The Spanish Inquisitive (Samantha Lestrade & SH-221B)

Samantha stood in the gallery staring at a large painting. She stood with her arms loosely crossed her fingers tucked in towards her palms. The piece was abstract for sure, a black background in rough oil painted strokes, and then strong cross strokes…reds…royal and light blues..a hint of yellow here and there. She hadn’t yet stepped forward to see what the piece was called, preferred instead to start with a guess. Rupert, her companion was jabbering on about the strong and the time period it was painted in, and gesturing towards other, better examples of the style in the room. Sam was able to block him out fairly well, making the occasional automatic nod to keep him satisfied. This is the one that had caught her eye, she wasn’t concerned if it had been deemed the best by the world of art school snobbery.

Art had always been of interest to her. There had been many afternoons in their childhood that Greg had taken her to the galleries of London on free days instead of heading straight home after school. He’d buy them a hot dog to share outside the gallery, before stepping inside. They’d then close their eyes and each put a finger somewhere on the gallery map and those would be the two rooms they’d explore. It had created some of her best childhood memories. And on occasion as adults they had returned to this ritual, particularly when one or the other was going through a tough time…divorce…break up…death. In fact the last time Greg and her had gone had been a few months back, about a month after the death of the detective. He’d talked for several hours about his friend while Samantha listened quietly. This memory drifted through her mind and she brushed it away, looking back at the piece before her.

She gazed at the brush strokes, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch the piece. She had always wanted art to be experience by more than just one of her senses, but social norms stopped her from giving into that particular want. She was dressed for vacation, in her white sundress and wedged sandels. She’d been there a few days alright, given the light bronze hue her sunkissed skin had taken. Rupert mentioned something about heading to the bathroom and she nodded, not even turning to look in his direction. Trapped in the pull of the painting.


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Ann watched the people in the gallery, one view at a time, from the security cameras. James was trying to impress her. He had said that they were going to view the new exhibit, but had lead her instead upstairs to the security office. She was not impressed at all with him sneaking her in. She had just arrived from Dublin a week ago to stay with her cousin Molly. She and Molly had always been great friends as children, but when her parents had move to Ireland over 19 years ago they had lost touch. Molly had contacted her out of the blue a few months ago and had asked her to come and visit for a bit. The timing could not have been better…she really needed a change of scenery. She was thinking of how she could discreetly escape from James and told him she had to go to the bathroom.

It was now early May, Sherlock had been away from London for nearly a year, working in tandem with his elder brother Mycroft to dismantle James Moriarty's Criminal network. Despite his best attempts to corner a particularly significant thug who was hiding out in the French mountains the information that had been passed onto him was too stale to be of any use. He had drawn a blank and had crossed the border into Spain to make contact with one of Mycrofts agents who was to meet him in an Art Gallery

The detective was quite as slender as ever but looked healthier with the sun induced glow from the months in Portugal and France. To anyone who didn't know him he would have been taken, in a white T shirt and a short black leather jacket, to be just another tourist. He passed by the young lady in the white sundress and sandals who was engrossed in studying an acrylic abstract entitled 'Iron' and followed her male companion into the gents toilets.

A few minutes later the woman's insipid companion emerged with a crimson tinged wedge of toilet roll held against his bleeding nose and stumbled towards the young lady who was still engaged with the large abstract. Sherlock went outside to wait for the couple.
Sherlock was standing, leaning languidly, with his legs crossed and his hands thrust casually into his pockets, against a tall white marble portico pillar watching as the man and woman emerged into the warm, sunny street.

She was engrossed in the study of "Iron", though if she'd bothered to actually read the title card stuck on the wall she'd have been rather dissapointed with the artists choice. She was however, completely oblivious to the man with the chiseled cheeks and the leather jacket who passed behind her and followed Rupert in the men's lavatory.

She had finally pulled herself away however just as Rupert returned to the room looking a bit out of it and...was his nose bleeding? He hadn't gone in there because his nose was bleeding had he? No she was certain he hadn't. She moved towards him "Rupert...your nose...what happened in the bathroom that it is bleeding?" He looked miffed and murmured that a tall Gothic bloke had punched him in the face....for no reason he added indignantly. He groaned that he just wanted to go back to the hotel for a lie down and Samantha agreed, though his answer didn't satisfy her. "Really Rupert...you make it sound like a drive by shooting." She frowned...either he'd done something stupid like walk into the door of the stall or something to that effect or he'd done something to provoke getting punched. The latter wouldn't surprise her really, Rupert could be quite pretentious.

