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“That was wonderful, Sweetheart,” Wilf beamed, laying down his cutlery (classic, mirror-finished 18/10) across his empty plate (Gien china, from Harrods, with gold rims for the holidays) and settling further back into his dining chair (Phillipe Starck, with bonkers, contemporary-floral fabric atop clear acrylic legs). “Thank you.”
“Yes, another drink to our hostess I think is in order,” offered Donna’s friend Gwen, and raised her glass.
“Here, Here!” John chimed in. The table raised wine or water glasses and drank to Donna’s (mostly home-made) Christmas dinner.
Gwen’s husband Brendan cradled their tiny daughter, Artemisia, asleep in one arm. Donna’s mum sat next to John, and there were two extra places—one for John’s sister Harry, who unsurprisingly had neither RSVP’d nor showed up; and one for Sherlock, who was late, almost certainly on purpose.
“Was it not bought?” Sylvia, asked, once they’d all replaced their glasses on the table top and Donna had given what she hoped was a humble smile in return for being so honored. “I’ve never known you to cook.”
Donna’s lips tightened into a pale crease. “No, Mum, it was not bought. I did the turkey, the gravy, and the chestnuts, and John did the rest.” (Of the shopping, she did not say aloud.)
John came to her rescue then, offering Sylvia his disarming grin. “Roasted potatoes a specialty!” he bragged. “You’ll notice I also successfully argued against Brussels sprouts in favour of the haricots verts.” He made an expansive gesture. “You’re all very welcome.”
There was general laughter and a smattering of applause.
“Because I was going to say, if it was bought you should ask for your money back on the gravy; it tasted a bit burnt.”
“Right, I’ll clear the table,” Donna said, her jaw clenching. “John, would you help me? Why don’t you lot go into the parlour ‘round the tree, and we’ll bring out coffee and pudding.”
Wilfred braced himself against the tabletop as he rose from his chair. “Let me help you young folks,” he volunteered.
“It’s all right, Wilf, go and have a sit,” John discouraged, but Wilf held up his hand and began to stack plates.
Sylvia pushed back from the table and beelined for Brendan. “Give us that baby!” she ordered. Donna retreated to the kitchen with hands full of empty glasses, so as not to witness the awkward exchange as Gwen and Brendan tried to fend off her mother, who would by God have that baby, so they may as well surrender.
As they were making their fourth trip between dining table and kitchen with dirty dishes, the buzzer went.
“That’ll be Sherlock,” John commented. “Shall I put the coffee on?”
“Thanks, yeh,” Donna replied, using her hip to push the edge of a stack of plates in from the edge of the countertop. “It’s all set up, just turn the machine on. And can you pop those pies in to warm? Oven’s hot.” (Le Cornue. Six burners. Custom face. Brass hardware. Don’t even ask.)
There was fussing in the front room; Sherlock had let himself in and glad tidings of the season were being exchanged. Donna imagined he couldn’t even have taken off his coat before she heard her mum scold-asking him about the article in the Times the previous month about his return, and his poor family!--thinking he was dead—and poor John, Sherlock had essentially put him out of work, did he realize?. . .But, oh--did she read, too, that he’d been to Fiji?
“My god, she’ll kill him,” Donna muttered, shooting John a horrified glance across the work island (marble top with inset butcher’s block). “Gramps, do you think you can save Sherlock?”
Wilf grinned. “Do my best, but no promises. You know Sylvia.”
When he had gone, John laid his hand on Donna’s upper arm and gave it a squeeze. “You all right?” he asked meaningfully.
Donna slumped a bit. “I did get a bit queasy when the potatoes were passed.”
John looked hurt.
“Nothing personal,” she assured him, then added. “Can’t get enough lemons in me. Nearly chewed the rind off the bit in my water glass.”
John leaned in to kiss Donna’s cheek but she wrinkled her nose and pushed him away. “Sorry, Sweetheart,” she apologized, fishing a slightly limp slice of lemon from one of the half-empty glasses in the sink and holding it to her nose. She inhaled deeply. “Nothing personal there, either, but the smell off you.” She sucked the pulp off the lemon slice.
“Turns your stomach, I know,” he replied, backing off. “You’re sure you don’t want to just tell your mum and grandfather you’re pregnant? It can’t be easy hiding how ill you’re feeling.”
