Well here goes nothing. I've just joined your honorable (giggles) society
and this is my first story. I've been a big fan of Mary Russell ever since
I knew of it, and of Sherlock Holmes for god knows how long. But this is
not a pastiche but with a lot of my own creation. If you are one of those
canon purists (can you believe I'm one, too, but I like Russ for her own
sake), please bear with me, so enjoy.
The Time:
It has been an eternity since the height of D'Lana, the Trinity Order, and the Conqueress. These past glory became no more than a swift of smoke in the memories of her people. Yet, there are those who would not forget and those who would not forgive. The Conqueress is still among us, She-That-Was- And-Will-Be, forever.
The Story:
I have always known of her, of her place in his life before me, and of their child. I was not jealous of her, not so much a passing envy. What I felt most strongly about this woman is curiosity. I cannot but wonder about this extraordinary person who had dominated Sherlock Holmes' heart for at least three decades, even in her death.
No, she was not the fictitious Irene Adler, well, not directly. Uncle John did use her character to compose his story "A Sandal in Bohemia." Even her English name was the unscrambled form of "Irene Adler," but their story was a completely different one. It is a story that pains whoever tells it, and it is best not to be told, at least from me. What I am about to unfold, Dear Reader, is a continuation of that story, which I am personally involved in, and which is considerably less bitter than the former.
It was in the fourth year of our unconventional marriage. We took the opportunity of a warm autumn day to visit London. For me, the whole day was filled with the visit at the British Museum, callings at acquaintances (I suspect it's "contacts" for Holmes), and some rather half-hearted shopping. We agreed to meet at the Diogene Club and go to Mycroft's for dinner. When I got there, I found Mycroft sitting at a desk, frowning. I found it strange especially when he did not see me until I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. In his eyes, there was a look of a man just woke from a dream.
"Oh, Mary, it's you," he did not sound that he was pleased of my entrance, "where's Sherlock?"
"I suppose I am ignorant of his whereabouts as you are," I've never retorted Brother Mycroft in this way, but he was the first one who was not playing nicely. "Trouble?" Nonetheless, I felt sympathy for my brother-in- law, he seemed far from the usual good-humored Mycroft.
He either did not hear me or was addressing my question in an indirect way, "since that you are here Mary, there is something, no, someone, I want to show you."
I instantly felt like a child on Christmas morning, couldn't wait, but I constraint myself, "who is it, Mycroft?"
He smiled in a most curious way, "I am not sure."
The Time:
It has been an eternity since the height of D'Lana, the Trinity Order, and the Conqueress. These past glory became no more than a swift of smoke in the memories of her people. Yet, there are those who would not forget and those who would not forgive. The Conqueress is still among us, She-That-Was- And-Will-Be, forever.
The Story:
I have always known of her, of her place in his life before me, and of their child. I was not jealous of her, not so much a passing envy. What I felt most strongly about this woman is curiosity. I cannot but wonder about this extraordinary person who had dominated Sherlock Holmes' heart for at least three decades, even in her death.
No, she was not the fictitious Irene Adler, well, not directly. Uncle John did use her character to compose his story "A Sandal in Bohemia." Even her English name was the unscrambled form of "Irene Adler," but their story was a completely different one. It is a story that pains whoever tells it, and it is best not to be told, at least from me. What I am about to unfold, Dear Reader, is a continuation of that story, which I am personally involved in, and which is considerably less bitter than the former.
It was in the fourth year of our unconventional marriage. We took the opportunity of a warm autumn day to visit London. For me, the whole day was filled with the visit at the British Museum, callings at acquaintances (I suspect it's "contacts" for Holmes), and some rather half-hearted shopping. We agreed to meet at the Diogene Club and go to Mycroft's for dinner. When I got there, I found Mycroft sitting at a desk, frowning. I found it strange especially when he did not see me until I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. In his eyes, there was a look of a man just woke from a dream.
"Oh, Mary, it's you," he did not sound that he was pleased of my entrance, "where's Sherlock?"
"I suppose I am ignorant of his whereabouts as you are," I've never retorted Brother Mycroft in this way, but he was the first one who was not playing nicely. "Trouble?" Nonetheless, I felt sympathy for my brother-in- law, he seemed far from the usual good-humored Mycroft.
He either did not hear me or was addressing my question in an indirect way, "since that you are here Mary, there is something, no, someone, I want to show you."
I instantly felt like a child on Christmas morning, couldn't wait, but I constraint myself, "who is it, Mycroft?"
He smiled in a most curious way, "I am not sure."