Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 162
*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.
Thank you for your recent post: coolness10123 (You are correct, your brilliance shines.), Voldemort101, Bookworm Gal(Things are quiet for a moment, right?), goanago (Thank you for the multiple post. I agree, Jim is a complete nutter.), bruderlein (I think I give you the award for knowing the most about Frankenstein. :) ), kamelion( You wish is my command.), socalrose (Thank you for the multiple post. Is Moran under control now?), Prothoe(Thank you for your multiple post. More John and Sherlock. ), Kitiara88 (Thank you for your review and encouragement.), Lillkin (Thank you for posting more than once, Welcome.), . (More to come, love.), gemstone1234 (I hope you are well. He is more.) RawrxSushi (Hi. Yes, but there is more to come.), foxeeflame(Welcome, I am glad that you are enjoying it.), Benfan(Thank you for your multiple post. Also, thank you for encouragement.) Voldemort101(Thank you for eagle-like eyes.), hijohn (Thank you for the multiple post. I hope that you are well.), and to all guest and PMs, thanks.
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Warning Moriarty*****. *** T rated ****. ****Need I Say More?
One post daily for the next three days. This is number two.
I hope that you enjoy. Stay safe.
Last week's fun question was; does anyone know what the theme of Frankenstein's monster and Benedict Cumberbatch has in common. The answer is Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.
You all surprised me. I was not aware of how many of you followed Benedict's career so closely.
Congratulations: coolness10123 , goanago, bruderlein, socalrose, Kitiara88, Lillkin, Voldemort101, gemstone1234, foxeeflame, Benfan.
"… 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
"Don't run away. "
" I'm not running away. I'm already gone."
~Kami Garcia, Beautiful Darkness
One Day Ago
Early Evening
221 B Baker Street
"Rubbish!" Was said a little more forcefully than necessary.
The skin around her eyes, and lips wrinkled as she tightly pressed her lips together. Mrs. Hudson looked at the two men and puffed out a light breath. She knew them both well enough, to know when a storm was brewing. John was determined to have Sherlock share his feelings. Sherlock was determined to have John leave him alone. It had been a long day.
John had looked at Mrs. Hudson for support. She offered a few words of wisdom, but knew when the younger man was not in a mood to listen. John was still determined. She sighed again, more dramatically this time. One finger came to the corner of her mouth, as the other hand found her hip.
Oh my, Mrs. Hudson thought to herself. John was becoming louder. Sherlock was becoming more stubborn. She could tell by the set of his mouth, and the way that one shoe, at the end of his cross-legs, was starting to tap the air.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered to the air. John was getting louder, and Sherlock's foot was tapping faster.
John suddenly stopped his rant. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, ignoring his flatmate for a minute. "Do you mind Mrs. Hudson? I would like to discuss something was Sherlock." John plastered a false smile.
"I'm sure you would," Mrs. Hudson said quietly.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson. What did you say?" John asked with a slight look of confusion on his face.
Mrs. Hudson smiled a false smile of her own. "Oh, nothing dear. I'll be right downstairs if you boys need me." Mrs. Hudson moved as quickly as her hip would allow. She knew John's grand speech, was code for, I'm getting ready to yell at my sodden twit of a mate.
John watched as Mrs. Hudson retreated. She closed the door. John considered the fact that it was extraordinarily rare to close the door. No one in that building closed the doors to their flats. It was always open. John looked at the door. Well, almost always. He thought about Sherlock again.
John slowly turned his eyes toward Sherlock. He sat down in an attempt to calm himself. He counted to ten, slowly. He ran a hand through his short blonde hair. It caused his hair to stand up, and spike on end. He did not notice.
"You're being stubborn." He said in a voice that he hoped sounded calm.
Sherlock said nothing. His jaws clenched tighter. A small scowl came on his face.
All right, John thought, it was time to bring out the big guns, so to speak. The ex-soldier came to the surface of John. He had to think strategically when Sherlock was in these moods.
Sherlock's face suddenly betrayed a calm. "It's not going to work John; you're only going to get frustrated. Accept the fact that you are overreacting."
