Sherlock Story

Forgotten Memories, Chapter 143

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A disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss; along with the 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.

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Note: Knackered means tired. 2. Gobsmacked is shocked.

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Here are a few chapters. More up by Friday. You can save those for the weekend or read all at once. Lots of Love.

"… Always think twice before the pawn move, pawns do not go back."

… The Fall… Part I…

"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."

~ Benjamin Franklin

Current Day

Current Time

The doors were closed and the windows shaded. All eyes had been glued to the group as they walked into the room. Reporters had to be told that another press conference would take place in two hours. This time, Lestrade would be in charge as well as several officers. Holmes had declined from being involved.

He turned to look at Mr. Lord Simon. He looked unusually pale and drawn. A deadly quiet had descended on the office. Holmes sat next to an unknown man, who had been identified as, Captain Frank Montana and Harriet Doran. She looked quite good for a dead woman.

The body language between Doran and Montana was unmistakable.

Lestrade could feel a headache coming on. He had privately warned his superiors about the dangers of proceeding with the news conference, but Anderson had found sudden favor with the authorities. At the same time, Lestrade had lost favor because of his refusal to abandon Sherlock. Furthermore, his unwavering public support of Holmes had made the last few weeks more than unpleasant. Of course, he did not tell Sherlock or John.

Greg glanced at Sherlock. He just finished explaining with his usual brilliance, how he solved the entire case from one-half faded hotel bill receipt that he found on the floor of the church.

The man, on his worst day, was brilliant.

Lestrade resisted the urge to chuckle at the dumbfounded look on Anderson's face, when Harriet Doran walked in. He had been in the middle of explaining how evidence suggested that she was murdered by Miss Flora Millar. The reporters went wild. At least one, or two photographers, must have taken a picture of Anderson with his mouth open.

Lestrade's mind wandered to John.

It was odd to see Sherlock without John. He had just had a phone conversation with him. John had just been confirming that Sherlock was with him, and was unharmed. He would never tell Sherlock that John was following his movements. He was not in the mood to listen to Sherlock whine about how he was a grown man and could take care of himself.

Anderson was in the far corner. He looked as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Lestrade sighed loudly. He supposed that it was time to break the silence. "Just so I understand this clearly." He turned to look at Harriet. "You are already married to Captain Frank Montana. A year ago, he disappeared and was believed to be dead, but he was simply a prisoner of war. You saw him sitting among the witnesses when you were leaving your wedding to Mr. Simon. But rather than simply explaining to Mr. Simon, and facing this mess, you ran away without a word?"

Harriet looked distressed. Frank noticed and took Harriet's hand in his and squeezed. She locked eyes with him for a second and started to speak.

"I did not handle the situation as well as I could. That is true, but it was a shock." She looked down for a minute thinking. "The marriage had been beneficial for both families, I knew that Lord cared for me and I was fond of him. I care for Lord, and always will. I saw no reason that I could not be as content with him, as with anyone else. But, I did not love him. I have never loved any man but Frank. I know that sounds terrible, but it is the truth. I have always been truthful to Lord about this fact."

She looked at Lestrade. He was trained to detect deception. He did not sense any in her. "Lord never knew of my prior marriage. I simply told him that I was in love, he had died, and a part of me had died with him. I thought that to be the truth."

"When I saw him, I went into the dressing room, I was near tears. Miss Flora Millar came in and saw me. The woman always seemed to be near. She asked what I was distressed about, I told her. She swore to help. I gave her a note to give to Lord. She promised to deliver both the note and the wedding dress to him."

She held up her head. "I suppose I was a coward, but the man I loved, my husband by law, was standing within my reach. I left." She turned and looked at Simon. "I promise you, I did not know that I was thought dead until Mr. Holmes contacted me."

Lestrade spoke up. "How did the wedding dress get into the river? A lot of money has been spent on manpower to look for a dead woman."

