A/N: For Mugen, who is leaving to start her life, and who I would totally kill/poison/bury in my garden so she'd be with me fo-ever and ever. Amen.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the related characters. I only took creative license with "Mummy."
She yearns.
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He is tall, and fit, and passing through. His hands are large and he smiles so kindly, his mouth stretched wide and his hair as dark as a raven's wing. She settles Mycroft on her hip and watches him as he takes slow, bumbling steps down the street, peering into windows and smiling at nothing.
He is innocent, and her yards is beginning to become overgrown.
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She taps on his shoulder, smiling as he turns around, surprised. Mycroft is silent on her side, kicking his heels slowly. Watching. He really is too big to be carried like this, but she doesn't care. She doesn't feel his weight.
"Ello, ma'am," he ducks his head, his cheeks red. He shifts foot to foot, his long arms swinging at his side. His overalls are patched and dirty and his face is lean.
"Hello," she murmurs, drawing him into the nearby deli.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, his eyes wide and glued to her.
He nods quickly, bouncing on his heels and quivering with excitement.
"Oh yes, ma'am, I am!" he says, wonderingly, looking at her with a 'how did you know' look on his pale face.
His biceps bulge under his rough shirt.
Her mouth waters but no, she needs to play this right.
"Well then, order whatever you like," she says graciously, peering at him from under her lashes. His grin is bright enough to light the sky.
And oh, she hungers.
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She hires him a few days later, when it is apparent that he will never find work in the town, the signs to ward off evil and illness thrown up after he passes.
He is bumbling, like a puppy, but strong, so strong. His spirit is like candy in her mouth and warm, brightly burning in her mind.
She realizes who he reminds her of weeks later, after she has set him up the old shed on the edge of the property and instructed him on the garden and the lawn and the woodwork. The hit is a low one, wheezing the air from her lungs and making her run to hide inside her bathroom, her breath coming fast and her mind racing-
"Mummy?" Mycroft asks, knocking on the door lightly.
She whips out a smile and opens the door.
"Yes, darling?" she asks, tucking the panic close around her heart. He looks at her funny.
"I'm hungry, mummy, it's time for lunch," he says slowly.
And she looks and indeed, hours have passed.
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It's snowing, and Mycroft's birthday has passed and he's six and Sherringford bakes him a cake and watches, entrapped, as he blows out the candles. She watches, and plans.
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His skin is surprisingly soft under her hands as she lays him down on her huge bed, his eyes wide and his breath coming fast.
"Ma'am?" he chokes out, and she sooths him, clicking her tongue as she kisses him chastely and works on getting him out of his shirt.
She remembers how to do this.
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He doesn't really know what they do together, but afterwards, when his brow draws together and tears fill his eyes as his fingers brush the bruises his huge hands left on her hips, she draws him in with a satisfied sigh and tells him how good he did and how much he helped her.
He smiles then, that vacant, absent smiles, and kisses her sloppily.
And she laughs, pulling him back down below the sheets.
And things are almost like they were. Before.
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He's good at what he does, the chores and the upkeep while she is busy teaching Mycroft.
And when he watches her at night, her fingers caressing the piano keys like she would a lover, she pretends she can't see.
It makes things better.
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She pets his hair and lets him kiss her while Mycroft is asleep.
In the light of day, no one knows.
Except maybe Mycroft, but he doesn't care so long as she's happy.
And she is. Really.
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She continues to plan.
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She bemoans the fact that she is about to loose Sherringford around town where all the old gossips can hear, saying that his family was calling him back home and that she couldn't possibly keep him for very much longer.
She neglects, however, putting an add in the paper for new help-Sherringford was just so wonderful, you see.
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She slips him arsenic, little by little, in each cup of tea that she brings him when he is mowing the yard. She takes in his smiles hungrily while he gulps down his death, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
At night, when he is ill, she holds him and soothes him and rubs his back when he cries.
She imagines that she is killing Her.
Sherringford is just the transport of her revenge.
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"I don't feel good," he moans, his face wax and drawn. He looks to her for help.
She smiles softly, "It's all right, here, have another cup of tea. You'll feel better soon."
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When he dies, he is beside her, and his breath stutters out across her cheek.
It feels like benediction.
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She slips his body into the fire, giving him a clean burial while Mycroft is asleep. Afterwards, when the fire dies down, she takes the little bits of remaining bone and buries them in the garden by the light of the moon.
He will always help her flowers grow.
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…
She didn't expect him to get her pregnant.