Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 159

*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…"

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

~Robert Frost

Continued.

The blackness released him as it slowly receded. Jumbled images started to have meaning.

Moran heard someone choking before he realized that it was himself. He wheezed, and coughed and sputtered. Only one thing existed.

Breathe.

His eyes blinked as the world came back into focus. He looked up momentarily confused before he remembered the events of the last hour, and realized the Moriarty was on one knee beside him, and was talking. He looked at the ceiling and realized that he was lying on the floor.

"Back with us Seb? That's good then." Moriarty patted his cheek almost affectionately. "People talk to their pets, and since you are my current pet, let me tell you about my old one…"

Jim moved his body and sat on the floor next to the coughing, sputtering, and wheezing man. "… My father never allowed me to have a pet. I brought a stray-dog home one day. I was surprised that he did not beat me or force me to get rid of it. I cared for that dog for one month. I shared my food with it, slept with it. I think the emotion that ordinary people would use in describing how I felt, would have been, love. I think I loved it. The moment was so long ago, I can't remember how that particular emotion feels…"

Jim's voice was almost friendly now, yet the sinister undertones could not be missed.

"… One day I came home. I was excited. I worked for the neighbor and saved up enough money to buy this. I'm not sure why I kept it…" Moriarty took up an object in his hand and showed Sebastian.

Moriarty's eyes took on a distant look. He was quiet for a few seconds before speaking in his normal, cheerful voice. "… I wandered away from the story a bit, sorry. Anyway, I walked into my bedroom to see my father in my room petting the dog. For some reason, I can't seem to remember what I named that dog…" Moriarty's voice was far away.

Sebastian was gasping for breath.

"… Anyway, father just smiled at me. I knew instantly what I had done. I was very young but I knew that it was my … love that had killed that dog. The dog was still breathing, tail wagging, but he was dead. My father took a knife and smiled." Moran picked up a second object. "It was similar to this knife… father started to work." Sebastian held his breath as the cool of the metal pressed into his skin.

"An hour later, the dog was still alive, but suffering. My father had stopped before he killed the dog, and left it in my bed. Whatever the mass of mangled, bloodied flesh was, it was still alive, technically only, of course. Do you know what happened then?"

Sebastian looked straight ahead, as he wheezed. The coughing had stopped. The dull side of the knife traced invisible patterns on his skin. All Moriarty had to do, to open him up, was to flip to the other side of the blade. He remembered how well Moriarty handled knives. The unfamiliar emotion of terror hovered over Moran.

"I looked at the knife father had so kindly left on the bed. Two things occurred for the first time. It was the first time I killed. It was the last time I took a life for mercy."

Moriarty took away the knife. He fastened the thick leather around Sebastian's neck.

Sebastian started to choke again.

"Whoops, I made the collar a little tight Seb." Moriarty loosened the dog collar. Sebastian gasped inhaling large amounts of air as he coughed. Moriarty took the time to attach a leash.

"Get on your knees and beg."

"I'd rather... you kill... me Sir." Moran wheezed out,

Moriarty put his lips to Moran's ears and whispered. "But I won't kill you Seb. And, I won't allow you to kill yourself, if that's what you're thinking. Only I have that right."

Moriarty motioned with his hand. "On all fours, walk around and bark like a dog."

Sebastian looked at him oddly, as if Moriarty had just told a bad joke.

"Go ahead, bark." A sinister darken tone came into Moriarty's previously friendly voice.

Sebastian barked. His voice was still raspy from being choked. It all seemed out of body and surreal, Sebastian was in shock. This could not be happening, not to him.

Not to him!

He was Sebastian Moran, his very presence made men tremble.

Moriarty voice floated into his mottled mind. "We have final plans to go over with everyone. Go to the conference room now."

Sebastian sighed with relief. He was glad that it was over. He prepared to stand. A quick press of Moriarty's foot on his back stopped Sebastian from standing. "Where are you off to Sebastian? You crawl on all fours wherever you go for the rest of the day. I want everyone to know who you belong to."

Sebastian broke into a cold sweat from the humiliation, and dishonor. He remained on all fours, with a dog collar around his neck, frozen in shame. He felt a gentle tug on the attached leash. The survival part of him, forced himself to start crawling. He had stopped barking. He was grateful that Moriarty had not commanded him to start again. They moved in silence toward the door to his suite, when a tug stopped him.

