The Swan Queen | Sherlock

The Show Must Go On

 There were birds outside the window, tweeting loudly amongst one another. I rolled over, reaching out onto the bedside for my phone. The surface felt different, smooth, my furniture was textured differently. I felt something fluffy. My eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. The morning sun was streaming in through the thin lace curtains. On the table beside me was my mask from last night and my bag. I picked up the mask, remembering.

This wasn't my room. The furniture was too glamorous for our Baker Street flat. The bed was softer, the sheets silkier and snow white. I grabbed my bag and emptied the contents onto the bed, my phone amongst it. I had one missed called from Mycroft and a voicemail, several texts from John asking where I was and if I was alright. Nothing from Sherlock, of course.

I was amazed at how I hadn't been woken last night, instead, I slept straight through. I felt refreshed, ready to conquer today. I am the swan queen. I washed my face in the ensuite, removing what was left of last nights makeup, and ran my fingers through my hair to tame it. I wanted nothing more than to take this dress off, but I had nothing to change into. And I wasn't about to go snooping.

James was drinking coffee at a breakfast bar in the kitchen. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading when I walked in. "Morning," he greeted with a grin.

"Morning," I replied.

He sat up straight, taking a sip from his mug. "Last night was amazing by the way." My heart skipped a beat. Had something happened between us? I didn't remember waking up at any point in the night. "I'm kidding," he added once he saw the look on my face. "You were flat out the minute you got in the car. I figured it was better just to bring you back here, seeing at it's closer."

"I didn't mean for you to be stuck with a houseguest."

"Oh, it's no problem, Sam. Do you want a lift back home now or would you like to stay for breakfast?"

I smiled. "Breakfast would be nice."

Breakfast was nice. I sat at the bar with him and we discussed anything and everything. Ballet, composers, the current state of British politics. It was invigorating to talk to someone that didn't make me feel stupid, like Sherlock but could keep up with me, unlike John. Mycroft and I often loved to debate, yet even now that had become boring when we couldn't find something exciting to talk about.

"You, Miss Holmes, are a delight," he announced. "How can someone so young be so intelligent?"

"I'm related to Sherlock Holmes. Cleverness is in my genes." I laughed, suddenly reminded of a conversation I had had with Mycroft 4 years earlier, where we discussed my intelligence.

'But Oxford, Samantha! How could you turn down Oxford? And for what? So you can continue working in that little cafe and go to dance practise! With your mind, you could be a doctor, a lawyer, a mathematician, a professor!'

'That's not me,' I had solemnly replied. 'I'm sorry to let you down.'

'He'll get over it.' Sherlock had said. Mycroft didn't speak to me for a month after that.

I relived the story to James. "In all honesty, I don't know what I want," I confessed. "Mycroft wants me to aim high, and Sherlock doesn't care. My grandparents only want what's best for me."

"What about your parents?" he asked, "what do they want?"

I gulped, a wave of sadness rolling over me. "I... I don't have parents. They died when I was a baby."

"Aw, Sam, I'm sorry to hear that." He placed his hand on top of mine. It was comforting. He made me feel safe, happy.

"I'd like to think they would want me to be happy as well."