This is for JAL who shares my love of the Homeless Network. Happy Birthday, Lovely!
watch?v=5WYtSPPqKgQ - for atmosphere...
Chapter 1: The Big Issue
"Big Issue, Mister?" John turned to smile at the vendor, who looked barely old enough to be out of school.
"No, thanks," he said, feeling guilty that he was too distracted to at least give the boy some cash. He glanced around wondering where his contact would come from and held his ground on the corner.
"Great edition, lots of hairy artwork, for Halloween, you know-" the vendor tried again, taking a step towards him.
John didn't bother with the pleasantry of looking him in the eye this time. "No, really, thanks."
"Really good edition, has some extras this week-"
He was beginning to feel rather exasperated with the dogged salesmanship, the lad was following him down the street now. "I've got that one," John said, though he wasn't totally sure if this were true. He often bought the Big Issue and then didn't read it at all.
"Nothing stopping you buying another one, Sir."
"No, really, no, I have-"
"Buy it for Sherlock then!" the lad snapped; his smile had slipped.
John reached in his pocket and handed the lad a fiver, adding a twenty when the boy shot him a completely disparaging look. Now why would Sherlock tell him where, and not who, his contact was to be? How was he supposed to know it would be a spotty youth selling Big Issues? Sherlock knew the strangest people, even for a sociopath.
Later... It certainly was a special issue. The photo of another spotty youth was on an extra middle spread and dummy articles covered the rest of the extra pages. Sherlock cast his eye down the text running his pen down the columns, marking the odd letter or word, seemingly at random. Circle, underline, underline, underline, circle ...
"Ok, Darren Andrews will be waiting to be picked at 7.30pm under Waterloo Bridge. That's a picture of him," Sherlock said, switching the magazine around so the face looking at John was the right way up.
Much later... "Bleeding 'ell, Mrs H, them's me bleeding strides[2]! Wad-a-mi gonna do without me threads?"
Spy-DA[1] crouched down in front of the washing machine window and watched all the clothes he possessed going round and round in suddy water. He listened to the rhythmic thumping for a while, his eyes growing larger in realisation. He was wearing a pair of oversized granddad pyjamas and feeling really compromised even though none of his friends could see him.
"Where's m' Nike's?" His face went even paler as he stared into the round window. "How m' I gonna skuxx[3] without m' effing Nike's?"
"Language, young man!" Mrs Hudson flicked him on the side of his head with the t-towel she had in her hand while doing the drying-up.
"Nike's ain't swearing, Mrs H!"
Mrs Hudson looked at him with distain. "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. And don't think just because I'm old enough to be your Gran that I don't know what you're talking about, young man. Anyway, the lack of trainers is not going to be the reason you are not going to skuxx this evening. You need sleep, Darren."
"Aw, Mrs H, it's only 10 o'clock!" Spy-DA looked mutinous and sat back on his haunches, a desperate look on his face. "An' it's Spy-DA," he said sulkily.
"Does your mother call you Spider?"
"Ain't got no mother."
"Ok, Spy-DA", Mrs Hudson stressed the second syllable, "the spare-room is made up. You can sleep in there tonight while we get your 'threads'[4] dried. Then straight up to see Sherlock first thing." She looked at Spy-DA expectantly and when she did not get a reaction she raised one thin eyebrow.
"You're suppose' t' say 'capeesh?' Mrs H."
"Ok, Darr- ... Spy-DA. Capisce? I didn't know you were Italian."
"I ain't no ruddy Itai," he grumbled.
Spy-DA didn't have anything against Italians - some of his best friends ... He was still feeling rather compromised though and was prepared to be touchy about any number of small things. No one had talked to him like she had since his actual Gran had died and he was suffering from transference, answering back but unable not to obey.
The old lady had bullied him into the bath earlier when he'd really wanted a quick shower if anything. She'd shown him the bath-salts - now what sort of antiquated old lady thing was that? - and told him to rub a handful into his feet, not forgetting between the toes. "You can do it yourself, or I can come in there and do it for you", she'd said, picking up a flannel menacingly, "but I'm not living with your feet, else."
Spy-DA had raised his hands defensively as if to ward off the devil, agreeing in a shaky voice, "Rebuff! Wash me-self just fine." At least they hadn't smelt of lavender as he'd feared.
Mrs Hudson hadn't hesitated to take the scruffy youth into her home earlier, on John's say so. Not only was it too dangerous for the boy out on the street currently, but he could do with a really good wash and brush up and she was just the woman to take him in hand.
Her boys were out doing whatever her boys did. They'd not told her much, but then she really didn't need to know. Probably better if she didn't.
It was the distinctive sound of breaking glass that woke her. She sat bolt upright in bed. 'Knew I should have had those bars fitted,' she thought distractedly.
She looked longingly at the pretty flowered dressing-gown, hanging on the back of her door, that her boys had bought her for her last birthday. Better use of time to pick up the cast-iron frying-pan she had been keeping under her bed since the last break-in, that night when John and Sherlock were out on a call.
She crept out into the hallway, hiding in the shadows while resisting the urge to turn on the light. She stopped - behind the kitchen door - listening acutely to the sounds coming from within of crunching glass as the intruder made his way across the floor towards her. And then she brought the pan down on his head, after the spilt second it took to determine not-Sherlock, not-John, not-Spy-DA. The body crumpled to the floor with a loud groan. Now why is it, do you suppose, that if you hit someone that hard on the top of their head, in any given TV series, that they are knocked out cold but don't die? The intruder lay there groaning and holding his head, most likely bleeding on her new carpet, the fiend!
"What ja' do that for, Mrs?" He sounded pained, in the 'suffering a great injustice' sense of the word, though she was sure that he must be in considerable physical pain too.
"Stay right where you are, young man! I'm armed with a frying-pan and I'm not afraid to use it!"
Moments later, both Sherlock and John came rushing through the door. "You ok, Mrs Hudson?" John said, concern written all over his sympathetic face. Mrs Hudson's silent alarm worked rather well, she thought proudly. The only precaution other than the frying-pan that she's managed to implement since the run of local break-ins ... so far. She'd get onto the locksmiths first thing Monday to get those bars sorted. She also noticed that her boys hadn't taken many precautions when they burst into the flat. A satisfying amount of concern for her, but she'd be having words with them later about personal safety.
Spy-DA was out in the hallway, peering wearily in. "Blimey, Mrs H, y' gottim good." Mrs Hudson was left wondering why he had not emerged earlier given all the hullabaloo. After all he had been much closer than Sherlock and John to the action, he couldn't not have heard it and he was two steps away from offering her protection. She decided to pretend that she believed he was a heavy sleeper. No one had expected the boy to be a hero, it was enough that he had alerted Sherlock to what was going on and agreed to be a witness.
Then the intruder spoke again. "Streuth! Thought they got you, Bro. Came to break y' out. Then this b-aitch whacked me one!"
Spy-DA's demeanour changed. He strutted into the room, looking cocky and smirked at the lad on the carpet. "What y' doing down there, Gums? Don't tell me - getting up?" He laughed at his own bad joke. The other boy winced, but whether from distain or the pain from his head was unclear. "And don't you go calling Mrs H a b-aitch - she's really sick!"
Mrs Hudson wondered if he could mean her jippy hip. It was twinging a little since she'd rolled out of bed so abruptly.
[1] Spy-DA = Darren Andrews, Homeless Network 'spy'
How to survive London Street Slang:
[2] Strides = trousers
[3] Skuxx = means many things, but Spy-DA uses to mean 'to pull'
Pull = pick up girls
[4] Threads = clothes
Sick = really good
If you don't know how something is pronounced, or what it means, please ask