A Mob in a Trenchcoat: A Novel

“Those candles aren’t going to light themselves,” Jean laughed. She swung little Rosie up onto a high chair and secured the straps before leaning back into her own seat, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I know,” Sherlock frowned. She was squinting at the Shabbat candlesticks as if they were alien, even though she had watched Mummy Holmes with them on so many late summer nights and early winter afternoons. It seemed a part of her protested the idea of using them now that she inherited them. She didn’t understand their game, her parents were still alive. 

Perhaps this was their way of being quiet critics, telling her that she really ought to keep the Sabbath. Sherlock almost snorted at the thought. Instead, she settled for shaking her head, her curls flitting madly about. 

Or maybe, she thought, this was her Mother’s wordless approval of her transition. It had all happened quickly — Jean, showing up at her house, baby in tow, coming out, and then her own clean realization over an afternoon of movies. Things were easy now in a way they’d never been before. After all she’d endured, it was a mercy.

Sherlock steadied herself. She kissed the top of Rosie’s head, and then Jean’s, at the tot’s insistence that Mum be included too. Then, she lifted the lighter and lit the candles, murmuring the blessing she had known forever. The flame rose and then settled. The flavors of Mrs. Hudson’s roast chicken and the small fire dancing over each candle tasted like hope.