It was darkness that he became aware of first, darkness pressing in and suffocating. Though he didn't need the breath that he pulled into deflated lungs, he took it regardless, listening as the dank air groaned out of his throat.
He was sitting, slumped back against a solid surface. There was no light at all to give clue to his surroundings and his other senses rose to the challenge. Damp air, the feeling of it was close and still. The scent of mold is strong, stronger than it should be. Basement perhaps?
Confusion set in. He had no knowledge of who he was, nor how he came to be where ever he was. Slowly, body feeling strange and disconnected, he climbed to his feet. He was unsteady, adrift in the dark, unable to make sense of anything.
Noise broke through the fog of confusion. The sound was rhythmic, cadence rough and low. He only had a moment to revel in the sound that might be a voice before Hunger struck.
The Hunger ravaged him, filled him with an all-consuming Need to fill the painful emptiness within him. It drove him towards the sound and the scent of living flesh. Ran him into a part of the wall that thudded hollowly, identifying it as a door. It mindlessly, uselessly, had his body clawing at the sturdy wood.
The voice on the other side of the door faltered momentarily at the noise he was making. There was a deep breath and it continued again. The words themselves were incomprehensible, meaningless noise that only meant inaccessible food. Despite that, he stored them carefully away in the blankness of his mind. Perhaps he could examine and make sense of them later.
"And so you ran out ranting about pink of all things. Really should have been a hint when you'd left your crippled potential flatmate behind." The voice droned on.
He continued pawing at the door as Hunger ripped at his insides. Flashes of brightness in his mind provided momentary distraction from the emptiness. Flickers of images, snippets of sound as the voice spoke that might, maybe, could have been memories. They were pushed aside as they hurt and the hunger won out.
Eventually the voice grew hoarse and began to waver in exhaustion.
"I shot and killed a man in cold blood that night. I kept safe a man who called himself a high functioning sociopath. Barely knew you and you'd already wormed your way in." There was a snort, "Walked away from a crime scene, giggling like nutters." The voice trailed off.
There were scraping sounds, as if the living had stood. That his voice came from higher on the other side of the door supported that theory.
"Goodnight...Sherlock." He went still beneath the words as something in his mind flared brightly, painfully, in recognition. He still didn't understand but the feeling that he should have understood tore at him and pierced past the Hunger.
Footsteps walked away and up a set of stairs, taking the scent of Living with them. He was in a basement for sure then.
Silence echoed about the darkness as he continued to stand still as his hunger faded into a dull want now that food was not near. Silence engulfed him as he gathered to himself the tiny flashes of memory he had just gained. Silence was broken in his mind as he listened to the voice he has so carefully tried to store into his memory.
The living would return. The baseless knowledge was as sure as the dark and the Hunger. And so he waited.
Time passed, meaningless in the darkness. With little else to do he explored his prison. His slow, careful steps and the darkness conspired to lengthen the endeavor into an ordeal but despite frustration at his slowness he persisted. There was little else to do to keep his mind busy and he did not want to dwell upon the bright memories that made his mind hurt. He shoved aside flickers of bright light and sound and resolutely turned his attention to his surroundings.
Basement flat. Gone unused for some time. Bathroom and kitchen smelled both of stale water too long still in the pipes. No scent of Living, not even insects or mice. Nothing for them to eat after all. Only scent here was his own and that of mold and damp, old concrete. The door was locked, and he could feel several deadbolts both above and below the knob. Locked from the outside, as he had the key side of the locks, unless they were the type that needed a key form either side. Unlikely.
His own clumsy steps echoed back and told him there was no carpet on top of the concrete floor. The walls were bare and windows high and boarded up so thoroughly that not even a scrap of light entered. For a moment he contemplated pulling down the boards and then decided against it. There was no point and light would make little difference to his prison. He lacked the dexterity to climb through a window anyway.
The air was cool and damp, but he felt that only distantly. His nerve endings were dead like the rest of him and soon it was likely that even that faint sensation would fade.
Footsteps coming down the stairs shattered the silence. Hunger flared in response like a blow as the scent of the living flesh followed the sound of its progress. Mindlessly he stumbled towards his prison door. Nails clawed uselessly at the wood and a moan rattled out of his throat.
"Morning...Sherlock." The voice paused before that second, agonizingly familiar word was spoken. He still didn't understand it, nor did he know why it sparked painful recognition. A low moan rattled out of his throat and the stillness the voice had brought on faded as he continued to paw at the door.
There was a deep breath from the other side.
"Can't stay long, just, stopped by on my way out. Need to get some supplies." There was a great deal of hesitation in the voice, but that was noted and shoved aside in favor of the scent coming through the door. Healthy, tired, a hint of something familiar that was not readily identifiable, another acrid, sharp scent that triggered a warning and something sweet.
"I didn't go out at all while you were...well, never mind. I'll pop by when I get back and I'll come talk to you more tomorrow, yeah?" The voice was raw and rough. Piece said and incomprehensible to his listener the other left, taking his scent and the Hunger with him.
With the temptation gone it was easy for force his body to stop moving. He stood still in the dark, hunched over and staring sightlessly at the door as his mind whirled. There was a great deal of information to sort through and try to put in cohesive order, and that even without the brightly painful flickers of memory.
Something clicked in his mind as he contemplated the other's scent. Gunpowder. The acrid, dangerous smell was gunpowder. The living was armed then. So why merely lock him away when a single bullet would remove the threat the living had to know that he posed?
Something in him shied away from contemplating that too deeply and his mind slipped off into the darkness and the hunger and he let himself drift.
An eternity of darkness later footsteps once again broke the monotonous silence. The living brought his scent with him, laden with old adrenaline now. The undead hit the door, groaning and clawing as the Hunger roared to life. He hadn't even realized he'd moved.
There was a startled exclamation from the other side. A click and a scraping sound that registered as a gun being from its holster and the safety disengaged. Fear entered the scent of the living and the adrenaline spiked high. The combination had the zombie nearly mad with Hunger.
