Title: Scars that Remain

Author: Ana S.

Disclaimer: This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Rating: M

WARNING: MENTIONS OF DRUG USE, CHILD ABUSE/VIOLENCE

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, the Spiritualist

Chapter Seven

Sally's death is just what Sherlock needs. It's when things begin to click and when his Mind Palace becomes much more organized and clean and clear. The room he's created for this serial killer is still rather dirty and haphazard, but there is one corner of the room clear. That corner holds the killer's patterns. He kills while people are asleep. But the question of how he manages to so horribly mutilate people and slaughter them in front of an entire class without any of them seeing anyone so much as touch Sally still is driving Sherlock up the wall. He longs to discuss the matter with John, but he doubts that he would want to discuss Mary's murderer so quickly. Another benefit of these serial killings is that it's diverting Sherlock's emotions toward John and forcing him to focus on other matters. He's relieved to be in control of his emotions for the moment. Emotions are exhausting.

A yawn escapes his mouth and he stretches his long limbs. Sherlock ruffles his dark curls and glances at the clock. Only one o'clock in the morning. He glances out the door and sees Mycroft's bedroom light still on. His slender fingers glide over the scars on his forearm as he considers, not for the first time in a few days, to throw aside his ego and pride and ask Mycroft if he has any clue as to who Freddy is. If not, perhaps he could at least give Sherlock access to the missing Springwood records. Mycroft's influence doesn't stop at England's borders and Sherlock knows he has connections in America. It's just, the thought of asking Mycroft for help is almost enough to make Sherlock run to Jim and ask him instead. Almost.

Sherlock sighs irritably as he stands. His blue pajama bottoms pool around his feet and hang off his thin figure as he walks to Mycroft's door. Raising his fist, Sherlock raps twice on the door.

"Enter," Mycroft says. Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks inside.

Mycroft's room is as it normally is: clean and organized and almost void of sentimental possessions. No family photo hangs over his black desk, no childhood stuffed animal sits on a shelf, no posters or piece of art decorate his brother's olive green walls. The only thing of sentimental value in the room is a small photo next to Mycroft's bed. It is of Sherlock and Mycroft together when the family visited Germany when Sherlock was seven. In the photo, Mycroft is carrying Sherlock in a piggyback, Sherlock's small arms laced around his brother's neck and a large smile on his and Mycroft's face. The elder brother's eyes are filled with adoration for his younger brother. Sherlock wonders if Mycroft ever stopped looking at him like that or if he refused to acknowledge if he ever did. He wonders when that started and when photos like the one in Germany stopped.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, dear brother?"

Sherlock turns his eyes upon his brother. Mycroft's raised eyebrow and parental tone is enough to make any inklings of nostalgia vanish. Irritation blossoms.

"I have to ask you about something." The words are forced out of Sherlock's mouth and they taste foul. The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitches and he seems amused. Sherlock imagines taking the book he's reading (Machiavelli's, The Prince) and smacking him with it.

"Do you now? And what do you need to ask of me, little brother?"

"It's about the murders."

"No, you cannot go to the morgue and examine the bodies. It's enough that you broke into Morstan's home to look at Nancy's room."

Sherlock doesn't bother asking how Mycroft knows of that. "I wanted to ask about what was carved into Mary's stomach and who Freddy is."

"I would assume that this Freddy would be the killer. I would have hoped you could come to that deduction yourself."

Bristling, Sherlock snaps, "You know what I mean, Mycroft."

"Ought you to be a little more polite if you want my help, Sherlock?" Mycroft says evenly. "A don't raise your voice. You might wake Father."

That's enough to make all of Sherlock's irritation immediately vanish.

"Do you know who Freddy could be or not?" he asks, considerably more quiet this time. Mycroft leans back in his armchair.

"No, I cannot say that I do. But I'd rather you stay out of these affairs, Sherlock." Mycroft's concerned undertone is clear, but Sherlock chooses to ignore it.

