Ch 4 – Of Tea and Crap Telly
John had just returned to Baker St. with his duffel bag, pack and suitcase. He was placing the last of his shirts and jumpers in the second draw of the dresser when Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door with a knock and a "hoo hoo".
"Forgive me, Dr. Watson," John interrupted her with a shy smile.
"John, please," Mrs. Hudson returned the smile.
"Alright, John. Everything happened so quickly last evening that we never had a chance to take care of the particulars." She placed a tenancy agreement on top of the dresser. "Of course, Sherlock holds the lease and you'll work the rent with him but I do like to have one of these on file for all my tenants. I know you've got your hands full at the moment," She looked appreciatively at the neat stacks of clothes and the perfect hospital corners on the freshly made bed then her face fell a bit. "You do know what Sherlock is like, don't you, dear?" John looked up at her. Why did everyone keep asking that question? Mrs. Hudson went on without waiting for a reply. "The state of my kitchen, in less than one day!" she sighed. "Well, you just get this back to me when you can." She patted the form twice then hurried back down the stairs before John could even say a word.
John finished unpacking his clothes from the duffel bag and suitcase and placed both in the wardrobe. He would have to find away to retrieve his boxes and other things from Harry's. Maybe Mike could help. He did volunteer, after all. He walked back to the dresser and picked up the Tenancy Agreement. It was a standard form that one could find on the Internet, and it asked all the standard questions, such as current employer, references from past landlords, and so on. Nothing that a 36 year-old professional should have any trouble providing. John sat on the bed and stared blankly at the form.
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Mrs. Hudson immediately took a liking to Sherlock's new friend, John. The doctor was ever so polite and helpful and he kept the upstairs neat, to the best of his abilities given Sherlock's residence. He never failed to open a door for her, or carry her bags, or whatever else she needed whenever they met. He even brought her bins around on pick-up day. She invited him in for a cuppa and he actually stood up when she came back into the room with the tray and waited for her to be seated before sitting again. Young people simply didn't do that today. He most definitely seemed like such a fine young man. That was why incidents were so inexplicable and odd.
First of all there was the tenancy agreement. He took three days to return it and even then he hadn't filled it out properly. He had put in his name and mobile number and that was it. His current employer was empty, for past landlords he had written none, and he had listed just a one personal reference. Then there was last Wednesday afternoon. She had popped up the stairs to check if they needed anything at the market. John was napping on the sofa. Sherlock and he had been out to all hours the previous two nights. She tried to sneak in without disturbing him to check the fridge but he woke so suddenly. In an instant he had spun around and was sitting on the edge of the sofa as if he were about to pounce. His eyes were wide and so afraid. He hadn't responded at all when she tried to apologize. He had just turned away and balled his hands into tight fists. She had left quickly without even checking the refrigerator. Finally, there was this morning with the silly light bulb. John had seemed happy and pleasant enough as he came down the stairs. He had seemed to not mind helping as usual but then, once she had shown him the light fixture on the basement stair, his face had immediately hardened and closed over. He curtly announced that he was sorry but that he couldn't help. Then he had walked away without a word or a backward glance. She hadn't seen him since.
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"Sherlock, could I have a word," Mrs. Hudson finally asked later that afternoon as Sherlock came through the entry of 221 Baker St. Sherlock was just returning from Bart's after examining and cataloging the results from this week's mould crop. He eyed his land lady. She was wringing her hands, obvious distress, she had something to say that she thought would be upsetting. Feeling quite self-satisfied at the moment, given the success of his mould experiments, he decided to indulge her.
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock followed her into her flat. "If it's about the Rhizopus stolonifer samples in the bathroom cupboard I can assure you ..."
"It's about, John," Mrs. Hudson said bluntly. Sherlock looked at her confused.
"What about him?" The old woman continued wringing her hands.
"Well, Sherlock, I know you are ... fond of him and all and he is incredibly polite and well-mannered but I am a bit worried. How well do you actually know him?" Sherlock looked at her puzzled. The older women dropped her voice conspiratorially. "He's a doctor but he's not got a position, has he?" She nods at him knowingly, "And, he's got no history of tenancy, either."
"Then there's the other things. I think there could be something ... wrong with him. He'll seem so pleasant, helpful and kind then out of the blue he'll seem cross and walk away. Like this morning I ask for help changing a florescent light."
"Phosphorescent tube," Sherlock corrected picking the tube in its cardboard case up from where it sat on the counter.
"What?" Mrs. Hudson replied confused and Sherlock slid the device out of its package and was off.
"What's commonly referred to as a fluorescent light bulb is correctly called a phosphorescent tube. The concept was first explored by Alexandre Becquerel in 1857 later adapted for commercial use by Peter Cooper Hewitt in the 1860's. Is it the one on the basement stair?" He moved through Mrs. Hudson's flat toward the offending light fixture as he expounded. "Should have been replaced more than month ago given its current coloration and ..."
"Sherlock! Are you sure John is alright!" Mrs. Hudson nearly shouted over the detectives exposition. Sherlock froze considering the worried look on his land lady's face.
"What do you mean? Why would John not be alright?" he asked cautiously.
"Well, it's just as I said. He's got no job, no references. He's usually polite and lovely as can be but then all of a sudden he can be so distant and hard, or closed off, like he's lost. Are you sure you can rely on ..."
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began with an air of patient, knowing condescension.
"I mean, after all, did you ever consider ..."
"Mrs. Hudson,"
"I'm not a suspicious person but there are people, not that John is one ..."
