Chapter Four: Protected
Samantha added a large handful of spaghetti to a large stainless steel pot of boiling water. "Has John suggested naming the baby Astrid Rose yet," she asked Mary who stood by her side minding a marinara sauce heavy in garlic and oregano.
"Not since yesterday morning," Mary sighed, bracing a hand against the small of her back. Fuchsia-colored knit was stretched taut over her round belly; it rippled as the baby moved inside.
"It's a good name," John defended, coming into the kitchen upon hearing his name and, to his sister's irritation, turned down the CD player's volume and impeding Samantha's love for 'The Phantom of the Opera' movie soundtrack. "I'd like to honor Nana with a namesake while she's still alive."
"She is lovely, but her name has 'ass' in it," Mary couldn't help but chuckle.
John opened a white cabinet and took out three dinner plates rimmed with a peacock feather design. "To be fair, it has rose in it as well. Besides," he paused, "Prudence? We both know her classmates are going to call her poo."
He walked away with a splatter of marinara sauce on the back of his favorite black and white striped jumper.
"Actually," Samantha interjected, leaning against the cold, granite countertop, "considering the trends, there's a good chance this kid will be eating lunch with her friends Thistle, Captain and Banjo."
Mary laughed. "Do you think this is why she's taking so long?"
The due date had come and gone three days ago. John was as anxious as Mary and had not left her side unless it was to fetch and carry, much to both Mary's gratitude and frustration. John had even told Sherlock he wasn't going sleuthing with him on any investigations until after his daughter was born.
Sherlock had kept Samantha's secret, for which she was grateful for along with the fact Samantha had managed to avoid his presence since she punched him eight days ago. It would seem she remembered more from her self-defense classes than she thought.
John set the plates on the table. "All Watsons are born late," he explained, "except for Sam. She was early by four weeks."
Samantha changed the subject, stealing an olive from a clear bowl John stole from Mum. She popped it into her mouth. "By the way, I got a job," she paused, "at an Italian bakery."
Since she had not been able to get a new phone, after she'd been gone to several job interviews, Samantha stayed very close to the phone in the living room for the last few days.
The gust of air John let out through his nostrils in disapproval was unmistakable. It was a sound her brother made more and more frequently where she was concerned. "I'm so glad those years of piano lessons and accreditation from the Royal Academy of Music is going to good use," he mumbled under his breath, plucking silverware from the drawer.
"Hush," scolded Mary, letting Samantha take over stirring the marinara sauce while she sat down, topping the chair's teal cushion with another from the table's fourth chair nobody used before she did so. "What will you be doing there?"
"Mostly selling, sometimes running errands," Samantha answered. "Perks include a day-old cannoli, a ten percent discount to family and friends, and getting to smell bread all the time I'm there."
"Curse it," Mary snapped her fingers, "that's what I forgot."
Forcibly keeping his mouth shut for all of one minute, John placed the knives, forks and spoons next to the plates. "Why are you wasting your talent," he asked, suddenly.
"John!" Mary tried to intervene.
"Have you forgotten about this," Samantha asked, holding up her left arm that still wore a cast.
"It'll be off in a month," said John, rejecting what he thought a poor excuse. "Did you even apply for another pianist position?"
"No," Samantha admitted, maintaining eye contact.
The atmosphere in the room had gone from light hearted to uncomfortable. Samantha's throat felt tight, choked by emotions and answers too big to rise to the surface.
John folded his arms and his frown deepened. He asked, "Why?"
Because Heinrich Vesser killed my love of performing, Samantha answered silently. She couldn't walk past her piano, an instrument she could never part with, without remembering the hours devoted to the ivories. Those hours of hard work led her to many things; success, money and admiration. It led her to man she believed loved her. Hours spent with him turned into days, into a total of three years. A bright dream was slow to reveal itself as the stronghold nightmare it really was.
The doorbell rang, a static buzz, giving her an easy and welcome escape. She coughed, trying to clear the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. "I'll get that."
"So what's your plan," John asked following his little sister, canceling out Samantha's much needed retreat.
"For now, it's to answer the door," said Samantha, squeezing past the piano and big brown boxes in the hallway, and was instantly punished for her flippancy when her baby toe came into forceful contact with an wayward piano leg. "Ow! Ouch, damn it!"
Biting back the many cuss words coming to mind, she opened the door. Nobody was on the other side of the door to greet her but a box, brown like the others littering the hallway, marked with the name S. Watson, no address.
