AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello! I've decided to update this story every Sunday (anytime within the day, so check regularly) so expect a new chapter then. :) Thank you all for waiting! :)
"Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock," a voice cooed.
A face flashed in front of me and then it was gone.
"The clock struck one, and down he run," the voice continued from somewhere.
It laughed horribly. The face came back into focus, its light brown eyes wide and its mouth wide with neglected teeth and pale skin. Insanity danced in the light brown eyes and cruelty poured out of its mouth like coiling snakes.
"If I were you, I'd make like a mouse!" He howled with laughter.
I woke with a jolt. The environment around me was hazed and blurred but quickly turned black again when a sharp pain stabbed me on the side of my face and on my arm. My slow brain realized that it had commanded my eyes to squint against the pain, so I slowly opened them and let them adjust.
An open window stood across from me, its white curtains billowing from the wind. The light green wallpaper gave me a dose of déjà vu and the cold air blew in and chilled me to the bone. I shivered and fire shot up my arm and face again. My head hammered with pain, but it was easy to ignore if I focused on the pain in the side of my face and my arm.
I moaned. A shuffle of feet came about and they approached me.
"Good morning," a familiar voice greeted me.
I didn't turn my head because of the pain. I searched my mind for why the voice was familiar. Who is this?
"How're you feeling?" the voice asked again with a methodical air. It was a man and by his tone he seemed friendly. Is he someone I know? Or a doctor?
I blinked rapidly, trying to jog my memory.
"Nikki, can you turn your head?" the friendly man asked.
Nikki. I remember that nickname. Only one person called me that… a doctor…
"Doctor Who," I sputtered suddenly. I turned my head ever so slightly and saw…
John! John Watson! John Watson's face!
A smile spread across my face and relief flooded my body.
"John," I said, feeling the name on my lips. It felt friendly and safe and real.
He smiled back but his forehead was creased with worry. His light blue eyes shone brightly and slightly bloodshot.
"Your concussion is worse than I'd thought," he told me, his calm tone not matching his features. "At least you're able to recover your memory quickly. That's an upside."
"What happened to me?" I asked, finding the memory of the past blurry and hazy. "Where am I?"
John sighed, his forehead creasing further.
"Well, you're at Sherlock's place. Sherlock is talking with Mycroft outside about, well, what happened to you. You've been out cold for a day and Mycroft just now got here."
"Mycroft," I murmured, trying out the name. It came out sour on my tongue and my memory jogged to life. The calculating man who studied me like…
Like how? Ah yes; like a specimen under a microscope.
And to top it off, I believe he'd developed something like a crush on me. Wonderful.
"Your burns are second-degree," John was saying, "but there aren't many of them. Just on your face and right arm. Should heal completely within two weeks or so."
I looked down at my arm and saw tightly wound gauze where my bicep would be. Indeed, I felt significant pain on that area and on my face; a burning, tingling sensation that, much like a swarm of bees, delivered a powerful sting if tampered with.
"Damn," I muttered. "I'm a mess."
John shrugged.
"Well, you definitely were before but I took care of you. But, don't worry, you'll be fine." He smiled at me, though the crease of worry in his forehead never smoothed out. Clearly, John had his worries.
A knock came at the door.
"Come in," John called absentmindedly.
A figure entered, clad in a nice navy blazer and dress pants and a white undershirt. His dark, curly locks hung haphazardly about his face, as if he had neglected to wash his hair recently.
The man seemed to survey the room for the quickest of moments and then saw me. His face remained a mask, but his eyes spoke up a storm. They were a hurricane of stress and worry, something that boggled my concussion-addled mind. I didn't remember seeing this man before. Has he looked differently before?
The strange man strode towards me and knelt down and started asking a lot of questions about my current health, which I answered as well as I could. Following behind the strange, curly-haired man was another man whose face was chiseled out of ice.
The ice man cast his eyes to me and studied me like…
Oh, so this is Mycroft.
