Chapter Five: Dark Silky Hair

"Have a nice day," Samantha managed to say to an impatient customer who had the unfortunate luck to be Samantha's first unsupervised use of the cash register. "And thanks again for your patience."

The bone-thin woman, wearing too much makeup for her age, sighed exasperated and huffed, a packaged portion of tiramisu in tow. The bell hung at the door celebrated her departure with a cheery jingle.

Deanthony Vicci, the owner and head pastry chef of Vicci's, popped his head out of an emerald green swinging door. "You're doing fine," he spoke with a thick accent. "Like everything else, it takes practice, but you'll get it."

Samantha turned to face the older, handsome gentleman. "The last time you showed me, I really thought I knew what to do," she said, putting her hands on her hips, feeling out of her comfort zone, but ready for it.

Then the bell tinkled gently.

"You'll do fine," Deanthony repeated, either in actual confidence or hopeful thinking, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Hello," greeted the customer, a man with a full, but neat and trimmed, beard and a subtle Irish accent. "Where's Wendall?" The man stuffed his hands in his jeans as he gazed at the many baked treasures just beyond the glass.

Samantha shrugged. "All I was told was he quit."

Still searching for what his taste buds desired, the man remarked, "That's too bad," but his words lacked empathy. "Do you still sell… panpepato?" The word, though pronounced corrected, didn't come naturally off the man's tongue.

"Yes!" Her response was overly excited, true, but it had been one of those days that reminded her what it was like to be the new kid in town and behind the curriculum but finally got one question right. Calmly, she continued, guiding him from her side of the display, "They're over here. Chef Vicci had me move the traditionally Christmas sweets to the window display. This is actually the last week you'll be able to get your hands on a piece for a while," she said and slid the glass door open to retrieve one of the few panpepato cakes, a traditional Italian Christmas-time cake made with all sorts of nuts, spices, cocoa and honey. "They're planning on changing to their Valentine menu soon."

He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "In that case, forget a piece, I want the whole thing."

Samantha chuckled. "Storing up for the rest of the winter?"

"It's doubtful it'll reach home untouched," he replied, his turned-down brown eyes twinkling.

Wrapping the cake up in a white box, Samantha said, "If it's that good, I'll have to hide some for myself."

"It's the closest to my own grandmother's recipe," said the man and paid for his sweet, without trouble from the cash register this time. "I'll be sure to be back before the week is out then."

"Enjoy your cake," Samantha said, handing him the package.

"Thank you," he stole a brief glance at the rectangular name tag pinned to her black Vicci's apron and smiled, "Watson."

"They like us to go by surnames here," she explained.

He rested his hand on the entrance door's handle. "Well, you can call me Jim."

"Have a good day, Jim," she grimaced at the harsh wind that blew in with the man's departure.

She yawned as she climbed up on the barstool by the register, letting her feet dangle. Hopefully, tonight would end in a chapter of Georgette Heyer's 'Venetia', a cup of hot chocolate and an early night, but unlikely since her sleeping quarters were Watson's entertainment central. At best, it would be a quiet evening without suspicious inspectors, mysterious packages and dead bodies.

A shudder ran through her body. The image of her attacker's pale, tortured body still made Samantha's stomach turn. She hadn't even eaten more than a bite of toast and a sip of coffee and that was this morning.

The burned flesh that ran down the dead body's chest disturbed her. It brought back memories of him, Heinrich Vessar—his hobby was burning leather. When she had opened the box and recognized her bag, an apology gift she received from him years ago, she saw the rose pattern had additional petals and thorns.

It was information she needed to share with the police, she knew, but if this was his doing, she would have to go to court and testify against him—face him like she should have done when he—

Samantha's dark thoughts were interrupted when another customer entered the shop, along with four small children with sparkles in their eyes as they awed over their prospective baked delights. She smiled when the mother told her children they had to share and the four groaned in unison.

It was two hours later when she ended the workday, complimentary day-old chocolate chip cannoli in hand. She idled on the side walk, her boot-clad feet rocking back and forth in wait, before John's car drove up to the curb. When she slid into the passenger seat, however, it was not her brother who was driving.

"What are you doing here," she asked Sherlock, fastening her seatbelt.

"John asked me to get you," he said, immediately steering the vehicle back into traffic. "Mary is in labor."

