Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 100
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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*****.*** T rated, but some future chapters may be M. ****. ****
More chapters in a few days. I wanted chapter100 to be by itself. I wanted to give you something in the meantime. I heard your requests Punky2012. Lots of Love. :)
*Warning. Crime scene described.
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"The first step in preparing to play a new game of chess is making sure the board is set correctly…"
…. A New Board …
"History remembers the battle but forgets the blood."~ Vampire Hunter
Current Day
Current Time
Rhythmic beams of light flashed as they broke up the darkness. The sirens had been turned off long ago. Disembodied shadows seemed to float back and forth in the night as their masters walked step-in-step with the apparitions.
Detective Inspector Lestrade walked along the cobblestone pathway toward the front door. He stepped from the darkness into the dim light of the front entranceway. Lestrade's experienced eyes looked around as he took in the details of the adjacent outside area. The lampposts that normally illuminated the lavish estate were broken. There were three in total, too much to be a coincidence.
Lestrade steeled himself and walked into the home. Donovan walked up to Lestrade as he entered the residence. They wordlessly exchanged looks as she led the way into the kitchen.
A few officers walked around. Lestrade walked up to the kitchen. The rhythmic tap-tap sound of two sets of shoes sounded unusually loud as it echoed off the walls. He turned the corner and walked through a magnificent domed passageway that opened up into a large kitchen area. Anderson was standing on the outskirts of the area. Donovan eyes glanced at his. They locked eyes for a moment before she looked away and refocused on the gruesome scene in front of them. She already knew what her DI was going to say before he said it.
"Call Holmes," was the clear request.
Sally Donovan frowned as she cleared her throat. "Doctor Watson has already been notified. They should be here in…" She glanced at her watch, "fifteen minutes." She refused to look at Lestrade. Still, she could feel his smile.
"I still think he's a pain in the arse Sir." Donovan said stubbornly as she folded her arms.
"Agreed," Lestrade, said as the smile left his face.
Anderson was making the request to have the body taken away.
"Leave everything until Holmes gets here," Lestrade said addressing Anderson without looking at him. He never noticed the look of malice that crossed Anderson's eyes when the name of Holmes was mentioned.
Her long brown hair bounced as she walked quickly while she pulled her suitcase behind her. She quickened her pace. She discreetly glanced back. He was still there. Maybe, she had miscalculated; someone was following her, and it was not Mycroft's people. Mycroft was as talented as she thought. They found her two days ago. Sherlock probably assisted them in some way. She lost Mycroft's man two countries earlier. She knew that Sherlock Holmes was trying to keep track of her movements, even with memory loss. She smirked.
Some things had not changed. It was comforting in a way.
Before the memory loss, he did it himself, now he used his brother to keep track of her. He always had the impression that she could not stay out of trouble. She glanced at a mirror looking back. Maybe, he was right. She would never admit it of course.
She was planning to allow Mycroft to find her, but she needed two more weeks to make arrangements and get the information that she needed.
She easily blended into the moderately sized crowd. She was dressed in all beige, from her knee length boots of the same color, to her fitted slim cut trousers and shirt. As she walked hastily out the doors of the airport, someone bumped into her. She nodded a distracted apology as she looked at the cabs that were lined outside.
She had changed destinations when she realized that she was being followed. She normally would have had someone meet her with a car, but she was at a backup location because of the threat that she perceived. She wanted to be as far away from him as possible to protect him. She also wanted information that would help Sherlock.
Adler looked impatiently at the scene outside. Her contact was on his way, but she could not wait. She needed to get to a different location and lose whoever was following her.
She raised her hands to motion for a cab to come close. The driver opened the boot for her and put her overnight bag in it. The door opened, and her hand gripped the door to steady herself. She bent gracefully as she slid into the back seat. As the door closed, she felt a scratch on her hand. Before she could say a word, the cab pulled into traffic. Something knotted in her stomach. Her right hand traveled into her coat pocket. Her eyes felt heavy, she blinked violently as she attempted to keep her eyes open. Her tongue came out to lick her suddenly dry lips. Three thoughts came to Irene's mind in no particular order as her eyes closed
"William… Sherlock… Damn."
Their bodies gently rocked back and forth, as they were driven through the streets. The lamppost shined its light at regular intervals as it reflected through the slightly tinted windows. John thoughtfully looked out the window of the moving cab. There were fewer buildings and more homes the longer they drove. They would be arriving at the crime scene shortly.
