Sherlock story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 47
A 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 for your latest reviews and PMs since the last post.
Love to all
Chapter M.
A/N: Important. Benedict will at times be referred to as Ben or Benedict since he believes that to be his name.
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment. *
It has been a little over 4 weeks since the explosion.
Thank you for all your encouragement and support during my computer crisis. My fingers have been flying to give you extra long chapters as a way to say, Thank you.
Notes
Love always, Zacha
**Warning. References to abuse including child abuse. Because of that temporarily M
"The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it." ~Mignon McLaughlin
Sherlock/Benedict is currently having a flashback.
Sherlock was sitting by a fireplace reading on the floor. He was thinking about his new chemistry lab that he was promised at Christmas even though Christmas was five months away. Sherlock's Mummy was still visiting Nana. She would be back in two days. Sherlock laid on his stomach and his legs swung back and forth. He giggled as he read his favorite part of the pirate book. He accidentally leaned on his left arm. He winced at the pain. He frowned for a moment as he looked around. His eyes landed on the door to the room.
Sherlock's Father had taken most of the week so that he could spend time with Sherlock. Sherlock decided that he did not like it when Father spent time with him.
He would be glad when Mummy returned in three days and Mycroft would be home in one day. Sherlock bit his lips as he looked toward the smaller kitchen where a telephone was on the wall. He thought about calling his Mum. He missed her. He decided not to. Mummy had been already worried about Nana. He would not worry her by calling again. Three calls in only four hours, she would know that something was wrong. Father went into great detail about what would happen if that happened. He was a big boy. He would be eight years old in four months.
Sherlock got up and walked to his bedroom, he returned with a pillow to put under his arm. He lay back on his stomach. He was proud of himself for thinking of a solution. Father said that he was not permitted to ask the Holmes manor staff for help. He was to learn to behave like a Holmes. He even let one of the house staff go that tried to help him dress his arm. Sherlock thought about how it was his fault that she lost her position. He had known her since he was a little kid.
He swallowed as he looked around the massive room. He never noticed how big it was before, without Mum and Mycroft it always seemed so empty. Sherlock retreated into his mind for a moment when he returned. He left everything unpleasant locked away deep inside him.
He carefully positioned his book in front of his face. He was careful that it did not touch his bruised arm. He laid on his stomach and within minutes became lost in the story again as pirates fought and sailed to find hidden treasures. He started to giggle loudly again as he read on. His skinny legs started to swing in delight as he came to his favorite part of the book. That is why he did not notice when his Father came into the room and stood behind him. He looked at him as he sipped on his second tumbler of alcohol.
He looked at his son, as the crystal seemed to capture the light from the fire. His thoughts wandered as he looked at him. His son would learn to behave like a Holmes, just like his Father taught him to act like a Holmes.
He took a gulp of alcohol as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. He walked up to his son and sat on the floor next to him. Sherlock's little body stiffened as the giggles died in his throat. He had never once seen his Father sit on the floor. Mummy would but not Father. He thought that it was undignified. Sherlock was not sure what he was supposed to do.
"Hello Father," Sherlock said barely above a whisper when he finally found his voice. "D… Did I do something wrong?" He asked as he glanced in his eyes then his eyes found his book again.
"Look at me son," he said as he ran his hand in his son's hair. Sherlock looked in his Father's eyes and knew that he had been drinking all day even though this was only the second time today that he saw him.
His Father smiled at him tenderly but Sherlock thought his Father's eyes did not match his warm smile. His Father looked away as he asked, "How is your arm feeling?" He seemed curious.
"Um… I'm fine Sir, thank you." Sherlock looked at him and smiled confused. His Father rarely touched him except to punish him. "Are you hungry?"
"No Father, I have been getting myself food and not bothering the staff just like you told me." Sherlock noticed that his Father looked tired and guilty. He filed this information away to process later. His Father took another gulp of alcohol. Sherlock noticed but said nothing. He had been drinking a lot since Mummy left for Nana's house. He hoped that his grandmother would be better soon.
Sherlock was starting to feel nervous. He was used to his Father's cruelty but his seeming kindness was confusing.
He deduced his Father even though he did not realize at that young age that that was what he was doing. Something in him warned him not to trust him. A battle seemed to be going on inside his Father. Sherlock thought it best to stay out of his way until his Father decided which part of himself he was going to allow to win. His mind saw his Father's intentions but his heart overruled and refused to see what his mind clearly did.
"I'm tired Father, might I be excused please."
"Yes, of course Sherlock." His father kissed his son's hair then he glanced away at the fireplace as he took the last gulp to empty his tumbler of the opaque brown liquid. Sherlock smiled back at the rare sign of affection.
Sherlock got up and bit his lips so that he would not make a sound of pain as he stood. He did not want his father to feel bad. Everyone makes a mistake, Sherlock thought. Sherlock could not keep the grimace from his face but at least he did not make a sound. His Father glanced at him and noticed the grimace. He quickly looked away again. Sherlock noticed Father seemed really sorry for what he did. Still, something in his mind noticed things that he could not fully understand at his age and told him to be careful.
Sherlock picked up his book and smiled as he walked toward the closest door to take to his room. He decided that he would stay there for the rest of the night. He was glad that he thought ahead and had hidden fruit and nuts in his room for food just in case his Father became angry again. It was a good day. His father did not hit him once today. He was determined not to do something wrong and spoil it. He was almost to the door.
"Sherlock." His father's voice stopped him. Sherlock's heart suddenly started to race. He slowly turned around. He suddenly felt like there was not enough air in the room.
