Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 45
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
*As always thanks for reading, a special thanks to all of you who take the time to review, comment, and favorite.
Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt
Sherlock walked up the marble stairs of his palace. The gentle tap-tap-tap of his shoes on the marbled floors was heard.
Another sound was heard, it was the relaxing chords of violin music, which always played in this place.
He heard something else. Mycroft's voice; steady, rhythmic. His brother's voice became a soft thin thread that wrapped around his subconscious. It was a tether of some kind he realized, to the waking world.
The palace itself had an atmosphere that was light and airy, as well as peaceful. It was very spacious with three floors of room and a lower level that he never visited.
Well, once.
His palace was constructed with long marble laid corridors. There were various Oak doors, beautiful and ornate in design with cream-colored trim. Each door looked unique, as each room was unique.
Each room was elegantly and distinctively decorated.
The rooms themselves were not important, what was, was the bookcases in each room. Each contained a massive amount of books.
Sherlock came to a door.
He moved his hands in short synchronized movements, the door opened on his own accord, as if moved by an invisible hand.
Sherlock was in a hurry. He walked into the first room. He ignored the beautiful mahogany furniture and bookcases that seemed to line the walls of this room, not unlike all the other rooms.
He stepped to a door and moved his hands in short synchronized movements. It also opened on its own accord.
He went into the second room.
This second room was more modern in design, but similarly had wall to ceiling bookcases. Again, Sherlock ignored everything and stepped quickly to the third and final door.
He moved his hands in short synchronized movements but this door did not open like the rest. Sherlock frowned then remembered. He concentrated and a silver key materialized in his hand. He opened the door.
He guardedly stepped into the last room.
It was an ecliptic mixing of modern and traditional style furniture.
This room had bookstands as well, but all the books here were beautifully ornate in design and had dark brown leather covers and antique looking pages.
Sherlock was always more cautious in this room. He looked at the winding staircase at the far left corner. Sherlock put his hands in his pocket, and sighed. He could not delay anymore.
Sherlock had not visited the lower level except once when he was a child, a year after this place was constructed.
The lower level was different from the rest of the house.
It was dark with shadows that moved.
It had a steep stairs. Walking down the stairs gave the feeling of slowly descending into the abyss. Sherlock moved cautiously down the stairs touching his hands to the rails only.
Sherlock thought he heard something.
Sherlock froze.
His heart hammered in his chest. After a moment of hearing nothing else, Sherlock resumed moving slowly down the staircase.
It became darker with descent, and the voice of his brother was getting harder to distinguish.
Sherlock's foot hit dirt.
The atmosphere of the place seemed almost to absorb the sunlight. Sherlock held on to the walls and felt his way along.
There were only three doors down there. Behind one door, he heard a child crying and a man screaming in a rage. The unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh could be heard.
The second door was the sound of someone gasping for breath, struggling to breathe.
The last door was where Sherlock knew he had to be. A soft sound came from the door. He recognized it. This was the place.
He moved his hand in short synchronized movements, but unlike the rest of the palace. Nothing happened.
Surprised, Sherlock tried again.
Nothing.
Sherlock looked at his wrist. The thin string was still attached. He manually put his hand on the door and turned while simultaneously pushing with his full body weight.
The heavy door creaked open.
This room was not like the rest.
It was dirty and dim.
The furniture was in disrepair. There were no windows only a very dim lamp in the corner. It did however, have the floor to ceiling bookcase with books, like all the other rooms.
Sherlock squint in the dark, he looked at the bookcase and found what he was looking for. It was the most recent book that he relocated to this room.
Sherlock opened the book of memories and holding one hand above the pages, tried turning the pages.
Nothing happened.
He had to try twice, but on his second try the book pages moved, slowly at first, but then they flipped at a dizzying speed as if moved by some invisible hand.
Sherlock, with much concentration, sent the book back to the room upstairs where it belonged.
Sherlock turned to leave. He touched the doorknob, but it would not turn. He put both hands on the knob now and put all his strength into it.
Suddenly, the only light in the room; the dim light in the corner started to flash on and off. The walls started to shake.
Startled, Sherlock retreated to the middle of the room.
That is when Sherlock saw him, there, just beyond the light in the shadows.
Fear hovered over Sherlock.
Suddenly, the room melted away.
His suit coat torn and fell to the ground.
His shirt and pants became dirty and tattered.
He groaned as his body started to feel weak and pain filled his senses. He found himself in a cement room with one window and only a dirty mattress on the floor as furniture.
Sherlock recognized the place. He was back in the warehouse where he was kept during his abduction. He was again a prisoner.
Terror filled him and his body shook, because now he remembered it all.
In his mind and body, he relived every moment.
He could no longer hear his brother's voice. He never noticed the thread break.