Express- an Ex Files Special

Express /ɪkˈsprɛs,ɛk-/

Verb

-convey (thought or feeling) in words or by gestures and conduct

-press or squeeze out, extracting or expelling through force

Chapter One: Mrs Hudson

"Is it working?" The microphone caught the sound of fumbling as the recorder was picked up. Sherlock could visualise the scene as she brought it up close enough to read the digital counter. She was still vain enough to not use her reading glasses as often as she needed to. Then he heard a bit of a thud as she put it back down on the table. Then there was a nervous sort of clearing of her throat.

"I'm not really sure why this has to be recorded. I'm more than happy just to say all this to Sherlock."

He sighed. She really didn't understand that if she'd tried to do so face-to-face, he'd probably have filtered her out. As much as he had come to rely on her presence at Baker Street, it wasn't for the conversation.

"Right." She sounded a little self-conscious, but determined. "That nice therapist wants me to tell you about the first time we met. I'm certain you remember that; you remember everything, even to the point of telling me when I've moved your things even a millimetre when I'm dusting. So, as your memory is that good, you don't need me to remind you that it was in 1998, and it was on a bus- one of those horrid Greyhound things. I got on in Savannah, Georgia, heading to Miami. I'm not actually sure I remember where you got on…" Her voice lost steam as he imagined her floundering around trying to squeeze the memory out of some dusty, cobwebbed cupboard in her kitchen. "…but it was definitely before me. You were asleep, if I recall, although how you could sleep through all that racket and the movement of the bus, well it was enough to give me motion sickness even before we pulled out of the bus station."

Sherlock had not been asleep, just keeping his eyes closed. There were advantages to taking a bus. To start with, he could pay cash, so his credit card details wouldn't show up as being anywhere other than Manhattan when his brother checked to see he was still in New York. It had not been easy to convince Mycroft to let him spend the summer hols in the USA. He'd managed to get an internship at Columbia University, promising to spend the entire time on campus, working at the chemistry research project on the effects of RNA gene mutations in mitochondrial DNA.

"I've been recommended by my biochemistry lecturer at Cambridge; it would be churlish to turn it down." After being burdened with many tedious fraternal lectures about keeping out of trouble, he'd been allowed to come. Little did his brother know that he'd finished the work he was expected to do within six weeks, leaving him free to travel on his own for the remaining seven weeks. He'd bribed his lab partner into sending emails from his university account, a series of boring updates checking in with Big Brother to reassure him that Sherlock's nose was pressed firmly to the proverbial grindstone. While he was away from New York, he called and got the graduate student to read him the emails in response, and then type his reply. The six hour time difference helped him dodge the need for actual calls. He kept his phone off, and only responded to Mycroft when he was able to use the IP routing system that another lab technician had figured out. Useful- the tech was a hacker in his spare time, and guaranteed it was fool-proof. "Just ring this number first, and then the number you want to call; it routes everything through the cell mast nearest to Columbia." Sherlock decided he needed to find someone similar when he got back to Cambridge to teach him how to do it himself; being able to fool his brother into thinking he was somewhere he wasn't sounded like an invaluable life skill, and far more useful than most of the drivel he was learning.

The other advantage of bus travel was that once out of the stations, the lights in the bus were turned off, and he could sleep undisturbed. Greyhound busses were the transport of the poor in the USA, and stopped at quite a few places down the Eastern seaboard. Sherlock had gone through a series of towns whose names he immediately deleted: New Brunswick, Trenton, Philadelphia,Wilmington, Washington DC. To hide his trail a bit more, he had not bought a through ticket, but transferred to a new bus every so often, buying a ticket with cash. This bus he'd picked up in Richmond, then endured stops at Fayetteville and Walterborough, before Savannah. Sherlock got off just often enough to stretch his legs, head into the station's loos where he would top up the cocaine with another injection. The trip to Miami was proving to be quite enjoyable until Waynesborough when a rather obnoxious passenger got on; he played his Walkman so loud that Sherlock could hear the annoying rap music that was loud enough for the tinny hissing to be heard two rows away.