Even as he battered uselessly at the door the scent of fear faded into nothing. There was a click again as the gun's safety was reengaged and the sound of it being put back in its holster. The fear had only been from the shock of the sound, not of the dead, and the other trusted in the door to keep him safe.
"Guess you're getting pretty hungry in there." The voice was harsh, "Well sorry Sherlock, but I'm not going to feed your corpse." The roughness cracked a little. Silence fell as the living turned and went up again, footsteps heavier than they had been before.
The dead pawed at the door long after the living's scent had faded away. Even as his body continued its futile effort his mind was racing.
The living could have put him down. He'd heard the gun being drawn. He knew that sound, in the same place that knew that the living would return yet again. Bright memory blinded his mind's eye and he stumbled away from the door under the unexpected onslaught. The image faded even as he grasped at it, leaving him with an image of a man with a gun, no details perceivable and familiarity eating at him. He shook it away and redirected his thoughts to the current puzzle.
Armed, the living was armed. There was no reason for him to still be standing, so why didn't he have a bullet through his skull. Once again memory flared, not bright and hurting but soft and warm and protecting and he knew that he was in no danger from the gun that this particular Living held. Again the certainty of knowledge he should not have confused him further.
He shoved it aside for later, instead trying to figure the meaning behind at least some of the Living's words. He knew the other was speaking, knew the cadence and rhythm could only be speech, and knew that he should be able to understand. 'Sherlock', the word had been given special emphasis several times now, always directed at the door. At him perhaps? His name? Unimportant, indecipherable. More important now, what he could understand now, were tones and emotions, as they were still readable, still understandable.
He bent his mind to the memory, allowing his body to continue to paw at the door. Anger. The harshness in the Living's voice had been anger, but anger underlain with pain. The tone of the words had ended in raw, painful bitterness. Whatever the living has said, had realized, had caused emotional pain. Why? He shifted side to side as the pieces slowly knit themselves together as he laid out what he knew so far in his shattered mind.
Facts: The Living kept him locked in the basement when the means to kill him were easily available. The Living came down, willingly, and spoke to him. There was sadness and pain in the other's voice when addressing him. The Living seemed to know his name, there was certainly a great deal of familiarity when speaking. The flashes of memory only came in some form of connection to the other.
Conclusion: The man on the other side of the door was someone who had known him before his Death. Who had cared about him. Sentiment, foolish sentiment. The knowledge brought an odd warmth and a strange easing of the constant Hunger. If only he could remember clearly...
Light flared in his mind. This time though, he did not shy away from it, but neither did he grasp at it. He merely reveled in it, let it burn through the dark in his mind. He was rewarded with a single image.
A man, Living and healthy and smiling. Short and solid with close cropped hair of dusty gold, dark eyes of hazel indigo. Warmth accompanied the memory and he knew that this was the face of the man whose presence kept pulling him from the black Hunger and crushing boredom. For just a moment he wanted something other than to sate the empty hunger within him. He wanted, needed, to hear the man's voice.
Silence mocked him. Eventually his hands fell away from the door and his body contented itself with bumping mindlessly into the barrier every few minutes. He didn't bother to try to control the action. There really was no point after all. Bored.
"Sherlock have you been at that since I left?" Footsteps followed the voice down. Now that the undead was listening for emotion it was easy to pick out the shock in the other's tone. He scrabbled at the door again with a groan. It took effort to assert control over his numb limbs, but he did, and managed to force his body to still. Better to listen and he knew he couldn't really get at the other no matter how the Hunger clawed away at his insides.
There was a dry chuckle.
"Persistent, even dead." Bitter amusement tainted the man's words. He shifted about on the other side of the door. It sounded as if he had sat down to lean back against the barrier.
Scent flooded though the dank basement. The zombie groaned and pressed himself against the door, drinking in the smell of life, tea, and gunpowder. The man's face flared in his mind again. Sitting in a kitchen in a cream jumper drinking tea. It was gone as quickly as it had come as the Living spoke and the Dead fell silent and still to listen.
"Sorry I haven't been down in a few days Sherlock." There was an indication of a good deal of time in the words.
"I just...well that was a bit of a wake up call you know? You attacking the door like that." The man gave a snort, and his voice turned bitter.
"Almost convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with you. That you were still just a bit sick. But no...you're properly gone and what's left would like nothing but to sink its teeth into my flesh." He fell silent, the quiet only broken by the rattling breaths pulled in by the dead on occasion.
"God, I'm pathetic." There was self loathing in his voice, "Sitting in a basement talking to my best mate's zombified corpse." The man gave an almost hysterical bark of laughter.
"Least I'm safe from you. A proper job on those locks you did." He sighed and fell silent. For long enough that time began to lose meaning again he just sat in front of the door, quiet breathing giving the hungry dead on the other side of the door something to focus on. His scent was overwhelming and the undead bumped hard into the door. The Living jumped with a curse and a short, breathless laugh.
"Bored? Well I don't blame you." There were sounds of the man standing, "I'll come talk to you tomorrow Sherlock. Good night." Heavy, tired footsteps retreated up the stairs.
As the silence fell again the dead was unable to keep a rasping snarl from escaping his throat. The sound was accompanied by a fist pounding the wall next to the door in frustration. His own actions escaped him as he mentally raged. He didn't want the man to leave! He wanted him to come back and talk to him. The man's voice was the only thing he had to alleviate the darkness and the boredom and the Hunger.
Wanted. His body stilled as he registered his own thoughts. When had he stopped thinking about the man as anything other than just a meal? Not just as the living, but Living, a title and not just as 'other', not just potential food but as an individual whose presence he wanted? That thought was dimmed by the knowledge that the man's life would be forfeit if the door opened. He'd regret it, but that wouldn't change what his body would do to a living human. The Hunger was too much.
