Chapter Two: A Reluctant Smile

Expected, Sherlock opened the Watson's front door and let himself in. His entrance, however, became an obstacle course made up of brown boxes of various sizes. A Fuchs & Mohr upright piano made of light mahogany and graced with a light coat of dust locked easy passage to the rest of the house. It must be Samantha's, he concluded, for he knew neither John nor Mary were musically inclined and John overestimated his unfortunate talent on the clarinet. A baby car seat, covered in a ladybug print, rested atop the instrument whilst its matching pushchair stood further down the walnut-floored hall. The smell of burnt bacon told Sherlock the small family was either having breakfast or only recently finished.

"We're in here," Mary called out from the living room.

He squeezed past the piano, through the large archway on the left and into the cozy den, a white and beige room accented with hints of blues and greens, to be greeted by the sight of a very pregnant Mary sitting cross-legged on a blue oriental rug next to John and a mess Sherlock presumed came out of a white box displaying a picture of a white, round crib. Mary was folding a basket of baby clothes, a variety of bright colors thrown in with white onesies, socks and other sorts of things in the mix.

Poor John didn't even look up; he just stared at the unassembled mass, red faced and silent with crumpled instructions in hand.

"It just hit them their baby is due in one week."

It was then Sherlock noticed Samantha draped over a white couch like the Queen of the Nile herself, except for her roomy, orange cotton nightie with buttons down the front and a green paisley border at the bottom, with her casted left arm propped on a large pillow. Morning sunlight streamed in through the large picture window, setting off the multitude of highlights to be found in Samantha's hair and eyes. Her feet and legs were bare. She hurried to fix that, tucking her feet under her and pulling the nightgown down to cover up her legs, only to reveal a hint of cleavage given by the top open button.

"How are you…, Sam?" He felt inclined to ask; her nickname feeling odd to his mouth.

"Just fine, thank you." Her tired eyes spoke otherwise and her bottom lip was badly bruised. "But, please, call me Samantha."

He nodded, noting she probably didn't feel they knew each other well enough for nicknames. It was understandable, he supposed, although came across as old-fashioned and a bit toffee-nosed.

About to point that out, he was interrupted when John shouted, "I can't make sense of this lousy piece of shit!" He tossed the pamphlet of instructions behind him and got to his feet.

Sherlock picked up the offensive piece of literature and opened it, studying the diagram and step by step directions. Shrugging, he said, "It's not sequenced correctly. Otherwise, doesn't look too difficult."

Mary laughed, a relieved sound. "Oh, good. If that's the case, John and I can start putting on the wall decals and hanging up curtains while you set up the crib." After a feeble attempt to get up off the floor, she asked for help, uncomfortable and a bit out of breath.

"Actually, I came to talk to John about the Kashuba case," said Sherlock.

"Any day now, I'm going to become a dad," John said, helping his wife get to her feet with Sherlock's assistance. His voice sounded strained. "This house isn't ready for a newborn."

"You've had nine months to do that," Sherlock pointed out. "Lestrade will be here soon to talk about—"

John sighed loudly. "We'll talk then. Right now, however, you can sit, make yourself useful and put together this damn cradle."

"Crib," Sherlock corrected. "Do you have a cradle ready? I understand newborns prefer those because it supposedly reminds them of the womb. Although, the co-sleeper cribs seem the most logical if Mary is planning on breastfee—"

"You don't get to talk about my wife's breasts, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "There's been a new development concerning the black market babies."

Back before anyone noticed her absence, Mary descended the two steps from the kitchen with three different parcels in her arms. "You two can go play when the work is done. Sam, tell Sherlock if you need anything. We'll be in the nursery."

"Mhm," was Samantha's reply, being totally engrossed with whatever she was doing on her IPad. Mary was already herding John down the hall.

"Need anything," Sherlock asked. He'd never really played the nursemaid before, well, except for when he was eight year old and Redbeard started to get sick.

"Nope." A dimple showed itself at the corner of her mouth. She didn't look up.

