Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 165

*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.

"… 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

"The wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and they fall, and they come by their

deserts: but who can tell the mischief which the very virtuous do?" ~ William Makepeace Thackeray, The Newcomes

Undisclosed Location

Current Day

Current Time

Within forty minutes, he was standing in front of Moriarty, again. Moriarty's men had been quick and efficient in collecting the Consultant Detective. This time, there was no table set with fine linen cloths, or expensive crystal wine glasses. There was no steak or wine. The atmosphere was tense and there was the hint of danger that could not be mistaken.

Ah, the ultimatum, Sherlock realized.

Sherlock knew that he had to play the opening of this new game well. Moriarty had been particularly unstable of late. He felt the pull of fatigue, as his treacherous body fought against his brilliant mind.

It was a slight bit chilled, in the moderately sized space. He was grateful that they had not removed his coat, or scarf. Even though, he did think it best to remove his scarf. He did so quickly, with regret. He did not want anything around his neck, in the event that he made Moriarty angry. He considered it a sensible precaution. Chances were, no matter what he did, or did not do, the Consultant Criminal would become angry.

Holmes prepared himself as he heard steps approaching him. He stood still, face blank, he hoped that Moriarty would not notice the slight apprehension that he was trying desperately to hide. Game on. But first, there was one important consideration.

"John?" Sherlock asked without turning around.

Moriarty did not answer. He walked up to Sherlock, and faced him first before giving a reply.

Moriarty's features were expressionless. His voice bored. "He'll be fine. He might need some ice on his shoulder. I heard it was quite a tumble."

"What do you want?" Sherlock said as casually as possible.

"You." Moriarty smiled. "I don't like to be ignored."

"A bit obsessed aren't you. You really should take up a hobby. Oh, to be more clear, one that does not involve killings, bombings, war, or general chaos." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I hear knitting is quite relaxing."

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh yes, very good. Don't pretend you don't want me. Your pet's a little too boring for you? Not to mention those hideous jumpers he insists on wearing."

Sherlock kept his voice even. "This is between you and me. Leave Doctor Watson out of this."

Moriarty looked in his eyes. "He's your weakness."

"He's my strength." He immediately wished that he could take back the words. He should not have drawn attention to his friend. He was not at his top game today. He could not afford to be otherwise with the Consultant Criminal.

Moriarty looked at Sherlock with an unwavering, unnerving stare. Sherlock noticed.

"What do you want?" Sherlock repeated casually.

Moriarty smiled a small, odd sort of smile, "I already told you."

"Specifically." Sherlock was careful to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Moriarty's smiled widened. "Would you like positions?"

Sherlock was silent.

Moriarty's smile left. "Just kidding. Actually, I was not, but let's pretend for a moment I was."

Moriarty's entire persona seemed to transform instantly. He looked annoyed. Quite put upon, in fact.

"You failed the tests my dear, again, and again, and again!" Jim complained slightly too loud.

Sherlock looked intently at the Consultant Criminal's face.

He pulled out his Smartphone and started to text. "The fact that you have shown up here means you failed. So what if Doctor Molly Hooper had been a little, shall we say, roughed up. It's not as if I would have killed her," he gave a manic sort of high-pitched giggle, "of course I do get a bit carried away sometimes, don't I." He waved one hand noncommittally, before it was placed back on his phone as he resumed texting.

"You do love your pets, don't you." The corners of Jim's mouth twisted into an angry snarl.

His anger suddenly intensified. Moriarty seemed especially unstable now. His emotions were like lightning, striking randomly, without a pattern. Sherlock knew it was important, to try to rein in the genius.

"Most people call on the phone, but," Sherlock hesitated, "You're not most people, Jim."

Sherlock's plan worked, Moriarty suddenly smiled again. The anger left as quickly as it came. "You like that, did you."

Sherlock manipulated further. "It was interesting. Electronic billboards, and mobile phones all across town, flashing two words, Come Play. I must admit that it was… original, very Moriarty I would say."

Moriarty smiled widened at that compliment. "We both know it wasn't the come play that got your attention. It was the picture of my ex – girlfriend, which got your attention." Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "You certainly seem to come running whenever I dangle Miss Hooper and front of you. I would be jealous, but let's face it, there's nothing going on between the two of you, is there now?"