As if that was a trigger his thoughts began to swirl away as Hunger and silence crashed down on him. A groan twisted out of his throat as he succumbed to the numbing of his mind. No point in clinging to his thoughts when he was alone in the dark. The only thing that seemed to matter was the man whose face smiled in his memory. He was gone, with nothing to do but wait for his eventual return. Alone in the dark with the Hunger gnawing away at what little of his mind he had built up.
"Morning Sherlock." With the voice and the footsteps light flared in his memory. Immediately he was at the door, bumping into it in his haste. There was snort from the other side.
"Well at least you aren't clawing at it any longer." Sounds of cloth rustling and a scraping noise as the man settled onto the floor in front of the door. His scent filtered through and filled the dank black with warmth. The man took a deep breath and began to speak.
"Don't think I ever apologized for correcting you when you called us friends in front of Wilkes. Bit late now I know but I am sorry. Didn't think it'd actually hurt you like that." He paused and chuckled, "But the look on his face when you told him you'd been chatting up his secretary..." The man's warm voice, full of life and emotion and forgotten memories carried on. It was a beacon in the dark for the hungry undead on the other side of the door. He fell silent and went still to listen.
The words themselves made little sense and the images that came with them were almost as incomprehensible. It was a fast paced reel of film that battered at his mind. As with every piece of memory since his waking the flashes were loud and bright and painful. But this time he didn't shove them away, didn't pull away from them. He let them wash over him, reveling in the life they bore.
"Bit of a git you were on that case, Sherlock, letting me take the blame for your 'expert'. Left me outside the flat while you were getting yourself strangled too. Don't be surprised I noticed the bruises and the signs, just knew you better than to bother saying anything." The dead remained silent, listening and trying not to shove away the images bursting with nigh agonizing intensity in his mind.
"And then spent the whole bloody night trying to find the right book. You know I feel asleep at work the next day because of that? First day on the job even. Can't believe Sarah kept me on after that." There was the sound of him shaking his head. His voice had grown rough, tired. A moment later there was the sound of him standing.
"I'll leave the rest for tomorrow. Not like I've anything better to do. Good night Sherlock." His footsteps retreated up the stairs, leaving a rather frustrated undead pawing at the door. The undead didn't even try to curb the mindless impulse.
Something told him that the Living had left whatever he was talking about unfinished. It rankled, as surely as the fact that he didn't know exactly how he knew this information. Logically he knew that the man could not spend all of his time sitting in front of a door talking to the dead. The Living had to eat and sleep and take care of a body that needed each breath it drew.
Still, the man would be back. That certainty of unknown origin was still with him and not at all diminished. So he waited, slowly forcing his numb body to cease battering at the door, with nothing but confused, painful memories to try to keep the hunger at bay.
"Morning Sherlock." The warm voice was proceeded by the man's now familiar footsteps. There was a slight limp evident, but each step was steady. The limp was either in his mind or didn't cause him any sort of pain as the man trusted his weight fully to each leg. He settled in his usual place on the floor in front of the door. His scent flooded the dark, and the smell that had eluded identification earlier sparked memory in the undead's mind. Jam. Recognition afforded him a flicker of memory of the blond man eating breakfast in a sunlit kitchen.
The zombie savored the scent of tea and jam and gunpowder and didn't notice that his Hunger had eased as the Living began to speak.
"I'd like to say that I couldn't believe you'd booked the three of us for that blasted circus performance, but really I'm just surprised I hadn't seen it coming." He rambled on as the dead listened to the incomprehensible speech with rapt attention and let memories flare bright and painful in his mind.
A woman alongside the blond man in a place all of red and gold and deep shadows. A man in chains with a massive crossbow pointed at his heart.
"And then it took Sarah to notice that Soo Lin had started her translation." The man snorted, "Wish I could have been in your head right then mate." Warm amusement filled his tone as he continued speaking.
The man and the woman going missing. A dark tunnel, taunts and fighting. That crossbow and the man tied to a chair, the woman at his side, unimportant.
"You were almost late in getting there, but it worked out in the end so I can't be too angry with you over it." Amusement tinged the man's voice.
"You figured out what the treasure was, and amazingly enough Sarah didn't hate me. Only dark spot was that woman, Chen, managing to get away." He continued rambling, but the dead did not feel quite as compelled to listen. The memory flashes were duller, few and far between. Safe and almost domestic.
"Goodnight Sherlock." The final words before the man retreated to his safe haven and away from the restless dead. Time felt like it passed far too quickly while the Living was speaking to him. However, it was a needed distraction from the Hunger and the boredom and so he listened to the man retreating with something that might have been approaching regret.
That faint limp captured his attention yet again. The sound reminded him of long past pain and the memory danced on the edge of the shadows of his fractured mind. With a rattling hiss of frustration he chased after the reason the limp was significant. Images flared, the blond man leaving behind a cane and running after him with no pain. Psychosomatic limp. The man had spoken of the event that first night of his waking.
He went still at that thought, going after it and with a great deal of concentration brought to the forefront his first memories. The man had begun speaking to him the moment he had drawn his first rattling breath upon waking in the dark. He pulled up the scattered memories and meaningless words he had carefully stored away. Images accompanied the sound of speech in his mind and something clicked into place. There was a chronological progression to the events taking place in his memories.
The implication rocked him back on his heels and a sharp breath rattled into his lungs. He was being told of his life before his Death, a life shared with the man on the other side of the door. Despite not being able to properly understand the words still, the memories were eloquent enough to tell him that this man had been important to him.
The craving for the Living's company flared as sharp and strong as his ever present Hunger. However, the dark and boredom held sway for what felt like an eternity before familiar footsteps broke the silence.
"Morning Sherlock." Even as his hunger flared at the scent of the living something else within the dead relaxed at the familiar footsteps and the warm, though tired, voice. The man might be giving in to dangerous sentiment but it was appreciated...as much as the undead could appreciate anything. As if in response to that odd thought the hunger eased a fraction. Interesting. He didn't have time to dwell on this development as the man settled into his usual place and began to speak.
