Forgotten Memories Chapter 133, a sherlock fanfic

Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 133

*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment.

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.

*****.*** T rated ****. ****

"… 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…

"When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life."~ Antisthenes

Events refer to a conversation between the brothers in chapter 106.

Current Day

Current Time

The room was lined with wood. Oak was used heavily in the room. Sherlock crossed his legs. A slight sliding sound was heard as his dress shoes slid on the beautiful oak floors. John would not be awake for another six hours. He would have lunch made and ready before John woke. He would have one of the staff make John's favorite tea as well.

He looked at the door that led to John's room. If John had died… Sherlock stopped the thought.

Delete…

He looked toward the mantel above the fireplace. He noticed the family photographs. He was smiling in the early childhood ones. He glanced at the ones that were taken when he was older. The smile became less broad every year until a stoic look replaced the smiles.

He looked away and glanced around the room.

Sherlock quietly looked around. Data and detail floated in and out of his mind. He noticed the pattern of dust, or the lack of it. He noticed the way the books were arranged. He deduced which book was the last one that was read. The smell of the wood. The oiled rubbed on the wood. The smell of the leather books. The slight staleness in the air. He used to escape into this room often as a child.

He closed his eyes.

Information… Data… Information… Data… Memories… Memories… Delete… Delete…

Delete…

He heard a throat being cleared in front of him. How had he not noticed Mycroft's approach?

Sherlock did not open his eyes. "You've arrived rather quickly." He opened his eyes slowly. "How is Mummy?"

Mycroft looked at his brother, intently. Sherlock was much too exhausted to try to hide or cover himself emotionally. Sherlock allowed his brother to look and deduce. Mycroft was dressed in his suit without his umbrella. He rarely carried it when he was in the Holmes family manor. A few strands of hair were out of place in his brother's normally impeccably styled hair. Mycroft had been looking tired lately. Sherlock had always thought of Mycroft as eternal and indestructible. The thought that his brother might be flesh and blood, was as troubling, as it was comforting.

Mycroft did not bother to ask his brother, how he knew that he had been with their mother.

Mycroft looked over Sherlock. It had been six days since his brother's attempted kidnapping. He would not admit it aloud, but it was terrifying to hear his normally reserved brother cry out his name before the mobile phone line became disconnected. It had been a little over forty hours since John and Sherlock staggered out of the hospital after beating Moriarty once again. He wondered how long Sherlock would be able to play the game without losing himself. The fact that Sherlock was emotionally naked before him, was telling.

After several long minutes, Mycroft answered. "She is determined to see you, and before you become angry or comment, yes, I tried to persuade her against the idea."

Mycroft gave a tired, defeated smile, and sat in the chair opposite his brother's chair before adding. "And yes, I was unsuccessful. Mummy is more formidable than Korea."

Sherlock chuckled softly as he turned and looked at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's amusement. For a moment, a brief moment, the years melted away, and they were just two brothers sitting together, enjoying each other's presence. Sherlock closed his eyes, as he suddenly winced. The moment was broken.

"Headache." His brother did not ask a question.

Sherlock heard his brother's voice through a haze of pain. His eyes remained closed. He tried to nod, but he was not sure if he did.

Somewhere in the haze, he heard his brother's voice break through. "… open your mouth Sherlock." Sherlock eyes squinted as he looked at his brother bending over him. He closed his eyes again but opened his mouth with uncharacteristic obedience. He felt two solid, oval shaped pills deposited on his tongue. Seconds later, he felt what appeared to be a glass next to his lips. He drank without question; the cool water was soothing to his throat. He could not say confidently how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again, but when he did, Mycroft was quietly observing him from his chair.

Sherlock took a few moments to allow the last of the pain to ebb away. He then sighed and looked at his brother. Mycroft at some point had turned off the lamp on the table, and closed the curtains to block out the light. The elder brother now turned back on the lamp that was located on the end table. Dim light once again illuminated the large space.

The situation had brought a memory to mind. Sherlock now remembered how Mycroft had helped to care for him when he was a child. He had forgotten, funny that.

Mycroft quietly observed his brother. Mycroft's eyes traveled over Sherlock's body. It came to rest on his brother's neck. The bruises had already started to heal, but there were still greenish-yellow tinged bruises on his neck that were very obviously shaped like fingerprints. His eyes lingered there deducing before it returned to Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock looked at his brother for a few minutes silently. He knew when he could push or evade Mycroft. He also knew when Mycroft was not in a mood to be trifled with. This was the latter. There was no point. Mycroft would simply obtain his medical records, if he had not already done so. More importantly, everything that happened to him, including Anderson, was a part of Moriarty's game. They both would have to work together to defeat him. Even though he still had memory gaps, he knew this with an urgency.

Sherlock opened his mouth and spoke. He did not look at his brother directly, but chose a point just beyond his head. He did not omit anything, and spoke with an almost clinical detachment that bordered on unhealthy. He finally stopped speaking and risked a look at Mycroft. Mycroft's face, to anyone who did not know him, was cool and collected. Those who did know him would have seen the fire in his eyes.

Sherlock noticed and frowned. "I need for you to let me handle this."

Mycroft said nothing; he only raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked at his brother. "Anderson cannot be charged, or prosecuted Mycroft. Not without Lestrade becoming involved."

Mycroft raised his other eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. "You cannot have the idiot disappeared either," Sherlock voice was low. "Lovely thought, as it is. He is being watched carefully."

Mycroft was silent, but his eyes communicated his clear intent.