"Alright," asked John, his voice infuriatingly kind and concerned. "Are you freakin' kidding me?! Another damn box?"
Samantha sighed and lifted the parcel into her arms after looking about to see whom might have left it. "I wonder what it is," she said, herding her big brother out of the hallway on her way to the living room.
"It's probably one of your school pals leaving you a welcome back gift," John said as he went back into the kitchen.
Miraculously, it didn't take long for Samantha to find scissors, on top of a short bookcase, and she was able to open the package easily. She sat down on the couch before she pulled the box's flaps apart and looked inside.
She stared, the breath inside her lungs trapped.
"Oh, come on now, what is in the parcel," asked a breathless Mary waddling into the room to sit beside her, grunting as she did so.
Jaw slightly ajar, Samantha looked back from her sister-in-law to the box. Inside was her handbag, her leather, over-the-shoulder saddlebag-style handbag darkened by a large blotch of blood over the bag's burnt rose design. Attached was a note. It read;
'You are protected.'
"Dinner's ready!" John called from the kitchen.
"I'm going out," Samantha called back, shooting to her feet and went straight for the coat closet.
"No, you're not," John tried to amend, his short stature as formidable as it could be in the large archway to the kitchen.
"John," Mary grunted as she tried and tried again to get to her feet. "You're taking Sam to Scotland Yard."
"Why?
"Don't," Samantha shook her head as she pulled on her brother's large green jacket, feeling loath to take any more advantage of John's good nature. "It's still light out." Barely. The sun was sinking into the horizon fast, trailing shades of pink, orange and purple in its wake. Samantha's hands shook. "I'll walk."
"You're out of your damn mind," John's voice rose. "Do you want to get mugged again? Is that what you're after?"
Samantha slung her pink, patchwork handbag over her head and stared at John, incredulous. "Yes! That's exactly what I want! How did you know?" Her sarcastic declaration shook with anger and fear; her body numb. "Once was definitely not enough." Her stomach felt queasy. She took a deep breath and approached the box. She lifted the box and winced at the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.
"What's in the box," asked John, his tone serious. He neared Samantha and warily peered inside the parcel. The pallor of his face lost the low measurement of color it possessed. "Who sent this?"
"I don't know," said Samantha, turning back toward the hallway.
"What does it mean 'you're protected'?" John asked.
You are protected. For three words meant to comfort, it felt more like a threat, chilling Samantha's heart to its center. "I—I don't know," she answered, a shadow looming inside her memory. She wrapped a thick floral scarf around her neck to protect it from the January blizzard outside.
"Och, stop interrogating her already! I'm sure the police will be very interested in whose blood spilled over that bag," Mary scolded.
John nodded. "I'll take you," he said to Samantha.
"Thanks." Samantha was grateful for the help truly but her pride was struggling a bit.
"You're going to be alright then?" John turned to his wife. "If you feel anything—"
"Go, go, we'll be fine," Mary assured. "Take that thing to the authorities and hurry back." She forced a smile meant to comfort, but Samantha's gut sensed trouble.
This visit to Scotland Yard went quite differently than the others. There was no kind-hearted Wick, tea and biscuits or a comfortable chair offered. When they entered Greg's office to present the box and its contents, they were met with DI Dimmock instead, a baby faced rookie with eyebrows too stern and lips too thin to be considered handsome. Or perhaps it was his briskness when she introduced herself.
"I've been apprised of who you are, Miss Watson, and the incident where you broke your wrist," he gestured toward it as he crossed his arms and leaned against Lestrade's desk. "What have you brought me?"
"My bag," Samantha said suddenly, "it was stolen in the attack. It came back to me today."
The inspector peered inside the box only a moment before his cold brown gaze met Samantha's. "Who sent you this?" He plucked a couple of latex gloves from a small white box atop a file cabinet and put them on with some difficulty, his middle and ring fingers being slightly webbed at their base.
Samantha shrugged. "I don't know."
Dimmock lifted the handbag out of its package carefully, his existent frown deepening. "You didn't try and look about to see who might have left it at your doorstep?"
"Oh, yeah," said John, chuckling humorlessly. "We saw a figure in the bushes and invited him in for dinner, but he said he was busy and had to run."
"John," Inspector Dimmock sighed, "I'm sorry, but your sister needs to stay here while we have this piece of evidence analyzed."
"Am I under arrest?" Samantha's heart dropped. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
"You're not under arrest," John said to his sister, but was looking at the inspector. "Right?"
