Prompt: The Irregulars work together on a project, from Wordwielder
A loud bang alerted Mrs. Hudson that something was going on upstairs.
This wasn't exactly unusual - Mr. Holmes was hardly the quietest of tenants, and loud noises from the first floor rooms usually meant something was going on she would rather not have to deal with later.
She sighed and headed upstairs, ready to face bullet holes in the door or an anvil in the chimney or anything else Mr. Holmes might come up with. But opening the door, she found herself face to face with a roomful of little boys, all spread out on the floor on top of what looked like a tablecloth.
A second later she realized, horrified, that the tablecloth was covered in paint, and that there were paint tubes perched precariously on the settee and the table and seemingly every other flat surface there was.
"Do not concern yourself, Mrs. Hudson. I assure you, they are well supervised," Mr. Holmes said from the chemistry set.
Well, that was something. She did not think Mr. Holmes would have liked to see what she would do if he had left the Baker Street Irregulars entirely unsupervised alone in her first floor rooms. Though Mr. Holmes only marginally counted as adult supervision, in her eyes, being that he was often in need of it himself.
"Is this for a case, or did you simply decide to run an art class for your charges?" she asked.
"I don't want to go to class!" Little Sam said, standing up and brandishing his paintbrush so blue specks scattered across the floor.
I could have said no. I could have refused to rent to him. It's your own fault, Martha.
The blue specks might go with the bullet holes. She no longer expected Mr. Holmes to keep the rooms pristine, since he seemed to be incapable of doing so.
"It's not class, Sam!" Wiggins said. "Careful with that paint. You don't want to be getting that mess on Mrs. H's floors."
"Sorry," Sam said, smiling so innocently that Mrs. Hudson could not possibly be angry with him.
No doubt the lad knew that. Pity that it worked.
"You haven't answered my question," she said.
"It's a secret project!" One of the other lads, Robert, age 4, said.
"Secret?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"We had to keep it secret, otherwise Dr. Watson will find out," Sam told her seriously. "See?" He stepped aside so she could see what they were painting.
"Congradulations Dr. and Mrs. Watson!
From the Baker Street Irregulars!"
Surrounding these largest golden letters were the names of each Baker Street Irregular, some larger and messier depending on the age and ability to write.
"It's a wedding gift!" Robert burst out. The other little boys nodded, and Mrs. Hudson suddenly found that the mess in her rooms wasn't all that much bother at all.
"Did Mr. Holmes put you up to this?" she asked.
A derisive laugh, from Wiggins, hastily covered up, told her this was not the case. "No, we thought it up," he said. "We ought to give Dr. Watson a wedding present, after he's been so kind to us and what."
Watson had been kind to these boys, when few others ever had. He had patiently stitched up cuts and seen them through childhood illnesses, occasionally purchasing medicine when their families couldn't have afforded it. His stories of India and Australia had kept them enthralled on many a winter night, and every boy found himself the recipient of a new toy at Christmas.
"I'm sure he'll love it," Mrs. Hudson said, and she meant it. As for Mary Morstan, well, she would undoubtedly hang it up in pride of place in the sitting room.
"I hope it's enough," Wiggins said worriedly. "They've got lots of friends, have the Watsons, to get them better gifts."
"No one else will have worked on theirs as much as you have," Mrs. Hudson said. "I think that alone will mean they'll love it."
She was quite sure the Watsons would get no gift that could mean more to them.