Content Notes: This story contains reference to suicide, rape, murder and other unpleasant things.
He was a lovely boy: she'd thought so from the first.
It was a chance encounter, on a beach in Florida. An odd place to meet one's soul mate - for that was how she thought of him, right from their first meeting. Most people would find it laughable, she supposed – an old biddy like her. And he was barely past boyhood, really, slight, smooth skinned, brimming with energy.
She'd watched him pace the beach, restless, brow furrowed, searching the ground. She made discreet enquiries: he was investigating a drowning, apparently, a young woman washed up three miles down the coast. Not one of Mrs Hudson's, which made is safe to approach him.
"Have you lost something, dear?Can I help you?"
The boy looked up, scowling. "I doubt it." His eyes narrowed. "You're English."
"I was," she said. "I've lived here for ten years now."
"Eight and a half," he corrected her. She blinked.
"It's clear from the depth of your tan you've been here several summers but not as many as ten. And that dress is from Laura Ashley, the 1997 Spring collection . It's clear from your watch that you don't return home often, if at all. Leave under a bit of a cloud, did you?"
"My husband got into a spot of bother with his taxes," Mrs Hudson said, with an apologetic smile. Inwardly her heart was thumping with an unfamiliar intensity.
He looked down at her, harsh grey eyes like a search beam. She was disappointed as well as relieved when he withdrew his gaze turning back to the beach.
"I'm looking for a handbag," he said. "It would have been small. Dark purple like the dress, probably sequined."
"I'll keep an eye out," Mrs Hudson said. "How do I get in touch if I find anything?"
"Westview Hostel," the boy said, eyes already back to roving over the beach in front of them. "Ask for Sherlock Holmes."
She employed several of her boys and girls to look out for the handbag over the next few days. Luckily one of them turned it up, high up the beach, half buried in a tuft of sea grass. She examined it herself carefully before calling Sherlock.
"I was out walking my dog," she said, round eyed, when he appeared.
He made an inarticulate grunting noise and bent over to examine the bag. He looked at it for several minutes, and Mrs Hudson watched him, intrigued to see if he would draw the same conclusions she had.
"It wasn't murder," he said eventually, standing up. He sounded a little disappointed. "Suicide. Jilted lover."
"Oh, the poor thing," Mrs Hudson said. "Should I call the police?"
"If you must," he'd turned in his tracks and was already walking away. Mrs Hudson watched him thoughtfully.
If it was murder he wanted, well. She could give him that.
She phoned the hostel that evening and asked him to dinner the next evening.
"I don't socialise," he snapped, and Mrs Hudson resisted the urge to smile.
"I was hoping to ask for your help, actually," she said. "Professionally, that is. My husband-" she let the pause draw out, and then let out a breath. "I can't tell you over the phone."
It was a shame to cut Bill loose, she thought, as she carefully applied her make up for the evening. He was so very loyal, and she enjoyed playing the part of suburban housewife, the gloss of civilised invisibility it gave her. But things had got rather boring lately. Covering up Bill's rapes and murders had started to seem less like a challenge, and more like a household chore, somewhere above laundry on her list of favourite household tasks, but below baking. (She did love a good apple crumble). And she needed to know more about this boy who could apparently read situations at a glance. Whose eyes burned like the furnace she held inside herself, and never thought she'd recognise in anyone else. She needed him closer.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to unravel Bill's secrets. It was a treat to watch him work, even if somewhat counterbalanced by the confused and betrayed look Bill shot her as the police finally slapped on the handcuffs.
She forgot all her regrets in the unexpectedly tight hug Sherlock gave her afterwards. She'd never found herself particularly moved by the emotions of those around her, but Sherlock's exultant pride was really quite intoxicating. She quite forget herself, she thought as she watched him whirl around the room, nattering away to confused-looking policeman, words delivered with the rapid rattle of machine gun fire.
They attended the execution together. Sherlock stood close, not touching her, watching with keen eyes as Bill was strapped in to the chair. She could hardly keep her mind on what was happening, on the twitching and jerking of Bill's corpse. It seemed to her that all the electricity was in the room with her, in that narrow space between her and Sherlock, in the knowledge that behind those keen eyes that lovely clockwork mind of his ticking away so beautifully.
They went to the diner across the street afterwards, staring at each other across a nasty plastic tablecloth.
"You don't seem very upset," There was a peculiar tension in Sherlock's shoulders, and his eyes were watchful.
Did he suspect her? No, she decided. It was a different kind of struggle going on on that painfully young face.