He looked at his Father who had stood and leaned against the fireplace as he held the empty crystal staring at the wall.
"Yes Father?" Sherlock said so quietly that he barely heard.
"Speak up, why are you speaking so quietly, it's irritating. Are you trying to irritate me?" His father said as he looked at Sherlock. His eyes looked into his son's eyes.
Sherlock thought about the fact that his father's statement was illogical. He was the one who said he was always giggling and too loud. How could he be both too loud and too quiet at the same time? He was about to point out the flaws in his father's logic but remembered his mother's words. He chose instead to repeat himself. He cleared his throat.
"Sorry, yes Father." Sherlock noticed that it was difficult to get his voice as loud as he wanted it to be.
His Father sighed, "You forgot your pillow."
Sherlock smiled and relaxed slightly. "Yes Sir." Sherlock speed walked to the pillow and picked it up.
He turned to walk away but only got a few steps. His father's voice again stopped him.
"Turn around Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at the door to the left side of the long room. All he wanted to do was leave out of that door. Why could he not make it out of that door?
Sherlock turned to face his father. "Have you been dressed like that all day?" His Father asked.
Sherlock looked at himself. He dressed himself in his black dress trousers, white short sleeve dress shirt. He did not even play outside or run in the garden, as he loved to do. He did not understand what was wrong.
Look at your shirt Sherlock. Sherlock looked carefully but saw nothing until he looked at the side and saw a drop of blood. He looked at his bandaged finger then at his Father. He had accidentally sliced the tip of one finger when he tried to cut a piece of meat for himself to make a sandwich. The kitchen staff looked at him with sympathy but no one wanted to risk losing their job like their coworker had. One staff still privately gave him a bag of nuts to go with his fruit that he already took, but told him not to say that she gave it to him.
"I'll change it right away Sir." He knew even when he said it that there was no use.
"You're a Holmes, do you know what that means. Your appearance is important. People judge not just you but me on your appearance but do you care? No! You're selfish. You're just in your own little world, not caring about anyone else. You're just a little freak… a bloody little freak…"
Sherlock stopped listening as his Father rant grew in volume and animation. His Father started to walk toward him. He stood numb as if his feet were cemented to the floor. Sherlock knew what was coming. He kept thinking three things over and over again in his mind.
Don't cry, don't run, don't scream - You'll only make it worse… Don't cry, don't run, don't scream - You'll only make it worse… Don't cry, don't run, don't scream - You'll only make it worse…
Despite the child's intentions, tears started to flow. The youngest Holmes never noticed when his book dropped forgotten and landed on the beautiful oak floors.
Current Day
Current Time
Thomas and several agents sat around the conference table. Kevin slowly sipped on his coffee. They looked at maps and the latest aerial picture of the safe-house. Kevin had alerted Agent Thomas five minutes ago to a new problem. The five jeeps that had disappeared earlier on their way to Moriarty's Mansion just reappeared as they exited a forest area one hour ago. Against Santos orders, he had been attempting to track it all morning. It was very clear now where they were heading. Four other non-jeep vehicles had joined them. That was nine vehicles full of hostiles convening on one safe house.
"Agent Santos had this information how long ago?" Thomas asked. He did not even attempt to hide his anger.
"He knew about parts of it early this morning, the rest a few hours later, Sir. That's why…" Patel was interrupted.
"You contacted me and several other agencies." Thomas finished for him then cursed quietly.
Patel nodded with a frown.
Thomas fired off several orders rapidly.
"Rogers, warn Santos and the other agents of what's coming. Warm the helicopter up."
"Jefferson, stay here with twenty men and guard the house. Have several men to patrol on foot. Four patrols in jeeps. The rest of you prepare to leave with me."
Men started running in all directions.
Within minutes Rogers ran back. He did or reassigned his tasks. He was ready for more instructions. "Sir." He said looking at Thomas.
"How fast can I get there if I fly all the way?" Thomas asked with a report in his hand.
"Thirty-five to forty minutes but that's very dangerous if we are caught…" Rogers started to say.
"Make sure that we are not caught." Thomas said grimly. "I need speed, we have no other choice now."
"How long before they reach the house Mr. Patel?" Thomas looked at Kevin.
"Thirty, maybe thirty-five minutes." Kevin said as he shook his head in frustration.
Thomas nodded as he started to walk toward the chopper. Kevin and several soldiers followed him.
"Mr. Patel," Thomas said as he handed him a phone. The second button is programmed to reach me; the third is an Agent Myers, The fourth Captain Magoro." They jogged up the stairs.
Thomas looked at Patel as he started a slow jog through the house.
"The first button?" Patel asked slightly breathy as they moved toward the door.
"Push only if you cannot reach any of us." Thomas said with seriousness. Patel understood. The helicopter blade started as everyone ducked. It was becoming harder to hear.
"Do you remember the names?" Thomas asked.
"Yes Sir." Patel's photographic memory already memorized the names.
"Patel, monitor the safe-house." Thomas looked in Patel's eyes. "I'm sorry about your friend. Keep your gun on you and be prepared for anything." He nodded grimly as the last soldier to board clicked his seatbelt. Thomas nodded to Kevin. Kevin crouch as he ran to a safe distance. He noticed Thomas looking at him as his face quickly disappeared from view.
Patel thought about his friend. They found the body of the analyst that was supposed to be guarding the first safe-house when they arrived with Holmes earlier. He had been shot, executed. The body dumped close by.
He could not see the helicopter anymore. Kevin hoped they would not be too late as he ran back into the cottage.