Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 189

*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.

"Colder by the hour, more dead with every breath." John Green

A Private Airfield

Current Time

Mycroft practically jogged down the stairs of the private jet. Anthea and several of his key staff followed. They were on the mobile phone with different disciplines. Within seconds, he was in a black BMW racing toward the manor. Several black cars drove before, and behind the car the contained, the British Government.

At different points of London, several cars were driving in the same direction. Thomas, Lestrade, and their men were among them.

The Holmes Family Manor

Current Time

A click of a gun was heard behind them.

"Going somewhere love?"

They had run out of bullets, and were trying to make a run for one of the exits.

John and Sherlock breathed in and out heavily, as they tried to catch their breath. Without noticing, they had positioned themselves back-to-back, so that no one could sneak up from behind. They both looked warily at the men, as they completed their circle and moved closer. The men abruptly stopped their advance. Sherlock noticed Moran enter out of the corner of his eyes. Moran had the look of a hungry animal. The younger Holmes did not move his eyes from Sebastian even when he heard Moriarty speak again.

"The party has only started."

There was a moment of tense silence.

Moriarty moved past the group of man, closer to Sherlock. He knew better than to come within his reach, however, and stopped. "Did you miss me?" His voice held no trace of mirth.

Sherlock moved his hands away from his body as he prepared for a fight. "Not particularly. Sorry." He replied with a false, tight smile.

Moriarty looked past the two into the next room. He saw five of his men either unconscious or moaning. In reality he didn't care. The idiots. If they had underestimated Holmes, they deserved what they got. He turned his eyes back to Sherlock.

"I may not be able to make the world bow to me, but I can still burn your world, and turn it to ash." Moriarty completely ignored John for the moment. "Did you really believe that I would just disappear like a dog with my tail between my legs?"

"Believe, no. Hope, yes." Sherlock said evenly.

Moriarty chuckled without humor. "Believe," he said somewhat mockingly. "Since when do you do things like… Believe?"

"It's a rather new development; I'm still working out the particulars." Sherlock returned with an even voice.

Moriarty showed the first signs of true mirth. "Working on a sense of humor as well, I see."

This time Sherlock said nothing as he glanced at him. He took in the environment the number of men, and possible exits.

Moriarty nodded and one man walked away. Sherlock watched him, as he disappeared through the open door.

A shot rang out as both the sound of a bullet being fired, and the thud of flesh being hit, pierced the air.

One of Moriarty's men had turned on Music. It was Bach. The volume played softly in the background. Sherlock felt a cold chilled run through him. Time seemed to still.

"This is entirely your fault you know. We've already had this conversation. You still refuse to move my dear, and I still refuse to stop. This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. There will be a collision. Can you feel it, Sherlock? The shuddering vibrations of your world collapsing. It's inevitable."

John and Sherlock noticed more popping sounds of gunfire coming from the dining area. Moriarty had no intention of removing the wounded men. Sherlock could only see a small portion of one man's head. A halo of blood was spreading, as the man's unseeing eyes stared blankly upwards. Sherlock resisted the urge to frown. He blinked once, and then returned his attention back to Moriarty.

John's face was without expression. Doctor Watson was absent. The man that stood next to Sherlock was the soldier.

Moriarty's eyes seem to lock into John's. Sherlock did not like the way that he was looking at him. He attempted to draw his attention away from John.

"What's this about Jim," Sherlock purposely used Moriarty's first name. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the tightening of the skin around Moran's mouth

"I already told you, but were you listening Sher… Lock…?" Moriarty sang as he pulled out his gun. "This is your lesson on a collision, a crash, a transfer of momentum."

Sherlock no longer attempted to hide the frown on his face. He also did not notice that he stepped closer to John.

"Things have been set in motion Sherlock. Today we finally come to the logical conclusion. All those things that were done, that I allowed to be done to you were just tests."

Moriarty looked at Moran. Moran smiled as he took out a gun and moved close to the two men.

"We have been playing a game of chess, but all games must come to an end."

"These are our final moves Sherlock, yours and mine. Who will win?" Moriarty paused briefly as he looked at the two men. A curious expression came on Moriarty's face. "What would you do to save him?"

Sherlock looked grimly as he said, "Anything."

"Even now?" Moriarty asked with curiosity.

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply.

"Sherlock, don't you dare." John whispered angrily.

"Quiet," Sherlock hissed quietly.

Moriarty chuckled, as he raised one eyebrow. "Are you two having a bit of a domestic?"

Sebastian Moran held his hand out. The gun was pointed in the direction of the two men.