"Don't you see Mycroft, Moriarty is clever," The first hint of emotion colored Sherlock's voice. "If I report Anderson, Lestrade could be disciplined. He was the one who called me to the scene and left me alone with a man who had made threats to me. I have no doubt that Moriarty has an influence on Lestrade supervisor. If I say nothing, Anderson will grow bolder because he thinks that he has gotten away with… attacking me and might try it again. Either way, Moriarty is entertained."

"He is both trying to punish me, and he is also trying to attack anyone who has ever supported me in any way. He has attacked or tried to attack, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Adler, and Molly," Sherlock voice wavered slightly, "and John."

Sherlock voice became low and even. "Moran could have killed him."

He paused and looked at his brother. "If you were not Mycroft the untouchable, and I was given to moments of sentiment, I would be… concerned about you as well. Mummy needs to stay away from me until this is over. We cannot afford for any attention to be drawn to her."

A shadow shifted on Mycroft's face. It was gone in a second but Sherlock saw it.

"You're keeping something from me Mycroft. Something critical." Mycroft openly frowned. He seemed to be considering something.

"Yes," Mycroft Holmes admitted simply.

Sherlock looked intently at Mycroft, "Care to share?"

Mycroft chose his words carefully. "Not at this time."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it when he looked in his brother's eyes.

Mycroft exhaled relieved. He knew that Sherlock was showing him trust. He would give him time before he asked again.

Mycroft changed the subject. "The attack provoked some memories returning."

Sherlock frowned, "Some. Two years of the memories returned."

"But there is some problem," Mycroft said as a matter of fact.

"Yes, There are holes in my memory. I can remember the day of the explosion when Moriarty kidnapped me. I cannot remember the day before. I can remember being on top of the building's roof, getting ready to jump. Looking at Moriarty bleed. I can remember falling into the lorry and waking up in Molly's bed with a dislocated shoulder. I remember going to see Mrs. Hudson and John at my grave. I remember seeing you before I left." He hesitated. "I remember Ms. Adler. I however cannot remember anything but bits and pieces of the year spent dismantling Moriarty's web."

Sherlock looked at his brother, "It's like I am looking at a picture puzzle, but someone took several key puzzle pieces out." Sherlock laughed without humor. "It gets worse. I remember enough to know that I was investigating Moriarty. I've discovered some things about him and his past that are critical to what is going on now. That is probably what drew his attention to me."

"I remember enough to know that there is something important that I have forgotten." Sherlock looked intently at Mycroft. "I cannot wait for my memories to return naturally to me. I have to force them to return."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and frowned. "It's too dangerous."

Sherlock looked determined. "It's my danger to take."

"No, this discussion is over," Mycroft rose from his chair.

Sherlock rose as well and blocked Mycroft's retreat. Mycroft became angry.

"Your danger you say." Mycroft scoffed. "You have responsibilities. Don't you realize that your life, harm, or death affects those around you, those people on that nice list of yours? The list of people who worry about you, those people that care about you will be affected."

Sherlock hissed. "Who do you think that I am trying to protect. Moriarty, for Moriarty, has been rather restrained. We both know that he is unhinged. If it was not for the fact that he considers himself trying to win me over, he could have disappeared with me again. What happens when he gets tired of the games, and decides to just take me and disappear against my will." Sherlock looked in Mycroft's eyes, "Or worse."

Mycroft hissed back, "The human mind is not something to be played with, like one of your little experiments. Moriarty has already done experimentation and tried, somewhat successfully, to take your memories away. That idiot Anderson has caused your memories to come back out of order, which means there are huge gaps in them. You're starting to have headaches again. Who knows what damage that idiot has provoked?"

Mycroft invaded his brother's personal space, "It. Is. Dangerous!"

"I will not have that simpleton, Anderson knowing more about my personal life than I do!" Sherlock had one hand on his hip. The other was gesturing enthusiastically.

Mycroft and Sherlock were face to face. A battle of wills took place for several minutes. Mycroft huffed and sank into his chair like a brick in water. "There is a way. It will be unpleasant and dangerous. Also, I will need time to prepare."

Sherlock opened his mouth but Mycroft cut him off.

"We prepare first Sherlock; I want you to come out of this with all your faculties and that charming personality of yours, intact." Mycroft smiled falsely.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow before sitting back down opposite his brother. "I am charming, am I not?"

Mycroft said nothing; his false smile however, became real. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "You have not told John everything."

The corners of Sherlock's lips curled into a smile. "John would have shot him. He wouldn't have killed him, of course, but I have no interest in John being arrested for shooting the idiot. There are other ways to take care of Anderson. Besides, Moriarty is using him, we can do the same."

Mycroft sat up straight, suddenly interested, "You have a plan."

"But of course," Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

For the next hour, the brothers spoke back and forth. It ended with a brief quiet.

"Well, off I pop. I have several agents that will continue to guard you and John. I have business to attend to, then I will be back in the morning."

Mycroft turned to leave. He heard is brother's voice before he reached the door that was furthest from where they were, on the left side of the room.

"John's in the east wing, not far from your room."

"I know, I asked you both to be put there in adjoining rooms." Mycroft disappeared out the door.

So, Mycroft had purposely put him next to John. In addition, John and he had been roomed, as far away from his childhood bedroom as possible. Mycroft was being considerate. No. It must have been a coincidence. Mycroft was the one who taught him that sentiments were unimportant, even dangerous. That was Sherlock's logical conclusion. He frowned as he joined both hands together, fingertip to fingertip. Yet, he could not stop himself from looking toward the door that his brother had just exited, and wondering why Mycroft seemed just the slightest bit less annoying.