Valiant {Book Two of the Incandescent Trilogy}

Chapter Four: Memento Mori

CHAPTER FOUR: MEMENTO MORI

Amelia hit her head on the inner lip of the sink as she straightened, the pain barely registering. The man in the doorway grimaced, “Perhaps you might want to check that, Amy.”

She stared at him for a short moment. “Don’t say my name like that.” she said, shaking. “Don’t say it like you’re actually him. You know, I actually thought you were gone. Perhaps I thought I’d drowned you with the alcohol. Of course, that was probably a rather idiotic hypothesis; you’re in my head, I can’t get rid of you so easily. So, do please go away, because I’m really not in the mood for this right now.”

The man frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Amelia laughed bitterly. “Yeah, of course you don’t because you’re not the real Sherlock. The real Sherlock’s dead, and as convincing as you look—I must say, I’ve really out done myself this time—you’re not real, so kindly piss off; I don’t have the time for this right now, and I’m actually quite looking forward to having my tea in silence.” She walked past him, side-stepping to avoid Sherlock’s image, and made her way back to the kitchen. She dried off the kettle with too much vigour, the hem of the cloth hitting the side of the kettle, and causing soft metallic echoes.

“Amy—” Sherlock’s image started, trailing her to the kitchen.

She spun around. “Don’t.”

He took a small step back as she prepared herself a cup of tea. “Amy, please, I’m not dead.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, I’m quite sure. The same way I’m sure that the Queen is actually a Slitheen, and the Doctor’s coming to take her away.”

Sherlock’s image pursed his lips momentarily. “Doctor Who?”

She didn’t reply, and set the kettle on the gas stove, lighting it with a flick of the handle. She perched on the edge of the counter, “Okay, let’s pretend that you’re not actually dead; what exactly have you been doing these past three years, hm?”

“I genuinely thought you’d be far more…emotional than this.” he muttered quietly. Then, louder, “Dismantling Moriarty’s network—there was a price on your head at one point in time.”

Amelia poured the hot water into a chipped mug, stirring it with a bent spoon. “Oh?” she said. “Might I ask who set it?”

Sherlock’s image leaned against the inside of the doorframe. “Some man named Moran, I believe it was.”

Amelia froze, and set the spoon on the counter with shaking hands. “How do you know about Moran? I never told the real Sherlock about Moran, there is no way you could possibly know about Moran. As far as I’m aware, you’re-you’re a hallucination based upon my memories of Sherlock. You’re not real. You can’t be real.” She was well aware that she was rambling, but she couldn’t stop the words from escaping her mouth.

“That’s where you are quite entirely and utterly wrong, Amy.” Sherlock’s image—was it actually an image? Amelia’s head was starting to hurt—started walking towards her. “Amelia, please, I really am here.” He caught her by the wrist, his cool fingers brushing her skin, and there was a short gasp from Amelia before Sherlock was sent stumbling back, hissing in pain.

Shards of ceramic were embedded in his forehead, and tea dripped off both the ends of his hair and the tip of his nose. Amelia stared at him in fury, one hand still clutching the remaining handle of her mug. The rest of the mug littered the floor, tea splattered over the tiles.

“I wanted to tell you,” said Sherlock—oh God, he actually was back, Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead—not seeming to feel the cuts on his head. “I thought many times of calling you, and telling you that I was alive—”