Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 66
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 thoughtand comes out of my overactive imagination. Other characters introduced are also mine.
** Thank you, for your latest reviews and PMs since the last post. Guest (I 'm happy that you are happy), MapleleafCameo (I am glad that it was good), gemstone1234 (Evil Moriarty ), Socalrose (Thank for the multiple post. Thank you for all your support love.), Prothoe (Thanks for the multiple post. Keep your Sherlock radar tuned.), Taylor501(You are correct, the rules always changing), eohippus,( Thank for the multiple post. I am glad that you liked the chess reference), hjohn302 (Thanks for the multiple post. Thanks for your generous offer), Lunita28 (Thanks for the five post. I am glad that the flashbacks worked), All other guest and those who PM, thanks. Thanks, for your comments.
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Notes: 1. Tetchy means irritable.
2. Foyer is an entrance or hallway.
sod, in this story means, you devil, or trouble maker.
4. Rubbish bin dustbin, trashcan, garbage can are all the same thing.
5. Sod off is a extraordinarily impolite way of saying Go Away.
5. Intravenous fluids is the process by which fluids are introduced directly into a vein by a needle.
T rated some future chapters may be M
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment. * Part II The Rook.
Note: Everyone Sherlock is currently in England.
***** Important. I wrote many chapters so you know what I am about to say. (Well, write.) :)
1. Read a chapter a day. Nothing on Friday this time unless I get a burst of energy.
Or
2. Read as much as you like at one time even though that is ambitious. I was a little nervous about two of these chapters so please let me know what you think.
BTW, Parade's End, with Benedict Cumberbatch is wonderful, see it if you can. BBC2. Maybe the internet, I am not sure.
To my other family.
Peace and Love to all, Zacha. :)
* Part II The Rook.
"The past is not a package one can lay away." ~Emily Dickinson
Current Day
Current Time
He opened his eyes slowly. The blurred edges faded away progressively as his vision sharpened and images became clearer and more defined. The low buzzing sound in his ear dissipated. He remained still as his mind fog cleared and his thoughts became more organized.
He sighed; it was a long, deep, and primal sound as he stared at the ceiling. He knew that ceiling. He knew the room. He was not at 221B Baker Street as he had hoped. However, he was not in the hospital, as he had feared. He was at the Holmes family manor. He was in his childhood room. He had not been in there for years. Whenever he would stay the night, he would always choose one of the many guest bedrooms. That was not accidental. His mother always said that it was ridiculous, but Mycroft never commented when he was there.
He was a bit surprised not to see his Mum and John sitting and staring at him while he slept.
His eyes traveled around the large space. It seemed to him that the room held its own shadows and dark spaces, where old ghosts laid in wait.
He inhaled and exhaled noisily. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind as he processed the events of the last five weeks. It seemed as if an entire life had been lived in that short space of time. With the exception of two weeks' worth of memories, he remembered everything clearly. Still, the memories were like a particularly vivid and detailed dream of someone else life.
He opened his eyes again. This time, they remained open.
He glanced at his body. He was wearing a dressing gown and pajamas that he did not recognize, designer.
"Mycroft," he scoffed with some irritation. Still, Mycroft did rescue him, as he knew he would have. Despite their differences, both brothers would die for each other. Both brothers were aware of that fact.
He would have to be courteous to him for at least a month because of it. The realization that he would have to be polite caused him more irritation.
He fidgeted in bed. Maybe, two weeks would be a sufficient display of gratitude. Two weeks, he could do two weeks.
He thought further. At the very least one week.
With that settled, he looked at his arm.
A one-liter bag of intravenous fluids hung on a pole by his bed. It filtered through a machine that did not make a sound, gratefully. He always did hate the annoying beeps of the machines in the hospital. He traced with his eyes the tubing of fluids in the bags. His eyes shifted to the fluid filled catheter line as it ended with it inserted in a vein in his left arm, where it filled and entered his body. He felt a slight prick as he tried to push his body up to lean against the headboard of his bed. He looked with disdain at the catheter needle that had been expertly taped in place to his arm.
"Dull," he said.
He turned off the machine and closed the catheter line clamps. He quickly and skillfully removed the IV catheter needle and pressed firmly to the insertion site for one minute to stop the mixture of blood and fluid from leaking back out of that punctured vein. He let the discarded catheter tubing fall to the floor. Next, he tossed the needle toward the dustbin on the floor. He almost missed the bin but the satisfying ping when the needle hit the bin's side informed him that his target had found its mark. His hands shook slightly. He pretended not to notice.
He wondered where John was. He glanced at the generous oversize windows. The sun peeked through the overcast skies. Judging by the sun placement, they would be at morning breakfast. He tested his limbs. He was sore and stiff. He had been asleep for over thirty hours. He still felt a little foggy mentally.
