The Man With The Twisted Mind
The sound of the gunshot echoed through the abandoned warehouse. Sherlock collapsed to the ground, tightly holding his bleeding arm. A face stepped out of the shadows smiling at him. "Night, night Sherlock."
The dark curly haired man's eyes fluttered open. The dream faded away as he scanned his surroundings. He appeared to be in a hospital room, hooked up to life support. What was going on? Why was he here? Wait a minute... Who was he?
He closed his eyes trying to remember the slightest thing, failing to, when suddenly he heard a voice.
"He's conscious. We should inform John."
John? Who was John? Why did he need to know that he was conscious?
Suddenly the door opened and a blonde man came running towards him.
"Sherlock!" he cried, tears in his eyes. The man threw his arms around his neck. Sherlock? Was that his name? It probably was so he accepted it.
"I thought I'd lost you."
"Who... Who are you?" Sherlock asked.
The man pulled himself back and stared into Sherlock's eyes. "It... It's me, John." Sherlock remembered that the man had mentioned a John earlier.
"Oh."
"You... You don't remember me, do you?"
Sherlock shook his head and frowned "No, but if it's any consolation I don't remember myself either."
It was quite the opposite of that. John bit his lip "Right... Could you excuse me for a second?"
He got up and limped over to the door, turning the doorknob and closing the door behind him. Sherlock looked around the room. His pulse had been under constant surveillance and he had been given injections: Nutritious injections to be precise. He was shaking as the words past his lips "Coma."
He'd fallen into some kind of coma, but how?
The door opened again. John had been crying but was smiling now; it didn't really look like a smile though.
"I think I have some explaining to do."
Sherlock nodded, he was ready to believe anything John said because a voice inside him told him that he should. John took a deep breath.
"You... you were a detective, a consulting detective: The only one in the world. You're a genius. I'm your... was your best friend and flat mate. We solved cases together."
Sherlock tilted his head at John. This didn't seem like the kind of life one would just forget. Right?
"There something you haven't explained yet." Sherlock said," You still haven't explained why I'm... in this state."
John stared into space. His expression showed that he'd purposely left that part out.
"Being a consulting detective... you attracted various enemies. One of them was James Moriarty. He liked to play games with you, which basically means he tried to kill you. Three years ago, he lured you onto a roof and..."
"What happened?"
"You... you jumped off."
John couldn't possibly mean what Sherlock thought he did. Then again, according to him he was a genius.
"I jumped off? What do you mean?"
John glared at him, his words stuck in his throat.
"Everyone thought you were dead." He finally said.
Sherlock swallowed "But why would I do that?"
"I was hoping you could answer that." He looked down to his feet.
"And then what happened?"
"Two weeks ago, I found your unconscious body in some warehouse. Nobody knows why you'd fallen into a coma. The only visible injury on you was that you'd been shot in the arm. I couldn't believe it when the doctors confirmed it was you, but now... No, you're awake. That's more than I could've hoped for."
"Warehouse." Sherlock repeated. Why was that so familiar? Suddenly he remembered the dream. His eyes widened as he pictured the other man's face.
"Who is he? I remember a pale, dark-haired man with cold dark eyes."
John dug his hands in his face.
"Of all the people you could remember, it had to be him."
Sherlock wanted to open his mouth and ask who the man was, but it became clear to him very quickly. Moriarty did this to him.
John looked back up at him "Okay, what exactly do you remember?"
"It's a bit of a blur but I'll do my best." he cleared his throat "I was in some dark hall, when suddenly I heard a gun shot. I turned around, not realizing that bullet had been meant for me. 'Hello?' I said but no one answered. Then there was another bullet and this time, it hit its target. A second later, I was lying on the ground gripping my arm."
"What happened then?" John asked frantically.
"All I remember is him walking over to me, and then pain in my arm."
"From the bullet?"
"No, it was something else."
Sherlock bit his lip, disappointed that he could only recover that much memory. John frowned at him.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.
"It's just... You were dead Sherlock. And I know you aren't able to explain anything but... You still were. You jumped off a bloody building and acted as if you were dead for three years!" John yelled, then looked down and started to cry.
"It was to protect you." a voice burst out of Sherlock. John glanced back up at him.
"What did you just say?" Sherlock stared down at him.
"I said 'It was to protect you ' " he repeated, but this time with a different intonation.
"What do you mean? Do you remember anything?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Then how did you know?"
"The memories did come back ... But they left just as quickly as they came."
John gave Sherlock a questioning face.
"It was like a dream." Sherlock replied to the unspoken question "Completely clear when it happens... But the more you think about it later, the more you forget."
There was an awkward silence.
"We need to go back to that warehouse." Sherlock finally said.
"What? Why?"
"Just you saying it triggered a memory. Seeing it with my own eyes might trigger more."
John nodded "Right. I'll quickly get your coat."