"I'll give you a choice Sherlock. Someone dies today. The other man lives with the knowledge that their life caused the other man's death. Since you've deprived me of seeing the world burn, I'll settle for your heart."

"So... Doctor Watson, who do you choose to die?" Moriarty asked curiously.

"Quiet John." Sherlock whispered to John.

"I choose myself," John said immediately, ignoring the other man's request.

Moriarty listened quietly before he commented. "Whoops, I forgot," he giggled, "I don't care what you think."

"Your turn," he looked at Sherlock.

"I choose myself." Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock ignored John's protests.

Moriarty was perfectly still and quiet for several seconds. All eyes were on him. He suddenly clapped his hands together and spoke with a perky cheerfulness. "Wrong answer."

Several large men rushed toward Holmes.

"Please shoot Doctor Watson. I want him to bleed slowly. Hold Holmes back while he watches." Sherlock immediately started to fight several of the men. John looked grimly on. He, however, did not move.

"There's no need to restrain Doctor Watson, is there. He's not a coward," he paused for drama. He looked with a condescending glance as he added, "Despite being ordinary."

Moriarty watched with interest as several of his men were knocked down by the incensed man. Moriarty instructed the men to not permanently injure the Consultant Detective. Jim walked close to Holmes, as they finally managed, with great difficulty to restrain him.

"By the way Sherlock," Moriarty whispered in his ear, "check mate."

Moriarty pulled back just in time to miss a head butt. After the initial surprise, he giggled with amusement.

Moriarty was so distracted by his entertainment that he did not notice what John did. Sebastian locked eyes with John. John knew at that moment that he was not the target of Moran's bullet. Sherlock was. He was an ex soldier and an expert shot. The angle that he held the gun was wrong. Although unpleasant, he was prepared for his own death if that meant saving his friend, but the thought of Sherlock dying was terrifying. The thought of him dying and leaving a young son was unthinkable.

There was a look of vengeance and hate in its purest form. It transformed Sebastian Moran's eyes into something more animal than human. This confirmed John's dark thoughts. There was no time to debate or plan. Everything in his being was focused on one thought.

"Sherlock!"

John shouted, as he jumped in front of Sherlock. An eternity wrapped itself around that moment.

John looked at the horrified look on Sherlock's eyes. He frowned at Sherlock's expression. He was confused as to why Sherlock was staring at him. He opened his mouth to ask if his friend was hurt, but found his tongue lazy and slow.

"Sherlock?"

It wasn't until he looked down at his body, that he felt the pain. Odd that. The pain hit him like a sledge hammer. It was sudden and intense.

Sherlock caught him and lowered him to the floor. It was unusually quiet. The chaos stopped abruptly. He heard Moriarty walk up to them. Sherlock immediately ripped the edge of his shirt and quickly pressed it to John. He took another long strip and tied it around the wadded up piece of cloth tightly. John hissed from the pain.

"Sorry," Sherlock said automatically. He did not stop pressing, however.

Moriarty walked up to Moran. Moran grimly handed him the gun. He was surprised when Moriarty simply said. "Outside."

Moran looked at Holmes with an expression of pure malice, before quickly obeying. His only consolation was the broken, panicked look on Holmes face.

"That was unexpected," Jim whispered curiously.

After a moment of silence, the Consultant Criminal spoke loudly. "Oh well. Let's rally ourselves, shall we. The show must go on." He waved one hand in the are dramatically.

Jim put his mobile in his hand, as he said with what was a voice of steel. "You burned my home. Let me return the favor." Moriarty smiled at John, before pressing the send key on his phone.

An explosion shook the manor. Sherlock put his body over John's, as a shield. In the back of his mind, he noticed that the explosion seemed to come from the direction of the smaller kitchen, which was being converted. It was located on the lower level. An alarm system started to sound.

The blare of the alarm, and the sounds of Bach, clashed violently into a chaotic mix of irritating noise. Within a few seconds, there was a second minor explosion. Small amounts of the ceiling fell down in patches. The floor vibrated violently.

Sherlock held John's head against his chest, as he leaned his back over the injured man, in an attempt to shield him again.

The vibrations stopped.

"Things are getting worse, very fast, aren't they love." Moriarty winked at John, before turning to Sherlock.

His face transformed into a look of pity. "Put him out of his misery, You'll never be able to get him out of a burning building by yourself on time." Jim smiled, "It's the only humane thing to do. Or would you rather watch him burn to death?" One of Moriarty's men walked up to Sherlock, and handed him a small gun. "It only has one bullet Sherlock, so don't get any ideas."

