Skull
Mrs. Hudson takes Sherlock's skull
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock isn't mine. Pity.
Vague drabble. Not technically my first Sherlock piece, just the first one to be published here.
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She genuinely disliked it. Hated it, even. Far more than lukewarm tea, loud nighttime noises, or fussy cats. And yet, it sat on her kitchen table, looking for all the world reasonably comfortable. She would not have done it, had John not asked her as a special favour. The young man was polite almost always, soft-spoke, sweetly kind. Mrs. Hudson had taken an instant liking to him. He was a great compliment to the 221B Baker Street. And a good match for the other tenant, the skull's owner.
Her Sherlock. The valiant, darling, horridly rude detective who had helped her out of more than one tight spot, who took her tea, her batteries, and her biscuits without a second thought, and who readily enough admitted to it. Had he not been so brilliant, his eccentricities might've been enough to kick him out of the flat. But she took to him, in an odd way, so there he stayed. Stuck in the small-ish, wallpapered apartment until a case beckoned him from the bowels.
Such as today. Before leaving, John had passed her a key (it wasn't as though she'd need it; they never locked the place up, and she owned it, anyways) and whispered instructions to remove the skull from the mantel before he and Sherlock returned. Apparently, there lie the matches and cigarettes Sherlock was so fond of. Personally, she thought it was better than some things he'd gotten into before John arrived, but it was not her choice. She stashed the boney orb in her kitchen, and waited for the pursing argument that was sure to arise when the two fellows returned. Provided Sherlock was not too distracted. Though, judging by his level of excitement, this one ought to be finished by teatime, if not sooner.
It was sooner. But he was distracted, so she spent a few more hours staring at the empty eye sockets.
My, how these things could remind one of mortality. Time was short, and the skull wasn't about to let you forget it. With hollow eyes, blackened by shade and shadow, the head whispered cautious reminders in the empty flat. Mrs. Hudson wondered after the skull's previous owner, if they'd known this was to be their fate. Overlooking the flat of two rather untidy young men, used as a cigarette container, tossed over hours of a psychopath's musings. Would they care? Or had they donated themselves to the progression of science? Surely Sherlock was some form of progression? Progression toward a safer London? Did that count?
She wasn't sure. Either way, the skull bothered her. Between the empty orbs and faint murmurs of ending nearing, she felt vaguely unsettled around the thing.
John came downstairs around eight, sheepishly requesting the return of the skull. She passed it through the crack in the threshold without comment, merely the usual bustle of words and phrases that meant nothing, and that nothing was meant for in return. He thanked her kindly, then dashed back up the carpeted stairs to return the flat's third occupant to his resting spot on the mantle. Right next to the memo dagger. Right back where he belonged.