Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 75
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 favorites and for following.
***** Important. I wrote several chapters condensed on four pages, so you know what I am about to say, again.
1. Read a quote a day. (Each quote represents a chapter. Some are long , some are short.)
Or
2. Read as much as you want at one time. Enjoy.
3. The last quote is a bit of a cliffy. Save that chapter until it is closer to the weekend, if that bothers you. Make yourself happy.
To my other family.
Peace, Coffee, and Love to all, Zacha. :)
"Evil events from evil causes spring." Aristophanes
Sebastian looked at the woman as she walked. She was alone. She was moving slowly and as if distracted. It was almost too easy. He looked around. It was dark; if they acted quickly, no one would notice. He nodded to the men beside him.
"Don't harm her. Moriarty wants her well and fairly intact. Of course, if she should… struggle, we would have no choice but to, detain her. A few bruises would not actually be considered harming permanently, would it?" Moran smiled.
The men knew what that meant. Mr. Moran wanted an excuse to hurt the woman.
He resisted a chuckle. He suspected how much the woman meant to the man. Moriarty's first goal was to hurt him creatively. What better way than to hurt her. Moriarty was a genius.
"A man cannot free himself from the past more easily than he can from his own body." ~André Maurois
The next day came much too slowly for the bored detective. He stepped into the shower pulling the shower curtain closed behind him. He sighed frowning as he automatically turned up the water temperature until steam filled the small space and rolled in waves across the ceiling. He stretched his long fingers toward the shelf by the window. The instant pop sound of the body wash cap opening seemed amplified in the small space.
Sherlock stared straight ahead at nothing. The thick liquid slowly pooled in his left hand. The young man returned the body wash to rest on the window ledge. His hands automatically rubbed the cooled liquid in the palm of his hands. He then mechanically ran his hands over his skin and hair, wincing slightly when his fingers came in contact with his still tender and bruised patches of skin. He closed his eyes as he stepped under the water. The subtle fragrance filled the room. The soapy mixture raced downward, aided by the streaming water, and splashed on the shower tile and flooring. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, pushing the last of the lathered water backwards.
As he stood under the warmth of the water, his mind processed data, assessed potential threats, and drew unpleasant conclusions. Adler flashed before his mind. He frowned and pushed all thoughts of the woman away - again. Moriarty. Think of Moriarty.
Moriarty would make his move soon. From what he had come to believe, it would affect one of three persons in some way, Lestrade, John, or Mycroft. He quickly dismissed Mycroft. He told himself that he was too difficult a target and that he would choose one of the other two. Moriarty, however, seemed to take enormous pleasure in doing the unexpected. He once thought this fascinating but not anymore. The thought of Mycroft injured or worse caused a strange, twisted feeling on the inside of Sherlock stomach. Sherlock evened his breathing out and dismissed the reaction. Mycroft was untouchable. That is what he repeated to himself silently.
It was John or Lestrade. He frowned. Would he attack them directly? That was too boring, and Moriarty if nothing else was creative. Sherlock felt as if he was missing something, a piece of some puzzle that would make the picture immediately clear. Whatever it was, it was something unexpected. He became lost in thought as time lost its meaning. Sherlock blinked and frowned as the chill on his skin informed him that something had changed. The water was cool now. How long had he been thinking, Sherlock wondered.
He exhaled noisily as he reached for the knob and turned. The stream of water abruptly stopped. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it hastily round his lower body, holding it in place with one hand. His damp feet walked on the slightly cooled wood. His skin chilled slightly as he left the warmth of the bathroom and distractedly made his way to his bedroom. It had been quiet and frustratingly boring for the past two days. He knew that the quiet would not last.
Sherlock thought of how Mrs. Hudson had stormed into their flat earlier and waved the bag of ears at Sherlock as he was walking to the shower. She was still dressed in her dressing gown with hair curlers. Mrs. Hudson was infuriated that he had used her refrigerator for his experiments. He had calmly explained that he ran out of space in his. After a stern lecture, she marched out of the flat with a murderous look on her face.
He smiled at the memory; his mood suddenly became lighter despite the situation.
"Dear Mrs. Hudson." He whispered as he approached his bedroom door and put his hand on the door.
He paused for a second to feel the dark, smooth wood as his mind returned to his previous thoughts. His smile faded. He forced all unpleasant thoughts to somewhere deep in his mind. He wiped his face of all emotions and prepared for his day and creative ways not to be bored. A delightful mystery is what he needed, as long as it did not involve Moriarty.
"One more day of prison." Sherlock muttered absently as he pushed the door to his bedroom close.
He walked further into his bedroom. He paused as he walked past the full-length mirror. He slowly dropped his towel and stood there undressed.
It was strange looking at himself. His face looked almost the same, but his body was different. He had lean muscle now, he used to be exceedingly thin. He winced as he looked at the scattered bruises on his chest, abdomen and thighs, which were different colors to indicate the different stages of healing. His eyes now lowered to the still fading tiny discoloration to one thigh from a bullet wound. It did not appear as if it would produce a scar. He ignored it as well as the other bruises.
