The Lives of Others
Chapter One: Ms. Hudson
Disclaimer: Just playing!
"I am a part of all that I have met."
Sitting crossed armed, slightly hunched over, Sherlock waits for someone to call him out for being a liar. The other addicts in the church basement hardly stir. Not fans of Tennyson, perhaps. British Victorian poetry is studied in the United States—Sherlock has had more than one occasion to quiz Watson on a line from Hardy or Arnold. And every winter some amateur theatrical troupe in the city performs what must be an abominable adaptation of Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
He sits up. "It's a quotation from Tennyson's 'Ulysses,' you see. A commentary about being connected to those around us. Changed by our experiences."
Again he waits for someone to point out the contradiction in what he said not two minutes earlier, something he's said more than once, that he is without peer. That he lives his life from a place of lonely regard, like someone watching others without feeling a need to join in. The consummate observer.
"I realize," Sherlock says, his gaze focused on the middle distance, "that being without peer does not, as you might think, suggest a lack of relationships on my part. My life is full of encounters with other people, mostly through my work, but increasingly in other parts of my life as well. My co-workers are important to me. They are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. And my—partner—knows who I am as well as anyone."
He lowers his gaze and adds, "Being understood is superior, in my opinion, to being loved. We very often love people without truly understanding them, or our love gets in the way of seeing them as they are. But to be understood—truly seen—is a rare gift indeed."
Now some of the other people in the room do stir—a gentle rustle of legs uncrossing and chairs creaking. From the corner of his eye Sherlock sees an older woman nodding. So. His observations are shared, an oddly gratifying revelation.
Nevertheless, when the meeting ends a few minutes later, Sherlock makes a point of slipping out without exchanging any words with anyone. Head down, his hands in his pockets, he walks two blocks to the subway station. Under his feet he feels the seismic tremor of a train—the northbound #3, two minutes behind schedule. Hurrying down the steps and through the turnstile, he hears the characteristic screech of the #2 southbound train, the bent lip of the rail in this station making the braking louder than normal.
The train is already crowded and for a moment Sherlock hesitates, weighing the odds of the next one being less occupied. Most of the passengers are well-heeled business men in suits and ties and women in formal trousers and jackets. For the next hour the trains will be full of such people going home from work. With a sigh, Sherlock pushes his way into the car and grabs a pole as the train jerks forward a moment later.
It isn't true, of course, that he's a part of everyone he's met. This crowd here on the train, for instance—including the pickpocket even now eyeing the purse of the woman standing next to him, an undocumented day laborer holding a brown bag of day-old bread, three chatting bankers whose mutual dislike is obvious, a teenager with tattoos of stars on his neck, a nanny pushing a pram—Sherlock observes them and then dismisses them as they disappear at the various stations. By the time he exits at the Clark Street station in Brooklyn, all of the original passengers have been replaced by new travelers. A metaphor, certainly, for the people who enter and leave his life.
Not all of them, of course. Not Watson.
As soon as he opens the front door of the brownstone he knows that she is cooking, something she does rarely and with reluctance, protesting that she is not very skilled. Nonsense, of course. Her cooking is more than adequate. Soup, chili, sandwiches of all sorts. Pasta. Once she made brownies that they consumed in a single sitting.
"Oh, hey," she says when he wanders into the kitchen. "Spaghetti'll be ready in a few minutes."
Sherlock nods and picks up a rectangular piece of paper from the table.
bleach
wood polish
mop
Ms. Hudson's handwriting. Watson sees the list in his hand and says, "Ms. Hudson said we needed a few things. I can pick them up when I get groceries tomorrow."
The list is a mystery. Yesterday there was a full bottle of bleach in the pantry, and a week ago he bought wood polish. And the mop is also fairly new.
"You saw her today?"
"Uh huh," Watson says, stirring a pot on the stove. "She left about an hour ago. Why?"
"How did she seem? Was she upset? Distraught in any way? More talkative than usual? Or less?"
"What's this about?"
"This list," Sherlock says, replacing it on the table. "Ms. Hudson is going through our cleaning supplies more quickly than is ordinary, which suggests she is distracted by something."
Watson puts down the spoon and turns to look at him. "Or maybe the basement is adding more work. I hadn't thought about that. We need to pay her more—"
"Nothing in the basement requires wood polish or bleach," Sherlock says. "This savors of something else."
Watson lifts the pot from the stove. With a start, Sherlock realizes that she is waiting for him to put the colander in the sink so she can drain the noodles.
"You know," Watson says, picking up a fork and placing noodles on a plate, "now that you mention it, she did look a little…well, upset. Or something. I should have asked her about it."
"You were granting her her privacy," Sherlock says swiftly. "Though if I'm not mistaken, we may have an opportunity to express our concern now."
"What are you—"
"Ms. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts. "We're down here!"