"Good." Gingerly, he sat down on the floor and started spreading out the tools and each piece of the crib out so they could be easily found, tossing the packaging off to the side. Taking the manual in hand, he read aloud, "Locate the two halves of the crib base, each a semi-circle. Line up the fourth peg on one with the fourth slot on the other. Fit them together. Rotate the two semi-circles so the other locking pegs align with the other slots on the opposing section." After finishing the tasks, he heard an audible sigh come from the direction of the couch. "What?"

"Do you really have to do that," Samantha asked.

"Helps me think," said Sherlock.

Samantha lowered her tablet. "Here I was, making the assumption thinking was your forte."

"What are you doing," he asked, not taking the bait.

"Trying to read," she replied exasperated.

"Tragically, illiteracy affects one in five adults," he informed.

"Shut up." She tried to sound admonishing, but Sherlock saw a reluctant smile play across her lips.

Last night, John had referred to his sister as a 'new fish'. Sherlock's brother Mycroft would have appreciated the analogy, more than once calling the commonwealth 'goldfish'. Sherlock wondered what kind of fish Samantha was. Either way, their tank had one more and Sherlock had a feeling she was here to stay. There was tension between brother and sister. Sherlock could feel it last night when Samantha spoke very little to John, but didn't know the what or why of it yet.

He took off his coat and scarf, leaving them on the floor in a heap, and continued reading, "Insert each of the four casters into the four caster sockets. Insert the sockets into the bottom opening on each of the crib legs and tap the casters lightly to secure them in the legs." He soon realized the damned things need more than a light tap and used the heel of his hand to hammer them in, only to be pinched when the last was secure. He swore under his breath.

Samantha was up. "You're bleeding," she said, stating the obvious. "I'll get you a plaster."

"No." Sherlock stood and followed her into the kitchen. "You need to rest."

"I need to keep my wrist elevated," she clarified, holding her injury up over her head. Her right, safe and intact arm reached for the first aid kit above the refrigerator.

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock said, snatching the kit before her grasp.

"Sam, Mum wants to talk," said John upon entering the kitchen, holding out his phone to his sister.

She shook her head, smiling a half smile that didn't reach her eyes—a sign of contempt.

"Why?" John had a sparkly silver thread hanging off his red plaid shirt. It would probably stay there until Mary noticed it.

Samantha directed a look toward Sherlock, who started tending to his blood blister. "I'm not going to get into it right now," she whispered.

More information she deemed he wasn't privy to know, he summed up.

John sighed as he returned the phone to his ear. "She's asleep, Mum. Yeah… yeah… yeah, I'll tell her to give you a call when she wakes up. Ok… We're looking forward to seeing you. Love you, too… Bye." He hung up. Pointing to his sister, he said, "This is the last time I'm doing that. Later, you're going to tell me why you're avoiding our mother."

The sound of knocking came from the front door.

"I'll get it," Samantha volunteered, her arm still raised.

"No, you won't, you're going back to the couch to rest," said John before adding, "You shouldn't be on your feet either, Mary."

Mary glared at her husband before waddling back to the living room, her hands bracing the small of her back. "Yeah, well, I trusted your judgment before you suggested naming our daughter Thomasina."

"Open the door, John," Lestrade's voice was heard.

Sherlock was the one who let the chief inspector inside. "I tried to give him some warning of what was going on," he explained, "but he has other things on his mind."

They squeezed past the boxes and piano.

"These are the kind of days I hate my job," Lestrade said, hesitant to enter the living room. "How is Samantha?"

"She hasn't complained. From the look of her eyes, I would say she didn't get much sleep though and is taking the minimal amount of painkillers—wait—you knew he had a younger sister," said Sherlock; it was a rhetorical question, but he couldn't help but feel left out of the loop.

Lestrade pointed toward a small picture hanging in the hall showcasing a young John Watson, maybe twelve years old, and his older sister Harriet, three years older and face fraught with spots, holding a chubby baby girl, not much over a year old, with thick brown hair and a drooling grin. "He wasn't exactly keeping her a secret."

Admittedly, Sherlock had not spent a lot of time in John and Mary's flat, always seeing it as a place for the couple only. If they wanted to see him, they certainly knew where he lived. If he wanted to see them, he had their numbers on speed dial.