He'd been alone all his life, just like her. The emotions of ordinary people puzzled him. He wasn't sure if she was about to turn on him for his part in the death, to hate him for his detachment from it.
"Well, he was a terrible man," she said, lightly. "I'll have the banana pancake please, dear. And a lemon meringue pie for my friend." she said to the waitress.
Sherlock looked at her steadily for a long moment, and then abruptly relaxed, something like a smile curling the corner of his mouth. "I'm not hungry."
"When you're with me, dear, you'll eat." Mrs Hudson said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shuffled his feet in his chair, a parody of childish rebellion, but when the pie arrived, he ate. Watching him bend low over the plate, Mrs Hudson felt warmth spreading through her chest. They both had been very alone but that didn't matter, not anymore. They'd found each other now.
Sherlock came to her house fairly frequently over the next few months, purportedly to talk over his cases, although Mrs Hudson suspected there were other reasons. She wondered if he would come to suspect her true character, he who was so adept at reading others. But he didn't. Her disguise was rather too good, she supposed. And perhaps he had reasons of his own for wanting to see her in another light.
One evening he arrived late, badly bruised and clearly under the influence of some naughty substance or other. He really could barely stand as Mrs Hudson walked him down the hallway and settled him on her sofa, long limbs fluid and slack. She clucked and tutted at him, and made to go and fetch him a glass of water. He flung out an arm impulsively, holding on to his arm.
"Don't go," he slurred, and his head fell forward to rest against her hip. "Mummy…" he mumbled.
Mrs Hudson studied his slumped head for a long moment before reaching out to run her fingers through his hair. "There, there," she said, soothingly. "Dear boy. I'm here."
After Mrs Hudson returned to London, they lost touch. She kept an eye out, of course, unofficially.
Drugs really were a bore, she thought pettishly, watching as her brilliant boy stumbled over his own feet in an alleyway and was sick on his shoes. She was tempted to cut off his supply, order every dealer in the city to refuse him service. Ah, but he was a bright boy, a chemist - he'd find a way around any ban she imposed. In any case she wanted him to realise for himself how destructive his little habits were, how much brighter and better the world she could offer was.
She decided to start throwing a crime or two his way, small affairs, the sort of clients she could afford to lose.
Luckily she was not without friends to aid her – not the least of whom was a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.
It had been years since she'd seen him, but Gregory responded to her summons with gratifying alacrity.
"Mrs Hudson," he bowed deeply over her hand, and with a gallant flourish, kissed it.
Mrs Hudson giggled. "My, haven't you grown?"
"So I have," Gregory grinned broadly at her. "All thanks to you."
Mrs Hudson looked at him fondly. What a handsome young man he'd turned out to be. He'd certainly changed a great deal from the skinny terrified boy he'd been when they'd first met.
Gregory had originally been one of Bill's victims. He'd been a little younger than Bill's usual taste when he was taken, and as a consequence Bill had gone a little easier on him (Bill had pangs of conscience over the oddest things.) It was Bill's uncharacteristic gentleness that left the boy in a lively enough condition to slip the key to the cellar door from his pocket one day, bypass their alarms and almost make an exit out of the parlour window. They'd caught him of course, but Mrs Hudson had been impressed. It took considerable agility and intelligence to bypass their security system, particularly since from a boy was still half starved and traumatised. What's more, he'd had the good sense to leave his injured cellmate behind, despite all his pleadings.
"What a resourceful lad," Mrs Hudson had commented, as Bill wrenched the quivering boy from a windowsill, twisting his arms behind his back.
"I'll slit him open like a pig," Bill growled. (He never did take well to excitement).
"No, no," she'd said firmly, as Gregory struggled helplessly. "Take your hands off him. This one is mine."
The look Gregory had shot her was a mixture of gratitude and sheer disbelief. The gratitude only grew when Mrs Hudson took him down to the kitchen and fed him up on steak and kidney pudding and lemon cake. Apparently he'd been in a Children's Home before Bill found him, and not a very good one either. Given good meals, and a comfortable bed (entirely to himself, Mrs Hudson assured him - Bill was not allowed anywhere near him), and a steady shower of affectionate praise, Gregory's gratitude developed into an unflinching loyalty. Not only did he make no further attempts to escape he assisted her, unasked, even with the dirtiest problems. Within two weeks he was cleaning up Bill's crime scenes with hands that didn't shake at all.
