Chapter 7 They are just my torments...

"Most days my demons are silent but when they talk, oh God! How they scream."

"It's bedtime," Mrs. Hudson mentioned as she entered the living room.

Bell, amid the chaos of newspapers and police files, looked up at her strangely.

"It's early," she vacillated.

"It's almost eleven o'clock, you need rest. And you, Sherlock," he who was still in front of his laptop, moved his eyes to observe her, "you need to sleep. Have you seen those bags under your eyes?"

"I'm busy," he responded as he looked back at the monitor.

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes!" she exclaimed as she approached Bell. "You need to take a break."

He did not answer, continued to look at the laptop and made Mrs. Hudson sigh wearily. She came closer with Bell and noticed that she had spent the time colouring, with red and blue ink pens, on all the papers she had thrown around her.

"Come on Bell," Mrs. Hudson called her, "we'll find you a pyjama." Without protesting, the girl set aside all the mess, stood up and took Mrs. Hudson's hand. They both left the living room, leaving the detective alone.

Sherlock looked away from the monitor to get up from the chair, approached the door and slammed it shut. He walked up to the wall where he had all the reports on Samara Jones together and squinting, he looked at them with too much analysis.

As he read everything, he tried to tie up the dead ends, but, for the first time, when he was solving cases, he found himself with too many questions. It was incredible that a case, which seemed so simple and fast, fell into something complicated.

"What are you hiding, Samara Jones?" he wondered the moment his eyes distinguished the woman's photograph.

Bell and Mrs Hudson were in the latter's room and looked at the lady's closet in search of a pyjama. "I'm pretty sure I have something that you can wear," the girl smiled. "I hope Mary and John will buy you panamas, because if I find the one, I'm telling you, you won't be lasting you long."

"Why does Sherlock have a skull?" he asked suddenly. Mrs. Hudson turned to look at her curiously. "A skull? Well, Sherlock usually talks to him when John's not here."

"And why does he have some fingers in a pot in the fridge?" Mrs. Hudson opened her eyes wide to see how the girl was asking like nothing's. "Fi...Fingers?"

"Yes. I saw them."

"Well, sometimes Sherlock works at St. Bartholomew's hospital," and she noticed how Bell paid too much attention to her. "I think in the morgue," spluttered. "Well," she continued with a smile, "we're still looking for your pyjamas, okay?"

Bell did not answer, just smiled and Mrs. Hudson took it as a yes. After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson found a black pyjama with too many printed flowers, she dusted it off and showed it to Bell.

"What do you think?" she asked with a smile. Bell took a strange look at her pyjamas, but tried to disguise her surprise, smiled, and nodded merrily. "Perfect, it will be good to try it on and see if I have to make some adjustments."

"Yes."

Sherlock was walking side-by-side in the living room, trying to put this case together.

Samara Jones, Rupert Casey, Magnussen, Isabelle. What else did he need for this case to get more tangled up? The deeper he got into his mind, something stopped him at once and he looked back at everything on the wall.

"Something, there must be something..." he whispered in despair.

He looked anxiously at all the papers, stopped his eyes on a small paper that was stuck in the upper left corner. Feeling curious Sherlock walked up to the couch, climbed into this one and looked at that paper.

"Sherlock?" he heard behind his back, turned to look at Mrs. Hudson and the child, who was wearing a horrible pyjama. "I'll go tuck Bell in bed."

He did not answer them, took up that paper and pulled it out from the wall. He leaped out the couch and observed the two ladies.

"I'll do," he said formally.

"Do what?" Mrs. Hudson inquired curious.

"What you said."

"Tuck Bell in bed?" she questioned without believing it. "Are you sure?"

"Do you think I can't do it?" he suggested annoyingly.

"No, not at all!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed with a playful smile.

"You believe it," he replied instantly. "But I will. If I need you, I will call you."

Not so sure about it, Mrs. Hudson sighed and let go of the little girl's hand, becoming susceptible to what he was doing. She stood there and Sherlock frowned.

"Will you stay there?" he asked strangely.

"No, just..." she stopped and squeezed her lips "Do you want me to tell you how to tuck a child in?"

"No. Thank you," he huffed.

"Okay. Bell you should rest, and we'll see us tomorrow," Mrs. Hudson said as a goodbye with a slight smile as she stroked her cheek. Bell smiled and nodded implying that she wished the same for her.

