This dress is the definition of #slowfashion ….Designed & draped in 2014, patterns made in 2015, and finally in 2017 picking it up again, refitting and sewing. #oldprojects #unfinishedbusiness #wip #workinprogress #design #fashion #mariekheffernandesign #silk #georgette #chantilly #lace
His phone rang just as he made his way out of the elevator. Mycroft had taken Holmwood from his home, while the son had been detained indefinitely at some location. Being as vague as ever, his older brother refused to say where, in case the tables turned and Sherlock somehow ended up in the hands of Holmwood’s men. That way, he couldn’t divulge the location of the boy, even under torture, and they still had a hold on the man.
Mycroft was delightfully thorough that way.
“And if he refuses to cooperate, we need to make it clear that his son will die,” he said, knowing that Mycroft understood that no matter what, the boy wouldn’t be harmed. As radical as the Holmes brothers were, they weren’t murderers, nor did they approve of collateral damage.
His brother asked him if he was sure about this, and he nodded, even though Mycroft couldn’t see him. “He’s the last link to Moriarty’s network. I refuse to have my child in the same world where the consulting criminal’s influence exists.”
"My, aren’t we paternal, Sherlock. Don’t tell me she’s changed you,” Mycroft stated, and he could imagine the smug smile on the man’s face.
"Just make sure our terms are clear. If anything else fails, I will do what needs to be done.” Ending the call, he lowered the phone to his side, before slipping it back into his coat pocket.
Although there were lingering doubts, he refused to let it get to him now. They were so close; months of running and being threatened all came down to this.
She knew that she was in no fit state to be following anyone, never mind a vengeful Sherlock… but Irene knew that it would all be over soon and Moriarty’s network, gone. It’s what they’d been working towards, its why everyone back in London thinks that they are both dead. It’s what Sherlock had gone to end.
The black cars were pulling away when she got to the entrance of the hotel, ‘at least they’re not far’ she thought, before stepping out to call for a cab. Less than 10 seconds passed and she was on her way… The cab driver tailed behind the black car carefully, “Your husband?" Irene looked to the driver, "Sorry?” “In the black car.” Of course he thought she was following her husband…
Before she could answer, the cab came to a stop. When she looked out of the window she noticed 50 ft down the road the black cars had parked and the men, including Sherlock, stepped out.
Without thinking Irene handed the driver money and stepped out of the car. Pacing forward slowly, but just as her foot touched the ground a sharp cramp rose over her and crippled her to the spot. Her hands wrapped around her bump and she looked up to see Sherlock had already gone.
“Why would your blood be rushing through my…through my veins?” he murmured, his voice faltering slightly the closer she got to him. “That’s biologically impossible, Miss Adler.”
"It’s fuelling the part of you that takes the logic and the deductions and it throws them away and then it brings in something else…” Her voice lowered and her eyes drifted over to match his, she spoke in whisper,
"…sentiment.“
Irene moved her hand over to his wrist and pressed two fingers down, feeling for the pulse…
