Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language, some mention of Adult Lifestyles

Authors Notes: See? Told you the next chapter would be longer!

Please read & review.

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Chapter Five: Baker Street

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Suddenly Holmes perked up like a startled deer. "What station are we at? Baker Street? Come on, this is our stop!" He was up and out of the seat in one blur of motion, snagging one of Watson's arms and hauling him along with a strength that was surprising for his lean body.

"Holmes," Watson protested as he was unceremoniously hauled from the train. "This isn't our stop!"

"It is, man, come on," Holmes was not fazed by Watson's annoyed tone. "Not for our case, no. Something a little more in the nature of our lifestyle at present," he led the way up into the street and down and around the thoroughfares briskly and looked around. "221B – presumably near 221A, but you never can tell in London..."

Watson recalled that number. "You mean the flat in the paper? 221B Baker Street? I checked, it's way too expensive."

"For one, yes, it breaks the bank. But for two, it may yet be borne. Ah, here we go," Holmes spotted number 221B, right next to the chemist. The front looked charming and well maintained, set straight onto the street past a simple wrought iron fence. "Though the gardens look a little shabby," was the taller man's only comment on the thin border of dormant iris bulbs marching either side of the door. Holmes wasted no time giving to door a firm rap.

An older lady answered the summons. Her blonde hair was fading gracefully into grey, and she dressed comfortably and neatly in a flattering but practical dress, her hair tied back in a neat bun that was neither too loose nor too severe. The current expression her face was of bland politeness tinted with a hint of wariness, but the lines of the crows feet at her eyes and along the dimples of her mouth suggested she had and used a smile on occasion.
"Mrs Hudson, I presume," Holmes began with a smile of his own and a deferent tilt of the head. "Mr Sherlock Holmes and my colleague, Dr Watson. We are making enquiries about the room you have for let in the Times. Your advertisement advised making an introduction in person and as today is the last day you're giving interviews, we thought it best to try our luck."

"Oh yes, I see," she gave them both a searching look. "It's a little late in the evening, but I suppose you can come up and take a look at the rooms. Were you looking to share?"

"Yes ma'am," Watson raised a hand for her to shake, and grasped firmly. "Apologies for the late hour, my work ran over a little late," he shot a sideways look at his amused companion.

Mrs Hudson measured him steadily, and gave an understanding nod. "A doctor, you said?"

"Yes ma'am. Medical," Watson clarified. "I currently work for the police department, though, not in private practice."

She nodded. "Follow me gentlemen," she opened the door wide enough to admit them, and began describing the circumstances of the living space while she lead them through the lobby toward a flight of stairs. "The rooms for let are above my own, as you've no doubt realized. They were my husband's pet project while he was alive. I live in the apartment downstairs, quite separate from above. There are actually three levels to the house; the ground floor and courtyard at the back, which are my domain. The first floor, which has a main living space, a small dining area, a bathroom with a lavatory, and a bedroom. No balcony, I'm afraid. There is a third bedroom in the loft, which is above the first floor. The rent is a monthly payment, which will include amenities like water, gas and power. There is a second phone line connection on the upper level; if you require a landline, you may organise an account under your own names. There isn't a kitchen up there, so the rent has been tallied to include groceries and food; I am currently involved in a charitable organisation which requires me to cook and deliver several dozen daily meals to the local church, so it will be no extra work to include meals for my tenants. These will be served between certain hours of the day only, you understand, as I will not be in the house the whole day. There won't be a menu, but I can assure you my recipes are numerous and change daily. You will have to let me know if you have any particular allergies or severe dislikes. Your rent also includes a cleaning once a week, either by myself or a hired cleaner for the sitting rooms and bathrooms. Your bedrooms as well, if you have no objections, but you must warn me in advance. Laundry service is also included in the rent, as the washer and dryer are on my level. Any extra maintenance – electrical or plumbing problems, broken furniture, stains, broken windows, infestations etcetera will be extra on the rent, but as long as the breakage is accidental or not the result of fecklessness, you will only pay half the cost at most."

