Some thing's people can choose to forget and others choose not to be forgotten. Some memories can be tossed overhead and thrown out, but the memory of a best friend dying right in front of their eyes, will stay permanently tainted in their minds forever.
It had been a month since John witnessed Sherlock jumping from that building, and not one dreadful day went by without his heart aching for his friend. But only a week had passed, when a knocking sounded at the door of 221 B. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson, the land lady, shuffled to the door and was immediately baffled by a tall man in a long, black coat.
"Sherlock?"
He smiled and embraced her in a warm hug.
"You look lovely this morning Mrs. Hudson."
"I'm only in my night dress, Sherlock." Blushed Mrs. Hudson.
He smiled again and kissed her on both cheeks.
"Lovely nevertheless."
Walking inside, he turned to face Mrs. Hudson.
"Where's John?"
Mrs. Hudson held her arms together and said, "I'd be glad to tell you, but…Sherlock?"
Sherlock straightened his coat, "Mrs. Hudson?"
"How is it even possible that you're even alive? John said he saw you jump and…" she choked up and tears began to fall down her face, "…and he said he saw you lie there…dead… Oh! Sherlock!"
Sherlock folded his arms around her fragile frame and held her until she stopped crying.
"How could you do that to your friend?" she said.
Sherlock held her back to look at her, "Do what, Mrs. Hudson?"
She straightened her night gown a bit and wiped away a stray tear, "Leave him, John I mean, he has suffered terribly from the loss of you. He hardly ever sleeps and he hasn't eaten in days. I always offer him something, but nothing seems to help him."
Sherlock still held her back as his tone took an urgent turn, "Is he alright Mrs. Hudson? Where is he now?"
Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile, "He's fine Sherlock, but he was looking a bit peaky and since he refuses to eat, I sent him to a friend of mine. She's a therapist and I thought that she could help him."
Sherlock knit his eyebrows, "John? A therapist? Mrs. Hudson!"
She looked taken aback and began to utter a rebuttal, but Sherlock interrupted her, "Oh well, I guess it was the only thing you could do considering the circumstances."
Mrs. Hudson stood with her mouth open stuttering around words that would not come from her mouth.
"Now Mrs. Hudson, how about a nice cup of tea?"
John left the therapist's office at noon and took a cab back to 221 B. Baker Street. Despite his healthy looks, he hadn't eaten in days and his eyes were red and swollen. Dried tears had stained his face.
When he arrived, and paid the cab driver, he took special attention to notice that the door to his flat was slightly ajar. A note hung from the brass knocker on the door…
John,
I went to Jane's house for tea and will
be back once you get things sorted.
Mrs. Hudson
John took the note and stepped inside. He glanced at the note again and thought, "What have I ought to be sorted?"
He crumpled the note into his pocket and shuffled up the steps to the flat.
He got his key out, and noticed that this door was also ajar. His thoughts turned quickly to the other door and he began to worry. He put the key in his pocket and cautiously pushed the door open.
He opened it only to see Sherlock sitting in his armchair with his hands placed, steepled under his chin, "I hope you don't mind that I left the doors open, John; helps me to think."
John stood in the doorway gaping at him. He couldn't believe himself.
Sherlock strode over to his violin which had been untouched by John and Mrs. Hudson.
"Sherlock…how are you even…alive…that's not possible…how…Sherlock?"
Sherlock walked slowly to John with a smile on his face; placing a hand on his shoulder. He walked John, who was still staring in disbelief, to his chair by the fireplace.
"Coffee, John?"
John looked at him in distraught, "What makes you think I can even think about coffee right now, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stiffened his back and bowed his head over his violin.
"Sherlock? How is this, right here, even possible?" asked John, his voice cracking.
Sherlock sighed and lifted his head ever so slightly.
"Molly."
A month had gone come and gone and mostly everything had gone back to normal, except for Sherlock, who had to spend the rest of his life being "dead." This, of course, was an extreme bore for himself and John would find him shooting at the wall again. Mrs. Hudson would eventually find out and tell Sherlock to find some fresh air. Seeing the unjust answer in that, he would shoot the wall once more and flop onto the sofa in exasperation.