John glanced at Sherlock. He looked more like himself with his black Belstaff coat on and blue patterned scarf around his neck. He was leaning with his head back against the seat of the cab. His eyes were closed, but John had no doubt that he was awake. He was probably deep in thought or in his mind palace.
John frowned and looked away. Except for a few random pieces of memories, most of his memories from the last two years were still locked somewhere in that brilliant mind. John twisted the side of his face as his teeth gently bit the inside of his cheeks. Blonde colored eyebrows knit together as Watson thought deeply. His strong fingers lay tensed on his blue jean-clad legs.
They had been assisting in many cases for weeks. First, it was from the relative safety of the flat. Then, they made several trips to Scotland Yard and Lestrade's office. This would be the first time that they were at a crime scene since Sherlock's near death seven weeks ago. Now that Watson thought further, this was the first time on a crime scene for Sherlock since he was thought to be dead in the explosion where Moriarty kidnapped him.
He was concerned about his friend. Sherlock's pride would never have him admit to any weakness, but the fact was that he was vulnerable. With two years worth of missing memories, his behavior would be different. What is someone noticed and inadvertently said something that triggered two years worth of memories to all come crashing back at one time. What if Moriarty made another attempt to kidnap him. Worse, what if Moran acted alone. At least Moriarty seemed to enjoy him on some level. He seemed to gain more pleasure out of tormenting the man, as opposed to killing him. Moran had no such boundaries. Despite all of this, he knew that he could not hide his friend behind locked doors forever.
John glanced back as he noticed the black car that was trailing them. Mycroft's men were not being discrete today. They wanted their presence to be known as a deterrent. John leaned back and looked up at the ceiling of the cab.
"Your silence is deafening John." Sherlock said with his eyes still closed.
John was silent for a moment. He let out a long and dramatic sigh. He then looked at Sherlock and leaned his body close to his. He lowered his voice and spoke in a whispered tone.
"You have to be careful Sherlock. No one can know about your memory loss. You know how you get carried away when you're at a crime scene..."
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the cabby who was glancing back frequently in the mirror. The cabby thought that he was glancing discreetly, but Sherlock's keen mind noticed several small details that most everyone else would have missed. John's voice floated to the back of his mind as he focused his full attention on the cab driver.
Highly intelligent.
Expensive haircut.
Manicured nails.
New clothes purchased today. Washed once to make them look worn.
Firm Grip on the steering wheel.
Prepared for danger.
Trained in defensive driving techniques.
Ah.
The cabby was picked because he was older and looked harmless, yet he could kill a defenseless man in ten seconds.
Sherlock hid his frown and looked at John. He used the same mirror to glance at the black Mercedes Benz that was following close behind. Sherlock decided that he should pay attention before John noticed that he was not listening.
"… You have to be careful Sherlock. And, no running around and disappearing without me. Even if you think that you're somehow protecting me!" John ended the whispered conversation with a hiss.
John abruptly stopped talking and looked at Sherlock. "Okay, how much of what I said did you really hear?"
"I hear everything you say John, now whether I choose to remember it is another conversation." Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he looked at John. John looked back without blinking as he folded his arms stubbornly and waited.
Both men tested the resolve of the other. Several seconds passed before Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.
"Basically you said; be careful, do not run off by myself and play well with the other children." Sherlock said in a loud voice with a false smile as he looked at the cab driver. "Would you agree?"
John's body stiffened as he now looked at the cab driver as well and slowly moved his hand toward the gun under his jacket. John felt his fingers touched the cool metal, but as it tightened on the weapon, he felt Sherlock's hands on his hand stopping him.
Sherlock looked intently at John. "Was it not you who said that we were to play nicely with the other children John."
John frowned but took his hands off his gun.
"Mycroft's man," Sherlock said casually.
John looked at the driver who wordlessly glanced in the rearview mirror. The rest of the ride was in silence. Within ten minutes, they were driving through wrought iron gates and up to the front of a house. Most of the workforce had left, but there were still a few people wondering about. The cab came to a stop. John and Sherlock looked at each other.
Moments later, Holmes stood still with his eyes closed in the victim's kitchen. John stood slightly behind him. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. Everyone wore their blue jumpsuits but Sherlock. Donning a pair of gloves was his only concession. He walked on the edge of the room carefully avoiding the small amounts of blood present.