Footsteps on the stairs, and then Ms. Hudson appears in the doorway. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but I seem to have misplaced my wallet. I thought I'd check here before I started canceling my credit cards."
"I'll help you look," Watson says, rising. Sherlock feels her eyes slide toward him, a prompt.
"Yes, well, Watson and I were just talking about this," he says, picking up the list. "An inexplicable overuse of supplies, and now your wallet goes missing. Not your temperament. Do you wish to tell us what is going on?"
Ms. Hudson's eyes widen and she sniffs. Twice.
"Why don't you sit down?" Watson says. Ms. Hudson pulls out the chair at the end of the table and settles in it carefully. Sherlock and Watson sit back down.
"I'm interrupting your dinner," Ms. Hudson says, motioning to their plates. "It's probably nothing anyway."
"On the other hand, if you wish to tell us—" Sherlock says. Ms. Hudson takes a deep breath and appears to be considering something. At last she lets out her breath and says, "You're right, of course. I don't know why I thought you wouldn't notice. It's my brother. I'm worried about him."
Sherlock sees Watson react. "I didn't know you had a brother," she says.
"Oh, yes," Ms. Hudson says. "We haven't been close since….well, in a long time. But we'd send birthday cards, that sort of thing. His wife used to write letters, but then they split when he went into rehab."
"Your brother is an addict?" Sherlock says.
"He's had a drinking problem since we were teenagers. He said it was under control, but then he lost his job and things fell apart. I'm not even sure where he is right now."
"Do you have other family?" Watson says half a beat before Sherlock thinks to ask. Other family might know where her brother is, or at the very least, might know how to find him. Surely Ms. Hudson would have already explored that idea if she had family.
"She does not," Sherlock says before Ms. Hudson can answer. Watson gives him an impenetrable look—something vaguely disapproving though he can't imagine why.
"Do you want us to find him? Your brother?" Watson says.
To his astonishment, Ms. Hudson bursts into tears. Watson is instantly on her feet, an arm thrown around Ms. Hudson's shoulders.
"It's probably nothing," she says, snuffling into her palm. "But until I know—"
It's not the sort of missing person case Sherlock relishes—nothing convoluted or layered, just a user who's temporarily fallen off the radar. The police are more than up to the task. He opens his mouth to say so.
"Tell us everything you know about his last whereabouts," Watson says. "We'll see what we can do."
Now it's Sherlock's turn to give Watson a look, but she turns away—deliberately—so that she isn't looking at him directly.
I am a part of all that I have met. Truer some days than others. He slides his plate of spaghetti to Ms. Hudson.
"Here," he says, darting a glance at Watson. "Go ahead and eat something before you start. This may take awhile."
X X
She's almost home when she realizes that her wallet isn't in her purse. Nor is it in the floor of the taxi, nor the seat, nor in her coat pocket. Her heart thumping wildly, Ms. Hudson leans up to the smeared clear plastic partition in the cab and says, "Houston, we have a problem."
The joke is lost on the cabbie who's been listening the entire ride to Spanish talk radio. "Eh?"
"I have to run in to get some money," Ms. Hudson says, motioning to the high-rise apartment on the corner. "Look, I'm sorry, but I think I let my wallet inside. Here, I'm leaving my purse with you as collateral."
She shoves her purse—Prada, worth the price of a dozen taxi rides—through the opening in the plastic. The cabbie, alarmed now, says, "No! You pay! No!"
"I'll be right back!" She steps out of the cab on the street side—a terrific sin—and pats the hood as she dashes around the front. "Right back!" she calls again.
The daytime doorman sees her coming and has the door open as she dashes through. "Tell that cabbie not to leave!" she says as she runs to the elevator. A miracle—it's in the lobby already, something that almost never happens.
Of course her wallet isn't in the apartment—she knew that the moment she realized that it was missing. But she has emergency cash in a jewelry box—several hundred dollars for just this kind of situation—and in two more minutes she is back in the cab explaining to the cabbie—mollified by a sizeable tip—that she needs to go back where he picked her up.
"All the way to Brooklyn?"
"Yes, I know, but I forgot something. Please hurry."
It's her own fault, of course, her mind a million miles away. She's never had trouble focusing before—not even when her mother was dying from breast cancer and Ms. Hudson had lost her sales job in an upscale women's clothing boutique in Chelsea. Back when she was known as Brandon, before she took Hudson as her name—borrowing intentionally from the river she paid dearly to see from her bedroom window. Back before she'd finally, irrevocably decided to transition to who she always knew she was.
Back when Daniel was still talking to her.
They'd grown up across the Hudson in Jersey City, moving across the river to New York after high school to share a one room walk-up with a cat to keep the roaches and rats at bay. Daniel was two years younger, the more adventurous of the brothers, always moving to a new girlfriend, a new job.
