Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 110

A disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss; along with the 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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"Good chess strategy suggests you make your first move with the pawn in front of either your King or Queen…"

… King or Queen Part IV…

"A friend in need is a friend indeed. "

~ Latin Proverb

Current Day

Current Time

John's lips were pulled tightly across his face. He did not notice that he was tapping his foot against the car floor as Mycroft's man drove. His mobile rang. He looked and did not try to hide the disappointment when the caller's number was not identified as Sherlock's. He briefly thought of not answering, but then decided that he could not take the chance that it could be Holmes.

"Watson," John said with impatience.

"Doctor Watson I've got a message for yah," A young sounding, familiar voice said.

"Who is this?" John asked as his mind tried to work out who it was. Curiosity and impatience battled equally within him.

"This is Milty, you know… Milty. I got a message from Mr. Sherlock. He's been hid, he needs your help. Somebody's after em and a lady's hurt." Milty voice was rushed and impatient.

John sat up straight in the back seat, suddenly at full attention. "Milty, tell me what you know."

Footsteps and muffled voices were heard. Sally felt Holmes chest as it rose and fell in quick rhythm. She felt Holmes entire body contract as if he was ready to fight. Bits of muffled conversations were heard.

"Have you seen a man and a woman running." A voice with a thick accent asked.

"Do you got a fiver mate. It might help loosen me tongue." One of the older homeless men spoke for the first time.

Sally inhaled sharply. Sherlock put his hand over Sally's mouth.

Sally heard the sound of flesh being struck followed by the click of a gun.

They could not see the gun that was pointed at the old man's head.

"Ah, now. Me ate wants no trouble mate," an anxious voice said quickly before adding. "Was it a bloke and a woman running that way, Theys acting like hell's fire was licking at them arse."

They heard a grunt as the homeless man was roughly thrown to the ground. Several footsteps quickly faded as the thugs ran in the direction that they were directed at.

It took Donovan five minutes to relax and realize that they were in no immediate danger. "They didn't betray us."

"No," she felt Sherlock's breath on her face and knew that he had turned toward her even though he could not see her.

"You knew they wouldn't betray us." Donovan said again.

"They're loyal." Sherlock seemed to shift his hands above his head.

All of Sally's energy seemed to have seeped out of her. She was pressed firmly against Sherlock. She gave up trying to keep a respectable distance long ago. There was simply no room, no space. She shifted her head toward what she assumed to be his chest and rested it there. She felt Holmes arms and body shivering slightly from fatigue. She now noticed that she was also shivering. At least she was warmer. The man's body generated heat, it was like being next to a radiator.

"You should try to rest your arms." Sally's tongue came out and licked her lips. "You should also relax. We're not getting any further apart Holmes." She was suddenly so thirsty. She was also sleepy. Maybe, she could close her eyes for a few minutes.

"Tell me about your childhood." Sherlock's voice floated into Sally's hearing. She blinked her eyes open. When did she close them?

Sally snorted before turning in the direction that Holmes face should be in. She blinked uselessly against the darkness. "So, suddenly you're Mr. Conversation. You're not interested at all. You'll probably not even listen. You just want me to talk so that I will stay awake."

"See Sally, we do know each other." Sherlock warm breath was on her face again. It smelled faintly of tea, mint, and tobacco.

"It's not as interesting as yours, I'm sure. Let me guess," She paused to think. "Everyone knows that you're from wealth. You had parents that adored you. You were spoiled rotten, your every wish was granted. You had a father so proud that he could not stop talking about his genius level son. On your tenth birthday, did you tell your dad in an annoyed voice to, stop being emotional." She lowered her voice to mimic Sherlock's baritone voice. "Did you tell them that, Love is illogical?" She sighed. "I bet you got a pony for your thirteenth birthday."

She felt Holmes body stiffen. He spoke in a low tone. "It was a horse, not a pony."

Sherlock would remember that day. His arm was broken, but it was not from a fall from his new horse like everyone believed.

If it were anyone else, but him, she would have said, his voice was regretful.

She was suddenly tired again

"Sorry." She was not sure why she said she was sorry, or why the seemingly innocent joke about Holmes childhood filled her with so much shame. She was quiet for a moment, and then spoke in hushed and whispered tones. She felt that she owed Sherlock something; that she had to give him something.

She winced as she took a deep breath.

"My grandparents were immigrants. My grandfather fought, during the war, for England and stayed afterward. He sent for my grandmother," Sally licked her lips again and cleared her dry throat before continuing, "… his fiancée, my grandmother at that time, followed a year later when he was settled and had a job that he could support her with." She spoke of childhood memories, and of nothing in particular. She spoke of sports teams, both the ones she loved and the ones she hated. She spoke, smiling sometimes and frowning other times. Sally was unaware of the miracle that was occurring next to her.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consultant Detective, who thought most ordinary things boring, was listening.

Lestrade clinched his fists together as he looked out the window. Both Scotland Yarders and Mycroft's men were searching the area. They could not have gotten far.

One man was dead, another man was in custody. A third man, who was found unconscious in an alleyway, was in the hospital. Lestrade frowned as he thought. It seemed as if the men that were identified as part of a mob were taking bold chances. This made him wonder, how far would they go.

Lestrade's mobile rang. He frowned as he palmed the mobile and brought it up to his ear.

"Lestrade here," was the tense greeting.

John's voice answered, "Greg, I've just received a call."