She'd put his brain to good use over the years – he was the only person she could have trusted to manage her operations in England while she was abroad, and he'd done it well. She'd rewarded his constancy, of course. He'd had the best education money could buy, a career - chosen by herself, of course - without the smallest hiccup. She'd even found him a wife, a lovely girl, pretty, fertile and well trained to avoid asking unpleasant questions.
"How is Miranda?" Mrs Hudson asked, as Gregory settled himself onto her sofa. "And the dear children?"
"Happy and healthy as ever," Gregory said, leaning back. "They'd be happier to see you, of course,"
"I wish I could," Mrs Hudson sighed. "Better to keep a low profile, I'm afraid."
"Yeah? Not like you to worry."
"Well, something has come up," Mrs Hudson hesitated. "Actually I was hoping you could help me with it. There's a young man by the name of Sherlock Holmes..."
Gregory began to recruit Sherlock's help on cases with regularity. He adopted the part of baffled Detective Inspector with gusto, clearly enjoying every minute.
He'd often visit Mrs Hudson in her kitchen in the evenings, and recount Sherlock's adventures for her, and Mrs Hudson can tell he was beginning to rather admire the boy. Even when Gregory had helped her set up the crime scenes himself he professed himself impressed by the speed with which the boy unravelled them.
"Better be careful," Gregory said, through a mouthful of Mrs Hudson's pecan slice. "I reckon he could give you a run for your money one day."
"Oh, I do hope so," Mrs Hudson said. "More tea?"
Once she was quite certain Sherlock was rehabilitated from his unpleasant drug habit, Mrs Hudson decided to engineer a crisis in her lovely boy's life. It was simple enough to sneak in to his ugly little flat in Montague Street, and alter the balance of one of his experiments just slightly. The resulting chemical fire left Sherlock's landlord indignant and Sherlock in need of new lodgings.
The perfect time to bump into him at the supermarket.
"Oh, my dear - it is you, isn't it? Sherlock?"
Sherlock seemed both abashed and pleased to see her. She soon drew out the story of his lodgings, and offered him a place in her home.
"After all your help with Bill - it's the least I could do."
Sherlock looked morose. "It's doubtful I could afford it - not without a flatmate." his nose wrinkled at the thought.
Mrs Hudson assured him that money needn't be an issue but he didn't seem convinced, the stubborn boy. She'd left quite despondent about her chances of persuading him - until two days later, quite out of the blue, he called up to inform her that he would be coming to view the property with another gentleman.
Mrs Hudson was in a state of excitement all day. Sherlock deciding he needed a flatmate was unexpected but it was of no matter. She could always remove whoever it was if he proved to be too much of a bother.
Sherlock moved his belongings in early in the morning, his face uncharacteristically flushed with excitement. Mrs Hudson had wondered if he was feeling it too - the prospect of just how interesting life could be now they were both finally united under the same roof.
When John Watson arrived the cause of Sherlock's odd mood became uncomfortably clearer - it appeared Sherlock believed he'd made a friend. It was with no small degree of irritation that Mrs Hudson watched Sherlock whirling around distractedly, evidently desperate to please the decidedly unremarkable looking John Watson. Cruelly, she decided to ask in a carrying voice if they'd be needing two bedrooms. Evidently Sherlock had rather been hoping that they wouldn't but as she'd expected Dr Watson's well primed military-issued heterosexuality came quickly to the fore. Mrs Hudson smiled to herself at the brief flicker of hurt on Sherlock's face.
Actually Dr Watson turned out to be not too bad a tenant, once she'd got used to him. He wasn't anything like Sherlock, of course, but brought out some rather interesting qualities out in him. He was like a new and unpredictable substance in the slow burning chemical reaction that was her and Sherlock. New stakes. It was intriguing.
Dr Watson reminded her a little of her husband, in fact. Like Bill, his mild appearance hid a surprisingly strong will, and, like Bill, his solid moral code was at odds with the anger and darkness that rose within him. Fortunately, he lacked Bill's messier appetites.
Mrs Hudson couldn't help wondering if, in forty years or so, Sherlock would become as bored of John as she had of Bill. After all, he wouldn't have her anymore. She was getting on. The thought of Sherlock continuing in exactly the same way while she lay cold in a grave sent a sudden chill through her. She quickly made up her mind. She would not allow Sherlock to outlive her.
Mrs Hudson did enjoy having Sherlock close, though. It was nothing like watching him from the distance of a CCTV screen. Now she could hear him, feel him, smell him as they danced the complicated exhilarating dance that was peculiar to them both.
