Shadows of the Mind

An insight into the mind of Sherlock Holmes. Post-Reinchenbach but pre-series 3. Not quite sure where it is going yet. :) Rated yellow for reference to childhood abuse and misuse of drugs.


3. Three

Weeks passed like this; Sherlock trapped in his prison, his body only just existing in this fake reality.

'And I will need those done by the time I get back this afternoon." The elder Holmes' voice snapped out his orders, anxious to end the call. His PA was wonderful, but he did not want to be bothered with work today. No. Today was orientated.

Yes. Mycroft was going to see his brother for the first time since The Fall.

He wasn't sure what to expect. He had always been able to understand Sherlock, even as children, but he was unpredictable. Even Mycroft couldn't anticipate his brothers' reaction to what had happened. To what had been necessary, but not preferable.

He heaved a sigh laden with barely concealed emotions, that dropped like a stone to the floor, weighed down by worries. He could not relax.

The car pulled up astride the grimy bed sit that had been an unavoidable part of Sherlock's cover. The sleek, black bullet looked out of place, there amongst busted up old bangers and rusty rovers. Another sigh, and a dust off of the expensive suit, and up he went.

Up the rickety staircase, eyes glinting in the darkness of doorways. But Mycroft wasn't named Ice-Man for nothing. He walked stoically on, ignoring the whispers and snide comments, dodging the flying insults. A man on a mission, unperturbed by his surroundings.

                                                                                       -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

The voices were back again, Sherlock noticed vaguely, with disdain. He hated repetition.
"You left me. How could you leave me? I hate you Sherlock Holmes!"
"How disappointing. You always were inferior. Ordinary. Boring."
Round and round. His friends, and enemies. Taunting him, sneering at his pitiful attempts at escape. He curled up even more, as much as his lithe frame would let him, and put his shaking hands over his ears.

"Stop!" he wailed. "Please, just leave me alone!"

But the disembodied voices just laughed. Horrible mocking laughter. He could hear them moving, rustling in the fabric of darkness. 
"Did you really think we'd miss you? Gullible, stupid child. You are nothing, Sherlock! Nothing!"
Echoes of 'nothing' bounced around him, crippling his already insecure level of self-worth. Echoes of the past rang out, memories replayed on the dark walls of the cell, grainy like an old camera.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. 
He would not let this happen. He was stronger now. He could stop this from happening. However much his inner angel repeated this, he could not stop the vine-like shadows reaching out towards him, twining around his body, jerking him upwards. He was forced into a sitting position as some of his most painful memories were played out in front of him. The memories he had tried time and time again to forget, but with little effect. They kept turning up like bad pennies, at the most inconvenient times. These flashbacks often caused Sherlock to freeze, the little colour in his face drain away, and his eyes turn black with fear.

Little scared a Holmes, but these flashes from the past, realistic as hell, frightened Sherlock. Most people would be frightened of the unknown, but for Sherlock, it was what he already knew that scared him so much. It was years ago, he should have forgotten; it was another case of his mind defying him and all of reality.

He was manipulated by the shadows, coerced into watching the scene unfold in front of him. He followed he action with fearful eyes, as he recalled the memory. Young Sherlock at school, alone, nose buried in a book. There was no colour in this nightmare world of the past. Grey, drained and empty.

Sherlock was transported back to his sixteen year old body, his exquisite mind clouded by a dark kind of despair.

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