Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- To LienaGrace: Hi! Yes, I wanted Mike Stamford to play a part in the 'taking-care-of-John' plan during Sherlock's absence, he's a good fellow! I hope you'll like this new chapter as it has a Sherlock versus Harriet confrontation.
- "Du balai!" is a French idiom literally meaning "At the broom", employed to tell someone to go away. It is inspired by the fact women used brooms for centuries to push dust or domestic animals out of the house.
Chapter 11: Fairy godmother
The trip back home was uneventful, even though the taxi driver tried to charge Sherlock and John an extra fee for the luggage and the younger Holmes flatly refused, stating he wouldn't pay for the driver's negligence since "It's obvious this vehicle hasn't been maintained on a regular basis judging from the two worn tires, the crack on the right lower part of the windshield and the left front door with the damaged lock, meaning its owner has been using his fare money to bet on horses and he has lost quite a packet, too. It doesn't bore too well for the MOT test scheduled for next week and don't bother denying it, driver, you left the letter on the passenger's seat, next to the racecourse program. So kindly take us at 221 B Baker Street, otherwise I'll tell your employer about you using your taxi for occasional sex encounters with prostitutes." The cabbie had indeed remained silent during the whole course, glancing alarmingly in his review mirror at his strange tall passenger while the shorter one was visibly having a hard time to refrain from laughing.
By 8:15 a.m., the taxi stopped at the desired address and Sherlock paid the fare as his friend busied himself with getting the suitcase and army bag out of the car. John was wondering how he would deal with the stairs with his bad leg (the limp was gone, but the doctor knew by experience it would remain frail for some time) while holding a heavy luggage, but the detective solved the problem by wordlessly grabbing the suitcase and climbing up the narrow steps, thus sparing John a lot of trouble. The blond man had a small smile: who said Sherlock Holmes was an indifferent man?
Sherlock's long strides made him reach the upper bedroom in record time and he deposed the suitcase on the floor with a satisfied sigh, not for being relieved of a burden but because he was happy John was actually settling back at 221 B. For three years the detective had been worried sick at the thought his only friend had gotten married and was practising medicine in the suburbs of London, bored out of his mind. Thankfully, it hadn't happened and the Baker Street duo was back, their return being the final nail in Moriarty's coffin.
"Sherlock?" called John's voice.
"Up here, John. I put your suitcase in your bedroom... Do you still want this room, or maybe you want to change?"
"Certainly not!" said the doctor, climbing the rest of the stairs with his army bag back slung over his shoulder. He loved this bedroom, which was almost as large as his former apartment; it had a beautiful hardwood floor, a comfy bed, a desk, an antique wardrobe made of solid oak and large windows letting in a lot of sunlight. "My leg won't mind a bit of exercise, provided you don't leave a decomposing brain on the steps just like last time."
"But it was for an experiment!"
"Nevertheless, Sherlock, I'd appreciate you tell me beforehand when you scatter human remains all over the stairs."
"Duly noted," said the detective. He went downstairs back to the living room, leaving John to unpack his things in peace, and checked his mobile phone. Another text from Mycroft – Delete –, one from Lestrade about a murder case – It could wait, probably another boring affair of a drug dealing gone bad –, one from DI Dimmock – Well, well! The young and ambitious inspector was trying to renew contact – and one from Anthea, Mycroft's PA – Delete.
Sherlock could hear John's soft humming from upstairs and it made him smile: his friend was already feeling at home. It reminded him to contact the owner of the "Keep Movin' Co." and ask him to pack the rest of the doctor's belongings and have them delivered at his new address in no time. It was paramount to erase in John's mind the souvenir of the seedy building he had to live in like an outcast, a mini-exile paralleling Sherlock's. No, John's place was at Baker Street, in a warm and roomy flat, in the company of the world's only consulting detective.
The younger Holmes had thought many times about a few home improvements he could do following his return to London: for example, he could buy another fridge for the kitchen to stock the body parts for experiments, leaving the bigger one for the food so loved by John. A dishwasher would be a good investment to avoid wasting time cleaning the crockery – and also, to avoid discussions each time Sherlock used a piece of china as a Petri dish. He could ask an upholsterer to repair John's favourite armchair; a new, thick rug in the upstairs bedroom would certainly be appreciated next winter. A hallstand, so they could grab their coats easily before running outside for a new case...