In a moment of blinding rage, Sherlock knocked the man down, grabbed the gun and pointed at Moriarty's chest. "One bullet is all I need."

The faint smell of smoke drifted into the room. Some of Moriarty's men started to look around nervously, as the smell of smoke became more pronounced.

"Well – Well." Moriarty's said slowly as his smile became genuine. "Have I finally awaken the beast? I've tried everything to awaken that murderous rage in you. If I knew all it took was to shoot your pet, I would have shot him ages ago." He scoffed, "What are you going to do Sherlock, kill me?" Moriarty handed his gun to his men, "An unarmed man? I told you a long time ago that I intend to win the game. Go ahead shoot me. Revenge always put a spring in my step."

"Don't Sherlock," John's pain voice floated from behind the Consultant Detective. Sherlock's hand shook with rage. Yet, John's voice held him back. It kept him from crossing over the very near line.

When Moriarty noticed John's effect on Holmes, he became incensed. He was so close to a victory. He did not intend to lose the game. The game was everything.

"SHOOT ME!" Moriarty screamed, as he ripped open his overcoat and hit his chest once with his fist. Moriarty's eyes danced with pure madness. "Don't pretend you're not me. Take revenge. Take what you want. That's what people like us do. You're not them. You've never been one of them and that's why I win." A strange sort of smile was on Moriarty's face. "I win the game," he repeated to himself with a whispered, almost childlike defiance.

Sherlock did not notice that his hand tightened around the trigger of the gun. Suddenly, he felt a hand, wet and warm on his wrist.

"You're not him Sherlock. I'd rather die than see him use me against you." John closed his eyes in pain, as his legs gave out under him.

The gun clattered to the ground as Sherlock caught him in his arms for the second time. He carefully lowered him to the ground. He tore more cloth without removing what was already applied, and pressed firmly.

John stifled a groaned.

"So, you die with him. Rather than save yourself. Why?" Moriarty almost seemed to be asking himself that question. A rare display of confusion pinched around Moriarty's dark eyes before it was gone.

"Because he's my friend, my mate and I… I… care for him. You've lost the game Jim. Shoot me, don't shoot. Let us go, let us burn. You still lose, I won't leave him. That's something you'll never understand Jim. I'm just beginning to understand it myself." He looked intently at John. "He says I'm not like you, and that's good enough for me." Sherlock turned away from Moriarty. John had a small smile on his face. "You lose, Jim."

Moriarty blinked several times as he looked at the two men.

"Sir." one of Moriarty's men said.

Moriarty continued to stare without answering.

Small amounts of smoke was beginning to seep onto the ceilings of the room that they were in.

"Sir," one of the men repeated nervously. "It's time to leave." The smell of smoke increased. Gray smoke was starting to fill the ceiling of the passageway close to one of the doors. A faint crackling sound was now heard as well.

One of Moriarty's men looked at the two and asked, "Do you want us to kill them Sir?"

Moriarty did not answer. He simply started to walk away.

"Adieu Holmes," Moriarty said sweetly, as he quickly exited the opposite way. The group started to run. Jim easily jogged, leading the way.

Current Day

Current Time

It had started to rain only a few minutes ago, but he already knew that it would occur. The staff was gone for the night. It was a long walk from his bedroom to the front door. If it wasn't for the fact that it had been in the family for three generations, he would have sold the property a long time ago, and purchased something smaller.

The front door rang for the second time. He walked stiffly. He adjusted his blue and red, silk dressing gown, which had fallen off of one shoulder. His joints ached slightly, the rain never helped. His face was contorted into a clear display of his displeasure. The door to the main entrance chimed for the third time.

"I'm coming," he hissed in the air irritably. He hurried his steps slightly. Muttering sounds escaped his lips, as his frustration increased with every step.

It took three minutes to reach the main entrance. His feet shuffled gently on the marble floors. His short, stocky fingers reached for the door knob exactly when the doorbell rang again. He pulled the door open with a little more force than was warranted. A scathing remark was on the tip of his tongue.

"What's the meaning…" His words died a sudden death.

A small group of people stood outside his doors. There was staff from the Holmes manor close by, as well as a woman that he had never seen, and a child. The woman's long brunette hair was glistening from the moisture of the rain. She was rubbing circles on a shivering child's back. The jacket that was covering him was wet and dripping with water. In the back of his mind, he heard his wife call from behind him. He was too stunned to answer. His eyes were fixed on the smallest member of the group. There was something about the child. That child looked remarkably like the younger of the Holmes boys. The whimper of the shivering child made the man come to his senses.

