Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 149
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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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*****. *** Warning for violence, drug reference T rated ****. ****
"… Always think twice before the pawn move, pawns do not go back."
… The Fall… Part III…
"Revenge is a dish best served cold" unknown
Current Day
Current Time
John narrowed eyes turned and looked at Robert Anderson who sat quietly in a chair. Two agents stood in front of him, one to his left, and the other on his right. The folded arms, and scowl on Robert's face had replaced the anger, insults, and cursing.
Anderson watched Watson as he whispered something to the disagreeable looking man in the suit. They both looked at him before Watson started to walk over. Anderson looked at an unconscious Holmes. Men in suits, worked around him with medical equipment. He watched as one of the men adjusted the flow of the IV fluids. The unpleasant looking man, stood next to Holmes while two people in suits, talked among themselves. They came to an agreement. The needle of an unknown drug, pierced the rubber IV catheter port.
Who were these men.
Robert fluctuated between panic and anger. His muscles tensed of their own accord, his breathing quickened as he looked toward the door that exited the room. One agent moved closer as if he could sense Robert's intentions. He would not make it. The freak was always trouble.
Watson had made his way over to him. He stood directly in front of the Yarder.
"I didn't do anything," Anderson muttered automatically.
He noticed that his breathing came even more quickly now. To his surprise, Watson pulled up a chair beside him and sat down. He crossed his legs and folded his arms. Anderson cast a wary glance at Watson. Anderson became more apprehensive.
John spoke with a deadly calm. "I just have a few questions. I've rather figured most everything out. Just confirm and we're done."
"For the sake of curiosity, if I do this." Anderson inquired with suspicion.
"You'll be at work tomorrow," John said calmly.
John Watson's look was offputting at best, terrifying at worse, but Robert would never admit that little fact. He refused to be intimidated. This was not Holmes, after all. What could mild, and meek John Watson do?
Anderson stood and towered over the smaller man. He cursed at John and threatened him. He reminded the room that he was a member of Scotland Yard. That he had a powerful friend. That if they knew what was good for them, they would release him. Anderson's own sense of importance had grown tremendously. The drugs, and his new found power fueled his rants, and threats.
Still, he was surprised that none in the room came to the defense of the smaller man; in fact, the man with the umbrella had a smirk on his face.
John stood calmly for the first time. He looked at Anderson and simply said, "Sit."
Anderson threw a kiss at John. "You can kiss my ar…"
Anderson never had a chance to finish his thought. He gasped in surprise as he found himself being forced into his chair, with his hands twisted behind his back. After being deposited roughly, he was let go. Robert noticed a painful throb to his nose. He put a hand to his nose and felt a small amount of moisture. He touched the moist area and looked at his hand.
It was red.
If everyone kept punching him in the nose, it would soon be deformed. He opened his mouth in shock. He never believed the man had the courage to actually hit him.
John sat back in front of him and said. "I know that you could not have done this on your own. I need the name of the person who supplied you with the men. I need you to confirm your plans for Holmes, and who instructed you to do what you did. I need the name of all those who are working with you. What happened here. What did you do to him physically and what were you bribing Holmes with?"
Anderson looked defiantly at John. He came up with a brilliant idea. At least it was brilliant in his drug influenced mind.
"I'm a victim here as well. We were both kidnapped. I overheard them talking. It had to do with the Bedford case." Anderson cautiously motioned toward the larger of the two dead men. "The drug dealers that Holmes put away was his brother, he died in prison last month. He was planning some revenge." He looked into Watson's eyes. "I think they must have given Holmes something. The poor man was confused. He actually thought that I was a part of this. But, look at me. I have more bruises on my face than Holmes." Anderson smiled, "Even though I do admit. The rest of that body of his, might be a bit… banged up." All the hatred he had for Holmes came out in his words. Still he had not admitted to anything.
John's expression never changed. He uncrossed his legs and sat without quietly in front of Anderson.
Anderson leaned toward Watson and whispered as he looked at Holmes. Men in suits were transferring Sherlock onto a trolley. "I don't know what they planned to do to Holmes, but I know that it was unpleasant. I heard one of them mention how pretty he was."
Anderson sat back satisfied at the tightening in Watson's jaws. He wondered when Scotland Yard would arrive. He would have to put on his best, I am a victim, face. He was one of them; they would believe him.
Watson turned away from him and looked at the tall, unpleasant looking man. He was standing and talking to the men that were about to take Holmes away. Watson and the man looked at each other without saying a word. The man gave a slight nod. Anderson realized, for the first time, that he had seen this man before. He was about to search his memory, but became distracted. A man in a suit ran over to Watson and gave him something before retreating.
All amusement left Anderson's face as he frowned. He raised his upper body in an attempt to discover what the object was. Anderson stiffened as he looked intently into the eyes of John Watson.
He opened his mouth to say something but could not find his voice. A cold sweat broke out as his heart started to race.
"You wouldn't," Anderson whispered.
John slowly continued to load the bullets into the gun.
Anderson heard a noise. He looked away from Watson. He noticed Holmes being wheeled away on a trolley with several men, and the tall man that Watson spoke to, following.
He blinked a few times.
He heard the distinct click of a gun, as it was click shut.
"I'm a police officer you can't just shoot me!" Anderson voice started in a whisper and rose in volume, cracking at the end.
Watson held the gun on one thigh. "We all do things that would shock most people if they knew about it, don't we." John's voice held no glee. It was solemn. "You should know that fact better than me, shouldn't you?"
Anderson said nothing but shook his head. The sensation of nausea increased. Anderson found it difficult to swallow.
John leaned toward Anderson and whispered in his ear. "Ask yourself a question. Do you really think this is the first time that I have killed to protect him. I don't mind telling you that. You'll never tell anyone."
A drop of sweat rolled down his back and forehead. Anderson felt nauseated. He looked at the men in the suits. They all seemed to be ignoring the exchange and the gun. He now realized that Scotland Yard was not coming.
Anderson looked into the eyes of John Watson, and saw the soldier. He saw a cold, calculating killer. If he had a voice, he would have laughed. Everyone believed that Holmes was the psychopath and Watson was the sweet, innocent assistant. He now saw the truth. Holmes would only shoot in self-defense. He was too... Moral. Watson had been the Psychopath the entire time.
Anderson felt something cold, and hard press against the side of his head. He blinked several times.
Watson held the gun to his head. When had he moved? He looked around again. Wasn't anyone going to do anything?
He heard the click of the gun.
Anderson thought that he had no voice. He was wrong. He never noticed as a scream tore itself from his mouth.
The sound was deafening. Black devoured him whole. He did not have time to plead, or beg, or rail in anger. In the end, there was no time.
Robert Anderson knew nothing.