A/N: Since the first episode, I've wondered how Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson met - Sherlock's explanation was extremely vague and not even remotely satisfying. And surfing ff. net, I haven't found a good explanation yet, so I decided to write my own. This all developed because of a little paragraph centering on the title. Extremely difficult to figure out how to conceivably place Sherlock in Florida so I gave up, and I have no idea how a person high on cocaine would behave, but according to Wikipedia cocaine highs are short-lived. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
London, 2005
When the clammy hand closed over his wrist, Sherlock was acutely aware of its every detail—the lines formed at knuckles and crisscrossing across the palm, the nails digging into his skin, the cold metal band around the ring finger, the individual rivulets joining the rain on his arm. The voice was ridiculously loud, echoing in his brain long after it had stopped. "Are you all right, dear?"
A slow, blissful smile spread across his mouth. "Perfectly," he murmured. He'd thought the person had left when the hand vanished, but then he felt it pressed against his forehead, crushing damp curls to his skin. His eyes flew open at the sudden contact and he stared in confusion at the middle-aged woman with a lavender umbrella hovering over him. "What are you doing?"
The woman frowned. "You're feverish," she said, drawing her hand back. "And you're drenched straight through. How long have you been sitting here?"
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Minutes, hours, they're all running together…"
Now her face contorted with alarm and she leaned down, her umbrella taking the brunt of the rainfall. Her eyes met his and he smiled again, aware that he probably looked a wreck and not caring. "Your pupils are dilated," she muttered. "Are you…?" She didn't finish her question because then she was looping her arms through his elbows and hoisting him to his feet.
"What are you doing?" he asked again, something unpleasantly and annoyingly resembling fear beginning to tickle the hairs at the back of his neck. "I don't need help, I'm…"
"You've got chills," the woman said, clamping a hand firmly on his wrist as she lifted the umbrella higher—he was at least a foot taller than her. "You'll catch your death if you stay out here."
"I said I'm f-fine," he protested, anger flaring as his voice cracked. He tried tugging his arm free but he felt so weak he couldn't manage—he was coming down and readjusting to the world around him, which included the freezing rain soaking him. He began to shiver.
Despite his protests and arm-pulling, the little woman ignored him. Her hand like a vise around his wrist and her steps light but sure, she guided him along the streets and into the drafty foyer of a building just off Baker Street. The euphoria was a mere tingle now as the cold began to seep into his clothes and his shivering became more pronounced. The woman bustled him through a second door, swiftly pulling off his coat and draping the dripping wool garment over a sofa. Then, placing her small hands on his shoulders, she forced him into the cushions.
"You'll need to change out of those wet clothes," she said, almost to herself as she bent to tug off his shoes. "Sit tight a moment." And she disappeared down a hallway, leaving him alone.
With rattling teeth, Sherlock fumbled with his shirt buttons. His fingers were cold and stiff, slow to respond, and it seemed to take an age just to unbutton his shirt. By the time he had shrugged it off the woman had returned, her arms laden with soft fabric bundles. "Trousers too," she said, setting her bundles on the couch before blatantly turning around in an effort, he assumed, to give him privacy.
When he was clad in nothing but his navy knickers that threatened to slide off his bony hips at any moment, the woman—still turned around—held out a pair of flannel trousers. "I'm sorry if they're too short, my husband's much shorter than you," she said as he painstakingly slipped in one trembling leg at a time. They were, in fact, much too short—the hem stopped several inches above his ankles—but the elastic waistband clung to his hips and they were warm against his frozen legs.
Sufficiently clothed now, the woman felt comfortable enough to turn around and offer him a sweater. "Arms up," she commanded and Sherlock, too weak to be indignant, raised his arms so she could slip the gray cotton over his head and yank it to his waist. Then she pushed him back into the sofa and began draping blanket after blanket over his shoulders and somehow managed to slip a pair of tatty black slippers—the mysterious husband's, obviously—onto his feet.
"It's the rain that's done it. We need to get you warm and dry first," she said matter-of-factly as she added another blanket to the increasing weight on his shoulders. "Then your fever should start to go down."
Icy water dripped down Sherlock's neck and he felt a very different kind of weight settle on his shoulders, the kind that smacked of suspicion and despair. Who was this woman? And more importantly, why had she taken him to her home? If robbery was her intent, she could've accomplished it easily enough while he was drowsing on the bench. Why, why, why, his mind demanded, threatening to tear itself to pieces with no answer.
"W-w-why are you h-helping me?" he stuttered, gripping the blankets tighter to his neck with the false and decidedly childish notion that, underneath the seven or so layers of fabric, he was protected from any unwanted advances.
The little woman smiled at him kindly—so kindly, in fact, his brain was jarred enough to forget his paranoia—and tossed a towel onto his head, covering his eyes. Firmly but gently, she began to shake his thick, wet curls dry, carefully dabbing at his neck and forehead to keep the water from spilling into his eyes. It was strangely nostalgic and for a moment or two, Sherlock relaxed into the sofa, content to let this strange but determined little woman dry his curls.