Sherlock's train of thoughts was stopped as he saw John's discarded jacket lying on the green leather couch. Yes, a hallstand would definitively be a good idea! At the same moment, a muffled buzzing sound could be heard coming from one of the jacket's pocket – John's mobile, by no doubts. Sherlock took the phone out of the garment with the intention to tell his friend he had a call, but then he frowned after reading the name displayed on the screen: Harry.
Sherlock never hesitated a second; he clicked on the phone and said:
"Hello."
"Who is it?" asked the caller with a hint of aggressiveness, obviously not recognizing the deep baritone voice of the detective.
"Sherlock Holmes."
A stunned silence followed the presentation, but after twenty-six heartbeats the voice answered with a vengeance:
"Who are you? How come you have my brother's phone?"
"I've already told you who I am, and I'm answering John's phone because he happens to be my flatmate."
"You're lying! Holmes was a fake detective who committed suicide years ago! And John doesn't have a flatmate!"
"I was dead, but I got better and now I am back in London. John has agreed to share a flat with me again and he has finally moved out of that dump he had been forced to live in for too long, the consequence of having an egocentric sister."
"What? You dare..."
"Why, yes. What else am I supposed to call a woman who not only destroys herself with drink, but wants to take her brother along with her into the abyss? It wasn't enough you sent your parents to an early grave with your whims; no, you want to ruin your brother as well because he is, according to your narrow mind, the one responsible for all your troubles."
"But..."
"But, nothing. You've detested John since the day of his birth, simply because he is a male and not you. Later, you hated him for being kind and sensible and thus, you tried to play tough to show the whole world you were the real "boy" of the family. But the more ruckuses you made, the more people considered you a fool and turned their attention towards John. School didn't fare any better with teachers unimpressed by your attitude and you being constantly overshadowed by your quiet brother. John the good son, John the good student, and then John the good doctor dedicated to treat injured soldiers. His only flaw is that he loves his selfish, ungrateful and all-around detestable sister."
"Bastard! You don't know what I've suffered! I was treated like a pariah because of my sexuality! I..."
"Oh, don't try to play the lesbian martyr, it won't work with me. You're so insignificant people wouldn't notice if you dated aliens from outer space; even your high school classmates didn't gossiped about your liking for girls! Your vanity far exceeds your stupidity and, since the world doesn't evolve around your navel – much to your fury – you turned to the bottle thinking it would grant you some intelligence. Wrong!"
"You..."
"Bottom line, Harriet Watson: your great plan for destroying your brother has hit rock bottom. John is currently in financial distress thanks to you, but I have all intention to put the situation right. You are going to clean up your act, stop your attention-seeker act and get a job – but this is the last chance you'll ever get. John won't pay your debts any longer because I, as his friend, will make sure you'll never squeeze a penny out of him again with your emotional blackmail. And don't underestimate me: I came back from the dead so clinic walls won't be enough to stop me from scaring the Hell out of you."
"No! Don't..."
"Since calls are allowed at the clinic only from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. and it's only 8:35 in the morning, logic tells me you have broken into a doctor's office to use his phone. So you'd better hang up and get out of here discreetly because consequences will be severe if you get kicked out of the clinic. I'm advising you to send a text to your brother this afternoon, and if you know what's good for you, you'll tell him there's no need to send you money. If you get bored, just re-read the old magazines you've stacked under your bed and quit smoking while you're at it – which is not a bad idea. Believe me, I know!"
"What?"
Sherlock terminated the connection, not unsatisfied with the solving of this peculiar problem. Harry Watson wasn't going to call her brother anytime soon to ask for money or another stay at an expensive rehab clinic, acting like a leech draining the life-force out of John again – the world's only consulting detective would make sure of it!
"Sherlock?" asked John from upstairs.
"Yes?"
"I thought I've heard you talking... Did you have a call?"
"Erm, yes... It was from Mycroft," said the detective quickly. He detested lying to John but some situations called for drastic actions. "It was a rather... tedious conversation, actually."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said John before resuming unpacking. Sherlock promptly erased all traces of Harry's call on the mobile phone and dropped the item on the couch with a movement of disgust.