The woman who got on last at Savannah struggled; she was carrying a large over the shoulder bag and some shopping bags from high end fashion stores. Well dressed, late middle-aged, wearing a bit of make-up- and so not the type who usually took a bus. She seemed flustered. There were almost no seats left on the bus- just the back bench- notoriously sick-making, and so avoided by the seasoned travellers. She sidled down the aisle and stopped at the seat two rows in front of where Sherlock was pretending to sleep. The window seat was occupied by Walkman man- a very large Latino who was wearing expensive trainers, low slung cargo pants and a white tee shirt stained with food, which he enthusiastically munched. He was plugged in with expensive earphones, and occasionally would sing along hideously out of tune. The accented voice was Cuban, as much as Sherlock's ear could tell over the vocal massacre of a popular rap track. The gold chains and prison tatts were a giveaway sign of something else; this was a gang member and the other passengers had given him a wide berth. He'd put his backpack of CDs and snacks on the seat next to him. Sherlock wondered if there was a gun in there too. He'd been slightly amazed at the number of guns in America- being so available and so obvious was a shock. Cowboys, indeed. Despite the bus being full, no one had dared ask Walkman guy to move his stuff off the seat.

"Excuse me, young man. Could you please remove your things and let me sit down?"

Sherlock opened his eyes properly. It had been almost two months since he'd heard a British accent, and hers stood out- East End. Not cockney per se, probably born somewhere in the northern Home Counties before moving to East London. Working class, but with some education. He noted the wedding ring and the expensive earrings.

There was no response from the gang man. He had his raybans on and was moving to the beat of his music.

The woman put her bags down on the floor and tapped him on the shoulder. "I said, excuse me, but I would like to sit down."

"Mama la pinga." This was growled, as the shades were pulled up and the man took a good look at her.

Sherlock winced.

Unmoved by the curse, the woman just continued. "I'm sorry, but I don't speak Spanish. Oh lord I hope you do understand English, as I've just had a monstrously bad day. My car broke down and I have to get back to Miami tonight. So, please just put your things in your lap and let me sit down."

The bus was now pulling away from the station, and when it took a sharp turn to re-join the main road, she lurched and half fell against the seat.

"Piérdete, puta sucia." This time, he said it with enough menace to communicate his meaning, even if the woman didn't speak Spanish. Startled, she regained her balance and responded. "There's no need to be rude, young man. I paid a fare just like you did, so unless you can produce another ticket for that seat, I intend taking it."

Sherlock admired her bravery, if not her intelligence. A quick squint down the aisle behind her showed him that the driver was studiously ignoring the confrontation. He prevaricated. On the one hand, he didn't want to get involved. On the other hand, the guy was a dickhead and his music and munching had annoyed Sherlock.

He got up and stretched, limbering up his neck muscles.

oOo

"Well, I don't know what he said, do I? I don't speak Spanish… or Cuban, for that matter- they're not exactly the same. Whatever it was, the rude boy just got up and went to the back of the bus, and I had a delightful journey."

Then he heard her giggle. "I wished I did speak Spanish, because whatever was said, that fellow went beetroot red with embarrassment and wouldn't even look at me. He just scuttled off to the back of the bus. When we stopped at Jacksonville, there was a layover for a driver change, and I bought the lad who rescued me a breakfast, insisted on it, in fact. He looked so thin."

Sherlock grimaced. Mrs Hudson was always going on about his eating.

"Over American pancakes and maple syrup, I introduced myself and was delighted to learn that he was English- posh too; I could tell from his accent. He hadn't said a word in English on the bus, just the Spanish. Appearances are so deceiving. Anyway, we got to talking…"

Sherlock smirked. She had done all the talking that day- all about her husband, Frank, and how he'd moved to Miami and she didn't really like it much- too hot, she got sunburned, and he was never around these days, so she was bored and a bit miserable. He'd deduced that there was more to it than boredom; the carefully applied make-up could not quite hide from his eyes the fading bruises, so battered as well as bored. In the end she'd given him her address, and told him to "look me up sometime; I'll take you to tea in Coral Gables. I'm in need of cheering up these days." She knew a tea shop there that sold proper Twinings teas, even had crumpets. He didn't explain to her that the reason he wanted to go to Miami had nothing to do with tea. He was after another kind of stimulant. He'd taken the slip of paper on it with her phone number and stuffed it in a pocket, knowing he'd never make contact with her again.

