Sherlock story

Forgotten Memories, Introduction Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers and amazing Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. No money was made. The story however is my original thought, and comes out of my overactive imagination. Other characters introduced are also mine.

** Thank you ; waterbaby84, socalrose, Burning Phoenix, Jenna Yemowa, Peacefreakx3, eohippus, Nietzsches and Voldemort101 who PM me. Cyber hugs to all! **

Author's note: This story stands alone. However, the character and relationship developments are from Deleted Memories. The first few chapters are an introduction.

**For those of you who read the end of Deleted Memories, this version has some changes and also have added and extended material. T rated but some future chapters may be M.

**A special thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment or review. It is encouraging as well as helpful.

Enjoy.

" A brother. He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer

and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal."~ Gregg Levoy

Mycroft was dazed for a moment and lay down on the ground blinking until the realization came to him. Several hands pulled at him. He did not help or offer resistance. Dust from the building was blowing in the wind and had managed to blow on him, covering him completely from head to toe.

Thomas held one hand to his back to steady him. Anthea was already gone running for the emergency personnel. He heard the sound of blood pounding in his ears, and blinked away the grit from his eyes. He felt warm, thick liquid slowly drip down one side of his head.

He looked over and saw Lestrade with emergency personnel around him. Lestrade stared straight ahead not looking at anything. Tears were silently running down his cheeks.

John had finally passed out and was being transported to a trolley. Good, Mycroft thought. Let John sleep a little longer. The nightmare does not come when you dream. The nightmare comes when you wake.

Words were spoken; they were trying to get his attention. Someone asked if he was hurt, he almost smiled as tears began to roll down his eyes. He ignored them. It seemed that at least for today, he had joined the ranks of the emotional masses. Sherlock would have appreciated his hypocrisy.

Sherlock.

The tears flowed faster now. His eyes swam as images became distorted and noises started to disconnect.

He grabbed Thomas' sleeve and weakly spoke. "Search… Building… Sherlock." His eyes became more blurry. Consciousness was overrated, he thought.

The world faded to black.

Mycroft woke in the hospital bed. He deduced looking at John who was sitting in the chair, that he had been unconscious for over twenty-four hours. He winced as he turned his head. John looked at him as he gave a sad smile. He knew John would be there. They were all that they had left of Sherlock.

John patted Mycroft's hand before saying, "I'm here."

"I know, John." A tear rolled down his eyes as he looked at John. The pull of sleep took him. He did not resist.

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear." - Mark Twain

Mycroft sat in his hospital bed. He would be discharged in the morning. John had not left his side day or night except for four hours to check on Lestrade. Lestrade was doing well physically, he only had a bruise from when Sherlock pushed him to the floor to save his life. It was his mind that everyone was concerned about. He took a few days off work, which was unheard of for the DI. John took Mrs. Hudson over to spend the afternoon with him and to make sure that he was alright.

He looked at John. Apparently, John had decided to expand Sherlock's makeshift family by the number of one. This gave Mycroft comfort in some small way. He had deduced that Sherlock had instructed John to take care of him, if anything should ever happen to him. John took his assignment seriously. The elder Holmes could not get rid of John even if he wanted to.

He found that he did not want to.

Mycroft's head had a wound dressing attached to his left temple. He had a few cuts and scrapes from falling rubble as well. He held the picture from Sherlock's bedroom in his hand. John brought it to him at his request. It was a picture of a skinny and lanky, pale-skinned boy with dark curly hair. He had one arm around his older, slightly overweight brother's shoulders. What was striking was the smile on both of their faces.

Mycroft smiled at the thought that no matter how bad things got between them, wherever Sherlock went, the picture went with him. During his faked suicide, the picture had mysteriously disappeared and reappeared when he revealed himself to John months later.

"Are you sure you're alright Mycroft." Mycroft sighed. He realized that he was holding the picture to his chest and had not moved in close to an hour.

"Quite," Mycroft sat up in bed. He grew tired of the bed and thought of sitting in the chair opposite John, but froze abruptly. He suddenly and vividly remembered the building site in his mind. Every sight, sound, even odor, floated back to him. It had not just blown-up but had actually disintegrated before his eyes.

Before he passed out.

Thoughts suddenly raced across his mind. Each new thought came more rapidly than the last.

DNA testing. That would be the only way to identify Sherlock's remains. Even that would be difficult. His body would not be there. It was torn apart. No. Blown apart. Blown apart is more accurate. One must be accurate, must one not? Accuracy is important. My little brother's remains might be so blown apart, so destroyed, that they may not be able to find any body parts.

Body parts.

My little brother's body parts.

Sherlock's body parts.

Lock's body parts

Mycroft did not notice that he had a death grip on the photo and his breathing was much too fast. He thought he heard a voice but he could not be sure.

The room melted away.

"… Mycroft can you hear me?"

Mycroft blinked rapidly as he closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing.

"What… happened," He said breathlessly as he looked around making a deduction. He was reclined in his hospital bed with John standing close over him. John had his hand on the ringer to summon the medical staff.

"Oh… Sorry John." Mycroft said. His breathing was almost a normal rate now.

"Quite falling apart I'm afraid, my apologies," Mycroft tried to rise up when John pushed him back down on the bed while instructing him to lay back for a few more minutes. Most men were afraid to touch Mycroft Holmes much less try giving him orders. Mycroft was amused despite the situation. John disappeared for a moment and reappeared with some juice and water.

"Can you drink some juice?" He asked, "I haven't noticed that you ate at all today or yesterday, your blood glucose levels must be low."

He placed one cup in front of Mycroft and stood crossed arm until he drank at least half the cup. "Your brother …" John tried again after he cleared his throat, "Your brother would kick my arse if I allowed you to not take care of yourself." John's hands paused for a moment as he poured out more juice into the cup. His hands shook slightly at the mention of Sherlock. Both chose to pretend not to notice.