John said nothing he simply raised an eyebrow. He appeared outwardly calm. Sherlock knew better, he frowned more.
Sherlock's strong hands grabbed the armrests of his chair. "Well, this has been fascinating." He did not try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He made a motion as if he was going to rise.
"Sit!"
Sherlock sat quickly. John's voice had startled him. He cursed within himself, for his automatic reaction. He was used to soldier John in times of danger, but soldier John so rarely showed up in their flat, it was a bit of a shock.
He was embarrassed, and more than a little angry for being reined in. Sherlock slowly turned his narrowed eyes toward John.
John was expressionless. In fact, if anything, he appeared more calm than before. John slowly took up his cup of tea and took a sip. He refreshed Sherlock's cup of tea and slowly pushed it toward him. The sound of the cup, as it scraped on the wood, seemed too loud.
"You've been having trouble sleeping lately. You've never slept well, mind, but since your rescue from Anderson, it's been especially… Difficult." John looked straight ahead and took another sip.
Sherlock uncrossed his legs, and put both legs flat on the floor. He looked at John. They knew each other so well it was becoming more difficult to fool his best mate.
Sherlock did not consider the fact that he used the word mate automatically now; both in his thoughts, and with those whom were close to him.
Sherlock squirmed slightly; he stopped when he noticed what he was doing. He opened his mouth to deny what John said. However, he could not bring himself to lie to John.
"You're having nightmares again, for three days, I think." John looked at him for the first time in minutes now. "Did you really think that you could fool me, Sherlock?"
"I wasn't trying to deceive you John." Sherlock's voice was low, yet sincere.
John's face softened. "I know. I know mate." John tapped Sherlock's arm softly. Sherlock and John looked at each other. Their previous argument, and anger, was forgotten instantly.
"I know it's not easy for you Sherlock, but you cannot afford to go into this final game with a distracted mind." John continued. "Do you even remember last night?"
Sherlock frowned thinking. It was all a bit hazy. He thought he had a nightmare, but then it went away. He did not want to admit that he did not remember.
"You were actually moaning. The noise woke me, and Mrs. Hudson. I told her to go back to sleep, that I would check on you." John took a breath, "When I came in, you have broken out into a cold sweat, fighting. You were twisted in your sheets like an Egyptian mummy." John smiled sadly, "you were saying curse words that I did not know you knew the meaning of."
Sherlock's entire body went rigid. His eyes flickered rapidly between John, the floor, and the table, as if he were trying to rein in a coherent thought. His face and neck flushed. He put his hand on his cup of tea for the first time. He needed to hold something to keep him grounded to the space he was in. He looked intently at the cup of tea, as if the mysteries of the universe would be revealed at any moment.
John hesitated, he sensed his friend's discomfort. He did not stop, however. He knew that Sherlock needed to be pushed, as painful as that push might have been. "You were telling someone to stop. Your voice was a strange combination of anger, confusion, and… and fear."
Sherlock remained silent for a moment. His eyes moved from the cup to the ceiling now. His mouth opened. John waited hopefully. However, it then closed wordlessly. Sherlock resumed staring at his cup.
John was disappointed, but then continued. "I tried to wake you. Without touching you of course. Even sleepy, you have a good punch." John looked far away, as if he was reliving the night while he talked about it. "Your eyes opened. But, it was as if you didn't see me."
John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock brought the cup of tea to his mouth. He put it to his lips; however, he lowered it without taking a sip.
John forced himself to continue. "You were in a panic. I know the difference between a nightmare and a flashback Sherlock. I've had my share of flashbacks from the war. You were having a flashback."
John looked down at his cup of tea. "My voice seemed to calm you down. After several long minutes your eyes closed, and you seemed to go back to sleep. I stayed with you for a few hours just talking about anything, everything. I had this insane idea that even though you were sleeping, you could still hear my voice."
John took another sip of tea, "After a few hours I left your room. I thought you might have been embarrassed if you knew what happened, although we both know each other well enough where you should not have been. There was no need to be embarrassed, not then, not ever, not with me."