Moriarty looked him up and down before commenting. "Sorry, I forgot who I was speaking to. Mr. 'I am married to my work,' himself." Moriarty texted quietly for a few minutes, before adding, "Although, it is the quiet ones who tend to surprise one the most."

Moriarty finally finished the text that he had been slowly working on since Sherlock entered the building. He put his Smartphone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "Sorry about that, busy, busy, busy," Moriarty sang.

"I see how busy you are, I could come back." Sherlock offered.

Moriarty, slowly put his hands in his designer suit pockets as he walked toward the detective. "I'm never too busy for you," he smiled.

Sherlock observed him silently for a few seconds. "Who were you talking to?" Sherlock asked conversationally.

"Spoilers!" Moriarty said a little too loudly. There was a hint of mania in his voice.

There was a moment of silence. An indefinable expression graced his face now, as he walked closer to Sherlock.

"I'm here to talk about memories Sherlock." His name was said softly, almost like an afterthought. "Old memories, childhood memories," he whispered now, "I know all about them. It was difficult, even for me, but I managed to find the information I, shall we say, needed."

Sherlock's face was perfectly blank. He stood still, perhaps a little too still. He was determined not to give anything away.

"Your family comes from old money. Your father was an important man wasn't he? He had a brilliant wife, two genius level sons. It was a bit much for Father Dearest to handle, wasn't it Sher… Lock." Moriarty smiled, "From what I discovered, he was… Quite the man."

Moriarty shook his head in false sympathy. "You should have just killed the bastard like I did my father." Moriarty smiled and looked at Sherlock knowingly. "Sorry, I forgot. That would be a…. what is the word… oh, yes…, a bad thing, wouldn't it."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. Otherwise, he stayed perfectly still, appeared perfectly calm.

Moriarty noticed the tightening of Sherlock's jaws. He smiled inwardly. Moriarty walked up to Sherlock closely now and whispered. "You really should let all of your beautiful anger out. I know you have some in you. Let's see if we could help it along." He started to walk away again as he said in a normal voice tone, "Sorry, a little off-topic. Now where were we? Oh yes, Daddy Dearest."

Sherlock's façade cracked slightly. He looked grim before forcing his face into a blank expression again. Of course, this did not escape Moriarty's notice.

"Everyone failed you, didn't they now. The teachers fail to see your torment. Those that did were probably satisfied, that the know it all, who embarrass them with his questions that they couldn't answer, was getting his comeuppance. The other students thought you were a freak; they were too busy being jealous, or scared to notice your distress. Of course, some of them tormented you as well. Mother Dearest failed you. She was supposed to be a genius, and yet she never noticed your distress, did she? Worse? Do you think she just ignored it? Then, she had the audacity to become ill when you needed her the most. People just aren't as considerate these days as they used to be, are they mate?"

Sherlock turned his eyes toward Moriarty now. There was something indefinable in them. "I would prefer, that you do not mention my mother." Sherlock's voice had an odd sort of timber and pitch to it.

Moriarty nodded simply, and then continued. "Well, there is always big brother to discuss isn't there then."

Sherlock stood still, but said nothing.

"Cold, distant, unemotional, a bit repressed, does it run in the family? Normally I admire these traits, but I was once told that big brothers are protectors." He walked behind Sherlock again who remained perfectly still, and refused to flinch. "I have no personal knowledge of the concept, mind, but I think it's the normal, expected thing."

Moriarty rolled his eyes as he conceded, "I suppose that brother of yours, has protected you somewhat, but then, he left."

Sherlock felt Moriarty's breath upon his ear as he whispered. "How soon after big brother left did Father Dearest come to you? How often did Father come to you, every week, every other day, every night? Brother Dearest wasn't around to protect you anymore when he went away to Uni." Moriarty circled around him as a predator.

"He was a young child himself." Sherlock heard himself say, before he could stop himself.

"That's better than the truth." Moriarty countered. "That he abandoned you. You were an embarrassment to him. He could not run away from you fast enough. I think he might have even gotten off on your pain. Tell me, does he still try to control you?"

"Is there a point to this Jim, I'm terribly busy, as you can understand." Sherlock tried to keep his voice uninterested; however, he knew that Moriarty would notice his growing annoyance.

