MUDDY WATERS

The Captain

Last time:
'Yer Sherlock'olmes. Shezz in The Distric'. I can give ya a ride ter the nord-bordah. Then yer on yer'own.'
Now:

Relief filled Sherlock's lungs, when he stepped out into the cold air, though he was now as free as it. He lifted a hand to see off the grey cat retreating back behind the flickering signs that declared 'DANGER! Enter at your own risk!' in malicious pixels. Billy performed the Vulcan salute and revealed a row of yellow teeth, before he turned the car around.

He had advised Sherlock to switch off beam mode on his mobile phone and wait for someone to track him, and since neither of them could guess the PIN combination, it seemed like the most reasonable course of action. Billy had also demanded that he would keep their conversation to himself. 'It's wha' ya'd've done, s'all. The old you. Trust me. Ev'ryone's safer when ya go back ter bein' tigh'-lipped.'

The lock screen showed a mocked-up version of the Jolly Roger with a Klingon skull and a D'ktahg crossing a bone-white Radius. The time was a quarter past nine. The inbox coughed itself to life and spat out its stats with a hyperactive buzz. There were 153 messages—12 missed calls—5 on voicemail. He tried to open one of the notifications but was referred back to the PIN unblinkingly. He didn't have to search for the cylindrical symbol that took mobiles and communicators from the network to prevent interferences during beaming (people had melted thanks to forgetting this). It was like a ghost was guiding his hand. His thumb hovered for a moment, before he unclicked it.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. He gazed around and felt ridiculous, when nothing happened. Of course this would take some time, he scolded himself. Heaving a sigh, he sat down on the cold pavement, pulling up his knees and dropping his head against the warning sign. The melancholic throbbing returned. He wondered whether he had bruised something. His gaze flicked around wearily. The street at the brink of The District's maw, though still feral, was brighter by instinct. There was something decidedly common about it; the sickly, bleached skin of the apartment buildings and dirty net-curtains, drooping like lazy eyelids, were seemingly apathetic toward the prospect of termination grinning at them hollowly.

So, he sat there, shivering, musing on how life at these shores must feel like; because even if he owned his memory, a privileged boy who had thrown his life away for a kick—that was what Billy had said, wasn't it?—would know nothing of an existence such as this. He wondered, what had he been like? Would he like himself? Or loathe, perhaps? And then, who would find him? Was somebody looking? Was he missed?

'BABAB-DABADA-BIDABIDUB-DAYA! BABAB-DA—'

He jumped and almost fell over the sudden buzz and the music spilling from his pocket. It took him a moment to gulp back his frantic pulse, before he scrambled back into upright. The song was either retro or an earth classic. A woman exclaimed into the ramble of trumpets and chorus, 'My name is Lolita. ... And I'm not allowed ... to play ... with boys!'

Heat blossomed on his cheeks, when with a sudden force he realised that he was a public spectacle. He thrust his hand in his jeans pocket (she was singing now, in a slow, seductive growl, '... but when I do, I don't follow through ...') and, sweating a little, unearthed the mobile ('... cause my heart belongs to Daddy ...'). The caller had been designated the title 'CAPTAIN', and the vibration indicated the seventh ringing.

His stomach cramped nervously, but, as to stop it or not to let the opportunity slip away he did not know, his fingers acted for him and he answered, 'Hello?'

'Don't you "hello" me in that manner after what you've done!' The harsh bellow belonged to a man who had worked up a temper. It had Sherlock on his feet and his shoulders hunched. 'Sorry,' he whispered.

'Oh, you will be sorry, Sherlock. What the hell were you thinking?'

He swallowed hard. 'I-I don't know.'

Cheerless laughter cut into his eardrums. 'I suggest you think of a better answer until I'm with you. You stay where you are, is that clear?'

'Y-yes, sir.'

A pause. The background was haunted by the grumble of traffic. Then, calmer, 'You sound alright enough. Are you?'

And there they were, the tears; again, an uncontrollable flood. A voiceless sob. His thoughts stammered. He was back within the storm.

'Are you injured?' Concerned, this time. Every emotion the man conveyed was raw and overpowering.

Gasping inhale. 'N-no,' he forced.

'Held or threatened?'

'No s-sir.'

But he wasn't alright, either. He would never be again. And now he was pouring his heart out to this stranger, like a baby. To a stranger who knew him. And he didn't know himself. Another sob. Choked.

'Sherlock. Sherlock!' What had been chiding before was now balm on his soul. 'I'm there in four and a half minutes, okay? And you tell me what happened. We'll work it out. It's not the end of the world.'

'I'm s-so sorry.'

Another pause. 'Well, I'm glad you learnt your lesson. Are you sure you're alright?'

'Y-yes—no—I ...' Sherlock faltered. His bowels took a dive for the ground. 'Oh God, you're never going to believe me.'

'Steady now,' the man said patiently. 'And be honest, this time. Are you injured? Poisoned?'

Sherlock wiped the back of his hand over his face. He was grateful for the euphemism. 'I think I m-might be poisoned,' he croaked, shame washing over him.

A muffled curse. The motor howled. And then it all spilt out. 'I think I did this to myself. I don't remember. I don't remember anything. I woke up and ... I didn't even remember my name ...'

'Not on the phone, Sherlock. We're sticking to me asking questions and you answering. Can you do that?'

An intake of breath shuddered through his limbs. This voice was everything. How could a voice lay his thoughts bare and soothe them? 'Yes sir,' sucking in another mouthful of breath, calmer.

'Good boy. Now tell me about your complaints. Nausea? Faintness? Cramps?'

He racked his brain. The generally awful state he felt himself in was induced by fear. It was a consoling realisation. 'I ... ummm ... faint, maybe, a little. ... I have a sore throat. No,' he interrupted himself, stumbling along his train of thoughts. 'I mean .... it occurred to me, because I found a cough sweet on me and—it took me a while—but it points to a stable environment, as opposed to—and I'm only to answer questions. Sorry.'

A chuckle. 'Mh-hm. But there's no swelling, yes? Tongue or otherwise. You can breathe fine?'

'Y-yeah.'

'Have you got any numbness or tingling in your fingers, toes, face?'

Sherlock's brows knitted, when he searched his body ones again for abnormal sensations. 'I can't really feel my feet anymore, but I think it's because I walked a mile without shoes.'

'Why have you—you'll answer that later. I'm almost there.' And then, accompanied by a soft purr stealing around the corner, 'Okay. I can see you. You stay put. Understand? I'm coming to you.' The black bonnet caught the golden rays of sun dripping over the shabby roof tops. So, this was what Billy had meant by 'privileged'.

'Yes sir,' he mumbled, lowering the mobile, when the front door opened.

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