Mrs Hudson paused on the landing in from of the entry door to the flat, and gave them a hard look. "I have a few iron clad rules, gentlemen, and if you do eventually come to live here and any are disobeyed I reserve the right to evict you from the premises; you'd best know them now. One, the rent must be paid in full and on time every month. A day late, and you are out. Two, you will have a key to the front door, as well as the flat. You will not have copies made without my knowledge, and you will not give the keys to anyone else that I do not know about; you will also ensure that the doors are locked when you enter and when you leave. Three, any damage from done through your own choices or committed by any guest will be on your account and will be an eviction offence. Four, if any of my neighbours has a complaint about your habits, loud music, arguments, that sort of thing, I will expect a good explanation; if I am not satisfied, I may ask you to leave," a faint curl twitched at the corner of her mouth. "To be fair, it will depend on which neighbour does the complaining."

"The sounds reasonable, Mrs Hudson," Watson nodded when it became clear Holmes was just going to stand there looking impatient.

"Very well," Mrs Hudson unlocked the door.

For one brief moment, Watson felt like he'd stepped into a museum. Or through a time machine.

Elegant carved curves and printed fabrics straight out of the Victorian era greeted him; the surprisingly expansive sitting room divided by clusters of old world furniture. The dining cluster over by the wide window that looked onto the courtyard and was lined on one side by the outer wall of the flat, and the other by a semi jut of wall, which lead on to a small alcove type space framed by painted lintels was tucked further back which had it's own window at the back, and where you could just see a door on either side walls leading to the baack, presumably to the first bedroom and the bathroom. There were shelves and low cupboards lining the walls either side of the opposing doors, currently empty. Relaxation furniture, armchairs and settees, and a sofa marched back towards the big, old fashioned working fireplace. One long table took up a wall on one side, immediately after the small hallway from the entry door opened out to the main room, on one side on the fireplace. One the other side, at the far wall, there was an old fashioned writing desk and another line of shelves. The rest of the wall, before the room sunk deeper into the alcove, was an open door through which a second set of stairs could be just seen, which marched upwards, parallel to the wall.

The space has a lot of furniture, but was surprisingly uncluttered for all that. A few oddities of decoration hung about the room; the old fashion pitcher and basin placed on the low top of the cupboard in the alcove, a coloured glass paraffin lantern hung on one wall by a hook. An old fashioned tobacco pipe rack, complete with pipes, was on one wall where a key hook might go. The room was lit with mostly old fashioned shaped lamps on the walls with electrical fittings, but one antique chandelier hung unobtrusively from the ceiling between the dining and living room clusters.

It would be, Watson thought, a hassle to keep clean but well worth the effort. There were modern accoutrements, but whoever had designed the place had taken great pains to tuck them as unobtrusively away as possible. Air conditioning vents hid genteelly behind plaster mouldings in the ceiling, electric sockets were done in brass and under discreet flaps, as was the air conditioning controls. Mrs Hudson went across the room and slid the painting over the fireplace across rails cleverly hidden in the line of the wall paper, revealing a flat television screen.

Holmes looked around in what could almost be termed glee, and paced the rooms eagerly, poking his nose into the rooms and exploring all the nooks and corners.

"You have a slight tone of Edinburgh about you, Doctor," Mrs Hudson chatted politely while she watched Holmes like a hawk.

"Oh yes. My family moved between there and London several times when I was young," Watson replied, looking at the furniture keenly. "These look handmade."

"My husband. Put a lathe and saw in his hand, and he just couldn't stop himself," Mrs Hudson seemed gratified by his interest, so Watson resolved to keep it up. A little harmless charm couldn't hurt, because this place was fantastic. He was already a little in love with that desk. Mrs Hudson continued politely. "May I ask why you came to live in London rather than back up to Edinburgh? It must be hard to be apart from your family."

Thankfully Holmes chose that moment to drop to the carpet like a dog on the scent, and scuttle along to the alcove where the lower bedroom and bathroom faced each other. Mrs Hudson fastened her suspicious attention on this, so she didn't see Watson's expression.

"My family was not very large, and we drifted apart somewhat over my choices and my career. Locations and so forth, you know." Watson hastily turned the attention to Holmes, who was ferreting his way into the bedroom. The man had absolutely no clue how to behave in front of a possible future landlady, that was certain. "Don't worry about him, Mrs Hudson. He just very uh...thorough," was the best explanation he could make. "He hasn't acted normal from the first moment I met him, but he's harmless."

