Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 191
*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.
"All men's souls are immortal, but the souls of the righteous are immortal and divine."
~ Socrates
Current Day
Current Time
It was cold. Very cold. He shivered. It was also dark. Quite dark. There it was again. The sound. He could not be sure, but he thought that it was a voice. Yes. He was sure now. It was a voice. Something about the voice was familiar, comforting.
He felt himself weakening. A light suddenly appeared. He turned his head to the right and realize that the light did not just suddenly appear. It had always been there. It was waiting for him. He turned and moved toward the light. The more he moved toward it, the warmer he became. He now realized that the darkness was living; and so was the light.
He took several steps toward the light, before he stopped suddenly and frowned. There it was again. That sound. There was something that he was forgetting, something important.
Someone was crying. It was all wrong. Whatever, Whoever was crying never cried. He turned away from the light, toward the darkness. He walked toward the dark until he could not see the light. He had to find the voice, but how could he? He could not see.
He listened intently. What was the voice saying?
"… John."
Someone was calling for a John. An overwhelming sensation of déjà vu came to him. A feeling that he had heard the voice before, tried to get to the voice, but failed.
"Don't Leave Me John,… Please."
He had to get to whoever was calling for John. It was important. He had just forgotten why. The voice was pulling at him. He couldn't say that it didn't matter. He would follow the sound. The sound, and the voice.
He rapidly moved into the dark, until it surrounded him, but the darkness could not consume him. It did not have the right.
He shivered as he walked away from the warm welcoming protective light, and deeper into the darkness. He heard the voice again. It held onto him, tethered him. It would not let him go. The voice gave him the strength to keep moving. He had to find the voice. It was important. The voice had said, please.
Current Day
Current Time
Someone had glued his eyes shut. He was sure of it. How else could the fact that his eyes would not open, despite his best efforts, be explained. His eyelids contorted as he fought to open them. Something was tugging him from his soft, timeless cocoon.
Words.
Someone was saying something. He could not tell what they were saying, it was unimportant. It was the soothing tone of the voice that was important. The sound of the voice that spoke the nonsense was drawing him. He finally managed to open his eyes. He blinked a few times, and then looked at the blurred face above him.
"That's it John." The voice was especially soothing.
Confusion gave way to understanding. "Sherl…," coughing interrupted his attempts at speech.
Strong hands carefully lifted his head. Something cool was pressed against his lips.
"Drink. Just a little."
John heard Sherlock repeat the words, which he had said to his friend countless times. They were said to him now. He complied.
John drank a few sips and hummed contentedly at the relief from a dry throat.
"Sleep John," he heard a gentle baritone voice say.
"Mumm… K…" John obeyed. He was safe. Sherlock was there. John tried to smile. He slipped from the waking world into the gentle hands of sleep.
John was asleep, so he could not see the relief that flooded Sherlock eyes and mind. Because, as Sherlock looked at his best mate, his world that was cracked, and splintered, started to shift ever so slightly back into place.
One Day Later.
The first thing John noticed was the soft beeping of the monitors, and smell of disinfectant. He had been going in and out of consciousness for the last twenty-four hours. John ventured to open his eyes. After a brief struggle, he did. John found two relieved gray-blue eyes staring back at him. He took comfort in the fact that Sherlock was there. The only thing that he remembered was fragmented images of Sherlock, as he carried him at the manor. An expression of relief washed over Sherlock, as he looked into John's eyes.
John thought that his body felt like it was floating, and his throat like it was stuffed with cotton. He looked at the cup of water that was on the bedside table.
Sherlock nodded wordlessly. He returned quickly with the cup.
Sherlock assisted John's trembling fingers to hold the cup. He drank a few gulps greedily and then nodded to Sherlock, satisfied.
John tried to speak slowly and clearly. "How… are… yo… you?"
"I wasn't the one who was shot John." Sherlock said with a serious face. "You have been unconscious for seven days…" Sherlock voice broke at the end. He quickly tried to recover. "And you accuse me of being dramatic, John Hamish Watson."
"Em too alert to be unconscious f… for seven days." John said. He made an effort not to slur or sound sleepy.
Sherlock pretended not to notice his efforts and smiled. "You've only been awake for twelve minutes John. You're already contradicting medical opinion, and starting to be stubborn."
"Yes," John said as a yawn escaped. "Learn... From best."
Sherlock pulled the sheets up to his chin. His hand lingered a little before he pulled away.
"Go to sleep John. I'll be here."
"I know." John whispered. He did not fight the pull of sleep.
Three Days Later
Current Day
Mary smiled as she walked toward the luxury private room that John was in. She was sure that Mycroft had something to do with it. She heard John and Sherlock laughing. He was much stronger now and would be leaving in the morning. She walked through the door and stood with an amused expression on her face.