"I was terrified when I saw that explosion on the news. All I could think of was that you might have been hurt and the last thing I'd done was storm out angry with you." There was regret in his voice and the Dead pressed against the door to listen, not bothering to draw useless breaths.
The man rambled on as was his want. Occasionally a word triggered something like recognition. A place or person or event would be mentioned and what it was attached to would emerge from the dark realm of his mind, image attaching to the word.
A man, not the blond, in their flat. He was asking for something. His face brought a painful surge of familiarity that the zombie shied away from.
A pink phone, five pips, a woman crying on the other end. A pair of white trainers.
An inconspicuous face that sparked hot rage. The dead-eyed image of the man and his lilting voice were swept away in a flood of other images.
A car stained with blood. A man's voice, terrified on the other end of the pink phone, the sounds of traffic around him. Four pips.
A woman on the telly. Another woman's voice on the pink phone, scared, old. Defective. Three pips.
The woman on the telly dead in the morgue. A cat and cameras and the blond man laughing. He had been wrong of course, but he had Looked and that had been the important part.
The old woman on the phone. A warning rushed out of his own throat. An explosion and then silence.
"Not much cop after all, this caring lark." He snorted, "I wanted to deck you for that." The words were followed by a sigh.
"I get it now, I really do. If you care too much...well you lock your dying best mate in the basement and come down every day and talk to his shambling remains like a nutter." He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"And on top of playing the Game I was looking into whoever killed Mycroft's man. Git." That last word was an insult of some type, but it was said almost like an endearment. A heavy sigh sounded and he stood.
"Hate to cut it short, Sherlock, but I've got to make a supply run tomorrow. Won't be back till evening...Not that it matters to you." He started off up the stairs. Halfway up he paused.
"Goodnight Sherlock." The dead listened as the Living left. There was hesitance over those last words, as if they were getting harder to say.
He shook contemplation of that thought off in favor of reviewing the memories he had seen throughout the day. Bright and vivid and too painful to look at closely. They were disjointed still and he could not hold them steady long enough to glean their full detail. They continued to be linearly chronological, but he knew he was missing a great deal of meaning not being able to fully understand the man.
He was beginning to pick up a word or two and properly process and understand the English language. Clearly he understood on some level or the memories would not come as they did. He was sure they were corresponding perfectly with the man's words. So, his conscious mind was still having trouble with language, yet subconsciously he was following along. The realization made a certain amount of sense. His mind was barely able to handle mere glimpses of his old memories. No doubt fully understanding everything being spoken, remembering every detail all at once, would be beyond painful, perhaps even detrimental to the mental progress he was making.
Without warning Hunger flared. It bit deep into his core, gnawing away at his thoughts. He gave in. There was no reason to fight it, not with his distraction gone for the time being. With a groan his body battered at the door under the Hunger. Pointless, useless, mindless.
"Huh, you were calm enough yesterday. Hunger getting the better of you again?" Bitter amusement filled the usually warm voice. The Living's scent proceeded his limping footsteps. Tea and jam and gunpowder flooded the darkness. The mindless Hunger eased, just a fraction but it was enough.
The undead froze in response, bracing himself against the door on splayed hands. The Hunger should have increased exponentially with the scent of uninfected living flesh so close. To have it abate, even a little, meant that he was slowly but surely putting this man out of the category of things-to-eat. It went against everything he thought he knew, everything that half formed knowledge said he knew. Exactly what he knew about his state of being was fluid, at best.
The familiar sound of the man sliding down into his usual seated position in front of the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Probably shouldn't have left off last night with how irritated I'd been with you..." He trailed off a moment and sighed.
"Not that it actually matters. You don't understand me anyway." Another sigh and he started speaking again, words sparking memories.
An image on the phone, a river. A body, strangled by giant hands. Stars. A painting and a child's voice.
Two pips.
An interrogation with a woman. Moriarty. The word was understood and sent rage rippling through the dead. He had no time to dwell on it before the images continued on.
"Finally made it to the tracks where Mycroft's bloke died, figured out why there was so little blood only to have you show up and ask what took so long." He snorted, "Guess you just wanted to see how well I did on my own. Nice to know I didn't completely disappoint you." The continued and the undead remembered.
The pink phone held in long fingered hands he knew where his. The pool where the boy who had owned the white trainers had died. The blond man stepping out when another, any other, had been expected.
"The look on your face when you saw me. Thought I'd ripped the heart right out of your chest." The man's voice was raw, and not merely from speaking so long. He snorted.
"And then you were so angry when you realized what was going on." Images and sounds came fast and hard now, a whirlwind of stimulation.
Explosives strapped to the blond man beneath his heavy coat. The innocuous man from the lab, now expensively dressed. His face twisted up in dark mirth, lilting voice echoing with madness. Moriarty.
Red dots playing over the blond man's face as he attacked Moriarty. Stalemate even as the madman left. The bomb vest was torn from the blond man by pale hands that shook. Relief turned to fear as Moriarty returned. A gun being pointed at the fallen vest.
A phone call. The madman's humor dropped away like a flipped switch.
He left. They returned to the flat, relief and exhaustion all intermingling.
Silence fell as the man on the other side of the door came to an apparent end of his speaking.
"Nearly died that night, the both of us. Never did get to tell you that I hadn't been afraid for my life, not really, just for yours. Not all that many people to miss me after all, didn't really have that much to live for 'cept your Work." He trailed off and snorted, "Don't even have now what I did then. Talking to a bloody corpse in the basement..." He stood and turned to go.
"Night Sherlock." He left, hollow tone and heavy limp following him up.
The Dead still didn't move, staring sightlessly at the closed door. He had felt emotions there, attached to the images and sounds. Few of them, and muted and distant, but undeniable. It was enough to finally convince him that his own mind was supplying the images, that they were true memories.
