Sherlock story
Forgotten Memories, Introduction Chapter 8
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 ; ShiverandShamy, Puky2012, Prothoe, christistina, briongloid fiodoir, socalrose, Voldemort101, and hjohn302 for your review of chapter 4, and 5. Thank you waterbaby84, Burning Phoenix, Jenna Yemowa, Peacefreakx3, eohippus, Nietzsches and for your review and PMs. Cyber hugs to all! **
Author's note: Thank you to the 495 readers of this story so far. Thank you for your support, you mean more than you know! Do not forget to leave a comment or review. :)
T rated but some future chapters may be M.
**A special thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment or review or PM. It is encouraging as well as helpful.
Enjoy.
Lots of Love, Zacha
"If you want to win a race, you have to go a little berserk."~ Unknown
Eleven Hours Later
Current Day
The volume in the room was loud. John sat in his seat in one of the corners, taking it all in. He kept an eye on Mycroft.
John glanced at the elder Holmes. If it was not for the wound dressing on the left side of his head and the dark circles under his eyes, no one could tell that anything eventful had occurred. Mycroft, despite the unusual need to sit down, was working hard.
Anthea was going in and out of the room. Thomas was off in his own corner with several agents moving in and out on computers, reading maps and reports surrounding him.
John returned his attention to Mycroft. He was looking more fatigued now. John sighed. He did not think that it would do him any good to tell him to take a break so he did not. Both of the Holmes brothers were stubborn. John knew that he had to pick his battles. John only interfered at increments to discreetly remind Mycroft to eat or to drink lots of fluids. Mycroft, although irritated, complied quickly and returned to work. He was like his brother in that respect John noted. They both had to have their minds engaged in something to feel comfortable.
John turned to the corner of the room where Thomas was and frowned. An agent just walked through the door and whatever she said caused several agents to run out of the room. John stiffened. He frowned, stood, and then walked over to Mycroft. He met Thomas who was also walking over to his boss.
"Yes, what did you find?" Mycroft said simply with his classic expressionless face. No one seemed to notice what John did, he was gripping his umbrella too tightly.
"Sir, It's not what we found, it's what we did not find. The tracking for Mr. Holmes is no longer active." John looked at Mycroft to gauge his reaction so that he could determine if this was good or bad news. The only change was that Mycroft's mouth was pulled into a grim line.
"Why is this news? We would expect his signal to be loss at the time of the explosion."
"That's the thing Sir, call it a hunch, but I asked for the exact time it was deactivated. It was manually deactivated forty-two minutes after the explosion. We are near to removing enough rubble to see if he was trapped under the structure in the intact space that our scans revealed."
John heard nothing else, his ears buzzed and he dry wiped his eyes. Deactivated forty-two minutes after the explosion. How could a dead man deactivate something? Even if he could, why would he want to deactivate something that would bring his rescuers to him? It made no sense. John wondered if he was trapped and hurt, maybe even dying, in that space under the building, Did Sherlock somehow find the room only to outlive the blast then die alone, in the dark, underground.
John was one part hope and one part terror. They warred against each other in equal measure.
John swallowed back the urge to vomit; this was no time to fall apart.
Someone ran in the room. "Sir, we've broken through. It's a room. It looks like a bomb shelter."
The next words were quickly spoken. "Sir, we found something."
"There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound." ~Thomas Hardy
72 Hours Earlier
The world slowed to a crawl, muffled voices floated in and out - as time stopped then started with jerky disjointed lines.
Sudden and sharp pain increased until it engulfed and dominated.
Someone weakly moaned.
Disjointed faces floated on the edge of vision.
A sudden prick was felt in a disjointed appendage.
Muffled voices floated and increased in volume and urgency.
Pungent and overwhelming smells.
Broken up words with no meaning. "Urgent"… "Hold him still"… "Hurry"… "Blood"… "Losing him"…
The distant sound of cloth being ripped.
Darkness.
Nothing.
Shooting sudden electrical pain in the chest.
Nothing.
More shooting electrical pain in the chest.
Muscles contracting painfully.
Shades of gray.
Someone weakly moaned again.
Soft sounds gently floated in.
Light danced in a rhythm across closed eyelids.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
A slight burning sensation then warmth flooded pushing back all pain.
More meaningless words. "Breathing"… "More stable"… "Transport."
A comfortable gray wrapped its arms around him and then…
… He heard nothing.
A/N: I hope that you enjoyed so far. Let me know your thoughts.