A weak and vulnerable light searched its way through the thick darkness. The light in question was a candle, held by a young woman in an outgrown night suit. She gasped heavily and walked fast, afraid of the darkness that threatened to stifle her already strained breath. Though she now was a lady, she was still frightened by the night. So many years had passed since the last time she had been there, in the old manor. The house held despair and a sorrow that was too great to put into words.

She tiptoed through the empty corridors even faster as she heard the wind whistle in the mighty tree crowns outside the manor. She approached the familiar wooden door that led to her grandmother's gigantic room. She knocked gently, but too hard to hide her fear. Her grandma's low reply sounded too loud in the immortal silence of the dead house. The girl sighed, visibly relieved.

"Enter, my dear child." She opened the creaky door and slunk into the old woman's chamber. They scrutinized each other, waiting for the other to say something. The younger of them cleared her throat.

"Grandma." She stuttered and climbed up in the enormous bed. "Grandma, I can't sleep." Her grandmother chuckled; it was just as old days, though Jane Norton-Holmes was slightly older now than she had been all those years ago. The old grandmother hesitated, she had never been much of a storyteller and she realised that "Sleeping Beauty" or "Snow White" weren't very suitable to tell a woman of the age of nineteen.

"Do you want me to tell a story?"

"Like a fairy tale?" Jane groaned and rolled her eyes.

"No. Like a real story."

"Is it true then?" There was a long pause as Irene Holmes hesitated. Was this really the time? Yes,she decided and looked lovingly at her youngest grandchild. Irene Holmes had waited for this very moment for as long as she could remember.

"Yes, it's a true story." Jane's grey eyes widened and she gasped loudly.

"Is it thestory?"

"I think so." Irene smiled briefly and took Jane's warm hand in her own, cold and ancient. Jane snorted and Irene's heart ached slightly when she did. She reminded her of him. They, somehow, had the exact same eyes.

"How could you possibly not know which story it is?" Jane's voice smoldered with sarcasm, though she smiled warmly and grasped Irene's hand tighter. Irene did not smile back.

"I'm old, Jane. Older than you think."

"Like a dinosaur or something like that." Jane interrupted Irene and grinned, obviously amused by her own joke. Irene shot her an ice-cold glare.

"Do you want to hear the story or not."

"I want to."

"Then shut up, dear." Jane laughed quietly before she fell silent with a much graver expression shining through her young features.

"Like I said before, I'm old. And somehow, I still remember every detail of it, the smell of fresh paint and the very sound of the sea. I even remember the colour of the seats. I recall every minute I spent on RMS Titanic." Jane couldn't help herself. Her mouth fell open and she looked completely perplexed.

"Titanic!" She exclaimed and blinked several times, trying to remember her history classes in high school. Her teacher back then had been a gorgeous man called Benedict Cumberbatch who was especially good at modern catastrophes. "Titanic." He had told them, "Was a fantastic new project in the beginning of the 20: th century, though there had been..."

"Almost no survivors." She stated in disbelief and stared at her grandmother.

"Yes." Irene whispered and she could feel the tears burn behind her eyelids. She closed her eyes and stopped to fight the sorrow she had been hiding in the house for so many decades, and a single tear ran down her cheek. She could feel Jane's small hand gently brush it away and she laid her other hand onto Irene's barely wet and wrinkled cheek.

"What happened, Grandma? On Titanic." She clarified, suddenly sounding apprehensive. Irene trembled and buried her face in her white and virtually ghostlike hands. Jane spoke again, louder and more confident this time.

"What happened on Titanic?" Irene abruptly laughed shakily, though Jane couldn't find the situation itself funnyor amusing in the slightest way. Irene looked up, her eyes searching Jane's. She sighed, almost happily.

"It is strange, he is not related to you in any way but I still see him so clearly in you. He was the same; incredible clever, sarcastic, funny and awfully stubborn. You have his eyes." She added distantly.

"What are you talking about; Grandfather wasrelated to me. I'm entirely sure of that." Jane was now really considering the possibility that the old woman was going totally mad. Irene shook her head slowly, fighting the sudden smile that tugged at her lips.

"I'm not talking about your grandfather." Jane was flabbergasted for the second time that stormy autumn night.

"Who are you talking about then?" Irene didn't answer at once. She glanced out of the window thoughtfully, and the pain tenderly cut her into pieces.

"You know I never changed my name when I married your grandfather. We were always Holmes and Norton. But the truth is that Holmes never was my real name. My name was Irene Adler, and I was seventeen years old when I met him on Titanic."

"Who?" Jane cried impatiently, dying to know who Irene was talking about. Irene took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Honestly, I was very satisfied that I managed to write this, because I couldn't make up my mind whether or not Sherlock would survive or die. Then I thought, "She was the woman who beat him" and decided to let Irene live. First of all, this is the only chapter (apart from the last) that will be written as if it was today. The following chapters will take place onTitanic. Secondly, it will not be the classic love story, because I want to write Sherlock and Irene like they were portrayed in"A Scandal in Belgravia."Also, no reviews, no update. Sorry guys but I must hear your thoughts! The actual reason why I wanted to write this is mostly because it's exactly a hundred years sinceTitanicsank. Remember to review!

XoXoXo (Yes, I'm the kissing and hugging type)

Frida