Sherlock story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 15
A disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers and amazing Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. No money was made. The story however is my original thought, and comes out of my overactive imagination. Other characters introduced are also mine.
** Thank you; briongloid fiodoir, bruderlein, hJohn302, socalrose , danishprince, eohippus, Prothoe, Puky2012, Voldemort101, and Jenna Yemowa, for you review and PMs of 12-14
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Author's note: Thank you to the 1,370 visitors of this story so far. Thank you for your support, it is encouraging. A special thank you to everyone who takes the time to comment or review or PM. It is encouraging as well as helpful.
T rated but some future chapters may be M.
* Things you should know.
Да means Yes
Где means Where
Когда means When
До свидания means Goodbye
Thanks Voldemort101 for the suggestions that USB flash drive being added as another word for portable storage device
**Onward! **
Love and coffee.
Lots of coffee. Lots and lots of coffee, Zacha
"Character isn't something you were born with and can't change, like your fingerprints. It's something you weren't born with and must take responsibility for forming." ~ Jim Rohn
Current Day
The woman walked back and forth edgily in front of the oversized windows that lined the beautiful room. Her hair was normally perfectly structured and swept up but not now. Now it flowed beyond her shoulders in loose curls. She wore it like this sometimes for at least a year now. One finger twirled her naturally wavy hair. It was a nervous habit that she once had as a child. She rarely displayed such a habit because she was a confident and strong woman. She was not the kind of personality to become nervous or easily agitated.
At least not normally, however, she was today.
She sighed with irritation as she glanced at her watch. She collapsed into her plush beige striped chair foregoing her usual elegant mannerisms. She looked at her dark designer pantsuit and brushed imagined lint from it. She sighed and pushed against gravity to stand up again.
She reached stretching and grabbed her mobile phone from off the close table as she walked gracefully through the exterior double french doors to her balcony. She caressed the silky curtains with her fingertips as she slowly walked by. She looked toward the close city. The balcony offered a magnificent view, especially at night when the lights of the distant city were seen. Soon Saint Petersburg would light up like a hundred fireflies scattered below.
She looked at her phone again as if she could will it to ring.
A cool breeze blew the sheer curtains that seemed to dance in the wind. Another stronger breeze blew and the tulips that were scattered around the room joined in the dance.
It was not the proper time of year to have the doors open but suddenly the room felt small and lacking in air, she was not sure why. She considered the small but elegant room a reflection of herself. It had always been a place of comfort and retreat. But, not today.
She never noticed that she tapped her heels on the balcony floor.
The mobile phone rang. She took a breath, as she carefully made sure that her tone was casual.
"Да?" She listened to the voice on the other end of the phone line.
"Где?" She walked quickly to the pen and paper that she had close by. Words were written down hastily.
She frowned as she listened further. "Когда?" She asked. She wrote some more words downed hurriedly.
She glanced at her watch as she listened. She nodded subconsciously despite the fact that the caller could not see her.
"До свидания." She held the mobile in her hand for a few seconds. She hesitated for only a moment. She feared no one on earth with two exceptions. Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes and if her contact's information was correct, it seemed that her world now contained both.
There was nothing to be done. A life was in danger.
A life would not move her if she was honest. She had changed during the time that she had helped Sherlock bring down Moriarty's criminal web, but not completely. It was the fact that it was his life. She put on her mask and made her voice confident and strong. A text would not do.
Irene Adler pulled a throw blanket from the back of a chair without slowing her steps toward the french doors. She loosely wrapped it around her shoulders. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes ignoring them as they fell and walked bare feet onto the balcony. She shivered slightly. It must be the cold, she told herself.
She bit her reddened lips as she waited. The other line was answered in one ring.
"Mycroft dear, it's time we had a little talk…"