"We're going to do our best to get this sorted," Dimmock evaded the question neatly as he returned the handbag to the box and then took it from Samantha's hands. "Your cooperation will only help you, Ms. Watson." He made long strides to the office door and opened it. "Roberts!" He paused.
Samantha didn't see the man who responded. She stared at John, looking to her big brother for the answer as to what she should do, but he was quiet. It was hard to guess what he was thinking, he being a man of few words. But then he took her right hand in his left and squeezed it, briefly, but it was comfort none the less.
"I know you'll be alright," said John to his sister, his eyes uncertain.
"Take this to the lab for analysis. I want it and all its content examined thoroughly," said DI Dimmock before coming back into Samantha's line of vision. She could only stare at the man's gold and red striped tie, afraid. "Come with me."
The order was directed at Samantha and her feet numbly obeyed. She left Lestrade's office with Dimmock's long, slender fingers wrapped tightly about her arm. He led her past a few empty cubicles before stopping in front of a gray door. It was then Samantha realized John was still beside her and still holding her hand.
"You can't go in with her," said Dimmock.
Samantha slipped her hand free. "Like you said, I'll be alright." She paused. "Mary needs you. Go home. I'll phone when it's over."
John nodded, silent.
The Deputy Inspector opened the gray door and waited for Samantha to cross the threshold. She did so on trembling limbs, unknowing of what to expect. The floor and walls were, like the door, gray. A long fluorescent light lit a small square space occupied by a small table and two folded chairs up against the wall. Samantha heard the door close behind her. She heard it lock.
"Do I need a lawyer," asked Samantha, setting her handbag, the untainted one not headed towards a lab for analysis, on the table.
Dimmock grabbed a metal chair and unfolded it, causing a horrible squeak to fill and echo the tiny room. It clattered, in correct position, on the floor. "Sit."
There being no 'please' before that demand, he may as well be talking to a dog. Samantha didn't feel like sitting. "I'd prefer to stand."
Dimmock took off his jacket and set it on the table. "Feeling nervous," he asked, rolling up his shirt sleeves.
Silently, Samantha could admit she felt nervous about any nonrelative male, but more than that, Dimmock already had preconceived notions about her. This man's perspective could either save her or damn her, innocent though she was.
Since Samantha didn't answer his first question, Dimmock asked, "When our lab technicians open that bag, what are they going to find?"
"Tampons." This not the time to be smart, she told herself. There was no need to be defensive just yet. "Credit cards," she made a list, "some cash, lip balm, gum, mints, a hair brush, a comb, a mini sewing kit, my driving license, my phone, facial tissue, lotion—"
"I want to know who is protecting you," asked Dimmock, circling around the table to her.
Samantha backed away. "I don't know." She felt like a broken record, repeating the same tired line over and over again. Taking another step back, she stumbled back and landed on the chair hard, nearly teetering it over.
The inspector, tall and lanky, sat on the edge of the table and leaned forward, loomed over her. "Let's try that again. This time, look into my eyes. Who is your protector?"
Trying to stay calm, Samantha said, "I told you. I have no idea who would do this. I'm a woman trying to get back to a normal life."
Dimmock shrugged. "Alright." He paused. "I have to tell you, I'm glad you came in today. It saved me a trip."
"How so?"
"This morning, a body was found in an alley; male, late thirties or early forties and a match to the description you gave Officer Wick." He smiled. "Care to come with me to St. Bart's to make a positive identification?"
Samantha felt a shudder go through her. "Let's do it."
Sherlock folded the newspaper neatly and set it on the nightstand next to a bowl of orange and cinnamon potpourri. White fluorescent light flickered. "As for more local news," he said, "Mrs. Hudson found a renter for the basement flat; a Mrs. Chambliss—she says the stairs will keep her young, but a leaky faucet does not a fountain of youth make. But I'm glad Mrs. Hudson will have a contemporary to prattle on with and keep occupied, instead of troubling the solitude I need to work. I recently got hit by a girl," Sherlock grinned, remembering. "Well, I got hit by a woman, a short woman—not Mrs. Chambliss. You would probably say I deserved it or was asking for it. Her name is Samantha. Turned out John has a little sister."
The heart monitor beeped in response. Blonde eyelashes fluttered.
"I was surprised, too, I admit," Sherlock continued, bracing his elbows against his knees as he leaned forward in the chair. "Speaking of little sisters, I happen to see Rochelle in the corridor when I arrived. She's pregnant—again. This will make it an even six, in case you were trying to keep track."
