Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 145
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment.
*Congratulations to Benedict Cumberbatch for winning best actor at the Broadcasting Press Guild Awards. Sherlock, and Parade's End.
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 question was the reference to canon, The Noble Bachelor.
Congratulations: The winner of the Fun Question is, Kitiara88, cyber cheers! That was a difficult one. Lord Robert St. Simon is correct. Also Flora Millar, Harriet Doran (In the book her name is Hatty). Frank's last name in the book is Moulton.
*****.*** T rated but there is some violence.****. ****
I wanted to put something up today. So, here is a bonus chapter. Multiple chapters late tomorrow or early Sunday. Warning, this is a cliffie. That is why more will be up so soon. Lots of Love.
"… Always think twice before the pawn move, pawns do not go back."
… The Fall… Part II…
"The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it." ~Mignon McLaughlin
Current Day
Current Time
He blinked a few times as he tried to focus. There was an annoyingly distracting ringing sound in his ears.
"What happened?" Anderson slurred as he shook his head to clear the lifting mental fog. He tried to shift his body, but he could not move. He felt something cool and firm on the back of his head, torso, and legs. He slowly realized that he was lying flat on the concrete floor.
Anderson tried to shift his body again to sit up. "What the hell?" He asked himself confused. He felt a sting on his lips and a pressure on his chest. He felt something warn drip from his nose. He blinked to clear the blurry image of the dark figure above him. His eyes finally cleared. Anderson looked at the man who stood above him. The realization that it was Sherlock Holmes, who had one foot firmly planted on his chest, came suddenly.
The embarrassingly brief struggle now came back to him in full clarity. Anderson tried to sit up and push the offensive foot off of him, but a quick push ended the struggle.
When Sherlock spoke, he looked into the face of the man who had caused him a great deal of bother. Holmes looked smug. Anderson puckered his lips defiantly and frowned struggling.
Sherlock's tone was low and dangerous, "Stay down, or I'll be forced to hit you again; maybe several times. Trust me when I say that the act will not be without its joys."
Anderson pouted as he stopped struggling. A horrible thought came into his mind. "You used me. You wanted me to tell you the name of the man that's at Scotland Yard."
Sherlock, for the first time, took his foot off of Anderson's chest. "Even idiots can have moments of clarity."
Sherlock scanned the area before taking the bullet clip from Anderson's gun. He pocketed the clip, but threw the weapon. The reverberating sound of the metal gun, clanged several times on the concrete, before it landed with a hard thud against a far wall. Sherlock continued to slowly back up.
He looked at Anderson with disdain. "This arrangement is concluded." He turned to walk away.
Anderson started to chuckle quietly. "Plan B."
Sherlock slowly turned and looked at the man. He searched his eyes and his own mind.
Anderson's gentle chuckle graduated into a soft laugh. It was a complicated, multidimensional sound, filled with irony, slight embarrassment, and the promise of danger.
Sherlock made a deduction, understanding instantly. His eyes again traveled around the room in quick jerky motions, this time with more urgency. Every shadow and corner suddenly became a potential threat.
Anderson spoke in between the laughter. "Don't you remember this warehouse?"
A sharp stab of pain raced through Sherlock's scull then. It disappeared, leaving a dull throb in its place. Sherlock grimaced then frowned. A suppressed thought, a forgotten memory itched at the back of his mind. He walked backwards while keeping a wary eye on Anderson.
It was getting more difficult to speak in between laughing. "What is it? Amnesia? PTSD? How could you forget the two weeks of pleasure spent here?" Anderson smiled, "Well, I say pleasure. You might say torture. I'm sorry we could not celebrate the actual day, but it's never too late, is it? Happy anniversary… freak." Anderson's laughter became louder.
Sherlock was in the middle of turning away from Anderson when it happened. Blinding pain hit his head. He stumbled backwards and fell against the wall. He slammed his eyes shut. Disorganized, disjointed memories of the very warehouse he stood in; flooded into his mind, without mercy. The memories were most unpleasant. He wished that they had stayed forgotten. He was grateful for the dim light. The dirty wall was the only thing that held him upright, and on his feet; he stayed leaning against it for a few minutes. The pain ebbed slightly, he forced his eyelids open; he resisted the urge to slam them shut again. He felt nauseated and slightly disoriented, yet one thought found its way past the pain.
'Move'.
Anderson's laughing became more uncontrolled. Holmes overwhelmed senses were alert. His hand went into his pocket as he felt for the hard object without giving anything away. He normally did not have to look to push the mobile numbers, but he found himself too uncoordinated to do so now. He gave up on the idea for the time and concentrated on remaining upright.
Sherlock stumbled away. He held on to the wall heavily with one hand, as he pulled out his mobile. He staggered away as quickly as his body would allow. He ignored the lingering headache. Minutes later, his movements became more steady, his body slightly stronger with each step. His fingers shakily pressed the number one on his mobile key pad and the send key.
The mobile rang once then disconnected abruptly.
Sherlock exhaled noisily. The signal strength was weak inside the building. Sherlock tried to connect again. He blinked several times in an effort to focus. His eyes glanced suspiciously around the space as he entered the first corridor.
The line connected. Sherlock spoke in a rushed, unsteady voice. "John…"
The mobile signal dropped.