A few moments later, John had joined the detective to the living-room. Much to his astonishment, Sherlock had actually straightened up things a bit – the pile of old newspapers had been pushed to a corner, the tea set had been washed and the telly had been turned on, watched by an attentive detective seated on his appointed armchair, his fingers pressed against one another in his usual thinking-hard posture.
"Hum, Sherlock? Why are you watching the nine o'clock news?"
"Oh, I'm just waiting for a report to show up; it shouldn't be long now..."
"About a case?"
"In a way, yes."
The doctor knew it was futile to bombard his friend with questions, so he lowered himself in the armchair facing Sherlock's and turned his attention towards the flat screen fixed on the living-room's wall. The broadcast news appeared quite ordinary: the economic crisis, the latest government's reshuffle, a football star signing a big contract to play in a foreign country. And then...
"The case of a free-lance journalist suspected of police bribery and improper influence over witnesses in the pursuit of publishing stories has arisen, causing a great distress in both the journalism profession and police forces," announced the anchorwoman. "Kitty Riley, who had acquired a reputation three years ago by stating that private detective Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, was arrested this morning on charge of having threatened a witness in the murder of schoolgirl Annie Deswell..."
"Holy God!" exclaimed a startled John, while Sherlock kept his eyes on the telly's screen with an amused half-smile on his lips.
"The witness, Mrs. Joyce Baxter, is an elderly widow who claimed having seen Annie Deswell climbing in the van of prime suspect Gerald Martins one hour before her dead body was found. Miss Riley bribed PC Raymond Stephenson for an exclusive interview of Martins in his holding cell, and then threatened Mrs. Baxter with loss of pension and bodily harm if she didn't forswear her testimony. Miss Riley's motive was apparently to publish an article accusing DI Gregory Lestrade, in charge of the Deswell murder, of incompetence and miscarriage of justice, resulting in the release of Martins. An anonymous tip led to the arrest of Miss Riley, and according to a police source information of interest has been found in her laptop..."
The announcement was followed by images of Kitty Riley in tears, handcuffed and lead by PCs out of her house to a police car while dozens of her soon-to-be ex-colleagues were immortalizing the moment with flashing cameras. Kitty was desperately trying to hide her face in her hands, but to no avail. The image changed back for the anchorwoman on the set, who was concluding:
"Miss Riley will be interrogated about her implication in the blackmail of Mrs. Baxter but she will also have to answer about her suspicious involvement in other cases, among them the death of Sherlock Holmes. Her accusations have led the private detective to commit suicide, causing uproar on the Internet; a movement of support towards Mr. Holmes' memory had remained steadfastly active over the years, following the last post of the blog of Doctor John Watson, Mr. Holmes' associate. Next, we have the interview of rock star Zombie Zoe about her upcoming concert..."
Sherlock grabbed the remote and hit the "mute" button, while John was turning incredulous eyes towards him.
"How on Earth did you know Riley would be arrested? Oh, let me guess... Mycroft, right?"
"Elementary, my dear John: I knew Brother Dear has been collecting information about Kitty Riley during my absence and he wouldn't resist releasing a little scandal in the media as a "Welcome home" present. No doubts that, during their inquiries and the thorough search of Kitty's laptop, the police will find out about her prior involvement with Moriarty and how her sleeping with a criminal mastermind has provided her with false data leading to my ultimate demise... Well, maybe she will use her time in prison to study a course about journalism ethics!"
"Oh, my God! But it not only means the accusations of you being a fraud will be lifted, but you'll be able to make a public announcement about your resurrection!"
"What for? I happen to know a zealous historian, who certainly wouldn't mind posting a message about my return on his abandoned-for-too-long blog, eh, John?"
"I'll certainly do it!" exclaimed the doctor, his ocean eyes shining in anticipation of posting the message of a lifetime.
Sherlock smiled, and then turned his attention towards a muffled sound downstairs: it was the creaking of the front door opening after somebody had turned a key inside the locking mechanism.
"Mrs. Hudson's back," said the younger Holmes.
"I'll go and prepare her about you being back; the shock could prove to be too hard for her nerves," answered John, rising from his armchair.
