Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 69
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.
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.
To my other family.
Peace and Love to all, Zacha. :)
* Part II The Rook.
"Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it."~ Eliza Tabo
He stood still for a moment and looked around. He was not sure what he had been looking for. He abruptly walked up to his violin and positioned it under the chin, supported by his left shoulder. His chin held it in place; his right hand stretched and picked up the bow. He stared frowning. He could not bring himself to pull the bow across the strings.
He dropped the bow on the floor and put the violin down gently.
He looked at his experiments.
He looked away.
He worried his bottom lip and looked around. Again, he was not sure what he had been looking for. He started to pace slowly. The flat had suddenly gotten hot. He took off his dress jacket and tossed it in the direction of a chair. He did not check to see if it landed safely. He unbuttoned his dress shirt exposing his chest slightly. He never noticed as his pacing increased. He ran a shaky hand through his dark curls as he noticed suddenly that the room seemed to lack an adequate supply of air.
He abruptly noticed his cup from which he had just finished drinking tea. He had been walking toward the kitchen to pour more tea into the cup, when suddenly he stopped. He heard a crash.
He looked strangely at the wall that had small amounts of tea slowly streaking downwards. Tiny colored fragments in varied sizes were on the floor and projected itself into odd places. He looked slightly confused at his now empty hand.
He continued to look at that same hand as it came closer to his face. He felt something wet on his fingertips. He rubbed the wetness together in between his fingers and looked at it as if examining data.
He finally smirked with a mirthless chuckle, "A biological certainty indeed." He said. "Everyone leaves. They always leave." He whispered.
Where did the air go he wondered? He closed his eyes, stilled himself, and tried to remember to…
Breathe.
He ignored the sounds of John on the stairs.
His back was turned to the door as it opened. He heard John speaking to him from the other room.
"I got it Sherlock. I hope you appreciate the fact that I fought off someone for this. It was the last one."
"Thank you John," Sherlock did not notice his own voice. He still did not turn around.
John looked into the other room at Sherlock. It was dim, Sherlock had not turned on the light. Still, something was wrong. Very wrong. He dropped the package on the table, forgotten.
"Sherlock did something happen?" John tried to stop the growing feeling of apprehension that was causing his stomach to sour.
"John," Sherlock's rough sounding voice asked, "is there anything that you want to tell me. Anything, what is the word, important that I need to know. Take your time and think." Sherlock voice ended in a mocking tone. He kept his back to John.
John wet his suddenly dry lips as he tried to understand what he was supposed to say. "No Sherlock."
Sherlock scoffed, "I see," Sherlock said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He made a decision.
He turned around not looking at John as he walked toward his coat.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked as he followed Sherlock's movements with confusion.
Sherlock did not bother to put on his dress jacket or scarf. He picked it up as he prepared to put it on.
"Stop," John put a hand on Sherlock's coat preventing him from putting it on. Sherlock looked him in the eyes for the first time. John almost winced. He looked at John with loathing. He then smiled falsely as he let John have his coat. He walked over to the floor where his suit jacket had fallen and picked it up and put it on. He then walked toward the door again, ignoring the coat the John cradled in his arms.
"I'll be off John, I need some… cigarettes." Sherlock's voice was casual now, as if he was talking about the weather. It might have been convincing if it were not for his red-rimmed eyes. If it were anyone else, John would have said that they were crying. However, this was Sherlock Holmes. One year prior, during two weeks of torture by terrorist he did not break down once. He angered them because they could not get him to beg or break down sobbing.
He rarely did tears.
The few times that he truly broke down, he did it the British way and broke down in private. John's stomach soured a little more.
Sherlock's hand closed around the door. He turned the knob to open, but John right hand pushed so that he could not open it. Sherlock's coat lay forgotten on the cold floor.
"I'll get Mycroft's men to get you the cigarettes." John suddenly decided not to argue over cigarettes as long as Sherlock did not leave.
"I will get it myself, thank you. I have a particular brand that I like." Sherlock said sarcastically as he tried to open the door again only to have John slam it shut this time.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked with barely contained anger.
"Why are you so determined to go out when you know that that is what they are waiting for? Just give Mycroft the three more days he needs. Mycroft says…" John was becoming irritated.
"Mycroft says? Mycroft is not my boss, thank you very much! You can stop your fussing now, John."
"What is this about? What happen here?" John asked suspiciously.
"That is not relevant. We don't need to tell each other every little thing, do we. We all have secrets. The fact is that I am bored. Bored of this flat, bored of Mycroft's orders," he paused and looked at John. "Bored of you."
Sherlock smiled at John falsely.
"We both know that me, bored, and enclosed spaces are never a good combination. So, move. A. Side." Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
"Sod off," John said in anger and worry.
"You first." Sherlock said with false calm.
"Not. Leaving. This. Flat!" John said. He took a deep breath and lowered his head before looking again at his friend.
Both men stared at each other, neither seemed to be backing down.
"Only your real friends tell you when your face is dirty."~ Sicilian Proverb
"Sherlock, is this about your childhood? Did you have another flashback?" John was searching for answers.
"Don't think too hard John, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." Sherlock was starting not to care how cruel his words were. He had to get out of the flat before he choked to death. The air was being sucked somehow from the room. He was so close to outside and being able to breathe again if only John would get out of the bloody way.
"Why are you being such an annoying arse?" John said losing his temper again. He took several deep breaths. He lowered his head in regret as worry consumed him again. He looked up now at Sherlock.
Sherlock did not answer him. He was breathing too quickly. His eyes were on the door.
