THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.
Author's note: Mrs Hudson's Whoniverse identity might be revealed later. Until then, you're free to guess. *g* Also, in the unaired pilot the bar is genuinely called "Mrs Hudson's Snack and Sarnies". I kid you not! It only became "Speedy's" in the final version.
Part 14 – The Landlady
Mrs. Dorothea Hudson was slowly getting desperate. Buying 221 Baker Street hadn't turned out quite the old age insurance she'd thought it would. Why, it had only been three weeks since she'd managed to get rid of that very unpleasant young man with the unacceptable smoking and drinking habits… not to mention his lady friend who tried to run her own questionable business (of carnal nature) from the same flat.
Her flat, the one into which she'd put so much work and love to make it a good home for someone who would deserve it.
Sometimes she really envied Mrs Turner and her married ones next door. Sure, in her youth you wouldn't even think of two gentlemen getting legally married, but at least Mrs. Turner's boys were polite, mild-mannered and very, very fastidious.
Polly had always been better at making the right choices.
And then there was the dreadful business with pour young Mr. Kuryakin killing himself in 221C. The first time she'd managed to rent out that horrible flat, and it only lasted a couple of weeks. Now it would remain empty for good, she feared. It wasn't very appealing to begin with, and knowing that a man had been hanged in it would frighten all potential lodgers away.
Oh, this was such a mess! Ever since she'd had to give up her little business, the sandwich bar on the ground level, due to her arthritic hip, things seemed to be worsening steadily. The large sign advertising Mrs Hudson's Snack and Sarnies was still up above the entrance, but the new owner was already busy at redecorating and modernising the place.
Her heart clenched every time she looked at it. Giving up the bar had been hard, but she'd had no other choice. She might still be able to cook for herself or bake the one or other tin of biscuits whenever she invited Mrs. Turner for tea, but running a bar on her own, even if such a small one, was out of the question. She could call herself fortunate that the bloody hip didn't bother her more; she'd learned to live with he moderate pain, and her herbal soothers worked well enough.
But giving up the bar meant another cut into her modest income, and with both flats currently standing empty she feared that she'd be forced to use up her savings (such as they were in these times) to help her over the period of financial draught.
Really, ever since she'd made the mistake of marrying that horrible man and following him to the States, things had been on a downward spiral for her. Her first husband, a journalist, had lived for his work and died due to crossing the wrong people (she had no idea what UNIT was and why her James had wanted to investigate them, and frankly, she didn't care), but at least he'd been a decent chap.
The second one, though… she shivered from the memory of having married such a monster. How could she have been such a fool, to fall for Francis Cleary's compliments and promises? How could she not realise that he'd been insane? Had she not been so lonely after dear James's death…
She couldn't understand Mrs. Turner, she really couldn't. The woman used to have a decent husband, one that even her posh family had found suitable, and yet she'd left him for her old lover, that uncouth sailor! All right, granted, her sailor had proven quite the social climber, becoming an Admiral and whatnot, but he was still a Cockney who'd grown up near a brewery. He was not the right match for the daughter of a name-worthy scientist, who'd grown up in a big, old mansion in the countryside.
And yet Mrs. Turner would even become estranged from her only son over this relationship. It was silly and irresponsible, really. It clearly showed that Mrs. Turner had no idea what loneliness truly was.
Mrs. Hudson always regretted not having any children. With dear James, they had wanted to wait. Until he'd make a name for himself. Until he'd have a steady job, instead of working freelance. Until it was too late.
With her second husband, she figured out soon enough what kind of man she'd married and dreaded the thought of bringing a copy of him into the world. Thank goodness, he didn't want any children; otherwise he might have forced her.
Fortunately, he'd been caught and sentenced to death in Florida some ten years ago. And what was even more fortunate, Mr. Holmes had used his connections to ensure that he would be in fact executed, despite his elusive insanity, so that she could return to England. To London, which had always been her only true home.
As she had been proven innocent in her second husband's hideous crimes, she could keep her part of their funds (in which, again, she suspected Mr. Holmes's influence), but those funds were small and the future uncertain.
She wiped her eyes and was about to turn away from the window and put on the kettle for her much-needed afternoon tea when she spotted somebody approaching her house. It was a tall, dark-haired young man in an expensive, three-piece pinstriped suit. An elegant black car – presumably the one in which he'd come – was parked right in front of the house. He went directly to the door of 221B and rang the bell.
Her hopes renewed, Mrs. Hudson hurried down to answer the door and was pleased to get a closer look of that smooth, almost child-like face. That button nose was particularly cute, she found. Only the calm, blue-grey eyes didn't match the rest of the picture. They were too old and careworn to belong in such a youthful face; as if the visitor had already seen too much in his young life.
"Mrs. Dorothea Hudson?" he asked in a mellow voice that had a distinctive Welsh lilt to it. She nodded.
"That I am. What can I do for you, Mr…" she trailed off expectantly, and he caught her drift at once.
"The name is Jones, Mrs. Hudson," he supplied. "Ianto Jones."
"You're Welsh, aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson was warming to him immediately. Such a nice, well-groomed boy he was, with such pleasant manners, it would be a delight to have him around. "Are you interested in renting one of the flats, then?"
Ianto Jones smiled, and that made Mrs. Hudson's heart melt in her chest just a little. She wished she had a son like him.
"In a manner, yes," he replied apologetically. "Not for myself, though."
"Oh!" her heart dropped in disappointment. He must have realised it, because he gave her another one of those slow, sly smiles.
"Actually, I'm here on behalf of Mr. Holmes," he explained. "I work for him; and he'd like you to take his younger brother as a boarder. He's willing to supply part of the rent, as Sherlock hasn't got full access to his funds yet."
"Oh, of course I'll take him!" her mood brightened again, remembering the strange, brilliant young man who'd helped her in the deepest crisis of her life. "I'll even make him a good price. I owe that boy so much! I no for him, I'd never been freed from that terrible husband of mine."
"It won't be easy, though," Ianto warned her. "He's a most eccentric person of decidedly odd habits, of which playing the violin in the oddest hours of the night is just the most harmless one. And Mr. Holmes would require to be informed in the moment his brother might have a relapse into his drug using habit."
"Don't worry about that, my boy," she said, delighted to be able to do something for those whom she owed her late chance to a normal life. "I'm sure I can deal with Sherlock. A bit of tender little care can get you a long way. Now, why don't you come in and have a cuppa with me? I was just about to put the kettle on, and I still have some of the ginger biscuits I baked yesterday."
"I don't want to be a nuisance," he began politely, but Mrs. Hudson cut him in the word.
"Nonsense. You look like someone in need of a bit of pampering yourself. Besides, tea always tastes better when shared."
She turned around, determined to wait on the bringer of good news, and Ianto Jones obediently followed her into her little salon, ready to be pampered.
~TBC~