She shook her head, started pouring coffee into cups on a white-painted wooden tray (cheap, but she liked it, and it went). “I couldn’t bear it if something went wrong, what my mum might say. And it would break my grand-dad’s heart. They’re better off not knowing, this early on.”
“All right then.” John leaned in again, caught himself, instead blew her a kiss. “Here, let me,” he said, and hefted the tray. As John was about to leave the kitchen, Wilfred returned, with Sherlock close behind. Sherlock’s dark suit jacket was already unbuttoned and he swept it back from his shoulders and off, hanging it tidily off a barstool by the kitchen island.
“Reinforcements,” he offered with a grin. He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves. “I’m brilliant at washing up.”
“You’re really not,” John replied.
“There’s simply no way of knowing,” Sherlock said dismissively. He leaned down dutifully to kiss Donna’s proffered cheek, by way of greeting.
“There actually is,” John corrected. “You forget, I’ve lived with you. ‘Not really your area,’ I think you said? One of many.”
Donna gave John a playful shove on the back of his shoulder. “If he wants to wash dishes, for god’s sake let him!” Sherlock was pulling open drawers and cupboards all along the sink wall, looking for the dishwasher. Donna pulled down the doors of twin machines, one on each side of the sink (Miele, custom faces to match the cupboard doors, not as much as the stove but getting there).
John started out the door with the tray of coffee. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock, by the way,” he said over his shoulder as he went.
Sherlock hummed.
“Let me do something to help,” Wilf insisted. “Sure these glasses are too fine for a contraption like that.” He reached above the sink and withdrew a kitchen towel from a hook. “You wash and I’ll dry, eh, Sweetheart?”
“Thanks, Gramps.” They set to work, Sherlock rinsing plates and fitting them into the dishwasher racks, Donna wiping glasses with a soapy sponge, Wilf drying them and lining them up on the countertop. “Sorry about my mother, Sherlock,” Donna apologized, “Assaulting you first thing.”
Sherlock paused a moment and Donna knew enough to appreciate that he was, for once, choosing his words carefully. “Well. Naturally, she’s curious.”
“Curious, nothing,” Donna scoffed. “She’s delighted to have someone new to tell what they’re doing wrong.”
“Donna, try to be charitable,” Wilf said mildly, “It’s Christmas.”
Donna tore the pulp from an errant lemon slice with her teeth, went on washing the wine glasses (some Lalique, some Waterford), said nothing. There was the sound of crackers popping in the living room, a small eruption of laughter, then the baby crying. John returned and opened the oven door to check the pies. He got a face-full of smoke and coughed a bit.
“Oh, damn!” Donna cursed.
“No, no,” John reassured, fumbling in a nearby drawer for oven mitts, “All’s well. It’s just dripped a bit.” John lifted the pies out of the oven, one in each hand. “Where shall I--?”
Donna pointed at some geometric, metal wall-sculptures hanging on the opposite wall, beside the window (million-dollar view; you can see Hyde Park if you lean a bit). “Those. There. They’re trivets. Sherlock, could you?”
Sherlock dutifully strode across the kitchen and fetched down two of the trivets, placed them on the island.
“Helps to have a tall fella around, doesn’t it?” Wilf said cheerfully.
“I aim to be useful,” Sherlock demurred.
“You so completely don’t,” John said with a smirk, shaking his head. He set down the pies, and as Sherlock passed him on his way to retrieve his jacket, John momentarily rested his hand on Sherlock’s back. “Do you believe these things you say about yourself, or do you only say them because it’s just what people say?”
“I would hardly say just what people say, John.”
“That’s true enough,” John allowed. He and Sherlock exchanged a smile. Donna dried her hands on her grand-dad’s dishtowel and returned it to its hook.
“You lads can go now,” she scolded, shooing John and Sherlock toward the living room with a wave of both hands. “Out of my kitchen! Out! G’wan with you, I mean it.”
“We’re helping!” John protested.
“You’ve helped. Now, out.”
Donna got through serving pie and distributing little presents she’d put in the branches of the tree—a leather-bound, ancient book about the stars for her grand-dad; a sapphire pendant for her mum (who, for once, was lost for words); a pre-paid dinner reservation and promise of babysitting for Gwen and Brendan; a good start at a savings account for baby Artemisia—then found herself slumped in an armchair, the exhaustion she felt in her very bones every day around three o’clock asserting itself, her eyelids growing heavy.
