement. He could not place his finger on it, but he was now determined to figure out the mystery of Alex Rider.

Despite his cold façade inside Sherlock was fuming. John was asking too many questions, but it would jeopardise his cover if he told John to stop. Sherlock clenched his fists almost unnoticeably before stating. "We should go now." The Detective glanced around quickly, you could never be too careful, before stalking out of the sodden graveyard.

"Give me a minute." John called. Sherlock turned around to catch the flash of a camera-phone, which made him narrow his eyes and clench his teeth. John was going to a little snooping around then? They could not have that.

Sherlock watched John run towards him before raising a hand and yelling. "Taxi!"

Line Break

In front of the copse near the Rider's gravestone, a man stood. He was encased by shadows and almost impossible to see. He held the pose of a refugee, prepared to run at any time, mixed with that of a fighter. His shoulders shook a little and a tear rolled from underneath his black-lensed sunglasses.

"I'm sorry, Tom," He whispered. "I'm so, so sorry." He took a deep, shuddering breath, just like Sherlock had done, and pulled his thoughts onto another topic. "You did tell me that your flatmate got curious easily, so I'm not surprised. If we both work together on this, I may stay free. If he digs deep enough, though, you might find out a few secrets. For that, Tom, I am so sorry." He let sobs wrack his body for a few minutes before taking a calming breath. "One way, or the other, I'll see you soon, Tom. Just pray you don't see me."

How was it? Should I continue?

Should Yassen and K-Unit become involved?

Thank you for reading!