Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 161

*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 ****. ****

One post daily for the next three days.

"…Be cautious. Once a pawn moves, you are committed to that position. If your opponent then tries to attack your center, you can only defend it with your minor pieces…"

Vieni Giocare means Come Play. Italian.

Control The Center of Your Board…Part I

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women, merely players." ~ William Shakespeare

Two Days Ago

Scotland Yard

They walked slowly through the bullpen of the Scotland Yard Police Department. It had been a hard three weeks, but the last three days had especially been hard. They ignored the glances of several pairs of eyes as they walked slowly, and confidently toward the Detective Inspector' s office.

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked up from his piles of papers. His suit jacket was hanging haphazardly over the chair that he sat upon. The patterned necktie that he had taken to wearing of late, was laid on top of the slightly wrinkled jacket. Three cups of coffee, in various points of consumption, were set at different points upon his desk. The shadows under his eyes betrayed his tiredness, his face held a slight frown.

John frowned when he looked at his friend. He noticed Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes glancing at Lestrade as well. Neither of the men said a word.

He sighed as he motioned toward the two empty chairs in front of his desk. "The McConnell case is closed. Thanks to the two of you. I just need you to sign your statements and that, will be that."

Lestrade leaned back on his chair, closed his eyes for a moment, sighed heavily, then opened his eyes again. "We've got another body today. This one had a note attached to it."

The Detective Inspector pushed the crime scene photograph toward Sherlock. Sherlock did not touch it. Instead, he looked for a moment. Seconds melted into minutes, as he studied the glossy photograph in silence. Finally, he picked it up and further examined it.

Sherlock was strangely quiet. Both men noticed but did not comment.

"What's so unusual about this one Greg?"

Lestrade leaned forward slightly. "The note was written in blood. And there were two words on it."

"What were the words, Greg?" John asked.

"Vieni giocare." I'm about to get someone down here to translate.

They both looked at Sherlock hopefully, but neither said a word.

He was studying the picture of the corpse, with the message written above it. He said without looking at either one of the two men in the room, "It's a simple message, it means… Come play."

He walked into the small room , allowing the heavy door to close automatically behind him. He would pretend that he did not know that Lestrade, and John, were discussing him. He smirked at their attempt at being discreet.

He frowned as he walked over to the small table stand, which contained both tea, and coffee. He looked longingly at tea before turning away. He exhaled with regret as he poured out the coffee. His frown deepened, it looked like mud, thick mud. He opened two packets of sugar and allowed it to flow into the plastic container. He stirred distractedly. He took a sip. His lips came up into a sort of sneer. He looked at the sugar packets. Two more packets were quickly dispensed into the coffee. He took another sip. He gave a long, put upon sigh. It tasted like mud as well; no amount of sugar could change that fact.

He slowly sipped on the unpleasant tasting brown mixture, otherwise referred to as coffee. He had to consume it, he had no choice. He would not let John know how close he was to the truth about his physical condition. He was exhausted.

Not that he would admit it; mind. He had not slept well since his rescue from Anderson, and his incompetent comrades. The past three days had been the worse. The long forgotten nightmares had returned. He had woken three nights ago, gasping for air. He had been sweat soaked and tried to remember to breathe, as the ghosts, and demons of his dreams evaporated when he woke.

He had been sure he had not cried out, yet John's soft knock at his door, informed him, that he had at least been partially vocal. He had made it his personal mission since then, to stay awake. He caught short, fitful naps, until his body had been so exhausted, he had simply, passed out. He would never admit any of this to John. Of course not. He did not want him to worry. Perhaps a small part of him wished to pretend, that all was right as rain.

The door open and close behind him. Holmes instantly evaluated the pattern, gate, and instantly knew who those footsteps belong to.

"Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock said in between sips.

The footsteps advanced, becoming closer. Sally stood next to Holmes. "You looked bloody awful," she said matter of fact.

She stood close to him as she silently prepared her coffee. She took one-step, frowned then added several packets of sugar as she stirred.

"You called John," Holmes said while looking into his coffee.

Donovan frowned without saying a word. Holmes had a way of putting her off balance. Most people would have said good morning but not him. She was not sure if he was making a statement, or asking another question. You can never tell with him.

She waited.

"You did not tell anyone, what occurred, when you, John, and Anderson, were in Lestrade's office." Holmes hesitated slightly. "Rumors are that Anderson was arrested for falsifying documents," there was another slight hesitation, "and that he somehow attacked you, and Watson defended you because of it."

Holmes voice was hesitant. His voice was never hesitant. "No one seems to know that I was involved in any way. I have come to believe that you not only knew of these rumors, but encourage them in an attempt to deflect all attention away from me," Donovan glanced at him quickly, before looking away. "We both know," Holmes said, "I'm rarely wrong."

After sipping, she turned to look at Holmes. His eyes were piercing hers. Holmes seemed to be looking through her. It was disconcerting at best.

After a few more seconds of scrutiny, Holmes turned away to resume sipping his coffee. "John would have found me. However…" There was a strange look that flashed on Sherlock's face, but then it was gone. "… Things might have become unpleasant, by the time he did find me. If you had not alerted him, that is."

Donovan looked at Holmes. She had noticed the look in his eyes. If it was anyone other than Holmes, she would have said there was a look of vulnerability, or gratitude. She had known the man for years, the only thing she had ever witnessed was an arrogance, self-assured man with a bit of brilliance mixed in. Okay, more than a bit of brilliance, she admitted. If it was anyone other than Holmes, she would have said that she had witnessed him looking… Human. Twice in two weeks? Ridiculous. This was Holmes. Right?

Sally took a slow sip to give herself time to gather her thoughts. "You're rude, egotistical, self absorbed, arrogant as hell and a sodden twit at times."