Moriarty's smile widened. He ignored Sherlock's comment as he moved closer.

"Being Daddy Dearest's punching bag, still affects you to this day, doesn't it?" Moriarty stood next to Sherlock. The back of Jim's dark hair was next to Sherlock's nose, as he whispered toward Sherlock's hair, "Is that why you don't like anyone to touch you, even today? You don't mind being hit but you don't like to be touched."

Sherlock clenched his jaws. It was a barely perceptible movement. "Let the beast out," Jim whispered.

Moriarty circled around. Sherlock had a deadly calm, and stillness. "You feel it don't you. The calmness before giving into the murderous rage, the things that ordinary people tries to keep in check, but we are not ordinary are we."

"I see it in your eyes. You might be able to fool that pet of yours, but you can't fool me, my dear. The monster's raging, how much longer can you control it?" Moriarty continued to whisper. "You need to know who you are Sherlock. Why do you serve when you were made to rule? You and I were made to rule. If we were born in different times, we would be rulers, emperors, kings, those who destroy. Nations would bow before us, with the sea of mindless masses serving us. They're ordinary, predictable, boring, Sherlock, they were created to serve us. We are extraordinary, we were meant to be obeyed, to rule with an iron fist. The things we would have done, would have left the historians blushing, and the history books calling us monsters, because that's what we are. It would have been us, not Alexander the Great, who destroyed the city of Thebes. Why should he have all the fun," he winked, "We would have been the ones to burn Rome for our amusement just to see the ashes." Moriarty sang, "And, what a beautiful burn it would have been."

Moriarty stopped just behind Sherlock's back again. "Stop fighting it." Sherlock could feel his breath as he spoke.

"Why do you tolerate it? Doesn't it bother you that you always have to dummy it down for everyone? That you understand things in a moment, a blink of an eye that other people are trying to play catch up to a week later."

Moriarty pointed randomly toward the door, as he yelled in a sudden fit of anger. "Those people, those nothings are not worthy of your attention. What have they done for you? Failed you when you were in pain. Tormented you because they could torment the forgotten child. All because they were too small minded, to understand your rare genius."

Moriarty huffed. He was suddenly calm. "Doesn't it irritate you how painfully slow they are to understand even the most basic concepts?" He looked into Sherlock's eyes now as he moved to his front again. "Don't lie to me, it does irritate you."

"You don't know me, Moriarty." Sherlock said returning glare – for – glare.

Moriarty let out a chuckle. "Oh… but I do."

"How many times have you sacrificed yourself for the ordinary, for them, for that… pet of yours?" Moriarty asked with revulsion evident in his voice.

"He would and has done the same for me." Sherlock spoke for the first time in minutes.

Moriarty spat the words out as if they were poison. "A pet can sacrifice for the master; it is an abomination when the master sacrifices for the pet!"

"He's not my pet. But then you wouldn't understand that would you. Have many friends?" Sherlock knew it was not wise to provoke the lunatic, but he was tired and more than a bit angry. He made a silent effort at that point, to bring himself under control.

"I don't have friends; I have pets," he smirked, "Even though, I must concede that you treat your pet better than I treat mine." Moriarty sneered, "You used to not have any FRIENDS. We were the same until he corrupted you."

Moriarty's voice held contempt. "If you didn't have such a man crush on Watson, you would see that I am right." He smiled, "Of course I'm always right."

Sherlock blinked and looked at him.

A light came to Sherlock's eyes. "So… that's what this is about… Brother." He whispered quietly to himself. "Jealous?" A fire entered Sherlock's eyes, "You want a family Josiah." Sherlock smiled with false apology. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's not Josiah Lambert anymore is it? It's Jim Moriarty now. I must admit Jim Moriarty does sound more dramatic, more you." Sherlock glanced at him before glancing away again.

Everything melted away but the puzzle. "Lonely now that you've killed off your own twin brother." Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he clasped his hands behind his back. "I know all about you as well."

"Your brother did not realize that you put a real bullet in the gun did he." Sherlock was now the one to circle.

Moriarty could not hide the surprise in his voice.