"That's great! Are we going to the hospital?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock asked, "Have you given any thought to my proposition?"

Samantha admitted, "It's in the mix."

"And?" He asked for elaboration, looking straight ahead, the late afternoon sun illuminating the blue, green and gold oddity of his eyes.

"I'm willing to do whatever I can to help bring those babies back to their families," Samantha said, still feeling sufficiently apprehensive.

"I can't guarantee we'll be able to find them—all of them, anyway—but if we can make contact with Kashuba's organization, I can dissolve it and put him and his people behind bars so they can't take anyone else's child," said Sherlock, his tone matter-of-fact.

"I don't imagine they keep record of where the babies are kept or the families they're given to," Samantha sighed, feeling a portion of the helplessness for the situation.

"Not long after they're paid off," Sherlock agreed, pulling onto the street where Samantha lived.

Parked in front of the block of flats was a large green mover's truck with two muscular men, dressed in matching grey coveralls, getting out of it.

"You were that confident I'd say yes?" Her question was rhetorical. "Why do we have to do this today?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock got out of the car and slammed the door shut. He walked towards the men. His long navy Belstaff coat fluttered in the afternoon's harsh wind, a wind that ruffled the detective's raven curls from his forehead.

Samantha hesitated before opening the car door and following him, questioning her sanity with every step. Platonic as the situation was, she still wasn't sure if she was ready to live with a non-relative male.

However, if this was the means to end the evil hand snatching babes from their bassinets, Samantha made a silent vow as she approached Sherlock's back, she would play her part.

"It shouldn't take long to load everything," he was saying to the movers when she stood at his side. "She has most of it packed." He looked in her direction. "Whatever you don't take, you can get later."

Samantha nodded.

He didn't wait for her to speak, he strode into the ground-floor flat.

"Come with me," she invited the men to follow her, despite the hairs on the back of her neck standing up and the knowledge of what two physically men were capable of doing.

It didn't take long at all—not an hour—to move her whole life and earthly possessions into the back of the large truck, piano unharmed, the same couldn't be said, however, for her fairy figurine collection. The taller of the two movers winced at the sound of glass breaking.

"Sorry," he apologized.

After that, the boxes he moved were dealt with extra care, even boxes marked 'pillows'. In the end, the shorter, blonder mover tossed her packed luggage set, in pink rose and green ivy upholstery, in the back.

The truck drove off, black exhaust in its wake and leaving her alone in an empty hallway.

She opened the white package from the bakery and inhaled the perfect aromatic concoction created in flour, butter, cream, vanilla and chocolate. She took a bite. The cannoli would have been better if it had been baked fresh that day, but Samantha was content with it.

Poking her head inside the living room, Samantha could see Sherlock was not there, nor was he in the kitchen. She moved down the hall.

"Sherlock?"

Hesitantly, never liking to go into someone else's bedroom, she opened the door to John and Mary's bedroom. Sherlock was not in there either; just evidence her brother and sister-in-law kept their tidy habits separate from the boudoir. Samantha was quick to close the door, but not fast enough not to see the blanket half lying on the floor, pants on the floor and a black lace mask draped over a decorative pillow. She shuddered, not sure if she would ever be able to enjoy the smell of pomegranate again.

She found Sherlock in the nursery, looking up at an amateurish mural of planets, stars and nebulas. Fading sunlight streamed through sparkly silver curtains, spreading its twinkle to lavender walls.

"I'm pretty proud of that one, you know," Samantha admitted, pointing to a purple and green nebula with a blue comet, a long tail of white, soaring through it.

"You did this?" Sherlock gestured toward the ceiling.

Samantha shrugged. "I contributed."

"I don't know why you bothered," he said. "It'll be years before the child will be able to enjoy it and even then, it will be commonplace."

His logic was sound, but she argued, "Trying to make a nursery special has nothing to do with expectations of gratitude. It's an act of love and acceptance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The wants and needs of an infant come down to three things: staying warm, staying dry and full breasts at the ready."

Samantha glared up at him as she chewed another bite of cannoli. "It's going to be really hard playing the role of your better half when I don't even like you."

He looked down at her, smiling a half smile. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Chances are I'm the better, anyway." He snapped his fingers, his features serious now. "Reminds me," he brought out a small maroon box from his trouser pocket, "we need to start our backstory."

The ring, nestled in white felt, had a gold band and boasted a little round-cut diamond.

