Dawn was breaking when we finally reached the familiar surrounds of Baker Street again. Things were beginning to stir as cooks began their morning baking, and sent errand boys out for supplies. Downstairs maids could be seen in the sideyards blacking grates and sweeping the steps. Few gave us a second glance, despite Qui-Gon's unusual dress and height, and our general dishabille and unshaven appearance. As our weary group reached the front steps leading up to 221b, a running patterer bolted by, the morning paper tucked under his arm, headed for the corner where he would ply his trade.
Mrs. Hudson met us at the front door, before we even finished climbing the steps. In that respect, she reminded me of a house mother I'd once had at school, who had seemed to have a sixth sense regarding small boys and mischief. I don't recall that my school friends or I had ever managed to pull the wool over that woman's eyes. Mrs. Hudson had the same ability. "Find what you were lookin' for, then?" she asked, her eyes on Qui-Gon. If she was upset or annoyed at us for showing up so late (or early, as you'd have it) she gave no sign—but then, she never had, in the almost six years I'd known her. She fussed occasionally, but for the most part she kept her opinions about her tenants' activities to herself.
"That we did, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes responded, weariness apparent even in his voice. I noticed, belatedly, as his jacket gaped open, that he still had the blaster he'd acquired the night before. "And all in one piece, though that was a tricky proposition for awhile."
She 'humphed,' folding her arms across her ample bosom. "Well, I've breakfast waitin' for you. And after that, I don't want to hear a peep of noise from any of you until you've had a proper rest. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, ma'am," rose from our group, ranging from meekly respectful on Ben's part to amusement on Holmes's. As he passed her in the doorway, Qui-Gon paused, and with a bow, introduced himself. She accepted his courtly behavior without batting an eye, and welcomed him warmly.
I had not expected to be hungry, after the astonishing events of the previous night, but my body was of a different opinion. Mrs. Hudson, as usual, had prepared a splendid repast, and even Holmes fell to with a hearty appetite. Our two guests were silent, only responding to direct questions. All the same, I felt that there was a great deal of communication going on between the two of them. Watching them interact, even silently, it was evident that they were very close—like father and son, though with more means at hand of communicating than any I had ever known. I felt a brief twinge of envy. I'd never seen much of my father. He'd been a successful businessman, always in the middle of something. My early childhood years had been spent with either my mother or a governess, and once I was past that, I'd been sent away to school. He'd died, the first year I was in medical school. I'd felt very little at his funeral—it had been like going to the funeral of a distant acquaintance. Regret that I had never known him better had been what haunted me most during that time and for years afterward.
At last Holmes pushed his chair away from the table. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said with a sigh. "That went a long way to restoring us from our night."
She gave him a stern look. "Now you're to go straight to bed, Mr. Holmes," she ordered. "You stay out of that study of yours, until you've 'ad a proper rest!" She began bustling about the table, clearing away the breakfast things.
Qui-Gon rose. "May I assist you?" he asked.
Mrs. Hudson stared at him, clearly not sure how to respond to that.
"Unlike my companions, I fear I have had altogether too much sleep in the past few days," he said with a faint smile.
"Well, I—"
"I must insist," he added gently.
I shot a glance at Holmes. He shrugged, as if to say: "If he wants to do dishes, then let him." Well, it was unusual, but there was little about our guests that wasn't. "I'm for bed," I said. "See you in a few hours." And without waiting to see whether or not Mrs. Hudson allowed Qui-Gon to breach the etiquette of servants and their employers' guests, I took myself off to my room.
It was late afternoon when I awoke, feeling a great deal better than I had for the past forty-eight hours, though rather in need of a bath. That was easily remedied, and I spent another hour or so attending to that, before venturing downstairs to see what strange things my associate and our guests might have gotten themselves up to.
The house was quiet, and the absolute lack of noise from either Holmes's study or his room suggested that, amazingly, he was still asleep. I glanced into the guest room where we'd housed Ben, and saw only a tangle of arms, legs, and blankets. It never ceased to amaze me the strange positions in which young men could sleep—and I'd seen some strange ones, in the army. I'd even slept in them myself, once upon a time. Looking at it now made my joints ache.