Sherlock spoke suddenly, quietly. "That's why I have to stay away from emotions, John; sentiments, feelings."
John looked grim. "I understand that you believe that, Sherlock, but here's the fact, pushing your feelings down, locking them away somewhere in your mind palace, is not the way to do it. You know what will happen, Sherlock. You're human, whether you want to admit that fact or not. Trying to keep your feelings away, it is like trying to keep rainwater out of a house, when the roof is leaking. The rainwater will find its way in, if there's any weakness, or damage. There is nothing for it, but to repair the roof Sherlock."
Sherlock attempted a smile, as he considered John's analogy. "Are you saying that I am a leaky roof… emotionally, John?"
John smiled at his friend, and he locked eyes with him. He looked down briefly at his cup, before looking at his flatmate to answer. "Yes," he said sincerely.
Sherlock's smiled left instantly. He put down his tea on the table beside his chair. One of Sherlock's arms rested on the armrest of his chair. The other hand came up to his chin. The thumb rubbed back and forth. John was silent. He knew that he could argue, plead, scream, or rant, but in the end, it was Sherlock's choice.
"Some of the memories that have returned were most… Unpleasant." Sherlock frowned. His face was still turned away from John. John listened patiently. When Sherlock said nothing more, he decided to push a little.
"I know that some of the things that you've been through are difficult Sherlock. The fact that you're still here, still functioning, is a testament to your strong will. We tell each other everything anyway," John smiled, "eventually."
"You know almost everything about the time that I was kidnapped; by Ayyad's terrorists. However, there might have been," Sherlock search for the words, "one or two things, perhaps three, that we have not discussed yet." Sherlock looked toward John. "It's not that I was keeping it from you John, it's just…"
The ringing of Sherlock's mobile interrupted the two men. John audibly huffed. He wanted to tell Sherlock to ignore it, he wanted to get on the mobile and tell whoever it was to call back later. He did not, this was Sherlock.
To his surprise, Sherlock did not move immediately.
John saw his opportunity. "Would you like me to get that for you Sherlock? Or, maybe you could give a ring back later."
Sherlock said nothing. He simply attempted a small smile as he raised and walked toward his mobile. He looked at the caller and for a moment considered ignoring it. He had ignored two identical messages earlier. Suddenly an email came. Sherlock open the email. He opened the attachment as well. He stood still.
John looked at Sherlock. He stood, but did not move. "Sherlock is everything okay?"
"Hum?" He said distractedly, "Oh yes," he attempted a smile at John, but it looked strained. "Mycroft is being annoying again. He's checking on me as if I'm a child. He'll be by later. He wants me to look over the codes again."
John exhaled relieved. "Oh."
Sherlock held the mobile phone in his hand, before slipping it into his pocket. He stood still for a moment, looking out the window.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to …" Sherlock waved one hand in the air, as if the act could complete his thought.
"You need to talk," John finished for him.
John noticed Sherlock's nod, before he noticed his friend's wince. One eye closed as Sherlock grimace deepened. He rubbed his forehead absentmindedly.
"Headache," John said needlessly.
"A bit," Sherlock said. "Do you mind making some tea? Earl Gray seems appropriate for such emotional.… Things," he shrugged.
"I'm sorry Sherlock," John said frowning, "I think we used the last yesterday."
"I think Mrs. Hudson has some." Sherlock responded casually.
Sherlock looked down, "I'll lie down until it's ready." He walked to his room.
"All right mate," John said sympathetically. He hated the fact that Sherlock was having headaches again. At least he was not having the nosebleeds he thought gratefully.
John walked into the kitchen. He put the kettle to boil before walking down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He listened to her gossip for a few minutes as she looked for the tea. They agreed which flat they would have supper in. It would be the boys' flat so that Sherlock could rest.
John walked back into the flat with a smile on his face. He would never admit it out loud, but her gossiping and antics had been unusually entertaining. He walked over to the kitchen. The smell of steam, the fragrance of the leaves, and the sound of boiling water filled his senses. He put the loose tealeaves into a strainer and poured the hot water above it. He watched impassively as the clear liquid became stained brown.
