Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 158

*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.

Warning*****. *** T rated ****. ****Violence. Talk of blood.

"… One trick is to put your king between the enemy's king and pawn-that's often enough for a draw. But do calculate a few moves ahead, because there's a big difference between drawing and almost drawing…"

… Drawing or almost drawing III…"

"I like treachery, but I cannot say anything good of traitors."

~Julius Caesar

Current Day

Current Time

They watched him as he walked among the bodies. They wore their blue body suits. He still wore none despite the ungodly amounts of blood and other things that they both chose not to think about. He had not said a word. Not to call anyone incompetent, not to show off one of his brilliant deductions, not even to ask a question yet. No one interfered; the fire in his eyes informed everyone that his brilliant mind was engaged in the hunt.

It was dark now, and high-powered worklights had been transported to the crime scene. It helped greatly to illuminate the area, yet it added to the gruesomeness of an already surreal scene. Now there were pockets of black darkness on the borders of areas of too bright light. Someone had underestimated the amount of worklights needed, so they were forced to spread the lights too thinly.

Lestrade glanced upwards.

The eleven bodies swung slightly from side to side. They were upside down on hooks that were fastened to the ceiling above.

Greg looked at the silhouette in the distance before glancing at John. John's arms were folded, as he focused on Sherlock. His face had contorted into such a look of utter concentration; he wondered if he noticed anything else, that was occurring.

John's face suddenly took on a look of concern, as his body tensed, and his mouth partially opened. Lestrade's own expression relayed concern as he turned, following John's eyes. Sherlock had emerged from a patch of darkness into a well-lit area. He was looking so intently at the bodies he seemed to not notice the bloodied mess that he had surrounded himself with. Lestrade frowned, he did not want to break his concentration, but he did not want him to step into something unpleasant. He decided to let John handled the situation. He simply looked from John, to Sherlock, to John again.

John opened his mouth. A breath escaped before his features morphed back into one of concentration. His body relaxed.

Lestrade noticed what he saw. Sherlock, without looking down, had somehow navigated himself around the mess and stepped over a puddle of partially congealed blood. Lestrade relaxed and resumed watching Holmes.

Sherlock looked away from the bodies for the first time. He discarded his gloves. He then took out his mobile and took several pictures, before he sent a quick text. After a few minutes, an incoming text came. He manipulated his mobile for a few minutes longer, and then put it away. He donned a fresh pair of gloves.

Lestrade ignored the break in official protocol; this was Sherlock. He sighed resigned, as he purposely turned his eyes away, as if the act could erase the image of the Consultant Detective sending pictures of a crime scene to God-only-knows, who.

Lestrade folded his arms in front of him.

Greg exhaled irritably, before admitting to himself that it had to be Molly Hooper that Sherlock was communicating with. Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he trusted her to accurately evaluate the forensic details. In fact, Holmes just trusted Molly.

After the appropriate time had passed, Lestrade shifted his body and eyes toward Sherlock.

Sherlock was on the last body now. Sherlock glanced at the body from feet moving downward to the battered face. Greg noticed a frown; his own face frowned in sympathy. Sherlock stood there for a long moment, with a look of deep contemplation and surprise. It was the first recognizable expression on the younger man's face.

A noise caught the Detective Inspector's attention. There was a rhythmic echo, as feet moved swiftly through the opened space. A Sergeant moved briskly toward Lestrade. The Sergeant spoke in a breathy voice. John, for the first time, turned away and listened.

Data flowed into Sherlock's mind. The world melted away until nothing but facts and figures remained.

Eleven bodies, four of the men were criminal professionals – Seven of those men common criminals – yet, they were all punished together, and this was punishment.

This was personal- The men were not just killed, an example was made of them.

Hung upside down like meat– Sends a message about their worth – That is - Lack of worth.

Sherlock steadied a body with one hand as a gloved finger pressed firmly on a cheek.

The lower part of the bodies would be the faces. There are signs that the blood cells has begun to settle in the lower area– Yet, no true livor mortis, or rigor mortis yet.

Considering the temperature, death over an hour, but less than two hours.

Sherlock walked over to the last body.

This one suffered more than the rest. The torture was slower, more painful. The body was unrecognizable. But, something held Holmes there. He did not notice that his professional mask fell as he frowned.

The eyes.

He concentrated as he ignored the gruesome scene around him. Everything around him further retreated. Sherlock eyes narrowed as he focused on the eyes. Something was familiar, very familiar.

A moment passed.

Eyes suddenly became wide as his mouth parted slightly. He turned toward Lestrade and John. They were walking toward him after talking with a police officer. He already knew what Lestrade would say.

Sherlock waited, as they made their way carefully to him. Lestrade opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock spoke first.

"I know Lestrade. Four of these men are Moriarty's men; this one is one of his top men. I have hypothesized that the rest of these men are employees of a drug dealer."

Sherlock turned to John. "Both you and I know this man."

John looked strangely at Sherlock. He looked at what was left of the man but could not recognize whom it..., he meant he, was.

"The eyes John; ignore everything else. You might want to do the same Lestrade." Sherlock waited patiently.

Lestrade thought the man was familiar, but he could not recall the name.

A few second later, John inhaled with shock. His head snapped toward Sherlock who simply nodded once in conformation.

"Who killed them? Who killed him?" John asked the question before Lestrade could.

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied simply.

