This and the next chapter are dedicated to jack63kids. Thank you for always thinking of others. Happy belated Birthday. December 11th.
Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 113
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.
** Thank you, for your latest reviews and PMs since the last post favorites and follows.
*****.*** T rated, but some future chapters may be M. ****. ****
Important. Sorry for the delay. It was a small matter of cars crashing and me being in one of the cars. Thank God, apart from some pain, no permanent injuries. Here is something. I hope it is okay, if not I blame it on the pain medication. :]
Note: Danke is used to say thank you.
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment.
" Each player begins the game with eight pawns, one on each square of the rank immediately in front of the other pieces. The pawns are the shortest and most numerous pieces in a chess set …"
… The Day of the Pawn I…
"A brother is a friend God gave you; a friend is a brother your heart chose." ~ Proverb
Current Day
Fourteen Hours Later
John ignored the sounds coming from the left of him. There was a frustrated sound as an oxygen mask was clumsily pulled off a face. Mild incoherent mumbling started to evolve into sentences. It was obvious to Doctor John Watson that his patient was less than thrilled.
"Morning sunshine." John said with a smile as he sat cross-legged in the hard plastic chair next to the hospital bed. He ignored the look that the waking Consultant Detective was giving him. The look would have been categorized as a glare, but the blinking, and drool on the side of the patient's mouth decreased the desired effect. Sherlock took his free hand and wiped the drool away.
Watson briefly glanced at his flatmate and friend before lowering his head again. He resumed reading the morning newspaper.
After a few moments, Sherlock was oriented enough to speak. He was not happy, "John." He said evenly. He closed his eyes for a few minutes before opening them again and talking.
"How Long?"
John responded without looking. "You were asleep for a little over fourteen hours." John turned the page of the newspaper.
"Was what you did even legal?" Sherlock blinked away the blur from his eyes.
John turned to the next page of the newspaper. "Probably not."
Sherlock took a second to assess his body and surroundings. It was not difficult to deduce what had happened. He exhaled noisily as he looked at his hospital gown. "You did all of the necessary examinations and treatments while I was… asleep."
John did not respond. He looked at the advertisement section now.
"That was devious," Sherlock looked at his friend. Half of him was annoyed beyond belief, the other half was impressed.
John peeked around the corner of the newspaper. "I've learned from the best, and you really need to use your voice as little as possible for at least another twelve hours."
Sherlock grunted as he pushed himself up from the bed. He begrudgingly had to admit that his throat felt better than before, and it was easier to get air in and out of his lungs. His throat did not feel as swollen. His body still ached, but felt better as well.
John folded the newspaper now and looked at Sherlock as he tried to get comfortable. Sherlock could almost feel John's eyes as they became like lasers into the side of his head.
After ignoring him for a few minutes, Sherlock turned to face him. He noticed John's body language and prepared for a battle.
"We both get injured frequently. Part of the business, I suppose. This is different. You're hiding something, and this is odd. There are two sets of bruises on your body. If it was a matter of your injuries being a result of your fleeing for your life, or the car crash, why try to hide it?" John eyes narrowed, before it traveled to the fingerprints on his neck again. "Someone came close to crushing your trachea. A little more pressure or a little more time and..." John looked away and frowned. He did not finish the sentence.
After a short time, he looked back at Sherlock. "You had to be immobile for someone to get that good of a grip on your throat. From what I understand, you two did not stop moving. What's this about?"
Sherlock did not answer but instead looked at John. It turned into a battle of wills. Surprisingly, Sherlock spoke first. His voice was a near whisper, his face held a false smile.
"You said to rest my voice, remember."
John looked at him for a few moments then got up and walked to the hook on the door. He removed one of Sherlock's suits. "You can start to get dressed. You should stay here for two more days, but I suppose, I could watch you from the flat."
John walked over to the bed and closed the door. "Let me know if you need help," he added.
Sherlock sighed relieved as he looked at John intently.
"I'll call someone to get the discharged papers. We can leave once someone has taken out the IV from your arm." John finished as he prepared to call the medical staff.
By the time Watson finished calling, the IV was halfway out of Holmes arms. John quickly moved to the younger man's side and gave him a sterile dressing. Holmes expertly applied pressure to the area where the catheter was removed from his veins. John gave Sherlock an exasperated look.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For heaven sakes, you should have known that I was going to remove it."
John opened his mouth to argue but smiled instead. "Git."
Despite being sore, Sherlock dressed in ten minutes. John, with amusement, realized that that was the fastest that he had ever seen an injured Holmes get dressed. After testing his balance, Sherlock walked over toward the door to the hospital room.
"Your paperwork is not here yet," John said as if Holmes had forgotten that fact.
Sherlock waved one hand dismissively. "You have the legal right to sign for me John." Sherlock said as he grabbed his blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck in an attempt to hide the bruises. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
"Where're you off to?" John asked exasperated.
"Just a small matter." Sherlock's voice was starting to sound horse again.
