Prompt 11
Title: Laundry Days
Universe: ACD Canon
Words: 460
Summary: Mrs. Hudson may not be a detective but she can read the story behind the stain, and worries about her boys.
Mrs. Hudson was not considered a detective by those who knew her. Nor would she have considered herself a detective. Yet it was inevitable that she would make her own deductions in the fields she had the most experience in.
Even the most vacant-minded tweeny could tell by the state of the rooms if Mr. Holmes was on a case: newspapers everywhere, strange artifacts strewn about, a dense fog of tobacco smoke hovering about everything thick enough to rival a London Special. It took slightly more skill to interpret food clues: a skipped meal might mean a case or a victory dinner eaten at Mancini's, and a meal actually consumed might mean Mr. Holmes was in a good mood or that Dr. Watson was visiting. But even then, patterns easily emerged. Mrs. Hudson preferred more of a challenge.
Green smears, particularly on the knees, meant a country case involving footprints (or in one memorable case, tyre tracks) in grass, and required rubbing alcohol, plain soap, and white vinegar in that order.
Red clay usually meant Baker Street and usually did not climb higher than trouser leg hems. Once or twice, during that first winter, she found red clay smears imbedded deeply into Watson's knees and a hole in the palm of one of his gloves. She washed and mended, and tactfully left a bottle of liniment on the sideboard, and also looked into boot soles with better gripping power.
Identifying black stains depended heavily on the location. Fine and powdery on the arms meant coal bins. Fine and powdery sprinkled heavily on the shoulders and lightly just below that meant train stations. Thick and viscous and utterly impossible to remove entirely meant tar . . . and also that that particular suit required to be dyed entirely black if it were to be salvaged at all. (A pity; black suited Mr. Holmes far better than it did the doctor.)
Brown stains might be fruit, if on the lapels, and bespoke of eating on the run, and meant a substantial dinner would be welcome. Dark brown might be coffee and indicated the same, plus particular quiet the next morning and a delayed – if not outright missed – breakfast.
Of course, red-brown stains were worrying. The gentlemen might claim rust, but rust was more orangy. Besides, rust did not require trips to the pharmacist for painkiller. Rust did not merit frantic calls for hot water and towels and bandages.
Nor did rust accompany perfectly round holes with burns around them.
When "rust" stains appeared in the laundry, she worried and grieved but silently. If it eased their minds to think she was fooled, she would not disillusion them. She did as she always did – wash, mend, and provided comfort as best she could.