"What mischief are you two laughing about?" She asked as she looked at Sherlock with equal parts suspicion and amusement.
John's face lit at the sight of Mary. "Hello love." He gave her his most innocent look.
Mary raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, before she walked over and gave him a warm kiss on the lips. "You're looking better."
Mary looked around for another chair.
Sherlock jumped up. "Oh, I'll get one Mary, you sit right here." His long legs carried him quickly out of the room.
John frowned with confusion, as he looked at his best mate's retreating form. "Mary is it the medication, or did he call you by your name instead of, that woman, or, the menace."
"Yes," Mary said with equal confusion.
"And," John said as he still looked at the door, "did Sherlock Holmes just volunteer to get a chair for you?"
"Yes, he volunteered." Mary turned her brown eyes toward John. "I didn't even have to threaten him with my weapon this time."
Neither said another word. They both looked at the door, stunned.
Current Day
Current Time
He balanced several books in one hand. He contorted his arms in an effort to open the door to his bedroom. He was surprised that he did not find Sherlock at his door offering to carry everything that he wanted down the stairs again. It was at first strange to have Sherlock so willing to help. Then, the weeks following, John had to admit that he had asked Sherlock to do simple tasks for him out of amusement. He figured that the man had it coming for all the times that he had asked him to take his mobile out of his pocket for him, or had awakened him to make him tea, or has mixed body parts into the crisper alongside the vegetables.
John was careful when he walked down the stairs. He chuckled to himself as he thought.
The last two weeks, however, if he was honest, he had to admit that he was ready to get back to normal. He stayed close to the flat. Sherlock had not even taken a case that took him away for longer than a few hours. Sherlock was trying to be considerate. However, John had sensed his growing boredom. He would have a chat with him later. The official permission to be himself again would be given. John smiled, as he walked toward the kitchen. Yes, normal would be good. At least, as normal as life ever became with the eccentric genius.
"Sherlock," John called out after he deposited his things close to his chair. He almost ran physically into Mycroft. Both Holmes brother's moved as quietly as a cat.
"Mycroft, I didn't know that you were coming by. Do you want some…" He stopped mid speech. "What's wrong?" he frowned.
Mycroft seemed distracted. Mycroft was never distracted. John looked at the brother of his best mate and waited.
"As you know John, our father died when Sherlock was fourteen. A year later, our mother started to experience, what would be years of repeated illnesses. I became Sherlock's legal guardian. I took care of his legal affair, the fortune and properties that he had inherited from our father." Mycroft hesitated. "Since I was his legal guardian. I also came into possession of our father's personal documents, journals, diaries."
He paused again for both breath and words. "Father left a sealed letter for Sherlock. I was to give it to him at the time of his death. Sherlock was fourteen at that time. I did not give it to him, nor did I make him aware of the letter's existence. If I were to be honest, John, I was not sure if I would ever give it to him. The loving father that I knew was not what Sherlock experienced. The caring man I knew never truly existed, he was an illusion. The things he did to him. Would have done."
Mycroft stopped speaking for a moment. It was the closest that John had ever known the normally stoic man to come to an open display of emotion.
"I have just handed him that letter." Mycroft moved toward the door. John's voice stopped him.
"Why now?"
Mycroft's smiled was void of happiness. "It's time that he dealt with the past. Not only for his sake, but for William's. It's time for old ghost to die for him." He resumed walking as he added, "Maybe for us all."
He listened as the entrance door opened, "Stay with him John." The door shut softly.
John turned his eyes toward the other room. He walked toward it. When he reached the kitchen, he found Sherlock with an opened letter in his hand, and a confused expression on his face.
Sherlock looked at the creased piece of paper in his slightly shaking hand. He had read the simple note several times. Each time had confused him more. He needed more data, but that was difficult. The words were blurred by the annoying tears. His body's acts of rebellion were more than a little disconcerting.
He, at first, did not realize that he was crying. Then when he did, he could not seem to will himself to stop. He considered the fact that he had been doing tears lately. It was as if the years of pushing his emotions into a prison in his mind would no longer work. That prison was so full that it had overflowed. All of the captors had escaped at one time, and were wreaking havoc on his quiet, emotionless mind palace. He was certainly making up for all the years of being an emotionless being. How could people tolerate these sorts of feelings every day, he wondered.
He numbly realized that John was leading him to the couch. He sat down obediently. He could not tell how long it was that he had clutched the letter in his hand. He blinked as he finally looked at John. He saw no judgment or pity. He would not have been able to tolerate either one. He only saw concern.
