Chapter One: A Fight before Molly

The child wailed on her hip, his hoarse cries drowning out the mutterings of the passers-by. She'd heard the whispers before. Always well-dressed ladies and businessmen exchanged hard glances and mouthed about teenage pregnancy behind their manicured hands. The Wal-Mart bag cutting into her forearm only furthered their assumption that she's an unkempt beggar girl. When she rounded the corner and to find John with fists bloodied and face red, she broke into a run. The whispers grew into loud disapproval when she put Toby down, grocery bag spilling off her arm. She placed a gentle hand against John's shoulder, steering him away from the bold stares of the crowd.

Toby's bowed legs waddled towards her, pudgy fingers outstretched as she stepped between the panting boys. John glared at her, growling at her through swollen lips. She was not surprised to see more cuts on his face from his brawl. The other boy was worse off and stumbling away before Molly could get a good look at him. The only detail she picked up was dingy red hair topping a tall, lanky frame. She waited until he rounded the corner of the complex before she gathered up Toby and her groceries again, avoiding the scrutinizing stares of the thinning onlookers. It's not like any of them had stepped in to break up the fight.

"John, you can't keep fighting like this. You know Momma will have your hide." John just glared at her through a blacked eye, his ever present scowl disrupted by the blood smeared over his face.

"Who cares what Momma'll do? It's not like she'd've done anything different."

Molly turned a bit of her skirt to the underside, pressing the cotton against his fist, keeping the stains hidden. Her older brother winced, but didn't pull away.

"Why are you always fighting John? How are you always angry?"

He didn't respond, just sulked.

"John! What do you want? Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Do you want Momma to knock you around?"

"You won't tell her will you?"

"You'll be lucky if that boy's mother doesn't come back and tell on you herself. Besides, you're pretty beat up, John. She'll know." Molly had just managed to get most of the blood wiped up, careful not to push the wounds too badly lest she break them open again, when she heard another young voice calling out.

She turned to face the newcomer and saw dark curls and bright blue eyes staring at her incredulously.

"Mikey said he got beat up by a boy. You're a girl."

Molly held fast to Toby's hand and stared up at the boy. He had to be closer to John's age than the other one had been. His cheeks turned red under her continued scrutiny. What was she supposed to say? "Well, yes, I am a girl. Thank you for noticing." She blushed, looking away from the boy's intense stare. She caught a slow smile spreading on his lips from the corner of her eye.

"You keep your eyes off my sister like that! She hasn't done nothing to your good for nothing brother." John stepped forward, needlessly valiant.

"He didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"You don't know anything, asshat!" John lunged forward, fists already flying. The boy didn't say anything, just moved out of John's way.

Molly didn't see the foot stick out in time to warn her brother before he fell face first on the sidewalk, busting open every cut she'd just cleaned. With his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes narrowed, she almost thought the boy was bored. John got up again, body braced to charge, when they heard a clear harrumph across the sidewalk. A man observed them from his position on the street, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his briefcase.

Daddy was home early. Molly felt her stomach sink, even as she experienced a brief moment of relief. Dad would stop the fight, but he couldn't stop the punishment.

Or wouldn't. That was another matter entirely.

The dark haired boy stared back for a second at the adult, brows knit together as he glanced between daddy and them. No guilt or anger passed between them, but he still kicked a rock before he turned around to go home.

"John, what on earth did you think you were doing?"

"His brother said mom was a drunk."

"Your mom is a drunk, boy." Toby was still squalling. Once he noticed their father he stretched his arms out, grabbing at the air with tiny fingers.

"Mikey don't know that."

"The correct grammar is doesn't. Mikey doesn't know that." Dad looked back down at John and Molly could see the pity there.

"Why were you out here anyway? It's six o'clock. You got off the bus hours ago." He walked towards the gate, long strides difficult for his kids to keep up with.

"Mom said she needed groceries."

Her dad's jaw twitched, but he turned his gaze ahead as he entered the apartment code. He mumbled under his breath. Molly caught the words 'kids' and 'alone' and 'all evening,' though whatever he said between was blurred out by his huffs and grunts. His briefcase clunked on the pavement while he fumbled his keys out of his pocket.

"How was school today?"