As the stepped back into the sun, she put her hand up to shield her eyes a little as they adjusted and Rupert stepped forward, pointing at Sherlock and moving towards him. "That's him! He's the one who hit me." She sighed and followed glancing at the tall man "Really? Well a leather jacket hardly makes him gothic, and he has a tan, I am fairly sure that those who dress in the gothic style don't go sunbathing...something about creatures of the night or such and such. In fact he looks rather..." She blinked as she really took a look at him "he looks like...I mean..you know who he reminds me of...he...hmmm." She squinted her eyes a little to get a better look at Sherlock, outright staring at this moment. The resemblence was very strong to that of her brother friend...doppelgangers perhaps? She had in fact forgotten all about Rupert and the case of the bleeding tool, and was watching Sherlock almost as intently as she'd watched the painting, one hand on her hip and her brows creased, a slightly confused look on her face.

Sherlock pointed a mobile phone in the direction of the couple, took a picture, fiddled with the phone and strode over to the couple. He could see that Samantha Lestrade, bewildered, a hand perched on her hip, was on the verge of recognising him.

“Not a word” Sherlock warned Samantha as he reached her side before she could say anything. “He's a fake, like his Rolex. You can do much better than that.”

Rupert opened his mouth but nothing came out immediately. “That's my phone! he's stolen my phone.” he whined in an agitated tone looking from the tall man to Samantha.

“Borrowing it.” Sherlock replied succinctly accenting the 't' sharply.

Sherlock thrust the phone, which was open on the text messages list, into Samantha's hands and rounded on Rupert immediately “To Anita Eogh Darling, To Anita Sweetheart, sent yesterday and the night before. Anita to Rupert no less than nine kisses on the bottom received an hour ago. Girlfriend."

The detective pinned Rupert to the spot with a piercing gaze “Is that who bought you the Rolex that you sold and replaced with a fake?” his voice was quiet and curious, deducing the answer for himself.

“Rich girlfriend, no...a girlfriend wouldn't buy you a Rolex, fiancee.” Sherlock continued speaking then at increasing speed to Samantha with his eyes still fixed on Rupert “He's told you he works for a clothes designer, it's true, but she designs clothing for children. And dogs. E-mails to and from ManhattanPaws and ManhattanKids. And no I didn't punch him, ask the gents handbasin about that.”

Grabbing Rupert suddenly by the front of his jacket Sherlock pulled the man up onto his toes, and with cold, hard eyes, snarled in his face “I told you to... leave...her... alone,” he dropped Rupert back onto his feet, “Now piss off back to London. And I'll know if you don't get the next plane. Do you understand?”

Rupert nodded. Sherlock let go of his clothing and pushed him away contemptuously. Reeling back Rupert, with a resentful, frightened face, turned and soundlessly walked away quickly.

She heard the familiar click of a phone camera which confused her for a moment and the he was beside her. She opened her mouth to say something...to ask if he was related to the Holmes of London. But she stopped and quickly closed her mouth at his warning. Her expression replaced with one of curiosity as she raised on eyebrow, looking between Rupert and the tall man. The moment he began to speak she knew it was him. They'd only met a few times, but there was a quality to the way Sherlock spoke that couldn't be reproduced.

And then Sherlock started in on the other man in front of her. She was far from being in l'amour with Rupert, just having a bit of fun, though apparently he was having more than his fair share. As he began to protest Sam frowned "Oh shut up Rupert". She looked down at the phone that appeared in her hand, scrolling through it as Sherlock spoke. She chewed the corner of her lip thoughtfully, then shutting the phone and dropping it in Rupert's pocket, not particularly interested in holding onto it.

Her eyes moved back to Sherlock and remained on him. Listening, though a part of her brain was trapped in a cycle of trying to figure out how it was possible that he was standing there at all. There was a slightly smirk as the hand basin was mentioned. She didn't feel any sympathy at the moment regarding Rupert. In fact she had an urge to do some punching of her own.