John finally found a resolution to the endless shootings, and took Sherlock to the mortuary.
At the mortuary, they met Molly wearing her usual white lab-coat with her hair in a ponytail.
She welcomed John while barely making eye-contact with Sherlock.
Inside, four corpses had been laid out and Sherlock went to work, immediately examining the bodies.
Without even lifting his head, he diagnosed all four within fifteen minutes.
"The first died of Malaria, a small case, which erupted after a trip to Africa when he brought home a diseased mosquito that survived in his suitcase which was moist in the late rain that stormed across Somalia on Sunday. The second died of a cancer in the lung; a heavy smoker, I would think, if not for the small scar, made from an incision on his the left side of his chest. Knowing this, the patient's blood was most likely tainted from a soiled instrument, giving him the cancer. The third, of a Spanish influenza that plagued southern Barcelona and himself within the week. The fourth one, oh she was tricky, died of a rare mutation to the aorta, causing her heart to slowly fill up with excess blood, resulting in cardiac arrest.
Molly stood furiously writing this all down and then recording into her laptop next to her.
John blinked in amazement. "Wow, that's incredible!"
Sherlock looked at him amused.
"Sorry, it's been a long time since I've seen you do that." John said embarrassed.
This didn't bother Sherlock though; he was just happy that he had his friend talking to him again.
A sound that came from Molly's computer made her jump and drop all of her notes to the floor. Frantically, she fluttered about picking them up. One had decided to land right below Sherlock's feet, which he picked up and handed to her. Molly stretched out a shaking hand to grab the paper, but she didn't look at Sherlock. Grabbing the paper, she retreated back to her seat, creating an awkward silence that hung stiffly in the air.
John could tell there was a thin line of tension in danger of breaking. He went right ahead and snapped it in two.
"So, Molly…how have you been getting on?"
There was a slight pause before she answered.
"Oh. I'm fine…fine as always…"
She stood from her chair and walked around to a series of test tubes. She picked one up with trembling hands and it fell to the floor and shattered.
Sherlock and John were both staring at her.'
"Are you sure you're alright?" asked John.
Molly stood petrified before picking up the pieces of glass.
"Yes…I said I was…fine…" she noticed them staring at her and released a shallow breath.
"There's somebody watching you Sherlock…and you too John…"
Sherlock's hurt gaze turned to John and then back to Molly.
"How do you know this Molly?"
Molly hesitated, but when she gave one look at Sherlock, she melted.
"A man was at my flat the other day…I found him there when I got back from the mortuary…he spoke very softly. He told me that he was looking for you two…and he knew that I had seen you and helped you…Then he threatened me, that if I were to ever help you again he would find me…and…" she choked on a sob, which she quickly stifled, "Then he took his knife and grabbed my wrist and…"
Slowly Molly lifted her sleeve to reveal a jagged line running up her arm.
John's eyes grew wide and Sherlock carefully held her dainty hand.
"Molly…"
John sat her down and looked at her arm.
The cut stopped at her shoulder, where it was the deepest.
Sherlock looked at Molly's fearful eyes, "Molly, I need you to listen very carefully. What did this man look like? Please describe anything you remember."
Molly shivered, "He was a tall, thin, gangly man. His eyes…those eyes…they were so light. The iris had hardly any color…He dressed in a black suit with an embroidered M on it…I'm afraid that's all I remember."
Sherlock held Molly's shoulders, "No, that's fantastic. I will find him, alright?"
A tear slid down Molly's face, "Please be careful…"
The next day had come still and unnervingly quiet. Baker Street was silent.
In the mid-morning silence, John sat in his arm chair reading the paper and sipping tea, as Sherlock lay in a straight line along the sofa, eyes closed and deep in thought.
Mrs. Hudson interrupted the peace, "Wonderful day out Sherlock, it seems a shame to spend it inside."
Sherlock didn't stir at the sound of her voice and she sighed.
"One would think a man like you would be busy with a case or something."
John his paper, "He's already looked. He can't find one anywhere that Lestraud hasn't covered."
