Fic for scfrankles: Mrs. Hudson's Unique Tenants
Title: Mrs. Hudson’s Unique Tenants
Author: piplover
Recipient: scfrankles
Pairing: None
Rating: Gen
Fandom: ACD Canon
When one thinks of what kind of tenant Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be, one might imagine all kinds of ludicrous scenarios. Most of these would be correct. Fingers in the butter? I dropped a tea service when I discovered them.
Horrible chemical odors? My poor wallpaper turned brown and still hasn’t been fully restored.
And let us not forget the horrible range of stragglers - er, clients - clomping up my stairs at all hours of the day.
However, if one thinks that only Sherlock Holmes is to blame… Well, then you obviously haven’t met Dr. John Watson.
Mrs. Hudson looked over the words she had written and smiled, a slight turning of the lips that wrinkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks. She did love her tenants, and all their strange, exciting ways. But some days…
The front door burst open, hitting the entryway wall with a loud bang that echoed throughout the downstairs. Mrs. Hudson clenched her pen tighter, just barely refraining from splotching the page.
“Mrs. Hudson!”
Dr. John Watson was not a bad looking man, with his distinguished mustache and somber suit. The tendrils of seaweed hanging off of one shoulder, however, marred his appearance slightly.
“Mrs, Hudson, Holmes has done it again! He’s gone and fallen into the harbor, taking nearly half of Scotland Yard and the dock workers with him. It will be a late night, we might need a bit of supper later. Something that will stay under a cover, you understand.”
All this was said as Dr Watson swept into the kitchen, placed a wet, seaweed smelling kiss on her cheek, grabbed a roll from the tray which had been removed from the oven not fifteen minutes earlier, and then swept out again.
Mrs. Hudson watched in amusement as the doctor juggled the hot roll between his hands as he clomped up the stairs, no doubt to retrieve his medical bag and a change of clothes for his friend. She turned her attention back to the words she had just written, and firmly pushed the page aside in order to concentrate on making up a supper that would be edible when the two men arrived back home, inevitably famished and drunk on their adventure.
***
Over the years I have become accustomed, as do most women who spend any time around the masculine members of our species, to certain inelegant sights from my tenants. Pants strewn across the furniture, tobacco ash in my saucer, and remnants of shaving soap and whiskers in the water basins, just to name a few.
With Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have also become accustomed to some NOT so common sights.
One night, perhaps a fortnight ago, I came across Mr. Holmes in the kitchen, digging through the pantry at gone three in the morning, mumbling to himself about corsets and stockings. He was, somewhat unexpectedly, dressed as a woman. He had even gone so far as so paint his face and don a wig of black, perfectly styled hair. When he spotted me in the doorway, he had simply smiled and asked if I would mind terribly making some tea for him…
“Holmes, I’m telling you, that disguise is too believable for your own good. If it hadn’t been for the good Detective Inspector, you may have even ended up in goal!”
Dr. Watson’s voice floated down the stairs, followed a moment later by the doctor himself, attention focused on the man behind him as he spoke over his shoulder. As they came into view, Mrs. Hudson realized exactly what the good doctor was referring too.
Mr. Holmes was dressed as what could only be a beggar. A filthy, smelly, disgusting beggar.
Mrs. Hudson reared back as the smell preceded the man, hand clamped firmly to her nose as came to stand in her sitting room doorway. His face was unshaven, and he had acquired two scars across his cheek and a crooked nose. When he smiled at her, beaming brilliantly at her reaction, three of his teeth had been artistically blackened.
“Mr. Holmes, get out of my sitting room, out of my entryway, and out of this house! You smell like sour milk and, and, and horrible things!”
She made a shooing motion with the hand not currently protecting her sense of smell, and when this declaration was met with delighted laughter, she stood and pointed to the door.
“Out, now! And you, too, Doctor!”
Sensing their future dinners were on the line, both men hastily exited, leaving only the slightly horrific scent behind, and the faint murmur of their voices as they headed down the street, chatting amiably.