Her eyes widened as Rupert was grabbed...and threatened, though it was more the look in Sherlock's eye than his words. She looked slightly stunned, her eyes following Rupert as he left and she spoke. "How did you know for sure...that I didn't know all that alright and was content to be his mistress?" It wasn't true of course...but she was curious. She slowly moved her eyes back to Sherlock and shook her head clearing it. "No...wait...that's not the most important question...its why are you...no....how is it possible you are standing here?" She reached out and poked Sherlock in the shoulder a little, just to confirm with a second sense that he was real and in front of her. As the several different things that had just happened in the span on 5 minutes converged in her brain she frowned slightly. "I think perhaps I might need a drink." Sure it was barely passed noon, but discovering the man your seeing is a rat and that your brothers good friend is not in fact dead a few brief moments could be a bit...overwhelming.

“I could see, you weren't much into him” Sherlock replied and smiled briefly. “I'll explain, but first do you know where the El Greco painting of 'St Peter and St Paul' is?”

“It's upstairs, why?” Samantha queried frowning.

“I'm meeting someone there, now. Show me.” he ordered imperiously. “Don't call me by my name, not until we leave here.” he looked at Samantha kindly “and we'll have lunch, ok? Now, come on, quickly, show me where that El Greco is. There's a bench in front of it.”

She frowned - quite demanding wasn't he - and instantly remembered Greg mentioning that particular personality idiosyncrasy. She watched him for a moment and then watched his expression change slightly. She shook her head at her own thoughts and then nodded. Turning and heading back in, she led him up the stairs and into a fair sized room with various works from the Renascence period. She motioned to the bench and paused near it, looking at picture in question.

"They look so....bored"

She glanced over at Sherlock wondering who he was meeting. This period wasn't really her cup of tea, she always felt the people in the paintings looked more than a little creepy.

Sherlock sat on the bench and looked studiously down at his catalogue. He palmed a small camera that had been left behind by an elderly man and quickly stuffed it into his pocket then silently joined Samantha. “I think he looks stoned.” he replied in his low baritone standing at her elbow with the beginnings of a lopsided grin on his face. He was wondering if she would get the humour in his comment about St Stephen.

“Lunchtime.” Sherlock suggested with a little smile “You've got questions,” he added acknowledging her patience.

“Saint Stephen's Clock Tower was the old name for the tower that Big Ben is in.” the detective threw in attempting to make conversation as they negotiated the staircase. He had questions of his own but they could wait.

“I know of a nice little bar if you don't mind a short walk up a hill.” he led the way down the cobbled alley to the older part of town and as they rounded the corner of a rustic building there was a glimpse of the sea glistening bright blue in the sunshine. “I think it's quite safe to talk now Miss Lestrade.”

She glanced at the painting, but her eyes shifted to what Sherlock was doing. Had they been in a room that interested her more, she might not have noticed, but that seemed unlikely given the man who was standing before her. There was a snort of amusement at the joke "No that comes later". She couldn't help but smirk just a little.

She glanced up at him as he approached and just nodded. The truth was she still felt a bit stunned by what had occurred in the last 10 minutes and she felt like her brain was still trying to catch up. She followed as he mentioned big Ben...it was a bit strange but she went with it, though the confusion on the topic was evident in her voice. "Yes...but then I suppose everything needs a bit of freshening up once in a while, and the royals are in favor again ever since the wedding, so it makes sense to change it now."

She nodded and then smirked "No I don't mind at all...how long have you been in the city....wait no, that is not the right question...again." She paused to look at the view, her eyes catching the blue and the sun as she reconsidered the question. "Why are you...not dead?" She realized a few moments after could be construed as a wish that the tall dark haired man in front of her was in fact dead, which was not her intention. But well the question was out there and so she waited for an answer.

“First question I've been here three days” Sherlock felt he had never noticed her before when he was so tightly closed off and ill at ease in social situations.

Now he had noticed her and he thought it was the result of being alone again and suddenly seeing a face he knew so unexpectedly. “and second question, hmm.”

Sherlock knew to slow down to let her brain catch up with events. “Despite whatever you read in the papers last year Moriarty was real and he was the head of a multi-national criminal web. I got in his way.”

“He liked playing games, rather than just have me killed he engineered crimes. Crimes which Greg called us in to investigate, then he attempted to force me to commit suicide in disgrace.” He paused.

“I'm not dead because I didn't intend to die but it needed to look like I was dead.” he looked at Samantha to see how she was adjusting to seeing a ghost.