When his hair looked as if it had undergone drying via a high-powered air compressor, she removed the towel. "Because you need helping, dearie," she replied, pressing a palm against his forehead and clicking her tongue worriedly. "Still a tad warm," she murmured. Sitting on the sofa beside him, she pulled him close and began rubbing his arms vigorously, coaxing warmth into his shuddering body. "My oh my, you're chilled to the bone. You're lucky not to have hypothermia, young man."
Sherlock ground his teeth out of habit. Any reference to his age was always annoying. "I'm t-t-twenty-two, th-thank you v-very much."
She shrugged and continued rubbing his arms. "You're young to me, luv," she said. "Have you eaten?"
"W-what day is it?"
"Wednesday."
He shook his head, fluffed hair waving like black dandelions in the breeze. "I'm f-fine for now."
The woman was aghast. "When was the last time you did eat?" But she didn't wait for an answer; leaving him on the sofa, she jumped up and scurried into another room, where he could hear doors opening and metal clanging. Within ten minutes she was back, carrying a steaming mug, and she sat and forced him to swallow several mouthfuls of broth before she set it down.
"You're lucky I found you," she muttered, almost to herself. "Who knows how much longer you could've gone on?"
"W-well, my b-b-brother always said I w-was like a c-c-cockroach. Impossible to k-kill, y-you know." He smiled weakly, but she just gave him a sorry look and he bristled immediately. "It w-was a joke. And I d-don't need your p-pity."
"No, what you need is to eat and lie down." She picked up the mug again and pressed it into his shaking hands, refusing to take it away until it was drained. Then she eased him down to his side and tucked a pillow beneath his head. "You rest now, dear," she murmured, patting his wild mess of curls. "I'll be right in the kitchen if you need me."
Any other day, Sherlock would've argued. He would've stood up and marched out of the little flat, shouting that he needed nothing and no one and everyone should just keep their noses out of his business and leave him be. But then the sofa was so comfortable and he was no longer shivering and his stomach had stopped aching with emptiness… He remembered his mother's soft voice and gentle hands and this woman reminded him of his mother, if only because they both ruffled his curls the same way. So before he could even begin phrasing an argument in his head, his eyes were closing and the last thing he remembered before he went to sleep was a light flickering on in the kitchen and the woman's low hum drifting to his ears from the other room.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
Hours later, Sherlock's arm lolled out of his nest of blankets and gracelessly collided with something hard and wooden, and he started cursing before his eyes were even fully open. He stopped when he realized he wasn't in his flat, or even a place he recognized.
As he sat up, the layers of blankets rolled into his lap and he stared at them, puzzled, trying to recall where he was. Before he could, a small woman came bustling into the room, cradling a bundle of black clothes in her arms.
"I washed your clothes for you, luv," she announced, placing them carefully on the coffee table he'd whacked. "Your coat's still drying though, in the other room."
He nodded slowly as the night rushed back to him. Sprawled across the park bench in the middle of a night shower, the woman finding him and herding him along to her home, undressing then redressing him and letting him sleep on her sofa. He would've dismissed it as a dream if he hadn't woken up in this strange woman's flat.
"Are you hungry, dear?" she asked. "I can whip up whatever you like."
He was still groggy and his voice was slow to come, so he simply nodded. She nodded back before reaching up to touch his forehead, nodding again appreciatively. "Why don't you have a shower while I cook you something?" she said, easing him up and guiding him down a hallway. "Freshen you up a bit, hmm?"
She pointed him toward a smallish bathroom and brought in his clean clothes and a fresh towel. Patting his shoulder and smiling, she closed the door and he stood a moment, the soft fabrics tearing at his dry hands, before stripping down and climbing into the shower.
Sherlock exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling remarkably better than he had before. His clothes were clean, his skin was spotless, his curls properly tamed and gleaming like polished ebony. He stepped into the hallway, still buttoning his jacket and looking forward to a proper breakfast, when something metal clattered to the floor and a fragile, "Oh my," broke the pleasant silence of the house.
Confused, he entered the living room and saw the woman hovering by the kitchen doorway, cradling a bowl as a whisk dripped batter onto her shoes. She was staring at the telly and Sherlock, curious, followed her gaze.
The morning news was on, but it wasn't showing London or even a city in the UK. From the look of the palm trees waving in the background—Roystonea regia, if he remembered correctly, and he always did—the shot was from somewhere in Florida in the United States. An American news channel, then.
The camera suddenly cut to a man being hustled into police car. Middle-aged, married for at least two decades, a company man—it didn't matter which one. His suit was cut differently than the plainclothes detective observing his arrest or the man reporting it, a cut similar to his own clothes. A British man, most likely from the London area—or at least his clothes were. He smirked as the reporter declared the same thing.