"Mrs. Hudson, he's a wounded veteran. Just back from Afghanistan." Sherlock announced bluntly talking over his land lady before returning his attention to the job at hand. He flipped switch to the basement light on and off several times until the old tube caught and glowed with a purplish tinge. He smiled up at the device, phosphorescent tubes really were incredibly elegant. He turned it off, reached up to the overhead fixture and easily twisted the old tube out. He the handed it back to Mrs. Hudson who was standing gape mouthed with a slightly horrified look on her face.
"I can see why John declined. I doubt he could have managed this." Sherlock said casually. He turned back, reaching up with both hands to insert the new tube. "Shoulder wound, " he continued blithely completely oblivious to Mrs. Hudson's reaction. "A rather nasty one I suspect. He'd have had to have been significantly disabled to be invalided with his skill set." At this, Mrs. Hudson raised a hand to her mouth and slowly shook her head but Sherlock prattled on.
"His range of motion is definitely reduced, especially his overhead extension. I'm not surprised you haven't noticed really. He is rather stoic about it all and he compensates well. They say it's a difficult transition, former soldiers returning from service. I thought he's been coping quite nicely." He flipped the light switch once and the tube promptly flickered to life. He smiled up at his job well done. "That's it, then. And like I said don't give a thought to the mould samples. They'll be gone by next Friday." Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson final perfunctory smile and swept out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson found herself back in her sitting room still holding the old tube. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her other hand still raised to her mouth. 'You never know who you're talking to,' she thought. John, a returning war hero. Poor, dear.
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The next evening just before EastEnders came on there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see that it was John.
"May I come in, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked .
"Yes, of course, dear," she gushed and quickly stood aside to let him in. "Can I get you tea? I made some biscuits this morning if you'd like?" John shook his head smiling shyly.
"No, no. Mrs. Hudson. Don't put yourself out." On the telly, the theme music to the programme started. John took a deep breath and stood at parade rest.
"I just wanted to apologize for yesterday." Mrs. Hudson was about to cut in but John pressed on. "I behaved ... badly. The truth of it is I've ... injured my shoulder and I can't ..." John paused and looked at Mrs. Hudson who had both hands clasped in front of her mouth "You already know all this, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and John let out and exasperated sigh, "Sherlock?"
"Of course." Mrs. Hudson replied and John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Well, now I feel like a tit." John quipped as he shifted to stand hands loose by his side. His ear tips flushed red.
"Don't worry, he seems to make everyone feel that way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said waving it off. She was rewarded with one of John's radiant smiles.
"He does at that. Is this a new episode?" John asked pointing to the screen. Mrs. Hudson nodded.
"You ... wouldn't mind if I ... Sherlock's a bit annoying to watch telly with. Actually, Sherlock's just a bit annoying," he dead panned. Mrs. Hudson smiled.
"Not at all, dear." She fussed to straighten the afghan on the back of the sofa before offering him a place to sit.
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Mrs. Hudson began to make a point of checking on her new tenant regularly. She noted that John sometimes followed Sherlock out on cases but more often the detective went about his madcap inquiries and experiments as if his flat mate didn't exist. If she hadn't seen John out and about for a day or two she would be sure to pop up and ask him down for tea. Gradually, he began to stop by on his own. They would enjoy a nice cuppa and even watch a bit of telly to pass the time. She introduced him to Mrs. Turner and Mr. Chattergi and pointed out 'the married ones' to him. He never failed to compliment her baking and had been so positively potty over her apple cinnamon crumble she gave him the whole cake to take upstairs.
Mrs. Hudson enjoyed having the company, she really did, but she was still worried. John's visits always brightened her day but what did it say that this fine young man had so few prospects he spent his afternoons having tea with an old woman. She saw the worry in his face whenever he picked up his post filled with bills and overdue notices.
"You know, dear, there's a lovely surgery just over on Aybrook St," she said casually one day without looking at him while they watched a cooking show.
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A few days later he handed her a slip of paper with his mom's risotto recipe while Connie Prince played in the background.
"Candy made with either toffee or hen," she read out loud teasing.
"Ah, that's 'Can be made with tofu or ham'," he corrected pointing to the messy scrawl of words on the page.
"Really, John, you doctor's and your hand writing," she swatted him playfully. He started to reply in mock indignation.
"I'll have you know I got top marks for hand writing in school. This," he gestured to the sheet still making light, "this is only because ... " he stopped short as if suddenly realizing he about walk into a trap. He stood up straight and took a step back. His face became closed off. "I got shot," he finished quietly. Mrs. Hudson quickly tried to gloss over it.
"It's fine, dear, I can read it just fine. Does this serve 6 or 8?" she asked trying to change the subject.
"I still practice, you know, trying to make it look like my real hand writing," John continued. He was looking straight ahead not at Mrs. Hudson. His face was emotionless. Mrs. Hudson tried again.
"What does it matter, John. This is fine. You should see my sister Eleanor's writing. Do you use fresh or graded parmesan?" John huffed a humourless laugh.
"No, you don't understand. I am a surgeon. I am supposed to be a surgeon with the RAMC. That's what I ..." He stopped short staring at his left hand. When he continued his voice was just above a whisper. "I was ... good and now I can never ..." Mrs. Hudson's heart broke as she listened. She had known loss like this. Four years ago, before Florida, she thought she had known what her future would be like, too.
"Things happen, John. They happen and change everything about how you thought your life would be." She looked away toward the collection of framed photographs on the wall. There were several conspicuous spaces.
"But then, those things, they become the past." She gave him a tight smile, "and there's room for new things.*"
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A/N – Sorry this took so long. There's no real reason. Just sorry. I hope you liked it. Please read and review.
*Mrs. Hudson's last words here are paraphrased from the New Beginnings post on John Watson's Blog.
Not beta'd or Brit Picked. I may own many things but these characters are not among them.