Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 119
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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Note: IV is also called a saline fluid or Intravenous fluids.
*****.*** T rated, but some future chapters may be M. ****. ****
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" Each board contains two knights… The knight – with its strange and unpredictable jumps – is the trickiest of the chess pieces.…"
… White Knight, Black Knight… Unpredictable Jumps… Part I
"A man who has depths in his shame meets his destiny and his delicate decisions upon paths which few ever reach . . . ."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Current Day
Current Time
She smiled as she looked at the child. It had been a challenging day for anyone, much less a child so young. She pushed a stray strand of dark curly hair away from William's face. The duvet cover was then pulled over the sleeping child. If he was anything like Sherlock was at that age, he would be covered in a layer of sweat if anything other than a thin cover was used. Sherlock's body even at a young age was like a furnace. It produced a tremendous amount of heat when he slept. She smiled at the sleeping child before turning away.
Sherlock.
She sighed as she quietly backed out of the room. Mycroft stood in the doorway watching. The outline of the elder Holmes was in the dim doorway. For a fleeting moment, it appeared as if her husband was standing there.
While Sherlock physically resembled Miranda, Mycroft physically resembled his dead father. Mycroft also had the same stoic nature as his father. That, however, is where the similarities, physical and otherwise, ended.
From a young age, Mycroft had been a leader. Her husband was always a dictator, not a leader. Mycroft would give his life to protect that which he believed in, or those he loved. Love did not come easily to a man like Mycroft. However, when love came, it was not easily given up. Mycroft would never say the word love. He hated the idea of sentiment. Instead, he would demonstrate that he cared through his actions.
Mycroft's eyes pierce back into his mother, yet, he remained quiet. They seemed to look at each other forever. It seemed as if several lifetimes had passed, as if an eternity had been walked through. In truth, it was only minutes.
She walked out of the darkened room and paused to run a hand over the cheek of her eldest son. Her eyebrows wrinkled in concern. She looked him in the eyes without saying a word. After a short time, she kissed her eldest son on the cheek before walking away. Mycroft wordlessly followed. Miranda Holmes sat on the chair opposite her son. The tea that she was drinking had been exchanged for coffee hours ago. She sipped the cup of cool coffee. She sighed then put it down.
"You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on you dear." Miranda stepped closer. "You also look tired."
Mycroft said nothing. He just looked quietly on.
"William and his mother are in danger. You would not have brought them here otherwise. You did the right thing." Miranda Holmes eyes locked with her son. "You told me many things tonight, but you have not mentioned how Sherlock is getting along."
Mycroft said what was required. It was part of his job. He would lie if necessary to anyone even Sherlock to protect. He found it difficult, however, to lie to his mother. He chose his words carefully.
He said slowly, "It's complicated."
Miranda got up and walked over to the end of the room. She poured out one-third of a glass of brandy. She returned and wordlessly put the crystal tumbler next to Mycroft. She remained standing.
"First, I need to know what we're up against. Second, I want to know everything that happened over the last two years that you've been keeping from me. Particularly what happened when we thought that he was dead. I have a feeling that this all ties together. Lastly, I want to see my son."
Mrs. Holmes held up a hand to stop any protest from Mycroft. "Make it happen, Mycroft. I understand that it cannot happen straight away, but we both know that short of walking on water, you can do near anything." Mrs. Holmes looked at her son with a raised eyebrow. Her face expressed a determined look.
The elder son thought of several responses as he calculated their probability of success. The possible responses were motivated by two facts; it was too dangerous, and his brother would murder him for putting their mother in danger. Mycroft was about to refuse when he saw the look in his Mother's eyes. She gave him the look. Possibility of winning any argument was zero. She was a Holmes.
He sighed.
His mother rarely made demands, but when she did, she was unmovable. Mycroft twisted his lips with dissatisfaction. He now remembered where Sherlock's stubbornness came from. He took a sip of brandy.
He sighed, again.