“It’s a bit, I don’t know, just interesting, I suppose,” her mother was saying, somewhere off in the distance as Donna started to drift into a doze-y nap, “You coming back from the dead so soon after your colleague’s wife has won all that money in the lottery.” (For that was the story Donna had settled on, to explain her new flat and frankly ludicrous income, rather than telling any part of the real story: that she had relished every moment of putting the screws to that awful Mycroft Holmes, demanding monetary compensation for his having caused such upheaval in her life by hiding—then producing—his brother Sherlock in such an inconvenient manner.)
Donna felt flushed with panic at what her mother was saying, was about to say. . .
“It seems it might help you, were Donna to invest in your private investigating business.”
“Mum!” Donna exclaimed. She was completely mortified. Every third thing from her mother’s mouth was outrageous but this was too far, even for her.
“Well, of course what you do with your money is your business, Dear, but I just want you to be careful. People take advantage.”
Donna wanted to scream. She was too afraid to look at Sherlock for his reaction to her mother’s implication that he was going to try to con Donna out of her money.
Her mother’s voice was lower, she was leaning in. “You’re not invested in their. . .situation. . .are you, Dear?”
Sherlock muttered, “Believe me, she’s fully invested.”
John to the rescue again, “I assure you, Sylvia, the timing was pure coincidence. Sherlock’s business is already taking off again, since he’s been back. He needs no help from Donna. Nor me. He’s well set up. Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”
“Of course I need you,” Sherlock interjected.
“Well, thanks,” John said, patiently. Donna bravely opened one eye, scanned Sherlock’s face (eyes narrowed, mildly annoyed, possibly at John?), then John’s face (lips pursed, eyes wider than usual, more than mildly annoyed). “But what I mean is, we—you—don’t need any of Donna’s money.”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “God no.”
John looked pointedly at Sylvia. “He’s got work lined up for months. They’re around the block to hire him.”
“If you say so, I believe you, John dear.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” John said diplomatically. Bless him, he was the best thing she’d ever put between herself and her mother; Donna wanted to wrap her arms around his head and kiss the face off him but for her morning sickness. She’d owe him one.
“Donna, you’ve made a lovely party,” Gwen piped up then, nodding meaningfully toward Brendan, the baby’s bag, and carrier. “But look at you, nearly asleep; I think it’s time we were off.” Donna stood to exchange hugs and receive her thanks, and John walked the little family to the door.
“Us, too, Sylvia, don’t you think?” Wilf volunteered.
“I suppose,” Sylvia agreed. “I’ll powder my nose and get our coats.”
Wilf was gathering bits of spent wrapping paper (the girls at Harrods did the wrapping, utterly worth every penny) from off the sofa and coffee table (mid-century American). Sherlock asked, “Donna, is there--?”
“Pantry, top shelf,” she answered. She knew it was whiskey he was after, for John and himself. Donna glanced out the French doors behind the Christmas tree; it was fully dark outside already. No wonder she was so tired. “Gramps, you don’t have to clean up.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Wilf told her. He disappeared after Sherlock toward the kitchen.
John returned from seeing off their friends, rested his hand on Donna’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head.
“It was a lovely day, Missus,” he told her gently.
She lay her hand on top of his. “Thank you, Doctor Watson. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Sure you could. Where’s Sherlock?”
“Whiskey.”
Sherlock’s voice. “Too many cupboards!”
Donna laughed, then called, “You’re hopeless!” She and John made their way to the kitchen, and she showed Sherlock where to find her barware. John was scooping ice from the freezer into a small bowl. Sherlock took down three old-fashioned glasses and uncapped the whiskey.
“You’ll join us, Mr. Mott?”
“Don’t mind if I do, but we’ll have to make it quick. Sylvia gets riled when I have a drink.”
“Ah, but you’ve earned it,” Sherlock replied.
“You said that right,” Wilfred agreed. Once they men all had a glass of whiskey and Donna had poured herself fizzy water (Italian, ridiculous) with yet more lemon, Sherlock raised his glass.
“To good health, a life that’s seldom boring, and good friends—both here and gone.”
“Here, here.”
“Absent friends.”