I could hear quiet conversation in the kitchen, and guessed that Mrs. Hudson had capitulated and allowed Qui-Gon to assist her. I made my way down the narrow hallway and poked my head in. She was busy with a piecrust, or something, and he was seated at the table, pushing a cup of tea around. Sometime during the day he had found some more conventional clothing—Holmes's, I assumed, as mine would not come close to fitting the large man's frame. Since the trouser cuffs were not more than an inch or so too short, I guessed that Mrs. Hudson had taken time to let them out for him. He wore no coat, and it was apparent the shirt did not fit nearly so well as the trousers, strained as it was across his shoulders and chest, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, because they weren't long enough, and probably wouldn't button over his forearms. He'd pulled his long hair back into a single tail.
They both looked up as I entered. "Good afternoon, Doctor," Qui-Gon said. "Mrs. Hudson was just telling me about your city."
I glanced sharply at him. "Has she? And have you been telling her about where you're from?" I wondered what sort of a story he had concocted for our landlady.
"Oh, she's already quite familiar with Ireland," the big man replied easily. "We could find nothing at all to discuss about that."
I blinked. "Oh." Where had he learned enough about Ireland to belay our housekeeper's suspicions? Perhaps he had used one of those 'mind tricks.' Yes, that seemed quite likely, I thought, eyeing Mrs. Hudson's blandly innocent countenance. "And have you proved yourself an able helper?" I asked, trying to change the subject with a bit of humour.
"I've done a few dishes in my time," Qui-Gon said.
"Ireg'lar, that's what it 'tis," Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "But, all the same, it didn't 'urt." She turned back to her piecrust.
I took a seat at the table. "Are you feeling better?" I asked the Jedi. "Any lingering effects from the drug?" I could feel the housekeeper listening, though she did not so much as glance at us.
"None at all. I'm quite recovered, thank you. Is Obi-Wan still asleep?"
"He is. Very much so."
The older man smiled fondly. "It's just as well. He's had a far rougher time of it than I have the past few days. At least I didn't get shot and run over by a carriage."
"He's…very resilient," I said carefully.
"Yes. We all are." I assumed that by 'we' he meant Jedi. "He's probably a bit more resilient than some—he's had a bit more practice."
"Really." My mind shuddered at the implications of that.
"He and I are reputed to be somewhat…accident prone. Though," he amended dryly, "not more so than any of our group who work out in the field. Our healers would tell you otherwise, but like all physicians, they are prone to some exaggeration in the hopes it will make their patients behave." I was about to respond indignantly to this, when I caught the twinkle in his eyes and realized he was teasing. "All the same, we've both had more than our share of injuries."
"Those of us in dangerous professions seem to collect them," Holmes said, entering the kitchen. He was in his shirtsleeves, cravat dangling untied around his neck, and his hair was still wet from a recent washing. "Ask Watson—he was a soldier not too long ago."
"What about you?" I retorted. "I recall patching you up any number of times, Holmes."
"You have indeed. Why do you think I keep you around?"
"You don't need me," I said, my usual response, "you need a wife to keep you out of trouble altogether."
"What a dreadful idea," he murmured, finishing our long-standing joke.
Qui-Gon smiled at the banter, and started to say something, when the bell rang. Mrs. Hudson responded automatically, dusting the flour and dough from her hands onto her apron, removing it and, hanging it neatly on the hook by the kitchen door, went to answer it. Those of us remaining in the room stared blankly at one another for a long moment, then went to see who was calling on us.
I felt my heart sink as I recognized the slight, ferret-faced man standing in the entryway. Normally, his presence meant a case of some interest for both Holmes and myself, but in light of all that had happened, his presence was inconvenient, at best.