The lady accepted his assessment with a hint of shrewd scepticism. Watson tried desperately to look like there was nothing strange going on here, even with Holmes snuffling the carpet. Thankfully the man vanished into the bedroom.

"I assume you'll want to see references?" Watson diverted the woman's stare.

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson, thankfully, turned her attention back to him. "And a pay slip, if you have one available."

"I could arrange that. Are there any secondary interviews you would like us to do?"

The woman shook her head. "You've been here, seen the apartments and heard the prerequisites for living here; I count myself a good judge of character, so no, I will not require a further interrogation. Most of my prospective tenants find this place a little too feminine, or too old fashioned; but I refuse to have it changed. Others, women especially, don't like not having a kitchen. I have a few interested parties, but if I find you and your...friend satisfactory, I will call you. The good news is you will be able to move in straight away."

"Watson, the bed down here is huge," his prospective roommate called from the bedroom.

"That's nice Holmes," Watson replied absently. "This is such a wonderful apartment, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson looked around the place with a certain softness. "My husband certainly loved his projects. He spent months on it; I could never sell this place, but it costs quite a lot to maintain."

Watson had no doubts.

"Watson! The bath is big enough for two! In brass!"

"I can't imagine why that's important to you, Holmes, but very good," Watson muttered before he turned his eyes back to Mrs Hudson whom he faintly embarrassed to see was blushing. "Well, uh, anyway," he continued, slightly flustered. "Is this apartment sound proofed?"

That seemed to embarrass Mrs Hudson even further. "Not in an intended sense," she replied carefully. "But the walls are good and thick, so sound won't carry much."

"You should know, Mrs Hudson, that if I come to live here, you might hear screaming at night," he scrubbed his forward, feeling awkward about having to explain, and perhaps fortunately not seeing Mrs Hudson's expression. "I have recently been on a tour in Afghanistan. I'm not on any kind of psychiatric leave, or medicated in that sense; but, I do have nightmares."

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson's embarrassment seemed to have fled with that news. A look of gentle compassion had replaced it. "Oh, I see. Well, I have no issues with you or your nightmares, young man. My husband's brother served in Vietnam, and he used to jump at the shadows sometimes too. I didn't blame him for that, I certainly wouldn't blame you for it either."

Watson was glad of the complete lack of pity in her tone. "Also, I do carry a gun. Would you have any objections to me having it here?"

Mrs Hudson gave that some thought, and slowly shook her head. "I have no objections, as long as you observe all the proper safety precautions. Children don't come in here; still, I wouldn't be entirely happy if it was left alone and loaded somewhere out in the open regularly."

"I have a gun safe," Watson hastened to reassure. "It stays in there, unloaded, if I'm not actually carrying it. The bullets I keep in my foot locker."

"As per procedures. And you do have a permit?"

"Oh yes. Via the police department," Watson confirmed.

"Mrs Hudson," Holmes popped up, startling them both. "The long table on that wall..."

"I can have that moved out if you prefer," she responded. "My late husband used it has a workbench when he built up here."

"A carpenter specialising in restoration and prop design of antique furniture no doubt appreciated the quiet space to work. And of course, he could not work downstairs because when you bought dresses home to be cut of fitted, having them in the same room as wood shavings, drying varnish, stains, oils and waxes was a disaster waiting to happen. You were, of course, a professional seamstress with a fairly successful business," Holmes observed almost absentmindedly as he surveyed the table with speculative eyes.

Mrs Hudson's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Why yes I was, how did you..."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Just ignore him, Mrs Hudson, he's just showing off," he advised the shocked woman.

"Showing off?" Holmes gave Watson an annoyed glare. "It's all perfectly clear to the skilled observer. If that is showing off then saying the sky is blue is showing off."

"Except the sky isn't blue. It's not any colour at all," Watson pointed out in a reasonably nitpicking tone guaranteed to set Holmes off.

"Yes thank you Watson for finally showing skills at proper observation, though it is typical of your particular mindset that the observation is of no use whatsoever," Holmes riposte was appropriately cutting.

