Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 181
*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.
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Warning Moriarty*****. *** T rated ****. ****Need I Say More?
A/N: Hi everyone. Here is the last part. Sorry, I had a busy workweek, I meant for this to be up Yesterday. Enjoy.
1 It Begins.
2. Feed the Fire.
3. Burn Baby Burn. (This week's post.) Part A today/ Part B Saturday/ Part C today
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 III … "Attack or Defend… Burn Baby Burn."
Part C
"Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help."
~Calvin & Hobbes
221B Baker Street
Early Evening
Twelve hours had passed in silence. The past forty-eight hours had been exhausting for everyone involved. The agents, analyst, and experts had moved to one of Mycroft's office buildings with Agent Myers supervising. They continued to work. Mycroft had only arrived back minutes ago. Everyone gathered in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Sherlock had finally crashed, after twenty-one straight hours awake. They left him to sleep on the couch with a government document clutched in one hand. Now the small group talked while he slept.
"I don't t want to state the bleeding obvious, but there's a lot going on. He has enough to worry about. The timing's all wrong." Lestrade argued quietly.
"There's never a right time with these things. Why make it into more than it is, just do it." Several eyes shifted to Donovan. She knew that no one asked her, and she was just there to help Lestrade. But she couldn't keep silent any longer. She shrugged and took sips of the cup of tea.
Mrs. Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson had given their opinions. Both women were for the idea. Molly leaned against the wall next to Thomas. Both were quiet. Irene was also strangely quiet.
John was careful to sip his tea. If he was truthful with himself, he agreed with what they were saying. It needed to be done. However, he also agreed with Irene. Sherlock should be a part of the discussion.
Mycroft had sat quietly listening, until now. "He considers everyone in this room his family. So… I suppose this would be considered a family intervention. There are benefits and risks." Mycroft paused briefly, "Can I see a vote of hands, if you agree that it needs to be done." Mycroft did not look at anyone but at the floor, as his hand rocked the umbrella back and forth, slowly.
Donovan's hand shot up enthusiastically, she took a sip of tea with her other hand. Mrs. Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson's hands went up a little slower. Molly looked around first, and then a hand rose almost shyly. Thomas looked at Molly, pursed his lips, and then raised his hand as well. Irene looked around, gave a dramatic sigh, then reluctantly raised her hand. Mycroft without looking up, raised his hand. Lestrade stayed in the corner with folded arms looking at everyone. All eyes were on John. John purposely did not look at anyone. He took several slow sips of tea, thought deeply, and then finally raised his hand.
John looked at Lestrade.
Lestrade rolled his eyes irritably, before muttering something that no one wished to interpret. He raised his hand as well.
Mycroft looked up for the first time. "All we need now, is for someone to tell him."
Everyone looked at John. John looked back, took the last sip of tea in his cup, before saying, "Cowards."
No one disagreed.
Current Day
Undisclosed Location
The beat of the music filled the space. Bodies pulsed, and swayed, in and out of rhythm, as they gyrated much too closely, to the person that they were dancing with. The smell of cheap perfume, mixed with sweat and alcohol, melted into a unique aroma, which filled the air.
Victor Gorbachova, sat at the back of the club. His arms were spread wide. He was dressed in shiny, synthetic clothing, and too tight trousers. It was as if he came out of a bad mob movie. He wore sunglasses even though the club's lights were dimmed and dark. He grabbed the glass of vodka, the second in minutes, and downed it. A brief squeeze of the eyes was his only indication that he had drank anything.
Victor smiled at Sebastian. "Here's what you wanted," his thick accent, combined with alcohol minced words, made it difficult for Moran to understand what he was saying.
"Is everything there?" Moran asked civilly.
"Of course, of course, comrade," Victor grasped Sebastian's wrist and shook slightly. He poured another shot of the strong liquor into the small round glass. His unsteady hand caused a few drops to coat the sides of the clear container, and run on to the wooden table. "Loosen up, have your pick of any here. It is the end of the world, is it not my friend."
Moran's eyes narrowed, as he looked at the drunken fool. His mouth tightened with distaste. The man was a blathering idiot. He could tell that the man would be a problem. Victor was the brother of someone important, someone high in the military ranks, a mere tool. Someone who didn't mind betraying his country, and family, for the rush of potent poison in his veins, and a forgotten face in his bed. Victor got him the inside information that he needed, and the final codes. Sebastian would play along. He plastered a false smile on his face, as his dark eyes examined the man.
Sebastian opened the briefcase, just enough to peek inside. He closed it with a blank expression. Once he confirmed the contents of the suitcase, he exchanged it for his suitcase full of money. It was Victor's turn to open the case slightly, and look. He smiled satisfied. His gold covered tooth, gently reflected the minimal lighting. Victor took out one large bill and called a scantily dressed woman, with thick, poorly applied makeup over. When she came, he took the bill and pushed it between her ample cleavage. She smiled at him and gave him a long, inappropriate kiss, before leaving.