His eyes were hard as they studied me, showing no emotion or care. I stared back at him, looking for any life in those icy eyes.
The curly haired man touched my bandaged arm and I let out a yelp of pain and turned to glare at him. He mumbled an apology and I glanced back up at the ice man.
His back was turned to me, suddenly interested in the trinkets on the mantle at the far side of the room.
I looked back at the curly haired man, trying to remember who he was. He spoke hurriedly and his voice seemed uncertain.
No, I didn't know this man. This must be someone new. A friend of John, maybe? What did John say his name was again?
"What's," I started but finding my breath to be limited. So I took a deep breath and continued, "…What's your name again?"
The curly haired man stopped fussing at John and stared at me. He turned back to John muttered something; I picked up the words, "concussion… than I thought." John seemed to whisper something back that contradicted the initial suggestion, so the strange man turned back to me and said his name slowly.
Sherlock Holmes.
That rang a bell. Sherlock Holmes… Mr. Holmes? No, not that…
"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock Holmes was saying, his eyes examining me as my brain chugged away slowly.
Whoa, hold the phone. Detective? …Wait! Detective!
"Ah, Detective A-Hole, it's been too long," I quipped, smiling.
Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and John smirked in a way someone would when recalling a past memory. In fact, my past memories with John and Sherlock started to breathe with life again and filled my brain. Relief flooded my veins; I was going to be okay.
"Alright, orientation is done with," Sherlock began, moving on to the next order of business. Mycroft turned back around to his brother (they're brothers, right? Yeah I think so… No, wait! …Yeah, they are. I don't know why I hedged) expectantly.
"Moriarty has gone too far," John said from beside Sherlock. "First he attaches bombs to people – and me – then he forces you into committing suicide, and then he burns our friend!"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"I see it clearly now," he murmured. "Moriarty said he'd burn me before he'd kill me."
"And what does that have to do with this?" Mycroft asked condescendingly from the mantle across the room.
I couldn't see this because of my position so I listened. Mycroft sounded irritated, or maybe even stressed out and Sherlock's response only mirrored his brother.
"It means, brother mine," Sherlock spat, "that either I misinterpreted Moriarty's intentions or he caved to his potential to be changeable."
Silence fell over the room to the point where my breathing was too loud. Suddenly the sound of heels clomping on stairs echoed into the room. The door creaked open and the sound of heels stopped.
"How is she, John?" the voice of a woman demanded. "Has the poor creature woken up yet?"
"Right over there," John said. He must gestured to me on the couch, for the woman clomped over to me until she was in my sight.
She was a short, older woman with short light brown hair and a cheery complexion amidst facial wrinkles. Her light eyes twinkled with delight as they made contact with mine and her face dissolved into a brilliant smile that made my heart feel ten pounds lighter.
Mrs. Hudson, I knew immediately. I remembered being fond of her and how she'd always been so kind to me every… Sunday? Saturday? Eh, either of those.
"Oh, thank goodness!" she said happily. "Alive and well! How're you feeling, dearie? Do you want something to eat? You must be famished, you slept all day yesterday!"
As if on cue, my stomach unleashed a hungry growl.
"Yeah," I said, then added quickly, "please."
Mrs. Hudson nodded with a bright, satisfied smile.
"I'll fix something right up for you! Some tea, too?"
"Coffee, if you have it."
"Oh, dearie, I only have tea."
"That's fine, then."
"Don't you worry, I'll go out and buy some coffee for you."
I shook my head a little, though it stung.
"No, Mrs. Hudson, it's fine, I'll take tea."
"Oh, but the store's just -, "
"Mrs. Hudson, please leave the room," Sherlock shouted in obvious irritation.
Mrs. Hudson scurried out of my sight and down the stairs without another word.
The room fell silent again and I suddenly wished Mrs. Hudson had left her cheeriness with her to fill the hopeless silence.