Within minutes, John was walking slowly toward Sherlock's bedroom, to inform his friend that the tea was set out in front of the couch.
The knuckles of his hand met the hardwood in rapid strikes. There was no answer. A part of John debated. John knew that his friend needed to rest. A part of him thought that it was better to turn and leave so that he could rest; another part knew that it was best to not let a rare cooperative mood go to waste. It was not every day that Sherlock Holmes agreed to have a heart-to-heart talk.
Decision made, he knocked at the door again. "Sherlock," no answer came. The younger man had rarely slept in three days. He had probably crashed physically. If that were the case, it would be difficult to wake him for at least three hours. John huffed softly frustrated at the opportunity lost. He turned to walk away but stopped after two steps, something nagged at him.
He quickly returned to the door. "I'm coming in, okay?" John remembered how Sherlock love to strip, when he wasn't feeling well.
There was no answer.
John sighed as he pushed the door open while saying. "Make sure you're covered, I don't want my eyes to burn," his voice and smile died instantly, as he looked around the room.
The burning in his lungs informed him of his need to inhale. John suddenly inhaled both oxygen and anger. John took out his mobile and hit the keys so forcefully, it was practically an assault. He could not help the muttering as he waited for Mycroft to answer.
"The tricky, manipulative, son of a bit…"
"From his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,
To visit his snug little farm the earth,
And see how his stock goes on." ~Unknown
One Day Ago
Unknown Location
Holmes walked cautiously into the moderately size room. He looked warily around for Sebastian Moran. Sherlock looked around and thought quietly.
He was not there. He was never, not there. So, Sherlock thought, Moran and Moriarty were having a bit of a domestic.
Interesting.
The room was not full of men as expected. In fact, there was no one but two men who were off in the corner on opposite sides of the room. He had no doubt that with a snap of his fingers several armed men would appear . Moriarty sat there, crossed-legged. He had a linen napkin on his thigh. He took a sip of something that looked like wine. It was a bit early for alcohol but; Moriarty was not a typical man.
Sherlock looked oddly at the table with the meal on it. It had meat, baby potatoes, and carrots in a white wine sauce. The rare times that Sherlock ate red meat, he preferred Filet Mignon. It was, in fact, his favorite. It was even prepared the way that he liked it. He held in his sigh as he walked up to the empty, high-back chair and after the briefest of hesitations, sat.
Moriarty smiled at his confidence as he motioned without a word toward the mouthwatering meal. Sherlock considered that there was a forty percent possibility that it was poison, not enough to kill him, just enough to make him sick. Moriarty used people like one would use an object. People were just things. They were there for his amusement. The thought that they were actually, living things, never entered Jim's mind.
Moriarty did not say a word, he simply watched Sherlock, as a cat would watch a mouse.
Sherlock's stubbornness came out. He looked at the knife that Moriarty had put on the table. Moriarty glanced at the knife and raised an eyebrow. He, however, did not say another word.
Sherlock moved the knife down and cut into the tender cut of meat. The juices ran generously down the sides of the moist steak. He put the meat into his mouth and chewed with purpose. Knowing it could be poisoned made the first bite that much sweeter. He savored the flavor as he chewed thoroughly. He never took his eyes away from Moriarty.
Moriarty watched him for a few seconds as a smile transformed his face. He picked up his knife, and fork and mimicked Sherlock's actions as he ate his steak. They ate in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock spoke first.
"This is an apology."
"Psychopaths don't apologize." Moriarty took another bite of his rare meat. Sherlock ignored the red juice that ran down his mouth before it was wiped away by a cloth napkin. "And I, my dear, am the master of all psychopaths."
Moriarty picked up his crystal wine glass and looked at Holmes wine glass. Sherlock's fingers came up and spread delicately in front of his body. At the same time, Holmes gave a slight shake of his head. Moriarty gave a discrete nod at Sherlock before taking a sip.
