Meant to be posted tommorow but one; it's Mother's Day and two; I'm at a rehersal for my school play, Alice In Wonderland all day. Well, enjoy!
AOR
Sherlock trudged down Baker Street, heart and school bag heavy. Sunday rehersals for the school play he was in were driving him nuts. He waved at Wiggins, leader of The Baker Street Boys, some care home kids that his dad sometimes employed when he was busy on cases. When he reached 221 he fumbled in his pocket, brought out the key and shoved it in the door, glad to be spared of the unforgiving eye of the street. A small smile appeared on his face when he smelt the warm scent of home.
"Mrs Hudson? Are you there?"
A small lipsticked woman approached him with a warm smile and a motherly hug.
"Tea's on the table, love. How was your day?"
Sherlock shrugged, dropped his bag in the hall and walked into the kitchen. Behind him he could hear the old lady picking up his bag and placing it on the step so he wouldn't forget to take it upstairs. He had already been in trouble for doing that and as a result, forgetting to finish some homework, three times this term. As promised, on the side sat a red mug filled with freshly brewed milky tea. He sipped, grinning.
"Perfect as always. You're a saint, Mrs Hudson."
The old woman tittered and blushed, offering the teen a seat at her table. He took it willingly.
"You sound just like your dad, you know."
"Speaking of Dad, where is he? Has he got a case? Is Uncle John with him?"
His landlady shook her head.
"Wrong on both accounts. Your dad's with your uncle in Horsham and John's in Devon. Gone to see his mum." The old lady gasped, hands covering her mouth as if she had uttered an awful curse. She enveloped the boy at her table in a tremendous hug.
"I'm so sorry love. I forgot."
Sherlock shrugged again. "Don't worry. It's fine. Not your fault. Everyone makes mistakes." he replied rather quickly. Something nudged Sherlock's leg. He reached down and stroked Gladstone's black and white fur.
"Hey boy." he patted the dog's side and looked back up at Mrs Hudson. "Has he been ok?"
Mrs Hudson nodded. "Good as gold. Nick came round and walked him for you. You know Nick, my step-son?"
"Yeah. I'm guessing he got you those flowers, then." Sherlock pointed to the vase of pink and yellow carnations gracing the side-board.
"Oh yes. He's a good boy, is Nick. Never forgets Mother's Day." She gasped again and Sherlock scooted away, narrowly avoiding another huge hug. He stood up and placed his empty cup in the sink.
"Can I go in the flat now?" he asked politley.
"Of course you can. Oh love, I'm sorry if I've upset you."
"You haven't, Mrs H." He replied, convincingly lying through his teeth. "I'm fine. Anyway, with so much advertising, it's a hard thing to ignore." He slipped out of the kitchen and scampered up the stairs, school bag in hand and Border Collie at his heels. At the top of the first flight of stairs, he carelessly shoved open the door to his dad and godfather's flat, dropped his bag on the floor again and collasped, somehow elegantly, on the threadbare beige sofa. After ten minutes of slience, he sighed, ran a hand over his face and walked slowly over to the kitchen. The item in third drawer on the left would lessen his pain. Shaking slightly, he gripped the handle and opened the said drawer. Inside was a small photo of his dad and a woman with long dark hair and big brown eyes. Irene. His mum. He grabbed it in his hand and, in an almost dreamlike state, walked back over to the sofa and lay down once more, His eyes never left her face. The loneliness that had been building up inside his chest all day was let out in the form of silent tears slipping down his cheeks. Unanswerable questions floated around in his mind. Why did she leave me? Where is she? Will I ever see her again?
...
John and (older) Sherlock opened the door to Baker Street, chatting about their day to each other. They had met up at the station and got a cab home. Mrs Hudson had fussed over them individully and they managed to escape his sweet, flowery clutches
"Do you want some...ouch!" John cried, tripping over Sherlock's bag. Even though the flat was dark, the doctor and the detective could just make out the still form of Sherlock juniour. He was sleeping, photo clutched to his chest with one hand, the other reaching down to stroke Gladstone's soft fur. Tear tracks were visable on his white cheeks. Sherlock turned on the light, disturbing his son's rest. His eyelids fluttered open and he sat up slowly, inky curls sticking out at every angle.
"What time is it?" he mumbled, voice clogged with sleep.
"11 o'clock. Are you OK?" Sherlock sat by his son on the sofa and John tactfully switched the kettle on. The teen nodded.
"You know, Sherlock, me and your dad are always here if you need to talk."
"I'll keep that in mind." Sherlock mused and hugged his dad hard. He should have known better than to feel alone. He had loads of people to talk to. A shape against the window caught his eye. A woman with long brown hair and big brown eyes was hanging upside down outside. She winked at him and pointed to the table before disappearing into the night. A post-it note was stuck against the table nearest to him. He gently peeled it off and read the words.
Looking good, sunshine. Keep it up.
Lots of Love
Mum
xxxxxx
Sherlock grinned and took the tea John offered him.