Sherlock hissed a curse then tried to text this time. He was feeling physically stronger. Except for a weak throb in the back of his head, and slight shake in his hands, he felt like himself again. At least physically. His steps were becoming increasingly hurried. He pushed the send key. He kept the mobile in his hand when he started a light jog. He was halfway through the first corridor. It would come to a dead end soon. It did have two adjacent corridors. One was on the left, and the other one was on the right.
Sherlock did not realize how tense his muscles were held together until he was a few yards away from the end of the passageway. One left turn, one long corridor, a set of stairs, and he would be out the door.
A dank, musty smell assaulted his nostrils. The edges of his suit trousers had picked up dust as he moved. Sherlock suddenly felt dirty. He glanced at the dust, cobwebs, and grime that the abandoned space seemed to have in abundance. He suddenly wished for a hot shower with an unending supply of soap. Grime never bothered him before, odd that.
Sherlock came to the end of one corridor, turned left, and entered another. He continued to jog. The steady slapping sound of his shoes on concrete, seemed to almost echo as he entered the larger space. The sound seemed to multiply at the same time that his mobile rang. He realized that it was the sound of feet running. There was no one in front so it did not take a genius to know that he was being pursued from behind.
One hand was on the mobile phone. The other hand swung back and forth in an effort to help propel his body forward faster. His opened black overcoat flapped behind him, as his long, toned legs carried him further away from the sounds behind.
"Sherlock…" John's voice held apprehension. Sherlock's breathy voice immediately interrupted John.
"John… in trouble," he took the opposite shoulder that held the mobile, and slammed it into the door that led to the stairwell. The door opened bouncing hard on the wall. "I'm south…" Sherlock stop speaking abruptly. He put the mobile in his pocket, but did not disconnect.
Three men froze, so did Sherlock before pandemonium broke out. The first man who was closest to Holmes swung a fist at him. He easily ducked the punch. Holmes braced his upper body as he used his legs to kick the first man in the chest. The first man lost his balance, and tumbled into the man behind. The first, and second men fell with a loud crash; unfortunately, the third man was still standing and advancing on Holmes.
As the third man was running up the stairs. Holmes placed both hands on the rusty metal rail and swung his body over in one fluid motion. He barely avoided twisting his ankle as he landed hard on the edge of the stairs. He did not have time to think about the near catastrophe, as he scampered down the remaining stairs with one man following close, two more following further behind, and yet two more left in a pile.
Sherlock's feet danced manically from step-to-step, in quick, rhythmic taps. If he managed not to trip, he would be out the building in a manner of minutes. He hoped that the mobile signal had not dropped, and that John could hear what was going on. Droplets of sweat started to roll down Sherlock's neck, and face. He did not bother to look back. Forward was where he wanted to be.
Sherlock crashed through the door to the outside full-force. He ran several steps before he froze. The harsh sound of breaths, inhaling and exhaling, filled the air. The chill of the air conspired to further chilled his sweat soaked skin. His body and head remained still, as his eyes traveled in a slow circle.
There was now a increasing chorus of harsh, breathy sounds that surrounded the Consultant Detective. Slowly more men came around the detective.
Sherlock mind scanned their bodies. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the boot of a car that was opened. One unpleasant looking man stood by it. His mind searched for an angle, looked for a way out of the inevitable. He could find none. The final result would be the same.
He looked at the angry looking man to his left. He had a bleeding wound to the side of his face. Another man was similarly injured. They both looked particularly unhappy. He now turned in a slow circle as two more men joined the group, eight in total now. There was also one man in the driver's side of the car, and one still standing patiently by the trunk. They all circled him as they caught their breath, but did not touch him. The door opened again. He knew to whom the footsteps belonged. His jaws clinched of their own accord.
Anderson.
Anderson walked up to the front of Holmes as he looked in his eyes. There was a bruise to his jaw and drying blood under his nose.
Sherlock eyes narrowed as he looked at him.
Anderson stood further away from Holmes than the rest of the men. He was careful not to get close enough for Holmes to strike him.
Anderson's eyes widened into a look of mock concern as he spoke. "I doubt even you can wiggle your way out of this one mate." Then Anderson smiled despite the pain it caused.
"Do you like my new friends? The whore I'm shagging provided them for me, my own personal army. She provided me with a lot of things." He winked at Holmes. "You're quite clever, aren't you. You had me figured out from the first day, you say…"
One man moved toward Holmes with a syringe.
"… all that cleverness, all that wit, and still, I have you…"
The men looked warily at Holmes as his hands moved away from his body.
"… my friend said that I needed a plan B with you. This is it." Anderson scoffed darkly, "I told you that you're coming with me. There's too many men here for you to fight off everyone."
"You're correct." Holmes said evenly.
"I'm correct?" Anderson asked disbelievingly. "You're admitting I'm right?"
The man with the syringe took the syringe cap off, exposing the sharp needle. He held it as he advanced with caution.
"Yes, there are too many men for me to fight off everyone." Without another word, Sherlock elbowed the man in front of Anderson. He lunged at Anderson, punching him in his already injured nose.
Anderson let off a high-pitched yelp as the men wrestled Sherlock away from him while trying unsuccessfully to avoid his punches.
Sherlock kept fighting when a needle pierce through his overcoat into his skin. He fought when hands grabbed, and hit him quicker than he could defend himself. He fought when the world started to tilt, and spin. He fought a battle he would not win.
Yet... He fought.
A/N: Thank you all for reading. Something to get you by. I consider this a bonus posting. Fun facts resume next posting. Thank you for your comments. Lots of Love.