"This is?" Sherlock wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin.
"I like being the sole recipient of your attentions."
"I hadn't noticed," Sherlock said with a serious voice.
Moriarty's smile widened. "I wanted to feed you a good meal before I burned your heart out. I see no way out of it. You have failed every lesson I have given you in the last few months."
Sherlock did not respond to Moriarty but leaned back in the chair and watched him carefully. "I have to break you of these bad habits you've developed over the past few years, such as feelings, emotional attachments, caring, worse of all, being noble." Moriarty's face scowled as if he had eaten something sour, before he took one last sip of wine, and then put it down for the last time.
He turned his full attention to Sherlock. "Look what they, especially your pet, have reduced your mind to. I consider it my duty, I have to show you the right way."
Sherlock did not like the way that he kept making subtle references to John. He made an effort to remain bored looking.
"Is your course set Sherlock?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered simply.
"What do you think about the things that I've said?" Moriarty asked curiously.
"Which part Jim?" Sherlock said with raised eyebrows. "Would you like me to comment on your narcissistic rant? Or would you like me to deduce your current level of mental health?" Sherlock knew that it was the wrong thing to say, but he did not like Moriarty discussing John, he was exhausted, and the man was annoying.
"Have you forgotten who I am, my dear?" Moriarty looked at Sherlock. Jim's expression appeared especially calm, except when one saw his eyes, madness danced in them. "Do you have any idea how far my hands can reach? And, not just in London love. With a thought, I can kill someone in Mozambique. With a wink, give life in Russia. I can assassinate Kings, or influence the political structure of the country. If I'm bored, I can set off bombs in three countries simultaneously, all before lunch."
Moriarty lean towards Sherlock. "I could slip in and out and make you bleed. Pleasure or pain is within my hands. I could cut the heart, and liver out of one of your pets, and force you to eat it. I would have it prepared with these teeny-tiny potatoes, and delicious baby carrots; right before I watch the world burn."
Moriarty was quiet for a few seconds, before his voice suddenly became cheerful again.
Moriarty winked. "Yum… Yum, by the way. The liver tastes a little salty but it's delicious in a white wine sauce. Although I wouldn't recommend the heart. It's a little rubbery. Not even the white wine sauce can make it palatable. Maybe I should try a different sauce." Moriarty had a broad grin on his face now.
There was a few more seconds of silence.
"That was imaginative." Sherlock had a straight face.
"Well then," Sherlock said with raised eyebrows, as he reached for his scarf. "Do you plan to torture me?"
"Not today," Jim replied amicably.
"Right then, thank you for the meal," Sherlock started to rise. "I'll pop out."
Moriarty rose as well and smiled. "You're welcome." A bag went over his head as the darkness enveloped him, "Think about what I've said. It is for your benefit."
As he was being lead away, he heard Moriarty's childlike, singsong voice. "Sher… lo… ck…"
Forty minutes later, Sherlock was dumped in an alley in a disreputable part of town. He waited for five minutes, as told, before he took the bag off his head. Now, his fingers raced across the keys of his mobile. He was thankful that he had not been drugged. Drugs with food, probably meant that he would have spent the next several hours being sick, and vomiting over the whole of London.
Despite the bag over his head, Sherlock knew the city well enough to know the approximate area that he had been taken. Mycroft's men would be there quickly. He, however, doubted that Moriarty would have been found.
Within seven minutes, the screeching tires of a black sedan were heard. Four agents ran into the alley. Two were helping Holmes to his feet and looking him over for injuries. The other two were looking around for danger with guns drawn.
He sighed. Sherlock knew that there was no point in telling the agents to put their guns away. He knew that they would follow procedure. He raised his eyebrows as he read an incoming text from Mycroft. He opened then closed his mouth in a frown. He decided he would not respond. He sulked when he considered the fact that he still had to face John. His frown deepened.
A/N: This is posting number two out of three. One more bonus chapter to go. It will be posted late tomorrow or early Tuesday. All acknowledgments, and the fun question, will be given at the last posting. (Posting Number Three.)