Sherlock knew John hadn't been close with his family, but since the day John thought his friend had died, he evidently took the effort to reconnect. He had only met John's sister Harriet three times in total, had the job of keeping the champagne flutes out of her hand for parts of the reception. The elder Mr. and Mrs. Watson were nice enough for the single time he met them. For liars, at least.

Samantha was featured in other photographs throughout her years, the most recent one showing her alone sitting at a baby grand piano. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration and her mouth open slightly, maybe singing. Long, artistic and manicured fingers were posed over the ivories, delivering chords Sherlock could hear in his mind.

"Stop fussing over me, please," Mary's voice brought him around.

John was helping both his sister and wife get situated, one on the couch and the other on an overstuffed chair with her swollen feet propped with an ottoman, when Lestrade greeted everyone.

"Hello, Greg," Samantha said. "What brings you here?"

"I need to talk with you about last night," said Lestrade, taking a seat at the end of the couch by her feet.

"It better be that you've caught the thieving bastards," Mary said a bit breathlessly, rubbing her round belly.

"The officer I talked to last night said I was to give a description of my attacker to a forensic artist," Samantha said, still trying to get comfortable. The pain she was feeling showed on her face, but she said nothing about it.

"I'm going to cut to the chase here," Lestrade paused and wrung his hand, clearly taking time to choose his words with care. "Last night, around six o'clock, there was a kidnapping at Miss Muffet Day Care."

Samantha gasped, but remained speechless.

Lestrade continued, "Declan Goody was taken by a man claiming to be his father. Thirty minutes later when the boy's parents showed up—"

"Oh, that poor family… he's only two months old," cried Samantha and stood up. Her hand covered her mouth and she closed her eyes. She trembled. "It doesn't make any sense," she said, opening her eyes. They were wet and shining. "All the employees are introduced to the children's parents. There isn't room for an error like that."

"Sounds like an inside job," John said, folding his arms over his chest, and asked Lestrade, "Any ideas who did it?"

Sherlock stepped forward. "Samantha, you're on a list of persons of interest."

Samantha stepped back, her mouth forming a perfect 'o'. She looked from Sherlock to Lestrade, surprise showing on her face. "I left work early yesterday, came home to change—Mary can verify—and then I went to 221B for an interview with Mrs. Hudson there."

"What time was that," asked Lestrade.

Samantha shrugged. "I didn't look at my watch. The sun was setting."

"I looked at your report," said Lestrade. "You were… attacked… only a block away from your place of work right about the time the kidnapping occurred." Her testimony of events were in question.

"A horrible coincidence," Mary judged.

"Oh, come on, you know those aren't real," said Sherlock, shaking his head. Why couldn't they get it?

"You think I did it," Samantha accused him, her voice soft.

"I didn't say that—".

"You've got a good alibi," admitted Lestrade. "But, right now, Scotland Yard is seeing your attack as a ruse to distract from what was really going on."

"Her fractured wrist surely wasn't faked," said John, looking at the chief inspector, and clenched his jaw. "I can show you the x-rays if you like."

Lestrade nodded. "I would, but with the conflict of interest, it'd be better if a doctor of our choosing did them."

Wiping away a tear rolling down her cheek, Samantha asked, "Why would I kidnap a child? You can search this house; you'll not find one. It's not like I have a place for one," she gestured toward the couch. "I certainly wouldn't aid someone in doing so, either."

"Nobody is accusing you," said Sherlock. "You're not a suspect. The employee who gave the child to the kidnapper has been taken into custody and awaits trial."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better," asked Samantha, incredulous.

"It is, actually," said Sherlock. "Did any of the men from last night have foreign accents?"

"No." Samantha moved her neck from one side to the other, trying to relieve the tension felt gather there. The stack of folded bedding atop the couch implicated an unsuccessful night of rest. "What now?" Samantha ran a hand through her thick brown locks.

"The police are just going to keep an eye on you until this matter clears up," Sherlock explained.

