Frank by InSilva
Disclaimer: own nothing Sherlocky.
A/N: belated birthday/17th March present for otherhawk. Happy birthday, mate, and thank you, as always, for everything.
She caught herself playing with her wedding ring again and made herself stop. She wasn't even sure why she still wore it. Biting her lip, she looked up at the building with trepidation and not a little surprise. It didn't look like the sort of place where she'd find the help she needed but what did she know? Besides. Ida had been very persuasive.
"He's a miracle worker. Really, he is. You'll be amazed, dearie."
Amazed. Well, that would be better than tearing a room apart to find your passport and running away in the clothes you stood up in and better than three months of sleepless nights and worry and better than not knowing whom to turn to.
She took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer beside the neatly-written "S. Holmes". There was silence and then an irritated "Who is it?".
She cleared her throat. "Martha Hudson." She cleared her throat again and added "Ida sent me. Ida Barlow. Robinson! Ida Robinson," she corrected. "I need your advice about something. I don't know what you charge but I have a little money."
There was another silence and then the door clicked open. "Come on up."
Marvellous the man may be, but four flights of stairs took some climbing. She took a moment to catch her breath and then knocked on the door.
There was a muffled "Just a moment" and then the door was flung open.
"You could do with some elevators here-" she began and then broke off.
She was confronted with the sight of a ridiculously young man with wild curly hair and a face that looked…haughty. Haughty was the word.
She took a step back, her fingers unconsciously straying to her wedding ring. She must have come to the wrong door. Or she had misunderstood Ida. Or Ida had misunderstood her. Or something. Because this boy couldn't possibly help her with Frank.
Maybe he sensed a little of what was running through her head because he started talking very, very quickly.
"You've got a problem that's worrying you enough to make you lose sleep. A problem that's brought you across London to see me. You're not sure that this isn't a mistake but your school friend, Ida, has recommended me so you will give me the benefit of the doubt even though you don't feel comfortable telling a stranger about what happened over in America - telling Ida was bad enough. But right now, you need help and the police won't listen and Ida can't help so really, Mrs Martha Hudson, you need to trust me so that I can help make sure your husband never bothers you again."
She blinked hard.
"I deduce better over a cup of tea," he added. "Do come in."
Somehow, she'd been the one to make the tea and now, bone china cup and saucer in hand, she was perched awkwardly in the chair pushed up against the wall in the tiny apartment. Flat. Studio flat, she told herself.
There had been a rack of test-tubes and laboratory equipment on the side in the tiny kitchen area and she hadn't wanted to inspect the contents too closely. Instead, she surreptitiously studied the furniture which was good quality but worn. The tv was tucked into a corner, surrounded by boxes of books like he hadn't had time to unpack. Perhaps it was just that he hadn't had room to unpack. The bed had been pushed up into the wall – bits of sheet were protruding – and she glanced at it nervously. If it chose to descend, she would be right in its path.
Mr Sherlock Holmes had dropped elegantly into an armchair; he was sipping his tea and watching her. When she caught his eye, he flashed her a smile that died as soon as it was born.
"So tell me."
She told him. Haltingly at first and then the words flowed out of her like they wouldn't stop. She told him about meeting Frank and being swept off her feet and away to the States. She told him about how Frank had encouraged her career as an artiste and about how she had started to help with the "business". About how she'd been proud to help out with the books because she'd always had a good head for figures. And then about how she'd gradually realised where the revenue came from and about how the magic and the euphoria had melted away "like that painting with the clocks".
After that, there wasn't much more to add. Dully, she told him about the drugs and the drink and the time he'd hit her and the girls and the whisper of murder and the police coming for Frank and about how relieved she had been that the nightmare was over.
Except it wasn't.
"Look after this, babe," Frank had said. "They can't touch me as long as you keep this safe. I'll tie them up in knots and be out in time for Christmas."
She reached around her neck and pulled out the chain with the key at the end of it.
"I don't know what it's for," she whispered, staring at it, "and I want to turn it in, but…"
"Who threatened you?" Sherlock asked and she flushed, filled with the memory of bad breath and a sharp blade and a particularly hideous checked shirt.