"Huh," Jim smiled strangely, as he swallowed audibly. "Very good Sherlock. Even for you and you are brilliant. Not as much as me, of course. You also need a better tailor for that gorgeous body of yours. A bit socially, inept but…"

"My suits are tailored to perfection," Sherlock quipped confidently, as he circled him.

"Robert Brook was real. It was your brother's adopted name. Like you once told me. My weakness is to always want everything to be brilliant. That was just smart and good planning, maybe a bit of luck." He stopped walking and stood to the side of Moriarty. Jim turned his head and looked at Sherlock.

"I couldn't understand why you would commit suicide. It always bothered me and yet there you were. There were very real brains, with a very real hole, in a very real head, with very real blood on the ground. Not even you could fake death so convincingly."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to look into Moriarty, through him. "It was three orphan children, not one. There were two identical boys and one girl, triplets; the orphan children of French immigrants. They were adopted into three different sets of families. You and your brother were adopted into two different Irish families. When you discovered this fact, you searched for them. Not even you could locate your sister. She was adopted into a powerful family that left very little paper trail, but the brother…"

Sherlock paused for a moment, before continuing. "You and your sister were both geniuses, but your brother… not so much. Did you come across him quite accidentally? Almost made you wish that you didn't?" Sherlock smirked. "I guess you're not really the telly type. I sympathize."

"Let's list his accomplishments, shall we. He worked in the kitchen of a Café. Fired within a week. A failure of an actor. Some unknown obscure man. A children's show actor, soap opera failure, worst of all, he was ordinary. Despite being your twin, average intelligence. I don't mean to be unkind, but he was a bit of a twit. You saw him, and you stared into your own eyes and you saw what you could very easily have been; ordinary, pathetically plain, average," Sherlock whispered, "worse, forgettable."

"Good." Jim Moriarty could not hide the slight tremor in his hands, or the fact that he was finding it difficult to swallow. "Very good, Sherlock."

Sherlock continued without acknowledgement. "You could not tolerate his existence. You wanted to burn my heart out. You wanted him erased. You are, if nothing else, efficient. You saw a way to do both simultaneously. You saw a way to get rid of the problem. The final problem. You said to me, sitting on my chair after the trial, that you wanted to solve, 'the problem, our problem, the final problem'. That sentence always bothered me."

"The problem, referred to your average minded twin."

"Our problem, referred to the battle between you and me, the game."

"The final problem, referred to you burning my heart out and disgracing me, winning the game."

"That day in my flat, you told me everything, all you've planned to do. You were correct. I did not hear you then, but I hear you now."

Moriarty stared wordlessly at Sherlock for a moment, amazed that he was able to figure everything out. His discomfort left instantly, a rare show of admiration shown his eyes. He said suddenly.

"You do know that's a turn on when you do that." Moriarty tried to joke.

Sherlock ignored him; he could see the tightness in Jim's eyes. He resisted the urge to smile.

"You hired him anonymously. You gave him more money than he had seen in his life. The ultimate acting role. He was to disgrace me, threaten to kill my friends if I don't jump. If all else fail, if anything did not go according to script, he was to pretend to kill himself. We both know that with my mind against your brother's, something was bound to go wrong. To go off script."

Sherlock put his hands under his chin. "He was to pretend to kill himself with a blank bullet. How could he know that the man who anonymously hired him would want him dead? The remains were examined down to the DNA level. The only one who could have matched so perfectly was your brother. Your dead twin brother."

"You fooled everyone completely, even my brother. Trust me when I say that is a difficult task." Sherlock complemented Moriarty. "Well, maybe not everyone."

Sherlock smirked. "How was Richard Brook to know that his employer was his long lost, sick, unbalanced, deranged, pathetic excuse for a brother, who put too much product in his hair?"

"Sticks and stones Sherlock." Moriarty for the first time in minutes smiled.

"Speaking of sticks," Moriarty said with raised eyebrows, "what happened to you two years ago Sherlock? Had a bit of a rough time did yah?"

"Did they stick it to you?" Moriarty's smile broadened.

Sherlock stiffened but said nothing.

"Is the subject still a little touchy? Alright… Alright," he said holding his hands up in mock surrender. "My bad."

Moriarty looked at Holmes curiously before saying, "That was me you know, the entire time. Well, except for the rooftop of course, I couldn't very well kill myself, now could I? That's my regret, not being able to look into your eyes the moment that you knew that you were screwed."

