(10 years earlier cont.d)
Sherlock woke the following morning confused and heavy-headed. He blinked hard and rubbed his hands across his face, trying to work out where he was.
Tacky embossed wallpaper; long heavy curtains; faux antique furniture.
Right, he finally realised, the hotel.
He glanced around the room to assess the situation. It was empty and quiet. No Jim Moriarty. All traces of the evening gone. All except for a small box on the side table. Sherlock slowly and carefully sat up, wary of the slight pounding in his head and a dull ache in his back. He frowned as he tried to recall the events of the previous evening.
He remembered being there with Jim. He remembered feeling... trapped. Unable to move. Unable to run. Unable to fight back. He remembered... he groaned as the memory of the needle hit him. Drugs. Jim had given him a drug. He warily eyed the box on the side table. Was that the same box? He wasn't sure. He frowned at it as he became aware of his accelerated breathing and heart rate.
No, he had to know. He had to know what was in the box. He leaned across and grabbed it, pulling it onto his lap. For a moment, he just ran his long, pale fingers over it, feeling the dents and pitting in the soft wood. Taking a deep breath, he flipped open the small metal latch and lifted the lid.
At the top of the box, lay a piece of folded paper. Sherlock removed it, concentrating on unfolding it before examining the box's contents further. The note was hand-written on quality paper in smooth, cursive handwriting. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before taking another long breath and opening his eyes again to read.
Sherlock
A small present to remember me by.
Or, should I say, a small present to forget me by.
If you want to remember, do call. I shall explain all.
If you'd rather forget, then I hope these help.
Until we meet again
Jim
Sherlock re-read the note, his breathing stuttering as it became obvious what the remaining contents of the box were. He folded the note again and placed it down next to him on the bed. For a long moment, he just sat and stared ahead into nothing. His heart raced and he struggled to breathe. He could either choose to remember or choose to forget.
He spent two, five or twenty minutes wrestling with the decision.
He really did not remember anything much about the previous night except for the feeling the drug gave him. Did he want to remember more?
Did he want to know why his throat felt dry and raw and his back ached so badly?
Jim had written that he would explain, if Sherlock wanted to remember. The big question was, did Sherlock want to remember?
Or maybe he should just let it go. He could choose to forget. To leave that door firmly closed; a part of his past better left well behind. The snippets that, in the back of his mind, he had a vague awareness of were bad enough. Maybe he should just let it all go and move on.
The next few minutes passed as if in slow motion as Sherlock turned his attention once again to the box. He next removed a large packet of powder. It needed no explanation. He knew exactly what it was.
Suddenly a flood of memories came back to him. The drug. Its effects. The feeling of calm, the peacefulness, the relief from the endless chatter in his head.
He had absolutely no idea what happened after that but he remembered the feeling. He remembered feeling good.
It was a feeling he instantly felt desperate to feel again. He longed for it, with an ache deep inside him. A yearning. A need. An absolute overwhelming desire greater than anything he had ever felt before.
He began to carefully empty the box out onto the bed.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice was trembling with worry. "Where have you been? I was up all night waiting. I was so worried."
Sherlock walked into the house, his face calm and still. He looked at his brother's frantic face and frowned.
Mycroft noted the dilated pupils and an oddly serene look.
"Sherlock?" he repeated, this time more quietly but with a gentle concern. "Are you OK?"
He guided his brother to sit down in the lounge, pouring him a glass of water from the jug on the table and watching the man down it thirstily. He poured a second and sat alongside him, taking his hand and starting the comforting move of stroking his thumbs over the younger man's shaking knuckles.
"What happened?" Mycroft asked, unsure how much he wanted to know but knowing that his brother might need to share; to half the burden.
Sherlock stared into his glass, watching the cool, clear liquid with a childish fascination as it swirled around, catching on the crystal facets and distorting his long fingers wrapped around the outside. It looked so pretty; so calm; oddly mesmerising.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft repeated, trying to regain his brother's attention. Sherlock looked distracted; not himself at all. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Sherlock took a deep breath before raising his eyes to his brothers and leaning in, curling himself into strong arms. Arms where he felt safe and secure. Arms that would never judge him, no matter how bad things became.
"It's over, Mycroft." he sighed, his voice small but certain. "I've done my bit," he continued, closing his eyes and letting his body relax into his brother's, "now you need to do yours."