His hair was the same but cut a little shorter as John had said he wore it now. There was no vanity to his examination. It was only curiosity of the puzzle that he felt he had to solve. He liked puzzles, and mysteries; it drove him. He, however, never thought his life would be one.
He turned his back. This was supposed to be his body now. His life now. Why did he feel odd in it? Something caught his attention. When he turned, he felt the slightest tightness under his skin, on his lower back. Almost as if, the skin was… scarred. He turned and contorted his body. He could not see any scars.
Sherlock thought for a moment. He walked over to the bedside table pulling the wooden table open so fast it shook. He found a writing pen and broke it open. He rubbed, and coated his fingertips with the blue ink and rubbed it onto his lower back. The once scarred skin absorbed the ink less than the rest of his skin. A long faded blue mark appeared in the middle of his lower back with the darker ink surrounding it.
Sherlock thought then frowned. He looked at the ink and raised his eyebrows. He soon was rubbing more between his fingers.
Minutes later, he had three streaks of light blue surrounded by darker blue on his body. One was on the side of his chest, one on the side of his lower abdomen and the last long line on his back right above his buttock.
He stood looking in the mirror but no longer seeing himself. He was in his mind trying to work out the puzzle.
He had the scars removed.
Why?
It was not like him to be vain. If it was for vanity, why was there still a tiny faded scar on his ankle? It was from the first time that Mycroft attempted to teach him how to ride a bicycle. He smiled at the memory of how pathetic Mycroft had felt.
Mycroft.
His last memories of Mycroft involved, yelling, on his part. Mycroft being perfectly and irritatingly calm.
When he thought of Mycroft, care and contempt wrestled equally in his mind, with contempt tipping the scales. He cared for Mycroft but found the man irritating, controlling, and overbearing.
John explained how they had grown close again over the course of over a year now. The thought of Mycroft not being his archenemy seemed strange. Mycroft actually looked at him, dare he think such a ridiculous thought, fondly.
Sherlock almost cringed.
The one consistent thing that he remembered was trusting John. In fact, John was the only one that he trusted utterly. If John said it was so, it was so.
He blinked a few times looking again at himself. If three of the four scars on his body was removed by laser or, however, it was done, he suspected by laser. Whoever removed them did an exceptional job. Maybe cutting edge techniques. That meant money. Sherlock never touched the money his father left him. He considered it tainted. There were a little over a million and a quarter pounds in the bank for years. Probably more now, not including properties. Not one pound was ever used. Where did the money come from then?
Mycroft.
Mycroft was involved.
The scars represented something then, but what?
What?
If he agreed or even asked for the scars to be removed, that indicated that he did not want to see them or have the scars trigger some memory.
A part of him reminded himself that if that was the case, maybe, it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. He looked at the streaks of blue on his body and the blue smudges on his face and fingertips.
There was a moment as he wrestled with himself. In the end, his curious nature won. He looked at the towel that he had dropped on the floor and wrapped it around himself again.
It was time for another shower.
"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim." ~ Robert Frost
How did it come down to this, she wondered. It was supposed to be a slow and uneventful evening. It happened so quickly. Too quickly. One minute she was walking from Tescos to her temporary home. It was a small flat that they had found for her to stay in. It was not her taste, but she was determined to tolerate it until she could make a more permanent arrangement.
That is when it happened.
She had been unfocused, with her arms full of overflowing bags of groceries, and a bottle of superb wine. All the while, she also managed to balance a shoulder bag that was determined to slip off her shoulder. Her mind was preoccupied. The person that she loved the most on this earth had, in no uncertain terms, let her know that her feelings were no longer reciprocated. In retrospect, she was an easy target. She blamed herself for this fact. She should have been paying attention. She did not even see the knife until the cold metal was pressed firmly into her neck.
"Stupid, so very, dreadfully stupid." She realized too late that she had spoken out loud to herself.
"Don't be hard on yourself love," the well-dressed man said as if reading her mind. "We all get distracted every now and then."
She had given no reply as she watched him warily with hate, loathing, and if she was honest, fear. She followed his movements as he came closer and closer with a slow and almost catlike gait. She involuntarily recoiled when she realized that his eyes almost seemed to glow in the darkness. She was not aware of where the unexpected shudder came from. Was it the cold of the warehouse? Was it from the cold feeling of the metal handcuff that was on her wrists? Maybe, it was from the chills she felt, as she stared almost involuntarily transfixed, by his hollow eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dim light.
Her left eye stung from the blood and sweat that had managed to trickle its way into it. She tried unsuccessfully to blink the sting away. Earlier, when her senses had come back to her, she had struggled. They demonstrated to her that they had not been amused.
"Now, we have to send him a very clear message," she noticed the man in the suit say. She eyed the two men that stood beside him. Her attention returned to him as he spoke again. "A message that he will not ignore."
The man in the suit stopped suddenly as if an idea came to him, he smiled a predatory sort of smile. "You have lovely eyes and beautiful long hair," her eyes widen as he came closer to her with the knife. All she could focus on in that moment of terror was the scar on his face.