He frowned as he handed the letter from his father over to John. He found himself unable to look at John while he was reading it.
John looked at Sherlock before reading the simple letter. It said:
In death, I find the courage to say, what I could not in life.
It was not you who I hated, but myself.
You were always the best part of me.
Be happy. One day, if you find it in your heart, forgive me.
There was silence for several long minutes. John waited for him to speak – for him to become angry – for him to fall apart – for him to shatter.
He waited.
Sherlock laughed humorlessly. "What am I supposed to say John? What is the expected response."
"There is no usual in this case." John said quietly, grimly.
"That's good then, because I don't know how I feel." He scoffed. "What's the purpose of this letter. A confession, forgiveness, some sort of absolution?"
Sherlock started to pace rapidly. His gestures became animated.
Sherlock's voice was starting to rise. "The first time he hit me, I was five years old. He hit me because I talked too much, or was too quiet. Because I was too intelligent, knew too much. Only a freak could know so much, that's what he said. And that's what I was to him. A freak. A bloody… little… Freak!"
The younger man's voice volume dropped. It was almost a whisper. "He beat me John, until there was no more laughter, or smiles, or emotions of any kind. He beat me until I locked everything that made one human away in my mind. He beat me until I became the world's best actor. I hid my pain, and bruises. I learned to lie. I tried to protect those who should have been protecting me. I was afraid of anyone finding out my dirty little secret, yet terrified that they would never know."
Sherlock's face was raw with emotion. "Do I deserve pain John? What did I do to deserve such hate... Such pain? I was five, John. Five. I was only f…"
That's when it happened. Sherlock fell on the floor at John's feet, shattered. It wasn't one or two stray tears this time. Broken, gasping sobs rushed out of him against his will. It was as if a door had been opened. A lifetime of emotional denials and repressed feelings came rushing out.
Although John had waited for it, was expecting it, it was still quite a shock to see the normally composed man fall apart so dramatically.
John winced wordlessly, as he lowered himself to the floor, and pulled Sherlock to him. He held the younger man as he cried. The world's only Consultant Detective held on to him, as if he was a drowning man, and John was a life preserve float.
Some other day, they will talk about their childhoods. He will listen when Sherlock tells him secret things. Things that not even Mycroft knows. He will then tell Sherlock about his own secrets, and childhood memories. But that is for another day. Today, there are no words for the pain, only tears.
Both men were unaware of the passing of time.
Sherlock was finally quiet. John studied his friend and thought. What would the world think if they saw him now, on the floor, after crying himself to sleep, John wondered. A man that most people considered to be without feelings, cold, and emotionless. Sherlock's father had literally beaten the smile out of a child. He had then systematically convinced that child that no one in this world would ever want, need, or love him.
"I've got you Sherlock." John whispered.
He didn't notice that his hand ran through Sherlock's hair, as he looked at the now sleeping man. The younger man was all long arms and gangly legs. John winced slightly, while he adjusted his body so that his back leaned against the couch. He was still slightly stiff, but it didn't matter.
John did not notice that his hold on his friend had tightened. He knew he should wake Sherlock. He knew if he stayed in that position, he would be stiff in the morning. He told himself these things. He sighed before he took one hand, and pulled at the corner of the throw, as it slowly slid onto the floor. He covered his sleeping friend. His head rested again against the back of the couch, as he thought about the unfairness of it all.
John kept watch. He thought about how unfair the world could be. He thought about the children who would go to their beds crying, and for the parents who would not care. He thought of a small, pale skinned, dark-haired child, who lay alone in his bed, bruised. His only crime was his brilliant mind, and innocent smile.
John never noticed when his eyes finally closed.
The Next Morning
His eyes were heavy with fatigue. He glanced over to his flatmate and friend. He yawned. His heavy eyes closed. He would try to get some sleep before Sherlock woke or something happened that required his attention.
John mobile rang.
Too late.
His eyes opened, as a sigh escaped. A slight grimace briefly shadowed the former soldier's face. He pushed himself up from his chair. He tried to answer it before Sherlock woke. The younger man was already watching him as closely, as he watched one of his experiments, which was about to boil over. He did not want to worry him.
The mobile rang again.
He attempted to walk faster. One hand held his abdomen for support. Although healed, quick movements still caused discomfort. He looked at the sleeping man on the couch as he passed, and sighed relieved. He had not awakened. Sherlock had gotten very little sleep in the few weeks that they had returned to the flat. John was sure that the previous week that he had stayed with him in the hospital, should have been added to the list of sleep deprivation. With the emotional roller coaster of yesterday's revelations, John was not surprised that Sherlock had slept on, and off all morning.
