Chapter 1: Mrs. Hudson
"Bloody, fat, mouth-stuffing bastard," Sherlock muttered, slamming his fists heavily onto the dining room table.
Mrs. Hudson placed a coffee—black, two sugars—tentatively at his side. "Mycroft? In the papers again?"
Sherlock glanced, utterly revolted, at the coffee he had requested a few minutes prior. "He's gone and treated a nearby orphanage to a trip to Disney World for the holidays," he replied through gritted teeth.
"That monster."
"Don't you see? It's all a part of that millionaire philanthropist personage he's attempting to adopt. Orphans. My brother? He'd sooner spit on a homeless child than take him on those spinning tea cups. What's the point of that, anyway? Why tea cups?"
Mrs. Hudson assured him she didn't know, then offered some fresh biscuits to accompany the coffee. But Sherlock was hardly listening. He sat in his silk robe and pajamas, perched on his chair with his knees pulled to his chest. He appeared the cross between some ancient gargoyle and an over grown child.
But Mrs. Hudson was all too accustomed to Sherlock's mannerisms by now. She had begun her career as a nanny in the Holmes manor, practically mothering Mycroft and Sherlock as their parents dealt with international business and the likes. Of course, Mycroft had already grown-up by the time she arrived. While to most eleven years of age is hardily "grown", Mycroft had always carried many more years than his youth might suggest.
But Sherlock, inquisitive little thing, would cling to her skirt. He'd jab at her back with his plastic pirate's sword, ordering her to "walk the plank", or else he'd be asking questions to which she had no answer. "If I'm traveling faster than the speed of light, and I turn on my night light, would the light be behind me?"
Eventually, he realized Mrs. Hudson didn't have the answers, and he stopped asking.
She had assumed she would lose her job once the boys had grown for good, but at the age of 21, Sherlock had taken his inheritance and purchased a mansion of his own, hiring Mrs. Hudson as Head Housekeeper.
"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked.
"Finish you're coffee, put on some clothes, make something of your day…"
Sherlock waived the paper dramatically. "What am I supposed to do about this, Mrs. Hudson?"
She stared at him blankly, and he let out a long breath of exasperation. "If he gets the reputation he desires, the media will paint me as the selfish brat of Britain's wealthiest family."
"Since when does Sherlock Holmes care about the media's opinion?"
Sherlock ignored the question to take a slow sip of coffee, but Mrs. Hudson knew well that sibling rivalry ran strong in the Holmes' household.
"You could always do some philanthropy yourself," she suggested.
Sherlock put down his cup, placed his palms flat against one another, and tucked his hands beneath his chin as if in prayer. "Yes, but what?"
"You could donate some money to charity."
"That's the easy way out, Mrs. Hudson. What's 5000 pounds if it's mummy's and daddy's money to begin with? No, I have to do something for someone in need."
"I'm sure you'll think of something, Dear," she said as she swept out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.
The topic of charity hadn't resurfaced in days, and Sherlock sunk into what Mrs. Hudson would call "one of his moods". Sweeping through the halls in silence, Sherlock became a ghost of a man in his own home, his own haunted house. He didn't talk to the maids or the chef or the driver. He didn't conduct experiments in his lab, or even change from his tattered blue robe.
Some nights, Sherlock would fill the house with the most beautifully unnerving music—quick, piercing slashes to the violin with expert precision and sometimes mad urgency. Mrs. Hudson listened to the shrill rise and fall of the melody until it came to a sudden stand-still. Next, the stairs began to squeak, and the door swung open, filling her bedroom with light.
Mrs. Hudson blinked.
"It's settled then, I know what I'll do," said Sherlock proudly.
"Yes, Dear?" she replied sleepily.
"I'll invite someone into my manor for the holiday, someone homeless and hungry. I'll give them the gift of warmth, health, and stability. You'll take care of the whole hospitality nonsense, of course, make sure they're comfortable and entertained. Use my card and my connections until the bloke's got a job, wardrobe, and the likes. I can see the headlines now: Sherlock Holmes Rebuilds Downtrodden Life. Yes. Brilliant."
"That's all very well, Sherlock, but you do realize you'll have to socialize to some extent with whomever you invite. It's only decent."
Sherlock paused as though this thought hadn't occurred to him. "I can do that," he finally said.
Once it was settled, Sherlock laid himself across the unused side of the bed, just as he had as a lonely child, and fell fast asleep.
Mrs. Hudson hadn't been to a soup kitchen since her youth when her mother would drag her along to their church's volunteering escapades in an effort to cure humanity. But the kitchens hadn't changed, really. Dirty hands carrying plastic trays, men and women whispering a shameful "thank you" for their scoops of corn and runny mashed potatoes, children staring at the food like it was shimmering gold—it was all a bit depressing, honestly, and it never gave Mrs. Hudson much hope for humanity, or any higher power governing it, for that matter.
At least she was glad that Sherlock had had the good sense to down-play his wardrobe, choosing to wear his older (albeit still incredibly expensive) shoes and coat and no watch. He walked briskly at her side.
"Go on then, pick one," she said, drawing forth memories of their former trips to the toy store. The magnifying glass, he would say happily.
"I can't just pick one."
"Why not? It'll be like taking home a puppy from the pound."
"At least the pound guarantees a flee-ridden choice," he muttered, and Mrs. Hudson shushed him.
"What about that woman in the grey?" she suggested, flicking her gaze toward a 30 or so woman in the front of the line.
"Runny nose, scabs from picking at her skin, and long sleeves? After an hour in this room's temperature? Clearly she's trying to cover needle punctures. She's a heroin addict," he concluded promptly.
"How about that man then? He seems friendly enough."