oOo

Martha Hudson pushed the pause button. She'd gone to spend Christmas with her sister, taking the device with her. While her sister went off to midnight mass, Martha put her feet up and brought the recorder out of her handbag. This time, that nice woman therapist had given her Sherlock's version. In the two minutes she'd just listened to, he had given the dry facts of their first meeting. In his version, he'd translated what that rude boy had said, and it wasn't polite. But, then she'd known that much from the tone at the time; just wasn't going to be pushed around by someone who wasn't even half her age. She'd wanted to shame the young man into respecting her, but it hadn't worked. Until Sherlock came up the aisle and leaned over to whisper something in the man's ear.

Thumbing the play button, she heard him resume.

"I told the fat idiot that you were the English nanny working for Chris Paciello, a South Beach nightclub owner famous for his close connections with the Bensonhurst Mafia and the Colombo crime family. No Miami gang member would dare risk insulting that crew. And a nanny…" There was a snort that she recognised. "Americans- even gang members- all watched Mary Poppins as kids."

She started to giggle. That was Sherlock all over. Even then. When the skinny teenager showed up at her rented house in Deland, South Miami, two weeks later, she'd been surprised, but one look was enough for her to take him in. He'd been beaten up- badly- and was high, as well. He said all he wanted was a safe place to crash. His wallet and backpack had been stolen; only his passport tucked into his underpants had escaped. He couldn't afford a hotel, nor could he go to a hospital because his drug use would be reported, and he had to stay off the police register or his brother would force him to return home immediately.

She'd taken him in and, as a result, he'd been there three nights later when Frank finally came home, wearing a bloodied shirt of his own. Only his was covered in the blood of the two undercover policemen. When she tried to convince Frank that it was really time to fold up his drug business and move back to London into something legitimate, he'd disagreed, and she told him that she'd had enough. For years, she'd been unhappy but been afraid to leave him. But, she couldn't turn a blind eye anymore to what he was doing, so she was going to leave him. Later, she realised her timing was poor- he'd already killed two people that night, and he started to take out his anger on her, too. She'd felt the back of his hand before, but not like this. The noise of their fight brought Sherlock out of the spare bedroom and once again, he rescued her. As cool as a cucumber, the teenager stood there with the little pistol taken from her handbag and told her husband that he had called the police. Frank did the sensible thing, and ran for his life. Three days later, he was arrested. Three weeks later, Sherlock had helped the police find the evidence they needed to convict him, and sentence him to be executed. She mourned the death of a man she had once loved, but was determined to move back to Britain and start over.

So far, Sherlock's recording covered none of this. Well, what did she expect? The therapist had said just to cover the facts of their first meeting. She listened as the baritone voice resumed.

"Now that the facts are known, I am supposed to 'express' my…" there was a pause. "um…feelings about it." He said the word as if it was slightly odious. "I didn't have any. I just wanted the git with the loud music to move, and this seemed a good opportunity to do so." There was another pause. "And it annoyed me, his attitude. I hate it when people are just gratuitously offensive to someone who doesn't deserve it. And she didn't. Not then." There was another pause, and then a quiet, "and certainly not later." A sigh, and then in a more upbeat tone, "It was, for the record, the start of my first case. If I hadn't figured out that her husband was keeping the incriminating data in a sealed container inside their air-conditioner unit, the prosecution case would have failed. So, thank you, Mrs Hudson for playing a part in the launch of my career."

She smiled. I should have said a bigger thank you, Sherlock, in my recording. But, in a funny way, she knew she didn't have to. And he didn't have to tell her about his feelings. She'd always known. Actions spoke louder than words.

Author's note:This is the first of the recordings that Sherlock's circle have been asked to produce as part of his therapy, described in Magpie: One for Sorrow. While they will stand more or less alone, it will help if you read them while waiting for the next chapter. Tomorrow I will post Chapter Two- which is John's first recording.