Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 175

*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 Moriarty*****. *** T rated ****. ****Need I Say More?

A/N: Hi everyone. After today there will be four more post, and then, an epilogue. I have decided it would be fun to title these last posts.

1 It Begins.

2. Feed the Fire. (This week's post.)

3. Burn Baby Burn.

4. Ashes.

5. Epilogue

"… I can't count the times I have lagged seemingly hopelessly far behind, and nobody except myself thinks I can win. But I have pulled myself in from desperate [situations]. When you are behind there are two strategies – counter-attack or all men to the defenses… " chess strategy - Magnus Carlsen

Final Moves… Part II…"Attack or Defend… Feed the Fire.

"War is not nice." ~ Barbara Bush

Five Hours Earlier

The day had been a long one. It had been good for Sherlock to do something, normal. The taxicab turned the corner. They were making quick progress in the moderately busy streets. Both men looked at each other when Sherlock's mobile rang. One look at Sherlock's face as he read the caller ID, told John all he needed to know. John clinched his jaws together but said nothing.

Sherlock connected.

"Did you like my little early birthday gift." Moriarty's cheerful voice asked.

Sherlock's voice was flawless in its control. "Not particularly," At least, anyone that did not know him well would have thought it was controlled. John tried to keep his face neutral.

One could hear the smile in Jim Moriarty's voice. "What are you going to do about it? Write a written letter of protest?"

"I would like to wrap my hands around your neck again and squeeze. This time I would not let go." Sherlock's voice was cold and lacking in emotion. This fact made his statement more alarming. John looked at Sherlock frowning. He did not think that it was a good idea for Sherlock to talk to Moriarty. He also knew that he had little choice. This was the plan, to engage Moriarty, find a weakness. John's frown deepened.

Moriarty noticed gleefully. "Soooo scary. Such talk of violence. That's soooo out of character for you, love. If you're trying to chat me up Sherlock," there was a pause, "It's working. You'll have to use your imagination to supply my wiggling eyebrows."

There was a moment of silence. John's hand came on Sherlock's arm. They communicated wordlessly. Sherlock gave a slight nod and pushed the speaker feature on the mobile phone.

Sherlock turned his attention back. "Is there a point to this conversation, Jim?" He said coolly.

"I just wanted to say… Hello." There was something in Moriarty's voice that was troubling. A mocking, manic sort of glee. Sherlock resisted the urge to frown.

The cab pulled to a stop in front of the flat. Sherlock was fully concentrating on the mobile call. No one paid the cabby. Even John realized that he was one of Mycroft's men.

"Well, you've said hello. I suppose we can both get on with our day. I know that you must be exhausted from plotting murders, killings, and generally scheming to take over the world."

John continued to move quickly. Sherlock never noticed when John got out of the cab and ran over to open his car door, and then the door to the flat, so that the Consultant Detective would not be distracted.

There was a full deep rumble that seemed to come from deep inside the man. Sherlock's frown deepened. "I'm never too busy for you," Moriarty chuckled.

Sherlock took two steps at a time. John was slightly behind as he closed and locked the door. Mrs. Hudson was out for the day. Sherlock's coat hung on his body by one arm. When he entered his flat, he switched the mobile to the other hand, as he completed the task. He pulled off his coat completely.

"I'm thrilled," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"He has your eyes," Moriarty's voice suddenly became serious.

Sherlock stood walking abruptly. "What are you going on about?" Sherlock said evenly. John and Sherlock looked at each other. "Who has my eyes."

Moriarty was quiet for a moment. Sherlock did not say another word, but instead waited for a few minutes before speaking. "You really don't know what I'm talking about, do you." Moriarty inhaled a snort. "This is just too good."

"You do realize that you are more insane than normal this morning, Jim." Sherlock tried to insult the Consultant Criminal. He ignored the small nagging sensation that started at the base of his spine, and seemed to be spreading rapidly upward, as it numbed his body.

"I'm just happy," Moriarty said cheerfully.

Sherlock's voice was steady despite the frown. "You, and happy, is always a concern for me."