"I can help with that," Sherlock broke his silence as he looked at Harriet. "Miss Flora Millar volunteered to take the wedding dress back to Mr. Simon. The dress belonged to Mr. Simon's mother, I would guess. The style was a bit retro. All the photographs that I examined of you; had you in modern sleek clothing styles. Miss Flora Millar also said that she would deliver your note for you. She was in love with Mr. Simon. She knew that if he received your note, he might have gone after you, maybe even fought for you. However, if you were thought to be dead, Mr. Simon would grieve, but eventually move on. She would be there to snatch him up."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "It was Flora Millar who put the gown in the river, she's not a murderer, just desperate."

"Please let her go Detective Inspector. Sometime when you're in love, one does silly things." She looked at Frank Montana.

Simon spoke for the first time, "Hatty, you felt that you could not face me? That part hurt the most."

She smiled for the first time. "It wasn't you I could not face; it was your father, especially your mother."

A sad smile ghosted his face. "I barely want to face them myself." Harriet and Lord looked at each other. An understanding passed between them.

Several minutes later, everyone was standing to exit his office. After a handshake with Holmes and a disapproving look at Anderson, Simon left the office, only Holmes was left.

Lestrade walked around and sat on the edge of his desk facing Sherlock. Neither man said anything. Sherlock just stared off and looked at the wall.

"What's this about then?" Lestrade asked, "Today you solved the most press covered case in over a year. You totally humiliated Anderson, and I can't even manage to get that arrogant little smile out of ya."

Sherlock looked straight ahead, "I just locked myself in a room with a wounded dog."

Lestrade frown, "Would this wounded dog be Anderson."

Sherlock looked at him with surprise. He studied Lestrade before suddenly rolling his eyes. "How many times have John called."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Believe it or not, I have investigated a case or two without you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How many times?"

"Twice." Lestrade admitted. "The first time, he said that you were missing. You should have known that Mrs. Hudson was going to call him. The second time, he called to make sure that you had reached here safely. He asked me to keep an eye on you and watch Anderson. Why would he be concerned about Anderson?"

Sherlock was silent.

Lestrade frowned and rubbed one hand on the back of his neck. "Donovan has also come to see me this morning…"

Sherlock abruptly stood to leave. Lestrade moved faster than he anticipated and blocked his exit with his body.

"I wasn't finished," Lestrade said with some irritation.

"I think you were." Sherlock said as he tried to get around him.

"It has to be something serious, we both know that you don't care what people think." Lestrade joked. "Did Anderson find that body you buried years ago?"

Sherlock looked solemn.

"That was supposed to be a joke." Lestrade was suddenly serious.

Sherlock noticed the look on his face and rolled his eyes. "If I had buried a body, no one would ever find it."

Lestrade let out a breath of relief and sat next to Sherlock. "Yeah. True. Very true."

"What is it then?" Lestrade turned to Sherlock, "I can call Anderson in."

"What for?" Sherlock asked mockingly. "For giving me the evil eye."

"If your recent behavior is any indication mate, I think he's done more than give you the evil eye." Lestrade frown.

"If he did injure or wrong me in some way, why wouldn't I be the first to report him?"

"I don't know," Lestrade said barely above a whisper, "and that's what scares me." He paused, "Knowing you, you're protecting someone. Is it John?" His phone beeped. "Sorry, Press conference. They're having it early. Let me see if I can smooth over this mess."

Lestrade stood up and pulled on is suit jacket. He turned and looked at Sherlock. "Stay here. John will be here in two hours, I'll be back in one. If you're bored, you can look over the double homicide, but don't let anyone catch you doing it. And no sneaking the case files to Baker Street."

The first real hint of a smile, ghost Sherlock's face. Lestrade put his hand on his shoulder, "Will you stay?"

Sherlock gave a nod.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock briefly then walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Maybe it was time to talk to John. He did not want to pull John into the mess, or make him a target, but he would find out anyway, and might inadvertently undo his plans.