It was rather a shock to her when one night she heard she heard her true name being spoken. She'd been preparing for bed when she'd heard the front door bang closed, and Sherlock's voice in the hallway.
" - Moriarty."
"And that's really all he said?" Dr Watson's voice was soft, clearly trying to avoid disturbing her. "Not much to go on, is it?"
"I've been meditating on it for weeks," Sherlock said. "The cabbie…" their voices faded as they went up the stairs.
Mrs Hudson did a little research after that. It became evident that her pet serial killer had become a little less biddable in his death throes and given Sherlock her name (his family would pay for that). It was disconcerting, at first, this slip in her control. But as she gave more thought to it, she realised that it was an opportunity. She could take that name and fashion Sherlock an arch villain. The perfect puppet criminal. Moriarty.
She found Richard in godawful little back-street theatre playing Laertes in a painfully earnest production of Hamlet. She sent him flowers after the show, which no doubt baffled him since the audience had consisted of about four people, two of whom were asleep by the time the lights rose.
She left her number on the card. He called her three days later.
"Hello, my dear," she said. "I think I've got a job for you..."
She felt a little regret at bringing Dr Watson into it, in the end: nevertheless it was worth a little discomfort to the good Doctor to gague Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock had few close connections. Using Gregory would have raised too many questions, and she had no desire to cause Sherlock to consider his own connection to her too deeply. She was certain he didn't know how much she meant to him yet.
Watching his face, as John jumped at Richard and threatened to blow them both up, was a revelation. Sherlock wasn't entirely like her, after all. He felt things she never would. It should have turned her off him, but instead it only intrigued her more. He was a mirror of her warped and warmed by something unfamiliar, something she'd once longed for.
When a group of American vigilantes (friend's of Bill – who'd have thought it?) tracked her down and hurt her, Sherlock's rage was gratifying. She hadn't intended every to test his affection for her, but in the end she was glad it had happened. The sheer homicidal quality to his anger was delightful.
She'd meant to spin the Moriarty storyline out for longer, but unfortunately circumstances outstripped her. It was Doctor Watson's young lady – ex young lady, she supposed – who gave her the news.
"A lot of people live for years with this diagnosis," she said helpfully. "Especially in women of your age - cancer moves slowly."
Mrs Hudson smiled weakly. "Please don't tell the boys," she said. "I wouldn't want to upset them."
Mrs Hudson thought deeply about her problem on the way home. Her last - no, her final problem. Wrapping up her affairs would be easy enough - but what to do with Sherlock? The doctor thought she might have years left. But why take that risk?
She drew up her plans for Sherlock's fall later that evening.
In the end, it was easy, easier than she'd thought. A little anti-climactic really. It hadn't been hard to persuade Richard to blow his own brains out - as she'd once instructed him to say to Sherlock, everyone has their pressure point. Richard had a rather lovely young husband and son, both held at gunpoint by Gregory. Love is a wonderful motivator. Richard spoke his lines beautifully. Mrs Hudson thought regretfully if he'd done a turn like that in Hamlet he might never have ended up working for her.
It was unfortunate Sherlock chose to make his jump in a CCTV blind spot. She'd been looking foward to seeing his death. She was sure he'd make such a pretty picture as a corpse. Luckily there were autopsy photos.
A month after Sherlock's death she visited his grave with a hobbling Dr Watson. She liked being close to John these days, drinking in his guilt and grief. It was almost like being close to Sherlock again - remembering how he'd made everyone around him feel.
After visiting the grave, John decided to go for a walk around the churchyard to clear his head, and Mrs Hudson went into the church to rest her hip a little. She'd been there for five minutes enjoying the silence when she heard a soft cough behind her. She turned her head sharply - and stared.
Sherlock stood, smiling slightly in the flickering light of votive candles.
"Dear goodness!" Mrs Hudson raised a hand to her forehead. "Am I dreaming? You're..."
"Not dead," Sherlock finished for her, taking several smooth steps forward. "Bit of a mistake of your part, letting me chose the location for the show down with Jim. Oh, yes," Sherlock said, as Mrs Hudson blinked. He bent his head down to her level and whispered in her ear. "I can see you now."
Mrs Hudson shivered, and held out a hand, clutching at his shoulder. She looked up at him, cold grey eyes blazing down at her mercilessly and felt a sudden rush of joy. She hadn't realised she wanted this – wanted him to recognise her. But oh, how she had.
She caught hold of his face with one hand, standing on tiptoe, to kiss his cheek.
"The game, my dear," she said in his ear. "Is on."