"Oh, I almost forgot this." Moriarty said cheerfully. Moran felt a scissor quickly cut a small hole in his clothing, before he felt a hard shove in his bum. He could not help gasping from pain. He froze as he heard Moriarty's words.

"Now wag your tail."

Sebastian did.

Moriarty's voice deepened. His words were slowly spoken and clear. "Sherlock Holmes is my equal. I respect no one except for him and his annoying brother. In the new world, I find none else worthy to stand beside me. Holmes is lost now. I consider it my duty to teach him who he truly is. If he is hurt, I will be the one to hurt him. If he is touched, I will be the one to touch him. If he dies, it will be by my hand. No one touches him without my permission. I hope this conveys my respect for him, and my true feelings for you…, pet."

Even Sebastian's darker complexion could not hide the flush of shame on his face. He kept thinking, repeatedly, 'This can't be happening…. This can't be happening…"

Moran felt the swish of the false tail as it swung back and forth. He resumed crawling toward the door. Moriarty opened the door. The hallway was scattered with curious onlookers. He grimly considered how long of a crawl it was to the conference room.

Moriarty whispered for Moran's ears only. "Disobey me again Sebastian, and not even my affection for you as my pet, will save you. I'm not as nice as my father."

Moran did not dare to look at anyone. He focused on Moriarty's shoes. Dark-blue… Suede. He noticed that they were new. He crawled quietly beside Moriarty. Movement was agony. He pretended not to hear the occasional snicker, gasp of surprise and shock, or quiet laughter.

"Scire quis sit Magister." He heard Moriarty whisper to him for the second time, as he led him away. "Remember who your Master is, Seb."

He felt his sanity on the verge of splitting when a thought held it precariously together. He took a ragged breath and repeated that thought, those two words in his mind. It was a goal. It was a promise.

Sherlock…

Holmes…

Sherlock…

Holmes…

Sherlock…

Holmes…

Current Day

Sometime Later

He walked up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's flat. It was odd to consider that Irene had helped Mrs. Hudson to prepare a late supper. It was just entirely too… normal. Mrs. Hudson was warming the last of the meal. John would help her carry the food up in a few minutes.

He was tired. Very tired. It had already been late when they started home, and then a three car automobile accident had double the time it took to get back to the flat. They noticed several news broadcasters when the traffic had finally started to move again. It was the only thing on the telly.

John became distracted from his thoughts.

He smelled it before he saw it. It brought a smile to his tired face. He walked over and saw Irene drinking tea, and Sherlock drinking coffee, quietly, around the kitchen table. A hot, steaming third cup was present.

Sherlock was turned toward the window. Irene was watching him before turning to John. John glanced at the two before glancing at the third cup.

"It's for you John," she said with a smile.

John raised an eyebrow pleased as he took a sip of tea. He closed his eyes and sighed contently. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. He took another sip and spoke. Sherlock was very quiet. John tried to engage him about the case.

"The man killed, he was Moran's top man. Almost every time we dealt with Moran, he was by his side. Was he killed because he betrayed Moran?"

Sherlock answered without turning toward John. "It was because he was loyal, close to Moran." He said no more, but sipped slowly on his beverage. Both of Sherlock's hands were around the mug, as if he could will himself to absorb its warmth.

John frowned slightly as he took another sip. He could not help another contented sigh. It was the perfect flavor, just how he liked it…

An idea came into his mind. He tested it.

He looked at Irene apologetically. "I'm sorry, thank you Irene. How did you know how I liked my tea?"

"Oh, I can't take credit John, it was him." Irene motioned with her shoulder toward Sherlock.

John looked toward Sherlock.

Sherlock was already looking intently at him. It felt like an eternity had passed in the space of a few seconds. Sherlock was the first to look away. He took another sip of coffee as he leaned back, crossed his legs, and looked away from everyone.

Irene looked at the two men and said, "I'd better see if Mrs. Hudson needs any more help." She left quietly and closed the door behind her.

"How much do you remember?" John immediately asked without hesitation.

"Everything John except the last two months," Sherlock chuckled without humor, "Everything."

John exhaled, and then took two more sips of tea as he steeled himself. He rose and walked closer to Sherlock. Maybe it was time to push him to talk.