"Four of those murdered were his own men. Why kill his own men?" Even though Lestrade's tone was challenging, the truth was he knew better than to not trust Holmes.

Sherlock looked at the face of the last body as he replied, "For me."

John considered this. He noticed Sherlock as he looked away. Following Sherlock's eyes, both men simultaneously looked at the writing on the wall. It was written in blood.

"Do you know what it means?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, as he stared at the last body. "Scire quis sit Magister, it means, Know who is the Master."

"We dance round in a ring and suppose, while the secret sits in the middle and knows."

~Robert Frost

Current Day

One Hour Earlier

Sebastian thought for a minute thinking about what Moriarty had said. He made his face blank before looking at Moriarty.

Moran, following Moriarty's eyes, turned his eyes toward the computer. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, before a blank mask came over his face. With the push of a button, the sounds of screaming and shouting filled the moderately sized space.

Sebastian sat without expression. Only the tightening of his hand around the wineglass betrayed his discomfort. No one would have noticed. Moriarty did.

When they came to the last person, Sebastian did not notice that his jaws had clinched tightly and his teeth were grinding audibly. Sebastian never pretended to be a caring or sympathetic man. He was prideful, selfish, self-centered, ruthless, intelligent, and skilled with a gun; but he did have one weakness. Strangely, he only discovered it at that moment.

The man that they were preparing to torture; was someone who had followed Sebastian after being discharged from military service. James was his name. He had known the man for over a decade. Their relationship over the years had changed. During their time in the military together, it had been one of starry-eyed worship, on James part, at least. Then their relationship was one of the loyal follower, master. The last three years, it had grown, and changed into something else, something that Sebastian could not label.

No, Moran was not sentimental, but for his entire faults, and there were many, he was loyal. The young man being tortured now was as close to family as Sebastian's normally cold heart, could identify.

Sebastian, for the first time in his life, swallowed his pride. He would ask… no plead with Moriarty for the young man's life. He turned toward Moriarty and opened his mouth. At the cold look in Moriarty's eyes, he closed it again. He knew that look. He had smirked and thought it funny, when he saw numberless victims beg, when Jim's eyes had darkened. He knew pleading would not move Moriarty to mercy. Instead, it would cause Moriarty to increase the level of torture. The end results would be that the torture would be extended as long as possible. Jim despised weakness.

Sebastian attempted to look at the ground. Moriarty cleared his throat. Sebastian looked back to the computer, he made his face as bored looking as possible. No one was fooled.

As Sebastian watched, a cold chill ran through his body. If one part of himself asked the other part of himself, why he sat there, he would have been forced to confess that he was not sure why. Everything in this training as a soldier, screamed at him to flee, or fight. He ignored the impulses that had kept him alive during his military service, and the time after his service. This was Moriarty. Where could he go that his hands could not reach? The truth was, even if he could escape, he would not.

He composed himself best he could and endured every sound, every scream, every whimper, and then finally, the silence. If he did not see that it was James before the torture began, he would not have known that what was left of the body was his.

Sebastian looked away now. Only the stiffness in his body reminded him of the passing of time. Apparently, he had not moved. The expensive wine was raised to his lips, before it was lowered, untouched. The wine had lost its appeal.

Moriarty rose. Moran rose and waited. Moriarty's voice broke the silence.

"It's so amusing when ordinary people try to hide something. I knew about your little acts of affection for Holmes, I allowed it. It did control him and it was amusing to see him out think you over, and over, and over again. It also provided a way to punish him, and to remind him of what I could have allowed."

He walked up to Sebastian but stopped before they touched. "Do you know how many times I came close to killing you? I would think about it sometimes, but then tea, and sandwiches would come, and I would get distracted." Moriarty waved his hand around in the air dramatically. "We both know how much I love those cucumber sandwiches."

Sebastian forced himself not to back up as his boss took another step. He could smell the wine on Moriarty's breath. Sebastian's heart rate sped up, yet he forced himself to stay where he was standing.

"You've gone a little too far; you've crossed a line Seb."

Moran's anger, jealousy, and pride erupted. "Holmes is not worthy to…"

There was a blur of movement.

Sebastian blinked his eyes before they became wide. Moriarty's tone was treacherous, yet intimate, as if they were having a private conversation. He tried to squirm, to speak, but could do neither. Moriarty had his body pressed against his as an elbow pressed firmly against his throat. He was pinned to the wall like a fly. Jim was pressing against his throat, not hard enough to completely cut off his airway, just firmly enough to make it rather difficult to breathe.

He had forgotten how strong, and quick Moriarty was.

He was choked against a wall. Moran wheezed and inhaled harshly, as he tried to intake the precious oxygen. His eyes travelled around the room, before it came to rest again on Moriarty. The room started to darken, as his thoughts became unclear. If this was the end, he had to somehow communicate to Moriarty, to Jim. He had to let him know what a great man he thought he was. Maybe, he was just as insane as Jim. Sebastian's lips turned up into a small smile. With the lack of oxygen and bluish tint to his lips, and skin, it gave him a morbid, gruesome appearance.

Moriarty looked back. Sebastian saw a blackness there. It was the same murderous intent he had seen countless times. It was now directed at him. Before his eyes closed, and the world turned gray, Sebastian thought he saw something unfamiliar flash across Moriarty's face. It was there one minute then gone. As the gray turned to black, he felt himself fall into nothingness.

To be continued.