No Rest For The Wicked
"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Hudson frowned, distractedly glancing over her shoulder as a little boy in a shirt and waistcoat that looked too big for him, came skidding to a stop behind her. "Watch your step, Billy," she admonished, making him pull a pained face.
"Never mind," Sherlock said, recovering himself, "what were you saying?"
"That I wish you would let me know when you're planning to come home," Mrs. Hudson repeated, brushing the snow off his shoulders, an intimate yet useless gesture instantly noted by Clara.
"I hardly knew myself, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said loftily as Watson clambered out of the carriage behind him, paying the driver his fare, "that's the problem with dismembered country squires, they're notoriously difficult to schedule."
"Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?" Billy asked imperiously, exalted at being Mr. Holmes's right hand man – or so Sherlock let him believe, uncharacteristically humouring the child. The little boy had been hired to help Mrs. Hudson around 221B Baker Street, but his burdens were light, Sherlock seeing it was so.
"Caught the murderer, still looking for the Lakes," Sherlock said confidentially, discreetly signalling Clara with his pipe to follow him into the house, "I think we'll call it a draw."
"What's in there?" Billy asked Watson, reaching for the bags, his fingers flexing in anticipation of uncovering their secrets.
"Never you mind," Watson said smartly, craning his neck as Clara went into the house, lifting her skirts as she went. "Who's the drab?" he asked Mrs. Hudson, who had now stepped in front of him, almost blocking his way.
"Some new case probably," Mrs. Hudson said, dismissing Clara from her thoughts for the time being, "and I noticed you published another one of your stories, Dr. Watson."
"Yes," Watson said, forcing a jocular smile, knowing where this was going. "Did you enjoy it?"
Mrs. Hudson hesitated, pretending to ponder his question. "No," she said abruptly, before turning and heading into the house, leaving Watson unceremoniously alone, only for him to follow her, refusing to let her win this round.
After traversing the somewhat perilous staircase, Clara came to a stop in the dark and narrow vestibule, the air close, the combination of black wallpaper and walnut wood panelling putting her in mind of a funeral parlour. There was barely any opportunity for natural light to enter the house, creating corners where anything might lurk. As she examined her grim surroundings, Sherlock stood with his back deliberately turned to her, taking his time in hanging up his cape and deerstalker hat, all but refusing to acknowledge her presence.
As Billy rushed past, his arm clipped Clara's elbow, nearly knocking her sideways, emphasizing the cramped conditions Sherlock now lived in. Steadying herself, Clara clutched her carpet-bag tighter, silently willing Sherlock to turn around, to do something, anything, even if it was only to insult her. The sound of raised voices made her turn around, only to see Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's travelling companion coming up the stairs, the former looming over the latter, looking exceedingly annoyed.
"Well, I never say anything, do I?" Mrs. Hudson was arguing in response to Watson's disgruntled questioning over why she didn't enjoy his depiction of her in his stories. "According to you I only show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast."
"Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function," Watson explained not for the first time, hanging up his bowler hat on the ornate peg, casting Clara another curious glance. Despite her windblown appearance and dowdy taste in dresses, up close, she was rather pretty in a country girl kind of way, which in his book was enough to merit one of his winning smiles, Clara parrying it with a patronizing smile of her own.
"My what!?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hand flying dramatically to her bosom, just missing Clara's face by inches.
"Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said lightly, finally turning around, "I'm hardly in the dog one."
"The dog one?" Clara said before she could stop herself, making everybody stare at her.
"Yes, the dog one," Sherlock said slowly, as though addressing an imbecile, making Clara colour angrily.
"Well, I'm your landlady, not a plot device," Mrs. Hudson said, sticking her nose up into the air, before sweeping past Clara.
"I would wager my best pipe she spent all week thinking up such a riposte," Sherlock said to Watson, who just raised an eyebrow, before turning to Clara.
"The, ahem, 'dog one'," Watson said with another winning smile in Clara's direction, "is one of my... stories." He smoothed down his moustache, striking what he plainly thought was an intellectual pose.
"The Hound of the Baskervilles?" Clara frowned.
"So you are familiar with my works, then?" Watson said, roguishly raising an eyebrow, expecting the usual gush of fervent praise.
Clara glanced at Sherlock, but he'd turned his back on her again, Clara irreverently noticing he'd cut his curls off, his hair now restrained and slicked back. "Your illustrator appears to be abusing the privileges that accompany artistic licence," she then said pertly, "he's made you at least twice the size you are. I was expecting Dr. John Watson to be of rather Herculean proportions, and here I am, only to find myself confronted by a mere mortal."
"But his moustache has taken on godlike dimensions," Sherlock said, turning around again. "I hope that remedies the deficiency of your destroyed expectations."
"Not even the most exemplary example of facial hair could resurrect my so called destroyed expectations," Clara retorted, stung by his sarcasm.
"I shall take that as my cue to start work," Sherlock said, taking her arm before steering her into the sitting room, something in his face warning Watson not to follow, "there is no rest for the wicked, eh?"