Sebastian managed to keep his face impassive. He wondered how many diseases they had between the two of them. He had seen enough, it was time to go. Sebastian shook the man's hand, while giving farewell wishes. He resisted the almost overwhelming urge to raise his hands higher, and choked the man's neck.
Within minutes, he was walking out of the nightclub. Several large men had materialized from various corners of the club. They walked with him.
He was finally finished. He made the phone call to Moriarty.
"It's done Sir. The final pieces are in place." Moran glanced at the suitcase, he had locked it. The key easily slid into his inner suit pocket.
Moriarty's amused voice floated through the phone line. "I hear it in your voice Seb. Go ahead and ask."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "May I?" He asked simply.
"Go ahead and kill whoever you want, but be discreet. Mycroft Holmes is being particularly annoying. I would have rather hoped that he would have been in the hospital somewhere. I could've poisoned an IV and killed him, even though, he does deserve a far more dramatic death." There was a pause, "Oh, and Seb. I need you here in twelve hours. So, whatever you're going to do, you better get on with it. Have fun."
"Thank you, Sir," Moran looked at his watch happily. He then turned, and made a call on his mobile. "Bring Gorbachova to me. And I am in a hurry, keep that in mind." Sebastian laid back and looked at the images that floated by his car window. It was too bad that he only had an hour, he thought.
221B Baker Street
"I don't understand," Sherlock said in a voice that barely resisted panic, "Who decided that this was a good idea?"
"Everyone but you," John said with raised eyebrows.
"But why?" The panic now crept into the younger Holmes voice.
John stopped suddenly and looked at his friend. Blonde eyebrows knit together, as crossed hands were unfolded. A deep breath was taken. "Sherlock, everything is uncertain. There is no telling what is gonna happen in the next forty-eight hours. I want you to know what I already know; you'll be okay with William…"
Sherlock interrupted. "But John, you can't!"
John looked at his friend, and folded his arms again. "Oh, I think I can."
William Holmes had been quietly sitting on John's chair, eating a chocolate biscuit. His legs swung back and forth happily. His two caregivers had left fifteen minutes ago, and would not be returning for six hours. He now turned his bright eyes onto the two men.
John noticed. He put a smile on his face before he walked over to the young child. William wiggled his fingers. John picked him up, as his smile became toothy. The young child seemed to have taken to John quite easily. He held him balanced on one hip, as he turned his attention back to his stubborn friend.
"Sherlock, don't panic, it will be fine. I'm just going to Tesco. End of the world and all. I have to get tea. I'll be right back." William had resumed swinging his legs back and forth, as John held him.
This time, Sherlock remembered to lower his voice for the sake of the child. He still managed to put his full venom in his moderate tone. "John Hamish Watson, you're walking out that door and leaving me alone with a living… breathing… child? Are You Insane!"
John sighed heavily, as he transferred William to Sherlock's arms "I trust you." At the look on Sherlock's face he added, " I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And why are you doing that? Stop holding him like he's a bomb."
"With the traffic flow, at this time of the day, it will be closer to twenty minutes, John possibly twenty-five. And to answer your question, have you seen what comes out of the his two orifices?" Sherlock asked defensively with one eyebrow raised high upon his brow.
John smiled with sugary sweetness, "Like father, like son," he kissed William goodbye.
Sherlock pouted, at the same time that little William pouted.
John looked at both, "like I said, like father, like son." John rolled his eyes as he walked out the door with determination.
"John?"
He felt Sherlock's eyes follow him. Thoughts bombarded John's mind as he walked. He resisted the urge to walk back in.
Sherlock would be fine, John told himself.
They both would.
And besides, this was necessary.
Yep, I am still walking, he assured himself as he opened then closed the doors to 221B.
Sherlock stared in shock, as he heard the front door click shut.
Sherlock looked down at William. The energetic child was unusually quiet, as he stared back with curious eyes. He had to establish authority. He had outsmarted the most brilliant criminal minds in the world. What was the one small child to him, he assured himself.
Sherlock deposited William on the chair in front of him. He put on his best, most confident look of authority. His hands clasped firmly behind his back, as he started to walk back and forth in front of the child. Sherlock cleared his throat before his speech began. His voice held authority. "Little William, we are two intelligent men. Let's come to an understanding, shall we."
William's identical gray blue eyes gazed at Sherlock curiously, before a stronger pout came to his lips. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.
Sherlock looked at William. The false bravado left, the panic returned. "I am willing to compromise," he commented hopefully.
William started to whimper, as he bit his lips in a similar fashion to his father. Sherlock's panic increased.
"Oh God," Sherlock whispered, "John. Hurry."