Current Day
Current Time
A noise took the attention of everyone in the room. Everyone looked toward the door to the outside. An agent was heard talking to someone loudly. John glanced at Sherlock and noticed that he paused his pacing then resumed seconds later.
"Doctor Watson," the agent said as he quietly motioned with his hand.
"There is a delivery here. He said that he could only deliver to Mr. Holmes." John looked at Sherlock. His fears about disturbing Sherlock were not founded. He did not need to look up; he felt Sherlock standing beside him before he saw him.
Sherlock looked at the package; his face suddenly became expressionless. The nervous energy that he had been fighting for hours seemed to evaporate. Instead of being relieved, John became suddenly concerned.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was quiet enough for just the two of them to hear.
Sherlock did not answer but looked reassuringly at John. He signed to accept the small package. It was an ordinary looking package with no markings of any kind on the outside of the box.
Several eyes studied Holmes before returning to their assignments.
Grifton walked up to Holmes and Watson. "If that has anything to do with the case, I will have to confiscate it and add it to evidence."
"It's personal," Sherlock, said simply before he started to walk away.
Anderson intercepted Holmes before John could make his way to the two men. John witnessed Anderson as he whispered something in Holmes' ears. John cursed silently as he moved toward his friend. Sherlock glanced at John and walked toward his bedroom. His long legs assured the fact that he reached his room before John could intercept. Moments later, the bedroom door was heard as it closed.
John knew with the finality of the slam that Sherlock was not in the mood for company. John did not want to add to his stress, but he had to make sure that his friend was okay. John debated with himself for several minutes before knocking.
"Sherlock…" John did not want Scotland Yard, or anyone there to know what was going on with Sherlock.
"Not now, give me a few minutes, John." To anyone who might be listening, Sherlock's voice sounded annoyed, but John could see through it.
John made sure that there was no one near enough to hear, particularly Anderson, before speaking again quietly. "How are you, mate?"
The was a long moment of silence. John was about to walk away when a quiet reply came.
"I'm a little tire, John."
"I'm here." John leaned his head against the bedroom door. He closed his eyes as one palm of his hand spread wide and touched the dark wood.
"I know," the voice volume was so low that it could have been missed.
John walked back then forth. He thought of sitting on the floor outside his bedroom, but he did not want to embarrass Sherlock in any way. After a few minutes, he walked toward the kitchen, and sat on one of the chairs. He lingered there. He made sure that Anderson did not try to sneak to Sherlock's door. He tried to resist the urge to hit Anderson in front of a room full of witnesses.
After ten, minutes, Sherlock was still in his bedroom. John headed to the door.
"Sherlock." Several seconds passed.
"Sherlock." Again, there was no response.
"I'm coming in." When he turned the knob, it was locked. A small panic rose in his stomach.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
An agent walked over to John.
The agent looked concerned. "Is everything okay?"
John had not realized that his voice volume was that loud. "The door is locked." John tried to sound casual. "He's just out the hospital. I think he fell asleep and forgot to unlock his door." John was careful to put on a fake smile.
Several more persons were seen at the end of the hallway. Another agent and Constable Grifton walked toward him.
"Everything is OK here, can we have some privacy?" John said. All the curious faces disappear back into the main room.
The agent next to him braced himself as if he would break down the door. "Oi, wait, I have a key," John said quickly.
Both roommates never locked their doors. They would simply close their doors if they wanted privacy. Both also had a key to the other roommate's door. They only installed the locks because of their dangerous lifestyle. Sherlock had insisted that it would give them a few extra minutes to call emergency services or Mycroft if anyone ever broke into their flat.
That door key was never used before now. The fact that he would have to force his way into Sherlock's room made John's stomach twist.
John briskly walked to his room and ran up the stairs as he ignored the faces that followed him. Within a few minutes, John was turning the knob to Sherlock's room. Several men were behind him at the doorway.
"Sherlock," John stopped abruptly. He looked into the room. He did not know that he inhaled deeply.
A/N: Happy New Year. I will not keep you in suspense long. Part II, up later this week.