"I can handle myself. No thanks to you, Mycroft," Sherlock says coldly. He notices Mycroft's jaw set and his blue-grey eyes reflecting pain for the briefest of moments. Though he's only 24, he seems to have aged ten years in that small moment.

"Yes, I know." When Mycroft speaks, he sounds collected and calm, per usual. "I still worry about you, Sherlock."

"Don't waste your energy," Sherlock snaps, "I know you have better things you can spend it on." He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, his blue robe bellowing behind him. Sherlock goes back into his room and closes the door.

He falls onto his bed and buries his face into the soft abyss that is his pillow. His dark curls lie splayed out on the white pillow case and his toes dangle over the side of the bed. Sherlock turns onto his back and stares at the cracks in his ceiling, his fingers unconsciously running over the scars on his forearm for the second time that night. He closes his eyes and grips his arm tightly. God, how he could use some relief. But Mycroft had confiscated all of his cocaine and cut off all of his access to it. Sherlock had been too busy being relieved that Mycroft was not going to tell their parents of his drug use to consider that he should have kept a small amount for some relief when he really needed it. Nights when their father arrived home red-faced and drunk was when he needed it. Nights when Father shouted and slapped Sherlock for being disrespectful or disobeying his authority was when he needed it. Nights when Mycroft retreated into his corner in the library rather than help Sherlock or when Mycroft ran off to college for two years was when he needed it. Nights like tonight where painful memories refuse to be locked away are when he needs it.

Sherlock shakes his head roughly and ruffles his hair agitatedly, as if this will confuse his thoughts long enough to make them go away. He forces his mind to turn away from the dark, broad figure that is Father and the forever-running-away image that is Mycroft and Mother and to turn back to Nancy and Mary and Anderson and Donovan. And Freddy. Especially Freddy.

Mind sifting over thoughts and theories, Sherlock pulls his covers over him and settles back into his bed. He allows his eyes to close and he enters the room dedicated to Freddy in his Mind Palace. It isn't long though before Sherlock feels himself slowly begin to drift toward sleep. The oak grandfather in the living room is striking 2 o'clock downstairs when the teenage boy falls completely into Sleep's arms, falling asleep amongst vague and scattered information on Freddy in his Mind Palace.

-/oOo\-

CRASH!

Sherlock jerks awake at the sound of shattering glass. He looks toward the sound and through his half-asleep daze he sees a rock resting on his carpet next to the shattered glass of his now broken window. Pushing his bangs out of his face, Sherlock gets out of bed and, careful not to cut his bare feet on the glass, picks up the rock. He blinks and rubs his eyes before studying it. The stone is smooth and heavy in his hand, yellow spray-paint scarring the side of it in a large smiley-face. Sherlock furrows his eyebrows and is about to look out the window when another sound jars him, this one twisting his stomach into knots.

"Sherlock!"

Father's voice is enough to make Sherlock drop the rock and turn to his door. His heart begins hammering in his chest and his throat becomes dry and his chest tightens. The door slams open and Sherlock's father stands in the doorway. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is red, dried alcohol staining his undone tie and button-up shirt. Sherlock inherited his bright eyes from his father, but, as he looks into the drunken rage that fills them now, he suddenly wishes that he didn't. He glances behind the beast that is his father to Mycroft's door. The light is on, but the door is firmly shut. Sherlock feels something inside of him wither. He later realizes that it was hope.

"What the fuck is this?" his father snaps. "Who the fuck is throwing rocks through your window?"

In his younger years, Sherlock would have replied that it wasn't his fault that people were throwing rocks into his room, but now, he knows better. His father doesn't want an answer, and saying anything runs the risk of making him even angrier. Even so, the silence that follows is long enough that Sherlock is about to open his mouth to answer when his father suddenly grabs a fistful of his dark curls and yanks him harshly toward him. No yelp escapes Sherlock's mouth and the stench of alcohol and (burned flesh?) is enough to make him gag. Sweat slowly trickles down his temple, but whether from nerves or from the temperature in the room, he isn't sure. His father yanks his hair back and forces Sherlock to look at him. He vaguely notices that Father's eyes seem to be a brighter blue than before.