Those had been his hands holding the pink phone. Long and pale and very much alive. He remembered the weight of the explosive covered vest, the heft of the gun as he pointed it at Moriarty.
"Catch you later." The feel of the words as they thrummed out of his throat.
"No you won't." The madman's mocking reply.
With a rattling hiss he pounded against the door. There was more to why the madman sparked such rage within him. That did not feel to be the end of it. But try as he might to recall further events on his own his mind remained stubbornly silent.
He hissed again in frustration. He could recall the name of a man that had clearly been an enemy, but not the name of the man who had been his friend. Nor could he understand his own even though the blond spoke it on a regular basis. Yet again he focused his scattered memory on the blond man, focusing, trying to remember.
The images that came this time were not peaceful. He saw the Living as he had been at the Pool. Dark eyes going hard, face settled into grim determination. Soldier. Captain. The correction was whispered through the jumble of his thoughts. Bombs and guns and the threat of imminent death were not new to this man.
At least now he had something other than the blond man to call the soldier. Warmth filled him again as he contemplated the Living, shoving back the numbness and the Hunger. The soldier had been more angry than afraid, and that fear had clearly not been only for himself. This man had been willing to die for him, had already killed for him.
He latched onto that thought and remembered an old man, a cabbie. Two bottles each with a single pill. Bringing the pill to his lips, sure he was right. A gunshot ringing out and the cabbie dropping to the floor.
Realizing that the soldier, whom he had known less than a day, had killed for him.
For a moment he allowed the elation that he was remembering things the soldier had spoken of in the past to wash over him. Then his Hunger rose and drowned out his thoughts beneath a sea of mindless emptiness.
Footsteps broke through his body's incessant, bored, pawing at the door. He spared a fleeting thought to the state his fingers must be in and forced himself to still.
"Morning Sherlock." The Soldier sounded tired, resigned. There was a bitter undertone to usual scent.
"Well, I say morning but the sun won't be up for hours yet. Couldn't sleep. Kept dreaming about the Pool..." He trailed off as he settled onto the floor and leaned back against the door.
"Might not be the best idea for my sanity to keep talking to you like this. I keep forgetting you aren't up there with me. Turn to say something to you only to remember all over again you're down here...and want to eat me. I should probably stop. Should probably leave and go find other survivors..." yet again the words faded away.
The Dead groaned in protest. What of that he understood told him the Soldier was talking about leaving. He thumped against the door, no weight and little strength behind the action but the living still jumped with a curse. A mirthless laugh rang out.
"Don't want me to leave then? Well I can't blame you. If you were still aware you'd be going positively mad with boredom by now." The Soldier's voice grew rough as he spoke.
"Well, you're someone to talk to at any rate." The words were almost a whisper and a moment later he began his narrative again. The Dead relaxed into the words, letting images and sounds and vibrant memories play out in his mind.
A series of people, most of them quickly dismissed and unimportant. A laptop, the soldier typing away about their cases. Flashes of cameras and crowds as people took note.
A man in their flat, fat, right sleeve of an internet porn addict and breathing of an undiagnosed heart condition. The case that came with him, 7 at best. The Soldier was sent out with a laptop. Watching through the web-cam in nothing but a sheet. The hikers cause of death was obvious.
Men in suits, the palace, the soldier sharing his laugh that he was still in nothing but a sheet. The familiar face of the man that had asked about his missing employee. A reprimand and photographs.
The Woman. There was a shock as the Dead remembered her. She had pictures that he needed to retrieve. A camera phone. Memories flowed smoothly now, not merely flashes of his past. Sound and sight and smell and feel all bled together. They hurt, and were nearly as confusing as his first flashes of memory had been. But he did not retreat from the pain. With a monumental effort he focused on the soldier's voice, letting it mute the chaos in his mind.
"Still can't imagine how you thought your mugged priest act was going to fool her. Not as if you could have kept up injured innocent for long..." There was amusement in his voice and the Dead saw what the Soldier did not say.
"Punch me in the face." A shocked look from the soldier at his words.
"What?"
"I said, punch me in the face, didn't you hear me?" He remembered the feel of his impatience.
"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when I'm talking to you but usually it's just subtext." The soldier's voice was flat on his response. A punch was thrown, responded to. The Soldier had him in a headlock a moment later.
"Okay, that's enough." The words were difficult to force out pas the soldier's arm, but he wasn't afraid.
"You forget I was a soldier, Sherlock. I killed people!"
"You were a doctor!"
"I had bad days!"
The man had let him go after that. Memory fractured again.
He would have liked to have had time to dwell on the thing he had just remembered. Clear, in proper order, understood, memory. However, the man, Soldier, Doctor, was moving on and he didn't want to miss anything. There would be time enough to examine those thoughts later.
Images and sounds flashed in time once again in time to the sound of the man's voice. The memories were broken again, it seemed his mind could only handle such perfect clarity for a short time.
The Woman, naked, trying, succeeding, to throw him off his Game. His coat over her svelte form. Men bursting in, her phone in his hands. A needle and the return of his coat much later in the night. A moan on his phone, meaningless messages from her that got under his skin
The Doctor fell quiet.
"I need to go and see if I can't get at least some form of sleep. I'll be back down later. Or tomorrow...not like you know the difference." That last was muttered and bitter. The man stood, ignoring the protesting groan from the zombie behind him. He said nothing in parting.
Dim, distant pain blossomed from somewhere within the Dead as the lack of his friend's usual farewell. That though froze him, not a single muscle twitching so much as a fraction of an inch. It was dangerous, that thought. Wrong and mad and dangerous.
He could not afford to think of the Living as anything other than a threat or a meal. Yet even as the mindless hunger of his state denied it; the part of him that was his memories and beginning to remember the person he had been welcomed this change in mindset.
