Just when you thought it was safe...
No, I still haven't stopped. I really wanted to do something about one of the women who have to deal with Sherlock, and there was an obvious place to start; but I couldn't find the hook until I read a prompt from gracious_anne about the skull on the mantelpiece. I'm glad a couple of other people responded to her chez sherlockbbc, because I don't think this fulfils that prompt particularly well, but I'm very grateful to her for offering me a way in.
HIMSELF
Mrs Hudson advanced into the upstairs flat, bearing a duster. She did this quite often when her tenants were out; if either of them were to catch her and ask what she was doing, she would say "I'm not your housekeeper! But it's not fair for John to do all the cleaning, not when he's got a proper job and has to chase criminals all night with Sherlock..."
She wasn't really there to do the dusting. She came to look at his skull.
She never risked looking while Sherlock was there; she was sure she wasn't supposed to know. And she only knew because he'd given himself away, with that half-embarrassed almost-guilty expression when he'd asked for it back after she'd tidied it away. It was unusual for Sherlock to show any sign of embarrassment, never mind guilt, and it gave her just enough time to hide her own flash of realisation. She'd learned to hide things when she was married.
Last time she'd seen Himself face to face, in Miami, she'd looked into his eyes and seen that he'd killed Les - killed him in cold blood, a man he'd done business with for years, before she'd met either of them. And, while Les wasn't a particularly nice man, he did send them Christmas presents, and if that didn't count for anything, what did? Suddenly all the doubts of all their years together resolved themselves into one huge certainty: this marriage was over.
And Himself must have suspected that she knew, and maybe how she'd react, but she'd hidden it just well enough to buy the time she needed: time to grab the cash they'd brought to pay Les, time to run for a taxi, time to catch the next flight to London.
She didn't go home, of course. Much too risky. She'd had more than nine hours to work out a plan, and as soon as she'd found a taxi at Heathrow she rang one of her husband's customers and asked to see him.
He was surprised; usually he collected his coke, rather than having it delivered. But he let her come to his flat, and he looked reasonably clear-headed. Come to think of it, he usually did.
"I need your help," she said. "I want Himself dead."
Well, that got his attention. She'd known she had to catch his interest for this to work.
"You want me to murder your husband?" His eyes were darting all over her, searching for clues, but for once he didn't seem able to solve the puzzle.
She laughed. "Oh, you don't have to do it yourself! The Americans will see to all that - they've got the death penalty, haven't they?"
"Depends on the state, but you've just flown in from the South, so you should be OK... somewhere on the seaboard... Miami?" Good, that was the form she was looking for. "Yes, Florida would do it - if he's convicted of the right sort of murder."
"That's the point, you've got to make sure he's convicted! I can tell you everything I know, but he's careful, he won't have left much evidence. We've got to make sure it's watertight, so there's no chance he can slip out of it. Ever."
"So he has actually killed somebody."
"Of course he has, why d'you think I'm here?"
He studied her face, and her fidgeting hands. "You think he'll kill you too, to stop you testifying against him."
"Yes!"
"Would he try to kill you if you stayed with him instead of running out?"
"Well, I'm not going to give him the choice, am I? Anyway, you've got to draw the line somewhere. I know there's poor kids dead out there because they OD'd on what he'd sold them. I know I've been living off all that, and I dare say I should have drawn the line sooner. But this is where I am, and I'm drawing it now."
"And why have you come to me?"
"Because you're clever!" Too clever for his own good, Himself always said. "All that deducing you do, every time you look at someone..." It'll get him into trouble, Himself said. People don't like a smartass. "...you'll be able to work out all the clues and prove he did it! And you've got contacts in the police, haven't you?" A junkie who flirts with the police? Don't know what he gets off on more, showing off or taking risks. I wouldn't trust him an inch. Not a centimetre either. "They'll listen to you, and then they can talk to the police in Florida."
"I'm flattered by your confidence," he said. "But what's my motivation? Are you paying me? Remember that your property may be at risk, if it was purchased through illegal earnings."
She smiled; this was one of the things she'd thought through on the flight. "Same motivation as me, dear. You know Himself did it, so he'll have to kill you too."
"I don't even know who's supposed to have been murdered, only that you're asserting your husband did it..."
"No, but I'm about to fill you in, and if anything happens to me I've taken precautions. He'll know."
She kept up her confident front, but she had never been more relieved than when she saw him slowly smile back. He wasn't angry; he was impressed.
"I'll take the case," he said. "Tell me everything."
So Sherlock had sorted it for her. It had taken a couple of years, with all the appeals, but in the end Himself had got the lethal injection. She'd claimed the body - she wanted to make quite sure - and then she donated it to science. But she should have known Sherlock might fancy a souvenir.