"Some regrets can be fixed." Jim said cryptically. "I think you're cute, but if you don't want to come with me there's always someone else."

Sherlock's body stiffened before he could stop it. "What do you mean?" Sherlock asked as his blood ran cold.

"Your pet, you don't mind sharing do you? It's good manners to share. I read that in a book once," Moriarty gestured with one hand noncommittally, "Of course, I burned the book." Moriarty smiled. "He soooo adorable. I could disappear with him. Chain him to my bed. Make sure his leg chain is long enough so that he could clean up, prepare light meals and tea, maybe do some hoovering. How long do you think it would take me to housebreak your pet, a month, several? He is surprisingly stubborn. And a lot tougher than I originally thought. Breaking him might take a while. Patience is not my strong point but, I'll work on it."

Sherlock looked at Moriarty with deadly eyes. "This is between you and me. Do. Not. Touch. Him."

"Or, what? You've shown that you're not exactly capable of murder. What will you do, stare me to death?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Don't," Sherlock said as he walked into Jim's personal space.

Jim's eyes held a dare. "Do you play with your pets before you break them? I do."

"I won't warn you again." Sherlock whispered. His voice broke with rage.

Jim smiled now. "I owe him for property damage, don't worry, eventually he'll get used to it, he might even come to enjoy…"

Time blurred. Sherlock was not sure when he had wrapped his hands around Moriarty's neck. He was squeezing when he noticed that choking sounds were coming out of Moriarty who was now collapsed on the ground with his body below him.

A part of him was repelled and alarmed as he noticed the slight blue tinge to the man's lips.

"Stop Sherlock," a voice that sounded strangely like John's, whispered in his mind.

Another part of Holmes was fascinated. Hypoxia. Eventually it will lead to respiratory, then cardiac arrest. Unconsciousness within six minutes. Will not be able to resuscitate, biological death after ten.

"Stop!" He heard the voice say again more urgently. It was John's voice in his mind. In the end, Sherlock would listen to John. He, with great difficulty, let Moriarty go.

Sherlock let go and rolled on the floor next to Moriarty. He closed his eyes and lay there, as if he could shut out both the world and the lunatic. Eventually he opened his eyes. He slowly, and shakily, got up. Must be the adrenaline, he thought.

Sherlock stood, looking at a stain on the wall. He seemed frozen in place. He was breathing heavily, and still shaking slightly.

Moriarty followed Sherlock's movements, he slowly stood up partially. He was doubled over as he gasped, and choked, and coughed for air. Sherlock stood beside him doing nothing as he stared at the door in the wall, at the door that he really should be retreating through.

Moriarty coughed and inhaled trying to get air in. He started to snicker and choke. "I win Sherlock, the game is mine."

"You did not care if I killed you." Sherlock said quietly to himself, breathing heavily, as he tried to regain control.

"Of course (Cough) I care (Wheeze) don't be an idiot. But the game is worth dying for. For someone who's supposed to be a genius, you can be SO thick! (Cough) You kill me, you become me. You get to take over my kingdom. There is a little rebuilding to do…," He straightened up finally. "But after murder, what's a little rebuilding. You become me, I win."

Sherlock continued to look past Moriarty to the wall. His body stiffened, but his head was up. He wouldn't let Moriarty know how vulnerable he felt.

"If you go with me, MUCH more fun, can you imagine the world with two of us in it, God help it. I win – win –win!" His voice was still raspy.

"If you walk away, I burn your heart out," Moriarty walked right up. His lips almost touching his ear and whispered into it, "I win."

"Do you notice a pattern here? I plan to win." He finished whispering and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"You can't think, plan, plead, or fight your way out of what's coming." Moriarty let one finger caress the side of Sherlock's cheek as he whispered. "Sounds familiar?"

Sherlock did not move his body, but he suddenly turned his eyes to look Moriarty in the face with loathing, but said nothing.

Moriarty withdrew his hand. He looked uncertain for only a few seconds, but then it lifted. He suddenly chuckled then coughed briefly. "Sorry about that." He apologized insincerely, "Being chocked always does that to me."

Jim spoke with a raspy voice. "Your choice, my dear, your move. It's close to check mate." His voice sounded like a snake.

