"Bored!" Suddenly losing his patience with the petty experiment, he threw the beaker against the wall. It shattered instantly, sending shards of glass and urine flying. He stood impassive as the mess accumulated, even ignoring a cut on his cheek. "Boring, stupid, pointless…I'm wasting my time." He regarded the mess as if puzzled about its origin. "Mrs. Hudson!"

There was no reply. He frowned, and called again. "Mrs. Hudson!" No response. Swirling his dressing gown dramatically about him, he went downstairs to his landlady's flat; he was that bored.

Mrs. Hudson was at her kitchen table, a cup of tea suspended halfway between saucer and lips. "Mrs. Hudson?" She started. "Sherlock, dear, I didn't hear you call."

"It's all right. There's a mess upstairs."

She'd known him for years, so she immediately suspected his innocent tone. "Sherlock, you really ought to take up a hobby."

"People are my hobby, Mrs. Hudson. It's hardly my fault people are boring." He gave her a quick once-over: yesterday's blouse, smudged make up, evidence of tears on her cheeks. "What's happened, Mrs. Hudson?"

"What? Oh, nothing's happened, dear."

He rewarded her with his most piercing stare. "Don't lie to me, Mrs. Hudson. You know who I am; it doesn't work."

She laughed, and finally set down her cup. "All right, you've caught me. I'd a letter yesterday from Yorkshire, where my son is?"

He hadn't known she had a son, but he nodded anyway.

"Well, I thought it was from him, but his wife wrote to tell me…he's dead, Sherlock." She covered her face with thin, bony hands. "Philip's dead!"

He took a moment to process this, then moved with the quick agility of a panther: he seated himself next to Mrs. Hudson at the table and put an arm around her. "I'm sorry," he said.

She covered his hand with her own and squeezed it. Her touch was soft, like old leather, well-worn and well-used. She sighed heavily, and he felt the frailty of her shoulders.

"Of course you'll go up north for the funeral."

She was astonished. "Oh Sherlock, I couldn't! Who'd look after you? I'll likely come back to find the building flattened!"

"I wish you'd have a bit of faith in me, Mrs. Hudson," he said drily. "Mary will come."

"No, she won't. Not with a brand-new baby. And you can forget about seeing John, either."

"Molly, then. Or…Geoff."

"Molly's in Sussex for the week. And Greg is working."

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be fine. You go. You should go. You will go."

"If you insist," she said hesitantly.

"I do," he said. "I really think you ought to go, Mrs. Hudson. You want to, don't you? And I assume your daughter-in-law will want to see you?"

"Well, to be honest, we've never really gotten on…"

She launched into a lengthy monologue. He patiently let her prattle on as he mentally ran through his options for the duration of her absence. Food wouldn't really be a problem; he'd got to his usual chips place, they always gave him extra. He didn't much bother with clean shirts unless he had a client…he glanced around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen: dirty dishes, mold in the grout…

"Has your hip been bothering you?" he interrupted.

She blinked, but she wasn't really surprised. "A bit. I've been to a doctor and I've course I've got my herbal soothers, but I just can't get around as well as I used to—"

"Right. I'll get you a cab to the station and carry your case out for you. Go pack."

"Sherlock, I really—"

"I can get you a ticket online, book you a room—I know a nice bed and breakfast in York that I know you'll like, the owners are very talkative—two weeks, say?"

"—I really don't—"

"I insist, Mrs. Hudson. Make a little holiday out of it." He realized his error as her face crumpled, and hastily amended: "A little time away from me." He managed a smile.

She patted the hand around her shoulders. "I don't need time away from you, dear."

"Yes you do." He stood abruptly. "Go pack. I'll take care of everything."

She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You're a dear, Sherlock."

"If you say so, Mrs. Hudson."