"Oh dear. Apologies. Come in -Come in." The man said as he stepped to the side.

The exhausted group filed in. He dismissed their apologies for getting the floor wet. Abbot took William from Irene.

Within seconds, everyone was inside. His wife was directing them to the fireplace and getting warm blankets.

"Sir, I must ask you if you have a telephone that I can use. I also need transportation. I need to get back to the Holmes Manor."

The man turned to look at the smaller, shivering woman. He was about to refuse and insist that she needed to rest, but the fire in her eyes made him pause. "I'll drive," he said instead.

"It could be dangerous." Irene warned gently.

"The Holmes are my longest, and closest neighbors. Besides," he pushed his chest out. "I'll have you know that I was in Her Majesty's Armed Forces."

She smiled and took him by the arm. They made their way toward the motorcar.

Holmes Manor

Current Time

Sherlock had the advantage of knowing the manor. He knew every tile, passageway, and secret hiding place since childhood. So far, they were staying ahead of the fire. He was becoming tired, but he did not intend for John to know that fact. Sherlock's olfactory senses have always been sensitive, but it did not take his superior sense of smell to detect the burning aroma. Sweat was pouring down his back, and face. The salty substance, along with the light smoke was stinging his eyes. His mouth thinned with concern, as he listened to John's intermittent coughing. The smoke that had confined itself to the ceilings, were now accumulating lower. The crackling, popping sounds of fire consuming wood, was getting closer.

"Pu… Put me down, you idiot. You'll move faster without me." John managed in between coughs.

"Rubbish, you would not have left me behind, even if you had to drag me. We both know this." Sherlock leaned his body against the wall, as he briefly caught his breath. A hacking sound exploded from his lips before he gained control. A slight wheezing sound made his voice raspy. "You, my dear John, are a hypocrite."

John chuckled briefly before it turned into a cough. Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that a small amount of blood splattered on his shirt and chin as John coughed. He couldn't fall apart. John was depending on him. He pretended not to notice.

Sherlock peeked around the corner. He was hoping against hope that everyone was out, that they would not meet any more of Moriarty's men, and that they were quicker than the flames and the smoke.

John's eyes became heavy.

"Open your eyes, John."

John blinked for a few minutes before he looked up at Sherlock. "Yes… Sorry," he said. His speech had a slight slur now.

"Apply pressure John. I can't carry you and apply pressure at the same time. You have a job to do John Watson, now do it." Sherlock attempted to sound irritated, to hide his growing terror. Instead, his voice sounded pleading.

John's lips turned up into a hint of a smile. His head briefly rose, as he licked his dry lips. The simple activity drained him physically.

"Bossy git." His head fell back against Sherlock's chest.

"Don't ever forget it." Sherlock said, as he started to move again, faster this time. He grunted slightly from the effort when he broke into a slight jog.

John's face grimaced, as he bit his lips from the explosion of pain from the jostling movements, but he did not say a word. He licked his lips again, more desperately this time. Thirsty. He suddenly realized that he was incredibly thirsty.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered when he noticed John's grimace, but he did not dare slow down.

The smoke was getting closer. They could hear the crackles of the fire. Luckily, it was coming from behind them, not in front. They were almost there, Sherlock thought. If only his luck would hold out. If only Thomas had gotten his message. If only Moriarty's men would not come back again. If only John would stop bleeding. If only the damn smoke would go away. If only he could breathe.

Sherlock stumbled slightly, as what appeared to be another explosion shook the ground. Smoke and sudden flames appeared. The corridor, and a portion of the ceiling were blocked with a small amount of flames. He had to make a decision, the fire was hungrily devouring. Not wanting to detour, he covered John and ran past the fire. A piece of the ceiling fell, as another more violent explosion sounded. The younger man was careful to keep a hold on to the ex-soldier, as Sherlock's shoulder slammed into the nearest wall. He tilted his body so that John was protected. He flicked the embers away. Sherlock hissed from the pain, yet, he corrected his balance and did not slow down.

"Sherl…," John began.

Sherlock interrupted him. "I'm fine John. Press on the wound. We're almost there." He couldn't help coughing now. The smoldering smoke was getting bothersome. It was annoying.

They moved a good distance away from the flames. They were minutes from the exit when it happened.

Sherlock molded himself to the wall suddenly. They looked in each other's eyes briefly, as John nodded. Someone was coming toward them. A group of some ones was more accurate. Moriarty was changeable. They heard the rhythmic tap of footsteps, as they ran toward them. There was no way to avoid them, except go back, or take a longer detour. Both options were riskier than fighting it out where they were, and hoping that Thomas, or Mycroft, or Lestrade would come to the rescue.