"Frankly, after the incident with the CIA killers, don't you know by now she's far more resilient than she looks?"
"Anyway, give me a minute before coming down. Doctor's orders!" shot John back without waiting for another objection from his friend.
The blond man managed to rush downstairs without hurting his bad leg in the process, and indeed Mrs. Hudson had come home from Manchester: a small suitcase had been left in the entrance's hallway, mail had been picked up and set on a small console table and the dear woman's voice could be heard near her flat's door, over a rustling of keys:
"Glad to be home – especially after having made this entire trip for nothing. Whatever possessed Glenda to reconcile with her worthless husband, anyway? And there I was, standing in the middle of the way while she and the idiot were busy kissing around! Next time Glenda has marital problems, don't count on me to go to Manchester and hold her hand... Oh, the beautiful flowers! John has come, the lovely man. I hope he wasn't too disappointed I deserted Sherlock's anniversary for a wild goose chase..."
"Mrs. Hudson?" called John softly from the stairs.
"Oh, John, you're here!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, still clad in her coat and holding her handbag.
John finished walking down the stairs, and then he greeted the landlady with a kiss on the cheek and a gentle hug: "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Did you have a nice trip?"
"It was dreadful, my dear boy. Three days of boredom at my sister's flat, sleeping on this horrid couch – I can't feel my hip – and she isn't divorcing from her "bitter" half, on top of everything! The only good time I had was in the train, reading your book. You have lots of talent, love, and your success is fully deserved. I hope you will write some more books?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm planning to; in fact, I am certain inspiration for new stories will come very soon..."
"Oh, how wonderful! I'm sorry I've left you alone to go to the cemetery but I will come with you anytime you went to."
"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, you and I don't need to go to this place."
The look on the woman's face would have been comical if John, as a physician, hadn't been concerned by her health.
"W-What do you mean, my dear? You don't want to visit Sherlock's grave anymore?
"There's no need, Mrs. Hudson. You and I will not cry and pray at his tombstone before, hopefully, a very long time. Three years ago, I've asked Sherlock to grant me one last miracle: I begged him to not be dead, to come back because I didn't think I'd be able to return to my former life of emptiness, struggling with a limp and plagued with war dreams..."
"Oh, honey..."
"But finally, after three years of wait, my wish has been granted. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock is back."
The landlady looked at John with rounded eyes, making her do an imitation of a surprised owl, but the creaking of a step made her turn about and she let out a cry of surprise: the younger Holmes was indeed here, standing at the bottom of the stairs, gently smiling at her.
"SHERLOCK!"
The world's unique consulting detective suddenly found himself with an armful of a landlady squeezing the life out of him like an octopus, kissing his face repetitively (and noisily) whilst praising God, Jesus and all the members of the heavenly host for his return. The younger Holmes, blushing to the roots of his dark curly hair, silently pleaded John to get him out from this affectionate whirlwind but the doctor was too busy laughing his head off to be of any help. Besides, thought John, Sherlock owed Mrs. Hudson three years of tears so it was payback time!
"Oh, Sherlock, my darling! Where have you been? (kiss) Don't you know John has been devastated by your death? He was in tears when he told me about you falling from that (kiss) roof! I ought to scold you, you naughty boy (kiss) but I'm too happy for that. But you are too thin, my dear! When are you going to (kiss) eat properly? Oh, my little angel, I'm so glad to see you again! (kiss) Your rooms are intact; I just aired them from time to time and (kiss) your brother kindly paid the rent but I would have kept them the way they were (kiss) anyway... Are you going to move back in, dearest? Oh, of course you will, silly question! (kiss) And with John, otherwise you'll be sad... What a joy! Both my boys are home!"
"Er... Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," managed to croak out Sherlock, looking completely at a loss from this outburst of affection – but apparently not unpleased.
"John, come here! I need to hug you both!"
The blond man obliged and he was promptly engulfed in an embrace shared with his friend and his landlady. Mrs. Hudson reminded him of his own mother with her open heart and gentle soul, and she had been a rock while John had been grieving for Sherlock; she had never believed a word of the "fraud" accusations – creating a rift with Mrs. Turner next door after she had hinted that Sherlock might had faked his deductive powers – and she had proclaimed all over the neighbourhood her pride of having been the landlady of the most amazing man the world had ever seen. Mrs. Hudson was truly a gem!