"What are we going to do?" I murmured from where I lay on the couch. "Endless background checks and investigations did absolutely nothing. All that hard work…" I trailed off, feeling the weight of stress on my chest.
"There is nothing else to do," Mycroft said quite plainly. "All we can do is just wait. Any move we make will result in retaliation from Moriarty."
"We can't just stand around and wait for him to show up," John argued. "We need a plan at least. If we're going to wait, we need something to meet him up with. Like establishing a meeting place with back up policemen around the perimeter."
I stared out the window at the bright sunlight pouring in. People milled about outside, concerned about their normal lives. I felt so envious of them.
"No, we need something more discreet. If we bring in the police Moriarty will slip away. The police aren't smart enough to track him down effectively, why do you think we were called to this case in the first place?"
I assumed he was speaking to John, so I kept silent. Besides, my face hurt so talking was painful. A line of gauze was taped on the side of my face; I could only imagine how my skin looked now.
The conversation droned on with voices rising on occasion but no progress being made. I dozed off quickly and was awoken by someone carefully prodding my bad arm.
It was Sherlock. He handed me my phone, which was blinking a signal of an incoming text. There was a bowl of untouched vegetable soup on the table and a cup of tea.
I glanced at the window. It was dark now, the stars winking at me.
"So, is there a game plan?" I asked him.
Sherlock gazed out the window, looking discontented with the view.
"Hardly. The game is on, but in what direction, I know not." He laid a gentle, affectionate hand on my shoulder for a moment and then disappeared from view.
I unlocked my phone and saw a text from someone named Greg. It was sent around two hours ago.
Hey, how're you feeling? I meant to come over today but I was caught up with work. Text me tomorrow if you're feeling up to it. – Greg
I smiled at the text unconsciously. Who is Greg? Greg, Greg, Greg… nope, not ringing a bell. Did he have a last name? Greg What? Smith? No, that doesn't sound right. Greg…Travis? Young? Lee? McKellar?
I sifted through last names in my head and came up with nothing. I heard footsteps in the kitchen, so I called out to Sherlock.
"What?" he answered back, sounding exhausted and annoyed.
"What's Greg's last name?"
There was a moment of silence before he answered, "Lestrade."
I remembered him instantly: A man in his mid-thirties with grey-brown hair and brown eyes. He had a nice laugh and we went out to go get coffee daily, I think.
Are we dating? No, probably not. His text would've had something like "hey babe" or "how're you doing, beautiful?" Why aren't we dating? Is he married? I can't remember.
I was about to ask Sherlock if Greg Lestrade was married, but I stopped myself. I decided that I should just find out for myself instead of arousing suspicion and causing drama.
I'll just see if he has a ring on his ring finger, that'll be a quick and easy answer.
Sherlock strode into the room with a glass of water and a container labeled "Ibuprofen".
"Take one pill tonight and one in the morning," he instructed me, setting the water down on the table beside me. "Or else you'll be in a lot of pain."
I nodded obediently and took an Ibuprofen pill. I leaned back again and closed my eyes and listened to Sherlock's footsteps on the floor until his bedroom door opened and closed softly.
Silence crept back into the room, but this time it was nicer. It wasn't an awkward silence, but a peaceful quiet that put my hammering head and stinging skin at ease.
After a few minutes the pain in my head lightened and was just a dull buzz and the sting of my skin became a light tingle.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind was busy at work.
So Moriarty did this to me. Why am I a target? What have I done to pose myself as a threat? I'm the seemingly intimidating native-New York American, why the hell am I taking the heat – literally – from this so-called consulting criminal? If he's intimidated by my accent then, well, that's just stupid.
Whatever the reason, this isn't over. I'll get him back for this. No negotiations or Mrs. Nice Guy. I'll go all New York on him; he won't even see it coming.
Feeling soothed by my inner pep talk, my mind finally let sleep overtake me.