He put John down as gently as he could, leaning him against a wall. John tried to catch his breath as he looked around. He realized that he was in the library. Sherlock had positioned them between the wall and a couch.

"I can help you shoot," John wheezed tiredly.

Sherlock smiled despite the situation. "You continue to apply pressure to your wound, John. I've got this one." His eyes shifted toward the closer of the two entrances of the large room. Several beads of sweat rolled down his face, disappearing into the now dirty shirt collar. Without thought, he wiped his wrist across his face, using his shirt cuff to wipe the sweat and slight soot away from his irritated eyes.

He pointed the gun at the opening. It was difficult to see because of the increasing gray fog. Orange flickers of light could be seen coming from the door at the far end of the library. The manor was properly burning now. The temperature was rising, and searing waves of heat were also coming from the far doorway behind them. The increasing roar of fire, and the increasingly heavy waves of smoke, accompanied the increasingly frequent coughing.

There's no point in trying to hide where they were. The coughing by itself would have given them away. They listened as the footsteps became louder. Raised voices mixed with the crackle of the fire. They both shook again, as another small explosion vibrated the room.

"Hang…," cough, "… on John."

John heard Sherlock speak, before he cleared his throat in an attempt not to cough again. He watched Sherlock, as he blinked his eyes a few times, before looking intently toward the closest of the two openings. The room blurred.

Time began to skip.

…

John did not notice that he had closed his eyes. He contorted his eyelids in an effort to open them, as Sherlock's panic voice spoke. He looked up to see the younger man gently, but urgently tapping his face.

…

Again, a voice was pulling him back. There were men around Sherlock. Some of the men were trying to pull Sherlock away, and he was fighting, coughing, and demanding to be let go. A familiar voice stopped the men that were restraining his friend. Sherlock reappeared beside him in a second. It was hot, too hot. His eyes became heavy again.

…

"Open your eyes John…"

John's eyes opened again. He frowned. He looked around for Sherlock.

Sherlock was still beside him, but they were moving. He felt as if he was floating through the heat, and the smoke, and the pain. He now noticed that men were moving him, and Sherlock was walking beside him. He looked at his hand. Sherlock was gripping it and not letting go. His friend's steady voice, and encouragement tethered him. John thought he heard Irene, and Thomas' voices among the chaotic mixture of sounds.

Within a few seconds, he was no longer staring at the ceiling and the smoke, but at the stars and the dark sky. John heard urgent voices talking, emergency vehicles, and the footsteps of people rushing about quickly.

John could not be sure, but he thought that he heard Lestrade's voice now. He took deep gasps of fresh air, and coughed with both pain and relief. And, that pain was blinding. His eyes travelled to Sherlock.

John noticed two bodies on the ground. His slowing mind eventually worked out who they were.

Two of Moriarty's men lay dead on the ground. Their assignment had been to shoot Watson if he made it out alive. Apparently, Moriarty was determined to see him burn. It was his way of burning the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.

His eyes returned to Sherlock. He concentrated on staying awake.

…

The chill lessened when someone put a blanket around both him, and Sherlock. Going from the extreme heat to the extreme cold was a shock to their systems. They were shaking. The absence of their outer garments contributed to the chill. However, as a Doctor, John knew that it was more than the cold that made him shake. He coughed weakly, he heard Sherlock coughing next to him. Shouting commands floated around the two. He stared at the stars.

…

"The paramedics are almost here." Someone said to an incensed Sherlock.

John thought he must have lost focus. It was becoming more difficult to stay awake. He felt himself fading. He sought Sherlock's eyes, and found them.

Sherlock frowned, he stared questioningly at John. After a few seconds, Sherlock's eyes widened, as he inhaled sharply. John refused to look away. Even though his friend's eyes were filled with pain, and he knew that, although it was not his intent, nonetheless, he was the cause of it. There was no more moisture in his mouth, his mouth was incredibly dry, and yet he had to speak.

"Don't." There was an acquired desperateness in the normally composed man's voice. "Don't you dare John Watson." Sherlock's voice broke, "Don't you dare."

John wanted to listen. If only he could. He coughed weakly. It took him time to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry." John whispered comfortingly with a weak smile. "I'm sorry."

"John?" Sherlock's broken voice pleaded.

"Sher…," His voice became uncooperative. He couldn't find the strength to speak. Against his will, John's eyes closed.

That is when it happened. Sherlock's world stopped burning. There was nothing left to burn. All that remained was ash.