Neither of the children answered, and he didn't push the issue. They entered their stuffy building and crammed into the hallway, winding up two flights of stairs before reaching their floor. A stifling silence fell among the group as they approached the door, gleaming numbers and white paint hiding a perfectly abnormal home. Already they could hear the loud thumps of their mother's footsteps across the floor, her voice grinding out an old Bon Jovi song at the top of her lungs. They heard a thump, and their mother's singing was interrupted by a string of curses. John shrunk away from the doorway. Molly refrained from stretching out a hand to comfort him, knowing that the action would only be worse for the both of them.

God in heaven, Molly wished John could keep from fighting.

The radio crowed in the kitchen, skipping and spluttering out the lyrics to Living on a Prayer. Molly could see several stacks of magazines, each one with bits cut out into strips, scattered around the living room floor. They were new and glossy, some with women smiling brightly from their covers and others opened to the advertisements. Each one had to have cost at least three dollars.

"What the hell possessed you to by a dozen copies of People magazine?"

Molly flinched at the slam of the door behind them. Toby clamored at her calves, pulling at her skirt to sit on her hips again.

"Well, I needed to make a collage, dear. Emilie says she wants a pop culture print." Nellie splayed out on the kitchen floor, a nearly-empty glass twirling between her fingers.

"I poured out your bottles yesterday. How many did you go and get?"

"Just a couple, darling. Don't worry, I paid the rent." Molly felt her face flush as her mother took another long sip, cool blue eyes challenging anyone to take it from her. The straw made broken slurping sounds as she fished for the last bit at the bottom.

"Oh, rent, yes. What about groceries? What about dinner three days from now? What about the lights? There's more than rent, Nellie!"

"Well, I think we can handle a few dark nights, can't we dears?"

Molly didn't have to see John's expression as her mother's gaze shifted over to her children. The sneer across the woman's painted lips was enough to strike fear into anyone. The girl didn't dare move as her mother struggled to her feet. She did not help her mother up, or quiet Toby's constant crying, or step forward to cover John. She dared not make a sound. Momma stomped across the kitchen tile, hands already clenched into fists until she reached her oldest.

"Been getting into fights again, Johnny-brat?"

Molly smelled the bloom of alcohol when she was brushed aside. Protests bubbled in her chest and fought against her lips, leaving a sickness curling in her stomach. She wondered what Momma would do if John told her why he'd punched Mikey? Would she deny it or call him a fool? Probably both. Arguing would only prolong the confrontation.

She pleaded, eyes closed, mouth silent, for John to just nod and take his punishment.

He never did.

"I said, been getting into fights again?" The oldest boy's face reddened as his mother's grip tightened around his arm, her eyes level with his.

"Yes." The swollen cut on his lip split at the word, blood seeping from the split. "Mikey said—"

"I'll teach you about getting in trouble, Johnny-brat." She jerked on John's arm, pulling him towards the kitchen sink still full of dishes. Without a moment's pause she swiped her arm across the towering mess, knocking the offending dishware to the floor.

Molly flinched as plates and bowls and silverware crashed against the tile. She counted at least three broken plates.

"What are you doing, Momma?"

"I'm washing off your cuts boy. And don't expect no gentle treatment. If you can take a beating you can take my beating. Now get under here." The water steamed onto greasy pots and crusted skillets.

"I won't." He attempts pulled away from her, stuck in the iron grip of his mother's authority. Molly knew he could have escaped her, but that would only make it worse.

"I said get under the water!" She hollered over the warbling music. Someone from next door knocked on the wall. Of course, Molly thought, the neighbors wanted them to get beat quietly.

"My face isn't getting under that water," he hissed.

John jumped when Momma's hand snapped up, sharp nails digging into his cheeks. Tears wet his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. Despite his twisted lips and bleeding face, he held his ground. His glare looked ridiculous against his squashed face.

"I don't rightly care what you think is going to happen, boy. You fight, you get punished. Now under you go." She jerked his head under the water before he had time to retaliate. The water spread shiny pink across his cheeks, her other hand grabbing for soap that she poured straight onto his cut. Blue soap leaked into his mouth, sending the poor boy sputtering.

Molly had to cover her eyes when she saw her mother grab the rag. She could see the harsh drag of the rough, thin dishcloth over his bruises and cuts, even with her eyes firmly closed. John's cry cut across the room, followed by a resounding thud. She tried to still her racing heart. John was always fighting. Always fighting. Even fighting back when it was so much better just to wait until it was done.