John stood outside of the edge of the road, he glanced back up toward the window. His mobile phone was to his ear. He felt a little guilty but still made the call.
"Mycroft, I assume you have somehow snuck cameras into the flat." The normally polite man did not bother to say hello.
"John, are you accusing me of something…" Mycroft's voice was cautious.
John interrupted him tiredly, "Cut the crap and answer the question Mycroft."
"Perhaps?" Mycroft said carefully.
"Um," John hesitated for a few seconds, "Maybe it would be best…, I mean, since it's in the flat anyway…, I mean…"
It was Mycroft's turn to interrupt.
"I'll keep an eye on everything personally, and I have emergency services on standby a street away. A taxicab will be arriving in seconds. No need to pay. He's my man, of course."
John exhaled relief before thinking. "Um, Mycroft…."
"We never had this conversation John, I know." John disconnected. His eyes shifted to the approaching Taxicab.
He normally would walk but not today. He intended to be back as fast as possible. Within seconds, he easily climbed into the London taxicab. He didn't bother to say where he was going. John's eyes looked out the window, as he noticed two cars pulling immediately into traffic, and following.
Twenty minutes later, he closed the doors with a bag of groceries in his hand.
"Sherlock I'm back," there was no answer. John frowned and closed the door.
He called out again, "Sherlock?"
Again, there was no answer. John put the carryall bag down on the floor, by the door. John whispered, "Oh God." John took the stairs quickly.
"Sherl…" His words were cut short as he entered the main area, and looked to his left.
He closed his eyes and opened them relieved. "Finally, there's someone who has more energy than you," John chuckled quietly to himself.
Sherlock was asleep on the couch. William was asleep on his chest. One hand was wrapped protectively around William; the other hand touched the floor. Both of them had their mouth half opened.
"Like father like son," he smiled. John glanced down at mobile phone screen, as a text came in. There were only three words. He smiled to himself, as he glanced at the mobile phone screen, it said, "They both survived."
Mycroft does have a sense of humor after all, he thought. He looked around curiously. John had no idea where the cameras were. He gave a military salute in the general direction that he suspected the camera to be positioned in.
John pulled a duvet over the two sleeping forms. He quietly made his way back down the stairs, and picked up the grocery bag. He was extra quiet, as he made his way into the kitchen.
Deep into The Tunnel Systems of London
Current Day
5:15 AM
They were arguing. The portable light system had been set up, yet they were so deep in the tunnels, it cast a dull illumination. The deformed shadows of the ten burly men, were cast on the curved walls of the tunnel. The movement of the men, shifted the monstrous silhouetted outlines, in the underground area.
They normally would not have been there at that hour of the morning, but there was no choice. Everything had been moved up time-wise. The orders came from the top, the very top. No one argued with Moran, and lived. And no one even dared to say the name of Moriarty.
The heated conversations died slowly, as it gave birth to a stillness. A man walked up to the crate. He seemed important. He walked as if he was a man used to being acknowledged, and obeyed. With barely a nod, two of the men pushed crowbars into the seams of the crate. When the pops sounded, the sides loosened, and fell heavily to the ground.
The man in the suit walked up to the open crate. He peered inside. His face contorted with expressions that twisted between an ecstatic thrill, and absolute horror. His face became resolute. His fingers played with the metal object briefly; buttons were pushed. A high pitch squeal sound occurred, before three beeps sounded, and than silence.
Within minutes, the lights of torches retreated, as the light bounced in rhythm to the movement of the men's steps.
Yellowing eyes watched the entire event curiously. His dirt stained fingernails pressed softly to the cool, slippery edge of the tunnel's wall. He was a loner, almost no one came down this deeply into the ground. This was his home, his sanctuary. He only emerged for food and to beg. The word had been spread. But he was not one of them. Nevertheless, they had been kind to him, when no one was kind to him.
He pushed a matted strand of hair out of his eyes. It would be a long walk, but he knew a shortcut, which led up to the Tube. But, if he took that way, they would see him.
The people.
They always looked at him as if he was nothing. They wouldn't even look him in the eyes. As if his misery was contagious. Did they not know? He used to be one of them, long ago. That was before it happened, and the pain drove him to the bottle, and the bottle drove him into the dark. It was so long ago that he could barely remember.
He almost worried himself out of it. He had a choice to make and made it. He made up his mind. It was still early, but he knew where one of them would be. One of the man's people. He limped along with slow determination.
221B Baker Street
Current Day
Mycroft, and Sherlock were listening to an agent who was giving his report. Their Mother sat quietly observing from the sofa. Irene and Myers had taken the tired child back to the manor to be guarded. Everyone else had gone back to work, or back into protection.
