The next morning, Samantha woke to her alarm. Everything that had happened the previous day came crashing down on her, and she screwed her eyes shut, willing the sudden moisture in her eyes to not spill over. She had to be strong, strong enough to take care of herself. She couldn't let her parent's murderer think she had cracked, that he (or she) had won and turned her into a frightened child. She was used to acting, both in plays and in real life; this was no different. Samantha swung her legs off the bed and took a shower. She put on her church clothes: a long blue skirt with a matching v-neck. She put her hair back in a hairband, too tired to do anything more elaborate. While she showered, dressed, and ate a meager breakfast of crackers and water, she kept considering the people around her, hoping to find someone suspicious, but coming up short.
At 8, she left her hotel room and walked a few blocks to the church she had picked out. After the service, she felt a bit better, more calm and with hope that everything would be alright somehow. As she began to walk back to the hotel, she got a text:
At Heathrow. Meet me there? Saw your post and had to come. I'm so sorry.
Samantha stopped dead. Her heart leapt into her throat, and all the emotional barriers she had built seemed to crumble. Instead of sorrow and fear, she felt mad; it would be so easy, simple to give in to it. Let the mad thoughts take her, and everything would be over. She hailed the next available taxi and told the cabbie, "Heathrow and step on it."
She took out her phone, and texted Sherlock a plan, a crazy, irrational, insane plan, but necessary. Or so the madness told her.