As if to remind him of what he truly was the Hunger roared within him, opening like an abyss, black and gaping. In defense he conjured the doctor in his mind, smiling face and steadfast presence.
"I don't have any friends. I just have one." What he knew to be his own voice echoed through his mind. A memory that the doctor had not spoken of yet. Nothing but the words and a feeling of relief came. The Hunger and the darkness abated, leaving his mind clear.
He didn't bother to move as he thought. He felt no physical discomfort in standing, even as hunched and unsteady as he knew his posture had become. His body meant nothing so long as his mind was his own. And it seemed that the more he remembered, the more he thought the more of himself he regained. Even if he still wasn't quite sure who he was just yet.
More important than that vague thought was that he had remembered an event with normal, clear memory. More important than that even, he had understood every word spoken in that memory. Even if his comprehension of English was spotty while the doctor was talking, this revelation told him that he was at least getting better at comprehension.
The theory that he did at least subconsciously understand and remember these events was also proven by that memory. His mind was healing as he thought, as he forced it to work. Or perhaps not healing, but merely building new pathways through the dead tissue in his brain.
As the Dead were not supposed to have much, if any, in the way of higher brain function it was impossible to know why he could think, could remember. He was unique, so far as he knew. But then, so too were his circumstances. What the doctor was doing, speaking to him like he was still Living and cognizant had not been done before, not for this long, and certainly not with a zombie so easily bored.
He shouldn't know this. The doctor had yet to say anything of the undead, not even a hint of it. So that was knowledge that came a great deal later. He tried to pursue the thought, tried to recall more of the world what he now was. Blackness broke over him in a wave of mindless Hunger. No time to draw on the doctor's face and only a moment of regret and irritation that he allowed himself to get so far sidetracked before he thought of nothing but his Hunger.
Footsteps penetrated the black fog. His body hit the door with a hungry moan before he could check the reaction to the scent of Living. There was a startled movement from the other side of the door and the soldier blistered the air with curses. The Dead fought to get back under control. It took a great deal of effort for even as the presence of the doctor calmed him, the actuality of living flesh so close nearly drove him mad.
"I'd blame that on boredom if there was anything left of your mind, Sherlock. But as you're a mindless zombie that must be the hunger." Despite the spike of fear of a moment before the Doctor's voice was steady.
"If you're going to keep attacking the door like that I'm just going to go back upstairs." The Living's voice was resigned, and touch with mild, bitter amusement.
The Dead heard, and understood enough to know that the doctor had threatened to leave. With a rattling hiss he forced his body to still. It took what felt like far too long for stiff muscles to respond but he dropped his arms to his sides and froze in place.
There was silence from the other side of the door for a moment. The doctor cursed again.
"Okay, maybe it is boredom. You never did anything else normally, so why would you turn out to be a normal zombie..." The man snorted and sat down in front of the door as usual.
"Guess the next real event would be Christmas...when She left you her phone and faked her death." The Dead remembered. Bright lights and music and company. A phone in his stocking. Her phone. A call and a mutilated body on a slab. He'd been convinced of her death, spent the next several months moping. Then she had returned and it was shocking and miraculous. But she'd brought trouble with her and her game with him had not been over.
Flirting, a check of her pulse. A code that was not a code and an airplane full of the dead. A reprimand. He recognized the familiar man now. His brother, the man's name eluded him but it wasn't important.
The lock on the phone and a mousey woman's voice saying that people do silly things. 'I am Sher-Locked'. The Woman had fallen into her own game. Love was a detriment.
"I told you she'd gone into witness protection in America. That she was fine. I lied Sherlock. Mycroft and I both lied. She's dead. I know it doesn't matter now but I'm sorry for that." There was a pause, "Though come to think of it that was really the only time I'd ever successfully lied to you. Ever." Another pause.
"She's alive isn't she? Bloody hell, that's why you vanished for a week. You git." The words were harsh but there was amusement in the tone. The Dead remembered.
All encompassing robes. A sword in his hand and the Woman kneeling before him. A final text was sent. His pocket moaned and they battled their way out of the camp. Unless she had perished when the world crumbled then she was still alive. That knowledge was important, but far less important than the here and now and the man on the other side of the door. Or the fact that he had just, once again, remembered something the doctor had not spoken of.
"Wish you could tell me if I'm right or not." He paused and snorted, "But you can't and it really doesn't matter all that much. Goodnight Sherlock." The doctor stood and left, silence following him up the stairs.
This last set of memories hadn't hurt much in comparison to those in the beginning. They were getting ever smoother, ever more clear. It should have been unnerving to realize that there was a lifetime before his time with the doctor but he was just glad to be able to remember anything.
He whirled back on that thought. Glad, happy, something other than boredom, hunger and want. Emotions the Dead should not have, should not be capable of. Happiness and boredom anyway, the Hunger was expected.
Yet again, though, no one had tried this. No one had tried to communicate like this to the undead. No one had thought to speak to the zombies for this long, slowly building up language and memories. To remind them constantly of who they had been.
His comprehension had nearly reached the point that he could consciously understand the doctor's words. He was certainly capable now of picking out single words and simple phrases. He remembered Irene Adler, remembered Moriarty's name and involvement thus far, remembered Mycroft's name. Still, even with the new clarity of his memories they felt slightly disconnected. While he felt the emotions they were muted, more as if he was watching a movie of another man's life.
Except for the Doctor. He was as real and solid as the rest of his memories were not. That though, could be attributed to the man's frequent presence; to the fact that all of his memories began with the former army doctor. The fact that he couldn't remember the man's name, nor his own, irritated him. He reveled in the emotion.
That was his downfall as the Hunger rose within him the moment his mind slowed. Black, mindless Hunger ate at him, tore through him. He surrendered to it, confident in the knowledge that when the doctor returned he would be able to break free of the black fog.