"Actually," Lestrade stood up, "you, Sherlock, are going to keep close to Miss Watson until further notice, until we're sure she isn't an accomplice."

She didn't look thrilled by the prospect. "Okay." She scratched her nose. "I'll be ready in a minute."

"Ready for what," Sherlock asked.

"Oh, our lovely, fun filled day," she said sarcastically and headed toward the mess of boxes, "of clearing my name." She pulled a navy duffle bag from behind a large box, plopped it on top of another box and began unzipping the piece of luggage. "We have a lot to do; getting new x-rays, going to Scotland Yard and getting a new phone. I've already applied for a new driving license."

"No. Today, you're going to rest," said John, using a commanding big-brother tone Sherlock associated with Mycroft.

"Need help?" Mary asked but made no move.

"Nope." Samantha flipped open the lid and rummaged through its contents to, in the end, pull out something grey, something pink, white knickers and a lacy white bra. She ignored John's advice to rest.

When she disappeared down the hall, Lestrade said, "I'm sorry, John."

"Samantha's the one you're going to be apologizing to when this is over," said John, his voice steady.

Spilling out from the open navy duffle bag was a pair of black and white floral tights. Sherlock found himself staring at them, the roses, thorns and buds in the print. A memory slowly came out of the fog and into the light. He remembered her. Samantha. Her hair had been shorter then, but Sherlock saw her standing by John at his graveside services. She was the only one there he didn't recognize, had thought she had come with John as a new girlfriend. They had held hands and she stood out even in the customary black. She had cried, though Sherlock knew those tears were most likely for her brother's loss. Samantha had worn those tights to his funeral, Sherlock remembered now.

"I guess I'll be going," Lestrade said, obviously feeling awkward and unwelcome. He stood. "I'll be in touch."

John nodded. When the chief investigator left, John said, "Can you believe he thinks I faked Sam's x-rays?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "He didn't say that. He's just covering his ass."

"You're being awfully quiet," John said to Sherlock, sitting on the armrest of Mary's chair.

"Don't crowd me, dear," said Mary, lightly pushing her husband away.

"Your sister and mother don't have a close relationship, do they," said Sherlock. "Mothers and daughters typically don't, but your sister has contempt for your mother. Contempt is a mixture of the primary emotions disgust and anger." He paused, noting the shared glance passed between husband and wife. Moving on he asked, "How long has she been living in Holland?"

"How do you do that," Mary marveled, shaking her head.

"Five years," John answered.

Sherlock nodded. "She's adopted a bit of the accent." He picked up his scarf off the floor and looped it around his neck.

"She was going to stay with Harry," Mary volunteered, "but they've had a row."

"I'm worried about her," John admitted. "Samantha won't take Mum's or Dad's calls, she's fighting with her sister, she hasn't reconnected with old friends and she's living on my sofa!"

"And we're happy to have her here," Mary spoke louder for her sister-in-law's benefit, who was in the hall again. Samantha wore a short sleeved gray tee with a pink square-necked frock over it, her black boots on her feet.

She put her left arm into a dark blue sling, her movements awkward but independent. "I'll be out of your way as soon as I can." Forcibly, she opened a large brown box and pulled out a large patchwork handbag, took a quick look through it, brought it over her right shoulder and turned to face Sherlock. Closing the distance, she picked up his large, navy coat and handed it to him.

Their fingers touched. It was brief, but her soft skin and delicate, long fingers didn't go unnoticed.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he put on his coat. "Let's go."

"What about the crib," asked Mary.

X

Once in the cab, Samantha closed her eyes and rested her head back, tired but glad her appointment at the hospital was over. The air inside the vehicle was warm and a welcome contrast to the cold outside. Shrugging off her black jacket, she set the garment across her lap. Her arm in a new cast, it was determined that Dr. Watson's assessment was sound and were wrist was indeed broken. However, she was still being treated like a suspect for Dr. Byrne only talked to Officer Inglenook and another policeman in hushed tones she couldn't hear.

"How did you break it," Sherlock asked as he climbed in beside her and slammed the door shut.

Samantha opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock, confused. "I landed on it."

