Fic: A Matter of Time
She hears the door click, the quiet footsteps of people entering her home, and slowly gets to her feet. For the first time, she feels her age pressing down on her, putting unfamiliar aches in her joints and spine. Attempting to stretch only makes the aches sharp, forcing her to hobble her way out of the room. It could be that she spent too long sitting up and not enough time sleeping. It could be that she worked too hard the day before, frantically cleaning her entire house. Or it could be emotional upheaval physically overtaking her like a set of fists, a manifestation of the grief these gentlemen have caused her.
By the time she reaches the entrance hall, they’ve entered the Doctor’s room. Mister Holmes hovers in the doorway and she assumes that the Doctor is in the process of settling himself for the evening. She begins the slow rise up the stairs, unable to decipher the soft murmuring, and trying to convince herself that she has the energy to prepare them something. All the questions and fussing that she’s allowed to fester has fallen under the oppressive dullness that plagues her until all she wants is the everyday organized chaos she considers normal.
The click of the door alerts her that the Doctor’s abed and she watches Mister Holmes descend to where his own room awaits. She’s two steps away from him and unable to find her voice.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he greets, soft, uncharacteristically so. His face is somewhat cleaner than before, if his clothing is not.
“Dinner, Mister Holmes?” she manages, her throat dry, her eyes itching. She has a headache.
“No, not tonight, I think,” he says, so amiable that she wonders who he is. “I think it is time for both Doctor Watson and I to spend quality time with Morpheus.”
“Then the case is solved?” She doesn’t know why she pursues this line of inquiry instead of voicing the other questions pounding away under the hollow in her belly. They demand answers, crave them, chew on her insides in wait. Long ago, when Mister Holmes first informed her of his profession, she agreed that she would not directly involve herself in his affairs. If it occurred beyond her walls, she would not meddle. Her duty was to provide a home for him, she confirmed, that day, and if he did not wish to speak of his business, then that was his right. After all, if he already spent most of the day answering to the Yard, he would no doubt be tired of storytelling, no matter how exciting the tale was.
“Yes,” he replied, such bitterness lying in his tone that she is now certain he is another masquerading as Sherlock Holmes. “And for it, I have lost my friend. Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”
It snaps. Whatever covering has settled over her, keeping all those terrifying emotions in, springs off and reveals a deep rawness aggravated by lack of knowledge and no sleep. Without a thought, she smacks him, hard on the face, absolutely enraged by the slumping of his shoulders, the bitter, defeated tone he uses and the fact that, after all of this, he did not have the decency to wipe his boots at the front door. There’s fresh mud trailing on her carpet.
“Is that all you have to say?” she demands. “After he spends two days, with no idea who you are, hunting for you, worrying for you, all you can say is that he is lost?”
Stalk still, he fingers his cheek. “His fear was unnecessary. I was fine.”
“And how was he supposed to know that?” she snarls. “How were any of us supposed to know? You vanish into thin air and he comes staggering home, lost, alone, and frightened! He came to my door and do you know what he said? “Am I Mister Sherlock Holmes?” And how disappointed he was when I told him no!”
Thin, able fingers continue to pet an abused cheek. “My cards were in his pocket. I forgot I handed them to him.”
“Disappointed he was not you,” she scoffs. “Disappointed! Wanting to be a man that does not even have the decency to-”
“It was a misunderstanding, Mrs. Hudson,” he interrupts. “The note was from me, the package, one of mine, and the ruffians, a dimwitted bunch who attacked his carriage and then read the note in his pocket. They overlooked the package he had with him, believing the note referred to evidence I held against them; they drugged him and followed him home, in hopes of procuring it. In all reality, the package was merely a disguise I intended on using for my infiltration.”
“All of this for a disguise, then? All of this to pursue one of your foolish fantasies?”
“All of this for miscommunication and in return, I have lost him as much as if he had died in the cab wreck.”
The dam, already straining under the weight of her fury, sags and breaks. “He never once has given up on you, doubted you, left your side! Utter loyalty, Mister Holmes, utterly, unfailingly loyal, regardless of peril, regardless of how harsh the situation, he has never once called you lost!”
“I have brought him to his doom,” Mister Holmes replies, his voice quiet, soft, far more controlled than hers. “I have repaid his loyalty by wiping away his life and livelihood.”