"A man named Colin Brook. Frank worked with him. He said that I'd better stick by Frank or…or…"
She composed herself.
"I came back to London. While I was out of the country, my aunt passed away. She used to run a lodging house in Baker Street and she left it to me. I didn't tell Frank."
She didn't add that he would have made her sell it and she wouldn't have seen a penny of it because she felt sure that by now Sherlock understood that.
"I can't go to the police with the key. They'll think I'm an accessory or something. And without the key, they won't have a case. And once they release Frank, he's going to come after me."
Her lip started to tremble and she bit it to make it stop.
"I don't know what you charge," she said again. "Would two hundred pounds be sufficient?"
"Drink your tea," Sherlock said abruptly.
He stood up and pulled out a cellphone. No, a mobile phone. She'd lived in America too long.
She only heard half of the short conversation and what she did hear, didn't make too much sense. She looked around the flat again and then a cold wash of common sense splashed over her. What was she thinking? This boy had hardly enough money to get by. He couldn't go to Florida to sort this out. Even if he did, the police wouldn't listen to him. He was a child. She must have been mad.
Well, it wasn't his fault. He'd listened to her and he was clever like Ida said and maybe one day, with those skills, he'd be a policeman like the man her cousin in Lichfield had been married to. She glanced over almost fondly at the boy who was arguing calmly and earnestly with someone on the phone, his back to her. Then she stood up and slipped away.
It was another sleepless night where she'd had to resort to a herbal soother to help her drift off. A little bleary-eyed, she opened the front door of 221 to bring in the paper and Sherlock was standing on the doorstep.
He smiled and handed her the paper and then stepped into the hall, inspecting it as he did so. She saw him glance up towards 221B and the unmistakeable snoring.
"Mr Simmons," she explained unnecessarily. "He's only on a short lease, thank goodness. He takes up the whole set of rooms and there's only one of him. It seems such a waste."
There was a glimpse of something in Sherlock's face – what was that? Longing? She thought about his cramped living conditions. Yes, he would certainly enjoy the space upstairs. She shook herself.
"How did you find me?"
"I could tell you that I traced you through your late aunt but it was a rather more prosaic method."
She glanced at the plate he was holding. Ida.
"I brought cookies," he offered, his voice full of charm.
She sighed. "I'll put the kettle on."
He sat at her little kitchen table, dunking Ida's chocolate chip cookies into a mug of hot, strong tea.
"If you give me the key," he said, in between mouthfuls, "I will make sure that it falls into the right hands and that neither Frank Hudson nor Colin Brook ever troubles you again."
Once again she stood and blinked stupidly at him. "How?"
He scowled at a piece of cookie that decided to fall into the sea of tea and then looked up at her, seemingly reluctant to reveal the magic trick. She held his gaze: she wanted the secrets of this one.
"My brother is by way of being the British Government and British Secret Service and any other form of establishment you care to imagine. It's tiresome but it means that I can open doors I'm not supposed to."
He leaned forward, his eyes on hers. "Trust me."
And she had.
The paper clippings told her that Frank Hudson was put to death thanks to the evidence found in a locker at a train station in Miami. It was headline news and she felt nothing but relief. There was a smaller article too about a man called Colin Brook who was convicted of extortion and assault.
She folded the paper clippings and stood up and tucked them away in between her cookbooks. Standing at the sink, she smoothed down her apron.
"There'll be no comeback," the tall man in the suit was saying. "Whatever else my little brother may be, he's very thorough. He's still in Florida tying up some loose ends. Or dissecting an alligator. It's hard to tell."
"You're very kind to come and tell me."
The man grimaced. "It had nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with losing a small wager."
Oh.
"Well, in any case, thank you. And I must thank Sherlock."
"If you must." The tall man glanced round her kitchen before smiling a polite goodbye.
Yes, she must. Beginning with the two hundred pounds. And with cookies made to her own recipe. She sniffed. She always scored higher marks in Home Ec than Ida. And perhaps, if Mr Simmons was going to depart for Bournemouth shortly like he said he was…well, then perhaps there might be another way too.
Humming to herself, she put on the kettle, full of plans.