"Bit too friendly. See how's he's wrapped a jacket around his waist? It's because he's hiding whatever has… arisen as a result of looking at the curvaceous volunteer serving peas."
"Oh my."
Sherlock continued to dismiss each individual. Many biases were formed based on appropriate deductions, others sounded more along the lines of, "Gingers? I don't like gingers. You know I don't like gingers."
In all honesty, Mrs. Hudson loved the way he could form a past for anyone he saw, like a story teller, except none of his words were fiction.
"C'mon, Mrs. Hudson. We're leaving," he said after a few minutes in, when people began to give them curious looks.
Mrs. Hudson nodded and followed him out the door. She was about to suggest they try a local orphanage when her thought was lost in a rush of activity. Someone hurdling past knocked Sherlock in the shoulder, and both bodies plummeted to the floor in an angry slur of cusswords.
The new arrival had accidentally used Sherlock to break his fall. A young man with a dirty face beneath a blue beanie, he stared down at Sherlock with eyes rounded by surprise. And in response, Sherlock did something that Mrs. Hudson, in all her years with the boy, had never seen him do—he stuttered.
"I d-d-d…"
But Sherlock was relieved of the necessity of speech when a shop clerk came running out behind him.
"Hold it there, you rat!"
The boy, realizing his situation, rolled himself off of Sherlock awkwardly. He stood up before the shop clerk, tucking his bag beneath his arm.
"Just because you've been sleeping rough, kid, doesn't mean you can take whatever you fancy from my store," the man said, spitting through his teeth at the homeless young man. "Now don't think of running again because I'm calling the cops!"
Sherlock regained his exposure and brushed himself off. "If I may…" he said, glancing down at the clerk's nametag. "… Harrold. Now that I've obstructed the thief, I don't believe the police need to be notified in the matter."
The clerk adjusted his thick-rimmed spectacles. "I don't know who you think you are—"
"Just an innocent bystander," he assured, flashing what Mrs. Hudson knew to be his fakest smile, "but I'm sure I can compensate for any harm done without the authorities present."
All eyes were fixed on Sherlock in confusion. He merely smirked as he reached inside his coat and withdrew his shiny leather wallet. Not so conspicuously, he handed the clerk a thick wad of bills. "How's this for compensation?" he said with a wink.
The store clerk stared between Sherlock and the cash for a long moment before finally settling his gaze upon the homeless youth. "Don't show your face in my store again," he growled before turning away.
Sherlock tucked his wallet back into his coat rather smugly. "Thought that would be easier than threatening to point the police toward the products in Harold's store that have been on recall for months," Sherlock said to the teen as he held out his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."
"Holmes?" he whispered in return, leaving Sherlock's hand in the air untouched.
Sherlock dropped his arm and furrowed his brow. "Yes. Problem?"
"Just because I live on the streets doesn't mean I don't picked up a newspaper now and then," he said, "Why would you do that? You're…"
"Rich. Yes. Filthy rich." His voice took on an air of annoyance, as though he hated the fact that rich was his only defining feature. "Since you've clearly skipped over the 'thank you kind sir' part of this conversation to get to the questions, I have one for you: What's her name?"
"What?"
"Your sister. What's her name?"
The boy's eyes narrowed, and Mrs. Hudson wished she could tell Sherlock to stop scaring the poor thing.
"Who said anything about a sister?"
Sherlock's eyes lit up, excitement brightening beneath his cool exterior like a jack-o-lantern. "It's only obvious, isn't it? You're robbing a toy store, clearly, the store clerk had the name of the shop embroidered onto his shirt. You're what, 18? 19? You have no need for toys. So you weren't stealing for yourself. In fact, you never steal for yourself, judging by the state of every item you own. You would have at least one notably new item if you were prone to pick-pocketing, and frankly, if you were savvy in the field, you wouldn't have been caught by four-eyed Harold. This is a one-time deal then for someone you love. Probably a Christmas gift, given the season. Clearly not a cousin; if you had any extended family you wouldn't be living on the street. Might've been your own kid, but I took a guess based on your look of innocence that that wouldn't be the case. So, sibling then. But boy or girl? Now this part was a long shot, but since your arrival, you've been treating your bag as though it's got something delicate inside of it. Most boys play with cars, action figures, something more durable. What you have is breakable, and from an expensive toy boutique, my guess based on the shape would be a china doll. A Christmas gift for your little sister because you're poor and she's poor and you want to make sure she gets something nice for the holidays. See, love's a rather vicious motivator. Now my question still stands: what's her name?"
The boy's mouth hung open noticeably during Sherlock's tirade, but soon after, he pressed it back into a hard line.
"Now might be a good time to mention I don't intend to harm you or her."
"What do you want from me then?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Company? Good publicity? See, I'm inviting a homeless person into my home for the holidays, and you quite literally just fell into the position."
The boy blinked. "Thanks and everything, but you can go ahead and play Daddy Warbucks with someone else."
He turned, clutching his bag across his chest. He began walking determinedly down the street. He managed a few steps before Sherlock mentioned casually, "You want her back. You want her back in your possession now that you're over 18, and I might just be the man who makes that happen."
The boy turned around and paused. At his age, he still had a child's face. Soft angles, round eyes with a boyish gleam, and hair light in both color and weightiness. But there was something else there too. Something beyond the under-eye circles and the callused hands. Mrs. Hudson might call it a sort of maturity beneath the outward adolescence to the likes of which she'd never seen. Unlike Mycroft, whose haughtiness gave him age, this young man held himself like an old veteran home from war.
"And all I'd have to do is live in your house for a few weeks?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "Just accept our hospitality."
"Right. Fine."
"Fine," said Sherlock, taking off down the street. But he turned to Mrs. Hudson when only she could see and smugly mouthed the words I got one.
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