She looked at him. The corners of her mouth turned up into a small smile. "However, you are our rude, egotistical, arrogant, sodden twit. I'll not see anyone hurt you; except me, of course, if you continue to try my patience."

Sherlock's mouth turned up into a similar smile. He took a sip of the disgusting coffee, before saying, "I see."

Donovan got uncomfortable. She cleared her throat and sipped the coffee as he continued to stare at her. She looked at him with the challenge.

"What!" She said with her best, annoyed voice.

"I never said a word, Sally," he stressed her first name. Probably in an attempt to annoy her, she was sure.

Donovan looked at Holmes with a raised eyebrow, "This doesn't mean we're friends or anything."

"Perish the thought," Sherlock said as he looked down at her with raised eyebrows of his own.

"You're still weird," She felt obligated to add.

They both stared at each other. The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a smirk.

Donovan rolled her eyes, "And annoying."

"So I've been told… Frequently," Sherlock agreed.

It was Donovan's turn to hide a smile. She turned to leave. Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"Congratulations, David is not a complete idiot."

"How did you…?" She stopped herself. This was Holmes. She turned to glance at him as she walked toward the door.

"You know, in another time, you would have been burned as a witch, Sher… lock."

Sherlock smiled a real smile now as he watched Donovan. She looked at him as she slowly closed the door, smiling a little too sweetly.

Quiver Tree Forest

Namibia, Africa

The Russian man laid flat on the ground. His eyes dashed around nervously, despite the fact that he was well hidden. The darkness had been beneficial to him. He was hidden behind a quiver tree, as well as some providentially positioned rocks. He took out his metal flask and took a swig. He wiped away the drops that had managed to cling to the tips of his thick, black mustache. He hastily put away the flask as he took back up his binoculars. The sounds of jeeps off in the distance, was odd and out of place in the beauty that surrounded him. He adjusted his focus on the binoculars as his tongue ran lazily along the surface of his slightly cracked lips.

A humorless smirk came to his face. Someone was being paid off, and being paid well. The amount of men, and amount of equipment, heavy equipment at that; could not have entered such an area unnoticed. Whoever it was, had to be a government official. Someone of importance, he would think. The entire area had been closed to tourists, and citizens alike. Men with guns were stationed to discourage anyone that might want to, not follow the rules. No one seemed to think it odd. At least, no one would admit to that thought officially.

He shivered. He was not sure if it was the cool night air, or his heart that caused the reaction. The men were busy bringing in equipment. It seemed an odd sort of place, to be positioning such a large force. A huge truck brought in something. Whatever the device was, it made a lot of noise as they positioned the metal crane upward toward the sky. The sounds of metal scraping metal, as well as clicking sounds were made. There was an odd, loud sort of rhythmic ping as the metal device was slowly raised toward the stars. Whatever it was seemed to have a strong magnetic pull. Even at the distance, which he hid, he could feel the slight magnetic pull on his metal buckles. Plastic computers were now pulled out, men went back and forth in a frantic, yet organized motion. The Russian heard words, which were spoken in the Namibian language.

The Russian's body tensed for a minute. The activities had increased suddenly. Men with the guns, and a nervous look upon their faces, suddenly ran out in different directions. He thought of a quick retreat. However, it was not wise to move at the moment. Except for the movement of his chest, to take air in and out, he dared not move. He relaxed slightly when he noticed that the soldiers moved away from him, not toward him. Time seemed to move slowly at that point, only his timepiece inform him that he had been in that same position for thirty-seven minutes.

There was suddenly shouting to the northeast of him. A chorus of different voices, one voice in particular frightened, and pleading, was heard in front of him. The Russian's mouth opened slightly. He did not notice that his hand tightened on the binoculars, or that his tongue came again to lick his lips. His heart rate increased suddenly. He watched as a young man was dragged in front of the camp. He was pushed onto his knees. One soldier had a hand firmly placed on the skinny man's shoulders. His white shirt seemed obscene against the black of the night. He seemed to have scraped his knees when they pushed him to the ground. The young man never noticed. He was preoccupied, as he pleaded with the soldiers.

He had to force himself, not to get up; not to run to the aid if the very young, very frightened man. He could not, he knew it would be both of their lives.

He could not help the flinch. The rhythmic pop – pop – pop sound of automatic weapons being discharged, seem to echo. The young man's body jerked in beat, as if he was doing some sort of odd, gruesome, macabre dance.

Even in the dark, the spread of the red could clearly be seen.

The Russian turned away, rolled onto his back, and lay flat on the ground. He looked upward at the stars. They were shining brightly, as they interrupted the darkness.

Beautiful, he thought.

His hand came up to touch his receding, gray tinged hair. He took one last look at the beautiful sky. The Milky Way galaxy, a spiral galaxy of at least two hundred billion stars. He closed his eyes as if he wanted to memorize each one. At that moment he felt very small, yet each life became more important than all those stars. The young man would not have died in vain. New determination flooded his body. Despite his previous inner conflicts, he would do whatever was required. He thought of her then, she had to know.

Within minutes, he had slipped away, unnoticed. The soldiers were now distracted. Years of practice, and building his body, had made his mile run effortless. As the noises and the horror became further, and more distant, he slowed to a jog.

He needed to get the information to her. However, contacting her at this point in the game, would be more complicated. He would have to be cautious, for both their sakes.

The Russian's breath came in regularity. He was almost to the safety of his Jeep, yet, he continued to jog, not slowing his pace. He soon left the trees, and the sky, and the horror behind.

He ran.

A/N: Fun question on next post.

Thank you all so much for your support and suggestions. Love to all.

There will be one post daily for the next three days, then a break.