“You are taking seeing a ghost rather well.” Sherlock grinned as they walked down the street.

Samantha glanced out at the sea on the horizon and then glanced up at Sherlock as he spoke of the second inquiry. She offered a smile of encouragement as he began his tale and nodded.

She chuckles "Well I figure if I am able to see you, I am either dead, hallucinating or your are actually there. I don't feel dead and others seem to see me. I haven't engaged in recreational drugs lately and besides Rupert could see you, so really actually being here seems the most logical. And if its one of the other two, I figure I might as well enjoy to ride." She returned the grin as they headed towards what she assumed was the pub.After the tall dark one's revelation, she nodded, considering if for a moment. "Most of that I knew from Greg. He said Moriarty was trying to plant the seed of doubt in the minds of many. Though he never believed it for a minute." She frowned slightly "He took your death rather hard."

Samantha paused for a moment to look at Sherlock, really look at him. "He'd love to know that you were alive. Does me seeing you mean that your are going to be returning to London soon for your resurrection?"

Part of her felt like hitting him upside the head for what he'd put Greg, and from what she'd seen, others, through by faking his own death. The other part of her wasn't sure what to do with him. He currently seemed like less of the arrogant enigma that she'd perceived him to be in their passed meetings. Still an enigma, just more...approachable maybe?

“It's a good thing Greg had you to talk to.” Sherlock observed leading Samantha across the main road and onto the smart purpose-built harbour. It was busy with yachts and boats of different types, sizes and colours. “Yes, Moriarty did a thorough job,” he conceded, “but I know Greg never doubted me.”

The sadness of the predicament returned to Sherlock's features. He stopped walking as Samantha took a deep look at him with eyes the shade of blue of the Mediterranean sea and sky and he let her see him. She returned his own searching gaze without hesitation and remained open to him. He decided what was safe and fair to tell her “I had to appear to die because Moriarty had snipers aiming at Greg, John and Mrs Hudson, nobody can be told that I'm alive. I'm sorry.”

He let his barriers go up again ill at ease with the potential danger to Samantha by letting her in further than necessary. “I can't go back to London yet.. I have to deal with the last of the snipers first.” he said simply, feeling uncomfortable with displaying his emotions.

Sherlock wasn't sure what there was to return to apart from his flat which Mycroft had kept for him after John had moved out. John had married so his time with Sherlock must surely be over. His reputation was destroyed until he proved he was genuine and even then Greg might not be able to hand him any cases which had been the mainstay of his sanity.

She said nothing for a moment as he stopped and opened up in a way, well a way perhaps she hadn't thought him capable of. The sadness in his eyes showed that it went so deep. There was a slight inhale of air as he spoke of Greg being in the line of potential sniper fire. Her face going slightly more pale, as if she were taking the place of the ghost in this conversation. She tried to speak, so say something, but floundered. "No don't apologize, I mean...you sacrificed...to save...thank you." The words felt so trivial, but the look in eye showed her admiration and appreciation for the man who'd "died" himself to save her brother.

Samantha watched the walls go back up almost as if they were physically there and the looked away for a moment, embarrassed that she'd made the man who'd seemed so impervious to emotions uncomfortable. She gave him some space to regroup and watched the water. "Is that why you're here in Spain? The last sniper is here?"

She paused and her eyes refocused on the scene before her, the dock and the boats. She glanced around blinking and then looking back at him. "Sorry...where are we exactly? The bar is on a boat?" She smirked a little trying to clear the air. There was a soft crinkle at the corners of her eyes as she smiled, just a hint, but it appeared to hint at the fact that she was teasing slightly. She'd seen the wall go up and she wasn't about to try smashing it back down with a proverbial hammer. Best to just step back for a few moments.

Sherlock was uncomfortable at being made a hero of some kind. To him it had been the right thing to do for your friends and the only logical thing to do as well as.

“The sniper rarely did any dirty jobs and he was very careful when he did them so there's no evidence to convict him of anything. He's in England at the moment.” Sherlock's voice was flat and unemotional only his slight frown betrayed that it bothered him. “I'm currently chasing people who might give evidence against him. That's all I can do.” he added with irritation in his voice.

The detective looked out across the harbour and then looking back to Samantha listened to her question about the bar.

“Close” Sherlock replied appreciating that she was changing the subject.