His mouth straightened, he was annoyed. "Not this time. Your wrist just recently healed from a break. How did it break last time?"

"Who said it had already been broken," she asked, crossing one leg over the other.

"Nobody. You were still favoring it yesterday when we met," said Sherlock.

Samantha snorted. "I was not."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. I overheard Dr. Byrne say your wrist looks like it had been mending from a different break." He paused. "Well?"

Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "My wrist broke much the same way it did this time."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Meaning you were attacked?"

"Meaning I fell on it." Samantha cringed. She didn't want to talk, especially about this.

The consulting detective looked doubtful and said, "You know, you never answered my question from last night."

The cabby took a sharp left right turn, sending the unprepared Samantha nearly into Sherlock's lap. She braced a hand against his knee to right herself and was quick to remove it just as quickly and slide further away, closer to the window. She felt warmth blossom through her cheeks. He, however, looked unaffected. Taking a deep breath, which turned into a yawn, she looked outside to avoid his eyes, her own not focusing on anything in particular.

It was awhile before Sherlock said, "I asked you why you weren't at your brother's wedding."

Thinking back on last night, Samantha said, "As I recall, you phrased it as a statement." Sherlock remained quiet. "I was on tour with the Netherland Symphony Orchestra."

"Your parents must have been so proud to have a lawyer, a doctor and a successful pianist in the family," Sherlock surmised. "Why did you quit to become a child-minder? You haven't told your parents. That much is obvious. Is that why you're avoiding them? No, you're upset with them. I can tell by your forehead."

Samantha turned to face him, her dark eyes meeting his light ones like opposite ends of the spectrum. "Don't dig up bones that aren't yours, Mr. Holmes. I understand why you feel you have to interrogate me; I even understand why you might be curious or just making conversation, but Greg only gave you the job of keeping an eye on me."

"Shall I invest in a crate to put you in, Watson?" He actually smiled saying her surname.

"Well, we are headed to Scotland Yard."

"Would a cot in a cold cell be preferable to your brother's sofa?" Sherlock asked, "Would it make it easier for you to sleep at night?"

Chuckling mirthlessly, Samantha said, "You already see me as guilty, don't you?"

"Was it only yesterday you accused me of making assumptions?" He paused. "Actually, I am making observations and gathering information; information you seem determined to keep for yourself." The cab sided up to the curb and Sherlock paid the fare. He walked round the vehicle and opened her door.

Stepping out, she declined in taking his offered hand and walked into Scotland Yard alone, Sherlock trailing not far behind. The sun was out and bright, but the wind carried a chill. Samantha, not bothering to put her jacket back on, said, "I've given you everything that is relevant."

When they entered the lift, she heard him say, "Oh, I think we both know that's not true."

Samantha yawned and the rest of the ride up was made in total silence.

A tall, thin woman with dark, curly hair and mocha-colored skin called Sergeant Donovan directed Samantha to a small cubicle belonging to Officer Jana Wick, a middle aged lady with a severely tight bun atop her head.

"Have a seat, dear," Officer Wick said to Samantha. "Can I get a quick cuppa before we get started?"

Sherlock, his coat collar up now, took a brown cushioned swivel chair from an empty nearby cubicle and pushed it in Samantha's direction.

Sitting down on the procured perch, Samantha answered, "That would be lovely, thank you." She kept her handbag and jacket in her lap.

"I'll be right back, Miss," said Wick, smiling a kind smile as she left.

"You can find me in Inspector Lastrade's office when you're done," said Sherlock as he walked past, the wool of his coat brushing against her skin.

"You'll have to excuse me, as well," said Sergeant Donovan, heading the other way.

Samantha watched Sherlock and his long strides cross the room and into an open door. It was promptly shut behind him. She wondered if he would try to interrogate her again. Probably, she thought, or he may give up trying to get answers from her and search elsewhere to discover her personal affairs. There wasn't much she could do to stop that from happening, but she certainly wasn't going to tell him the deep, dark secrets she couldn't even discuss with her family yet.