***
Lest the reader think that my two tenants are perhaps more trouble than their rent is worth, I would hastily point out that, although there have certainly been some rough moments, the delight of two such men far outweighs the negatives.
Dr. Watson has been a generous and kind caretaker to the young rascals Mr. Holmes employs as his Irregulars. Often he has patched up wounds small and serious without ever a complaint or harsh word. Indeed, he has even taken care of some of my own minor injuries which have inevitably occurred while in the kitchen.
And Mr. Holmes, though unorthodox, has always seen to my safety and comfort, even going so far as to call out the baker who tried to sell me loaves of bread with sawdust!
For all the inevitable worry they bring into my life, there is ten times the joy. It truly was a blessing the day they came to live under my roof.
Once again lost in thought, Mrs. Hudson startled as a hand gently touched her shoulder, bringing her head up and around to see Mr. Holmes standing beside her. Dressed in shirt sleeves and trousers with his brown robe tied securely in place, he smiled at her in amusement as he waggled his finger at her.
“You’re writing another article for that horrible women’s magazine, aren’t you?” he asked, eyes crinkling with merriment as she huffed at him.
“Oh, go on, you,” she said, swatting his arm. She couldn’t help returning his smile, though. “Dr. Watson isn’t the only one who likes to write about you two.”
“Just so.” He patted her shoulder gently, just once, and headed toward the pantry. “Would you mind terribly making some tea, Mrs. Hudson? Only it’s been a terribly long day and I’m famished!”
“Mr. Holmes, put that down! I’m saving that for my sister’s visit tomorrow!”
He grumbled, but complied, and mumbled to himself as he once more searched the cupboard.
Looking down at the page before her, trying to hide her smile, Mrs. Hudson finished writing her article before setting it aside to shoo her wayward tenant away from her kitchen.
Perhaps some would say that what goes on in this house is not very respectable. To them I say, this is not a house of respectable people. It is a home, and as with most homes, only the family within can truly understand.
Author: piplover
Recipient: scfrankles
Pairing: None
Rating: Gen
Fandom: ACD Canon
When one thinks of what kind of tenant Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be, one might imagine all kinds of ludicrous scenarios. Most of these would be correct. Fingers in the butter? I dropped a tea service when I discovered them.
Horrible chemical odors? My poor wallpaper turned brown and still hasn’t been fully restored.
And let us not forget the horrible range of stragglers - er, clients - clomping up my stairs at all hours of the day.
However, if one thinks that only Sherlock Holmes is to blame… Well, then you obviously haven’t met Dr. John Watson.
Mrs. Hudson looked over the words she had written and smiled, a slight turning of the lips that wrinkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks. She did love her tenants, and all their strange, exciting ways. But some days…
The front door burst open, hitting the entryway wall with a loud bang that echoed throughout the downstairs. Mrs. Hudson clenched her pen tighter, just barely refraining from splotching the page.
“Mrs. Hudson!”
Dr. John Watson was not a bad looking man, with his distinguished mustache and somber suit. The tendrils of seaweed hanging off of one shoulder, however, marred his appearance slightly.
“Mrs, Hudson, Holmes has done it again! He’s gone and fallen into the harbor, taking nearly half of Scotland Yard and the dock workers with him. It will be a late night, we might need a bit of supper later. Something that will stay under a cover, you understand.”
All this was said as Dr Watson swept into the kitchen, placed a wet, seaweed smelling kiss on her cheek, grabbed a roll from the tray which had been removed from the oven not fifteen minutes earlier, and then swept out again.
Mrs. Hudson watched in amusement as the doctor juggled the hot roll between his hands as he clomped up the stairs, no doubt to retrieve his medical bag and a change of clothes for his friend. She turned her attention back to the words she had just written, and firmly pushed the page aside in order to concentrate on making up a supper that would be edible when the two men arrived back home, inevitably famished and drunk on their adventure.