It took longer than he would have liked to get her on her way, but she was finally gone and Sherlock was alone. He seized the opportunity to rummage through her flat, deducing and taking inventory. The place could use a deep cleaning. Mrs. Hudson was a clean person, but evidently her hip had been bothering her a lot lately; crevices were dusty, and the flat smelled faintly of mold.

He called Mary. "Sherlock, it's a lovely gesture, but were you planning on doing it yourself?"

"That's why I called you."

"Oh, Sherlock dear, we can't. John's parents are here and the baby's been a bit colicky—"

He listened patiently and hung up quickly. She sounded distracted. He didn't like it.

He did some research on the Internet and quickly realized he was in over his head. He could figure out the theory of cleaning grout, but the practice was a bit beyond him.

It occurred to him that he could hire someone. If Mrs. Hudson's health was on the decline, it might be good for her to have help anyway. He would pay, or rather Mycroft would.

He placed an advert in a paper (he'd gotten an editor out of a murder charge) and waited patiently in the flat for applicants. He grew bored quickly, and thus was in the middle of watching an eyeball in the microwave when the first one cam upstairs.

He gave her a quick once-over: middle aged, overweight, smoking habit, adulterer—

"Get out."

They all went like that. Many protested his quick dismissal, but he ignored them, and eventually they left. He found a new mold in the refrigerator and was busily studying it for several days. He hadn't eaten nor showered, and his hands were shaking as he took another sample for his microscope.

"You need to eat."

He was deeply disturbed that he hadn't heard her enter, and almost dropped his newly made slide. "I don't eat when I work, digesting slows me down."

"Bullshit," she said. "Have you any pots? I'll whip something up."

"I don't cook," he replied tersely. She rummaged through the grocery bags at her feet and came up with a small saucepan, which she promptly filled with water and set on the stove.

"How about an egg?"

He pursed his lips; clearly he wasn't going to get any work done with this American in the flat. "Get out," he said; his bass voice echoed up and down the stairs.

"Terrifying," she said drily. "Pasta, then?" He noticed she used the British pronunciation.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are." Before he could reply, she had touched the back of his hand with soft fingers. "You're icy cold, and pale, and I saw your hand trembling on that slide a minute ago. You might not feel hunger, Mr. Holmes, but you need to eat."

"You know my name."

"Naturally. Have I been living under a rock for the past four years?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I didn't know I'd a reputation in the states."

"You threw my uncle out a window," she returned.

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember… "Ah, yes. Well he broke in and threatened my landlady."

"How very gallant of you."

"Not gallant," he said defensively.

"If you say so, Mr. Holmes. Put that experiment away so we can have lunch."

"I'm not done," he retorted huffily—and suddenly he was a little boy again, begging Mum to let him have just five more minutes with the chemistry set.

"Move it, then. We need that table to eat on."

He ignored this, and carried on. Once she began to set out plates, however, he was forced to shift his microscope to a side counter.

"Not there, the dishwasher's there."

He looked. "So it is." He moved again, and she seemed satisfied.

The pasta was good; he was surprised at how quickly and how much he ate. She had a cup of tea, and watched every bite intently. He avoided her gaze as much as he could; she was making him decidedly uncomfortable.

"Digesting slows me down," he mumbled around a mouthful of fettuccine.

"Good. You've been working too hard."

"What is this sauce?"

"Pesto. Do you like it?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug, and a corner of her mouth quirked into a half-smile.

Once the pot of pasta had been entirely consumed, and he was scraping his plate with his fork, she pushed her tea aside and leaned forward on her elbows. "So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Make more pasta," he said.

"Later," she said firmly. "All the advert said was that you needed a cleaning lady-cum-companion, whatever that means."

"My landlady's getting on," he said, "I thought she could use some help and company."

"She has you."

"I'm not much help or company. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you?"

"Not a bit. I dislike small talk."

"How about the violin?"

"Musicians are sexy."

He disregarded this comment and moved on quickly: "She's away for the week and I thought it might be nice if her flat were thoroughly cleaned while she was gone."

"That's a sweet thought."