"You think you can push me?" Momma screamed, shaking the stained cloth at her son as if she brandished a weapon. "You think you can abuse your momma this way? All that raising I did you, and you think you c'n put your hands on a woman!"

"Stop washing the boy's face now, Nel. We have to talk about these purchases you made. We can't take none of this junk back now, can we?" Daddy gestured around at the ruined magazines, the glossy women's smiles glaring back at them. "Now we're going to starve if you don't figure something out. I just got off the phone with the bank, you hear me? We don't have but twelve bucks in there now, and that's not going to cover the water bill. What are we going to do for the rest of the month, Nel?"

Momma ignored him, clamoring back up to yank John's face back to the water. This time he didn't bother to struggle. Occasionally he would let loose a yelp of pain, but he didn't once lift his hands again.

"Why are you always messing with the damned kid, Nel? If you'd leave him alone every now and again, maybe he wouldn't need punishing." Daddy was still untying his tie and swapping out his shirt.

Finally, Momma stopped scrubbing at John's face. He skulked back to their room.

Toby fell silent, his head heavy on her shoulder. He was the only one she'd ever met who could sleep through hell like this. She took him back to their room as the disagreement escalated. John was half out the window, face still twisted in pain. He was going to Mary's, like always.

"Have her put the music box on the windowsill for me, will you? I'd like to hear it."

John just nodded and finished climbing through.

She'd just laid Toby in his crib when she heard the heavy thumping of footsteps down the hall. Their parents' voices grew louder as they chased each other.

"You can't keep spending money on these fantasies of yours, Nel! You aren't no artist and we aren't living off these collages of yours!"

"You don't support nothing I do, Stephan. Nothing! You yell at me about John and about newspapers and art! What am I supposed to do? You're always yelling at me."

"This week it's collages, last week it was caricatures. What's next? You going to start portraits? You aren't no Michelangelo. You're spending more on this garbage than you're paid for it."

"They're my supplies. I can make dozens of… of pictures with the right inspiration."

"This," He grabbed the cup from her hand and slammed it down onto the table, "is not inspiration. It's poison, Nel."

"You don't think I do anything right do you?" Nellie's voice grew weepy, eliciting an exasperated groan from her husband.

Molly listened at the door, wishing simultaneously that she could curl herself into a ball and never hear them again, and that she wouldn't miss anything they said. She wondered if today was the day one of them would declared the other too much, and the slam at the door would be the final one.

A knock, drowned out by all their screams and all the space between her and the living room, sounded sharply from their front door. If she hadn't have been straining her ears to hear her parents or Toby's soft snores, she'd have never caught it. Someone had come to the door and knocked on it. This had never happened before. Should she answer? Who was on the other side? Were they going to tell the couple to shut up? Were they going to ask about the children? Who would brave all the noise inside?

"You don't do nothing, Nel, except spend our money and drink liquor until you're stupid." There was a bang, and Bon Jovi's singing started to skip.

Momma sobbed from the forbidden bedroom, as she and John called it. Her father kicked and tossed magazines, muttering curses under his breath as Momma's wailing grew louder. Toby wouldn't be asleep for long if they kept this up.

Molly slid along the walls of the hallway, creeping towards the front door with as much stealth as she could muster. Whoever knocked was probably gone by now, but some part of her hoped it was someone there to demand a change. She had to check.

She didn't pause to clean the clutter or explain to her pacing father what she was doing. She just turned the knob as quiet as she could and pulled the door open. She was faced with shocking eyes under dark curls. The boy from the fight. She noted the mix of green and gold in the blue eyes, a detail she'd missed from a distance. She stood there too long, staring open mouthed at his face. She realized she must look like a fool, standing there gaping. She went to close the door again, but he spoke, a deep grumble through the door.

"My mum says I need to come apologize."

"You didn't even fight. What are you sorry for?" The words spill out before she has a chance to think about them, surprising her with their contrariness. She sounds cross. Whoever this stranger was, he was trying to peer in through the small opening she'd allowed. Her mother's cries seemed to draw him in like a magnet. What would he do if he did manage to slither in?

"Well, it's really Mikey who should be here. But he's chicken and didn't want to face you at home, so I came instead." He tilted his head to the side, finally giving up on his attempts at nosiness to stare back at her. She didn't know what to say, so she stood in the threshold, both of them awkwardly observing each other. Eventually the boy's high cheeks burned red, a horrible clash against his pale skin.