"The angel and the saint are back in Baker Street. All is well!" purred Mrs. Hudson, tightening her embrace.
Her words made a detective and a doctor blush a deep shade of red and, in a spontaneous movement, both men kissed Mrs. Hudson's face and whispered in the same voice:
"Fairy godmother!"
The trio remained embraced for a long time, savouring the complicity and affection reigning in 221 B Baker Street, a sweet moment of warmth against the harshness of the outside world. Alas, the said world crashed in with a vengeance with a sharp pressing of the doorbell, followed by the pushing open of the front door and the letting in of a woman wearing a PC uniform.
"Hey, Freak!" said the voice of Sally Donovan as she shambled in the entrance's hallway. "Bring your ass over here; Lestrade wants you at the Yard for..."
"OH, YOU!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, breaking from Sherlock's and John's embrace in a sudden movement of rage. "HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE TO MY HOUSE!"
"What? But..." sputtered Donovan.
"You think I wouldn't recognize you?" growled Mrs. Hudson, looking absolutely furious. "But I damn well remember your ugly mug! You're the one who came in with that ingrate Lestrade to arrest my boy after accused him of having kidnapped those poor children, and now you have the nerve to come back and insult him again, and under my roof! Three years ago I wanted to slap that smug smile off your face and by God, this is going to happen, right now!"
"No! Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed John, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
"You can't touch me! I'm a police constable!" protested Donovan.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" shouted Mrs. Hudson. "Besides, you are a dishonour to this uniform! Looks like your superiors can't understand what kind of a woman you really are: embittered, jealous and a slanderer; otherwise, they would have kicked you out of the Force years ago! Oh, and by the way, you looked fantastic on that photograph with your panties hanging from your ankle!"
"Mrs. Hudson, please!" John made a movement to stop the enraged landlady but Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him.
"It wasn't me on the photo! I-I was framed!"
"Framed, my foot! Now get out or there will be Hell to pay! Sherlock and John will come to the Yard whenever they want to; and no one, not even the Queen, gives orders inside my house, do you hear me? OUT!"
"But..!"
Mrs. Hudson grabbed at something discarded in one of the hallway's corners and John realised it was a broom; his eyes widened while Sherlock softly chuckled, as if he knew in advance what was going to happen.
"I said, OUT! And stay away from my boys!" shouted Mrs. Hudson, holding the broom like a club.
*Whack* CLONK!
"Ow! You crazy old witch!" yelled Donovan after the broomstick barely missed her head before hitting the wall.
"Call me names, will you?"
*Whack* CLONK! *Whack* CLONK! *Whack* CLONK!
Donovan screamed in outrage as the broomstick dented the hallway's wallpaper three more times, the housekeeping weapon zooming way too close from her head and limbs. Finally realizing she was in danger of being bashed by an irritated little old lady waving a broom, Donovan opted for a prompt retreat but not before yelling at Sherlock:
"Call her off, Freak!"
"I don't know how," answered the younger Holmes calmly.
"Who's a freak?" roared Mrs. Hudson, aiming for the PC's head once again. The blow hit the front door instead and Donovan ran outside screaming. She hardly had the time to climb inside the police car and shout her colleague behind the wheel to step on it before the broom was hurled out of 221 B, landing loudly against the car; without further ado, the vehicle drove out of Baker Street in a dark cloud of fumes coming out of the silencer, much to the astonishment of passers-by and Mr. Chatterjee, the Pakistani owner of "Speedy's", who was looking at the whole scene behind the sparkling-clean window of his restaurant.
"Moriarty said every tale needed a good villain, but he forgot all about the fairy godmother," said Sherlock while looking at Mrs. Hudson retrieving her belonging in the street.
"Aren't fairy godmothers supposed to have magic wands, or something?" asked John. He was both horrified and elated by the landlady's actions but it would never cross his mind to criticize them: the respectable doctor had punched a Chief Superintendent right on the nose following Sherlock's arrest, after all.
"Mrs. Hudson's way too energetic to content herself with a wand, and a broom is the perfect item to get rid of undesirables. Du balai!" concluded Sherlock.
TBC...