"So I've been told."

"I think I'll start with your kitchen."

"That's not part of our arrangement."

"Perhaps not, but frankly I'm troubled by the collection of toes in your vegetable drawer."

"It's for an experiment."

"That's fine. But you ought to keep some food in the house."

"I told you, I don't eat."

She looked pointedly at his plate, which had almost literally been licked clean. He sighed heavily. This girl was getting the best of him, and he disliked it very much. "I'm going to trust your judgment."

"I realize you're a bit of an eccentric," she said. "I'm not asking you change your ways entirely. There just needs to be space in your kitchen for kitchen things as well as…whatever you've got going on."

"Fine." He stood and made for his chair in the living room.

"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Holmes?"

"I need to digest."

"No sir. You're going to help me clean the kitchen."

He whirled around and glared at her. She met his gaze calmly and unflinchingly. He stalked back into the kitchen. "Tell me what to do."

He was rewarded with another half-smile.

The next week was full of work and adjustments. The American, who said her name was Phoebe, bossed him around as if she were his mother. He learned how to clean a toilet, and a shower, and windows. She taught him how to make pasta—it wasn't hard, but he'd deleted the data some time ago—and stocked a single cupboard in his kitchen with canned soup and boxes of pasta. A single shelf in the refrigerator was designated for cheeses, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables which she promised to restock once a week. She made him eat at least one meal a day. He found that scrubbing for most of the day made him hungry. The coffeemaker in the kitchen was always running, sitting demurely next to his microscope, and he only had to call for tea.

While he slaved away on his own flat, Phoebe was busy downstairs. He wandered in occasionally to check her progress. The smell of mold had vanished, to be replaced by the smell of mint and lemon. The carpets were a shade lighter, the rooms brighter, the hardwood shone.

She took over John's old room on the top floor. By unspoken agreement, they never invaded each other's private space. He vacuumed his bedroom and made his bed. She ironed all of his shirts and made him shower every day.

"You claim to be a high-functioning sociopath; you ought to behave like someone capable of functioning in normal society," she told him when he protested the new hygiene regime.

"But nobody sees me except you!"

"Maybe I don't like the way you smell."

"Maybe I don't like the way you smell," he retorted childishly.

"Sherlock, go get in the shower."

In the evenings, they sat in their chairs in silence. Sometimes he was thinking; sometimes he played the violin; sometimes he watched her read. She was working her way through Anna Karenina, and he liked the way her brow furrowed or smoothed as her dark eyes flicked quickly back and forth across the page. Occasionally the corner of her mouth twitched, or she would chew on her lip or thumbnail. He tried to guess what she was reading about, and checked the pages she'd read when she went upstairs for the night. He was right about half the time.

Occasionally they played cards. It was more to kill time than anything else; he could always tell when she was bluffing. She talked quietly and passionately about climate change and habitat fragmentation. She loaned him a book called The Song of the Dodo, and in the evenings they read together. He enjoyed the book tremendously, especially her neat little notes in the margins.

And so the week passed, quick and quiet and highly enjoyable.

Mrs. Hudson's flat was spotless, and they had only to wait for her arrival. Phoebe was ironing, and Sherlock was playing the violin. After a while, he realized that she was humming a quiet counter-melody to his improvisation. He listened carefully, and played the tune back to her. She hummed something else, and her foot began tapping. He began playing a spirited reel, and she started swaying back and forth at the ironing board. He casually made his way to the laptop and found a track he had recorded the previous week.

She didn't notice the change in music, nor did she notice him set down the violin and approach. He stood patiently next to her until she set the iron down and looked up.

"What is it?"

He wordlessly offered his hand. She examined his face intently, and the corner of her mouth turned up. "I didn't know you danced."

"I love dancing, always have."

The crooked smirk stretched into a full-lipped smile. "That's endearing."

He was saved from having to come up with a reply when she took his hand. The song ended and began again as they waltzed around the room in endless circles. She was a good dancer, matching her movements to his and turning at his slightest touch.