“Oh, do not flatter yourself,” she spats. “Whatever has happened here is as much his decision as yours. You are not an infinitely charming individual, Mister Holmes but the Doctor has chosen to overlook that and accompany you on these… these fancies! He stays because he is your friend. Now, more than ever in his life, he needs you to show the same devotion! No one is truly lost unless there is no soul left to search for them!”
She notices the slightest slouch, the slightest flicker of his gaze, the slightest, almost unnoticeable squint of his eyes, “For what purpose should I find him, Mrs. Hudson? To put him in harm’s way again? No, I think not. It was only a matter of time before this happened, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes, Mister Holmes,” she agrees. “Only a matter of time before God tested just how much you truly care for him.”
He is the very picture of a lost boy for a moment, dirty and defeated. A small part of her wants to pat his arm and provide him with comfort but it cowers under the rage rapidly taking over her veins. Turning, she stomps back down the stairs to bed.
***
It is only a matter of time before something happens, she thinks the next morning as she prepares a light breakfast for the Doctor and something else for Mister Holmes. Her initial impulse to feed the Doctor and to allow Mister Holmes to fend for himself has been overridden by the Detective’s helpless expression as she left his company the night before. Despite her still lingering fury at his selfish attitude, she has allowed a bit of compassion into her heart. Mister Holmes may need to keep faith that the Doctor will recover, but she must also remember that even the strongest of men can despair in the face of an apparently hopeless situation. No doubt he feels helpless, she reasons, for there is no obvious solution or logic for this case. The answer is already there and all that is left is the aftermath. This gives her the patience to fix his toast the way he prefers and his eggs to just the right consistency. She even includes both tea and coffee for the pair of them and orders it appropriately so they can easily access what they need.
Sleep and a meal with her coffee has given her enough time to sort out her emotions and while she feels she deserves an explanation of some sort-after all, what has happened this time has happened partially within her home-she is willing to wait until they are prepared to tell her. Patience is something she has acquired over the years, something that her nature is not given to; she prefers immediate gratification, hence why she likes to clean. A few swipes of a towel and furniture sparkles; a few rubs with a mop, a floor looks new. But people require a gentler touch and by her age, she has learned precisely what that means. She only hopes that what lies before them will teach Mister Holmes the same.
Because if the Doctor does not right himself immediately, things will not continue in the same, messy manner that they have grown accustomed to. Yes, the Doctor will probably rise a bit later than Mister Holmes and will probably be a bit neater. Some things simply do not change when your memories leave you; her mother, a victim of mental illness that left her quite unable to identify even the closest family members, still folded her bedclothes the same way until the day she passed. But smaller things, like how she held her fork or spoon, how she read or wrote, changed with her fancy. No doubt the Doctor will be the same, fluctuating in his habits until he finds the one that’s most comfortable. She has prepared herself for that; she only hopes that Mister Holmes will discover how to do so as well.
She knocks on the door to the sitting room and enters with her tray. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the two gentlemen in the corner, both seated on the settee, one curled in the corner while the other sits a bit straighter, a bit more uncomfortably. She settles breakfast on the table before turning to them.
“We will have to wait until your arm is better,” Mister Holmes concedes. “But note reading can start now.”
“C, D, E, F, G,” the Doctor murmurs, staring at the paper in his hand. He has not dressed yet and his eyes are half-open. “How on Earth am I to remember it all?”
“Practice,” Mister Holmes assures. “After a month, you’ll feel at ease with it, I assure you. It is an excellent form of physical and mental exercise. From what I’ve read in your books, exercising the mind allows it to grow stronger and remember more.”
“I cannot disagree,” the Doctor says, irony in his tone. “I honestly cannot remember reading it.”
“No, but, I think you shall,” Mister Holmes tells him with confidence he had not shown the night before. “After all, you remembered where your pocket watch was this morning and your good pen.”
“Only by chance from what I read in my journals,” the Doctor mutters, frustration mounting in his voice with each word. He allows the paper to settle on his lap. “Who knows if I’m remembering anything at all?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Breakfast, gentlemen. A good meal always helps the mind a bit. That and a solid cup of tea, and you’ll find yourself recalling more details than Mister Holmes.”