"What the hell is it with kids today, huh? No goddamn respect for their fucking elders, huh, Sherly?"

Sherlock frowns. His father has never called him Sherly. Or has he? The stifling heat and the hand jerking painfully on his hair are making it harder for him to think clearly.

"I think it's time I teach you some fucking respect," his father growls. Except, it can't be his father. His voice is far too guttural and harsh to be the voice of his father. Before Sherlock can focus on it for too long, his not-father throws him into the hallway. Sherlock grunts when he lands on rusted metal rather than the hideous carpet pattern of the hallway. He looks up and sees that he is no longer in his home at all. His surroundings have mutated into what can only be a boiler room, steam fogging his vision and clouding his judgment. A high pitched whistling begins as a boiler emits steam into his face. Sherlock jerks back and grabs onto the railing of the catwalk he sits on, pulling himself to his feet. Turning around, Sherlock sees that his not-father is no longer behind him, yet he still feels watched.

A screeching, ear-piercing sound of metal scraping against metal reverberates around him and bounces around his skull. His hand flies to his temple as his head throbs, searching for the source of the sound. It's impossible to identify the direction it's coming from, echoing from everything and nothing, existing in reality and in his head. Just as he is wondering if he'll be hearing the wretched screech for the rest of his life, it stops. Sherlock looks through the haze of heat and the throbbing of his head and sees a dark figure at the end of the catwalk. He narrows his pale eyes as the figure begins advancing toward him, steps calm and languid. No urge to run grips him. Sherlock simply stands there and watches.

The laugh that emits from the figure is similar to the metal-on-metal screech. It echoes everywhere and bounces off everything. The laugh is one that would send chills down the spine of any normal person, one that would send anyone's mind into a tailspin of panic because they oh-so-certainly do not want to meet the owner of that laugh. Sherlock neither has chills erupt down his spine or his mind dart into panic-mode. Rather, he is intrigued.

"Oo, tough guy, huh?" the figure says in that guttural, cruel voice, tone is dripping with sarcasm. "Let's take a look into that head of yours, eh, Sherly?"

Sherlock suddenly feels as though someone is poking his brain. He blinks and shakes his head. It feels odd and uncomfortable, as if someone else is wandering around inside his Mind Palace and messing with the rooms and the data inside. Then, just as soon as it started, it stops. Sherlock sees a broad smirk dawn on the figure's face, a short laugh emitting from his throat.

"Well, I'll be," he says, advancing closer. Sherlock can see that he is wearing a dark fedora and his skin is grotesquely burned and marred. His bright blue eyes burn into Sherlock's, but he holds his gaze. "That's some fuckin' brain you got there, Sherly. I'm impressed."

Sherlock stares at him.

Something shines in Sherlock's eye and he blinks, flicking his gaze to the gleam. His eyes fall upon four razor-sharp knives donned on the man's right hand, one on each finger. Something inside his Mind Palace clicks.

"Freddy."

"Aw, you already know who I am. I'm flattered, Sherly, really I am," Freddy says, tilting his head as his smirk broadens. "Did you see my work with that prom queen bitch? I bet you liked it."

"It was a bit messy for my taste," Sherlock says dryly. This causes Freddy's face to darken. He's within grabbing distance of Sherlock now. "Though I am curious as to how you managed to kill them without anyone seeing you. And where are we?"

"Ah, but that would be giving away my greatest trick," Freddy says, flicking a razor across Sherlock's nose before wagging it in front of his face. "And I think I'll explain later. Or not at all. I dunno, we'll see how I feel, Sherly. As for where we are, that should be obvious. We're in here." At this, Freddy taps Sherlock's forehead. "In your dream."