Mrs. Hudson walked towards the door, Sherlock followed her with her eyes until she finally disappeared down the stairs and moved her head towards the girl and they both looked at each other.

"Well?" he asked strangely. Bell, a little frightened, raised her hand at the detective. "What are you doing?" he asked in confusion and she merely saw him.

"Take me to bed to sleep," she ordered. Sherlock observed the girl curiously and she kept looking at him. She still had her hand stretched out and moved her fingers as a calling mode, yet he did not understand her. "Take my hand," she demanded something desperate.

Hearing her words Sherlock looked perplexed at her.

"What?" he trilled.

"Take my hand," she repeated as she moved her hand in circles.

"Why do I have to do that?"

Bell stopped her movements to see the detective and he noticed the girl's eyelids opening and closing quickly.

"My mom did it."

"Well, I'm not your mother," he replied taciturn. "It was more convenient for you to say that to Mrs. Hudson, not to me."

Bell lowered her hand and head at the same time. Confused for that Sherlock looked at the girl, then heard a slight sob; this time, somewhat more worried, he approached her to discover how she was shedding tears.

"Wait!" he yelled. "But...! But why are you crying?!"

Bell did not answer him. She put her hands over her eyes to squeeze them so that the tears would no longer flow, yet she did not contain the moaning of sadness.

Sherlock did not know what to do, never lived through this in his life and did not know what to do about it. He knew that, if she increased the volume of her crying, Mrs. Hudson would listen, go upstairs and scold him for causing her to cry, so he had to prevent Bell's whining from increasing, yet it seemed impossible. She continued to such an extent that the detective began to feel a terrible anxiety. It was so horrible that, without even thinking about it in his own way, he took Bell's hand, and as she felt it happening, she looked at Sherlock still with her eyes filled with tears.

"Stop!" he demanded desperately. "I already took your hand! So now stop crying," Bell noticed how Sherlock showed him he was holding her hand and didn't hide her surprising expression. "Fine?" Bell, unable to assimilate what was going on, nodded. "Well... let's take you to bed to sleep."

Sherlock lowered his hands and so both walked to his room.

When they arrived, Bell began to analyse the place in detail; the room was very well kept, it was noticeable that Sherlock did not come here except to take out his clothes. She distinguished that on the wall was a large picture of the periodic table and, as she observed undisguised, Sherlock turned to look at her with an arched eyebrow, discovering how concentrated she was in his bedroom.

"Well, go to sleep," he interrupted as he released her hand and Bell turned around at the time. They looked at each other and Sherlock placed his hands behind him. "Well?" he asked. "There's the bed," missed the girl appreciated the huge furniture, which was perfectly arranged, and looked back at Sherlock who was surprised by her attitude. "Now what?" he asked annoyingly.

"The sheets," she said, "we have to move them."

"Do it yourself," he responded as he shrugged.

Bell frowned, looked the detective in the eye, and he also observed her with his typical discomfort. Both were challenged, but the little girl's gaze was too powerful even for Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Fine," he surrendered as he rolled his eyes and sighed angrily.

He walked to the bed, moved the sheets so that the girl could lie down and at the end he looked at her and moved his head as a sign that she could already enter the bed. Bell erased her annoying look and smiled at him, went up to bed, put her feet under the sheets and laid her head on the pillows, being these too soft.

"Ready!" Sherlock exclaimed with a false smile. "Now, close your eyes, count sheep or whatever you want, and don't bother me until the sun comes up."

The detective walked to the door as Bell followed him with er surprise look.

"Sherlock," she called softly and this one paused strangely.

"Now what?" he asked with his typical annoyance as he closed his eyes.

"Cover me with the sheets," she said as she stretched out her arms.

"What the...?" he paused and sighed bitterly. "Well..." he turned around and discovered how she was stretching her arms beside those brown eyes sticking into him. He approached the bed, took the sheets to cover her completely, leaving her head free. "Ready!" chorused fun and tired. "Sleep now."

"Wait!" she stopped him as he returned to the gate and Sherlock sighed more bitterly than usual.

"What now?" he grudgingly asked.

Bell looked up again.

"A bedtime story."

"Sorry?" he questioned without believing it.

"A bedtime story." the child repeated.

"A bedtime stories?" he whispered without believing it. "Are you serious?" and turned to see her very curious. Bell nodded and Sherlock still did not assimilate it. "I don't know any bedtime story," he replied angrily, and the girl looked at him a little sad.

"None?"

