Note: Huzzah! Day two! To everyone that reviewed: thank you so much! To be honest, I had an irritating day at work yesterday and reading everyone's responses and stories and comments made me smile. Thanks again!
From Domina Temporis: Watson is away on a trip. What will Mrs. Hudson do with a bored consulting detective until Watson returns?
The doctor will be home again shortly. He must be. He can't be gone for too long. The doctor will be home—
The violin screeching a floor above Mrs. Hudson suddenly stopped, and the house-keeper closed her eyes in relief, sinking down into a kitchen chair. For three days, she had abided all manner of nuisance from her bored lodger.
Mr. Holmes, it must be said, is creative.
Who else but a creative man would choose two o'clock in the morning to research the volume of report from three types of revolvers? Who else but a creative man would consider playing a fast-tempo staccato piece using only the E string of his violin for an hour and a half? Who else but a creative man would voluntarily create a minor explosive chemical reaction – simply because "it is terribly fascinating! I've always wanted to see that reaction for myself. Although I daresay this book might have warned that the sparks go a slight bit further than the ordinary – Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson, terribly sorry about the scorch marks in the rug, there's no point in shouting so—"
That very incident earlier this afternoon had quite nearly been the final straw. She had forced Holmes' promise: to stay away from that "blasted chemistry set" until the good Doctor arrives home again, or "heaven forbid, I'll send word off to one of those gentlemen Inspectors at the yard to have you removed and detained until Dr. Watson returns."
In truth, neither herself nor Mr. Holmes knew when that would be. It could be tomorrow, it could be three days from now. At that thought, the desperate Mrs. Hudson groaned aloud, rubbing her hand across her eyes. There was little she could do to keep Mr. Holmes occupied, short of running outside and murdering someone for his entertainment. Honestly, like a fussy little child, he is. At least, she conceded wearily, it would keep him from concocting some new torture for a few minutes—
A floor above, there came a bang! and the rattle of glass in panes. A tell-tale bout of coughing set the landlady to her feet.
Oh, he wouldn't.
Ire fixing her posture, Mrs. Hudson stomped up the stairs, listening as a scramble of footsteps and a poorly subdued swear confirm her angry suspicions.
She swung open the door of the sitting room and let herself in without announcement, glaring at the bland, innocent face of Sherlock Holmes.
"What did I say about the chemistry table."
The detective cleared his throat with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson?"
It was perfectly ludicrous. Holmes tried to resist a cough in the smoky, rancid atmosphere of an unexpectedly violent chemical reaction. He was like a child covered in chocolate residue trying to swear he'd had nothing to do with a jar of vanished sweets.
"Mister. Holmes."
The detective sighed, as if the whole rigmarole of interrogation was perfectly tedious. "Mrs. Hudson, you said, 'do not touch that blasted chemistry set' until Dr. Watson returns home again."
"Then why," Mrs. Hudson demanded testily, "have you just gone. And used. The chemistry set."
"Ah! Correction, my dear woman." He gave a victorious grin. "I did not use the blasted chemistry set."
He indicated a line of shattered test tubes and beakers in the rubbish bin beside the door.
For a moment, all Mrs. Hudson could do was stare in outright astonishment.
Holmes' smug expression turned sour when Mrs. Hudson drew herself to her full height (all five foot, three inches of it), the full tilt of her Scottish upbringing seeping unconsciously into her furious words.
"I have had enough. Mr. Holmes! This is quite the last straw of my patience."
"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes tried soothingly, standing and raising his hands gently.
"No! Enough! What did I say, sir? What did I say? I said I would have you forcibly removed."
The no-nonsense tone in her voice sent a great deal of the blood in the detective's face plummeting away.
"Ah—Mrs. Hudson, surely—"
"Oh," she scoffed haughtily, "now you change your tone! No, Mr. Holmes, I have had enough. Enough!"
She swept around and began making her way downstairs. She'd send one of the boys, they could get a hold of – oh, which one was it that Holmes despised so much?
"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes came running after her, hands raised in desperate supplication. "Mrs. Hudson, my dear woman-"
"Don't you dear woman me, you incorrigible nuisance."
"I appol – I apologize, I realize now that I my – um, erratic moods may – on occasion be troublesome—"
Mrs. Hudson snorted in an unladylike manner.
"But if you will allow me to make it up to you, in some way—Please, Mrs. Hudson, stop for just a moment!"
Holmes drew up short on the stairs, head and torso recoiling when Mrs. Hudson turned stonily to face him.
"And how, do you suppose, you should make it up to me."
The detective foundered. "… Um."
She raised an eyebrow and threw her arms out. "Well? I'm listening! You had better think of something, Mr. Holmes."
Desperation caused him to be foolish. "Ah – well, I suppose – I suppose it should be up to you?"
The landlady blinked. Seeing her momentarily distracted from her path of revenge, Holmes deflated in relief. "Yes. That sounds only fair. Mrs. Hudson, how may I make it up to you? It is your decision."
Slowly, a smile traced its way across her face. Holmes grimaced.
Three hours later, Sherlock Holmes concluded to himself that landladies were most intolerable and erratic, and should be treated with the utmost of care.
His first task – first, mind you – was to move some boxes down from the attic, and to take some from the first floor to the attic. Breath heaving and in dusty shirt sleeves, he slid the final box into the attic and slumped over the trapdoor.
Below him, standing at the ladder, Mrs. Hudson's voice called cheerily. "Why, thank you Mr. Holmes, for taking some of your free time to help a woman with some difficult lifting. I have another task for you once you come down."
The detective pulled himself up to glare down at the smug little woman. She observed him a moment before noting blandly, "You've a cobweb in your hair, Mr. Holmes," and turning toward the stairs.
Irritably, he picked the clinging strands form his hair. He gave a final glance around the attic, sighed, and slowly made his way down the ladder. Well, he mused, at least I'll have something to do until Watson returns.