Sherlock sighs, disappointed. It's all been a dream. Then this man in front of him isn't really whoever Freddy is. He's simply a mental projection that his mind concocted, probably spawning from a mix of previous serial killers he's seen before crafting the face of the man before him. A shame. He was starting to become excited.

Freddy scowls. "Don't think I'm real, hm?" Sherlock blinks and looks at him just as Freddy's hand clasps around his neck. He lifts the thin teenager with obvious ease and slams his back into the railing of the catwalk. The rails dig painfully into Sherlock's spine and he squirms only for Freddy to tighten his grip on his neck, pressing his thumb down on his windpipe. The boy chokes and Freddy brings his face close to his. "Get this in that brilliant head of yours, Sherly: I'm as real as it fuckin' gets. And I'm not going away anytime soon, so you better get used to me. I'm your worst nightmare. I'm the Springwood Slasher. I'm Freddy fuckin' Krueger." With each statement his hand on Sherlock's neck gets tighter and tighter. Spots begin to dance in front of Sherlock's eyes and he notices Freddy raising his knives.

"You want to know how I killed those fuckers?" he growls darkly. "Well, here's a demonstration."

Pain lances up Sherlock's arm and blinds him a moment as four knives are driven into his shoulder. He would scream if he had any air to do so and a mangled choke of pain comes from his mouth instead. Wrenching his eyes shut, Sherlock searches for a solution. The pain should not be this bad if it's just a dream. It shouldn't be this hard to breathe if it was just a dream. He lets out another mangled and breathless yelp as Freddy yanks his knives out of his shoulder.

"This isn't just a fucking dream, you stupid fuck," Freddy snarls, a dark smirk twisting his mouth. "But, I guess you'll understand more in just a moment. This was fun, Sherly. I think I'll save you for later. Until then, sweet dreams."

Sherlock gasps for air as the hand is suddenly released from his throat. He jerks up and blinks when he sees that he is no longer in the boiler room, he is lying in his bed and Freddy is nowhere to be seen. Sherlock coughs and pants for air, raising his hand to his throat and gasping as pain seers through his arm and torso. He looks at his shoulder to see his pale flesh mangled and torn up and bleeding profusely. The pain is making his arm numb and is blinding whenever he moves his arm. Sherlock grabs the now-ruined sheets and presses it to the wound in hopes of stemming the flow of blood and has to bite his tongue hard enough to make it bleed to keep from crying out. Stumbling to his bathroom, Sherlock cleans off the wound as best he can and feels like cursing out when he realizes that it's going to need treatment from a hospital.

He presses his hand to the wound and considers going to Mycroft but quickly throws that idea away. He will ask too many questions, questions that Sherlock is purposefully ignoring at the moment for worry that addressing them will put him even more on edge than he already is. His parents are out of the question. He would go to John, but he would also ask too many worrying and prying questions. Sherlock turns to his cell phone resting on his desk and picks it up, calling his only other option. It takes several rings before the person on the other end picks up the phone.

"Molly?"

-/oOo\-

As he hoped, Molly asks little to no questions. They both sit in a hospital room now, Sherlock's shoulder treated, as they wait for the doctor to return with some final paperwork to fill out. Sherlock is glad that he stole Mycroft's ID several weeks ago; it's making the entire ordeal much easier. He looks at Molly to see her running her hand through her hair for the umpteenth time. Dark bags hang under her eyes and she looks pale and worn out. Sherlock realizes that he probably woke her up. He often forgets that he is one of the only people he knows who occasionally doesn't sleep for days on end.

"I apologize if I woke you," Sherlock says. Molly jumps lightly and looks at him. She seems surprised at his apology.

"Oh, it's alright," she says, pushing her hair out of her face. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."

"Why not?"

Molly waves her hand dismissively. "Just some nightmares. No big deal."