Mycroft's eyes shifted around the room, before it came to rest on his brother. He pretended not to notice the subtle shifts of Sherlock's eyes. He would look at their mother, deducing. It was as if he could not believe that she was there, and wanted to understand everything that she had experienced, yet did not want to ask. There were papers scattered on every surface of the room.
The room was filled with activity. Sherlock had the idea that Moriarty, enraged by what he would have perceived as a failure, would have moved up the time-frame of his activities.
Mycroft's mind returned to his work, as he quietly tapped on his computer. After twenty minutes of quiet, Mycroft closed the computer screen, and rubbed his tired eyes between his fingers. He suddenly noticed something out of place.
After Sherlock's earlier outburst, it was too quiet. Earlier, he had declared that everyone was, "thinking too loud." That was right before he accused the agents and Scotland Yarders of being, "irritating in their incompetence." He then declare that it was difficult to think with so much people in the room. When Lestrade had been unfortunate enough to ask why, Sherlock has simply replied with a glare that, "He disliked being outnumbered, it made for too much stupid in the room." Sherlock had ended the entire rant by declaring himself, too slow. Almost everyone had excused themselves, and moved into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Only Mycroft and his brother remained in 221B.
Sherlock was standing by the window. By his synchronized hand movements, his brother knew that he was in his Mind Palace. Mycroft sighed before pushing himself to his feet. He winced slightly as he pulled out two pills, and swallowed them, dry. He unhurriedly walked over to the window next to Sherlock, but remained silent. Mycroft glanced away from his brother's face, as he looked out the window at the busy London streets. Humanity passed before the window, clueless to the drama that was taking place.
Sherlock inhaled suddenly, as he blinked a few times. His widened eyes turned toward Mycroft. Mycroft tilted his head toward his brother. One look into his brother's eyes, informed him that Sherlock had deduced something of importance.
"Get Kevin Patel." The younger Holmes eyes held urgency.
Mycroft pulled out his cell immediately to carry out his brother's instructions, when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm. He shifted questioning eyes toward his brother.
"Mycroft, you have to hurry; there isn't much time."
London, England
The Homeless Network
The young female ran up to the watcher. This watcher was the one who was in charge of the area that she slept in. She looked around until she spotted a dark-gray hood. There was a youth leaning against the wall, with his hands in his pocket. He was one of the leaders of the network.
The young girl wore a similarly colored hoodie. "Hey Milty, Dodger came ta me today."
Milty pushed his long hair out of his eyes as he frowned "Dodgy never comes up unless he needs some-in." The penny slowly dropped. His eyes widened, as sudden understanding came. Milty looked at the young girl and said. "Tell me everything."
Within minutes, the young girl was running to find Buzz. Milty was running in the opposite direction. It would be a long run, but Mr. Sherlock had said that it was important.
London, England
Thirty Minutes Later
Milty's breath was harsh in his ears. He rang the bell to 221B. A second passed. He became impatient and repeatedly pushed the doorbell.
The door suddenly opened. A tall, slightly irritated looking man in a suit answered. He had a stern look.
"I need to see Mr. Sherlock, now." Milty demanded.
The man looked at him doubtfully. "Who are you? What business do you have here?"
Milty rolled his eyes, and sidestep the man with the determination, and speed of youth. A commotion broke out, as the agent rushed to get him, and another joined in restraining the loud young man.
Milty barely noticed when muscular fingers released him. He looked up and Sherlock was between him and the men, glaring at them, and demanding that they release him.
The men slowly retreated. They kept an eye on the youth.
Sherlock turned to Milty and smiled apologetically. Milty looked, and noticed that Doctor Watson was now by his side.
"You hurt," John asked as he looked him over.
"Nah. I'm alright." He glared at the agents who had retreated to the corner.
Sherlock was looking the youth up and down. "You found something?"
Milty smiled. "Yeah."
221B Baker Street
Current Day
He had been expecting it, still his heart raced. This was it. Sherlock's mobile phone sounded in the room. He looked at John who nodded. The other agents, some with headphones on, nodded as well. Sherlock connected the phone call on the second ring.
"You know what comes now." Moriarty's voice was almost cheerful. "By the way, you won't be able to trace this call. You won't know if I'm in England, or the jungles of Africa. But, then you already knew that, didn't you love."
"Yes," the younger Holmes replied simply.
Sherlock took a moment to just breathe. He closed his eyes as one hand came and rested on his hip. "These are people, not your toys. This is not one of your little games."
"Oh, yes it is." All traces of mirth left Moriarty's voice.
"You look at people and you see puzzles. I look at people and I see games." There was a brief pause. "I'm your greatest puzzle, and you're my greatest game." There was a brief pause, "I do not intend to lose the game."
Sherlock knew that it was useless but he had to try. "Don't do this."
Moriarty's voice was dull and hollowed out, as if all emotions had been eaten away. "Sorry love. It's already done." Moriarty whispered.
"Here."
"We."
"Go."