They drank. Wilfred’s eyes twinkled; he was getting away with something. John and Donna leaned against the countertops. Sherlock swirled his glass, sniffed, examined the contents through narrowed eyes.
Wilf cleared his throat, sipped again, set down his glass. “You’re a lovely bunch of kids,” he commented.
“Aww,” Donna grinned. “You’re sweet, old man.”
Wilf went on, tracing the rim of his glass with the tip of one finger. “I’m very old, and so I don’t wait to say things. I just wanted to tell you—the three of you—that I can see you’ve got an arrangement. . .”
Donna, John, and Sherlock exchanged quick, meaningful glances at one another. Wilf kept his eyes fixed on his glass.
“I mean, I feel sure I’m not wrong.”
There was a pause.
“And anyway,” Wilf continued, “I know how it is. Marriages—relationships—are complicated, they always have been. And not that you need my blessing for anything you do. . .You’re young folks but you’re adults, obviously. But maybe you won’t mind knowing that I wish you every happiness, and whatever shape things take, whatever you choose, I think it’s just fine.”
Donna looked from John to Sherlock; both looked mildly shocked. John looked like he might say something, but then bit down on his bottom lip and shrugged.
Wilf shifted his gaze toward the ceiling. “Your grandmother and I,” he said, his voice slightly lower, as if worried Sylvia might interrupt or overhear, “had an arrangement like yours.”
Donna gasped. “What? Gramps, you’re--?”
Wilf chuckled, waved his hand, “No, not me. Your grandmother had a. . .friend. Eugenia.” He looked from one to the other as he explained, his face a mixture of kindness and a sort of relief. “When I went to war, I gave her a promise, but no one ever knew who would make it back and who wouldn’t, so I didn’t ask her to wait for me. My Helen. And when I did come home, Helen was working—she and Eugenia were on the ambulance service together—and they’d set up together in a little place with a flat upstairs they hadn’t been able to find a tenant for. I offered to keep my promise, and your grandmother took me up on it. Eugenia moved upstairs. And so it was. Close your mouth, Sweetheart,” he finished mildly. Donna snapped her jaw shut; her mouth had been gawping open in shock.
“Twenty-three years we lived in that little place, with Eugenia upstairs. Had Sylvia and the boys; they called her Auntie. She died too young, only forty-three, cancer. I don’t think your mother and uncles ever figured out exactly what the relationship was, just that Eugenia was Helen’s dear friend who lived upstairs. Well, and my dear friend, too, really.”
Donna couldn’t help but smile at this. She worried, sometimes, about how her relationship to Sherlock might play out over time. She was sure of John, he was solid; she knew, too, that John was devoted to Sherlock. And she and Sherlock were doing their best to get on, for John’s sake, but that was the bit in the whole scenario that seemed like it could quite easily go pear-shaped. It weighed on her.
John said, “Well, thanks for sharing that, Wilf.” He clapped Wilf lightly on the back. “I appreciate it. I really do.”
Donna and Sherlock murmured agreement.
“So, anyway,” Wilf said, with a warm smile and a tone of finality. “Just so you know. I wish you well. You’re lovely kids. Only be kind and patient. And honest. And you’ll do fine.”
Donna crossed the room and threw her arms around him, squeezing tight and kissing him hard on the cheek.
“Dad, here’s your coat!” Sylvia called from the living room. “I want to get back; I set up the whatsit on the telly to record the queen’s speech for you.”
Donna stood back, squeezed her grand-dad’s hand. “Thanks, Gramps. Honestly. Thank you. It means a lot.”
Sherlock stepped forward and shook Wilf’s hand. “Sir,” he said. “You are welcome company, any time.”
“Ah, nevermind,” Wilf said, embarrassed by the weight of the discussion. “Nevermind. Happy Christmas to all of you, anyway.”
“Dad! Are you coming?”
Wilf and Sylvia left in a flurry of hugs and thanks and Happy Christmases, and then suddenly it was quiet, and just the three of them lazing back comfortably in Donna’s living room by the soft light of the Christmas tree and a few decoratively arranged candles.
