She pulls their entwined hands down from her shoulder, and she steps in to close the space between them, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know that ending," she admits, chagrin audible in her voice. "I never read the books. I'm sorry."

She saw an old movie once, but she only remembers something about scary dogs on the moors. Whatever moors are. The fictional Sherlock Holmes is a vague cultural icon; the one holding her hand is real. What he does and how he reacts to the world is fresh and new to her.