"Richard Hudson," the reporter continued, "was seen entering a hotel last night with a young woman identified as Claudine Wakefield. Witnesses claim they heard shouting from the room before Hudson left the hotel forty-five minutes later. Wakefield's body was discovered this morning by a maid and the cause of death appears to be blunt trauma to the head. Hudson was arrested this afternoon on a charge of second degree murder. Detective Call, how did…?"
Sherlock glanced at the woman. Why would be so alarmed at the news? The man must be someone she knows, then, and someone she knows well judging by her reaction. A relative? No, their facial structure was too different. Could be a close friend, but…
"Oh," he murmured, his eyes wide in realization. "I suppose murdering a prostitute would be sufficient grounds for a divorce. Don't you agree, Mrs. Hudson?"
The woman's head jerked to him so fast he wondered if she would give herself whiplash. Her soft brown eyes were wild with confusion. "How did you…?"
"It's obvious, isn't it?" But the woman continued to stare at him blankly. He restrained the urge to roll his eyes, but only just barely. "You must know the man being arrested, Richard Hudson, otherwise you wouldn't be so surprised to see him on the telly. You're not related to him though, judging by your earlobes." The woman touched her ears self-consciously. "If the two of you were close you'd be crying but you're not, ergo you know the man intimately but don't particularly like him."
Striding forward, he pried away the hand clasping the bowl and held it up for her to see. "You're married, obviously, at least ten years, more likely twenty, but there is only one photo of you and your husband—the wedding photo on the mantle. He could be dead but no grieving widow removes all remnants of her husband without taking off her ring as well. That means he's still alive, but you don't get along, a fact backed up by your wedding ring, which is considerably dirtier in comparison with your other jewelry. If you were happily married, you'd wear the ring with pride and keep it clean, but you don't.
"So, an unhappily married woman is shocked to see a man she knows but doesn't like on the telly, a man also wearing a ring and, minus a few wrinkles, strongly resembles the man in the photograph. Therefore, he must be your husband and you must be Mrs. Hudson." He had begun to pace up and down the floor, but he stopped at the end of his deduction and pointed at the man on the screen for emphasis. When he glanced back at the woman—Mrs. Hudson—he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. Oh, no…
"I've upset you," he said dully, even though he didn't understand. Why would she be upset, she didn't even like her husband, so why…?
But Mrs. Hudson shook her head. Setting down her bowl, she stepped toward him and began rolling up her sleeve. "Just bringing up old memories, dearie," she whispered, revealing a patchwork of bruises all along her arm. They were a mottled assortment of colors, yellow and black and violet, competing for space with the freckled cream of her skin. "We haven't gotten on in years, but he would never sign the divorce papers. Stubborn, you know."
Gently, Sherlock took her arm and inspected it. Some of the bruises were so fresh they had to have been given only days before. "He hits you," he murmured.
Nodding slowly, she drew her arm back and gestured at the kitchen. "Come on, your breakfast is getting cold," she said. "You're so thin dearie, when was the last time you ate?"
He rolled his eyes. "Last night, when you forced soup down my throat."
She smiled slightly and started forward. "Oh, yes. By the way," and she glanced over her shoulder, "what's your name? You know mine but I don't know yours."
He hesitated. People always seemed to laugh when he introduced himself. "Sherlock," he said finally. "Sherlock Holmes."
Her smile broadened. "What a charming name. Well, come on then, Sherlock Holmes, breakfast is waiting." And she disappeared into the kitchen.
Sherlock hovered a minute. A woman he didn't even know, a complete and total stranger, plucked him from the gutter, took him home, warmed him up, washed his clothes and cooked him food. Normally, taking advantage of a stranger wouldn't have bothered him, but there was something about Mrs. Hudson, about her horrid marriage and her wretched, apparently murderous husband, that made her different. That made him feel guilty for accepting her generosity and not repaying it back somehow.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the corner. "Aren't you coming?"
"Yes, of course." As he passed, he saw her gaze linger on the telly, her eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth set in a thin line as her husband passed before the camera again. Anger. A touch of disdain. And hatred.
Sherlock had an idea. He hated to call him, but he had no choice. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen my phone?"
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
"You sure you can make it home all right, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked as he glanced at his chirping phone. A new text. Suspicions confirmed, it said. Pending further charges. D.P. in Florida.
He smirked. Good. Then he turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "I'll be fine, thank you. Montague Street isn't far."
Still Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. "And you're sure you're full? I can always make you something extra, it's no trouble…"
He chuckled and clapped a hand to her shoulder. "I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Hudson, but I promise that I am fine."
She nodded dejectedly and he almost relented, but anything she cooked for him he would probably throw away. He never had much of an appetite. Instead, he carefully knotted his woolen scarf around his neck and asked if she wouldn't mind retrieving his coat.