John finally sat across from Mycroft bed again.

Mycroft took another sip, then picked back up the picture that had slid out his hand to the side of the bed. He looked at the picture and smiled. John noticed and was curious.

"Did I tell you about the first time that Sherlock did a proper deduction?"

"No"

"I was fourteen and home on holiday. Sherlock was only seven but even then, he was a handful. The servants were always kept busy. Apparently, he had some sort of an experiment going. He was warned that he was not to do anymore experiments outside of the second kitchen, and then only when supervised. I came into the dining room and sat close to Sherlock. I refused to leave until he confessed what he had done. He refused to get up and sat down with a look of discomfort on his face. I knew immediately what he had done so I sat there with the paper reading casually as I spoke to him. Sweat was starting to form on his face. Yet, he sat there determined. You know how stubborn he can be."

Mycroft paused slightly as he forced his emotions under control. "Suddenly, he looked me up and down; you know the look he gives when he is deducing you?"

"Yes, I know the one." John chuckled.

"He was livid. Sherlock had deduced that I had known all along that he was sitting on a failed experiment. One that was still warm by the way. He was outraged and stomped away after informing me of what I had done in the last hour. He was spot on by the way. Anyone else could not possibly have known."

"There he was walking away with a hole in his bloomer the heat had burned through. A patch of his pale bum was showing." Mycroft chuckled along with John. "I have never laughed so hard before," there was a longer pause, "… or since."

"He is," Mycroft cleared his throat again, "I mean was a pure terror, even when grown."

John was quiet for a moment then spoke.

"You said was."

"Yes John, one usually refers to the…," Mycroft stopped to gather his composure before continuing, "… the dead in the past tense."

"The building has not even been searched." John was becoming angry but did not want to take it out on Mycroft.

"John dear, are we having our first fight?" Mycroft almost smirked, "Well, maybe not the first."

John's breathing was increasing along with his anger.

"Mycroft, I don't understand. Why are you giving up so soon he could still be …"

"What!" Mycroft said with such venom and bitterness that John flinched and almost took a step back, "Alive?" He finished with barely a whisper.

John hesitated then said with grim determination.

"Yes!" John wondered if Mycroft thought that his mental health was in question. He wondered the same thing.

Mycroft laughed bitterly while glaring at John. "You were pleasantly asleep John. I was not . There were only two entrances to the building. Both were within view. There were no windows to climb out of this time. The building did not just blow up it disintegrated, John, right before my eyes. There was nothing left John nothi…" he could not finish. He closed his eyes now.

"I still feel him," John stood then said somewhat embarrassed.

Mycroft collapsed back heavily on the bed. His normally stoic face showed anguish.

John stood in place. His arms wrapped around himself as a silent protection. "I still feel him alive, Mycroft. It was the same when he, when we thought that he committed suicide. I almost went mad because everyone and thing told me that he was dead, including my own eyes. But, my heart disagreed. You can bloody well disagree or think me a bit nutty. Hell, I think the same." He ran a hand through his hair. "But, until my heart tells me otherwise, I'm siding with it!"

Mycroft said nothing but sat there. He reminded him of Sherlock when he got in a mood. It was both comforting and painful in its similarities.

"I didn't mean to upset you Mycroft," John said suddenly as he risked putting a hand on Mycroft's arm. "I do however mean what I said."

They looked at each other now, "John, I instructed them to turn every stone over. To treat this as a missing person not a homicide," He hesitated slightly, "You have to understand, it's just difficult to hope."

John was aware that Mycroft Holmes has always been a stoic, almost cold man. He guessed it was the Holmes upbringing. The rare times that Sherlock spoke of his childhood, it was hinted at that there were difficulties. John suspected physical abuse of Sherlock by his father. Emotions and feelings came rarely from the Holmes brothers and never in front of the public. The fact that Mycroft would first allow him to see his vulnerability, then reveal so much of himself, told John just how close to the edge emotionally that Mycroft was. Both brothers seem to almost not know what to do with emotions the rare times that they allowed them to run free.

"I know," John finally responded. "Go to sleep, I'll be here."

Mycroft did something rare, He listened, nodded, then closed his eyes while holding on to the picture. He was almost instantly asleep. His physical and emotional pain encouraging him on.

It was late now. John looked at the bed that Mycroft instructed the staff to bring in. He would lay in it soon. For now, he decided to sit near Mycroft in case he needed him, at least for an hour longer. Mycroft was the man who looked over a nation. John would be the man to look after Mycroft until his strength returned.

Three hours later, John lay down in the spare bed. He closed his eyes. He cleared his throat as he blinked back the tears. Giving in to the tears would mean he accepted what everyone was saying.

He did not.

Exhausted, he was asleep within minutes.

When John fell asleep, he spoke a name he had not spoken once since that explosion while awake. John said words like; your brother, he, him, once even the Consultant Detective, never his name.

However, now while dreaming, John mumbled a whisper, a prayer, a wish, "Sherlock…"

Half a world away, in a mansion, a pale-skinned man with dark hair in sleep spoke a name. He called out for help as he wrestled, laying on the softest of beds. He twisted in the finest silk sheets, while trapped in his beautiful caged prison. He fought against an evil that he would not remember in the morning. A whispered name escaped his lips, "L… Locked… Help me … John…"

The man's face turn back and forth more desperately now, while still asleep. One more whispered plea escaped.

"John."

A/N: let me know your thoughts, it is appreciated.

"I don't want to die, I want more time is taken from Third star. Warning : Don't watch without tissue. Benedict Cumberbatch is brilliant in it. Lots and Lots of tissue.

Love to all, Zacha