Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 132
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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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*The answer to last week's Fun Question was: "… when I say run, run." That phrase is found in both Doctor Who, and A Scandal in Belgravia .
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*****.*** T rated ****. ****
I have written a few chapters so… Read all at once...or ...Read one chapter a day. The choice is yours. Make yourself happy. I will post again as soon as I can.
"… Should a pawn get all the way across the board to reach the opponent's edge of the table, it will be promoted. The pawn may now become any piece that the moving player desires, except a king or pawn..."
… The Promotion of the Pawn… Part I…
"Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing
to attempt." ~ Shakespeare
Current Day
Current Time
He glanced at the generously oversize windows. The moon peeked in, and out of the cloudy, darkened sky. His eyelids slowly parted. There was confusion for a moment. A shaky hand was brought up to his eyes, as his face was dry-wiped. He inhaled and exhaled deeply as he attempted to blink away the blurred edges of his vision. The room progressively sharpened and images became clearer and more defined. The low buzzing sound in his ears dissipated. He remained still, as he stared up at the ceiling. His mind fog cleared. His thoughts transformed from disorder to order, as he looked slowly around the space that he was in.
A one-liter bag of intravenous fluid hung on a pole by his bed. His eyes shifted as they visually traced the fluid filled catheter tubing line, which ran from the IV bag, to his left arm, where it was inserted, disappearing in a vein. The fluid was filtered through a silent machine. His glance returned to the room.
He knew that he was not in danger. The same instincts that kept him alive, past one tour of duty in Afghanistan, insured him that he was safe. Still, he looked around the room with the eyes of a soldier. He was at the Holmes family manor, in one of the guest rooms. This was Mycroft's doing. He, apparently, did not think the hospitals to be currently safe.
Everything seemed to hurt. However, the pain was dull and distant. Pain medication, John thought.
John's eyes came to rest on a chair next to his bed. He turned his head slightly and looked at the chair. The first thing that he noticed was dark tufts of curls that hung over a face. He turned his head slightly to the left as he looked at his friend. John was always amazed at the way that Sherlock, despite his height, was able to contort himself into the smallest of spaces. Both legs were pulled up to his chest. His entire body was leaning to the side of the chair. His face was partially hidden underneath a combination of curls and body, as it rested on the side of the chair. One arm rested on his legs, the other was resting on the bedside next to John, but not touching.
It was strange to see Sherlock asleep by his bedside. Sherlock would never admit to it if awake, but the younger man almost seemed to be guarding him. John thought that he should know; he had spent countless hours guarding Sherlock's bedside in many hospital rooms, over the years.
John smiled and looked at Sherlock. His smile left. Sherlock should really be in a bed of his own. He thought briefly of waking the sleeping Consultant Detective. John winced slightly as he raised his hand to shake Sherlock's arm, to wake him. John's hand froze above his friend's arm, before lowering again. He frowned and hesitated. When Sherlock slept, it was one of the few times that he was unguarded. His mouth was slightly open in sleep. If it was not for the bruising on the side of his face, and dark circles under his eyes, John would have said that he looked, peaceful. Sherlock would usually wake at the slightest provocation. The fact that he had not even stirred when John shifted in bed, was an indication to John of how exhausted Sherlock must have been.
John tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. His eyes were growing heavy. He took one last look at Sherlock before allowing them to close. He meant to close his eyes briefly, but sleep wrapped him, like a warm blanket and did not let go for three hours.
When John opened his eyes, hours later, two pairs of gray- blue eyes were looking at him. He looked around and saw a few changes since the last time that he was awake. Sherlock was now fully awake and dressed in a suit, it was daylight, and there was an eat-off tray filled with assorted foods. There was no coffee, but there was tea. A most pleasing aroma drifted toward John's nose. Sherlock gave him a moment to take everything in, before he spoke.
"I thought you would be hungry, seeing as you've mostly slept for forty hours and twenty-seven minutes."
John gestured toward the food. "How did you know that I would wake up now? Everything is hot?"
"Your REM sleep. I paid attention to the time when you started to dream by your rapid eye movements. Based on the amount of sleep your body would require, because of the physical trauma you have endured; your rapid eye movements were the best indication of the time that you would wake."
John said nothing. He just raised an eyebrow slightly.
Sherlock rose from his chair. "Let me help you to sit up."
John's eyebrows rose further. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock was not a mind reader. Because, at that moment, he decided that he could get used to being served by Sherlock Holmes.
Current Day
Current Time
250 Knots.
The giant metal bird slowed its descent as it cut through the dense clouds. The sun's rays colored the morning sky. Moments later, three hundred meters above the ground, the land came into view. The experienced pilot checked his instruments with a practiced ease. He informed the tower of his approach. The airplane flaps were 45 degrees in preparation for a touchdown.
The airplane's wheels touched and bounced briefly on the earth. After a short while, the flaps retracted fully. The aircraft slowed progressively until it came to a full stop.
Within minutes, several men in suits exited the airplane. They looked around with cautious eyes at the immediate area. They searched the dim light for phantoms that never appeared. One man pushed a button on his microphone and gave the 'all clear,' command. Moments later, a tall man exited. Both hands gripped the handle of his umbrella, as he leaned lightly on it. He breathed in the air that he thought to be the 'sweetest' in the world. He did not consider this thought sentimental, just a fact. He was home. An elegantly dressed woman stood beside him. She watched him as he looked at the first lights of dawn.
"Sir," She asked when he took an uncharacteristically long time to move.
Mycroft looked into the eyes of his ever present and faithful assistant. She looked back with questioning eyes.
"Ready Sir?" Anthea asked with a small smile.
Mycroft returned a rare smile. It seemed that he was giving her quite of few lately. "When am I not ready?"
Anthea smile became wider as she followed him into the limousine. The dark motorcar drove hurriedly toward the outskirts of London.