Sherlock Dari Drabble Chapter 21

Kindness

A/N: Sorry for late update, all. Hogmanay/New Year's Day celebrations sort of got in the way, so I wasn't able to post on Monday morning. Here's part 2 of 4 of the Christmas and New Year chapter set. I used to work for a homelessness charity: this chapter is for the people who came through our doors and the dedicated people who take the time to volunteer. It sounds sappy, and it probably is, but you need to be a singular type of person to be able to take that kind of job. I couldn't! Rae's character is just a snapshot of one person's reasons for being homeless; it's really easy to give an impression that there's only one reason for becoming homeless, and that people who are homeless (whether they're rough sleeping or not) come from one walk of life: hopefully this chapter steers clear of that. I don't know exactly what homeless services in London are like, but the idea of night shelters and places like St-Martin-in-the-Fields is the same wherever you go: a warm meal, a safe place to sleep for the night, and dignity for anyone who comes through your doors.

2003

Rae looked around as he entered the hall, keeping a watch out for anyone with a bad rep as he took his usual seat next to the Christmas tree. Couldn't be too careful, what with all the new faces at the shelter every week: vigilance was his watchword. He was a soldier, after all. One of the support workers came over to him with his cuppa, just the way he liked it: two sugars and a dash of milk in the blue stripy mug. He sighed, sinking into the warmth of the chair and cradling his hands around the cup. Nice to be out of the cold, what with all the revellers at their office Christmas parties stumbling over his sleeping spot. This year hadn't been bad for getting shouted at, but the shelter was the place to go when it got below zero-tonight was bitterly cold, and he figured it was time to check in with the ladies and gents of St Martin's.

He'd first come to St-Martin-in-the-Fields a few years ago, after a tip off from one of the nicer coppers on his patch, a Sergeant Le-something. He'd taken places in hostels over the years, but getting to a tenancy was a gradual thing for most of 'em, so a few years down the line he was only just starting to think about looking for something longer. He glanced up as Janey, one of the old-timer volunteers, said hello to one of the new ones; a young blond lad was standing in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves with his legs akimbo and obviously listening as she told him where everything was. He was obviously the type to get stuck in as he washed his hands, picked up a knife and began to crack on with the pile of carrots by the sink without another word. He admired that. A few of the people who came to volunteer did it to make themselves feel better about their own comfortable lives; some did it for the experience; a lot of them, like this lad, seemed to be doing it because they felt right about it. He wasn't complaining-a helper was a helper whatever their reasons-but it was nice to feel that someone was doing it because they wanted to.

He sat with Bob, one of the vicars that helped out over Christmas, talking about Fulham and the Tube works, and reminiscing about Christmases in London when they were little boys. He was only thirty-eight, but the street made you weary quickly. After a while, he noticed the soup being ladled into the warmers and set off to the queue. He noticed the young lad, now stirring a huge pot of custard for the jam roly-poly, out of the corner of his eye. Picking up his tray, he walked along past Yvette, Sam, Janey and Robin for his soup and sausage casserole, relishing the savoury smell as he refilled his cuppa and then slid back into his seat. Simon was sitting in the seat across from his, another old-hander having a night out of the cold and rain. They chatted for a while about the new plants in the gardens of the Church; he wasn't one for Bible-bashing himself, but Simon had always been drawn to it all, and volunteered to use his experience as a gardener to help them tend the roses in the spring and summertime. Looking up, they smiled at each other, little boys in bigger bodies as two large bowls of pudding and custard were set down in front of them.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Naw, lad. Take a seat."

It was Simon who had spoken, but it was Rae who had his suspicions proved right as the young 'un from the kitchens plopped himself down in the next seat along. Simon nodded a goodbye, grasping his hand and beetling off to stake out a bed next to the heater.

"I'm John," the newbie said, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"Rae. D'you know, the last time anyone called me 'sir' was the best part of twenty year ago; nice to meet you too, John."

John's forehead crinkled. "Falklands?"

Rae could feel his eyebrows go up into his fringe. "How did you know that? Has Janey been talking about me?"

Realising how it must have sounded, the boy shook his head. "Takes a soldier to know a soldier."

Raising one eyebrow this time, Rae half-turned to meet the young man's open gaze. "What's your regiment, soldier?"

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, sir. I'm one of the Medical Officers."

"You a stretcher-bearer?"

"A doctor. I'm on leave."

"You not got a family you should be with? It's only a few days 'til the 25th now."

The young man smiled wistfully but didn't reply. He frowned, his attention caught by Rae's left thumb.

"Looks sore. Is it a new break?"

Rae nodded, interested. The kid hadn't asked how he'd hurt himself, just wanted to know how he could help. They bantered about the army; he'd been a Green Beret, back in the day, and he poked fun at these lucky buggers in their tented camps in lovely hot countries, swallowing as he remembered hunkering down behind a rock at Goose Green on the way to fight the Argies. John grinned, making the point that heat stroke was just as dangerous as freezing while gently and calmly strapping his thumb and cleaning up the shallow cut on his palm. His eyes were kind and sad as they took in his hands; Rae was used to shrinking away, and the lad looked gratified as he consented to put his hand on the table as he worked.

When it came time for the kitchen volunteers to leave, Rae noticed John lingering by his stuff. He turned to say something to Janey, popped a bundle beside his bags and left with a cheery wave.

Loping over, Rae gingerly picked up the bundle and was momentarily stunned. A warm down coat, full of pockets and with a snug hood, hung heavy and substantial in his hands. He read the note pinned to the front.

Noticed you didn't have a coat, and I'm only a half hour's walk away. Merry Christmas.

Lt John Watson,

BFPO Box 60975

c/o Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

For if you want to write.

A/N: One of the major reasons for people becoming homeless is a mental health issue, which means that ex-servicemen and women can be vulnerable to becoming homeless (whether or not that means sleeping rough or not). We might meet Rae again, you never know...The Falklands War lasted from 2nd April-14th June 1982; obviously, the Argies are the Argentinian forces against which British forces were fighting. Goose Green was one of the major offensives of the war and involved landing Green Berets (Royal Marines) on the shore of the main island.

I have no idea how the BFPO works, so have used a PO Box as it seemed logical. Happy New Year, everyone! May you have health and fruitfulness, and adventures aplenty!