"When did you—" she began to ask.

"You're not my first fake fiancé," he said, his expression insincerely rueful.

"Remind me again why we need to take it that far," she said, licking the sugar and cream from her thumb, finishing her pastry.

Sherlock sighed. "A woman was killed trying to protect her child. The fact she didn't have a lot of toys and baby furniture in her flat tells me she was the run. The evidence shows she had a large amount of money put into her account the day her son was born, but she left the hospital with her son before a doctor signed release papers." He paused. "I believe Kashuba has moles hired into legitimate adoption agencies, and although it's legal for singles to adopt, they see a male trying to adopt small children as suspicious behavior."

"Do you think the black market has such scruples?" Samantha tossed her empty package into the bin.

"No," he admitted, "but despite what they say, there is such a thing as bad press." He closed the space between them, his form towering over hers. "So, are you going to wear the damn thing or not?"

Taking the ring from its box, she said, "I suppose."

Taking the ring from her, he said, "This means you and I are partners; no secrets."

"Don't snoop into my personal life then," she countered. "I know you read the police reports."

He slipped the ring onto her finger. "What gave me away?"

"You knew I didn't file charges."

Nodding, he grabbed the ladybug-print car seat from a corner in the room. "Let's go."

Samantha followed her fake fiancé down the hall, leaving another home that wasn't hers. It was never part of the plan to stay, even for the few weeks, but she was grateful to have gotten to know Mary and reconnect with her brother. She chided herself. Baker Street was across town, not the world.

Sherlock installed the car seat before getting into the driver's seat. "Do you want to wait at the hospital or go straight home and settle?"

221 Baker Street, she was sure, would be like staying at her brother's, a temporary residence until everything could be sorted. It would not be her home, just a place to rest her head.

"I'd like to wait at the hospital," she said, wanting to meet her niece and hold her.

The drive was long, the roads crowded with automobiles, bicycles and pedestrians, people making something out of their Monday evening. Sherlock was quiet, so Samantha said—honoring an agreement neither one of them had actually agreed to—"I think I may know who killed the man who attacked me."

Sherlock and Samantha entered the waiting room side by side. It was a large room, its walls lined with wooden chairs, snack vending machines and magazine racks. In the middle of the space were two large, leather couches, set back to back and bracketed by coffee tables. Occupying one of those couches were John and Samantha's parents Nigel and Dr. Johanna Watson and the eldest sister Harriet.

Samantha drew an audible breath as they neared her family, as Sherlock put his hand on the small of her back in a deliberate gesture to allude a close relationship. A faint tremor from her body met his fingertips.

Dr. Johanna Watson, a petite, blonde woman in her early sixties, looked up from a Vogue magazine and immediately emerged from her chair. "Sam!" Her thin arms wrapped themselves around her youngest daughter. "Why haven't you come to see me? I'm sure your life is much too busy and exciting for you to stop and think about calling your old mum, but it's so good to have you here now." Johanna kissed Samantha cheek.

"I could do without a lot of the excitement," Samantha remarked, patting her mother on the back, signally the embrace to be finished. Mother Watson held on.

Nigel Watson, a gruff retired furniture craftsman with jowls, was slower to reach his daughter. "You didn't hatch out of an egg, girl. We deserve to hear from you, especially when you've been hurt."

Samantha left her mother's arms to give her father an embrace which he returned. "Sorry, Daddy."

"I thought you called off your engagement," said Harriet, the eldest of Nigel and Johanna's offspring, a woman who took after her father's looks too much to be called attractive. She looked very similar to John; same cheeks, hair color and stature. Tucking a lock of sand-blonde hair behind her ear, she added, "Your ring is different than the one you had."

Johanna gasped, grabbing Samantha's left hand and stared. "Is the wedding back on?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "with a change of groom."

Three pairs of eyes took their gaze from Samantha and snapped their attention onto Sherlock. A female's voice could be heard on the intercom, interrupted by static and high pitched glitches, calling for a Dr. Sterling. He was needed in Delivery, stat.

Samantha's mother gasped again, covering her mouth in surprise, her blue eyes wide. "You two are engaged?"

"When were you planning on telling us this?" Nigel scowled, his bushy graying eyebrows nearly covering his solid brown eyes.

"I can honestly say you are the first to know," Samantha assured, subtly rocking back and forth on her heels, silently expressing her anxiety.