“I’ve got gifts for you lads,” Donna said, reaching among the branches of the tree to liberate them. For Sherlock, a set of antique microscope slides labeled by a madman in tight, Victorian script. They bore titles like, “clandestine meeting of stars and blood,” “insect soul,” and “whore’s and infant’s breath, commingled.” (Personal shopper, half-hour meeting and Donna had but to sign his paycheck.) Sherlock’s face brightened in a way Donna had not seen before, which pleased her.
For John, an ornately carved wooden box filled with about three hundred vintage postcards (antiques theme for gift-giving this year; next year maybe enviro-conscious), each written and addressed, some dated, and each of which inspired a kind of imaginative wondering that Donna knew John would enjoy. Donna’s favourite card was right on top, dated 1912: “My Pretty Little Darling, I followed you all the way home and although I don’t know your name, I am ready to take the leap into a domestic life if you will be there to catch me! If you are married, throw this card away, but if you are single, I hope you will meet me tomorrow. Carry a newspaper under your arm in the morning if you will! Yours very hopefully, An Admirer.” John kissed Donna right on the mouth; she held her breath and let him.
John had a gift of his own for Donna, and as Sherlock flipped through his slides, now and then raising one to the light to look through it, John presented her a long, slim box wrapped in childish paper with Father Christmas, and a blue ribbon he’d clearly tied himself. Grinning, she gave the box a shake beside her ear.
“Ooh, quiet, small box,” she ventured. “What could it be?” She turned it over and over in her hands, trying to decide where to start opening it.
“Hard to choose a gift for a girl who now has everything; hope it’s not too humble,” John offered with an expectant smile. Donna lay her hand on his cheek.
“Humble doesn’t matter, because I know you chose it just for me,” she cooed.
“That’ll do, thank you,” Sherlock intoned.
“Don’t be difficult,” Donna said. She could tell Sherlock wasn’t really uncomfortable; he merely found them tiresome. “Besides, I know you two were smooching in the pantry earlier.”
“You can’t prove that,” Sherlock stated flatly. But John gave them away, looking chagrined.
“Mind your slides. Back to my gift!” She tore open the corner of the paper and soon was lifting the lid from the box. “Oh, lovely,” she said. “It’s a lovely pen. Sherlock, John’s bought me a lovely pen for Christmas.”
“Has he.”
Donna lifted the (rather nice, she had to admit—rose gold, engraved all over with pretty curlicues, and with a little heart-shaped charm hanging off the end) pen out of the box and held it up in front of her. “It’s pretty,” Donna offered.
“I thought, since you’re always complaining you can’t find a pen—“
“Am I?”
“You know, you’re on the phone, you’re rifling in the desk drawer. ‘There’s never a pen. Where are all the pens I keep buying? Ack!’” John grimaced and shook his fists a bit, in what Donna sincerely hoped was not meant to be an impression of her. “’Pens!’ So now you have a special one I promise no one but you will ever touch. Put it where you like, and you’ll—“
“Oh.”
“--always know where to find it.” John looked some combination of pleased and hopeful.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Sweetheart.” She leaned over to kiss him.
“It’s a good one; Montblanc.”
“I’m sure,” Donna replied, as she replaced it in the box, covered the box, and set the box on the coffee table. “It’s lovely.”
Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, then extended his arm. On the palm of his hand sat a little blue box tied with white ribbon.
“Happy Christmas, Donna,” Sherlock said. He did not move nor look away from his collection of slides. “Speaking of pens, this one is the Ink Used By Demons To Write Binding Spells For the Restraint of Angels.”
Donna’s eyes were wide as she half-rose from the sofa and snatched the box off Sherlock’s upturned palm.
“Tiffany’s!” Donna enthused. John shot Sherlock a look, which Sherlock pretended not to see. He set the box of slides aside and tented his fingertips beneath his chin. John glared. Sherlock blew him a tiny kiss, then turned his gaze back toward Donna.
There were tears streaming down Donna’s cheeks, and she wiped at them with her knuckles. She drew in a long breath, looked at Sherlock and said quietly, “It’s. .. it’s just perfect. The perfect little thing. Thank you.”
Sherlock looked pleased. John looked fit to burst.
Donna moved toward Sherlock and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Really, thank you. I love it.”
“Of course you do,” Sherlock said..
“Of course you do!” John exploded, throwing up his hands. “So, what is it, then, this perfect thing?” he demanded.
Donna held up a thin whisper of a gold chain, from which dangled a single, cream-white pearl. She worked the clasp and started to arrange it around her neck.
