A/N: Hello! That time of year again, folks! My apologies for the slightly late start … the tech gremlins seem to be a bit active this Winter. :-p I hope everyone is well, and I look forward to reading responses from my lovely, talented writers. I have missed you all. My gratitude as always to Hades for organising this challenge (it must keep you on your toes!).
Prompt 01: From YoughaltheJust – Sherlock Holmes doesn't miss living alone in Montague Street.
A Time for Change
The hallway is in darkness when Holmes returns.
It is unsurprising to him, given the hour and the fact that Mrs. Colburn refuses to light any lamps, laying claimant that funds are scarce. Holmes finds this hard to believe, considering the rent she asks of him.
He takes the stairs leading to his rooms slowly, counting each step and breathing out through his nose. The Faversham case did not end well, and the failure he carries heavily in his wounds. He pauses on the landing and closes his eyes, sees a shadowy figure charging at him with the crude piece of wood. His wrist throbs at the memory.
"Are you bleeding on my scrubbed floors?!"
Mrs. Colburn materialises beside him, the candle she holds emitting a weak halo. Her breath carries proof of where his rent is going, overwhelming his senses with cheap ale, the unmistakable pungent smell of the local brew from The Dog and Dairy.
"Yes." He sees no reason to deny the fact, steady drops of blood hitting the wooden flooring. He wonders whether to debate her understanding of 'scrubbed', as there are patches of dirt on the areas he has yet to reach.
Colour rises to her cheeks as she gapes at him in outrage.
"Now I've told you before," she splutters, "you can't–"
"Here." Holmes plucks the envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to her, leaves crimson fingerprints behind. "I trust this will cover any inconvenience."
Mrs. Colburn goes quiet as she clutches the money to her chest. "I take it this month's rent is in here?"
"Up until the 31st, after which I will no longer be residing here."
Her face falls, and Holmes sees it with a bitter twist of satisfaction. He blames this on the blood loss. Difficult the landlady may be, her vices were her own, and he knew all too well the affect his withdrawal would have on her pocket. Difficult he may be to her, his tenancy was her sole income, the remaining rooms on the other floors currently empty. She told him Mr. Murphy on the second floor had died of pneumonia, and Mr. Carlton on the ground floor had met his end hanging from the doorframe of his bedroom. Whatever had befallen the tenant in his own room previous, Mrs. Colburn was not inclined to say.
She composes herself, regarding him with thinly veiled contempt.
"Where will you go?"
He meets her gaze evenly. "Do you wish to know?"
Her lip curves, not quite a smile. "Can't say I do. The rent cheaper, I take it?"
"If I can find someone to share lodgings with me, yes."
She snorts. "Good luck with that."
She leaves him then, and he staggers the remaining steps to his room. It takes several attempts to get the key in the door. His victory of obtaining entry is overshadowed by the cold, dark room and the blood that continues to spill onto the rug.
It occurs to him, as he lights the fire and sinks into the nearest armchair, that if he were to die here, no one is likely to notice for some considerable time. From brief examination of their rooms before procuring this one, he knows similar fates were bestowed upon Mr. Murphy and Mr. Carlton.
It is rather a lonely thought.
/-/-/
The irony is not lost on Holmes when he returns to Baker Street one cold, November evening. Nigh on a year since he left Montague Street, and the deep sense of deja-vu is only lessened by Mrs. Hudson's impeccably clean floor - now not so - and the sound of a familiar voice as he opens the door to their living room.
"What the devil happened to you?!"
Watson reaches him in three long strides, his hands outstretched but unsure where to land.
There is more blood this time, so Holmes cannot fault the doctor his hesitation, nor the frightened tone that colours Watson's voice. It is a far cry from Mrs. Colburn's scorn.
"Ah, Watson." Holmes can feel the floor moving beneath his feet, says quickly, "I require some assistance, my dear fellow."
He passes out then, his last thought one of gratitude that he need not wake up alone.
End
A/N II: Yup, there is a spoonful of angst in the tea, as per!