John, who had entered the waiting room and was close enough to get the gist of the conversation, asked, "Sherlock, can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Oh, John, how's Mary doing," Johanna turned to her son and closed the distance between them, putting her hand on his arm.

"It'll still be awhile," he told his mother. Not to be distracted though, he gestured down a corridor lined with gurneys and wheelchairs. "Sherlock?" He didn't wait for an answer before taking steps toward it.

"I'll be right back," Sherlock promised his fake fiancé.

"I wasn't worried," she said, looking up at him.

He grinned. For their audience, Sherlock lowered his head and placed his lips upon Samantha's. She stood still and unresponsive, sparking an unexplainable frustration from Sherlock's ego. Sinking his hand into her dark silky hair, he deepened the kiss and she opened her mouth for him. Samantha grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve, her motive to either draw him closer or to keep him in check.

Immediately, he broke the kiss, surprised by the heavy pounding in his chest and the crimson blush blooming over Samantha's delicate cheekbones. Her eyes didn't meet his.

He didn't miss the dark scowl Mr. Watson sent his way when he turned around to follow John. It was just as well for Samantha's father to stereotypically hate and disapprove of him. It gave the lie credibility. However, what disturbed Sherlock was the feeling he had when he kissed her and she didn't respond; he wanted her to respond—until she did and a rush of endorphins flooded Sherlock's brain.

John, wearing his brown plaid shirt and khakis, was waiting for him, leaning against a white wall with his hands in his pockets. "I'm freaking out," he said.

Sherlock braced himself. "There's no reason to concern yourself. Samantha agreed to help me. It's just part of a ruse—"

"I'm not talking about whatever the hell you're doing with my sister," John's voice rose. "I'm talking the fact there are policemen standing guard at my wife's hospital room because two babies—boys—were kidnapped this morning, right out of the nursery." Stress and worry made the lines on his friend's face look deeper.

"Kashuba's organization must be getting desperate," Sherlock commented, taking a seat on a gurney.

"I think it's more of a case where they are feeling damn cocky because they feel they can't be stopped," John said, pacing, his eyes not blinking. "I'm about to become a father, Sherlock, and I can't promise my wife our child's safety."

"You can't protect her from here," Sherlock agreed.

John raked his hand through his hair, frustrated. "By the way, I am concerned with what I saw go between you and Sam."

"I needed a fake fiancé," Sherlock explained, "so I can pretend to be interested in adoption and get closer to Kashuba."

"Lost Janine's number," asked John, his expression unsurprised. "Just promise me you'll be cautious. I don't want to see her hurt. The minute a situation becomes dangerous, you get her out of there."

"I promise she will be kept out of the action," Sherlock pledged, "but she isn't as dainty as you might think."

When John and Sherlock returned to the waiting room, the Watsons—including the ninety-three year old grandmother, Astrid Rose and her oxygen tank—were gathered around Samantha on the couch.

"We were just asking Sam how the two of you got together," said Johanna to Sherlock.

"She's wearing the same dress she wore the first time I saw her," Sherlock said, pointing out the blue and red vintage dress which had suffered a few tears and mends since the last time he saw it. "Rarely does the universe run so smoothly as to leave the love of our life at our doorstep, but the stars and planets must have aligned that day."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Mum, today is about John and Mary," she deflected, looking near suffocated by familial attention. "Sherlock and I don't want a lot of fuss." Her eyes dared him to say otherwise.

"Actually," John interjected, ignoring the conversation taking place, "it's probably best everyone just go home. Policemen are guarding the rooms and the nurseries, and its doubtful Baby Girl will be here before midnight. I don't even know if they're letting in visitors."

Johanna looked crestfallen, but said, "I'm going to see my grandbaby, John Hamish."

"Then you're in for a long wait," he said.

His mother folded her arms, signaling her resolve to stay put.

"I'd love to be here as a support," said Harriet, slowly gaining her stance, "but I've got an early morning."

"So do I," Samantha confessed as she too stood up. Hugging her brother, she said, "Give Mary my love."

"I will," he said. After giving his sisters, his mother and father all hugs, receiving a decidedly awkward slap on the back from Sherlock, he disappeared inside a lift, destined for the floor up.