The woman in the bed breathed in and out shallow breaths, lying as still as Snow White did in her glass coffin. A nurse had brushed the woman's bright red hair earlier and now it rested over her shoulders. Sherlock might have touched her hair, gently twisting a tendril around his finger, but he didn't. He hadn't answered that particular temptation in a long time. Instead, he took her hand in his.
"Work has been—slow. Lestrade took me off a case, but then, put me back on—accidently, on his part," said Sherlock. "A woman was killed last week and I found a baby in a suitcase in her closet. The police were hoping he was Declan Goody, an infant that was stolen from a daycare facility, but he wasn't. No family has come forward, so the baby will be put up for adoption."
Someone coughed.
Sherlock turned to see a nightshift nurse, dressed in pink scrubs and armed with a clipboard. She said, in a voice that befitted an Army General, "Visiting hours are over."
Sherlock nodded and turned back to the woman in bed. "I guess I'll go then. We wouldn't want you to get in trouble with the warden over there for having a boy in your room after dark, would we?" He stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek, let go of her hand and walked out of the room. Like every time before, he left uncertain if he was going to return.
He retrieved his phone from his trouser pocket and brought it back to life; he missed three calls. Two were from John and one was an accidental one from Sherlock's mum that left a voicemail showcasing part of a typical Eleanor and Russell Holmes' debate. This one was about what was better; buttered toast or buttered bread.
No point in listening further, for buttered toast was and would forever be superior, Sherlock called John back as he entered the lift.
"Sherlock! Where the hell have you been?" was John's greeting. "Sam got her stolen handbag back today."
"It's surprising the police were able to find it," said Sherlock. "Usually with something like that, when it's gone, it's gone forever."
"It didn't come from the police; it was anonymously dropped off—covered in blood," said John, anxious.
Please, let there be a note, Sherlock asked silently, but said, "Are you sure it was blood?"
"Almost certain of it," answered John, "and there was a note—"
"Yes! I love it when they do that," Sherlock cheered.
"It said 'you are protected'," said Mary, who obviously had taken her husband's phone away from him. "Don't let her go through this alone, Sherlock. John says they were treating her like a criminal the moment she walked through the door."
The lift doors parted. Twenty feet away were DI Dimmock, a detective still learning, but still a good man, and Samantha Watson, nearly drowned in her brother's jacket, walking toward the lift. Sherlock smiled at the perfect timing, what some might call coincidence.
Samantha's brown eyes widened upon recognizing Sherlock.
"Put your feet up, Mary," said Sherlock. "Dimmock won't hurt her; he just believes he'll get more answers if he puts her in a corner."
"That does not make me feel better, Sherlock."
Hanging up, Sherlock stepped forward. "Hello, Dimmock, what brings to St. Bart's this evening?"
Dimmock shook Sherlock's hand. "I'm taking Ms. Watson down to the morgue to make an identification. We believe we found her attacker."
"Mind if I come along," asked Sherlock, "to satisfy my own morbid curiosity."
While the deputy inspector thought it over, Sherlock turned to Samantha. Her fingers were twisting the purple and yellow floral knit scarf, nervously. A distinct line of dust was shown across the leg of her jeans, jeans tucked inside her black boots. Her full lips were pressed thin, her mouth quiet, but her eyes spoke volumes. She was afraid.
"I don't have a problem with it," Dimmock replied, "as long as Ms. Watson doesn't mind."
Samantha looked up at Sherlock for a fleeting moment before stating, "I don't care."
"Brilliant!" Sherlock pushed the button bring the lift back.
Dr. Molly Hooper, dressed in mismatched prints and ever-present optimism, greeted the three of them upon entrance of the morgue. Orange cat hair marred the whiteness and sterility of her white doctor's coat. Her dull brown hair was pulled to the side and fashioned into a simple bun with stray hairs sprouting from it.
"Hello, Sherlock," said Molly, cheerily, her lips painted warm red. "Good evening, Dimmock. What can I do for you?"
"Thank you for opening up shop so late, Dr. Hooper. I understand you had a body brought in today," said Dimmock. "I brought Ms. Watson here to identify him."
"Pleased to meet you," said Molly, expressing unnecessary niceties to a withdrawn Samantha. After not receiving a similar acknowledgment, she continued, if a bit dejected, "Right. Come with me."
Sherlock waited for Samantha to move her feet; when she did, he followed close behind. As Samantha summoned her courage, her strides were longer and her spine straighter. Her big brown eyes widened as she looked upon the occupied body bag laid out on a stainless steel slab. The woman obviously had never seen a dead body and hadn't jot the experience on her bucket list either.
