The Case of the Left-Handed Lady

All is well?

I am a liar. All is not well. Not at all.

But, decides the girl named for solitude, it will be.

Someday.

Because she will attend to it.

“The nerve of the girl!” he whispers between teeth set edge to edge. “The impudence, the effrontery, the sheer, unmitigated daring of her!” But as he glares at the evidence that, once again, his sister has outsmarted him, his hands relax along with his mouth, his thin lips twitch into a smile, and he begins heartily and almost joyously to laugh.

As I placed fresh fuel on the hearth-fire of 221 Baker Street, I felt all the pain of that thought, but also some solace: whether he knew it or not, and whether he liked it or not, my brother Sherlock was giving me such shelter as family might offer. He was giving me refuge.