“I would listen to her, my dear Watson,” the address, so familiar, makes her heart soar. Just last night, Mister Holmes referred to him formally and now, what a change. “You will find that our landlady is quite wise.”
The look they trade is the most meaningful one they will have in their entire relationship. She leaves the room confident that things will get better; it’s only a matter of time.
By the time she reaches the entrance hall, they’ve entered the Doctor’s room. Mister Holmes hovers in the doorway and she assumes that the Doctor is in the process of settling himself for the evening. She begins the slow rise up the stairs, unable to decipher the soft murmuring, and trying to convince herself that she has the energy to prepare them something. All the questions and fussing that she’s allowed to fester has fallen under the oppressive dullness that plagues her until all she wants is the everyday organized chaos she considers normal.
The click of the door alerts her that the Doctor’s abed and she watches Mister Holmes descend to where his own room awaits. She’s two steps away from him and unable to find her voice.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he greets, soft, uncharacteristically so. His face is somewhat cleaner than before, if his clothing is not.
“Dinner, Mister Holmes?” she manages, her throat dry, her eyes itching. She has a headache.
“No, not tonight, I think,” he says, so amiable that she wonders who he is. “I think it is time for both Doctor Watson and I to spend quality time with Morpheus.”
“Then the case is solved?” She doesn’t know why she pursues this line of inquiry instead of voicing the other questions pounding away under the hollow in her belly. They demand answers, crave them, chew on her insides in wait. Long ago, when Mister Holmes first informed her of his profession, she agreed that she would not directly involve herself in his affairs. If it occurred beyond her walls, she would not meddle. Her duty was to provide a home for him, she confirmed, that day, and if he did not wish to speak of his business, then that was his right. After all, if he already spent most of the day answering to the Yard, he would no doubt be tired of storytelling, no matter how exciting the tale was.
“Yes,” he replied, such bitterness lying in his tone that she is now certain he is another masquerading as Sherlock Holmes. “And for it, I have lost my friend. Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”
It snaps. Whatever covering has settled over her, keeping all those terrifying emotions in, springs off and reveals a deep rawness aggravated by lack of knowledge and no sleep. Without a thought, she smacks him, hard on the face, absolutely enraged by the slumping of his shoulders, the bitter, defeated tone he uses and the fact that, after all of this, he did not have the decency to wipe his boots at the front door. There’s fresh mud trailing on her carpet.
“Is that all you have to say?” she demands. “After he spends two days, with no idea who you are, hunting for you, worrying for you, all you can say is that he is lost?”
Stalk still, he fingers his cheek. “His fear was unnecessary. I was fine.”
“And how was he supposed to know that?” she snarls. “How were any of us supposed to know? You vanish into thin air and he comes staggering home, lost, alone, and frightened! He came to my door and do you know what he said? “Am I Mister Sherlock Holmes?” And how disappointed he was when I told him no!”
Thin, able fingers continue to pet an abused cheek. “My cards were in his pocket. I forgot I handed them to him.”
“Disappointed he was not you,” she scoffs. “Disappointed! Wanting to be a man that does not even have the decency to-”
“It was a misunderstanding, Mrs. Hudson,” he interrupts. “The note was from me, the package, one of mine, and the ruffians, a dimwitted bunch who attacked his carriage and then read the note in his pocket. They overlooked the package he had with him, believing the note referred to evidence I held against them; they drugged him and followed him home, in hopes of procuring it. In all reality, the package was merely a disguise I intended on using for my infiltration.”
“All of this for a disguise, then? All of this to pursue one of your foolish fantasies?”
“All of this for miscommunication and in return, I have lost him as much as if he had died in the cab wreck.”
The dam, already straining under the weight of her fury, sags and breaks. “He never once has given up on you, doubted you, left your side! Utter loyalty, Mister Holmes, utterly, unfailingly loyal, regardless of peril, regardless of how harsh the situation, he has never once called you lost!”
“I have brought him to his doom,” Mister Holmes replies, his voice quiet, soft, far more controlled than hers. “I have repaid his loyalty by wiping away his life and livelihood.”
“Oh, do not flatter yourself,” she spats. “Whatever has happened here is as much his decision as yours. You are not an infinitely charming individual, Mister Holmes but the Doctor has chosen to overlook that and accompany you on these… these fancies! He stays because he is your friend. Now, more than ever in his life, he needs you to show the same devotion! No one is truly lost unless there is no soul left to search for them!”