Familiar footsteps drove him to the door. He checked himself before slamming against the portal though and was rather proud of his restraint. He did not manage to stop the hungry moan that tore from his throat.
"Well at least you're not attacking the door this morning Sherlock." The doctor didn't come all the way down the stairs.
"I have to go out today, won't be back 'til evening probably. Running a bit low on food and such." He paused.
"If I'm not too tired I'll come down and talk to you. The Baskerville case shouldn't take too long to go through." His tone was easy, open. The Dead understood enough to know that the Doctor was not staying now, but would return. He stopped his moaning and held his body still.
There was silence from the other side of the door for a moment.
"I don't know whether the moaning or the silence is worse, Sherlock." There was bitter amusement in the tone. The Living said nothing else as he retreated back up the stairs.
Listening carefully the Dead heard two sets of door open and close. One at the top of the stairs, thin, flimsy, but he heard locks slide home. The other heavier, louder, likely the door to outside. The man was clearly not taking any chances with the ravenous zombie locked in the basement.
Perversely the animated corpse felt approval over the doctor's vigilance and caution. What the man was doing by keeping the undead was stupid, but at least he was taking the necessary precautions to keep himself safe. It would do the man no good if the Dead somehow got free. The doctor's life would still, even now, be forfeit. The Hunger was too strong still and the man would not be able to put that necessary bullet through his skull.
With a groan he shrank back away from the door. Carefully, clumsily, and mostly to see if he could; he eased himself into seated position next to it. The simple action took what felt like a full minute when it should have taken seconds. Muscles tightened and creaked in protest. His entire body was numb, unresponsive and jerky.
Memory flickered. He was running alongside the doctor. His body working in smooth, perfect, efficiency. He had been graceful. His body had been quick and agile.
With a rattled sigh he leaned his head back against the wall. No matter what happened he knew he would never get that elegant economy of motion back. He knew the way zombies moved, clumsy, jerky, slow. He could hear his lack of coordination in his shuffling steps and feel it in the stiffness of his limbs.
His mind went taut and snapped in on itself as he realized that this was the first time he had contemplated his future. It would be bleak of course, there was no happy existence for the undead. However, it was not his potential actual future that was important now, but the fact that his mind had progressed enough to contemplate its eventually.
Unfortunately, as with every emotional response thus far, the momentary elation faded away into cold, dark, Hungry reality. For now, he was oddly content to remain where he was. Even if he could figure a way out he would hopefully be able to ignore it. There was a flicker through his mind, bright keys, hidden somewhere in the flat. He shied away from the memory and it obligingly sank back into his subconscious without imparting any further information.
It was a bit of a shock to realize that he didn't want out at all. As with everything else he cataloged the thought until it made sense. Hunger wouldn't kill him, thirst wouldn't kill him. It was safer for the doctor, for his friend, if he stayed where he was. Besides, he'd be bored out of his mind out in the world with no mental stimulation. At least here he didn't have to worry about getting a bullet through his skull, and the boredom was often alleviated by the Doctor's willingness to tell him of his, of their, history.
The upper door opened and heavy footsteps descended.
"Sherlock! I'm back early." The Doctor sounded cheerful as he came and settled in front of the door. There was a sound of tearing plastic and the scent of something sweet.
"Found a couple of packs of biscuits from before the plague in a store room." Still cheerful as sounds of him eating one came through the door, "Been a while since I had anything sweet like this."
There were sounds of him eating a few more. The Dead was again proud of his self restraint. He hadn't even tried to get up as the doctor came down. The groan he was unable to stifle was ignored.
"Right, so where was I...ah, the Hound case." He snorted, "You were trying to cut your nicotine addiction by going cold turkey. Practically mauled Henry when you got him to smoke. Nearly didn't even take the case until he'd spoken oddly and it caught your attention." He continued, occasionally pausing to eat another biscuit while the Dead listened and remembered.
"Killed by an enormous hound..." The words rippled through his mind and he relinquished himself to the flow of memories.
The images now were not quite so fractured. They were linked together, not perfectly flowing but not completely separate.
Dartmoor. A secret military base. A hollow filled with mist and a feeling of terror.
He'd snapped at the doctor later, distrusting of his own eyes and taking the fear out on one person who wouldn't leave.
"I don't have any friends. I've just got one." the aforementioned words fell into their proper place in his mental time line. The doctor had forgiven him, and given him a clue.
Not hound, but H.O.U.N.D.
The base again. Watching the doctor in a drug induced panic shy away from nothing.
"Yet another of those things I wish I couldn't believe you did. But again, I'd be lying. Git." The narrative and flow of images broke off a moment under the mild reprimand.
"Least you apologized and there wasn't ever a repeat." Amusement in the doctor's voice and he continued on.
H.O.U.N.D. Hallucinatory fear inducing anti-personnel chemical warfare. It was supposed to have been abandoned. It wasn't.
The hollow, drugged mists foiling their senses. A hound, real and feral. Gun fire as it died. The perpetrator of the horror fleeing. Explosions and the knowledge that the man was dead.
Silence fell over them both as the doctor stopped talking. After a while the man stood. "I'll be back down tomorrow, Sherlock. Goodnight." The man's mood was low. The zombie knew that it had nothing to do with what had just been told to him. The reason for the man's mood must then be something that was coming next in the narration of their shared history. Try as he might nothing of those memories came but for a vague sense of unease.
He shoved that from his mind. Nothing he could do about it now but wait and think.
The Doctor had forgiven him even after being used as an experiment in the labs. Had stayed with him even after being yelled at and practically told that he wasn't a friend. Had let him apologize, and had accepted it. Rather remarkable in his mildly untrustworthy opinion of people.
Then of course, the man himself was an enigma. Doctor, soldier. Warrior, healer. Protector and cold blooded killer. A proclaimed man of peace that delighted in the adrenaline and danger of the chase. Considering how the man had hid his blood lust beneath woolen jumpers, he was a literal wolf in sheep's clothing.
