A/N: After I wrote Because You Need It, I wanted to do Mrs. Hudson's side of the story. It's not written in quite the same style, but deals with the same experience. Partially inspired by goldvermillion87's, Ragged lives invisibly repaired. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
He was tall, her son, tall and slender, with wrists as delicate as a bird's. She had no idea where he got it from—both she and Richard were short and Richard was incredibly stout—but there it was. He had dark blonde hair that curled around his ears and at the nape of his neck and deep, sea-green eyes. Sweet, wholesome eyes in a sweet, wholesome boy.
They were happy together for a long time. Their home was not large or in good repair, with chipping paint and leaky faucets and a draft in the kitchen, but they were happy. She and Richard worked hard but made little money and couldn't give their son everything they wanted, but they were happy.
Then, when Ronnie was sixteen, he was walking home from a friend's house. It was dark and rainy and he stepped into the road without looking and was hit by a car. He was killed instantly—snapped his neck. His parents weren't notified until the next morning. Richard had to identify the body because her eyes were too wet and she couldn't stop crying.
After that, things changed. Richard took to drink. He stayed out late at the pubs, drinking himself dizzy, occasionally sober enough to call her to come pick him up. He was fired from his job, rehired at another, a desk job that he hated. He hated it so much and the liquor made him so mad he slapped her one night, slapped her so hard her cheek burned and bruised.
He apologized, of course, apologized immediately. He hadn't meant to and he felt so awful that he had, but she brushed it off. It's the grief, she told herself. He's upset just like I am, and this is how he copes.
But he was angry for years. Granted, she never quite got over the death of their son either and would sometimes sit at the window and watch the young mothers with their babies at the park across the street and feel incredibly lonely, but she never drank and she never hit. And even though he apologized every time, his apologies began to sound hollow and empty until they stopped all together and she was left with pain.
She grew to hate him back. Hated his stomach, because he could never seem to drink enough. Hated his hands, for hitting her so hard and so much there was a continuous dull throb throughout her entire body. Hated his mouth, for spouting the lie that he was sorry he did it. Hated his heart, because it had withered and no longer belonged to her.
They argued. They fought. Twice the neighbors had called the police and twice Richard was jailed and charged with assault, but there wasn't much they could do because he was her husband and he hadn't murdered her yet.
But he had ruined her life. He had ruined their house and their marriage and was threatening to ruin her. She started sleeping in Ronnie's room. At least it was away from him and sometimes she could pretend her little boy was still with her, sleeping soundly in her arms. The idea made her sob and most nights she fell asleep purely from exhaustion, when her heart could no longer take the painful injuries and the painful memories and just gave out.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
His hair was black. Like raven's wings. Like midnight. And his eyes were like tiny pieces of ice. But he was tall, this young man, tall and slender, with wrists as delicate as a bird's. And he was so still and pale she first thought he was a dripping marble statue until he moved and smiled at her. He wasn't sober—she had long learned to recognize the signs—but his skin was scorching even as he shivered and she had always been sympathetic to young men, so she hauled him to his feet and hustled him home.
Thankfully Richard was gone. He was off in Florida on a business trip, but what business he was doing, she had no idea and she didn't particularly care. It meant that he was gone and she could have a few moments of peace, even though the high young man was about to disrupt it.
She helped him change, gave him dry clothes and bundled him up in blankets until he resembled a patchwork snowman. She toweled off his hair, giggling to herself when it frizzed and stood on end because it was comical on such a serious young man's head. When he implied he hadn't eaten in several days she jumped up and made him soup and forced it down his throat, wondering if that was why he was so pale and gaunt. Then she tucked him in and laid him down and promised she would be nearby if he needed her.
An hour later, she peeked at him again. He was sleeping soundly, his lips parted and his eyelashes fluttering. His hair resembled a black puff of cotton and he was curled up on one side of the sofa like a cat. It was adorable because Ronnie had slept like that, tucked up in a ball and snoring softly.
She washed his clothes. It was approaching midnight but she didn't care; he would need dry clothes in the morning. But she had never held such expensive garments before. The thread count was higher than in her bedspread and the fabric was so smooth it felt like water slipping through her fingers. Even his socks looked to have cost more than her entire outfit, and she wondered why such a rich boy was drowsing on a park bench in the middle of a rainstorm.
His coat was too large to fit in her washer, so she just hung it above the heater. It was soft wool, finer than his clothes, a masterpiece of a coat. Humming lightly to herself, something she hadn't done since Ronnie died, she fished in his pockets, hoping to find a wallet or a phone to tell her who this young man was. There was no wallet, just some keys and coins, a pair of leather gloves and a few large pound notes, and the phone was password-protected, but that was all right. She would ask him his name in the morning, when he was feeling better.