Sherlock turned to his fake fiancé and linked his right arm with her left casted one; the paleness of her skin, her freckles and the sparkle in the false engagement ring contrasted sharply against the sleeve of his navy Belstaff. "Shall we go home, Watson?"

His fake, future father-in-law darkened his scowl further, leaving no doubt of his disapproval of his daughter living with Sherlock, but was smart enough to be quiet about it.

Samantha nodded. "I'd like to get a start on unpacking before I go to bed tonight." She bid her parents a lax goodbye before she let Sherlock lead her out of the hospital. Streetlights broke through the darkness and reflected their light on the cars in the parking lot and fresh snow drifting down toward the ground.

"Do you remember where you parked," Samantha asked.

"You're asking a man, who solved a murder by the distance a chocolate chip had sunk into an ice cream cone, if he remembers where he left the car." Sherlock was insulted. "I do, but since we're leaving John's car here for his use, it doesn't matter."

The swift clip of a female's high heels followed behind them. "Sam!"

Sherlock and Samantha's linked arms fell to their sides as they turned to Harriet jogging toward them. As she neared, she slowed.

Nervously, Harriet approached Samantha. "I'd like for us to meet up for coffee sometime," she said. "We need to clear the air."

"No." Samantha took a step to put more distance between her and her sister. "I'm not ready for a heart-to-heart, Harry. I can't forget the things you said, but talking about it isn't going to clear the air. It's going to pollute every breath I take." She took a deep breath. "I can't deal with it right now."

"I'm sorry," said Harriet, her gaze cast downward.

Silently, Samantha turned away and made her escape en route for the nearest street. Sherlock left a dejected Harriet, moseying to her vehicle, to catch up with Samantha, who was hailing a cab. Snowflakes fell to her dark, silky hair.

"If you catch a chill and die, it'd be your own fault," Sherlock admonished, sliding into the backseat after her.

"I was running late this morning and forgot my jacket," Samantha admitted sheepishly.

"And you worry about my memory." He shook his head. "Take us to 221 Baker Street," he told the cabby. Watching Samantha shake the snowflakes from her frizzing hair, Sherlock asked, "Are you going to tell me about what just happened with Harriet?"

"Do I have to?"

"We're partners now. No secrets, remember?"

Samantha sighed. "When I moved back to London, I lived with Harry. One night, she was drunk and we had a row and… things were revealed. I wouldn't necessarily classify it as a secret, just something I'm not ready to discuss." She paused. "It's not anything that'll interfere with your plans."

Snowfall thickened during the trip home, swarmed around them, leaving a white carpet upon the road. Inside the cab, however, was the illusion of warmth and comfort. When the cab stopped in front of his home, Sherlock paid the driver and hastily exited the vehicle. He moved to Samantha's side as she got out, unbuttoning his coat and enveloping her inside it. She was cold and he could see her breath mix with his. He felt her breast brush against his ribs.

They hurried up the steps, a harsh wind to help them along. Once past the threshold and inside the warm residence, Samantha left the protection of Sherlock's coat. "Thank you," she said, her cheeks pink from her brief encounter with the blizzard raging outside.

"I don't like your methods, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, coming out into the corridor, "but I like your results." The edges of her mouth pulled apart into a large, toothy grin. "I'm so glad you're joining a li'l household." She pulled Samantha into a tight hug. "Where's your coat, dear?"

"Were her things brought up to the room like I instructed," Sherlock redirected.

"Yes," the landlady answered, finally releasing Samantha from her grasp.

"I'd like to see my room," said Samantha.

"It's the loft," said Sherlock, "so if you walk up the stairs and keep going, you'll find it."

Samantha couldn't help but smile upon seeing Mrs. Hudson swat Sherlock's arm. Easily ascending the first flight of stairs, Samantha peeked inside an open door to spy a shambolic living room with mismatched furnishings; black-and-white damask wallpaper, a green glass sliding door and a red oriental rug. She backed out when the acrid smell she remembered from last time reached her nose.

Following instructions, she continued up the second flight of stairs, the door waiting at the top too was open and light turned on. The hardwood floor creaked with her first step inside her brother's old room. The piano, having made the journey in one piece, was situated by the door, against the wall. Across the spacious room, beneath a large window was a double-size bed dressed in Samantha's own peach and mint rose-print blanket and matching sheets, likely Mrs. Hudson's welcoming gesture. Though she saw it as the kindhearted act it was and would thank her for her thoughtfulness later, Samantha wondered if the landlady was in the habit of going through her tenants' property.