She came back with it draped it over her arm and helped him slide his long limbs into the sleeves. Instinctively his hands delved into the pockets and when he didn't feel the small rectangular box, his heart lurched to his throat. Did he lose it last night? Had he forgotten it on the park bench? What had…?
He began patting his coat frantically until Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. When he looked up, he saw she was holding the little box in her cupped hands. "I took it out last night," she explained softly. "I didn't want it to break, you know."
Sherlock briefly considered being angry, snatching it from her grip and storming out of her house, but he was too relieved to see it in her grasp to be angry. Carefully, he plucked it from her hand and opened it. The needle was still nestled snugly in the soft black velvet. No water damage, no breakage; it even contained a little left over liquid. He almost pressed it to his chest with relief, but realized how strange that would look and stuffed it in his pocket instead.
"I'm highly allergic to bees," he began, "so I have to carry this…"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me, luv," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, waving her hand. "You're a grown man, I know. You must be harboring a lot of sadness, though," she added, almost as an afterthought.
He had bent to slip on his shoes, but paused and raised his head. "Why do you say that?" he asked slowly.
She smiled gently. "Because no one takes drugs for fun, dearie."
When it came time for him to leave, Mrs. Hudson kissed his cheeks and embraced him tightly, murmuring at him to take care of himself. He let her hug him and even touched her shoulders gingerly as the warm nostalgic feeling washed over him again. She was not as pretty as his mother and her hands were not as soft, but she also wasn't as nagging and her arms were just as nice.
"If you ever need me," he said, pressing a slip of paper into her hand, "please don't hesitate to call."
She grinned and reached up to tousle his thick curls. "You're such a nice boy, Sherlock," she said.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered. He bent down to kiss her cheek and strode toward the door, the needle and its case heavy in his pocket.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
It was late in the afternoon when she called the next day. Sherlock was so engrossed in scraping loudly and rather pointlessly on his violin that he almost didn't hear his phone go off. He didn't recognize the number but nevertheless answered in his usual way.
"Yes?" he said impatiently. "Mycroft, if you think a new phone is going to fool me…"
"Sherlock?" the tinny, distinctly female voice asked.
He paused. "Mrs. Hudson," he said with only a trace of surprise; he'd really been hoping for Mycroft so he could tell him to piss off. "Do you need something?"
"My husband has been arrested," she said. Her voice was faint with surprise, although surprise at what he couldn't be sure.
"Yes, I know. I was there when it was on the news."
"For drug trafficking."
He examined his bow and reached for the resin. "Really?" he said, feigning shock. "I thought it was just for murder."
"Apparently the police recovered several kilos of cocaine in his rental car with his fingerprints all over them." She paused, took a breath. "Drug trafficking in Florida is a capital crime, Sherlock. If he's convicted, he'll be put on Death Row."
"Are you upset?" he asked dully, wondering vaguely if he'd miscalculated.
"…No. I'm not." She paused again. "I know you had something to do with this, Sherlock. I don't know how, but I know you did." Yet she didn't sound angry. "The solicitors called me, Richard's and the state's. They want me to fly down and testify."
"Will you go?"
She avoided the question and asked another, more personal. "They said I can bring someone with me, if I'd like." A deep breath. "Would you like to come with me, Sherlock dear? I don't know anyone else."
That was a blatant lie, had to be, but he didn't care. "I'd be honored, Mrs. Hudson."
They discussed travel times and hotels and she bothered him with questions of Florida weather and what to bring.
Finally, "Sherlock, I have just one question."
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked curtly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a long phone call and it was beginning to grate on his patience.
"Why are you helping me, Sherlock? We've only just met. I know nothing about you."
He smirked into the mouthpiece. "Because you need helping, Mrs. Hudson. I'll see you on Tuesday." And he hung up.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
Present Day
Scrolling through his contact list, Sherlock smiled when his eyes lit upon her number. Pressing a button, he held it to his ear.
Her voice was as warm and honey-sweet as it was the last time they spoke. "Sherlock, dear, it's so nice to hear from you again. How are you?"
"I'm just fine, Mrs. Hudson," he replied amicably. "Although I do have a favor to ask."
"Anything, luv. You know I'm always happy to help you."
He thumbed open a newspaper and idly tapped an ad with his fingertip. "You have a flat open," he stated. "I'd like to rent it."
Beneath her concern that he wouldn't be able to afford it, he could easily detect her delight—she doted on him and he knew it. "But you still have to pay rent," she said and he could almost see her shaking her finger at him. "I have to get by too, you know."
"I'll find a flatemate," he said airily. "Maybe somebody at Bart's. Can I come by tomorrow?"
"'Course you can, dearie. I'll get it all sorted out for you."
"Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson." She tittered goodbye and he closed the phone, grinning.