The organized noise was blocked from his mind as he took in every detail of the room. Within a second, he decided which details were worth keeping, and which details to delete. The kitchen was modernly decorated with steel appliances, clean edges, and monotone colors. Sherlock eyes traveled around the room before he walked closer to the body. He heard Anderson with his usual tirade about not needing the freak's help. It was comforting in a way. Some things did not change.
"… I have it under control. This is a random murder just like other random murders. I've already examined the body and scene…"
"The mouth is closed." Sherlock said more to himself than anyone else. Everyone in the area stopped talking. Sherlock stepped closer as he looked up.
Data, he thought, I need more data.
There was a body that was hanging upside down from a hook in the ceiling. There was a deep cut to both wrists. It looked as if that was where the blood had been drained from.
The crime scene was staged.
The body was cleaned, blood removed.
The body and crime scene is a warning and a clue.
Thin framed male with dark brunette hair.
Corporate job.
Widower.
The dead body had an ashen hue to the skin. It was almost as if all the blood had been drained from his body, and yet, there was not much blood considering the crime.
He heard John walk up next to him. "It looks as if his body had been drained of blood."
"For a body to be drained so completely, the cuts would have had to be made, while he was still alive with a heart that was pumping. Is that correct John?"
"Yes. That's a lot of blood that someone has put somewhere." John said with a frown. John was quiet after that comment. He knew how Sherlock's mind worked. He gave him quiet unless necessary.
"Anderson, I need a scalpel." Sherlock informed him.
"Now, wait a bloody minute. Any further examination needs to be done at Barts. He's disturbing the body," Anderson sneered.
"His blood started to drain while he was alive. The body was upside down, and the eyes were closed, so why was the mouth not opened. A combination of the muscles relaxing as death approached and gravity, should have caused the mouth to open, even if just slightly." Sherlock opened the eyes and examined the pupils. "Your ineptitude is expected. I would say that I am surprised that you did not notice that the mouth should have been opened Anderson, but I see no logic in lying."
Anderson stuttered as he walked close to the Consultant Detective. "Now wait a minute, if you're implying that I am incompetent…"
"I have not implied, I've stated directly," Sherlock said in a matter-of–fact voice.
"So much for playing nice," John muttered to himself before he sighed and positioned his body between Anderson and Sherlock. Sherlock opened his magnifying glass.
"Alright!" Lestrade hissed. The DI thought for a moment. Every eye was on him except Sherlock who was engaged in thought, and still examining the body.
"Get Holmes what he wants." Lestrade finally said.
"Now wait a minute…" Anderson growled angrily.
"Get. Holmes. What. He. Wants." Lestrade said carefully as he looked at Anderson. Anderson, in response, set his lips together tightly then marched away and returned quickly with the scalpel.
Anderson stayed closer to Sherlock longer than necessary. Except for a sniff when Anderson came close, and a brief glance, Holmes ignored him entirely.
When Sherlock attempted to open the mouth, his suspicions were confirmed. The mouth could not open. There were stitches to the inside of the lips that held the mouth closed.
Five minutes later, and the victim's mouth opened after Holmes carefully removed the last stitch. Sherlock stepped back as the contents that were trapped in the mouth evacuated. Sherlock put his gloved hand in the mouth and pulled out several pieces that were placed in an evidence bag.
Everyone stared at the rose petals on the ground that fell out of the victim's mouth. They were such a deep, rich shade of red, that from a distance, it looked like a pool of blood was on the floor. Anderson had quietly moved into a corner of the room, he looked intently at Sherlock. John noticed.
"There have to be more bodies. This was not random." Sherlock said deep in thought. "What was his name?"
Lestrade looked at his notebook, but Donovan spoke up before he could look for the information.
"Ronald Adair," She said.
Anderson gave Donovan a contemptuous look of betrayal, which she ignored.
"Sherlock, there are similarities in appearance to you." John walked beside Holmes and said quietly.
"Yes John, I know," Sherlock replied just as quietly. He tried to ignore Lestrade's worried stare. "Do you think someone is trying to get my attention?"
A/N: I hope that you enjoyed. Let me know.
Fun Question: A name in this chapter is taken from the original canon. Do you know what it is? Include your answer in your review if you like. The official answer will be given in the next chapter.
Lots of Love.