Moriarty chuckled. Sherlock was always entertaining. "You must know that the audiotape was only the beginning. Now that we've made a fire. Let's feed the flame."

Sherlock did not know what to say, so said nothing. He felt as if he was missing something important, something vital. As if he was a step behind. It was an uncomfortable and unfamiliar sensation. He wondered if that was how most people felt when he spoke. He concentrated and pushed the thought away.

"Well, I must go. Give your brother two messages for me. He owes me a suit." He could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice. "Also, tell him… I know." Moriarty disconnected the mobile.

John and Sherlock stared at each other.

One Hour Earlier

Undisclosed Location

She had not even made it out the building. Two unpleasant looking men had surrounded her in the stairwell. The gun under their coat, had encouraged her to walk out of the university building quietly.

She glanced around. Her breathing was audible. She was not tied, however, the too large men on her left and on her right encouraged her not to move. She tightened then released her folded hands. Her index finger ran nervously over the knuckles of her other hand. Her face however, was cool, and undisturbed. She was happy about the fact that no one could feel the rapid thumping of her heart against her chest.

The click of a door turned her attention away from her inner turmoil. Two men entered. One walked to a corner and watched with a toothy smile. The other man came toward her. She watched him cautiously as he walked into the room. His eyes were dark. It was not the color that made them dark, she realized, it was what was behind his eyes. There was something empty and cold, and hungry. Those dark eyes were directed at her. She didn't notice that she bit her lips nervously. When she noticed, she stopped immediately.

"Your sons hid you well," he walked closer to her with barely a nod. A chair appeared in front of her. He sat down and crossed his legs in an elegant, unhurried sort of fashion. "Excuse me for staring. But, you're a bit of a surprise, aren't you." Moriarty looked at her up and down. She made it a point not to squirmed. She may have raised her chin slightly, she wasn't sure.

"You're Sherlock's mistake. Why did he protect you?" He leaned in closer. She thinned her lips, but did not say a word.

"Mummy dearest," Moriarty extended his hand toward hers. She looked at his hand in confusion for a second, before she cautiously extended her hand. He grabbed it and shook it once. Instead of letting go, he simply looked at her. He held her hand firmly, but not tightly in his.

"I've been educating your son on his true nature, Mummy. You don't mind if I call you Mummy, do you? We're practically family." A strange, out of place smile was on Moriarty's face. "You can call me Jim."

Miranda Holmes heard a strange sort of clinking sound from behind her and to the right. She turned her head in that direction, almost out of reflex. A man, a rather large and unpleasant looking man, pushed a wheeled table with instruments and knives on it. She stared at the knives. There were lots and lots of knives.

Her head snapped back to Moriarty. He was still holding her hand. But the smiled, odd as it were, had left.

"You knew what your husband was doing to Sherlock, didn't you." His hand squeezed her a little harder now. His eyes never left her face. His head turned slightly to the side, as he stared into her eyes.

"You're supposed to be some kind of genius yourself, aren't you. Is that where your sons get their extraordinary minds from? And yet you did nothing." Moriarty's hand squeezed even harder. Miranda thinned her lips, but did not say a word.

Moriarty was slightly surprised by Miranda's courage. Of course he would never say this out loud. He mused to himself about the fact that perhaps intelligence was not the only thing that Sherlock inherited from his mother. Of course, that changed nothing.

The tray was positioned beside Moriarty. His eyes flickered to hers, to the tray, then back to her again. He watched her as he gave one final, brutal squeeze, and then let go with a smile.

"I understand people like you, mothers like you, I had one of my own. She looked the other way while I was brutalized as a child. She looked away again as my older brother joined my father one day. Dear brother made daddy proud," he winked at her before picking up a knife, "She said nothing, did nothing. She would look in my eyes, and see my pain. Yet, she was too weak to do anything about it. I despise weak things."

Miranda looked at him strangely. She tried her best to make her face as blank as possible. She was not as skilled as her sons, but she was a Holmes.