"Oh," John said thinking, "Take flowers, she is in the main ward." He thought further. "Don't say anything stupid." John added as his friend walked away. "Pretend you're someone else for a few minutes."
Sherlock body stiffened. He stopped for a second then started walking again without looking back.
John smiled to himself. His smile died. He looked at his mobile. He called the familiar numbers. He listened as the line rang and was finally picked up. "Hi, Greg," he hesitated, "It's about Sherlock…"
Current Day
Current Time
The building itself was impressive. It was a combination of traditional architecture with bold modern touches of steel beams, large opened areas, and oversized glass windows. Charles Bradford and his fiancée walked into the bank and passed into a smaller area. They followed their guide, as he took them through yet another smaller, and more intimate, area. Their identifications were confirmed before the employee nodded to the guard and entered some numbers. A vault door swung open, and each person stepped through.
There were three walls with brass colored mini-vaults. The bank executive walked up to the safety deposit boxes that lined the middle. He looked for a mini-vault with the letter then number that corresponded to his brass colored key.
The executive spoke with a thick accent, "Your turn Mr. Bradford."
Charles took out an identical key and inserted it into the lock to join the first key. Both men turned the keys at the same time. The vault opened, and a lockbox was taken out and given to Mr. Bradford.
All three persons walked over to a private locked room. After opening the door, he stepped back.
"Danke," Mr. Bradford said. The man beside him nodded and retreated to give them privacy.
After the door was closed, the man and the woman looked curiously at each other. The man opened the safety deposit box and looked in. It was a simple note. The man read it and frowned. He looked at the mini black case and opened it. His frown widened as he closed it and slipped the case into his inner, suit vest pocket.
"I think it best that we leave as quickly as possible. We might be watched despite our precautions."
"Yes, Sir," the attractive brown-haired woman answered.
The man that everyone believed to be Charles Bradford picked up his umbrella, and walked out the door. The woman walked by his side. They both slid into the back seat of the BMW that waited outside the building.
Current Day
Current Time
Sally exhaled deeply as her hand came to brush the sheets on both sides of her hospital bed. She had to stay until the morning. She winced as she adjusted her body on the bed. She looked at the telly, but then decided that she was not that desperate, at least not yet. She felt the prick of the IV catheter in her left hand as she pushed her body further up. She glanced at the half-empty bag of IV fluids. It would be removed, when the liter bag was finished. There were bruises on her face and body. There was a large wound dressing on her lower abdomen. She was lucky; the bullet just barely broke the skin. The bullet went deep enough to bleed impressively, but not deep enough to do permanent damage.
She turned as she heard a knock on the door.
She looked at the door curiously. "Come in."
She was shocked when she realized whom it was. "I was in the area." Holmes explained.
He walked over to her bedside. She noticed that he almost walked straight. He had dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he needed to be in a hospital bed himself.
Holmes looked her up and down before glancing at her IV fluids. She could almost hear the wheels in his mind turning as he tried to deduce the state of her health. She resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.
His eyes finally came to rest on hers. She cleared her throat and motioned with her head toward the flowers in Sherlock's hand.
"Oh." The Consultant Detective looked at his hands as if he had forgotten that they were there. "John wanted you to have these. I think that it is sentimental rubbish. The flowers are just going to die, but… here you are."
"I'll put them next to the one that John already brought me."
"Oh." Sherlock said frowning. There was a tense moment of silence.
"So how are you," Sherlock finally asked.
"Good," Sally said quickly, "I'm good." There was a moment of silence before a smile curved the corner of her lips. "The truth is that," she hesitated, "I'm bored."
The corner of Sherlock lips curled, as well. "My sympathies."
Donovan looked Holmes up and down more closely. His face was bruised. Some bruises peeked out of the scarf around his neck. "You look a mess and sound like your voice is about to give out. How did you convince them to let you go so soon?"
Holmes cleared his throat. "I usually sneak out, but my efforts were, shall we say, thwarted."
"Doctor Watson," She said amusement in her voice.
There was another moment of silence, but this time, it was comfortable.
"I promised John that I would not be gone for long." He turned to leave, when her hand gripped his.
"Come here," She said simply. Sherlock looked surprised.
"I won't bite," Sally said as she motioned with one finger. He came close, and one hand pulled him down so that she could reach his cheeks.
She kissed him. "Thanks."
He looked at her surprised and amused before returning the kiss on her cheek.
"Well, I'd better be off." Holmes half turned to leave.
Sally squeezed Sherlock's hand while saying, "Don't worry, we can get back to being enemies tomorrow."
"Dull," Sherlock said as he started to walk toward the door. He stopped just before he reached it.
"An enemy is boring…, Now an arch enemy," He turned his body toward her, "Much… More… Interesting." He wiggled his eyebrows then walked away.
Sally mouth fell slightly open. "My God, Sherlock Holmes has a sense of humor."
They both did not see Anderson, who watched, glaring from around the corner. The flowers he purchased, laid crushed, and forgotten, by his feet.