Mrs. Hudson sighed again, "And I can see why he can't show his face, being dead and all."
Sherlock opened his eyes and sat directly upright, "Do you smell that?"
He went to the window and set his gaze down the street.
"It would seem that we have a small fire on Baker Street." said Sherlock.
John ran to the window, "Oh my God, shouldn't we…"
"Coming John?" said Sherlock as he finished tying his scarf around his neck.
The building lit up all of Baker Street with a hazy, orange light and choked the air with black, billowing smoke. Sherlock ran at a great pace with John hurrying beside him.
They stopped ten yards away from the building and were immediately ambushed by the fiery heat.
John struggled for words, "I'm calling the police!"
"Don't, they won't come." said Sherlock.
"What do you mean, they won't come?"
"Look around you, John, Baker Street is deserted."
It was true; all around; John could hear nothing but the sound of the roaring blaze.
Suddenly a horrifying sight seized them.
A girl of about sixteen pounded on the window from the third story; she appeared to be screaming, but they could hear nothing.
Quickly a hand covered her mouth and she was pulled out of sight. Then three gunshots were fired.
John yelled and raced forward, but not before Sherlock bounded inside.
"Sherlock!" John yelled. He tried to follow, but the heat overwhelmed him and he stumbled back out to search the windows for his friend.
Inside, Sherlock raced up flights of stairs, covering his mouth with his scarf. Everywhere, paintings and furniture were sparkling with glowing embers that brightened with the heave of the inferno.
As he reached the third floor, he realized that the building could crumble at any moment, so every second turned precious.
Sherlock entered a room to his right, where he assumed the girl was, when he heard a weak cry for help.
Behind a wooden chair that spilt ashes over her, lay the girl.
Sherlock rushed to her side.
"You're going to be alright, ok, I promise, you'll be alright."
The girl coughed faintly.
"Here, put your arms around me."
The girl did so feebly and Sherlock stooped over her, lifting her from the soot-ridden floor.
He hastened out of the room, avoiding falling debris.
The girl shuddered.
"You're going to be alright, ok? Hang on, keep listening to my voice!"
The girl opened her eyes, which were glistening with sadness and fear.
"I'm so cold…"
Then her head fell into his chest and her arms went limp.
"No!" Sherlock burst out of the building in a passion.
"John, help me!"
Sherlock laid the girl on the ground and John listened for any sign of life in the girl.
For once, Sherlock found himself completely helpless.
John tried to resuscitate the girl, but nothing helped. He shook his head, "I can't, Sherlock, she's too far gone."
Sherlock straightened his neck and looked into the burning flames. A hot flood of tears was holding steady behind his eyes, but one stole out of the corner of his eye. He bowed his head and let it fall down his face.
"I could have saved her, John…" another tear crept down his porcelain skin, "…if I would have gone in earlier to find her…" his voice grew unsteady, "I could have saved her…"
The flames had completely devoured the building now and it slowly started to fall.
Sherlock knelt gently beside John and his tears ceased. Slowly he checked her body for the sight of the bullet wounds, but none could be found.
"That man didn't shoot her." He said in astonishment.
John's eyebrows knit together, "I don't understand, he wanted to kill her right?"
"More like threaten." informed Sherlock. "You see, if that complex was still intact, on the third floor, through the ceiling, you would find three bullet marks."
John looked back at the girl, "Why would he threaten her?"
Sherlock shook his head, "That remains unclear to me." He carefully brushed the hair from her face.
"Who is she? What would be so important as to threaten her?"
Suddenly a gasp escaped her lips.
John clasped a hand over his mouth, and Sherlock held her shoulders steady.
Color flushed to her dirtied face and she sat breathing hard. Quickly she glanced from John to Sherlock and back.
"Are you alright?" asked Sherlock.
She held her head in her hands and slowly looked around.
"Where am I?"
John looked her up and down in amazement.
"Baker Street."
She glanced back at the fire, which was dying now.
"What happened?"
Sherlock looked at the fire.
"We were hoping you could tell us that." replied John. "What's your name?"
The girl opened her mouth to answer, but she didn't say anything. After a moment she managed to stutter, "I don't…know…"