Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 52
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
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Lots of Love
WARNING: Some of the following chapters have descriptions of captivity and, torture and all things not nice. If you are a younger reader, or sensitive, Please skip or read chapters marked as non-graphic this is still rated T. If alternate chapters are offered, it will be marked clearly. For example alternate chapter 6 will be marked NON-GRAPHIC CHAPTER alternate chapters give the information in a more non-graphic way, but still T rated way. As always, thank for reading favorite, and comments.
**Rating temporarily T**
If the wind will not serve, take to the oars. ~Latin Proverb
Deleted Memories of Abduction
Sherlock went inside his mind. His place of logic, safety, and order. A place totally in his control. He would be safe there to remember details missed, exploit his captor's weakness. Anything, that would help him stay alive, and escape.
He entered his mind palace, and closed the doors. Sherlock, safe in his mind, walked through his mind palace dressed in a dark black suit with a navy shirt. His hands were linked casually behind his back.
He heard the familiar soft violin music that played constantly in the background.
Sherlock opened the fifth door to the left, and walked in. He walked to the bookcase, and pick up the book he had held all week. Half the book contained writing. As Sherlock downloaded the events of the day, more writing appeared instantly.
Each book represented data or information or a memory. Sherlock's hands were conduits for his thoughts in this world, his world.
If Sherlock wanted to add information or data, he would move his hands in synchronized short movements. Writings would instantly appear on once blank pages.
If information was not wanted or useful; instantly, pages of writings would disappear with a wave of a Sherlock's hand.
If Sherlock wanted to delete memories, that was trickery.
The entire book would disappear with a concentrated thought. He knew it never left the palace, but was relocated to a locked section in the lower level.
Today, Sherlock took the newest book he had just put information on, and sat on the couch. He then crossed his legs to read. One hand above the book, the pages flip on their own accord.
It was at that moment that Sherlock first realized that something was wrong.
He heard it. Faint at first, then a little louder. His eyebrows creased in surprise. This was his private place, no one else was supposed to be there. He stilled and listened again.
It came again a sniffle followed by the whimper. Not just any whimper, it was the whimper of a child. The child's voice sounded strangely familiar.
Sherlock froze, and swallowed hard. The book, now forgotten, lay beside him on the couch. He strained, listening for a moment.
Sherlock sighed in relief when he heard nothing further; he picked up the book again.
He positioned his left hand above the pages but not touching. Such things as touching a page to flip it were unnecessary here. He started reading from the beginning, the pages flipping at a dizzying speed on their own.
Sherlock extracted all the useful information, held the book in his left hand, and then with a thought, deleted the entire book representing a recent memory.
It disappeared out his hand.
Sherlock knew it was now in the lower level. He rose from the couch, and walked to the bookcase to get another book. He looked at the top shelf. It was outside his reach but that did not matter in this place.
With a synchronized movement of his hand. It disappeared off the top shelf and appeared in his hand. Sherlock smirked, and turn to walk to the couch so that he could continue to read.
Sherlock walked back and sat on the couch, crossing his legs again. As he pushed back his elbow to unbutton his suit coat, his elbow hit something. Sherlock glanced to his right and on the couch there laid the book of memories he had just deleted.
He jumped back as if the book of memories might explode. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously; then slowly, step by step, he inched toward it. Sherlock picked up the book of memories, while keeping it at arm's length, extended from his body.
He felt it then, emotions, emanating from the book.
It felt like electricity traveling from the book, through his arm to his heart then exploding, filling his mind with fear.
Sherlock acted quickly.
He concentrated and willed the book of memories to be deleted. It disappeared again.
The fear left instantly.
He then waited, quietly standing still, hands by his side. Sherlock's eyes traveled around the room. Everything seemed in place.
Sherlock, relieved, picked up the forgotten second book. He sat down again and relaxed. He held his left hand above the book. The book's pages flipped on their own accord at lightning speed. Information and data was being reviewed.
Then he heard it again.
The speed of the pages being flipped slowed down slightly, as he lifted his right hand and with short, precise, synchronized movements in the air; he turned up the volume of the music.
The soft crying was drowned out by soft chords of a violin. The speed of the pages being flipped increased again. He lowered his right hand. His left hand stayed above the book.
Sherlock sighed, relieved.
Still, Sherlock had to admit that the soft whimpering sounds were distracting.
His time was running out in the world outside of the wall of this place. He had to get through several more books before morning.
He had people he cared about; he could not let them go through another funeral.
He could not do that to any of them.
He could not do that to John.
He also had information that could prevent the deaths of an untold amount of people. Sherlock stored the information about the terrorist in a safe place in his mind.
Sherlock told himself he had to stay alive.
He told himself he had to stay sane.
He told himself he had to ignore everything else. There was no other option. It was pure logic.
With his mind safely in its beautifully created walls; Sherlock never noticed when his body made the transition from wake, to sleep.