Throughout all of his memories the doctor was underestimated at every turn. People barely gave him a second glance before dismissing him as unimportant. Few saw how important he really was, and fewer still saw what lurked beneath the placid exterior.
With a rattled groan he hauled himself to his feet. He nearly fell twice before slowing down enough to be sure of where his body was in the dark. His spatial awareness of his own body was completely shot without touch or sight. However, he had little else but time and so gave himself wholly over to the effort. Within minutes he was on his feet. Unsteadily he began to explore the flat yet again. He had gotten his mind working by thinking, perhaps he could at least grow used to the stiff slowness of his limbs by using them.
He counted himself fortunate that there was no furniture in the abandoned flat. As it was he still ran into doors and walls and counters in the pitch black. Touch was completely gone now, except for deep sensation when he hit against something hard and even that held no pain for him.
"Sherlock?" The sound of the Doctor's voice drove him toward the door as the Hunger flared. He wrestled it back and checked himself. He still bumped into the door as he misjudged the distance but as least he didn't hit it like a ravenous animal.
"Got bored standing by the door did you?" The doctor didn't sound the least bit concerned as he came and sat in front of the door.
"Can't say I blame you. Must be bored out of your mind in there with nothing to do..." He trailed off and sighed.
"Why do I keep doing this to myself, Sherlock?" And to you, for that matter. It would be a mercy to put a bullet through you." The Dead gave a rattling hiss in protest. The sound was quite loud enough to penetrate the door. There was a strained chuckle.
"Guess that's a no then?" The mirth in his voice was bitter, "Well that's no surprise. Even dead you're stubborn." The Doctor fell quiet for a moment. He shifted against the door.
"But that thing I'm talking to isn't really you is it? Its got your face, your body, but it's not you anymore. You're gone...for real this time, no chance of coming back." His voice was hollow.
"I don't know if I can go through this next bit, Sherlock. Don't think I can relive that on top of this." The doctor's head thunked back against the door.
"You're a right git, you know that mate? Leaving me like this not once but twice. Got me half expecting another miracle. You reappeared after two bloody years with all of us thinking you were dead." There was anger creeping into his voice. The zombie stayed completely silent. Even without the usual narrative images were beginning to flicker through his mind.
Moriarty. A trial. Not guilty.
False identities. Richard Brook. Rich Brook. Riechen Bach.
A code and snipers and the doctor in danger.
"Didn't bloody well stop to think that I could have helped. No, you had to do it all on your own." The doctor's anger was plain to hear now. He stood, and began to pace. He wasn't limping.
"Had to let us, me, think you were dead so you could go running after Moriarty's people. Didn't even occur to you that the bastard might have faked his own death just as you did." He paused a moment, "You know, I could forgive you everything. I did forgive you for leaving, and you deserved that punch I gave you. But I couldn't forgive that you made me watch. You tried to make me doubt the one person in my life that really bloody mattered. And for what?!" His volume spiked into a shout.
Memory flared. A roof top. A phone call. One final play in the game before it was taken off the public board.
"For nothing! Moriarty didn't die, he kept replacing the men you took out. And when you finally realized and came home the world went to hell in a bleeding hand basket not a month later! Probably on Moriarty's dime too! What was the point of any of it Sherlock?!" The dead man's name was screamed at the door, filled with rage and pain. Like a nail being driven home or the final piece of a puzzle being slotted into place something within the zombie's mind clicked.
Sherlock, that was his name, Sherlock Holmes...The name so painfully spoken by one rather tortured John Watson. He reeled away from the door and nearly fell as his mind flooded with memories. All the fractured pieces connected into a smooth flow that began and ended with John.
He remembered now, remembered the smug look on Moriarty's face as the madman shot himself to force his opponent to jump. Remembered the haunted, broken look on John's face as he spread his arms and let his body fall. Remembered two years of loneliness and fear and grim determination. Remembered how much it hurt when he realized Moriarty still alive. Remembered returning home to 221B Baker Street, to John, and being punched in the face before the doctor collapsed at his feet in a breakdown of relief.
They had had a scant month of peace, of attempting to fit back together. Then the world exploded and people started dropping like flies, only for their corpses to rise up and devour the living. John was likely correct that Moriarty had something to do with the whole mess. Though clearly no one knew quite as much about the zombies as they thought they did.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was devoid of the rage of merely moments before. He actually sounded concerned.
If his body had still carried the reflex Sherlock would have snorted. Of course John was concerned. Clearly he still bore some lingering hope that there was something left of his flatmate in the undead shell. Stupid sentiment, no matter that he was right about it.
Despairing at the stiffness of his diaphragm, Sherlock inflated his lungs in a rattling inhale. A moment later he let it out in a groan. The sounds seemed to satisfy John as there was a sigh and the sound of him sliding down in front of the door. The man gave a mirthless little laugh.
"And now I feel badly for screaming at a corpse. Bloody hell Sherlock, I'm officially losing it." John sounded hollow and broken. It took a great deal of self control for Sherlock to remain silent. John could not know that his undead flatmate had regained so much of his mind. The doctor would try to open the door and Sherlock had no confidence in his ability to control his Hunger.
Silence stretched between them and Sherlock found himself losing track of time in the dark. When John finally moved it startled a rattling hiss from his numb lips. The doctor ignored the sound as he stood.
"Sorry Sherlock, but I'm not going to go through that one." The man walked away, limping heavily up the stairs. Halfway up he paused.
"Goodnight Sherlock." The words were barely a whisper and if the Dead hadn't been listening for they would have been lost to the black.
'Goodnight John.' The words whispered through Sherlock's mind as he listened to John ascend the remainder of the steps and close and lock the upper door.
Yet again the zombie was left alone in the silent dark. Hunger flared, and where before he would have let it take him, Sherlock fought back with a snarl. He would wait for John to return, and he would be himself and aware when the man did so. He could do no less.