Then her fingers closed around something else. Puzzled, she withdrew it from his coat and stared at the slim rectangular box. It was charcoal gray and extremely light and she had no idea what it could possibly contain so, curious, she pried up the lid and her cheerful tune died in her throat.
It was a needle. A hypodermic syringe. It was nestled between two layers of black velvet, resting there confidently like a disease. And it was empty.
Confused, she strode back into the living room and gently tugged free one of the young man's arms. He didn't wake when she rolled up his sleeve or when she gasped quietly. His arm was littered with needle pricks like tiny, individual snakebites, each prick punctuated with a blue-black rosette. Her lip trembled. He had the face of a child and the arm of an addict and she wept into his chest and begged God to help this poor lost boy because he was sadder than she was.
She didn't sleep that night, or at least not more than a few hours. She sat in the armchair beside the sofa and watched the young man into the wee hours of the morning, occasionally checking his temperature or his heartbeat or just resting a hand in his hair because it was like black dandelion fluff. When watery sunlight began to seep through the curtains she rose, checked his temperature one more time and went to check on his clothes. They hadn't shrunk in the wash and were clean and smelled fresh, but her heart panged when she saw the tiny hole in the shirt sleeve where a vein might be. Returning to the living room, she saw he had sat up and was staring around blearily.
Handing him his clothes, she helped him stand and ushered him into the bathroom, telling him to take a shower in order to wake him up. He didn't protest and went in willingly, and after a few minutes the water turned on.
She passed through the living room again and turned the on telly, flipping to the Florida news channel she had on special order to check for hurricanes and make sure Richard hadn't been thrown out of the country yet. She was humming in the kitchen, happy the young man was conscious and functioning, while stirring cake batter—she had a sweet tooth and was always baking, and perhaps if he stayed till lunch, he would like some. The bathroom door clicked open and she moved to the doorway, mixing the batter and watching the telly. When Richard appeared, his arms yanked behind him viciously as he was arrested and charged for the murder of a young woman, she was so surprised she dropped the whisk and vaguely felt the sticky batter drip onto her shoe.
Then suddenly the young man was there, rattling off her entire life as if he had known her for years. He even called her by her name, something she couldn't remember having told him. His eyes fairly glittered as he told her about Richard, about her marriage, about her unhappiness, but when she showed him her arm, as bruised and beaten as his own, the pride left his face and anger flashed in his crystal eyes.
But she didn't want his anger or his pity. She understood her life, knew it was hard and accepted it for what it was, continued to live with Richard because she was too weary to throw him out. It was nice to know this young man cared, cared more than her own husband, but she didn't want it. He had his own problems without worrying about hers.
He ate heartily, the young man, and she smiled as he devoured the eggs and toast. He had told her his name—Sherlock—and she thought it darling. A charming name for a charming boy. He was sweet and well-mannered and remarkably bright; he finished the crossword in less than five minutes and explained how he could identify a person's occupation by examining their fingertips. The fact that he knew he was brilliant made her laugh, because he was still so young that his arrogance hadn't been stripped away yet and because he grinned when she complimented him on it.
She understood he was troubled, just like she was. Sometimes he trailed off and gazed solemnly at the wall, staring at a light switch or a cheap decoration like it had personally offended him. Then his entire body would wilt and he would frown and his eyes would shimmer. His fingers twitched absently, perhaps seeking the temporary relief enclosed in the little gray box, and she longed to embrace him and wipe the sadness off his face. And then, just as quickly, the sadness would fade and he would be smiling sweetly and asking her to hand him a pen so he could show her the solution to some complicated math problem he'd solved just now.
He was no replacement for Richard. She had loved him once, but that love had long ago died and she got by just fine without him, and besides he was far too young. He was certainly no replacement for Ronnie. Ronnie was a joyful, carefree boy and he was much too serious for that. But, all the same, he was young and pleasant and made her so happy she hoped he would never leave.
But she couldn't keep him. He wasn't a lost puppy; he was a human being, a grown man, and she knew that. He would go because that's what men did—they went—and so he did. He was embarrassed when she held out his needle, embarrassed and perhaps a little ashamed that she had found him out, but she understood. Happy people don't need drugs, she said. Only the sad ones. And there was a deep, abject sadness radiating from his ice-blue eyes that pierced her heart and made her want to weep.
He promised to assist her should she ever ask and pressed a scrap of paper with his phone number into her hand. She smiled and reached up to ruffle his hair. It was black and gleamed like polished ebony, but it curled around his ears and at the nape of his pale neck, and his curls were soft as fleece and slipped through her fingers like Ronnie's did.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered, bending forward to kiss her cheek. Then he turned and walked out the door, waving over his shoulder as tears seeped down to wet her cheeks.
Such a nice boy, she thought. Such a lovely, lonely boy.