"None," he said seriously. "Good night."

Sherlock turned around, turned off the light, walked out of the room, and when he closed the door again, he heard her.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked.

Without believing it he opened the door and with the light coming from the living room, he observed the little girl.

"What?!" he let out in despair.

"The darkness!"

"What's in it?"

"It terrifies me," she whispered almost in tears.

With heavy pressure on his head, Sherlock approached the small table next to the bed and lit the lamp that was there. Upon seeing the lighted room Bell saw the detective with a slight smile to then close her eyes. Sherlock, feeling very stressed about this whole situation, looked at child for a minute in case anything else happened, and noticed that she had already fallen into the arms of sleep. Slowly, Sherlock turned around and walked out of the room when:

"Sherlock," she called again and this one stopped and sighed but did not answer. "Good night."

Hearing the little girl calmly say those words, he assured that Bell would sleep without any further interruption. He left the room and closed the door lightly, when the sound of the door was heard, Sherlock sighed calmly, had done little and had exhausted himself mentally and physically. He walked to the living room to take a seat in the chair and back to his laptop. He pressed the keys with some desperation and the monitor turned on again to see the files he had read before and then move his head to the wall.

As he remained fixed on it, Sherlock remembered the paper he had taken away from there, put his hand into the pocket of his coat, took the paper and felt something else in it. He put everything on the table and looked at the paper he had torn off next to the syringe he had used the night before. He closed his eyes and felt the guilt flow, even though he would refuse, he felt it. And it did not make him feel all right. To avoid that sensation, he took the paper to read it, knowing that it would distract him from those somewhat foolish thoughts. That paper was a report written by his brother, Mycroft.

"Very interesting!" He thought.

"April 10, 2004.
Interrogation of Jones, Samara (suspect 1).
Arrested on 31 March 2004,
Charges against her: Casey's accomplice. Rupert (guilty).
The interrogation began at 10am with 00minutes.
She denied any link to the London Underground bombing.
12 hours and 33 minutes.
She was pressured to declare the guilty party's actions.
She continued to deny her ties.
14 hours and 12 minutes.
She agreed to meet the culprit.
She confessed that she lived with the culprit next to a third. She was asked who the third was. She refused to give the name.
16hours 08minutes.
Suspect 1 has spoken about the culprit. She describes him as a manic depressive. She is asked again for the third, denied giving the name.
17 hours 00minutes.
Suspect 1 Attorney Arrives. Interrogation Ends."

Sherlock took a marker and underlined the words "next to a third" and "manic depressive." He took the paper, arose from his seat to go toward the wall and put it in the place where it was. He sighed and got off to lie on the couch; he put his hands together to place them near his lips and closed his eyes to meditate on what he had read. Sherlock slowly flooded into his mind palace; his breathing had become very slow, and he inhaled deeply, retaining the air, and finally exhaling it in haste. His eyelids hardly opened, he looked around and rose; because of those irregular breaths, and as he investigated the living room, he distinguished the figure of Samara Jones. Without any emotion, Sherlock get close to that woman and then they were looking each other.

"Samara Jones," he monotoned as he began to walk around her. "Fearless, intelligent, beautiful. You had all the archetypes of a rebellious teenager, nothing that can impress me, but..." he stopped in front of Samara, who looked at him and smiled. "But with a secret, one so great that it caused your death," Samara faded her smile as she lowered her gaze. Discovering that expression, Sherlock arched his eyebrow and observed her with a victorious smile. "Your secret has no bearing on what happened at London Underground at all. Your great secret, Samara, is the one you have cared for nine years. That secret is your daughter, or am I wrong?" Samara crouched and the detective smiled even more. "Running away isn't always the best solution," he continued, "always being from side to side to London, even trying to change your last name... However, Mycroft always watched over you, what a pity..." she kept her head down. "Oh, I almost tied up loose ends!" he grinned with pride. "You knew they'd come after you, not the government, you didn't care about them. Someone from your past, from your life with Casey."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" he perceived behind him and left him completely stunned. "I am surprised that, being you, you no longer have the answer." The detective slowly turned his head so that he could saw Magnussen, adjusting his glasses. "It can't be possible..."

"My former secretary and I had two things in common. One, we died from a head shot. Two, she hid many secrets, like anyone else, or like me, hiding Appledore. But everything she hid..." Magnussen began to move his hands, as if he were reading a book. "Oh, if you knew it, Mr. Holmes!" surprised by Magnussen's presence, Sherlock began to walk backwards, looking to get away from him. "But where do you think you're going, Mr. Holmes?" he inquired with a malicious smile. "You wanted this case, to clear your mind of your true mission, now solve it."