"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said evenly. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Is it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, eyeing Qui-Gon with suspicious curiosity, taking in the too-small clothes, the long hair and beard, the strangely brilliant eyes. Lestrade didn't hold a candle to Holmes (of which he was painfully aware, and of which Holmes was always quick to point out to him) but he was still more observant than most, and the Jedi's oddities were not lost on him.
"What brings you here on such a fine day?" my friend continued, ignoring the barb.
"There was an unusual disturbance in Whitechapel last night," the inspector said. "Very nearly a war, if some reports are to be believed."
"What makes you think I had anything to do with that?" Holmes asked, all innocence. "I abhor violence."
The policeman snorted. "Unless you can't convince someone to listen to you any other way."
"It is impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them, as hard and as often as possible," Holmes agreed lightly. "But come now, if this 'disturbance' was very near a war, what makes you think I'd anything at all to do with it? I prefer more subtle methods."
"One of the witnesses I spoke to gave me a description that sounded remarkably like you. Of course," Lestrade added with a scowl, "he also was blathering about flying machines and beams of light."
"I should think that would give you some indication of his reliability, Inspector," Holmes responded with a thin smile.
"Hmph. Who's this?" the inspector nodded toward Qui-Gon. I knew Lestrade well enough to know that Holmes's response may not have wholly convinced him, but he would leave it alone, and so changed the subject.
"A cousin of mine, from Ireland," my associate lied smoothly. "He and his son Benjamin are paying a visit."
"James Brien," Qui-Gon replied, as cool as Holmes.
Lestrade shook his hand amiably enough, but his eyes were sharp. "I didn't know Holmes had any living relatives other than his brother."
"Everybody assumes that Mycroft and I just came into being, fully formed," Holmes said to Qui-Gon dryly. "Like Athena from the forehead of Zeus."
"It is a little difficult to imagine you as a child, Holmes," I said. "You never talk about your childhood."
"We were horrible children," he replied with a sardonic smile. "Mycroft devoured the library and argued philosophy with anyone who would hold still for five minutes, and I blew up things. Needless to say, our parents were rather relieved to see us grow up and leave. They never had a moment's peace with us around."
Lestrade tugged at the bottom of his jacket, looking uncomfortable. Apparently, that was more than he'd wanted to know about the Holmes brothers' childhood. "Well, then, if you are telling me the truth, and you weren't in Whitechapel last night, I'd best be going." His gaze, resting on Holmes, suggested that he didn't believe at all that Holmes hadn't been in Whitechapel. "Good day, Mrs. Hudson." He tipped his hat to her. He was always polite to her, and yet I'd never seen him behave that way toward other servants he came in contact with. Brusque and efficient he was with them, like he was with most people. Something about our landlady, I suppose, inspired automatic politeness—except with Holmes, of course.
As soon as he'd gone, Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. "Perfect. Now Lestrade's hackles are up. Next it'll be the Prime Minister."
"Who's Lestrade?"
We glanced up to see Ben coming down the stairs. He was wearing the loose pants Holmes and I had found him in, with the light undertunic hanging open over his bare chest. He was barefoot as well. I was mildly shocked. Apparently, they had different standards of morning dress where he came from.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said reprovingly.
I glanced at Mrs. Hudson to see her reaction to our young guest's dishabille. Of all of us, she was the one whose sensibilities were most likely to be shaken. To my everlasting surprise, there was actually a faintly amused smile playing around her lips. She must have felt my stare, for she glanced at me, the expression vanishing so quickly I might have imagined it, and took herself off to the kitchen.
"What?" The young man stared blankly at his master.
"Try to have some regard for the standards of the society we're among."
"I don't know what you—oh. Sorry." Ben glanced down at his attire and went back up the stairs. "So who's Lestrade?" he shouted down.
Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head in despair. "I've tried to teach him better manners. But he never listens."
Holmes shrugged. "I've never stood much on convention," he said. "If it doesn't send Mrs. Hudson into a screaming fit, then I don't really care—and trust me, 'cousin,' I have yet to see anything send her into hysterics. She's got remarkably steady nerves, for a woman."
Qui-Gon did not respond to that, but he smiled. I thought it a rather strange smile.