"Well," moving his eyes only, Sherlock looked Jim Moriarty up and down with contempt before finally saying, "Unless you plan to shoot, torture, and, or kidnap me again; this has become boring. I'll find my own way back to the flat."

He turned to leave.

"The game isn't over." Sherlock walked past him purposely bumping Moriarty with his shoulder, causing him to stumble back a few steps. He did not bother to look back. If Moriarty wanted to keep him there. He would.

"Yes it is Sherlock; you just haven't caught up yet." Jim spoke loudly to the retreating man. This earned him another round of coughing.

That was the last sound that Sherlock heard from the lunatic as he retreated, were the sounds of him laughing broken only by fits of coughing.

"Weather forecast for tonight: dark."

~ George Carlin

John walked in the door and hung up his coat. John sighed with relief as he put one hand on his hip. The other hand gripped his mobile tightened. "He's here," he said simply before disconnecting. Sherlock did not bother to ask, he knew he was talking to Mycroft.

"Sherlock, where have you been? I was worried." John's voice was raw.

Sherlock ignored the question. "I told you he would know." He continued to stare out the window. "Are you hurt, John?"

"I'm fine," John said quickly.

Sherlock turned away from the window for the first time. His eyes scan John's body, yet he avoided the eyes.

John sighed, the weight of his hypocrisy was too heavy to bear, "Bruised shoulder, and thigh, side of head. Bit of a headache."

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to scan. Satisfied, he turned back to the window. He stretched out both hands from his body and looked at his one bent arm. He examined the outstretched hand.

John moved closer. He sensed something in Sherlock that he could not readily identify. A negative energy, mixed with fear perhaps. It seemed foreign and out of place on the younger man. He walked up next to Sherlock and simply stood. John glanced at him briefly before glancing out the window.

Sherlock's voice was small. "How far can hate go? I'm not a moron. I know that the one thing that I am weak with is feelings, emotions, sentiments…" He continued to look at his hand. "… understanding them even… even in myself." Sherlock frowned openly, "I almost killed tonight. It would have been so easy to cross that line John." Shame colored his voice, "I almost did."

At the word, 'almost', John exhaled relieved. John instantly knew that the subject of the discussion was Moriarty. John sighed and walked up to Sherlock.

"Almost does not count. You did not. You stopped yourself. That's why you're not him. You are both geniuses. That I admit. You both had similar childhoods but that is where the similarities end. You're not him. You could have kept going but you stopped. You stopped. He never will or even can. That's what separates you from him. That's what makes you better. That's why you'll win, Sherlock."

Sherlock's nose started to bleed again. John frowned as he noticed for the first time a bloodied tea towel on the table.

"Sherlock you're bleeding," John said concerned. He thought that the nosebleeds were a thing of the past.

"Yes." Sherlock stared out the window.

"Sherlock, can't you tell me what has happened, what went wrong."

"I'm bleeding John." Sherlock looked outside lost in a memory.

John walked to the kitchen then came back. He put a hand on Sherlock's arm to gain his attention. After a moment, he gave him a clean small tea towel. He watched as Sherlock put the towel to his nose. After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped. He put the towel next to its bloodied twin.

"Don't worry if you bleed mate. I'll be here to help it stop." John did not hesitate this time as he put his hand on the taller man's shoulder.

Sherlock swallowed as he said with sincerity, "Yes John." More quietly, it was barely a whisper. "You always are." They stood in silence for a few moments.

"John," after a moment, "I think it's going to storm tomorrow."

John looked at the clear, but darkened skies. He did not think that Sherlock was referring to the weather.

"What's going to happened, Sherlock? What are you not saying?"

Sherlock did not answer. John did not ask again. Instead, he kept watch, standing close beside his best mate. John stood guard, as they both watched the man-made lights that dotted the darkened night. The light seemed to retreat, and the darkness advance.

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

Optional Fun Question: This one is simply a yes or no question. Here we go. Was Benedict Cumberbatch ever offered the role of the Doctor, in Steven Moffat's, Doctor Who? If you know what happened, feel free to enlighten us.

By the way, as I was reading, I heard a fan describe Benedict's eyes as, "… pools of dreams." I was not sure if I should laugh, scoff, or sigh in the agreement. I chose the last.