For awhile they both worked at the same Indian restaurant. That's when Ms. Hudson met the owner's son Amit, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, and had fallen madly, deeply in love for the first time. She said nothing, unsure how to explain to anyone, not even to herself, what she should do.
When she confided in Daniel he was at first confused and then dismissive and finally angry. So she stopped telling him what she was doing—going to support meetings, finding a therapist, deciding on hormone therapy and surgery. Learning to walk all over again. Taking voice lessons. Discovering the multiple sleights levied against women. Throwing herself into learning ancient Greek. Joining an online forum for chess masters. Indulging her OCD by organizing the research a dissertation student at Columbia had cobbled together—and parlaying that job into others like it, making enough money to survive but not enough to live well until a friend in London put her in contact with Sherlock.
He needed a researcher, he said, someone who was careful to a fault, who didn't mind following a rabbit trail through cumbersome records to come up with the kinds of details that seemed, on the surface, trivial or unimportant but which he assured her were essential. It wasn't often, but when she heard from him he paid her enough to carry her forward several comfortable months.
And then she met Davis—and began the on-again off-again whirlwind that became their life together. By then she'd had several other lovers, men who appreciated her intelligence as much as they found her history intriguing—but no one doted on her the way Davis did, helping her move to an apartment with a better view, giving her a clothing allowance that was more than she had made waiting tables her first year in New York.
"I think it's fair to expect more than that from a relationship," Joan had said that night they were snowed in at the brownstone. And it was true. She did deserve more.
Giving up Davis had sent her into a spiral of unresolved grief for her mother, her brother. She reached out to Daniel and his wife, Molly, invited her to visit their home in Queens.
Molly was lovely—warm and welcoming, giving Ms. Hudson a hug as soon as she met her.
Daniel was more cautious—which her therapist had warned about.
"After all," the therapist said, "he remembers you very differently. From his point of view, he's lost a brother."
Ms. Hudson had bristled at that. Daniel hadn't lost anything. In fact, he'd gained a sibling who was finally comfortable in her own skin. Surely that ought to count for something.
The evening had been strained and awkward but cordial enough, and after that Ms. Hudson made a point of sending cards and staying in touch.
Until Molly called and said Daniel was in rehab, something he should have done long ago.
"I wanted to tell you goodbye," Molly said, something in her voice signaling more than she was saying.
"You're leaving him," Ms. Hudson said, and on the other end of the line Molly gave a strangled hiccup and said, "I have to."
That was two months ago and since then Ms. Hudson has tried to find Daniel. The rehab center will tell her nothing more than his discharge date was weeks ago. His phone is disconnected. His apartment is empty. When she passes homeless men in the park, she pauses to see if she recognizes her brother.
She could ask Sherlock to help, of course, though she's embarrassed to have to confess to him that addiction is driving her brother's behavior. Is it triggering to ask an addict to search for another one? At some level she knows that part of her reluctance is admitting that she and her brother are estranged. Even now she can't believe that children who spent so many happy hours playing ball and riding bikes could end up hardly speaking as adults.
The cab pulls up to the sidewalk and she debates whether or not to tell him to wait. Surely her wallet is somewhere stupid and obvious and she can dart in and out in a minute or two. On the other hand, she's already spent enough on cabs today. She'll take the train back home.
When she unlocks the door she pauses long enough to listen for voices, half hoping that no one is home.
"Ms. Hudson!"
Well, there's no remedy now. She'll have to own up to being forgetful. Hopefully with two detectives in the house, her wallet will turn up in short order.
X X X
Finding Daniel takes less than two hours.
Joan makes a phone call to a social worker friend who works at a clinic near the rehab center and describes him. The social worker isn't sure but Daniel sounds familiar. She gives Joan the number of a men's shelter nearby, and when she calls, the director IDs Daniel right away.
"Want to come?" Joan asks Sherlock. He's busy with some sort of chemical test, using litmus paper to separate elements suspended in various fluids. She expects him to turn her down and is pleasantly surprised when he lifts his coat from the hook and follows her outside. Joan heads toward the subway stop but Sherlock hails a passing cab.
"What exactly do you hope to achieve?" he says, settling into the seat beside her. "If Daniel even agrees to talk to us."
Sherlock's question catches her off-guard and she realizes she hasn't actually considered what she should tell him. That his sister is concerned? That she's trying to get in touch? That she's offering him a place to stay?
All true, of course, but from what Ms. Hudson has told them, Daniel isn't likely to be very receptive.
"I guess," Joan says, "it depends on what we find. If he's okay—if he's not abusing—then we just need to see if he's safe. That he has a place to stay and a way to support himself."
"And if we don't find that?"
"Then we'll try to convince him to return to rehab. Or at least to contact his sister. She needs to know what he's doing, no matter what it is."
