I was inspired to write this piece after I had read the complete works of Sherlock Holmes. I was...
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James taught me how to be an adult. Foolishly, I agreed to date him. He told me not to inform my brothers so I didn’t. Had I told my brothers, I’d probably be a lot better off than I am now. I wouldn’t have scars that circle my wrists and I wouldn’t have my brothers tracking my every step. However, I suppose everyone has skeletons in their closets. I can still remember the first time he hit me. I still remember how he apologized, pulled me next to him in bed and didn’t speak to me for three days. I remember how shocked I was that the man I loved wasn’t perfect. Then I sat down and really thought about the man I lived with. I thought about his habit of never leaving the house until it was night and how he always asked people to do this for him that seemed so simple. Then I thought about trying to tell Sherlock without James finding out, there had to be some way that I could do it, I just had to find it. We had been dating for four months when he decided that he had enough of me. I had just gotten home from work. He pulled a knife from its block in the kitchen and followed me into the bedroom where he grabbed me and cut my arm. I was sick to my stomach when I felt blood trailing down and pooling on the floor. He went to strike me again but I squirmed out of his reach and took off for the door. I reached it seconds before he did and ran into the hallway. James stopped at the doorway and stood there glaring. “Now Kayla, there is no reason to make a scene. Darling, just come inside and we can talk this out.” His steel grey eyes pleaded with me. I shook my head and began to walk away from him. I could hear him pleading with me to come back but I ignored it. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called Sherlock. It took him less than ten minutes to arrive but James had already fled through a window. Sherlock called Mycroft, they both packed up my belongings in boxes, and I moved in with Mycroft while Sherlock attempted to track Mr. James Moriarty down. He tracked for almost an entire year before a newspaper article caught my attention. Its headline spoke of a suicide in my old apartment. Deep inside I knew that James had killed himself and I told Sherlock to call off the search. So why after four years of therapy had he suddenly made reappearance in my mind? All the memories that I have of him are supposed to be suppressed. So why now? When would enough be enough? “Ala? Are you okay?” Sherlock asked softly. I gasped and somehow managed to slam my elbow on the chair. “Damn it!” I yelped as I rubbed my throbbing arm. “Sher don’t f*ing scare me like that!” He walked over to the desk. No wonder I hadn’t heard him walk in, he was barefoot. “Why were you crying?” I shrugged. “No reason. You know, one of those women things Mycroft is always complaining about.” “Uh huh.” He snatched the paper that I just wrote on. “‘Killer Clown’. Oh Ala.” He sighed and shook his head. “Why didn’t you say anything to me about this? Are the memories coming back?” “No.” I lied. “I dunno what really was going on through my head.” I examined my nails. “I had a really bad dream.” I felt so childish for admitting that but I had to tell him. Sherlock nodded. “Have you been to bed yet?” I shook my head. “What part of bad dream didn’t you understand?” Sherlock laughed at me. “I understand now.” He touched my shoulder. “Maybe you should go see a therapist.” His voice was gentle. I was really worrying him. “How about if the dreams don’t stop by next week, I’ll go talk to Dr. Taylor again.” He nodded and rubbed my shoulders. “Are you going to put this one on your blog?” “I haven’t decided yet. I was going to give it to Jon and see what he could draw up for me.” I reached for my laptop. “Besides, I haven’t really checked my blog in a while.” He laughed. “I’m shocked. Before you moved in with Mycroft, that’s how I stayed up to date with what you were up to.” I arched an eyebrow. “Wait, you cared about me before I was involved with a criminally insane man?” Sherlock pursed his lips and looked down at the floor. Busted. “Yeah okay I get it.” He sighed. “I wasn’t a really good brother to you when we were little but I’m trying like hell to make up for it now.” “By breaking into my house?” I was seriously pissed. He narrowed his eyes. “It was unlocked.” “Could have knocked!” I snarled and clutched the pen I had been holding moments before too hard; ink splattered over my hand. “You would have ignored it!” He shot back. Sherlock walked over to the opposite side of my desk and grabbed a tissue for me to clean my hand off with. I took it from him with a growl. “So you should have went back to your hotel or back to Jon.” He shrugged. With that shrug, the conversation was over. “Tell me, so do you keep your poetry somewhere?” “I do.” After a beat, I grinned. “You’ll never see it though.” Sher snorted. “Oh, and why is that?” I shook my head and crossed my arms. “You may be my brother, but I still don’t trust you.” Sherlock frowned and pretended to wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh how much you hurt my feelings.” He dramatically shook with fake sobs. “You’re such a little wimp.” The words hung in the air like the stench of last week’s garbage. “Uh huh. I’m the wimp.” He rolled his eyes before he walked out into the hallway. “I’m making dinner.” I frowned and shook my head. I set the broken pen aside and rose from the chair. Memories began a slow cycle through my head. James’s face flashed before my eyes; his body haunted the dark, unlit corners of my room. His ghost touch stilled roamed down my spine. Ghost kisses ran down my jaw. I trembled as I walked down the hall. My legs crumpled beneath me when I remembered sliding my fingers across the stubble on his cheek. Tears, tinged in black, slipped down my face as I remembered the first time he whispered three small words to me when we were surrounded by candles. Kayla…. I could still feel his lips against my ear when he whispered sweet nothings to me. My eyes fluttered shut when his voice floated across my mind. Voices I couldn’t identify tickled my ear. I screamed when fingers clutched my shoulder, dug a sharp set of nails into my skin.