She notices the slightest slouch, the slightest flicker of his gaze, the slightest, almost unnoticeable squint of his eyes, “For what purpose should I find him, Mrs. Hudson? To put him in harm’s way again? No, I think not. It was only a matter of time before this happened, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Yes, Mister Holmes,” she agrees. “Only a matter of time before God tested just how much you truly care for him.”
He is the very picture of a lost boy for a moment, dirty and defeated. A small part of her wants to pat his arm and provide him with comfort but it cowers under the rage rapidly taking over her veins. Turning, she stomps back down the stairs to bed.
***
It is only a matter of time before something happens, she thinks the next morning as she prepares a light breakfast for the Doctor and something else for Mister Holmes. Her initial impulse to feed the Doctor and to allow Mister Holmes to fend for himself has been overridden by the Detective’s helpless expression as she left his company the night before. Despite her still lingering fury at his selfish attitude, she has allowed a bit of compassion into her heart. Mister Holmes may need to keep faith that the Doctor will recover, but she must also remember that even the strongest of men can despair in the face of an apparently hopeless situation. No doubt he feels helpless, she reasons, for there is no obvious solution or logic for this case. The answer is already there and all that is left is the aftermath. This gives her the patience to fix his toast the way he prefers and his eggs to just the right consistency. She even includes both tea and coffee for the pair of them and orders it appropriately so they can easily access what they need.
Sleep and a meal with her coffee has given her enough time to sort out her emotions and while she feels she deserves an explanation of some sort-after all, what has happened this time has happened partially within her home-she is willing to wait until they are prepared to tell her. Patience is something she has acquired over the years, something that her nature is not given to; she prefers immediate gratification, hence why she likes to clean. A few swipes of a towel and furniture sparkles; a few rubs with a mop, a floor looks new. But people require a gentler touch and by her age, she has learned precisely what that means. She only hopes that what lies before them will teach Mister Holmes the same.
Because if the Doctor does not right himself immediately, things will not continue in the same, messy manner that they have grown accustomed to. Yes, the Doctor will probably rise a bit later than Mister Holmes and will probably be a bit neater. Some things simply do not change when your memories leave you; her mother, a victim of mental illness that left her quite unable to identify even the closest family members, still folded her bedclothes the same way until the day she passed. But smaller things, like how she held her fork or spoon, how she read or wrote, changed with her fancy. No doubt the Doctor will be the same, fluctuating in his habits until he finds the one that’s most comfortable. She has prepared herself for that; she only hopes that Mister Holmes will discover how to do so as well.
She knocks on the door to the sitting room and enters with her tray. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the two gentlemen in the corner, both seated on the settee, one curled in the corner while the other sits a bit straighter, a bit more uncomfortably. She settles breakfast on the table before turning to them.
“We will have to wait until your arm is better,” Mister Holmes concedes. “But note reading can start now.”
“C, D, E, F, G,” the Doctor murmurs, staring at the paper in his hand. He has not dressed yet and his eyes are half-open. “How on Earth am I to remember it all?”
“Practice,” Mister Holmes assures. “After a month, you’ll feel at ease with it, I assure you. It is an excellent form of physical and mental exercise. From what I’ve read in your books, exercising the mind allows it to grow stronger and remember more.”
“I cannot disagree,” the Doctor says, irony in his tone. “I honestly cannot remember reading it.”
“No, but, I think you shall,” Mister Holmes tells him with confidence he had not shown the night before. “After all, you remembered where your pocket watch was this morning and your good pen.”
“Only by chance from what I read in my journals,” the Doctor mutters, frustration mounting in his voice with each word. He allows the paper to settle on his lap. “Who knows if I’m remembering anything at all?”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Breakfast, gentlemen. A good meal always helps the mind a bit. That and a solid cup of tea, and you’ll find yourself recalling more details than Mister Holmes.”
“I would listen to her, my dear Watson,” the address, so familiar, makes her heart soar. Just last night, Mister Holmes referred to him formally and now, what a change. “You will find that our landlady is quite wise.”
The look they trade is the most meaningful one they will have in their entire relationship. She leaves the room confident that things will get better; it’s only a matter of time.