Warnings: For mentions of alcoholism & imagery of self-harm in later chapters.
Spoilers: Up to end of S2
A/N: Kindly betaread by the fab fififolle.
Chapter 1
- Mrs Hudson -
Plan for the Unexpected
Sherlock stands across from a woman he does not recognise. The sounds of dry painful sobs reverberate in the room. John looks every bit as uncomfortable and disturbed as he himself feels. This reaction is unexpected.
The forceful tears meld with almost laughs, stuttered breath and garbled gibberish uttered, each reaction fighting for dominance. A bodily cacophony of rage and shock and grief rushing out all at once. The near unflappable Mrs Hudson, who mildly tsk tsks at thumbs in fridge and gunshots indoors, is in hysterics. Because of him.
John guides her to an armchair, pushes her gently into it and she complies, never ceasing the racket. There's a glance from John, uncertainty, as if to say what do we do? Sherlock simply sits down opposite Mrs Hudson and witnesses it all.
His natural reaction to any person immaterial to a case crying is to leave the room swiftly, relieving his senses from the useless spectacle. Sherlock does not comfort people, he is more likely the instigator of upset regardless of whether he aims for it. Hence he feels inexperienced to apply his theoretical knowledge; he wouldn't hesitate on a stranger where needed. He has done enough wrong here to be unwilling to risk further reason for recrimination. He will wait and suffer every second along with her.
As he watches her shake he tries to work out why. She hadn't cried at her husband's execution, a period she had remained wearing the wedding ring for sentiment. In the time Sherlock knew her she'd lost eight friends or relatives total – four to cancer, one suicide (pills), two to the same car crash and another by accidental self-poisoning (practically deserving a Darwin award, unfortunately they'd inflicted the world with progeny already) – for those she had never cried spare in her own room and the funeral perhaps. Publicly Mrs Hudson was a strong woman. Had her boundaries shifted to include John and he into a private sphere? Was this an indication of closeness? No.
Two minutes. There is a panic to her breaths, mind attempting to speak out and failing, gasping, that reminds him uncomfortably of a phone conversation, of a frail elderly woman who could not comprehend what was happening and eighteen people who paid the price for his inability to calm her.
Mrs Hudson is out of her element because this does not happen, it is an unaccounted for situation. Yes, people die, they do so frequently as she well knows and she gets on with life each time. She has become good at getting past sadness, accepting it as part of life.
She would never compare herself with any piece of technology but quite simply the facts do not compute. In her brain Sherlock is dead and in her sitting room Sherlock is alive. He has clashed with her neat order of grieving, destroying her coping strategies. That is why she is not dealing well with this new information. He, as a man who is resurrected, has no place in her system anymore and all the bottled up feelings she could not allow have spurted forth as she tries to make sense of the whole dataset.
"Tea, John" He motions to the kitchen with a hand to the side, breaking the doctor's concerned and memorised stupor. Anyone would think he'd never seen someone react like this. The man must have seen grief and pain in unbridled measure during his time in the army, and by very necessity created some pattern of coping, of dealing, of guiding those around him through the mire of brokenness. And yet John does not move an inch.
"I said tea. Why are you not making tea?"
"Sod off, Sherlock, now's not the time."
"For Mrs Hudson."
"Ah. Right. Wait, are we seeing the same woman sitting there, sobbing? In her state, plying her with hot liquids doesn't seem wise to..."
Her cries mellow as John protests and Sherlock notes she inhales a little deeper, deeper again, steadying her hand on the armrest, and what's left is their landlady looking a tad put out like she's caught a whiff of an unfortunate odour. Then she blinks and peers cheerfully up at John directly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
"Tea would be lovely, John dear. Go perfect with the scones I baked this morning, I'll just go fetch some shall I? Jam too? I'll have a root about in the fridge, might have leftover cream in the back. Wouldn't do to have scones without cream, not when there's jam involved. Be back in two ticks."
Her voice is raw, grating, she strains to get the first few phrases out but she manages. Predictable as her vocal chords are scathed and throat parched from the rushed air drawn in and out over the four minutes the episode lasted. When she is gone, John flicks the kettle on, dumps two teabags in the teapot and slumps into the chair.
"What? What is it, Sherlock?"
"I wouldn't be about to be subjected to an unnecessary afternoon tea if you'd done as I said when I asked initially."
"I'm so sorry I don't trust your impeccable judgement on the precise timing of tea for our guests."
"With your medical background you should have realised she would need a drink."
"It had occurred to me, yes. I just didn't know when it was going to end and I refuse to believe you were anything but lucky on that guess."
"I'm never lucky, John."
"Says the man who admitted to me he had calculated a, what was it, 30% chance of missing his mark when he slumped over the side of a 60ft building."
"I did not slump!"
"Whatever."
"It was precise, I -"
"Hope the tea's done, got the scones all ready," Mrs Hudson piped up from the landing.
John shuffled off to quickly deposit the forgotten hot water in the pot, as she rounded the doorframe, entering with a silver tray packed to the brim with modest plates, dainty pots and the appropriate cutlery.
"Here we go," she cooed, placing the whole thing matter of factly on top of the massive tiled three deep stacks of books spread out evenly across the coffee table. "Feels like an age since we did this. Must do it more often. You look like you need feeding up, Sherlock, anyone'd think you'd been living on the streets."
Mrs Hudson sat in the armchair, as composed as she was generally inclined to be and chattering onwards, conversation skipping to the goings on of the two men habituating several doors down. John occupied the spaces in the dialogue with suitable 'Oh really's, 'That's nice' and other short niceties, designed to cover up the fact he was as he spoke agitating the brew into existence with a spoon.
Finally done, John presented the teapot with mittened hands. Finding the table, and expected heatproof mat that he tended to misappropriate from the bunsen burner setup, fully occupied John settled the pot on the floor as his relegated choice, punctuating his decision with a well read copy of Treasure Island slipped underneath it.
Sherlock weighed up the prudence of protesting sharply and/or damning the tea, saving the book from damage with a swift move. Expediency would be key, indecision meant the moment came and went without any more ruin than a slight scorch on the thick cover and damp corners, able to age into characterful watermarks. No one corrected that it had been an age and he didn't point out he had in fact spent months working mostly inside the homeless network.
For all the inane topics that escaped Mrs Hudson's lips, a lot went unsaid at 221B. Which made it mostly a slice of a day like any other. Gossip he could see coming a mile away and baked goods being forced on them. Boring. Predictable. Safe. A dose of what they needed.