***
Over the years I have become accustomed, as do most women who spend any time around the masculine members of our species, to certain inelegant sights from my tenants. Pants strewn across the furniture, tobacco ash in my saucer, and remnants of shaving soap and whiskers in the water basins, just to name a few.
With Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have also become accustomed to some NOT so common sights.
One night, perhaps a fortnight ago, I came across Mr. Holmes in the kitchen, digging through the pantry at gone three in the morning, mumbling to himself about corsets and stockings. He was, somewhat unexpectedly, dressed as a woman. He had even gone so far as so paint his face and don a wig of black, perfectly styled hair. When he spotted me in the doorway, he had simply smiled and asked if I would mind terribly making some tea for him…
“Holmes, I’m telling you, that disguise is too believable for your own good. If it hadn’t been for the good Detective Inspector, you may have even ended up in goal!”
Dr. Watson’s voice floated down the stairs, followed a moment later by the doctor himself, attention focused on the man behind him as he spoke over his shoulder. As they came into view, Mrs. Hudson realized exactly what the good doctor was referring too.
Mr. Holmes was dressed as what could only be a beggar. A filthy, smelly, disgusting beggar.
Mrs. Hudson reared back as the smell preceded the man, hand clamped firmly to her nose as came to stand in her sitting room doorway. His face was unshaven, and he had acquired two scars across his cheek and a crooked nose. When he smiled at her, beaming brilliantly at her reaction, three of his teeth had been artistically blackened.
“Mr. Holmes, get out of my sitting room, out of my entryway, and out of this house! You smell like sour milk and, and, and horrible things!”
She made a shooing motion with the hand not currently protecting her sense of smell, and when this declaration was met with delighted laughter, she stood and pointed to the door.
“Out, now! And you, too, Doctor!”
Sensing their future dinners were on the line, both men hastily exited, leaving only the slightly horrific scent behind, and the faint murmur of their voices as they headed down the street, chatting amiably.
***
Lest the reader think that my two tenants are perhaps more trouble than their rent is worth, I would hastily point out that, although there have certainly been some rough moments, the delight of two such men far outweighs the negatives.
Dr. Watson has been a generous and kind caretaker to the young rascals Mr. Holmes employs as his Irregulars. Often he has patched up wounds small and serious without ever a complaint or harsh word. Indeed, he has even taken care of some of my own minor injuries which have inevitably occurred while in the kitchen.
And Mr. Holmes, though unorthodox, has always seen to my safety and comfort, even going so far as to call out the baker who tried to sell me loaves of bread with sawdust!
For all the inevitable worry they bring into my life, there is ten times the joy. It truly was a blessing the day they came to live under my roof.
Once again lost in thought, Mrs. Hudson startled as a hand gently touched her shoulder, bringing her head up and around to see Mr. Holmes standing beside her. Dressed in shirt sleeves and trousers with his brown robe tied securely in place, he smiled at her in amusement as he waggled his finger at her.
“You’re writing another article for that horrible women’s magazine, aren’t you?” he asked, eyes crinkling with merriment as she huffed at him.
“Oh, go on, you,” she said, swatting his arm. She couldn’t help returning his smile, though. “Dr. Watson isn’t the only one who likes to write about you two.”
“Just so.” He patted her shoulder gently, just once, and headed toward the pantry. “Would you mind terribly making some tea, Mrs. Hudson? Only it’s been a terribly long day and I’m famished!”
“Mr. Holmes, put that down! I’m saving that for my sister’s visit tomorrow!”
He grumbled, but complied, and mumbled to himself as he once more searched the cupboard.
Looking down at the page before her, trying to hide her smile, Mrs. Hudson finished writing her article before setting it aside to shoo her wayward tenant away from her kitchen.
Perhaps some would say that what goes on in this house is not very respectable. To them I say, this is not a house of respectable people. It is a home, and as with most homes, only the family within can truly understand.