Prompt 13: From trustingHim17 – Why does Mrs. Hudson put up with Holmes' antics?
Understandings
There is a swirl of colours fighting for dominance inside the glass, reds and yellows and greens twisting and thrashing. Holmes is watching this manifestation closely, his nose millimetres from the beaker, concentration harder than concrete making his body go rigid. Everything is carrying an extreme delicacy, the very air holding its breath.
Then the door creaks loudly behind him, and Mrs. Hudson enters the room.
"Will you be wanting supper now, Mr. Holmes?"
It is the briefest moment of distraction, his eyes leaving the dancing hues for a mere second, but it is enough.
The beaker shatters, a high-pitched explosion of glass, fragments darting along the floorboards like dropped marbles. Mrs. Hudson shouts in alarm, instinctively covers her face. A piece of glass slices Holmes's cheek open, a brief sting followed by tingling numbness as blood trails a path along his jaw.
He stares at the liquid dripping off the chemistry table, colours adding to the stains that already grace the rug. It is a combination of Oriental and African, he tells visitors if they are inclined to ask; custom made.
He turns to face Mrs. Hudson, watches as she lowers her hands, peeks over the tips of her fingers, wide eyes scanning the room before meeting his narrowed ones. Her arms slowly return to her side. She observes the mess with a resigned calmness, a faint sigh escaping her.
"I will fetch the broom," she says, almost toneless, and then, with candour and a quirk of her brow, "We did agree you would put a sign on the door, Mr. Holmes." I am not accountable, are her unsaid words.
Holmes presses his handkerchief to his cheek and inclines his head, a gesture to show he concedes that this particular fault lies with him. "Indeed, we did."
/-/-/
Five years earlier ...
"It is concerning my husband," says the woman sat in the chair opposite Holmes. She is in mourning, shrouded in black, clutching a crumpled handkerchief to the swollen skin beneath her eyes. "I believe there are unusual circumstances regarding his death. I cannot sleep for the fear of what I have learned. I do not fear for myself, you understand, but for my husband's memory. Are you able to help me, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes leans forward, presses his fingertips beneath his chin as he gazes at her, cautiously learning all there is to learn about her. She returns the look with a gentle curiosity, her head tilted to one side. An envelope is held in her hand, creased in places where she has curled tight fingers around the paper.
"Is this your husband's will?" he asks, gesturing to it.
"It is only a copy, I regret to say. However, I am hoping you can derive more from it than I."
He smiles, oddly touched at her faith in him. "I can but try. If you would care to lay before me the details of your husband's passing, Mrs. …" He hesitates. The landlady neglected to mention her name, or neglected to bother obtaining it.
She returns his smile sweetly, extends a delicate, lace-covered hand. "Mrs. Hudson."
End