"No...," he repeated between paused breaths.

Magnussen placed his hands behind him and beheld him.

"Come on, I'm waiting for you." Sherlock shook his head to observe Samara and discovered how a huge hole appeared on her forehead and blood pouring out from it. The woman's brown eyes were flooded with tears, which mingled with the blood. Sherlock was shocked. "And well, Mr. Holmes?"

"Get out of my mind palace!" he shouted as he pointed him. Magnussen started to laugh. "I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, I am already a part of this place. I will be here... forever." He alluded with a cynical smile. Sherlock walked in circles over the same place, placing his hands over his jet hair. "Mr. Holmes, will you not continue with the case?"

The detective stopped short and look Samara Jones back.

"On the day of your murder... Isabelle... that day, you hid her from the killer. You knew he had come for you and her. You hid her, under the floor of the house. In Northampton, there are houses that are built on slopes. You had hidden her well so... it is why her sweater had dirt, not just from the weeks he wandered through London, but from the floor of the house. The soil in Northampton is wet and brown. Isabelle couldn't see your murder, she just heard everything; the blood drops she had been because your body was on top of her," and he heard Magnussen clap.

"Mr. Holmes! You're so far and so close." Upset the detective turned with Magnussen and the rage covered his eyes. "Stop talking!"

"But Mr. Holmes, you don't see what is so obvious..."

"Oh, he doesn't see the obvious anymore!" another familiar voice chorused. "Sherly, Sherly, he's losing his touch."

Feeling everything collapsing around him, he glimpsed behind Samara Jones the figure of Moriarty, who walked and dazzled a smile filled with madness on his face. He took Samara Jones' shoulders and pushed her to the ground like she was a doll.

"Sherly, Sherly likes to play detective. Sherly, Sherly, usually watches. But Sherly, Sherly doesn't see the obvious." Sherlock raised his hands to his face and closed his eyes. "This... This cannot be happening..." he denied.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," Moriarty called as he approached him, "Why do you bother to suffer? If you know perfectly well that we will be here. If you need us, as you do now."

"That is right, Mr. Holmes," Magnussen continued, "you need us now. He needs someone to remind him of his wrongdoings, his most horrible sins."

"Someone to remind you that you can't run away from your fears. Do you think, with this case, you'll forget about me?"

"Or me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock knelt and covered his head with the voices that were tormenting him. They were horrible to hear, they flooded their mind palace completely, making him want to rip out his ears, to see if he could shut them up, but it was impossible. He knew there was no way to escape from Moriarty and now also from Magnussen.

They would be with him forever.

"Sherlock," he heard. It was not the voice of his two executioners, it was a sweet, innocent voice that made him calm down. The detective looked up, upon him Moriarty and Magnussen followed, telling him all their sins and fears. "Sherlock!" the voice exclaimed.

The detective got up and managed to get out of that space that contaminated him every second. He ran leaving behind Magnussen and Moriarty who were watching him flee.

"You can't run forever, Sherlock!" Moriarty warned with disgusting hatred.

Sherlock reached the front door and with his restless breathing took the knob, opened it sharply and a white light blinded him. Waiting for the light finished to bothered in his eyes, he listened a soothing sound. His vision was recovering so that, with surprise, he would look at a huge beach. Shocked at how blue the sea was, and the sound of the waves calmed him down, he knew this was not part of his mind palace.

"Sherlock," the voice called behind his back, turned around and was surprised to see who was calling him. "Sherlock they are gone," said little Isabelle."

"But...! How is it...?" he questioned between babblings.

"It's time to go back."

Sherlock closed his eyes, squeezing them, and seconds later opened them. This time he glimpsed the roof of his apartment and his breathing was still agitated.

"Sherlock?" he heard and moved his eyes to discover the little girl next to him. He did not respond, only observed her with a lightness of fear. "Sherlock," she insisted nervous, "I had a nightmare."

The detective kept looking at the girl and she appreciated how the detective's chest was rising and shrinking sharply. Suddenly Bell realized how Sherlock's lips were shaking. "So do I."

A/N:

Thanks so much for reading. I will be deeply grateful with any comments, constructive criticism, opinions and / or suggestions :3