Visibly, she took a deep breath.
Dimmock asked Samantha to come closer and, hesitantly, she complied. "You're being suspiciously quiet, Sherlock," he commented.
"Nobody has complained before about me being quiet," said Sherlock.
"It's a rare occurrence," said Molly and smiled.
Efficiently and quickly, Dr. Hooper unzipped the black bag, revealing the body from crown to neck.
"He's a boxer," Sherlock supplied, pointing out the healed scars on the man's knuckles and face. "Anybody with that much upper body strength is using it in trade for money, legal or otherwise. It's a wonder he didn't break your jaw," he said to Samantha and circled around the table to examine the top of the man's head. "A lot of minor lacerations, fresh and neat, too precise to be from broken glass."
Samantha brought her fingers to her own forehead.
Sherlock continued, "These incisions would have bled freely, but I'm thinking they kept him conscious for it."
"Is this the man who attacked you?" Dimmock asked Samantha.
Spying cauterized flesh and blood just above the zipper, Sherlock opened the bag further to show the body's torso which had been cut from the middle of an excessively hairy chest to the right side of its stomach.
Samantha gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth.
"I was meaning to spare her, thank you very much," Molly scolded, zipping the body bag closed.
"Is this the man," Dimmock asked again.
"I'm going to be sick," Samantha coughed and gagged, keeping her palms over her mouth.
"Oh, dear." Molly grabbed a nearby bin and put in a hunched over Samantha's hands. "You're alright, it's alright."
Samantha retched hard and the splash that hit the bottom of the bin made Sherlock's steely disposition a touch queasy. She gagged, coughed and heaved before saying, "That's him."
"Are you certain," asked Dimmock.
Samantha could only answer with a gut wrenching heave.
"Come along, Ms. Watson," Dr. Hooper led Samantha by the bin to her office for some needed privacy.
"I saw Officer Wick's sketch," assured Sherlock, "and this guy is nearly identical."
He reopened the body bag, intrigued on what he might find next. Examining the arms uncovered an interesting discovery—"All the bones in his left hand are broken."
Dimmock swore. "Do you have any idea who could have done this," he asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "There's a number of possibilities, Inspector, none of which has her in the role of a conspirator." He paused, examining the neck. "She was a performer, you know. It's possible she has an overzealous fan."
"You could be right," conceded Dimmock, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"More than likely," corrected Sherlock, lifting the head for a better look at the back of the neck. "There you are! The cause of this man's death was blunt force trauma which separated the spine from the neck, puncturing a major artery. I'm sure Dr. Hooper has all this in her report."
Dimmock nodded. "If there's a madman out there that sees himself as Ms. Watson's hero, he'll be in her circle. I'll need amp up surveillance."
"That won't be necessary," said Sherlock, zipping the bag up.
"Why do you say that," asked Dimmock.
Instead of answering, Sherlock strode into Molly's office. Samantha was sitting in the doctor's chair, her elbows resting on her knees, her face over the bin and her thick brown hair held in Dr. Hooper's tender care.
"I had a worse time in university with the cadavers, so don't feel bad," Molly soothed.
Samantha sniffed and practiced deep breaths.
"Cats," said Sherlock, pulling an ajar cabinet drawer out to reveal a fat orange tabby nestled in a blue baby blanket, "and any other animals, for that matter, are against health code, but you knew that."
"Rupert is getting old and shouldn't be left home with the others," Molly justified, supplying Samantha with a facial tissue. "Minga and Tobias don't respect their elders."
The cat purred appreciatively when Sherlock scratched him behind a balding ear.
"Ready to head home, Watson," Sherlock asked, watching Samantha lift her head to meet his gaze, the dark, rich brown of her eyes and hair a stark contrast to her pale skin. "John is worried about you. I'll take you home."
Samantha's voice croaked like her throat still burned. "There's better things for him to worry about; you, too, for that matter." She stood.
"That's right, you already have a protector," Sherlock said, instantly regretting it when he saw Samantha's eyes tear up, but made no move to comfort or apologize.
Like before, her fingers traced the scars hidden by her fringe. Her hands shook as she undoubtedly remembered who put them there.
"Dimmock has no further reason to detain you," said Sherlock, "and I suggested I accompany you not to protect you—you've demonstrated you can do that—but I've got a proposition for you."
"What kind of proposition," Samantha and Molly, who was now stroking her cat's fur, asked in unison.