He got up and headed for the door, the limp clearly smaller now.
Sherlock got out of the bed and unhooked the wires and tubes attached to him. There was a mirror in the room, he walked over to it and saw himself for the first time. He didn't know anything about the man that was standing in the reflection. All he knew was that he'd have great shoes to fill in, and he wasn't sure he could.
John opened the door and threw him a long wool trench coat and a scarf. Sherlock put them on. They felt familiar.
"Was this my coat?"
"Yes." John briefly answered not looking up.
"And you kept it all this time?"
"You once told me that if one you care for leaves you, you keep the objects they left behind. Sentiment you said."
Sherlock didn't reply.
John coughed a little and then said: "Well then, let's go."
"Yes."
The two of them rushed over to the door and left the hospital without even informing the doctors they were leaving.
John hailed a cab "The warehouse on Lynton road." he quickly said and got inside. The two of them looked in opposite directions as the car drove through the city. The cab stopped in front of a large building that looked as if it hadn't been entered in a couple of years.
"We're here." John stepped out and paid the driver. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine as he looked up at the building. He wasn't scared of it, but he had a feeling his passed self was for whatever reason. The two of them walked up to the red brick wall and John opened the door that was originally an emergency exit. He lead Sherlock through the dark hallways to the spot were he'd been found. There was still a bloodstain on the ground. Sherlock contoured it and looked around, trying to remember anything. All of a sudden, he heard a thump. Sherlock quickly turned his head, finding an unconscious John on the floor. But before he had the chance to do anything, so was he.
Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, everything was blurry but he gradually recognized where he was. He was still in the warehouse, the exact same spot as before. Only now he was tied up to a chair. He looked around; John had also been tied up and seemed to still be knocked out.
"John, wake up!" he whispered.
John opened an eye. "What's going on?" he mumbled.
"I don't know."
John opened the other eye and finally realized he was tied up. He let out a sigh as if this had already happened to him. Sherlock thought a little and guessed that it probably did.
Sherlock was just about to say something when he heard the sound of footsteps coming closer.
" 'Sherlock Holmes? Who?' You're adorable that way, you know?" A familiar voice laughed. A dark haired man came out of nowhere. It was the man from the dream; it was Moriarty. He grinned at the two of them. Sherlock swallowed, he could see John's fists tightening.
"What did you do to him?" John yelled at him with fury.
Moriarty pulled out a vile from his pocket.
"I gave him this wonderful little medicine; the newest invention on the poison market. Sherlock was the lucky person to test it. It was supposed to put him into a permanent coma, but I like what it did instead better."
"Bring him back! Bring him back now!"
"Now why would I do that? I like this version of him more. And there's no need to kill this one."
Sherlock watched the two of them fighting because of him. His eyebrows knitted together because he didn't enjoy them talking about him as if he was worthless like this, although he pretty much was.
"What are you going to do with us now?" John finally asked.
"What I've always said I'd do: Kill you."
"But you said you didn't need to kill him!"
"Doesn't mean I'm not going to. I know his memories can be brought back. Can't take that risk can we?"
John shook his head and looked at him grimly.
"Actually I've got an even better idea. How about we wake up that consulting detective inside him and kill him right after that?"
"And how are you planning to do that? I already tried to get him back, it doesn't work that easily." John muttered.
"Oh you are so naive." There was a gunshot, then silence. The bullet hit its target: John. Sherlock had seen it penetrate his body with his own eyes. He remembered what he'd said earlier: It was to protect you. But this wasn't protecting him; this was watching him die in front of him. Friends protect people, John had once told him, and Sherlock had told him he was his only friend. Wait... Where did that come from? He didn't know that. And suddenly, he remembered.
It all came at once, but the first memory was of him wanting to jump so that John wasn't shot. If John was shot anyways it meant he hadn't done what he was supposed to. Hadn't done what John told him. Then the rest quickly followed.
"John! I remember!" he snapped back into reality. John had been shot in the shoulder, again; the aiming could only have been intentional. John closed his eyes, trying to reach for the wound but the restraints forced him into an uncomfortable position.
"It's about time."
Moriarty started applauding "Bravo! Welcome back, Sherlock. Just in time to watch him die."
"He isn't going to die! That wound isn't lethal."
"Oh, but didn't you listen? I said I was going to kill you."
"So?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows wondering where this was going.
"Don't you know why John was in this warehouse at first? Because he couldn't stand it any longer."
Sherlock glanced at him. He turned his head to John "I'm sorry." John nodded at him, his eyes still closed.
He looked back at Moriarty. "Now what? What are you going to do to us?"