"There were four bodies. I killed them all, you know. It was my first proper murder. My predatory brother, my bastard of a father, my weak, pathetic mother. Of course, I had to find a body that was approximately my height and weight. Everyone thought that it was an unfortunate car wreck. And that the car burst into flames afterward. How tragic, an entire family dying." Moriarty chuckled, "Idiots, the lot of them."

Moriarty smiled, "I had been a successful businessman at a very young age," he smiled proudly, "I seemed to have a talent for business. But it was booor…ing," he sang.

"My true talent was chaos. The day I murdered my… What is the word… Oh yes, family. That weak, young man that I was died that day as well. And I was born." One of Moriarty's hands came up dramatically in the air. He gave a slight bow of his head as he smiled.

Jim looked at his watch with a slightly bored expression. "Well, time to start the fun."

He took a knife and leaned it against his crossed legs. He said and did nothing for a few minutes. "Is there anything you want to do? This is usually when they start to sniffle, weep uncontrollably, faint, or beg for their lives. I can usually predict what a person's going to do. But," he looked at her curiously. "I must admit you're somewhat hard to read. Maybe I should call up Sherlock and let him hear this," he seemed to be thinking out loud rather than talking to someone in particular.

"I think the sounds of your screams will be quite liberating. He might think that he… loves you, but he doesn't, he's like me. We're not capable of love. People think that love is a good thing, but it is not, love is the most adherent force in the universe. It makes one weak. Of course, the ordinary imbeciles that walked back and forth without a clue, do not know this." His face seemed to snarl as sudden anger shown on it for the first time.

He pulled out his mobile. The knife stayed in his hand, however.

"Do what you like to me, Mr. Moriarty. But you leave my son out of this. You've tormented him enough. I'd rather die than have you used me to hurt him more." Even though there was fear there, Mrs. Holmes eyes held fire.

"Why do you care suddenly," Moriarty asked with true curiosity.

Miranda scoffed "I do care. I've always cared. I did not know about my son's abuse Mr. Moriarty. I have to live with that. With the fact that I failed an innocent child. My innocent child, every day of my life. I knew my husband was harsh, but I never knew the extent of it. Sherlock kept it well hidden. Even then he was trying to protect me. Imagine a son trying to protect his mother. Aren't mothers supposed to be the ones protecting their children?" Miranda's eyes glazed over as if she was no longer talking to the madman in front of her, she was confessing things that she had held inside for too long. It was doubtful that she even noticed him anymore.

Miranda's voice was soft. It was heavily layered with guilt. "The last two months I did suspect that my husband did more than…Discipline. I then thought carefully about the past. It was as if someone removed a dark veil from my eyes. I confronted my husband about it. Of course he denied it. I asked Sherlock as well in a delicate way, he denied it. I informed my husband that if I ever found out that he was physically abusing Sherlock, despite the fact that I loved him, and God help me, I did love him; I would leave him and take Sherlock. My older son was an independent, and busy young man. He came home very little, except to visit his brother."

Miranda frowned. "I spent the next two months trying to find a solicitor, who was brave enough to go against someone as powerful as my husband. I could find none. The Holmes family name was feared."

She shrugged. "In those days it was frowned upon when a woman tried to stand against her husband in any way socially or legally. A month later, my mother died. While I was away burying my mother, and settling her legal affairs, my oldest son call me and said that Sherlock had an, accident again, and he was in the hospital." Miranda bit her lips briefly and inhaled a shallow breath before continuing, "My husband was on assignment for the government. I was not supposed to know where he was, but as you pointed out," Miranda smiled sadly, "I'm a genius. At least in some things, Mr. Moriarty."

She looked at him again for the first time in minutes. "I told him that I knew what he was, what he had done. That he was not to come home anymore. And if he did I would contact the newspaper, inform his superiors, bring scandal to the family, do anything I could to humiliate him. That I would tear him apart with my bare hands if he touched my son again." She looked almost lost. "He looked at me strangely. As if he was ashamed for the first time since I've known him. He was not ashamed because of what I said, but ashamed because I knew. I saw the truth of who he was. My husband was dead within a week. They said it was an accident. But I knew the truth."