Mrs Hudson stared into her husband's eye sockets. I won, she thought. You're just an ornament on an ex-junkie's shelf. Oh yes, he's clean now. And so am I, mostly. More than you can say! And she picked up the skull, and wiped it briskly with her duster.
HIMSELF
Mrs Hudson advanced into the upstairs flat, bearing a duster. She did this quite often when her tenants were out; if either of them were to catch her and ask what she was doing, she would say "I'm not your housekeeper! But it's not fair for John to do all the cleaning, not when he's got a proper job and has to chase criminals all night with Sherlock..."
She wasn't really there to do the dusting. She came to look at his skull.
She never risked looking while Sherlock was there; she was sure she wasn't supposed to know. And she only knew because he'd given himself away, with that half-embarrassed almost-guilty expression when he'd asked for it back after she'd tidied it away. It was unusual for Sherlock to show any sign of embarrassment, never mind guilt, and it gave her just enough time to hide her own flash of realisation. She'd learned to hide things when she was married.
Last time she'd seen Himself face to face, in Miami, she'd looked into his eyes and seen that he'd killed Les - killed him in cold blood, a man he'd done business with for years, before she'd met either of them. And, while Les wasn't a particularly nice man, he did send them Christmas presents, and if that didn't count for anything, what did? Suddenly all the doubts of all their years together resolved themselves into one huge certainty: this marriage was over.
And Himself must have suspected that she knew, and maybe how she'd react, but she'd hidden it just well enough to buy the time she needed: time to grab the cash they'd brought to pay Les, time to run for a taxi, time to catch the next flight to London.
She didn't go home, of course. Much too risky. She'd had more than nine hours to work out a plan, and as soon as she'd found a taxi at Heathrow she rang one of her husband's customers and asked to see him.
He was surprised; usually he collected his coke, rather than having it delivered. But he let her come to his flat, and he looked reasonably clear-headed. Come to think of it, he usually did.
"I need your help," she said. "I want Himself dead."
Well, that got his attention. She'd known she had to catch his interest for this to work.
"You want me to murder your husband?" His eyes were darting all over her, searching for clues, but for once he didn't seem able to solve the puzzle.
She laughed. "Oh, you don't have to do it yourself! The Americans will see to all that - they've got the death penalty, haven't they?"
"Depends on the state, but you've just flown in from the South, so you should be OK... somewhere on the seaboard... Miami?" Good, that was the form she was looking for. "Yes, Florida would do it - if he's convicted of the right sort of murder."
"That's the point, you've got to make sure he's convicted! I can tell you everything I know, but he's careful, he won't have left much evidence. We've got to make sure it's watertight, so there's no chance he can slip out of it. Ever."
"So he has actually killed somebody."
"Of course he has, why d'you think I'm here?"
He studied her face, and her fidgeting hands. "You think he'll kill you too, to stop you testifying against him."
"Yes!"
"Would he try to kill you if you stayed with him instead of running out?"
"Well, I'm not going to give him the choice, am I? Anyway, you've got to draw the line somewhere. I know there's poor kids dead out there because they OD'd on what he'd sold them. I know I've been living off all that, and I dare say I should have drawn the line sooner. But this is where I am, and I'm drawing it now."
"And why have you come to me?"
"Because you're clever!" Too clever for his own good, Himself always said. "All that deducing you do, every time you look at someone..." It'll get him into trouble, Himself said. People don't like a smartass. "...you'll be able to work out all the clues and prove he did it! And you've got contacts in the police, haven't you?" A junkie who flirts with the police? Don't know what he gets off on more, showing off or taking risks. I wouldn't trust him an inch. Not a centimetre either. "They'll listen to you, and then they can talk to the police in Florida."
"I'm flattered by your confidence," he said. "But what's my motivation? Are you paying me? Remember that your property may be at risk, if it was purchased through illegal earnings."
She smiled; this was one of the things she'd thought through on the flight. "Same motivation as me, dear. You know Himself did it, so he'll have to kill you too."
"I don't even know who's supposed to have been murdered, only that you're asserting your husband did it..."
"No, but I'm about to fill you in, and if anything happens to me I've taken precautions. He'll know."
She kept up her confident front, but she had never been more relieved than when she saw him slowly smile back. He wasn't angry; he was impressed.
"I'll take the case," he said. "Tell me everything."
So Sherlock had sorted it for her. It had taken a couple of years, with all the appeals, but in the end Himself had got the lethal injection. She'd claimed the body - she wanted to make quite sure - and then she donated it to science. But she should have known Sherlock might fancy a souvenir.
Mrs Hudson stared into her husband's eye sockets. I won, she thought. You're just an ornament on an ex-junkie's shelf. Oh yes, he's clean now. And so am I, mostly. More than you can say! And she picked up the skull, and wiped it briskly with her duster.