A/N: Happy Sunday, folks! Hope everyone is having a lovely weekend.
Prompt 03: From mrspencil – Roast.
Summons
Watson is in his study, head bowed over a desk strewn with papers and dried ink blotches that resemble bloodstains to his medical eye, when there is a knock at the door. He calls them to enter.
Watson looks up as the maid walks in. Her countenance is strikingly similar to Mary's, soft blonde hair attempting escape from her combs. For a brief moment his veins feel like woven steel, his limbs suddenly heavy as she addresses him. It is not the first time he thinks he should let her go. Not the first time he scolds himself for thinking it.
"Forgive the interruption, sir," she says, face pinched with worry. "A message has come from Baker Street to say the landlady is in urgent need of your services."
"Why? What's wrong?" He cannot stop the concern seeping into his voice. "Who sent the message?"
The maid shakes her head. "I do not know, sir. It is unsigned and was delivered by a boy I did not recognise. He left before I could enquire as to his name."
Watson's stomach turns slowly, his mind conjuring up a thousand possibilities and dismissing each one.
Because each one involves Holmes.
/-/-/
He hails a hansom and is at Baker Street in record time. The pavements are quieter than usual, the grey swirl of fog keeping people inside. In his haste he has forgotten his gloves. He tugs on the bell with icy fingers, lets it ring longer than is warranted.
The wait feels too long, and he is contemplating the ridiculous notion of kicking the door down, when it is opened by none other than Mrs. Hudson herself.
Watson blinks, momentarily stunned into silence.
The blast of cold from outside colours Mrs. Hudson's cheeks. She looks equally surprised to see him but recovers quickly, offers a soft smile.
"Doctor Watson, how lovely."
Affection and guilt fight for dominance in Watson, overwhelmingly sharp. She appears smaller than he remembers, though he knows this is merely because he has not seen her for so long. Not since Mary's funeral, and far too much time has passed from that day.
"Mrs. Hudson, are you ... are you alright?"
At a glance, she appears physically fine, which leads Watson to suspect the telegram that brought him here is a ruse. He is not sure whether to feel angry or relieved, has several people in mind who may have sent it, all amongst the living. However, it scarcely seems important, now he is here. What matters is the lady stood before him, cocooned within the memories of his former home. Speculation can come later.
Mrs. Hudson tilts her head slightly, her gaze curious.
"Well, that is rather a broad question, Doctor, which may refer to any manner of topic," says she, a familiar twinkle appearing in her eye. "Your timing is most fortuitous. Perhaps, if you are not otherwise engaged, you would care to join me for dinner?"
The quiet hope in her voice sends another lance of guilt through Watson's ribs, settles somewhere near his heart. He swallows hard, nods his acceptance.
Her face brightens and she ushers him in. Before he can remove his coat, she grasps both his cold hands in her warm ones. He notes the delicacy of her fingers compared to his, the subtle loss of weight, the hurt and mourning she carries more gracefully than him. But her grip is strong. This close, he can smell the familiar scents of soap and flour, followed by the distinctive aroma of meat drifting down the hallway.
A tear falls onto her cheek. Watson tucks a clean handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wipes it away. Her joy at seeing him is like a balm settling over old wounds.
"I trust your liking for Sunday roast has not changed?"
He returns her smile. His appetite is slight these days, and he knows it will be some time until he is able to eat as he used to. Mrs. Hudson studies him kindly, gives his hands a final squeeze before releasing him and taking his coat.
"We have much to catch up on, Doctor," she says.
"Yes, we do."
He falls into step behind her as she heads towards the kitchen. Memories and ghosts stir across the tiles, and he listens out for a familiar footstep upstairs.
It is not there. It will never be there.
The thought pains him. But, for now, here is Mrs. Hudson, alive and solid before him. For this he is grateful. This, he knows, he should cherish.
It is more than he deserves.
End
A/N II: So … meat, veggies, dollop of gravy and hurt and grief then bish, bash, bosh. Angsty Sunday dinner is served! :-D Bon appetite!