Sherlock's hand finds its way onto the bandages on his shoulder and they graze them lightly. "Yes. No big deal," he mutters. Molly swats his hand away from his shoulder.

"Don't pick at it. You'll make it worse."

Sherlock growls irritably but does as she says. He stands, saying, "I'm going to get some coffee."

"But the doctor said to stay here," Molly interjects. Sherlock shoots her a look and she sighs. "Alright, I'll wait here." She leans back in her seat and rubs her hand over her eyes as Sherlock leaves the room, the door slamming with a resolute slam!

God, she's tired. She hasn't slept since what happened with Sally, the dead girl's eyes burning into her eyelids. Molly covers her mouth as a yawn escapes her mouth and she rests her head against the back of the seat. Her eyelids slowly drift closed and her mind begins the casual stroll toward sleep. The room is comfortably warm and the drone of hospital machines and smells of medicine is soothing to her. By the time Sherlock returns with a cup of god-awful hospital coffee, Molly is fast asleep.

He sits on the edge of the hospital bed, thumb running across the lid of the coffee cup. His shoulder throbs lightly, but the pain isn't nearly as bad as it was before the doctor gave him some medication for it. Sherlock stares at the Styrofoam lid as his mind forces him to consider the night's unexplainable events.

Ever since he woke up, Sherlock has been trying with alarming rigor to come up with a logical, valid reason behind exactly what happened. But nowhere in his Mind Palace could he find any reasons for someone getting hurt in a dream and then having said wounds follow them back into reality. It just didn't. Happen. And yet, here he is with his shoulder nearly torn to pieces thanks to some man in his dreams.

Sherlock grips the cup tighter to keep his hands from trembling. The idea is logical, but also laughs and spits in the face of logic. The patterns fit; they've all been killed while they were asleep. The weapon fits; four identical razors are what Sherlock concluded to be the murder weapon after seeing Mary and Sally's wounds. The "killer" fits; after examining the skin caught on the torn fingernail Sherlock found in Nancy's bed, he determined that the skin had long been dead and burned. Sherlock presses his fingers to his temple, balancing the cup between his knees, and closes his eyes. The question of HOW Freddy is managing to kill people in their dreams and then have their death bleed into reality is putting Sherlock further on edge. For once, his logical and sensible mind is failing him.

Sherlock is so lost in tearing apart his Mind Palace for information, it isn't until Molly screams that he finally snaps back to reality. He looks at her and sees that four slashes have appeared on her stomach, blood blooming on her shirt and skin. He jumps to his feet, not registering the coffee cup falling to the ground and burning his legs as it splashes on his skin. Sherlock is out of the room in three large steps and runs to the nurses' cart he saw on his way in. No nurse or doctor in sight, and not caring if there would be, Sherlock begins pillaging the cart. His hand clasps around what he is looking for and he runs back into the hospital room. Molly is crying and all the color is drained from her face and finger-shaped bruises are forming on her neck. Sherlock takes the syringe filled with adrenaline and grabs Molly's arm. He drives the syringe into her forearm and the clear liquid flows into her veins.

With a loud gasp and a jerk, Molly snaps her eyes open. The syringe falls to the floor but they both ignore it. Sherlock stares at her, unmoving. Molly begins to tremble, whether from terror or pain or adrenaline, she doesn't know. Sherlock is suddenly kneeling in front of her and is examining her stomach. She looks to see the four slashes scarring her stomach.

"Sherlock…?" she hears herself ask. He turns his gaze up to her face, his pale eyes bright and wired. "What happened?"

Sherlock grabs some supplies and begins cleaning and bandaging her wounds. It's a long while before he says anything, almost done bandaging her stomach before looking back at her. Her confusion-riddled hazel eyes lock onto his electric eyes.

"I don't know exactly." Sherlock's hands grip her shoulders and he says with an intense urgency that startles her, "But I wouldn't fall asleep until I figure it out."