It finally occurred to Molly to ask the most obvious question. She'd been so shocked that he'd shown up here at all, that she hadn't realized. "How'd you even find out where we live?"

"It wasn't hard to deduce that you were headed home, since you were standing in the entryway of an apartment complex with groceries." His lips twitched into a smile before he schooled his expression back to neutral, eyes narrowing as he attempted nonchalance. "A half jug of milk, potatoes, and a can of condensed soup. Not exactly the most nutritious shopping list."

Molly's cheeks burned red. "Excuse me?"

"No offense, of course. Judging by the row going on back there, you've quite a monetary conundrum on your hands."

"Apology not accepted. Go away." She bit back tears, glaring at his coldness. He frowned, but said nothing as a couple of tears tracked down her face. He was not the savior she'd hoped for. She went to shut the door and found a foot thrust stubbornly in her way.

"Sorry. Bad habit." He wiggled a hand through the cracked door, a comical sight in the midst of her family's chaos. The lone hand was paired with a hollowed voice, somehow distant despite his obvious proximity. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I sincerely apologize on behalf of the Holmes boys." He sounded truly ashamed. Just a couple of tears did that?

She probably should have told him to go away again. He'd already proven to be an ass, and her parents didn't like others involved in their business. Still, something about the solemn and empty way he'd sounded drew her fingers to clasp his in an awkward handshake.

"Accepted from the Hooper siblings. Go on before you get me in trouble." He hovered just a moment, squeezing her hand softly before leaving.

He slipped away just as her father headed back down their narrow hallway. The door clunked shut and she spun around, half expecting to hear the shouts directed at her.

Instead, she was faced with the sight of her father pulling on his shoes, still mumbling under his breath. Her mother pursued him like a whirlwind, robe askew and eyes afire.

"And now you're just running away like the coward you are! Go on and tell the kids why you're going, you dirty little sneak! Always out of here all times of the day, in and out like a ghost, taking phone calls every hour of the night. Tell them where you're going, you rotten liar!" Her mother's high cheeks were rosy, her face pointed up in a snobbish grimace.

"By Gods woman, you are insane. I go to work. I take work calls. I go to work so you can lie in your squalor," he exploded at Nellie, spinning around so he faced Molly. For a second he looked as if he might explode at her too, but instead he set his mouth in a line and leaned down to her. A hand pressed down on her shoulder, his eyes piercing hers with something akin to sympathy.

Not enough sympathy to stay home tonight.

"Sweetie, I'm going to be back soon, alright? I'm just getting out of the house for a few hours. You have Uncle Tom's number, don't you?" Molly nodded. "Ok, be sure to call if anything happens. If your mom passes out before supper, you have my permission to go to Mary's to eat, ok?"

Molly didn't point out that 'only a few hours' meant he should be home before supper. She didn't question what would happen if Mary's mom didn't want to provide food for the Hooper kids. She just nodded and watched him push past her and out the door.

"Why'd you do that for? Just let him leave like that." Momma sniffled into the sleeves of her robe, swinging her ponytail around as she flopped onto the couch.

"I didn't mean to."

"Oh, no worry, baby. Come here to Momma. Make Momma feel better."

She edged forward, watching her mother for a sign of change. When she was close enough, she knelt down and draped hesitant arms around her shoulders. Immediately, alcohol soaked lips brushed her cheek, leaving watery kisses on her cheekbones.

"Your daddy don't deserve us, does he? He's just a little prude, don't know how to have no fun." Momma's wet face rubbed against Molly's forehead. "He just don't want me to be happy. He broke my cd player, tore up my magazines. He thinks I don't know he wants to run off with my babies. No one's taking my babies." Her voice faded into barely audible mutterings.

Molly felt a knot in her throat as her mother's fingers pulled through her hair. She wasn't sure what to do. Should she agree? What was she supposed to say?

She didn't have to worry about it for long. Before the sloppy tears could dry on her blouse, Momma's head drooped against her shoulder into long and heavy snores.