Sherlock stares outside at the passing traffic. "The odds are against us. I know from experience that no one is as convincing as oneself when it comes to getting the sort of help he needs. He isn't likely to listen to strangers at any rate. If this doesn't prove to be a fool's errand, then I'll be quite surprised."
Joan feels a prickle of annoyance. "Then why'd you agree to come?"
"I considered not doing so," Sherlock says. "But I was…concerned…that Ms. Hudson's brother might be difficult."
It's as close as he can come to admitting feeling protective of her. Sherlock pulls out his phone and busies himself with it.
"Thanks," Joan says. "You're probably right."
The visit with Daniel is faster than the crosstown trip to the shelter. Sherlock picks him out of the group of men watching a football game on TV in a large room at the front of the shelter and heads to him immediately.
"Daniel? My name is Sherlock Holmes. Might I have a word with you?"
From her vantage point, Joan sees Daniel shrug. "Go ahead," he says.
Sherlock motions to Joan who comes forward and stands beside him. "This is Joan Watson. She and I are consulting detectives with the New York Police Department, though we are not here in that capacity."
"Then why are you here?" Daniel says, a note of irritation in his voice. Joan feels Sherlock flinch slightly and she steps closer to Daniel.
"Actually, we're here because your sister is worried about you. She knew you went into rehab but she hasn't been able to find you since then."
Daniel snorts and says, "I don't have a sister."
"She needs to know that you are okay," Joan says.
"Then you tell her, or him, or whatever, that I don't any help. Now, do you mind? The Ravens are playing."
Joan sighs. She isn't surprised, but she is disappointed. She turns to go.
"Your confusion is understandable," Sherlock says, stepping between Daniel and the TV. "You were children together, playmates, companions. And now the person you thought you knew turns out to have been a phantom all along. Even trained observers have trouble seeing those nearest. Lovers. Siblings. We think we understand them better than we do. You are very fortunate, though. Your sibling is close at hand. You still have a chance to get to know her. She's not just the person you knew once—she's more."
He rocks slowly on the balls of his feet, almost like someone in a fighting stance.
Which, Joan thinks, he might be. Daniel's face flushes.
"Beat it," he says. "And if you don't, I'll call the cops."
X X X X
They ride back to the brownstone in silence.
"You want me to call her?" Joan says as they exit the cab. "I don't mind."
"Not necessary," Sherlock says. "The brass kickplate on the door has been polished since we left. She's waiting for us inside."
The door opens as Sherlock takes out his key.
"I hope you don't mind," Ms. Hudson says. "I felt too anxious waiting at home."
"We spoke to him," Joan says. "He's at the men's shelter I told you about."
"Is he okay? Did he say anything about me?"
Joan feels Sherlock's eyes on her.
"He did not appear to be impaired in any way," Sherlock says. "The shelter undoubtedly has rules about alcohol which will help him maintain his sobriety."
"Then you think it's a good place for him? A good situation?"
"We told him you were concerned. He said to reassure you that he is well."
Ms. Hudson visibly relaxes. "I'm so relieved," she says. "Thank you so much for finding him and checking on him. Do you think I can see him?"
"It might be best," Sherlock says, "if you give him more time. Seeing you—letting you see him in this state—will embarrass him. He knows he's let you down."
Ms. Hudson's eyes grow misty and she wipes the back of her hand across her cheek.
"I understand," she says. From the side table she picks up her purse and sweater. "I'm heading home, then. With my wallet, too."
When the door latches behind her Joan swivels around and faces Sherlock.
"You lied."
"I gave her a version of the truth."
She opens her mouth to argue.
On the other hand, who's to say Sherlock didn't see past the actual words to something more elemental?
"I guess," Joan says, "if it can be true for one person, it might turn out to be true for someone else."
Sherlock cuts his eyes at her but says nothing. Suddenly she's very tired—a hot bath and an early bedtime sound appealing.
"I'm heading up," she says. "Unless you need me to sit with you."
Sherlock throws his shoulders back the way he does when he wants to communicate emphatic disagreement.
"I require no such attention," he says. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," she says, heading up the steps. She's almost sorry she didn't just tell him she was staying up awhile longer, keeping him company whether he wants it or not.
This is how it will always be, she thinks, living in the presence of ghosts, stumbling over the unspoken, unexamined questions around the edge of their relationship.
"You understand me better than anyone," he told her when she insisted he could not have killed Maria Gutierrez. His voice was raised, his chin tipped up in high emotion, his attempt to refute what she knew was bedrock true. But she had not faltered for a moment, and later when she recalled his words she understood something else, too, that nothing and no one anchors him as she does.
A/N: I've been away writing original fiction and playing in the Star Trek fandom, but the Elementary Muse whispered in my ear today and I had to take dictation. Thanks for jumping along for what I hope will be a fun ride as we hear from some other regular irregulars.