Watson just grinned. At some point Holmes would most likely get his dander up good and proper, but for now this was just too much fun.

"I was going to ask, actually, if we could keep that in here if we should move in," Holmes continued to their bemused hostess. "It will be a good place for experimenting."

Mrs Hudson gave Holmes a long stare and she spoke next with the air of words picked extremely carefully. "Experimenting with what?"

"I will sometimes need to do some chemistry work for my clients – and I'll also need to know if they can meet me here, also. Will that be any kind of problem?"

Watson's jaw dropped open. Didn't the man have any idea what that sounded like? Judging by the gimlet light is Mrs Hudson's eyes, she certainly had formed an opinion. Watson could feel this flat and all it's charming character vanish before his eyes.

"Although usually Professor Grady allows me access to the labs at St Barts for most of the more complex tests. It cost me the patent on a new procedure for identifying traces of human haemoglobin," here Holmes sniffed disapprovingly. "But it's a sacrifice that pays off, I suppose."

Watson's eyes narrowed; a chemist then.

Mrs Hudson relaxed slightly. "You're a scientist, then?"

Holmes gave a diffident shrug. "Part of my profession, yes. My clients will need to come here to consult with me. Will that be an insurmountable difficulty?"

"As long as they don't come banging at all hours, and do not stay longer than a day, then no," Mrs Hudson replied levelly. "But it will depend on the look of them. And if anything goes missing or is broken then it will be on your account, Mr Holmes."

Holmes responded to her steel hard tone with a tight smile. "Of course. Worry not, madam, for I am a respectable man."

"Despite all evidence to the contrary," Watson murmured, and snickered at the other man's sharp look.

"My only concern is for poor Watson here," Holmes parried. "For as long as I've known you, you've had trouble with stairs. Of course we can't ask for one of those helpful stair lifts that the elderly and infirm use; it just another thing that must be borne, I suppose. War wounds and that awful PTSD; and you refusing to take your medication, too. Well, that's what they invented gun safes for. Don't you worry old chap, when the darkness nights come, I will, of course, be there to help you and make sure you get what you deserve."

For a moment Watson couldn't see for a red clouding his vision. Gritting his teeth against his temper, and mindful of the watching woman to whom they were trying to appear at least semi-respectable, he responded. "Yes, thank you Holmes. You are a true friend. But I certainly wouldn't want to rely on your good nature to help me through life." He stated with absolute certainty. You're dead the minute we're out the door, his glare promised.

"It's no trouble," Holmes grinned back; And yet every word was true. "I'm afraid this was a spur of the moment trip, Mrs Hudson. Can we send our references tomorrow?"

Mrs Hudson gave a nod. "Of course. I'll let you know my decision in a day or two." She escorted them back down the stairs.

"It was a pleasure, Mrs Hudson," Watson reached to shake her hand again.

"I hope you will offer us due consideration, madam," was Holmes' contribution as they were let out. "It's terribly hard to find an accommodating landlord even in these modern times."

Watson wondered what had spurred that remark, and was even more puzzled by the good lady's response.

"If there's anything I can't stand, it's bigotry clothing itself in decency," Mrs Hudson spoke firmly. "Whatever else happens, gentlemen, my decision will be fair, regardless of lifestyle. Good night."

Watson stared after the closed door. Lifestyle? He went over the conversation, and suddenly the penny dropped. He turned around into Holmes's laughing face. "She thinks we're..."

Holmes just snickered. "Well, you did go on about screaming in the night."

Watson frantically re-ran the entire conversation in his head and nearly groaned. Shrapnel and bullets clearly weren't good enough for the universe, oh no. He had to come home and die of embarrassment instead. No wonder Mrs Hudson had seemed so flustered. Estranged families, screaming, bedrooms and bathrooms, oh my... "I didn't mean..." Watson stammered, feeling his face heat while Holmes cackled madly like a fiend. "Well you certainly didn't help, Mr Bath-for-two," he muttered.