Molly eased her mother back onto the couch and set to work cleaning up the broken dishes on the kitchen floor. There were four broken plates and two broken bowls, though one she thought she could maybe fix if she worked on it. She swept the pile into the dustpan and dumped it into the hanging bag on her pantry's door. She busied herself, cleaning up the rest of the dishes and wiping down counters, bleaching the spots of blood that had dripped onto the white laminate during her mother's doctoring attempt.

Molly began picking up the bits and pieces of magazines strewn about the place. They could have been vacuumed up in minutes, but she didn't risk the noise. Bits of lips and eyes and floral blouses were everywhere. How much of this had managed to actually end up on the collage? She cleaned for hours, fixing everything she could from her parents' messes. Some of the damage was irreparable.

A groan from the couch alerted to her to her mother's waking. She scurried back into the kitchen, pulling down a plastic cup and two Excedrin. Through the pill bottle's rattle she heard her mother's croaking voice call out for her. A thin hand waved around the couch top, reaching for the cup that wasn't there yet.

"Molly, where's my drink, dear?"

"Coming Momma."

She hurried as fast as her feet could carry her, carefully placing first the pills, then the cup into her mother's hand before she stepped back to see what was next.

From the back room she could hear Toby's cries beginning again, and she barely bit back her groan in time. The two always seemed to have impeccable timing.

"Oh, dear, bring me my little Toby."

Molly's skin went cold. She couldn't make her feet move to pick up the boy, even as her mind screamed at her to move. Her mother's red-rimmed eyes zeroed in on her, one hand still rubbing her forehead.

"Go on now. I told you to do something."

"Don't you think…" Molly took a gulp of air before continuing. "Don't you think you might want to give the medicine a chance to work first?" Toby's cries grew louder. "He'd probably bother your head."

"Go get Toby, Molly. Don't argue with your mother."

Slowly, each step dragging longer than the last, she went to her room and picked up her little brother. She tried, unsuccessfully, to hush his growing cries. He was hungry, but Molly didn't know where Momma hid the formula. Every pleading "shh" was met with increased howling. Toby gripped her harder when Momma reached for him, his sob swollen face shaking his dissatisfaction with the swap.

Momma bounced the little boy on her knee a few times, the smile sliding quickly from her face. "It's ok, little Toby. Mommy's got you, little baby."

Molly held her breath, silently begging Toby to quiet his cries for Momma just this once. Just this one time, respond to his mother's sugary attempts to soothe him. It was to no avail.

Eventually, the bouncing stopped, and Momma's adoring expression was replaced with a scowl. "What's wrong with you, you howler? Hush."

"He's hungry, Momma."

"I think I know what's wrong with my own baby, Molly." Momma puffed out her cheeks, brows drawn as she puzzled over the growing cries. "I raised two of you already, haven't I?"

Molly cringed, but went back to the kitchen. She didn't point out that neither she nor John qualified as anything near raised, each of them still in middle school. Toby's crying continued, his throat raw before she'd finished making the bottle of apple juice. She turned to take it back only to find herself face-to-face with her mother, blue-grey eyes glowering under slit lids.

"Take the damned child. He's been reaching for you since you handed me to him." The warbling voice shook, but Momma stepped back and plopped back on the couch. "Bring me a drink."

Molly glanced into the cupboards. They were almost out of her mother's favorites. Whatever she'd bought today must be hidden somewhere. Her mother never realized that hiding her liquor just made it more difficult for Molly to make the drinks. It didn't keep Daddy from taking them away.

The baby rubbed his nose into her neck, spreading snot and slobber into her collar. He suckled the bottle, little tummy rumbling against her arm. She didn't bother to ask what her mother wanted. It was late, so of course it was time for the nightly vodka tonic. She wondered how many times she'd heard the excuse "Oh, dear, it just helps me sleep."

"Hurry up now, my show's about to start."

She'd apparently been taking too long, since Momma stood and sauntered over, one hand perched on her hip and the other rubbing at the vein throbbing at her temple. She reached the trashcan where all the broken dishes were piled and paused, mouth twisted into a pout.

"What did you do to my dishes, Molly?"

Molly stopped pulling Toby's hands away from her hair to properly face her mother. "I didn't. You... you needed space to clean John's face and you knocked them over. Don't you remember?" Her voice grew smaller and smaller as Momma's grimace deepened.

"These were my mother's plates. I've had them longer than I've had you. What makes you think you have the right to break my stuff?"

"Momma, you broke them. Remember? You had to—"

"Don't lie to me!"