"Sherlock," John said as he went closer and put his arms around his shoulders in a not uncommon act of comfort between the two. At least it used to be.
"Get your hands off me!" Sherlock shouted as he simultaneously stepped backwards, almost stumbling. John took his hands off so quickly it under any other circumstances would have been comical.
"You mistake me for the touchy feely kind. Those imbeciles with half a brain who cannot control their emotional urges." Sherlock stepped closer to John as he backed up a few steps. "Or… was that some kind of repressed sexual urge." Sherlock looked him up and down trying purposely to intimidate him. Glad that he had a target for the pain, hurt, worries, and fear.
Emotions, damn them.
Those cursed sentiments that were supposed to be hidden away and locked in a room, in his mind palace. Now they broke free, and wandering around his mind, ran wildly. They freely stormed into his kitchen in his mind palace, overturning tables and breaking all the fine china there, and drinking all the tea.
John frowned but did not take the bait. This was something crucial. John was not going to back down. He, however, could not stop the flinch that the sting of his friend's words caused.
"Are you OK Sherlock? You seem very… Emotional." John looked at Sherlock and saw tears in his eyes that he refused to let fall. John ignored Sherlock's previous comments.
Sherlock did as he did best. He attacked the one person he knew would stand by his side. Doubt nagged at the back of his mind. Would he stand by him or leave? If John did leave, better to have him leave now than to wait for it. They always leave.
"I can understand how a small minded person such as yourself could have made the mistake of thinking that I share the same sentiments, and emotional dribble that you do. Let me assure you Doctor Watson that you were, and are in error." He gave the most condescending look that he could give. To anyone else it would have been enough to shut them up, but John only saw the pain. He knew when Sherlock was hiding something. He knew when he was attempting to deflect attention from himself to another person.
"Was that your best shot Mr. Holmes?" John said as he folded his arms, looked at Sherlock and walked closer. He had stopped before he invaded his personal space. Beneath the calm exterior, he saw it.
His eyes.
Sherlock's eyes were wide. They reminded him of a caged animal. There was a nervous energy that seemed to seep out of his pores leaving the smell of fear to permeate the room. Fear, terror, and pain. In Sherlock, fear and terror seemed like some odd combination that did not have a place of existence in nature. It left a funny, twisted feeling in John stomach.
Sherlock's respiration rose steadily. His eyes became more unfocused than before. They seemed to jump around the room.
"I need to leave," Sherlock mumbled as he looked out the window.
"Sherlock, you can't go out now, it's dangerous." John moved toward the door. Sherlock's hand began to open it again, but John slammed it shut with his right hand before Sherlock could open it completely.
"I know that you're frustrated Sherlock, but it's dangerous you can't just leave. You don't do that anymo…"
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Doctor Watson." Sherlock interrupted. The look in Sherlock eyes was that of a man about to lose control. He was tired of everyone telling him what he did not do anymore. What he does now. He felt as if he had been misplaced in some sort of alternate universe, where life had gone on even though it somehow forgot about him.
"No," John said calmly with a determined look in his eyes. "It's dangerous. This is the exact thing that Moriarty would want."
"I can make you move." Sherlock threatened as his eyes darkened. He suddenly pushed John into the door. Roughly.
"Easily," Sherlock added.
His face was almost touching John's as he looked down on him. Despite Sherlock's tall height, John had never noticed the height difference, until now that is.
John had had enough. He grabbed Sherlock and snatched his hand, twisting it behind his body. Off balanced and surprised, he was able with his other hand to swing Sherlock's body to the wall beside the door. The sound of a thud and air being exhaled from his lungs seemed to fill the space.
"Not as easy as you might think. Ex-military, remember. I have been trained in seven different ways to kill a man. Luckily, I like you. Don't let the jumpers fool you." John smiled dangerously at Sherlock.
Sherlock let out an angry growl. He did a similar movement, and John was slammed into the wall a little further down. John made no move to retaliate. He did not want things to escalate physically. He simply wanted to make a point with Sherlock.
John could see Sherlock losing the battle with his emotions. The growl and the way his lips were starting to twitch revealed his emotions. He was a kettle that was already boiling and ready to burst a whistle.
One of Sherlock's hands was on John's shirt now. However, John's hand was on Sherlock's collar, as well.
John considered the fact that they had never once used real physical violence on each other. Well once, John corrected. Six months after faking his death, Sherlock had turned up, sitting in his chair when John came home.
Sherlock's first words had been, "John, I can explain…" He never got to finish that sentence. John punched him in the face. Sherlock looked remorseful and did not even attempt to get up until John calmed down and gave him permission to get off the floor. At that point, he had hugged Sherlock so tightly, while crying, Sherlock had to point out the rationale need of his to breath. John did not apologize, but instead allowed Sherlock to lead him to the couch. Sherlock got John a blanket when he recognized the early signs of shock. They talked all night. Sherlock had a bruise for a week.
John wondered how far Sherlock would go. In the end, it did not matter. If he had to hog-tie the Consultant Detective, he would. Sherlock was NOT leaving the flat.
Sherlock ended the minute-long standoff.
"Let me go," Sherlock said with both desperation and rage. "Let me go. Now."
"Sod off," John said with a fake smile.
"Why can't you just let me go?"
"Not going to happen, Sherlock." John said with conviction. Sherlock eyes darkened further as he pulled one fist back.
"Last warning." Sherlock informed John as his body tensed.
"You won't hurt me," John said his voice suddenly tender.
"Care to test that theory?" Sherlock smiled coldly.
"I can't let you go, just like you would not let me go. That's what friends do." John eyed Sherlock, determined.
The sound of a violent thud filled the room.