Maybe she was worrying for nothing and Sherlock would see her and her former life as boring. She had followed her brother's blog and the famous detective's episodes of boredom were as well-documented as the actual investigations.

"I managed to find a couple of biscuits," said Officer Wick, breaking up Samantha's thoughts as she put a mint green tea cup and saucer, the sweets nestled on the side, on Samantha's side of the desk.

"Thank you." Grateful, she took the hot brew and blew on the steaming liquid before taking a careful sip.

"How are you," asked the officer, taking a seat behind her desk.

"I'm well, thanks," said Samantha, though she did not feel it; she was exhausted and her wrist hurt like the devil.

Officer Wick sat down, letting out a loud sigh as she did so. "Alright," she said, opening a large drawer and pulling out a sketch pad, a pencil and an eraser. "To your best ability, please describe the man who attacked you last night and the men with him." She set her supplies on her desk.

"The men called him Rodney," Samantha said, setting down her teacup on its saucer. "He wasn't much taller than me, maybe a few inches, but solidly built."

"What shape would you describe his face?"

"He had a pointy chin with a patchy, uneven beard," said Samantha, "and a wide forehead with a mole over his right eyebrow."

Nodding, Officer Wick made quick strokes with her pencil. "What did his eyes look like?"

Just then Officer Inglenook appeared in Samantha's line of sight, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of his desk chair. Again, Samantha was struck by his resemblance to Heinrich Visser, same thick blond hair, same broad shoulders and the same blue eyes. Samantha wondered if she would ever forget him, to live without the haunting of those memories.

"Miss?" Wick's voice was kind and patient.

Samantha blinked. "Sorry. Could you repeat the question?"

"What did his eyes look like?"

"Bl—brown," answered Samantha, trying to come back to the present. "His eyes were small, sort of sunken in and he had thick eyebrows."

The female officer took a few moments on her sketch.

Inglenook strode down to talk to Sergeant Donavan, a playful smile on his lips.

It was a smile similar to the one that won Samantha's heart. Lips once kind and loving turned cruel. Eyes once sparkling with a sharp mind and quick wit dulled, dark and unseeing. Heinrich's transformation had been slow and calculated. She could still see his hand rise when he first hit her and the pure terror breaking her heart. Samantha could still feel those harsh, thin lip when he kissed her the last time. It was a kiss meant to punish, shame and hurt. She trembled, remembering him biting her lip and scraping his teeth against hers.

Moisture gathered in her eyes.

"I know it's difficult, Ms. Watson. Take your time," said Wick, giving a reassuring smile. She was leaned back in her seat like she was ready for more information.

Feeling like her past and her present switched places in her brain, Samantha closed her eyes to focus on her attacker from last night, feeling a couple of hot tears run down her cheeks. "Uh… His lips were uneven… a little fuller on the… upper left side. His hair was a light brown, almost blond, and it was cut very short and thin."

She opened her eyes, relieved not to see Inglenook. Not so distracted, she could answer the officer's questions and give the few details she could remember of the attacker's companions.

The sight of Sherlock caught her attention, his hands in his pockets, was headed straight for her and looking none too happy, his mouth making a straight line. "Are you finished," he asked before reaching her.

"What's wrong," asked Samantha.

"I'll tell you later," said Sherlock. He took one of Samantha's untouched biscuits and popped it into his mouth. "Are you finished?"

"Um…" Unsure, Samantha looked to Officer Wick.

"I believe so," answered Wick. "The descriptions she gave me will be very helpful." The older woman added, "She need some rest. Take her home and make sure she gets some."

Sherlock made no comment.

"Thank you for your time," said Samantha, coming to her feet and shaking the other woman's hand.

Officer Wick smiled. "Take care, Miss Watson."

Sherlock took Samantha's handbag and helped her into her coat, even buttoning the top so it would stay on. His hand, momentarily, was on the small of her back as he escorted her to the lift and again as they exited the building. Though she was bothered by the personal gesture, the firm guidance from his hand, she chose to ignore it for Sherlock likely didn't see what could be wrong with it.

"What's wrong?" Samantha asked again.

Sherlock removed his hand from her back suddenly. "I'm off the case."