“The seating is partly right out over the water's edge, you'll get a nice view with your lunch away from everything.” The detective was sure he saw a glint of mischief in her smile. A slow flicker of a smile started and played on his own lips and widened into a lopsided grin.

They crossed the main road and Sherlock led Samantha down the path that would take them to the bar. “What will you do now, without your holiday 'companion'?” he asked interestedly curious to know if she would be staying or going home. “Are you staying in a hotel?”

Samantha could see he was growing uncomfortable from her praise and so she found herself able to refrain from hugging him, seeing as it may very well make him spontaneously combust. A slight frown moved across her face as he mentioned the sniper being back in England still, but she knew that if he felt that any of the three of his friends he mentioned had still been in danger, Sherlock surely would not have left them unwarned and ill-prepared.

She considered the information. "Is that what's on the camera you pinched off the bench at the gallery? A means of persuading someone to give evidence against the sniper?"

As they moved on to conversation more appropriate for polite company and virtual strangers, which they were to each other, she watched his smile bloom into a grin. Her own expression shift to match his. She almost said something cheek along the lines of...I already have a pretty good view right here. And it would have been honest because the new addition of a grin seemed to transform his feature a little, and put a sparking in his eye. But given the conversations she'd had with her brother, she was fairly certain that innocent flirting would go right over the detectives head, or so she'd been told. So instead she said "That sounds lovely."

Sam moved to follow again as they began to move and an amused giggle left her lips as she remembered the expression on Rupert's face as he called him out. She covered her mouth a moment, recognizing that it was not polite to laugh at others misery and tried to get herself under control. "I'd almost forgotten about Rupert and his fortunate leave of absence. Though I am sure I will find an amusement of some sort or other. As you so expertly deduced, I wasn't that interested in him, and to be honest the incessant nattering in my eye was becoming unbearable. So should thank you for saving me the trouble of an unpleasant conversation."

She was enjoying this conversation much more than any she'd had with Rupert...well ever really. And part of this one had revolved around the attempted assassination of her own brother, so that was saying something about Rupert...but not something good. She nodded. "I am, I wanted to stay in a villa - you know with our own kitchen and all that, but I don't think Rupert has ever even touched a pan, so that was out of the question. What about yourself?"

Sherlock watched the emotions crossing Samantha's features while they walked along the path. He could see that she was weighing something up. Not him especially but the information he had given her. He revised his initial opinion of her. She had simply been Greg's younger sibling, irrelevant to him and his work, not in the least interesting when she had passed by him while on a case for Greg. At the birthday party Molly had organised for Greg, another guest, curious but importantly she hadn't got in his face or treated him like an outcast either.

“I didn't pinch the camera, it was left for me.” Sherlock replied neutrally as he tried to work out if she was teasing him. He was used to criticism and unless they were blatantly obvious still found women more difficult to read.

He liked that she had been observant enough to spot him picking up the camera and was interested enough to think about its contents “It is in a roundabout way. It's good you observed me picking up the camera...” he smiled broadly. “but as far as I know there's nothing on it to persuade someone to give evidence.” At least he was fairly certain there wouldn't be.

The detective was at first puzzled why Samantha had giggled then he understood “Unpleasant for Rupert, and his appreciation of art was quite dreadful as well” he grinned and bounced a little in his step at her compliment on his deductive skill.

“Hotel, I don't cook.” Sherlock answered. They came to a building with a discrete sign and a menu in chalk on a blackboard outside “Dishes of the day” Sherlock translated for Samantha. “Seafood is always good.” He opened the door for her. “They do a very nice Gambas en Gabardina, prawns in an overcoat.”

Sherlock showed Samantha over to the seating area and handed her the menu. They began talking about general things and he was only a little surprised to learn that Greg was having to cope with a very heavy workload. “I think that without Moriarty every minor criminal in London is going about their business as freely as they please. What do you do, workwise?”

Samantha smiled as he denied pinching the camera and chuckled as he did 't seem to realize she was teasing a little. "Yes but to the average person, that is what it would look like isn't it?"

She walked beside me noting the slight changes that happened in him at various times in their conversation. She smiled privately as he complimented her own observations, as she was quite away of Greg's opinion of this mans own talents. At the mention of her former fling, she Let out a soft laugh and nodded. "Oh god yes. If Rupert had described one more artist ahead of their time and innovative, I might have helped him get acquainted with the water basin myself. What dreadful words to use when talking about art.". If she wasn't mistaken, he seems to gain a bit of pep in his step, though she was not one hundred percent sure why.