Boxes were stacked in a corner by an empty wardrobe, one box marked 'fragile' holding up two others. Samantha got to work, unpacking her unfortunate keepsakes—a variety of glass and porcelain fairy figurines.

"Damn it."

She unfolded the brown paper to reveal a clear glass figure of a fairy kissing a bird, the fairy's wings lay on either side broken and in shattered pieces from the small body. Lifting the flightless glass fairy away from the carnage, Samantha set in on the window pane near her bed. Most of the other figurines suffered similar fates, only a few whole and hale. She put them too on the window pane.

After she had hung up her dresses, jumpers and blouses in the wardrobe, put her underthings in a dresser and set her alarm clock atop an upside-down box marked 'bed', Samantha left her room. Her stomach demanded food.

She was five steps down when she heard a violin being tuned. She continued downward as she heard an elegant tune she had never heard before, a melancholy song interrupted with hopeful lifts. The door to the smelly living room was still open when she hesitantly approached.

Sherlock, having replaced his Belstaff with a tan robe, was sitting relaxed in an old, black armchair with a kingly air about him as he scraped his bow across the strings of the violin in practiced perfection. The music stopped suddenly when he saw her standing in the doorway.

"Come in," he said, not moving from his spot. "Hungry?"

"A little," she admitted, though her stomach insisted she was ravenous.

"Good luck," he wished, "I haven't gone to the market in ages." He set the violin back on his shoulder and continued to play.

Sliding the green glass doors open, Samantha stepped inside the green kitchen.

"Because of your disposition toward corpses and the like, I'd advise you to look elsewhere from the refrigerator," Sherlock suggested.

Samantha was about to open a tin of peaches she had found in the cupboard when she heard a soft knock at the door. "Hello?" She popped her head out of the kitchen to see who it could be.

Mrs. Hudson, holding a tray with two plates of steak and kidney pie, and a plump old lady with a streak of natural red hair twisted up in a gray bun, holding two glasses of wine. "We thought the two of you might be hungry," Mrs. Hudson explained, walking past Samantha into the kitchen. Her companion followed and set the glasses on the table next to the tray while Mrs. Hudson carefully moved test tubes and beakers to the counter.

"You're very thoughtful," said Samantha to the two ladies. "And thank you for making my bed."

"I was happy to do it," Mrs. Hudson said, "but I'm not your housekeeper."

"I'm Gladys Chambliss," the other lady introduced herself. "I live in the basement."

"Pleased to meet you," Samantha gently shook her hand.

"Let's leave these two to enjoy their dinner," said Mrs. Hudson, making way for the door.

Gladys nodded and followed, but stopped when Sherlock said, "Digestion slows down my thought processes."

"It's rude to let your guest eat alone," said Gladys.

"Since she isn't a guest, its fine."

Gladys threw up her hands in frustration and left.

Not expecting anything different, Samantha sat down and ate the savory pie and steamed vegetables alone while she listened to Sherlock play on his violin. She sipped some of her wine, letting the fermented liquid warm her insides. When she was done, she washed her dishes, but stopped herself from wrapping up Sherlock's plate of food and putting it into the fridge, believing what he said about corpses and the like being in there. She made a trip up to her room and back down to brush her teeth. Walking out of the bathroom, she was started to see Sherlock, dressed in blue plaid pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt, leaning against the wall in wait.

"It's all yours," she said, side-stepping out of his way.

She was in the corridor when she heard him say, "Good night, Samantha."

It took a long time for her to fall asleep that night, whether it was because she was in a strange, new place, a near-stranger downstairs or the distance between the light switch and her bed, she didn't know. Eventually, the soft music coming from downstairs lulled her and sleep enveloped her.

It didn't last long.

"Wake up," a deep, male voice urged. "Watson, wake up." The man had the audacity to swat her behind.

"What?" Samantha opened eyes that felt like sandpaper.

The bright screen of a smartphone was brought close to her face. It took a few blinks for Samantha's eyes to focus before she saw the picture of a chubby newborn swaddled in a white blanket and crowned with a pink, crocheted beanie. "Oh," she breathed and sat up.

"They named her Lorna Beth," said Sherlock.

"Lovely," Samantha smiled, happy for her brother and Mary.