A/N: Written for "Fall Back Into Sherlock" over at LJ.
Prompt "It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life" - PD James
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Alas.
Six O'Clock and All's Well
Mrs Hudson smiled as the knife in her hand cut smoothly, parting the delicious flesh from its thin skin. The apple in her hand was plump and moist, the cider scent filling her nostrils.
She had made the right choice.
She'd been walking home with groceries in hand, bundled up in her favourite purple coat. The weather had turned nippy since the weekend and she was not immune to weather changes as she once had been during her youth.
She had just about reached home when a red-orange leaf floated down in front of her, the first of many to come. Immediately hastening the last few steps to the door, she left her shopping in the corridor where it would not get in the way of Sherlock or John should they come or go. Without the burden of shopping in hand, there was a chance she could make it to her destination in time. Her steps were quicker than they should have been, considering her hip, but it was almost five o'clock and the little shops would be closing soon. Yes, there were always the large supermarkets with their rows and rows of fruit which stayed opened until much later but she couldn't bear the thought of them, with their lack of personal identity. She accepted their usefulness most times but at the moment, she was going to purchase her items from the fruit and veg store which was a mere seven-minute walk away and valued each and every customer.
It didn't hurt that the owner, a sixty year old widower, was a dish who flirted outrageously with her whenever she came by.
Half an hour later, she walked back into 221B Baker Street with a dozen golden Russet apples and flushed cheeks that she could not wholly blame on the biting wind and brisk walk.
With her flat warmed by the fire roaring in the hearth and the oven she was pre-heating, Mrs Hudson could find no justification in the incoming season being blamed for depression and death. Poets loved to moan and groan about the leaves falling, writers would drown their characters in melancholia during the season. True, the days would be getting shorter and colder but honestly, this was England. A day of shine in a week of rain did not a summer make. Her favourite album of soppy love ballads from the seventies was playing in the background and really, nothing could be better than this.
Having finished peeling and chopping the apples, Mrs Hudson set about filling in the three pans she'd lined earlier with pastry. She did not bake often, but her cupboard would always be filled with the staples necessary to whip up a treat whenever the desire arose at a moment's notice. She was slightly concerned that one of pies would not have enough sugar to suit the taste of its recipients but alas, that was not to be helped, she had no more caster sugar left. And there was no way she was going to ask her neighbours upstairs if she could borrow some. For all she knew, she would be provided by some sort of poison that resembled the sugar she sought.
The chopped apples in their place, she carefully rolled out the leftover pastry and measured and cut out pieces large enough to cover the top of the three pies and their sides. After fluting the edges together, she used her knife to make incisions at the top so the steam could escape as the pie baked.
Once satisfied, she slipped two of the pies into the oven, carefully setting the timer. The third she would bake in the morning before going over to Mrs Turner's. For now, she had twenty to thirty minutes during which she could kick off her shoes, take off her apron and sit back in her favourite armchair with a glass of wine and let Frank Sinatra croon sweet nothings into her ear. Heaven.
Halfway through the wine, she found her thoughts drifting to her tenants upstairs. The entire house had a subtle stillness about it, informing her that the occupants of 221B were not at home. Whether it was landlady's intuition or not, she could always tell who was home. Sherlock would probably be able to explain it, but some things she liked to keep in mystery. The dear boy, love him though she did, did have a tendency of ruining the magic sometimes with his deductions.
As for John, she had gotten to know him quite well in a relatively short period of time. When first they'd met, she'd judged him to be of the sitting down type and their joint television watching proved that. With her, he was the gentle doctor who had just happened to live through a war in a land far, far away. But when he was with Sherlock... he was the doctor who fought the war by Sherlock's side on the streets of London.
She worried for both of them, but she couldn't help but be glad that Sherlock was not on his own anymore. As she always reminded the young man, she was his landlady, not his housekeeper and certainly not his guardian. That role she knew John more than adequately filled, though she preferred to not know the details. Her heart could only take so much death and injury even though she'd been married to a murderer.
The beeping of her oven brought her out of thoughts. Setting aside her now empty wine glass, she grabbed the knife she'd been using earlier. Easing open the oven door, she reached in carefully with the sharp implement to check if the pies were fully done. Satisfied, she opened the door fully and turned off the heat. Grabbing an oven mitt from the drawer to her right, she put them on and gingerly reached in with both hands, drawing the pies out and placing both on a rack to cool.
Oh how she loved the scent of fresh apple pie filling the room. She might as well be five years old in her mother's kitchen.
She slid one of the pies onto a plate, covering it with a cloth. Reaching into her fridge, she pulled out a packet of cream she'd initially bought to use for a sauce. She could always go buy more.
With the pie in one hand and the cream in the other, she left her apartment and slowly climbed the seventeen stairs leading to 221B. The door was open but no-one was in the sitting room, as she'd expected. Setting the cream down, she used the now free hand to move some of Sherlock's papers aside to create space on the desk. She'd seen the state of the kitchen earlier in the morning and refused to venture there again until she could be sure John had made an attempt to clean up his flatmate's mess. She set the pie down on the cleared space with the cream next to it, so John would see it as soon as he walked in. Sherlock would probably know she'd been baking as soon as he turned onto Baker Street, let alone entered the house.
She knew her boys' habits – that Sherlock was not much of an eater and John's attempts to get him to were oft for naught. But she also knew her apple pie and that there was a sweet tooth on that boy. He wouldn't be able to resist – for all that he was, Sherlock was still human.
Closing the door behind her, she went back down to her flat.
An hour later, she heard the front door open. Sherlock had just wrapped up a triple-murder case the day before; she'd read about it in the papers this morning although of course there'd been no mention of his name. He wouldn't be going into a sulk due of boredom for at least another three days. Turning back to her book, her hand reached out to the cup of tea on the table next to her.
She had just taken a sip when the door to her flat opened. She looked up to see the doorway filled with the tall dark specimen that was Sherlock. He was still wearing his coat, scarf and gloves and before she could say anything, he had swooped over and given her a peck on the cheek.
"Thank you for the pie. But you've created a monster – John is going to want to try more of your baking now," Sherlock said, with a smile.
She giggled, as was her habit whenever Sherlock showed any affection towards her. "Oh, now. Remind him I'm his landlady, not his pastry chef."
"Of course," Sherlock agreed with one last smile before he left her sitting room as quickly and quietly as he'd entered it.
Yes, she thought to herself with a smile, autumn is here. And all is well.
Khatum