She looked at Sherlock,an eye raised. "you don't cook? Well that explains why you know of quaint little out of the way restaurants then.". Again she chuckled...definitely teasing.

She smiled as he read the board for her and suggested a dish. "Well that one sounds lovely". They walked in and she let him pick the seating. Her first comment was about the location which delivered as promised a spectacular view. She settle into their light chatter, and nodded as he commented on Greg's workload.

"Yes they certainly seem to have done. Greg is right stressed about it. Has made family dinners a little tense." She internally found it interesting that the conversation shifted to her personally. Greg had often mentioned that Sherlock was social awkward and not at all usually interested in people unless he was showing off his skills or they were involved in a crime.

"me? I'm a chemist (as in pharmacist). And every few years I teach a course at the uni.". She chuckled " I am sure compared to murder and mayhem that seems rather dull.". A soft smile crossed her face to let him know she wasnt insulted if he did intact think that. "what about you have you always been a consulting detective? Or is there some meanial job in your past, a stint as a server at a hole in the wall pub perhaps? Or a paper route?" she chuckled, interested to know if Sherlock has experience the right of passage of a crap job in his youth.

Samantha didn't look like a person who easily took offence at honest remarks “It's fine if it's not dull for you, it would just be dull for me, day after day.” Sherlock admitted with a smile.

The waiter came and took their order and brought the carafes of house wine with a jug of water that came with their meals.

It quite amused Sherlock that his lifestyle might be interesting to Samantha. After the waiter had gone he continued “A great deal of crime is actually dull, even murder, it's mostly all been done before, Greg will tell you that, I'm sure” he looked for Samantha's reaction.

“By the time I went to University observing and deducing was a serious hobby. I went to stay with my friend Vic during the summer break and since Vic had told him about my hobby his father invited me to demonstrate my skills. It was accurate enough that he remarked that I could put it to use and that's how I became the world's only consulting detective. I invented my job, so no, no jobs before or since.” Sherlock was glad that she had asked about something he could talk about.

He found not having anything in common with other people made it difficult to have conversations and he recognised a conversation killer when it had just hoved into view. He tried to think of what John would have asked or said next “What did you do then, any paper rounds or serving in a pub?”

The waiter brought their meals and said he hoped they enjoyed their food. “Thank you.” Sherlock replied with his best polite smile that he faked for such circumstances.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lunch was his way of saying thank you to Samantha for reminding him he had friends. Although it reminded him too how much he missed having friends, his assistant, his old life. He stared out across the water feeling intensely sad for a long moment. Then he took out the camera and flipped the lens cover open. A small slip of paper fell on the floor. He picked it up then searched the camera contents.

“Samantha, do you know anything about this?” the detective asked his companion showing her the photograph of a painting.



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Samantha considered his comment and shrugged. "It has its dull moments, but it pays the bills." You might not know to look at them now, but the Lestrade siblings had not always had access to what was required to meet all their basic needs.

When the wine came, she didn't hesitate to take a long sip. She just needed a little grounding and that seemed to help. She chuckled "given what Greg's said about you, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that even crime can't always hold you're attention." She took another sip enjoying the view, though she studied Mr. Holmes from the corner of her eye. She wondered if the fact that he seemed to have missed some of the rights of passage in his life had been what contributed to his slight awkwardness in social settings or if the akwardness had resulted in avoiding the usual journey. Either way, she felt he was a puzzle that took time to solve...if it wasn't an impossible task. But then he was asking her something just them wasn't he...

"Sorry? Oh...right prelim jobs...well I worked as Au pair for several years to pay for school...which come to think of it maybe the reason I was able to tolerate Rupert for so long. And I did a bit of serving in uni, but my version of breaking up a pub fight wasn't exactly conventional, so that rarely lasted more that a few weeks." There was that mischevious grin again before the food arrived.

She ate in silence for a moment, actually genuinely hungry. When her attention finally returned to Sherlock she was surprised by the look of melancholy. Her hand reached out towards his, to offer a bit of comfort, but as he reached for the camera, she retracted the gesture before it reached its target. Her eyes followed the path of the paper curiously before she ate another prawn, noticing Sherlock himself had barely touched his food.

