Andy Galbraith couldn't quite believe Soo Lin was dead.

Even though he had stood by and watched as the body was wheeled away.

Even though Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had visited him at work and explained everything.

John had told him that she'd been incredibly brave. That she'd done everything she could to get away from a life of crime and smuggling.

He understood now. Why she had always seemed so distant, why she had always been so reluctant to give him a chance and go out for a drink with him.

He couldn't help hoping that this meant it wasn't that she hadn't liked him. That she was just being careful. Maybe even trying to protect him.

He had thought, sometimes, when she smiled at him, or ate her lunch nearby, that she had liked him. That he was in with a chance. Now he was almost certain she would have liked to have gone out with him. It was her past that had been the problem, not him.

He was devastated that she was gone, that he'd never be able to talk to her again, or see her smile, or watch the passion in her eyes as she worked.

When interviews were held for her replacement [God, he hated that. As if Soo Lin could ever be replaced] he had insisted that he be on the interview panel. So he could make sure that somebody worthy could carry on her work, somebody who cared about it the same way she had.

He wouldn't let her work go to ruin.

He could do that for her, at least.

He could prevent her teapots from crumbling, even if he couldn't do the same for his spirit.