“Don’t be cross, Sweetheart,” Donna urged, wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m not cross,” John fumed. “I’m cross at myself—“
“Then you are cross,” Sherlock interjected.
“Shut up. I’m cross at myself that I don’t know why that is the perfect thing. Why is it?”
Donna sat beside him and stroked his knee. “Don’t pet me,” John insisted. “Sherlock, tell me why it’s the perfect thing.”
Sherlock shifted his gaze toward John and said matter-of-factly, “Donna’s father always called her a pearl of a girl. She loved her father; he passed away; it reminds her of tender times with him.”
John closed his eyes. “You gave my wife a gift that made her cry.” He shook his head. “And I gave her a pen.”
“It’s a lovely pen!” Donna soothed, stroking the sleeve of his jumper.
“Would it not occur to you, Sherlock, to perhaps suggest that I buy her the perfect gift, since you so clearly knew what it was?” John asked in a despairing tone.
“Well, since it did not occur to me, I suppose the answer to your question is that, No, it would not occur to me.”
“How did you even know that?” John asked, leaning toward Sherlock in a way that made Donna worry slightly that he might spring up and head-butt him. She kept her hand on his arm, just in case. “How on earth did you know what Donna’s father called her when she was a kid?”
Sherlock shrugged slightly. “She told me.”
“That’s the sort of thing we’re sharing in casual conversation now? What do you drink? Who’s your favourite footballer? What did your parents call you when you were little?”
“Your mother called you John Darling and your father called you Sport-o.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, an expression Donna had come to think of as his So There Face.
Donna could feel the fight go out of John; he deflated with a sigh. She gave his arm a squeeze and he settled back into the sofa beside her. “All right. I give up,” John said. “While we’re on the subject, though, what did your parents call you?”
“My father called me Holmes—“
“What? Really?”
“—and my mother called me Highness, but she was being arch,” Sherlock went on. “Don’t say, ‘That—“
“—explains so much,” John said, in unison with Sherlock.
“That was predictable,” Sherlock said, with a roll of his eyes.
“Yes, well the truth often is,” John replied.
Donna gave a little laugh. “The two of you.” She stroked her palms across her face, washing away the long day. “Anyway, I feel spoiled, lucky me. Though I think I’m still in shock about Gramps and Gran. I’ll need to sleep on that one.”
John hummed in agreement. “That was nothing I expected to hear.” He stroked his fingers through Donna’s hair and she closed her eyes.
“’Woman’s Treachery’,” Sherlock read out, back to sifting through the microscope slides.
“On that note,” Donna said, getting to her feet, “I’m to bed. What time is it?”
“Only half-six,” John replied, rising to embrace her.
“Ah, well. In my delicate condition.” They hugged and exchanged a peck. “You lads enjoy your night cap; no funny business.”
“Of course not,” John replied.
“There’s nothing funny about it, I assure you,” Sherlock intoned.
“Guest room’s yours if you want it, Sherlock,” Donna said. “I’m glad you’re here. Sorry again about my mum.” She leaned to kiss the top of his head. “And thank you again for the gift. Watch out or you might get a reputation for being thoughtful.”
“Little chance of that,” he replied, though he was smiling.
Donna pointed at Sherlock’s head. “See, Sherlock smells nice, his hair. Can’t you use his shampoo or something?”
John was plaintive. “It’s not me that smells! It’s just your hormones trying to keep you safe from a masculine threat while you gestate.”
“Masculine threat,” Donna and Sherlock both muttered under their breath.
John protested, “Oi, that says more about you than me, Sherlock, with your head full of non-threatening hair product.”
Donna patted John on the bottom as she walked past him, toward the bedroom. “You’re both equally masculine and threatening. If I had any sense, I’d chase the both of you out of my cave with a torch. Now good night.”
She readied herself for bed—cleaned her teeth; changed her clothes; face and hand cream, different stuff on her feet, then socks; brushed her hair and tossed the loose hairs in the bin. She climbed gratefully into her gigantic bed (impossibly high threadcount sheets, mattress like sleeping on an extra-firm angel’s wing), turned out the bedside light and snuggled down into her pillow, listening through the slightly-open door to the comforting, now familiar sound of John and Sherlock, talking quietly together, just down the hall.
-END-