She wiped her fingers on a napkin before reaching for the offered camera to get a better look. Slight contact between them, though brief, as she did. She studied the picture thoughtfully as she finished chewing. She swallowed and then spoke, while not as quickly as Sherlock, at a decent pace as she related what information she could remember. She actually liked some of Vermeer's work and this one in particular not only because it was one of the view with a woman, and even rarer that she wasn't being oggled by a man. But in truth it was more because of the painting with in the painting, there was something that made her smile about that detail.

"Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid....its a Vermeer...its one of his bridge pieces...between his restrained and cool periods. It was in the National Gallery of Ireland...but I think...if I am not mistaken...that it is on tour here at the moment...its one of his more interesting peices because while the two woman appear to not really be connecting, the very fact that the maid is present for such a personal act shows intimacy between them...it has been stolen not once, but twice, once being recovered later in a cottage and the second time in an airport after being held for a 20 million dollar ransom...." She paused for a moment and realized she'd been babbling on. Her cheeks reddened a little and her voice was a touch softer and slower when she spoke again. "Sorry. Greg always said I should have found work in art history. I suppose a simple yes would have been sufficient."

She looked back at the water and took a sip of her wine to feel the space.

“Your version of breaking up a pub fight?” Sherlock's interest was already stimulated by the way Samantha was, apparently, interested in everything and he found her easy company which surprised him. He looked at her with a slightly amused face, amused that he found her interesting. “How was it 'not exactly conventional'?”

Sherlock had seen Samantha's eyes following the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the floor, he was aware too that she was curious about him. He glanced quickly around to check if they were being observed and as they were not being watched Sherlock bent to retrieve the scrap of paper from the polished tiled floor between their seats.

Sherlock's hair brushed in passing on Samantha's arm and he noted that she didn't jump away. She seemed quite relaxed which wasn't the effect he usually had on people.

“Greg was right” Sherlock remarked with a flicker of a warm smile. “A simple yes would not have been sufficient” the smile in his voice widened to a grin on his lips.

The detective took another momentary look at the image of the Vermeer painting before flipping through the set of images and speaking at the same time “It would normally be sitting on a wall in Dublin, but it is on tour here in Spain and, for some reason it,” he paused ever so slightly while looking at Samantha “or where it is right now...” he flipped the camera shut with a dramatic flourish “it requires my attention.” He grinned looking for Samantha's reaction.

“It hasn't been stolen again, obviously.” He smiled. “It hasn't been reported stolen on the world or national news. So? ” he smiled encouragingly.

She smirked a little as he held on to the piece about bar fights, and nodded. Samantha watched the amusement cross his face wondering if he'd find it so amusing once she explained as it was a bit of a dirty play. "Well Mr. Holmes...when too very drunk and usually inexplicably large men and it almost always is men, begin to fight, the longer it takes to stop, the more damage to the establishment...as I am sure you could deduce. I am not particularly strong, and I don't have a lot of patience for bone headed drunks, so I had to find a way to stop it quick and preferably without injury to myself, so quite often that became a swift kick...or knee...to both parties umm...family jewels if you will. Its a bit of a dirty move...but rather effective." She bit her lip and couldn't help but smirk. Well there went any chance of Samantha being viewed as a proper lady...but she never had been in her mind, so the fall wasn't far.

She'd felt the brush of hair on her arm and was surprised that it was soft. She didn't glance down a he picked it up, though she knew he was. She didn't feel it was a good idea to draw more attention to the action. Her cheeks were slowly returning to her normal colour, she turned back towards Sherlock as he spoke and offered that grin. Her own lips curling into a slightly shyer version.

She listened as he thought out loud. She wondered if it was for her benefit, or if he would do it even without an audience. She followed curiously and wondered if he knew the reason for the picture already...the piece of paper had a note on it, telling him the significance of the photos. The wheels were turning in her head...she kept her eyes on Sherlock as if just watching him would give her a clue as to what the importance of the painting was. A part of her was a bit disappointed that it appeared that once their lunch was over he'd be going off on his next adventure and she would be left to figure out what she was going to do for the rest of the week.