"For the fact that your memories all seemed to have come back you are quite slow, Sherlock." He nodded towards a ticking machine that had been there all along. Sherlock stared down at the bomb, his eyes widening. Moriarty checked his watch "Ooh, I'd better be off, I'd say you've got about four minutes. But first I've got to get him out of here so he can watch your insides get beautifully scattered allover these dull walls." He walked over to the chair John was sitting on. His shirt was starting to soak in blood. John tried to fight Moriarty off, which was a bad sign for Sherlock, but he didn't manage and Moriarty easily pushed the chair. "Sleep well Sherlock. And do stick to your bedtime just this once." He said grinning. John took one last look at Sherlock, a tear rolling down his cheek. Sherlock stared back at them, watching them slowly leaving. He'd had his chance to come back but it was too late. He failed, not only as a detective but also as a friend. Sherlock sighed as a tear escaped his eye as well.
When both were out of sight all Sherlock could do was stare into the darkness and listen to the ticking. It probably wasn't even necessary to have it there; it was just to irritate him. He closed his eyes, simply thinking, remembering. He wished he'd get those few hours before back, just to have given him more time to remember.
Suddenly a bang broke the silence. Sherlock frantically looked around: had Moriarty prepared even more horrors for him? Sherlock heard feet running towards him, he closed his eyes not even wanting to see Moriarty's face again. But instead, he felt his hands being detached. Sherlock opened his eyes again and saw John kneeling over him, untying him from the chair.
"Come quickly! We don't have much time!" He ordered.
Sherlock was far too stunned to say a word. He stared up at John, who was completely ignoring his shoulder.
"Get up!" John insisted.
He pulled Sherlock up and started running to the door.
"What about Moriarty?" Sherlock finally said trying to keep up with John.
"He's lying on the floor." John briefly explained.
"But how?"
"Not now! We've got about thirty seconds until this whole building blows up."
Sherlock nodded, they both finally got to the exit door. Once they were outside they both stopped for a moment so they'd be able to breathe. Sherlock pushed John a bit to the side so that he would be a little more protected. Then the bomb detonated.
The two of them watched as the building went up in flames; they just stood there with their eyes fixed on the burning warehouse for who knows how long. Sherlock finally spoke: "What happened with Moriarty?"
"I leaned over as he pushed me and seemingly just fell over, but in reality I did that on purpose, so I could reach for the knife in his pocket as he picked me up again." he paused for a second "I stabbed him hard enough so that he would fall over and cut though the ropes with the same knife."
Sherlock gave John an admiring gaze, one he didn't think would ever be worth giving anyone. John looked back at him. "Do you think he's still alive?"
"If it were anybody else I'd say no, but with him: who knows?" He smiled "We'll just have to hope for the best."
Sherlock remembered John's wound and used his scarf to stop the bleeding. Luckily, it wasn't a bad wound so the improvised bandage was enough for now.
"Can we go home now? I'm starving."
"Yes. Home..." Sherlock murmured mostly to himself. He had a home again.
They decided to walk; they soon were just any other two men walking down the streets of London at night.
"Why did you fake your death though?" John finally asked.
"Think John. I've already given you the information you need." John thought a little about the day he had just experienced.
"I don't understand."
Sherlock didn't reply at first. He didn't really want to speak it out loud. "He... He was pointing a gun at you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I had to. I'm sorry, John."
"It's fine." John semi-lied.
"No it isn't! I heard what Moriarty said! And you know just as well as I do that it was the truth. And it's all my fault."
John stopped and held Sherlock's shoulders tightly. "Sherlock, I forgive you." He pulled his friend closer and hugged him. "It's good to have you back by the way."
Sherlock blinked a little in confusion but then hugged John back "Thank you."
They finally pulled them selves apart and kept on walking.
"Why were you at the warehouse anyways?" John finally asked.
"I was going to meet you. I thought I'd found the right moment to come back. Apparently I was right on time..." he mumbled "Then I heard a scream coming from there, when I passed the warehouse. It was probably just someone innocent he was using as bait."
"You mentioned a pain in your arm."
"Yes, the poison. It was injected, not the kind of thing you'd expect to feel nice."
John nodded "Right."
"And why did the warehouse trigger one memory, but me getting shot trigger all of them?"
"It wasn't the right kind of memory."
"What?"
"The poison only effects long-term memory. The short-term memory was processed during the coma. Something you might like to call: dreaming. But the short-term memory had already reset itself. The dream was stored into the only accessible part of the long-term memory, which had up to then been empty."
John listened carefully trying to follow. "No, no. You're still not speaking English.
Sherlock rolled his eyes " Shortly: It wasn't directly a memory, it was the memory of a dream of a lost memory. But you: You're a real one."
"Right." John nodded, still not completely understanding, but leaving it to that.
"Are there any permanent effects from it?" he asked.
"I don't know." Sherlock sighed "We'll just have to wait and see." He chuckled softly.
They finally arrived at 221B and John opened the door for him. "Welcome home." he said with a smile.
"Finally." Sherlock whispered and stepped inside.