He finally reached the kitchen. He grimaced when he stretched across the table to answer. He did not want it to ring for a third time.
"Hello." John said quickly.
"You won't know when I'll do it. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or three years from now. I'll take his son. Maybe I'll kill him. Or maybe I'll raise him as my own son. I'll brainwash him against Holmes, lie to him, teach him to hate his father. And one day, you won't know when, it could be sixteen years in the future, he'll walk up to his father. Identical eyes will look at Holmes before putting a bullet in his brain." There was a slight pause before Sebastian Moran said, "He's taken everything from me. I will return the favor." Moran's voice seemed to breathe venom as he finished by saying, "I swear this on my life." The line abruptly disconnected.
John just stood still in shock. He wasn't sure how long it was before he moved. Only the protest of his body reminded him that time had past. He walked over to the couch. He unfolded the small throw blanket, and covered his friend. Then, he walked over to the plush, soft chair and sat down gingerly. He looked at Sherlock, and thought.
He tightly clutched the mobile phone in his right hand.
Four Months Later
Current Day
"Hello"
"Kitty Riley?"
"Yeah," Riley glanced at the time and frowned. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes."
"Who is this?" She pushed her bare feet over the edge of the bed a little too quickly. Her jerky body movements betrayed her annoyance. The truth was that she was having trouble getting to sleep for the last few months. She collapsed on the hard wooden chair, in the dark. She turned on a side lamp. The clicking sound seemed much too loud.
"A friend."
"Listen, if you're upset about one of my news stories, just get in line." Riley's voice was crisp and condescending.
"I do not get upset, I assure you, revenge is much sweeter."
"Who are you?"
"As I said, a friend."
"You can't go around threatening people." Riley debated with herself. Her finger hovered over the button to disconnect.
"But you can go around trying to destroy lives?"
A dark chuckle escaped her lips. "This is about the Sherlock Holmes news stories." Her confidence returned. "If you are thinking about litigation, I had a protector who is as powerful as the Holmes family."
A snicker actually came over the phone line. "I know your protector. Didn't you question it when the money came to you? A man appears in your life that is everything you've ever dreamed of. He's handsome, powerful, and thinks that you're a genius. With one fault, with one exception. He encourages you to do everything evil and you follow him like a blind, lost sheep. Or the anonymous text messages declaring you a genius who was simply misunderstood?" There was a slight pause. "Haven't you wondered why he has not returned your phone messages in nine months? Are you still waiting if him to walk back in the door?"
Riley's breath hitched. "How did you…"
"He always was a good liar." The voice said soothingly.
Riley swallowed. She said nothing, as her eyes glanced around the room, trying to think. When the voice spoke again. Kitty was not sure if it was sympathy, hate, or pity that she heard.
"You've served your purpose, Ms. Riley. When everything falls and it will fall. There will be no one to catch you from falling into a million pieces. You really are quite easily manipulated, aren't you. The first time he manipulated you between the sheets. Now, he's used your hurt pride and vanity. You're a puppet; but do you realize who your real master is?"
Anger burst out of her. "Who are you!" She did not realize that she now stood.
"Calm down. Look on your table to your right, have some tea." She looked. She had not noticed the steaming cup on the table just outside the room.
"The doors and windows were locked." She said in an unsteady voice. A lump seemed to sit in her throat.
"Yes, they still are."
She sat down hard.
"Because of what you've done, a lot of people want to hurt you. Crazy fans, sometime the line get blurred for them. You'll have to deal with those on your own. Then there are five people right know who want to kill you. Three have the means to do it. Two plan to carry it out. Don't worry, it's not me. Here's the really funny thing Ms. Riley. The very man your pride set out to destroy, is the reason that I'm not a third, and someone else close to him is not the fourth. He's asked for you not to be harmed. If it was me, you would already be dead. No one would have ever found your body, trust me on that one. It's between the other two. I already know who's going to win. It will be the man with the text. Mr. Holmes would have saved your life, the problem is that he doesn't know yet. By the time he finds out, I'm afraid it will be too late. I don't plan to tell him. I have changed, but I'm afraid I have not quite reached his level of forgiveness yet. But, I'm working on it. I know what you're thinking, you'll call and beg his forgiveness. Problem. Because of what you've done, those who care for him will never let you near him."
"What do I do?" Riley's voice sounded small and frightened to her own ears.
"It's too late to do anything. I suggest running. Now would be a good time. Right now, don't even pack, no time love. Well, nice girl talk."
The line abruptly disconnected. She hung up the telephone with hands that shook on their own accord.