"Have you ever tried swing dance?"

He shook his head.

"I used to do it in college a lot." She listened carefully to the song for a moment. "I think we can do it to this. It's a one-two-three, four-five-six, seven eight." She showed him quickly; he mirrored her, and she nodded vigorously. "That's it. I'll show you some fun spins."

She did, and they were fun. Soon they were both grinning, spinning and swirling around the room, crossing arms, uncrossing—one moment they were back-to-back, the next two paces apart, then together again and spin—

The song began to wind down. "We end on a dip," she said. "Spin me out and then in, and I'll go down—" he did, and was surprised by how easily her body bent over his arm. He could feel the muscles in her back, and in the leg that she wrapped around one of his for support. He whipped her upright and they were face-to-face, both panting and flushed. Her smile was wide and bright.

Applause startled them both, and they leaped apart like guilty children. Mrs. Hudson wiped a tear from her eye. "That was lovely, Sherlock, just lovely! But who's this?"

She leapt forward quickly and offered her hand. "Phoebe Kramer. Sherlock hired me for the week. We cleaned the flat."

"I wanted to surprise you," Sherlock said.

"Well, I certainly am surprised!"

"Go downstairs," Phoebe urged. "Sherlock, why don't you-?"

He offered his arm to Mrs. Hudson. Baffled, she took it, and he led her to her own flat. The door was wide open, and everything was bright and clean.

She stopped in the doorway, mouth agape. "Sherlock, you did all this for me?"

"Yes. I saw you were having a rough time of it, and so I tried to help." He watched her face closely; he wasn't always the best at reading emotions. "Do you like it? Phoebe waxed the floors, and—"

Mrs. Hudson burst into tears. Sherlock awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Phoebe nudged him from behind, and he guided Mrs. Hudson into her sitting room and settled her on the couch, arm around her shoulders. Phoebe took a chair opposite, sitting straight with her ankles neatly crossed. He avoided looking at her just then.

"It's been so long since anybody's done anything so nice for me—" Mrs. Hudson was saying, dabbing her eyes furiously with a handkerchief. "And you paid for my trip to Yorkshire— Sherlock, I don't know what to say."

"You really ought to tell him exactly what you're feeling," Phoebe suggested. "He's not great at reading people."

Sherlock glared at her. "I am fantastic at reading people. You're using a new conditioner and you trimmed your nails last night."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean." She ran her thumb back and forth across her shortened nails as if growing used to them.

"It was really such a sweet gesture, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, kissing his cheek. "Were you planning on keeping her on?"

Sherlock froze. Phoebe took her cue: "He was worried that you're lonely and having a hard time because of your hip and your son, so he hoped that I could help you out and keep you company. If you'll have me, of course."

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands. "Well, my dear, I don't see why you shouldn't stay. You'll be a great help to both of us, I'm sure."

Phoebe smiled broadly. That's two, Sherlock thought. "Shall I make tea? I made cookies—er, biscuits—this morning, and you can tell us about your trip."

"That would be lovely, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. Phoebe sprang to her feet and darted out of the room. "My, she's quick, isn't she?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal humming noise. "So have you two been getting on all right? I'm surprised at you, Sherlock, really I am—she's American! What's she doing here?"

"I never asked," Sherlock said, surprised.

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. "Well, what did you deduce, then?"

He shrugged. "She likes to read, sing, and dance. She's neat, clever, stronger than she looks; untreated scoliosis, broken toe, hasn't had a haircut in months, dislikes tomatoes. She's had a cat—there's still hair in all her sweaters."

"Yes, but why isn't she in the States?"

"I don't know." He suddenly recalled something from their first conversation. "The American who broke in three years ago was her uncle."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "The man you threw onto my bins?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, that one."

"Well, we'll try not to hold that against her, shall we?"

"I think not," Sherlock agreed.