She looked at Jim Moriarty. Jim's face was strangely blank. He had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout, listening. "Are you seeking forgiveness Mrs. Holmes?" Surprisingly, his voice held no mock.

Miranda laughed bitterly "I neither need, nor want forgiveness, Mr. Moriarty. At least, not yours. I want something different. I want you to take out every evil fantasy you have on me. If you intend to torture me in some way. Then get on with it. I'm a Holmes after all. But leave. My. Son. Alone. He is not your plaything Mr. Moriarty. If you don't, I'll find a way to stop you." She paused. "I must admit, the entire stopping you part have not been entirely worked out yet, but don't underestimate a mother's determination."

Miranda looked into Moriarty's eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't protect my son. I think he needs to hear me say these words at least's once."

Jim Moriarty's face was a mixture of rare emotions. "Sorry?" He suddenly grabbed his knife, and pressed it firmly into her side, "Are you now?" He hissed angrily.

She didn't answer his question instead she looked at Moriarty. It was suddenly clear, realization came to her. The Consultant Criminal's facade seemed to break like shattering glass upon the ground. It broke apart revealing the hollow, fragmented soul of the man in front of her. She did not see the powerful man that everyone feared in front of her, but a broken little boy who was hiding in the corner, trembling with fear.

"I'm sorry no one protected you Mr. Moriarty. No child deserves that." Miranda ignored the sharp stick at her side, and the slight shaking of her body. She held up her chin proudly. She hoped that she would not faint or do something equally embarrassing.

She closed her eyes then. That's why she did not see the conflict in Jim's eyes. Something strange and long forgotten awoke inside of him. It was in some deep, dark, hidden place. Something moved in his chest. He had forgotten what to even call it.

Damn the woman, he thought with irritation.

Moriarty abruptly got up. The scrape of his chair against the concrete floor, as his body pushed it backwards, seemed to fill the room.

"I'll kill you later," he assured her. "Knives are too dull anyway. Excuse the pun. You deserve something more dramatic." He gave her what he hoped was an evil smile.

Jim walked toward the door.

He spoke when he was far enough away so that she could not hear him. "Prepared the jet. Move her in twenty-four hours to location number two." Moran frowned. "No one touches her by the way."

Moriarty suddenly turned to Moran and looked. "I have an assignment for you Seb. By the way, just to be clear, if anyone so much as forgets to put ice cubes in a glass of water that is given to her. I'll be angry. Very angry, in fact." Moriarty smiled dangerously.

Moran swallowed hard, and gave a nod.

"No one… Touches… Her… But me." Jim smiled now easily, "Make sure that everyone understands that Seb. I'm holding you personally responsible." Moriarty winked and started to move. Several assistants moved quickly with him as they look strangely at each other. Moran gave orders quickly. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. She looked just as confused as everyone else. Sebastian then jogged to catch up to Moriarty.

Current Day

Current Time

221 B Baker Street

Everyone was heading for Mrs. Hudson's flat. They would talk, while they ate. He would follow them shortly, but honestly, he felt that he needed a few minutes to himself. There was much on his mind.

Sherlock's mobile lit up on the kitchen table. It must've been accidentally left on the table earlier. Long slender fingers reached and picked it up. He put the kettle down, before he could refresh his cuppa.

His eyes narrowed when he read the message. He frowned. Men that did not know him, thought that he was fearless. And normally he was. However, even he did have a few fears. His eyes glanced down again, this was one of them.

His fingers quickly tapped on the keys of the Smartphone. He hit send. Within seconds, a response came.

His brother would be upset. Perhaps the word upset was putting it mildly, he admitted. But, it couldn't be helped, he looked at the mobile again. There was no choice. He turned his head, as he walked quietly. He glanced toward the door. He made up his mind.

His steps were almost cat like as he walked down the stairs. He avoided the seventh stair going down, which creaked.

He closed the door gently. By the time they realize that he was gone, they would not be able to stop him.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed.

Optional fun question: In cannon, The adventures of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, what was the retired Sherlock Holmes' primary occupation/ hobby?

(Feel free to read or look it up on the internet, but let me know if you knew straight away. Have fun.)