9. My boys
I've had more than my share of excitement in my life. You wouldn't know to look at me. I look like just another old landlady living a quiet life renting out flats in London, but life is not quiet when your tenant is Sherlock Holmes.
For example, the other day I came home from shopping to find Sherlock's young man rushing past me into the cold without his coat. That was no surprise. Sherlock has habits that would worry a saint. In fact, Dr. John Watson is a saint in my book for staying his flatmate for so long. Sherlock Holmes is not an easy man to live with.
"Ooh hoo! Have you two had a little domestic?" I said as I entered.
Sherlock was on the couch wrapped up in his dressing gown, sulking. He jumped up and walked over the table, not around it but over it, to peer out of the window at John's back.
"A bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more," I said pushing aside the dishes as I pulled out some sugar for the boys. Sherlock couldn't stock a pantry to save his life.
"Look at that Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said glancing out of the window, "quiet, calm, peaceful." Then he sighed, "isn't it hateful?"
"Oh I'm sure something will turn up Sherlock," I said, " a nice murder, that will cheer you up." I turned and walked through the flat toward the stairs.
"Mmm, can't come too soon," he said impatient as a child.
When I turned back to look at him, I noticed the spray painted smiley face on the wall riddled with bullet holes.
"Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall!" I yelled, but that troublesome child only smirked at me. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man, " I said before storming down the stairs to my own apartment.
I was halfway down when an explosion rocked the building. I was used to explosions with Sherlock living upstairs, but this one seemed to be from outside. I ran back upstairs to find Sherlock face down on the floor, my beautiful windows blown to bits. These sort of things happen when you have Sherlock Holmes as a tenant.
I first met Sherlock in an alley when a man who I thought was simply trying to steal my purse pulled a knife on me. Sherlock knocked him to the ground and disarmed him whipping out his phone to call that nice Detective Inspector Lestrade. When they turned the man over, I realized that I had seen him before. He was an associate of my late husband sent to kill me.
But let me start at the beginning so that you can better understand our relationship. I had been a dancer. My husband was a very charismatic man. He was clever. He was going places. I was swept away by him. It was only after we were married that I learned his true nature. He was a man with a heart of ice, a criminal, a murder.
I would have liked to say that I saw my first dead bodies only after Sherlock had moved in, but that wasn't true. I couldn't leave him. I had a daughter to think of. For twenty-nine years I was his slave. Nothing I did was outside his review. He had a nasty temper, and it wasn't the first time that he had threatened me with death, not by a long shot.
And then one day, he went to America to pull a caper and got caught murdering a woman and her sister in broad daylight. Florida, USA has a death penalty, and he was put on death row. He called me, emailed me, wrote to me asking me to use the money stashed in the basement to hire the best lawyers in England to get him out.
Instead, I used the money to buy this house, 221 Baker street. My husband was convicted. I had finally escaped from him, but somehow, even from prison he was able to send someone after me. Sherlock found evidence to prove that the man was trying to kill me, changing his sentence from armed assault to attempted murder. Sherlock is such a good boy.
Some years ago, I heard that my husband was up for parole. Some organization, out to prove that many of those on death row were there because of circumstantial evidence, was trying to get him freed. He sent me a note saying that he would see me soon, so I called Sherlock. He flew to the States with evidence of his crimes in the UK that made his case evaporate into nothing. On the day he died I threw a party to celebrate. Not very nice, but if you had met him, you would too.
It was a gas explosion across the street that had broken my windows. It also damaged my bins so that I had to buy new ones. Bins are much more expensive than you might think for something that you simply throw rubbish into.
The thermostat was also going crazy since there was nothing to hold the warmth in. I shut off the heat in the flat upstairs. I was able to warm the bedrooms a bit, and the bathroom had a gas heater in the wall that I lit, but they would have to deal with the cold until I could get a repairman in.
The next morning, Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes came to the flat. Mycroft is a nice young man though a bit standoffish. He shows a great deal of concern for his little brother, and to tell the truth, Sherlock needs it. My goodness, despite the fact that he's got more brain cells than a classroom full of Cambridge professors, sometimes he doesn't have the common sense of a pet beagle. That was why I was so glad when Doctor Watson moved in with him. Dr. Watson is an incredibly steady man with excellent manners. How Sherlock found him I don't know, but they get along swimmingly.
If you want to know my secret wish, it's that those two get together and I get a pair of married ones myself. We can't let Mrs Turner have all of the fun. Sherlock is like the son I never had. It's amazing how similar he is to my late husband, in some ways that is, but he doesn't have an evil bone in his body. He is rude, that's true, but deep down, he's just the sweetest little boy.
I let him stay in my house, not only because I care for him, but also because I know that no other landlord in London could stand his habits. All his goings on. Gun shots into the wall, explosions, dead bodies, violin noise in the middle of the night, fighting, sometimes I wonder how I stand it.
The door opened and John Watson entered running up the stairs. He must have just found out about the explosion. It was on the telly. Soon afterward Mycroft left, and I went off to visit my insurance agent. I would need money to make repairs. I would have raised Sherlock's rent again, but this time at least, it wasn't his fault.
I walked out of my room to see Sherlock rushing down the stairs with Dr. Watson quick on his heels. "Is it another case?" I asked them as they rushed by. Sherlock turned toward me and grabbed my arms kissing me on the cheek.
"Yes, finally!" he said, "That gas explosion was no accident!"
"It wasn't!" I cried. "Then who's going to pay for my bins?" but they were gone, dashing about like they always do.
For the next few days, council workers cleared the street. I tried to find an affordable glazier, while Sherlock and John stormed in and out of the house like a hurricane, barely stopping to eat or sleep. To tell the truth, I don't think that Sherlock slept all week.
While tidying up some dishes in their flat, 'I'm not their housekeeper, but I do keep an eye out for them', Sherlock looked up from his microscope and pounded the table yelling, "Clostridium botulinum!" I rushed out of the room knowing to keep out of their way when they are in the thick of things.
For the next few days, Sherlock was happy as a clam. Running in and out. Solving crimes with John Watson at his heels. Then it seemed that it was all over. They said that they were staying in for a telly night. I had my evening soother and went to bed only to be woken in the middle of the night by a knocking on my door.
John and Sherlock were breathing rapidly as if they had run most of the way home.
"Lock the door, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, "there's someone after us and they are not above kidnapping to make their point. Let no one in unless you know them personally, do you understand?"
"I understand deary, you just leave it to Mrs Hudson. Go and get yourself some rest, you both look shattered."
The boys walked up the stairs slowly. John reached out and touched the middle of Sherlock's back, but he didn't turn or say a word. I heard him start to pace and I went over to lock the door.
You may think that a little old lady doesn't know how to deal with trouble, but I had been planning for siege since I had first moved into this house. I locked the front door and pulled down the security bar.
I chained and alarmed the back door, and sealed all of the windows that would seal. Sherlock and John would have to deal with their blown out windows themselves. After I was finished, I put on the kettle to make a pot of strong tea. I thought of asking the two of them down to fill me in on the danger, but it was quiet upstairs. They must have taken my advice and gone to bed.
I reached up onto the top shelf and pulled down my old flour tin. I removed the knitted cozy and pulled out the Walther PPK pistol that I keep there for emergencies. I checked the rounds and wiped it with an old tea towel. The boys could sleep all they wanted. I would be up all night ready and able to guard their dreams.
