Chapter 1 Renae and Billie
"Not him, he's an idiot," she snapped in a whisper as she and her friend trotted past a man on a park bench.
"What makes you say that?" the girl asked, confused.
She swallowed and faced her friend, not slowing down her pace. "Just broke up, obviously wanting for money; up for rebound - not worth your time."
The two twenty-something girls walked the rest of the way to the car in silence, the cold winter air blowing their scarves in the wind. Renae wanted to make sure her friend would find a nice guy at college, not some random loser who couldn't be trusted as far as she could throw him. Though she wasn't technically the oldest child, she had grown up like one (which is a complicated story in of itself), which explained why she was protective of all of her younger friends.
Renae's friend piped up once they were comfortably seated in the car. "How could you possibly know that from just walking past him?"
Renae just smirked. How could people NOT see these sorts of things? "I guess going through four years of college teaches you a few things," she offered as the explanation.
Her friend didn't buy it.
"Really, Renae, tell me," her friend insisted.
She looked at her friend with a piercing stare, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sharp green eyes peeking through her curly bangs.
"I have two brothers. Well, two who are alive," her voice trailed off to a whisper at the end. She waited to see if this answer would suffice.
There was a considerable period of silence. "Okay...?" the other girl prodded. She wasn't buying that either.
"Alright, I guess I'll tell you then," Renae sighed with a slight roll of the eyes. It had been a secret long enough. She was safe here in America, after all. She had grown up here, acclimated to the culture, and even developed an accent. There was no way anyone could hurt her now.
"I have two brothers. One is in the British government," she stopped and looked down, smiling.
"And the other?"
Another glare from those all-knowing green eyes. "Oh, he's a detective."
"I'm not repeating the instructions again, Sherlock," John hissed as he set the unfolded paper on the dresser.
"I wasn't listening to you anyways," Sherlock mumbled, still tediously picking at each piece of the kit strewn across the nursery floor.
John threw his hands in the air. "We'll never get this thing finished if you don't pay attention to the instructions!"
"The instructions are wrong, John!"
"And how do you know that? You said you weren't listening."
A moment of silence from Sherlock as he continued trying to put together the baby cot. "Because of the type of ink used on the instructions sheet."
"You made that up."
"Perhaps."
Sherlock's face was still facing the floor, immersed in the project, but John could tell he had that smug half-smile he made when he knew he was annoying someone.
Mary came in and gasped with delight. "How lovely!" She walked around the room to inspect the freshly painted lilac purple walls and in-progess baby's bed. "Everything looks so good!" Sherlock continued looking down at the wood and screws within his reach. "And how's that cot coming along?"
"Well, actually -" John began to answer.
"Fine! Just...fine," Sherlock butted in.
John looked at Mary with the get-me-out-of-here look.
"Okay," she nodded, understanding the difficulty of the task they had undertaken. "How about we all take a break?"
Sherlock's head jolted up. "Where's Billie?" he inquired calmly.
"Just out there," Mary pointed to the next room with her thumb, "Why don't you go see her!"
Sherlock scrambled to his feet to see his best friend's newborn baby girl. He tenderly lifted her from her playpen and smiled as she cooed at him. Holding her against his chest with both hands, he carried her into her soon-to-be bedroom.
"So glad you had the foresight to opt for something other than baby pink," Sherlock's voice took a disgusted turn at the words "baby pink." He bounced her lightly when she began fussing. "It is statistically less likely for little girls to want everything they own to be pink beyond the age of five."
His text alert sounded. "John, my phone," he didn't budge either hand from the grasp he had on tiny little Billie.
"It's in your pocket, Sherlock. You can reach it," John didn't want to give up on the screw he had almost completely gotten into one of the cot legs.
Mary laughed at the helpless look Sherlock gave and took her baby, freeing him to give full attention to his text. It was Lestrade.
"St. Bart's," is all the text said.
"Got to run," he said as he dropped his phone back into his pocket and walked toward the sofa for his coat and scarf.
"But, wait... I was nearly... I'm almost," John stammered as he struggled to get the screw the rest of the way into the wooden leg.
Mary grabbed it with her spare hand. "Go." She sat down on the floor with her daughter and put the screwdriver to the cot leg.
"Really?" John started to ask, but Sherlock was already out the door, yelling at him to hurry up.
"Go!" Mary insisted, louder this time.
"Right. Okay," John hurried out and grabbed his coat. "Thank you, Mary!" He closed the door behind him, leaving Mary with a mess of screws and wooden boards around her.
She had the baby's bed finished in thirty minutes.