"Drug induced sleep so that I could heal," he clarified to himself. He slowly got up and waited for the dizziness to dissipate. He then made his way to the loo. When he left the bathroom, he calculated whether he had enough strength to walk to where he knew Mycroft would be.
Sherlock could smell it before he saw it. The table was full of various kinds of food items. The smell of meat, toast, jams, porridge, and coffee and tea filled the room and came twirling together to form a pleasing symphony of scents. Everything was warm and steam floated up and dissipated into the air.
Sherlock just stood there for a moment outside the door lost in memories. He then walked in.
His brother observed him as he walked into the room. He assessed his injuries and seemed to be cataloging his bruises. The elder Holmes looked at the movements of his little brother. They were slow and guarded but not unsteady. Sherlock knew what his brother was doing, and it annoyed him. Sherlock decided to ignore him entirely. It was early, and he was already annoyed with him. He moved to the other end of the table.
The room had a decidedly old, and heavy, solid wood dining table, which had been in the Holmes family for generations. It easily seated twenty people. Mycroft was seated fully dressed despite the early hour near the door that Sherlock entered, and yet he walked all the way to the other end after a nod to Mycroft and slowly sat down. This fact was not lost on Mycroft. He waited for his little brother to settle before commenting.
"A bit tetchy, are we?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together to keep from saying the four responses that came to mind. They were all rather good. He reminded himself that he was to be polite to Mycroft for at least one week. He thought. Perhaps four days would be sufficient gratitude.
"Of course brother dear," Sherlock said as he displayed a smile on his face. His body slowly rose. He then walked back down to the other end sitting away by only two seats. He then looked at Mycroft who nodded his approval.
"Better," Mycroft said simply as he turned the page of his paper.
"Roast meat with vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding for supper later?" Mycroft said with his head still behind the paper. John walked in still fully dressed.
Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to John. "Whatever is prepared I am sure that it will be divine," Sherlock said as he notice the bruise to John's jaw that had already started to change colors.
"Morning," John said as he sat in between Mycroft and Sherlock. "Looks good." He added as a comment as he prepared his plate with food. It had been a week since John could eat a meal without the worry of whether Moriarty was going to poison him or not. He intended to take advantage.
He knew that Sherlock had to deduce what injuries he suffered before he would be satisfied. John pretended that he did not know what his friend was doing. John sat down and started to eat. He looked up. Mycroft noticed the look and pushed down the extra plate of toast and jam to John. John looked at Mycroft and wordlessly said thank you with a nod. Mycroft wordlessly said, you are welcome with the slightest nod. Mycroft smiled at John. Sherlock took it all in and frowned.
Mycroft smiled all the time but the smile was false, and many times meant that one should start to run, cry, confess, or a combination of the three. This was different. This was a real smile. Full of … dear God, affection. Sherlock mind started to twirl. This was all extraordinarily odd. Since when did they start to communicate wordlessly?
He heard Mycroft's voice as it floated toward him. "Um," Sherlock said. He had not been paying attention. "Eat something Sherlock." Mycroft had repeated his words before he turned the paper. He then added, as if it were an afterthought, "You're still recovering."
Sherlock knew that it was not an afterthought but was designed to further support his request, in a non-threatening way.
John wordlessly slid a glass of water to Sherlock before saying. "Coffee dehydrates you and you're already dehydrated. Since you've stubbornly disconnected and taken out your IV fluids. Drink. The. Water. Sherlock." John never stopped eating.
"Just coffee," Sherlock said absently as he thought.
"How about a bowl of porridge Sherlock? That coffee has no nutritional value." John tried to offer helpfully.
"Not hungry," Sherlock said distracted.
John frowned, stopped eating, and stared at Sherlock as he sat at his side.
Sherlock without looking commented. "John, your silence is deafening." John continued to stare without saying a word.
Sherlock decided to ignore his friend as he sipped on his coffee.
Five minutes later John was still staring silently. "Did I say just coffee? What I meant to say was orange juice and a slice of toast," Sherlock looked at John who only raised one eyebrow. "Two slices of toast and bring jam." The younger Holmes corrected with a false smile.
John was apparently satisfied as he returned to his breakfast. Mycroft and John glanced at each other as Mycroft smirked as if to say to John. I knew that you would handle it.
Sherlock was growing in irritation. Everything felt wrong, out of place, odd. It was a puzzle that was just missing a few pieces to be completed, and that irritated him more and more with alarming increase.
"Morning darling." A voice called out as Adler gingerly walked into the room with her pajamas still on and hair still down. She was heading for the seat next to Sherlock.
That is when the scales tipped in favor of a Sherlock Holmes sized meltdown.