"It must be," John searched for the words, "difficult to have so many of your memories come back at one time."

Sherlock said nothing. He took a sip of coffee ignoring John.

John took another sip as he considered how to phrase his words. "You can't just push everything inside."

Sherlock remained quiet. He looked intently at the window as if by will and pure concentration; he could examine the thoughts of the whole of London.

John could not keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Sherlock, would you look at me mate?"

John noticed the undercurrent of stress in his friend's voice. "John, I'm fine as you can see. You get much too emotional sometimes. There is no need…"

"Bollocks!" John hissed as he slammed the teacup down more forcefully than he intended. "You need to talk!"

"I can't!" Sherlock growled as he found himself standing face-to face with John. His anger left as instantly as it came.

"I… I just can't…," the younger man whispered quietly as his left hand came to his face.

Sherlock's right hand gestured ambiguously. His face betrayed barely repressed emotion. It was the closes John had ever come to witnessing confusion, on the normally confident man's face. In a moment, it was gone.

John ghosted a hand across his face; the slight stubble of hair on his chin caused a scratching sound. There was so much that he should say; that he needed to say. He knew Sherlock better than anyone, he knew what would happen if he continued to lock everything unpleasant in a room somewhere in his mind palace. The results would not be pleasant, not for Sherlock, not for anyone who cared for him.

Not for the first time, he wondered what was in the Holmes brother's childhood that caused them to be so emotionally withdrawn. With Mycroft at least there seemed to be a natural inclination toward it. Sherlock, in contrast, seemed to be a naturally warm and caring person who had somehow recreated himself into something he was never meant to be. Like Frankenstein's monster, Sherlock's personality was created out of the severed parts, which were not his own originally, but was transfused onto his very soul.

Two ideas conflicted in John's mind. Something inside informed him that this was not the right time to push; something else, reminded him that there was no such thing as a good time. John made his choice.

"More Coffee?" He asked as he rose to walk toward the kitchen.

"Tea," Sherlock replied.

For the second time, they held each other's eyes briefly, before John disappeared into the kitchen.

A short time later, John paused as a small smile graced his lips. The low pitch, delicate sounds of the violin, whispered gently over his shoulders, and then into the room. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as he listened. It was as if all the emotions that his friend denied himself, seeped out through his music. The melodic sounds were as living things. It could not help touching the heart.

John inhaled and then exhaled as stress seeped out. He started to move again. Cream was added to both cups, and sugar to Sherlock's.

As Sherlock pulled the bow against the strings, the musical notes became more confident and the sound full, and rich.

There were gentle clank sounds, as the cups, extra cream, sugar, and the kettle was deposited on the elegant tray. John was normally not so formal unless they had visitors. The music inspired him to do a little something special.

John picked up the tray to carry it to the other room. This time there were no interruptions. Despite everything that had occurred that day, a feeling of calm came over him.

A cup of tea was silently deposited on a table close to Sherlock. John sat in his chair close to his friend.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his body partially turned toward the window, as the lights of London reflected across his pale features. John took a sip, as he studied every look and change of expression. Soon the intensity broke, like ice on a very hot day. The look of utter concentration was replaced with one of acceptance, then peace. All that remained between the two men was contentment. A small smile graced John Watson's face as he closed his own eyes now.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson, and Irene Adler were sitting quietly listening to the resonant sounds. When Lestrade later joined them, his only acknowledgements were a nod, and a cuppa that was put in his hands.

Safe behind the walls of 221 B, all were lost in their own thoughts.

Outside those walls, each piece had been carefully positioned on the mental chess board. Countless persons position themselves or were unknowingly positioned, on one side, or the other. The world was on the edge, the final moves were being considered.

None of that mattered. For the moment, that brief moment, all that existed were the hum of the bow, as it pulled delicately against the strings of the Detective's violin.

A/N: I hope that you enjoyed. Lots of Love.

Fun Question: Does anyone know what the theme of Frankenstein's monster and Benedict Cumberbatch has in common. (I wonder if anyone will get this one.)

Stop reading now unless you want a hint.

Correction. It occurred 2010-2011 I think at The Royal National Theatre, London. The encore performances and broadcasts performance, (For those of us who were late. Clears throat,) was last year.Thank you fans!