He sighed already feeling the familiar pull of boredom. He raised an eyebrow and looked at the case file on Lestrade's desk. He pulled his chair closer to Lestrade's desk and reached for the file when an email alert sounded.

A thought came to Sherlock's mind; he hoped that he was wrong. He opened the unnamed email. A picture appeared on his phone screen. He sat back quietly and looked. Sherlock felt lightheaded until he remembered that he forgot to breath. He took in a deep ragged breath.

He calmly stood. He walked over to the door and reached for his coat. He robotically wrapped the scarf around his neck. He made his way out the Yard. There was tension in the back of his neck. He ignored it.

Several eyes watched as he climbed into the London taxicab, and sped away.

Moments later when his mobile rang, it was no surprise.

Current day

Current Time

Moscow, Russia

She closed her eyes for a moment. She breathed deeply, the cold air bit her lungs. It had been nonstop movement since she had come to Moscow. She had traveled to Nizhny Novgorod, Saint Petersburg, and then back to Moscow hours before. She thought of the last time that she was in Moscow with Sherlock. It was a pleasant memory. A small smile lit her face. A very pleasant memory.

She turned her attention to her environment. She scanned the area and faces that passed her. The cold air caressed her skin as she watched the sunset retreat. The park was positioned between two sets of tall, diverse buildings in front and behind. Scattered lights dotted the building windows, as people retreated into their flats for their evening meals, to socialize, or rest before the next workday.

Irene Adler sat quietly on the wooden park bench. Small trees were scattered evenly throughout the space. She found her eyes squinting in the dimming light. She looked at her watch then looked back around. The temperature was dropping fast, only a few brave souls briskly walked with determination.

Her fur-trimmed overcoat was pulled snugly over her head and zipped up as far as possible. Her leather glove clad fingers rubbed absently at the weathered wood.

She looked around again. She could not see Mycroft's men, but she knew that they were there. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eyes. A figure approached from her left and slightly behind where she sat.

The tall figure walked casually and sat next to Adler. He was in an overcoat that seemed too thin for the temperature. A thick, fur trimmed hat covered his receding hair and ears. The informant that she met in the Les Menus Restaurant sat down. His long legs seemed not to fit on the bench. They both spoke in Russian.

"Sorry I arrived late. There were difficulties." He opened his briefcase. He withdrew a large, manila, packet. "This has the information that you requested as well as the names of the Russian scientist that disappeared."

His brown eyes looked haunted. He took out a metal flask and took a large sip. He welcomed the burning sensation as it traveled down his throat. He exhaled heavily through his teeth. His right hand came to his thick mustache. The back of that gloved hand wiped away the drops of clear liquid that rested there.

He suddenly thought, and offered the alcohol to Adler. She normally would not even consider such a thing, but when she looked in his eyes, she could not refuse him.

She took a small sip and grimaced.

Vodka.

The strong taste assaulted her palate. She cleared her throat and said thank you. He looked at her with examining eyes for a few seconds then broke into a smile. He took one last swig before his beefy fingers closed the top of the metal flask and put it back in his pocket.

His eyes looked toward the last remnants of the colorful dim remains from the setting sun. He seemed far away. "I love my country. I do this for one reason. I am afraid. You have to understand that nothing, before this, has ever made me afraid."

The informant looked at Adler and attempted to smile. "Well, I think I will take an extended holiday." He rose from the park bench. Adler rose as well.

"Whoever suspected this was correct. Get the information to him or her. Give them a message for me." The man looked down at Adler.

"What message would that be?" Adler asked, curious.

"Save us," the informant said simply. He held out his hand and shook Adler's smaller ones.

He did not let go of her hand; but held it as he locked eyes with hers. When he spoke, his voice was grave. "I might have just killed you by giving you this. I should not like that on my conscience." He squeezed her hand and let go. He then turned away from her and said. "You know how to find me."

His long legs moved swiftly. He first blended then disappeared completely, into the dim light.