Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 122
A/N: More to come; let me know your thoughts. (Update soon request, I heard you.)
Thanks for reading, a special thanks to all who reviewed recently.
"Kites rise highest against the wind—not with it."~ Winston Churchill
Present Day
Sherlock walked back to the cab. He smoothly got into the back seat and sat back. He was lost deep in thought. He glanced back at the familiar black sedan that followed a car behind. Mycroft's man had opted for several days to not blend in, but instead stand out as a deterrence and a warning.
Sherlock normally, would have argued but chose not to. He knew it would make John more comfortable he also knew that all things considered, it was probably a good idea at least for a few more weeks. Sherlock was very private and did not think he could tolerate his every move being watched longer than that.
The session left him drained. His counselor was not a complete idiot. She had not allowed him to manipulate the conversation, deflect any questions, or change the subject in any way. She stayed on point.
He thought he would stay six sessions, say a few insincere phrases and words and walk away without revealing anything of himself. He thought he might even get one or two experiments on human reactions and interactions in.
Apparently, Doctor Pavlov would not allow it.
Worse of all, she somehow managed to get him to finally open up today without him even realizing at first what he was doing.
It was horrible, Sherlock decided. He was talking about… feelings.
She was good. Sherlock smiled tiredly. He wondered with humor if he could both admire and detest her at the same time.
Sherlock sighed then joked to himself. Maybe John would get his wish and by the next session, he really would be wailing behind closed doors. Maybe John could tape the event, put the entire thing on YouTube, and get on with it.
Sherlock shook his head. To think, John thought he could not recognize humor.
He did he just choose to ignore it.
Sherlock got out thirty minutes early. He thought about stopping by the tea shop close to the flat and restocking John's special blend. Strangely, John had not been very happy that Sherlock used the last bag.
Sherlock told the driver to make a stop and gave an address to the teashop as he prepared to call John and tell him about the expected delay.
The driver did not change direction. He looked almost upset; he had a grim look and sped through a changing traffic light.
Sherlock's mouth opened silently as he put his hands in his coat pocket and frantically push in codes in his phone. He stared in horror at the quickly approaching truck.
Sights, sounds, sensation, were what Sherlock remembered.
Sights
The approach of the truck, flashes of light, bits and pieces of broken up images, darkness. Disjointed faces floated above him. Then nothing.
Sounds
The roar of an engine, the sound of a gasp, the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal, the shatter of glass. The sudden popping sound of deploying airbags. Distant muffles screams and shouts, the throbbing of blood in the ears. The fading voice of the world. Then nothing.
Sensation
The world slowed down to a crawl, a breath being quickly inhaled as arms reflectively cover the face, being violently thrown against the opposite door of impact. Gravity pulling the body to the right as the world spins at a dizzying speed. Seatbelt biting into the skin as it is pulled to the maximum. Sudden radiating pain from the right thigh, torso, shoulder and head. Then nothing.
The young man was on his way home and smiling. He would ask her to marry him on Friday. She had been throwing hints his way. The young man smiled at the memory. He pretended not to notice but he had. He was scared but not anymore. He loved her and was ready. He put his hand in his blue jean pocket and smiled as he felt the small box.
The young man's attention was drawn away from his thoughts as he saw a cab going full speed through a traffic light. He stared in horror as a truck was heading toward a cab.
A crash and the cab went into a spin. Debris was flying in the streets. Screams were heard, then smoke. He froze stunned for a few minutes then he started to run toward the wreckage.
Before he could reach an ambulance drove up and two trucks. How can emergency services get here so fast, the young man wondered.
They were yanking a tall pale man with dark hair out of the backseat. Everyone else was ignored. He ran fast enough to see the man loaded onto the trolley. The man on the trolley opened his eyes briefly and looked at him. He moved his mouth as if he wanted to say something. He reached out a hand toward the young man and he thought he heard a whispered word.
"Mycroft?" The young man repeated puzzled.
Someone with a gruff expression pushed him physically back so that he almost tripped. "Emergency, stay out the way."
The man looked almost murderous.
Something knotted in his stomach. Something was not right. He had been a nurse for only over a year but these people acted nothing like his colleagues.
He saw several other people running and walking toward the accident.
What happen next would leave nightmares for a week.
A car in black pulled up. A man in a suit came running with gun in hand and tried to block the ambulance. Several men from a car opened fire on the man in the black suit. The ambulance speed away. The sound of bullets hitting flesh was heard. A few grunts of pain.
People scattered, screamed and ran as they ducked behind cars, in buildings and around walls.
The young man's arm folded reflectively in front of his face as he ran for his life. He felt the sound of a bullet whizzing pass his head. The young man ran the short distance to his left and slammed his body molding it to the side of the building.
The young man, with shaking hands, took out his mobile and called emergency services.
He told them of his location and then hesitated briefly. He then told them something he thought the man on the trolley said to him, as he briefly looked him in the eyes before his eyes closed. Feeling a little foolish, the young man spoke into the phone.
"I… I think he said the word… Mycroft."
Anthea walked quickly up to Mycroft as he sat in one of his offices. He knew it was serious when she did not bother to knock. Mycroft immediately stood and looked at her.
"Mr. Holmes we have a hit. A traffic accident. Someone said the victim whispered the word Mycroft."
"Protocol twenty nine," he said with a frown.
Anthea's fingers danced across her phone. Mycroft called Sherlock. He squeezed the bridge of his nose when there was no answer. "Check on everyone."
"I want the city shut down," Mycroft managed to say while dialing. He picked up the phone to call agent Thomas.