Sherlock story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 59
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.
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Love to all
T rated some future chapters may be M
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment. *
Note: Everyone Sherlock is currently in Spain.
Thank you for all your responses. This is something to get you by until later this weekend. Remember that I gave you all a rest.
Lots of Love, Zacha
"The soul that has conceived one wickedness can nurse no good thereafter." SOPHOCLES, Philoctetes
Current Day
Current Time
Peter looked around as he observed everyone walking. He pulled out a small electrical device. Sweat came to his upper lip and the back of his neck. He glanced around one last time as he prepared to push its button.
Suddenly the computer screen flashed and all the equipment went blank.
He tried turning the computers back on with a hard start. It did not work. A curse slipped pass his lips.
Three seconds.
During that time, Peter attempted not to have a heart attack. He cursed creatively under his breath. He did not even push the button yet, did he? He could not help to have his mouth open. He looked discreetly at his hands.
Five seconds.
It could not have caused the power outage could it? His hand subconsciously wiped at his upper lip and forehead. He attempted to push several buttons and he entered several codes as his fingers flew across the plastic keys at such a fast rate they were actually cramping. He ignored it.
Nine seconds.
If anyone traced this to him, it could be his life or imprisonment. His fingers kept flying gracelessly across the darkened keys.
Eleven seconds.
He tried one more sequence of codes. The computer blinked on and off then on again.
Eleven seconds. It was only eleven seconds. Why did it feel like an eternity?
Peter wiped a shaking hand to his face again. He had to get himself under control. He unsteadily took up the bottled water and opened it draining half the bottle. His breathing was getting closer to normal. It was his luck that no one had seen him.
He prepared for the second time to push the button on the small electrical device. He held his breath as his beefy fingers contracted then pushed the button. There was no sound, however, a series of symbols and letters ran hurriedly across the device as he held it in his hand. Peter smiled. All his confidence came back as that smile lined his face.
He was back on track.
Current Day
Current Time
Sherlock mumbled in his sleep. John was asleep sitting up next to Sherlock. He refused to leave his side but exhaustion, residual drugs in his system, and his own body trauma had won out. He softly snored with his head leaning back against the vehicle seat. Mycroft was tired but not willing to close his eyes yet. They were on land now and starting their long journey.
Sherlock was half curled flat on the transport seat opposite where he and John sat. Thomas, and Anthea, were scattered between the two other rows of seats. They had two drivers who took turns behind the wheel. Thomas was finally getting a nap with his head leaning on the driver's side window.
Sherlock's long limbs contorted to make himself fit. He would grimace while still asleep, even though he would never fully wake. This occurred whenever a particularly deep grove in the road was driven over. A convoy of vehicles proceeded through the early hours of the morning. Two vehicles drove before them, and two directly after them.
Mycroft finished typing on his mobile and put it away. Sherlock was mumbling. John, as if his Sherlock radar went off, started to stir. He stretched and yawned. He blinked as he ran a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes. He focused on Sherlock as he continued to blink away the fog of sleep. Sherlock mumbled again. John put his head close by as he tried to understand what he was saying. Mycroft frowned and got closer to Sherlock as well.
"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered as he started to toss his tall frame.
"He's calling for you," John said quietly as he looked at Mycroft. "He must be dreaming," John said as he frowned while turning toward Mycroft.
Sherlock spoke again.
"Mycroft … Stay." John looked at Mycroft.
"He's not dreaming," Mycroft, said, "He's remembering, John."
There was only one time when Sherlock asked him to stay.
Mycroft looked out the window to the vehicles and frowned as he watched the beautiful countryside. Stunning foliage whiz past the windows as the rising light reflected off the car glass. Mycroft slipped on his sunglasses as he squinted and allowed his eyes to adjust to the rising sun. Mycroft took a deep breath of the fresh air. The air was still cool and had not been heated yet by the sun.
Mycroft became lost in his own memories.
"Sometimes it's the smallest decisions that can change your life forever."