She watched him curiously as he finished though...was he asking her what she thought it could mena? Surely he'd figured it out already. But still she considered it, taking a sip and finishing her wine as she considered. "So...either there is worry it is about to be stolen, or what ever requires your attention is not the painting but is rather something else in the same room?" It was a question because she had no idea...it was obvious he was atleast six steps ahead of her. Sam watched him and waited to see if she was even close.

“Sherlock, please.” the detective insisted on her being on first name terms with him. He thoroughly enjoyed the way she explained her logic and patent method for dealing with a bar fight and he was clearly delighted by her common-sense attitude. “That's entirely reasonable.” he told Samantha in a rich, low approving voice and chuckled heartily, crinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock, although often at a disadvantage in a social world that was at times incomprehensibly illogical, did, however, realise that Samantha would either have to go home or spend the remainder of her holiday occupying herself thanks to him having sent Rupert home to an irate fiancee. Or he could invite her to tag along with him. She could handle herself if there was a little rough play and she knew enough about art, it seemed, to help him and being an intelligent young lady he thought she might also enjoy the puzzle. He would never admit that he felt lonely.

The lanky detective had asked Samantha's opinion on what the clue of the painting might indicate for a reason. “Haven't a clue” Sherlock announced gaily and then with bright, enthusiastic eyes asked “Could be dangerous...but...do you want to come and have some fun?”

“Where did you learn to be effective at breaking up bar brawls?” Sherlock enquired now intrigued at her past. He picked at another prawn and although enjoying his food and wine he was already thinking about the case. He would do everything possible to keep Samantha away from danger, of course, but he had another question for her. “Can you fire a gun?”

Samantha nodded at the request to be on first name terms with the detective. She was well a bit surprised by his reaction, but the offered chuckle was rewarded with a brilliant grin from her own lips, that twinkle of mischief back in her eyes. It was the first time she'd heard the detective laugh and she rather liked the sound. She hadn't exactly been sure that Sherlock had a sense of humor and it was a relief to find he had.

She didn't conceal her surprise at the fact that he seemed unsure of what the pictures might mean. "Doesn't the slip of paper tell you anything?" She wondered why he would seem so thrilled at the fact that he didn't know something, but realized that the thrill of figuring it out was enough to entice him. Nor did she try to hide her jaw dropping as he offered the option to tag along. She recovered quickly however, and nodded. "I...yes...I could do with some fun. Thank you."

There was a brief pause as he asked about her past, just a moment and then spoke. "Greg actually. Our Da is a bit of a shit...well alot actually. There were more than a few bar brawls that ended up on our front door step, among other things. So before Greg went off to Uni, she made sure I could fend for myself. I think that was the first move he taught me...works brilliantly on misbehaving boyfriends as well." There was a smirk at that thought and then she looked back at Sherlock. Her tone was straight forward, just telling the facts. She didn't feel sorry for herself, it was the way it was, and she certainly didn't need others doing it for her either.

There was an eyebrow raise at his final question. She shook her head "No, I leave guns to Greg. Alas I only have my fists, my brains and my knees. Is firing a gun a pre-requisite to join you?" She was partly teasing, but hoping that he answer was no. She was much more curious now as to what they might find if they went to the Vermeer exhibit. "I assume the exhibit hall is the first stop?"

Sherlock had warmed to Samantha. That she accepted him was enough for him. He didn't expect much from people, being liked was a bonus he rarely enjoyed. He knew he was difficult to get on with and people usually kept their distance. It was so rare that he allowed anyone in his life because few people had the stamina and patience to stick around.

The detective listened unemotionally to Samantha speaking about her family. “Family is over-rated. Have you ever met my brother?" he frowned just a little. "Case proven if you have.” he said simply as if they were just talking about what she had for breakfast. Mycroft was a good example of sibling rivalry.

“No, being acquainted with firearms isn't a prerequisite but it helps for me to know where your strengths and weaknesses are. In advance. I have no intention of placing you in danger but you must know I don't use conventional methods. Mostly clients, private, or on one of the police forces, have employed my talents because I get results. Greg understood that my methods succeed whenever conventional methods are inadequate. Use your brains, which you do, and you'll manage fine” Sherlock felt it was only fair to be completely honest with Samantha.

“The plan is go to Toledo where the painting is on show.” Sherlock informed Samantha. “When you are finished eating, I'll show you my transport” he smiled lopsidedly, took out his phone and got on the internet to search for some information.