Holmes had been nothing but trouble. She had tried to break and destroy him. It had backfired. The breaking story of the videotape earlier that year, had produced a public outcry against her, and any other news media that ran the story. A fan based movement that was led by a Henry Knight, and others that believe in Holmes, had gained support for the Consultant Detective. Instead of embarrassing him, and ruining his reputation. He was more respected than ever.
Her teeth clenched in anger. She wished that she had never heard of Sherlock Holmes. He was a thorn in her side.
Kitty Riley picked up her mobile to ring someone up when it occurred to her that she had no one. She had betrayed everyone, family, friends, colleagues, even Robert.
Robert.
Guilt for the first time knocked on the doors of her conscience. They had found Robert four months ago. Whoever abducted him, had thought it amusing to replicate all of the tortures that Holmes had been subjected to when kidnapped. Robert's mind had been broken. He had been committed to an institution for the insane. Instead of feeling sorry for Anderson, she had been excited to be the first one to break the story. She had not even attempted to visit him. He was of no use to her anymore, so he was disposable.
Many people over the years had been disposable.
Her eyes shifted to the clock on the wall. She now realized that she had been sitting in the dim light for over thirty-five minutes. She briefly thought about getting her clothes and running, but, where would she go?
She didn't bother to scream when minutes later a familiar voice opened the new lock on her door, with a key.
"Honey, I'm Home." The sing-song voice said.
Four Months Later
Current Day
He slammed the door to the villa. He tossed his car keys on the table. The edge of metal scratched the wood before it came to rest precariously on the edge. There were several scratches now. He marched over to the closest chair, and collapsed. There was no other word for it. His normal elegance was absent.
He sucked at his cigarettes contemplatively; his face was arranged in a twisted expression of anger, and disgust. He was restless. Even a good murder had not improved his mood. His only consolation were his plans for revenge, and his cigarettes. He blissfully inhaled the nicotine. He then exhaled slowly causing ribbons of swirling smoke to disperse in the air.
Holmes.
The name was like a curse upon his lips.
The pads of his fingers held the round stick to his lips, as he inhaled deeply. He turned his head and forcefully blew out both the smoke and a sigh. After repeating the process once, he took the cigarette butt, and crushed it in the ashtray distractedly. He automatically pulled out another. The match flared, and then died down, as he held it over the end of the fresh fag. He calmed a fraction as he inhaled deeply. Orange pinpricks of light decorated the cigarette under the flame.
It was all Holmes fault. Why couldn't the man simply die like a normal person? He had killed and tortured so many people over the years. The annoying freak always seemed to land on his feet. He would torment the man through his son. A small smile lit his face.
Moriarty had the right idea after all. He could see that now.
Moriarty.
His smile faded, as he sighed dramatically. He leaned back in the chair for the first time.
He had not had so much as a fag for ten years, now he was on his second pack of cigarettes that day.
Long fingers tapped the cigarette on the crystal ashtray twice, as gray ashes crumbled, falling. Sebastian Moran's eyes moved to the left as he forcefully exhaled. A shadow in the corner moved until the dark silhouette was partially hidden by shadows, and partially lit.
Moran huffed a bitter laugh.
He knew that it was not Moriarty's man. Jim would have wanted to kill him with his own hands if he was unfortunate enough to be located.
"You're looking all better." Sebastian said conversationally.
There was no answer.
"I would have shot you in the back." Sebastian held the cigarette between his lips as he rose. "I would not have given you any chance."
"I know," the voice replied.
Sebastian picked up his gun and attached the silencer. "In the military, I received near perfect marks for accuracy of a weapon. My record has never been broken." Sebastian took one last drag of the cigarette before laying it on the ashtray. "I almost killed you once. Of course it was Holmes that I was trying to kill before you interfered. Still, it's the principle. It's impolite to not die when shot. I think I'll have another go at your death. I'll remember you when I'm having fun corrupting the child's mind. That's if I don't kill him, of course." A dark chuckle escaped.
"I intend to turn you over to the authorities." John said simply. "I suggest that you come quietly."
Moran smiled. Time lost meaning as both men looked at each other. Lights suddenly flashed, as a muffled, popping sound reverberated across the room.
Both of the ex-soldiers looked at each other. Moran blinked twice before looking down. He frowned as his legs collapsed beneath him. They lost their strength.
John heard Moran exhale noisily. He walked over to the man who had caused so much pain and torment. By the time he reached him, Sebastian had released his last breath.
John felt no joy in the man's death. "You were wrong. Your record was broken… once." John turned around and left without another word, or glance back.
Within minutes. The former soldier slid into the back seat of the black sedan next to Mycroft. For several long seconds, both men looked each other in the eyes.
"Drive," Mycroft said a moment later.