"Honestly, you should have tried blushing at her as well, because that's charming – in a virginal choir boy sort of way," Holmes was relentless. Good grief, Watson was beginning to rethink this, and had a sinking feeling he was about two hours too late. Holmes' amusement was the honest, sincere and slightly wicked glee of a ten year old. "Besides, my good doctor, there is no way she will say no now. I thought I might have to do a little adlibbing to make up for your obvious lack of thespian skill, but you blundered in a perfectly reasonable and believable bit of obfuscation."

"What?" Watson gaped. "You did that on purpose?"

"Obviously," Holmes was enjoying himself immensely. "You are correct, Doctor Watson, a sufficiently massive intellect hardly intimidates you, but a little sexual misconduct and unwitting conspiracy has you all aflutter. Oh dear, how very macho and soldierly."

"What possible reason could you have to make a prospective landlady that you're..."

"Queer as a three pound note? Because the London School of Business is right down the road." Homes replied as if that explained everything.

Watson rolled his eyes. "And that has what to do with the price of feet?"

Holmes sighed. "Sometimes, I despair about the observing faculties of the human race. Three hundred million something years to get us eyes to see and still not enough time to give us a brain to match. Mrs Hudson has rented that flat out before, and the resulting disastrous results have left her twice shy about prospective tenants. You can tell from the sheer amount of scrubbing, shampooing and repainting she has had done to erase the previous occupants from the room. It still could not quite remove the traces of methamphetamine production I found of the cupboard tops near the door to the downstairs bedroom, nor in the carpeting of the bedroom itself. She probably rented to a near relation and their friends, thinking that blood was thicker than water, without realising that blood isn't nearly as thick as the call to addiction. You noticed, of course, her concerns were monetary, security, and her neighbours in that order. Not what we do, not if we work in shift work and not our references which is usually the first thing a landlord will ask. She let them stay for much longer than strictly fair without pay or eviction, judging from the amount of traces left, which tells us ties of blood were involved. I think she is more interested than having someone completely contrasting her previous feckless relatives than anything else."

Curious despite himself, Watson asked. "And the London School of Business?"

"Probably the majority of her prospective tenants, who would be either foreigners with whom she can't make herself understood, middle aged human resources managers whom probably have mistresses on the side, or future CEO's of the world; and future CEO's like to get their vices sorted out good and early. No, she is tired of mothering students, I imagine," Holmes gave a theatrical flourish. "And then there's us; employed professionals with respectable careers..."

"A big assumption when it comes to you."

"Steady incomes and a lifestyle seemingly free of unexpected interlopers of the romantic kind, of which she is probably wary of," Holmes ignored the interruption. "With good reason, I suspect. Who knows what kind of people the previous tenants brought into her life; but they probably brought a tiresome amount of drama as well."

"So you let her believe you and I, for whatever insane reason, are together to what? Trick her into taking us in?" Watson raised his eyebrow. "You really do have no shame. You do realise this, right?"

"Watson, please," Holmes sallied derisively. "She made her own assumptions, which we are not responsible for."

"But you did nothing to correct her!"

"It's not my job to dictate others thoughts and reactions." At Watson's look of incredulity Holmes continued. "Not in matters of accommodation, at any rate. Besides, whatever else we are, we are not the student body she despises, and that flat is perfect for both my purposes and yours. If a little misdirection moves the odds in our favour, I see no detriment. You, of course, are an honest man," Holmes said it like it was some sort of developmental disorder. "And are free to do as you choose. If you want to live in some cockroach infested hovel to remain true to your principles, that is entirely your affair. Or, you could just take the flat, miscommunications and all, and be comfortable. Well?"

Even Watson had to admit it was a logical argument, even if his conscience nagged at him. "I don't like being dishonest in my dealings, that's all," he conceded semi-gracefully.

"Which is, no doubt, why you rarely have any successful ones," Holmes snorted. "Not to worry, Doctor, I suspect you will be the kind of apple polishing perfect tenant she is looking for, which will mitigate any little deceptions. We may have to take a bath together once in a while to maintain the deception, but the flat is well worth it." He disappeared round the corner into Allsop Place.

Watson choked. "What?"

It wasn't until he heard Holmes sniggering around the corner that he realised the man was pulling his chain.

"Oh yes, touché," Watson muttered as he followed.

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End Chapter Five