There wasn't a day that she didn't think about him; admiration of his intelligence, bitterness that he saw through her rouse, never forgetting that he was the only man that she felt her equal in all ways but one. Besides, there was a reason Moriarty called him The Virgin. As The Woman, she devised many ways to remedy that situation, but the game was more attractive than the kill.
There was no truth in what she had "admitted" to Dr. Watson. She was no more gay than he was, but it was a nice move to throw him off and shift the spotlight. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." She would never allow her face to betray her dismay as she heard her own gasp from the hallway. Damn. Of course he would happen to be there.
The few months after her game went sideways and her secrets given to the British government, she still longed to text him. She knew very well that he would never change the tone of her messages. It was her for him. It was him not giving a damn whether people understood or thought it insolent. But she didn't send him anything. Everything she typed out was met with the backspace button, sealing her loneliness. Nothing in her travels brought reprieve. It was hollow and just played out until her inevitable misstep.
Karachi prison was overcrowded to a fault. The cheap dress and head covering matched the loss of boldness of The Woman. She had been taken in the middle of the night from her posh hotel room and literally dragged into a concrete room. Days passed and she had no idea what to expect or when her next rancid meal would come. As irony would have it, a broken nail reduced her to tears of dread when she nursed her torn nail with its chipped red polish. The courtroom fared no better. No one would translate and when she started to protest after what seemed like the sentencing, she was met with a rifle butt to the ribs.
Being herded into the back of a truck in the middle of the night was a new experience that she never wished to repeat. Perhaps the six women were being transferred to a different prison where she could find a translator. But her confidence was smashed as the truck rolled to a stop in what seemed to be an empty field a short ride from the prison. The first woman down was weeping and talking fast to the guards. Straining through the slats on the sides of the truck, The Woman could not help but bite her lips to keep from crying out as the woman was forced to her knees and then shot in the head by a guard.
Struggling was pointless and The Woman allowed herself to be pulled, then forced to kneel next to the limp body. She was completely caught off guard as a second guard stepped forward while unsheathing a large sword. Her head was meant to roll. Her cell phone was thrown into the dirt at her knees. There was only one person she wanted to call. She wanted to hear him just answer, but she knew that she could never make the call. So, the red polish that was left on her nails typed the most simple of messages; one that could never been mistaken. The double meaning of losing it all and admitting to him that he had been right. She had let her heart run her head. Love had been the disadvantage, had made her beg and lose at her own game. "Goodbye Mr. Holmes."
Hitting the send button allowed her tears to drop. She already missed the game. Missed him. She relaxed and allowed her mind to settle on her memories.
Her surprise was unmasked by the sound of her own gasp. His phone. The blue eyes were her savior behind his covered face. "When I say run, run!"
And she did.