Toby started his crying again, and Molly wished for the umpteenth time that day that just once someone would hear all the noise and come to see what was going on. She recalled the boy—Sherlock Holmes—from earlier, craning his neck around trying to see into the apartment. What would he think now?

"I'm not lying. You had to clean John's cuts and—"

"Are you trying to blame me for this? This mess?" Momma stood toe to toe with her, a plate fragment pushed to Molly's face.

She set Toby down, nudging him away with her foot. His bottle clacked as he crawled away, tears slowed by the wonders of freedom. She straightened back to her mother's livid face and tried to think of a way out. She kept an eye on the quivering shard waving around her face, careful to dodge the sharp points and jagged edges.

"No, Momma. I didn't break your plates. It was all an accident. You just needed to get to the sink, is all." She kept her words non-abrasive, a whisper.

She jumped when the plate piece brandished at her broke against the ground, sending fragments scattering across the tiles. Her mother's nails dug into her arms, bared teeth pressing hot breath against her face.

"I didn't have no accident, child. Now you admit to what you've done and clean up your mess."

"Yes, Momma." Molly felt her insides hollow, the physical seeping away of her will as she fessed up to a mess she didn't make. Her concession did not loosen the claws in her skin, or remove the sneer from her mother's face.

"Yes, Momma what?"

"Yes, Momma, I'll clean up my mess. I'm sorry for messing up your plates." She caught herself on her palms as her mother shoved her down, the grit of broken ceramics biting through her skin. Momma stood over her and finished her drink.

She knew better than to stand up to get the broom. She'd have to pick up every sliver with her bare hands under her mother's watchful eye. For the next half hour she picked up bits and pieces of broken dinnerware from the cracks in the floor, listening for her father to come home. Halfway through her picking she heard the snap of a window. She was forced to wait until she'd removed as much of her mother's destruction as possible before she could slip away down the hall and into her shared bedroom.

She closed the doors on the sounds of laughing and coddling and corny soap operas. John sat on his bed, feet propped against wall and a fresh ice pack against his face.

"Is that from Mary's house?"

"Yeah. She made these for us, too." He held out a couple of fresh baked rolls, still warm in his palm.

"Mrs. Morstan or Mary?"

"Mary, this time. She said she wants to be a baker one day."

Molly bit into the buttery, crisp outside, and realized for the first time that she hadn't eaten all afternoon. Her stomach protested loudly. She spoke through the mouthful of bread, examining the bits of John's face not covered by the ice bag.

"Does it still hurt?"

He shot her an incredulous look from his good eye. "No, I just like numbing half of my face."

"Come on. Let's clean it properly. You're lucky you don't need stitches on that lip."

He scowled, but followed her to the bathroom regardless. She rummaged around and found the cotton swabs and peroxide under the sink. Careful to soak the ball of fluff thoroughly, she dabbed it carefully against John's lip, noting that he had more cuts than she'd initially realized. Dried blood turned the white to muddied red. He hissed against the cool touch of peroxide, but did not stop her from cleaning the rest of his face.

"Why did you fight that boy, John? You know Momma's a drunk. Half the school knows that by now."

"He didn't have to talk about it like that. He made it sound so hopeless, like we'd never get out of here."

"John, you know we will. One day we won't have to bother with all this anymore." She readied another cotton ball, this one for the raw pink scratches left from her mother's fits. "He probably didn't mean anything by it. You have to stop fighting people, John."

John pouted, but didn't argue.

Back at their room, John yanked the bedroom window open.

"Again? You just came back from there."

"Mary said she wanted to show me her new kitten. She has to hide it in the closet so her mom doesn't find it."

"Why do you care about kittens?" John just blushed, a goofy grin breaking out across his face. He disappeared through the window, the clunk of his feet on the fire escape louder than wise as he crossed over to Mary's room.

Molly curled into her covers, closing her eyes against the breeze blowing in from outside. She listened to the tinkling of laughter from the other side of the wall, the happy sound of a music box carried on the night's wind. Despite the sounds from the other apartment, she found herself thinking of the multicolored eyes from her doorway. She remembered the empty echo of his apology. She pondered the large hand that had forced its way through her doorway and the squeeze it had given hers before he'd walked away.

She fell asleep before John returned, dreaming of dark curls and blue eyes on a boy named Sherlock Holmes.