~ Keri Russell
Mycroft's Memories at Age Seventeen
Although he was accepted at Oxford at sixteen, Mycroft had delayed going for almost a year. He took long distance courses and special lectures. He now stood at the door to the only home he had ever known and knew that it would not be the same. Sherlock was beside him as he carried his bag. Sherlock refused to let his butler do it. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but tried not to smile as he saw his too thin brother struggle with his bags. He barely was able to keep it from dragging on the ground. Mycroft carried the umbrella in his hand that Sherlock had given him. It was very expensive. He wondered how long Sherlock had been saving.
The elder brother had easily graduated early and was hesitant to leave Sherlock. Sherlock's intelligence seemed to make him a target of bullying. He seemed to frequently have a bruise on him somewhere. He would never say who did it. Mycroft suspected the boys in his class. They always seemed to pick on him when he or his Mum was away. None-the-less, their father would not allow any more delays.
The bags were taken from Sherlock and put in the boot of the car. Sherlock stood beside Mycroft as he shuffled from one foot to another. He bit at his lips as he looked at Mycroft then at his feet.
Mycroft waved to his parents as they stood by the door. He then turned his attention back to his little brother. Although they both agree to no emotional displays, Mycroft had the almost overwhelming urge to hug his little brother. He held out his hand to shake his brother's hand.
"Any last words of advice little brother?" Mycroft asked with half a smile. Oxford was where their father went. It was where both Holmes boys were expected to go.
"I think you will do acceptably at Oxford." Sherlock said as he patted Mycroft on the shoulder stiffly then took his hand and shook it firmly. Sherlock did not let go of his hand, but surprised them both by embracing Mycroft in a hug.
"Stay," Sherlock whispered into Mycroft's ears only. Mycroft was taken aback by his normally strong and independent brother's broken voice. He did not know what to say. His father gave him no choice.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft started to say. Sherlock pulled away suddenly and nodded to his big brother with what was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a facial grimace. Mycroft watched as Sherlock walked away and disappeared into the Holmes family manor.
"Master Mycroft, you'll miss your train." The driver said.
Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked at his mother then his father. His face lingered on his father as he was driven away. He sighed and turned. He turned to the back window of the car. That is when he saw him.
Something was nagging at the back of Mycroft's young mind. He could not see it. For all his genius, he was still a seventeen-year-old young man in denial. The image of his eleven-year-old brother looking at him from his bedroom window would haunt him for years to come. He would never truly forgive himself.
He kept looking as his childhood home became smaller and then completely disappeared into a memory.
Information for the location of Sherlock Holmes came in. It informed the safe-house of where he would be. Plans had changed. He would not be coming to that safe-house anymore. His location in the next five hours was reported as well. Peter got up and reported this information to his immediate superior. He could not afford to bring suspicion on himself.
Peter sat down. He did not have much time. Patel would resume his position soon. He again pushed the device. It almost instantly transferred the information from the computers to the small device. He discretely took out a memory card and slid in another. He repeated the process.
Soon he would be on his way home where he would disappear and enjoy the money that would be transferred to his new bank account in Switzerland.
Moran drove and crossed the border as he raced at top speed for the Mercedes Benz. He was not in a very pleasant mood. He swallowed pain medication. The stitches on his face pulled every time he spoke or moved his facial muscles. His right thigh ached dully to remind him of the bruise that he received when he fell on the floor in his hotel master suite. Sebastian almost welcomed the pain because it fueled his anger. His mobile rang.
"Yes," Moran said with irritation.
"Where will he be?" He asked as he listened and typed an address into his portable computer screen.
"Is the turn coat still in there?" Moran asked as he turned the mirror toward his face even though he was not driving.
Something that the speaker on the other mobile line said cause Moran to chuckle.
"I want to be there personally." He disconnected the call and started to smile. The stitches started to pull but to Moran, it was worth it.
It was very much worth it. Sebastian leaned his head back to enjoy the rest of the ride.
A/N: More late weekend. Lots of Love.