Fic - Stalemate
Title: Stalemate
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, John
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~ 1,300
Summary: Sherlock can't sleep and neither can Mrs Hudson, so they drink cocoa and talk about John.
Warnings: Spoilers for The Blind Banker
This is a follow up to Love and First Sight and Spanner in the Works. Whilst it still features our favourite landlady and detective, it's not quite as cheery I'm afraid.
"Mrs Hudson? Can I come in?"
"Sherlock? It's 4:30 in the morning!"
"If I wanted to know the time I would have rung the speaking clock, now will you let me in?"
She opens the door to her flat. It is smaller than the one shared by Sherlock, John and, for tonight at least, Sarah. She is in a dressing gown that Sherlock can tell is pure silk and probably quite expensive He wonders fleetingly if his widowed landlady is ever lonely.
"What are you doing waking me up at this hour?" she asks as she lets him into the flat, pulling the neck of her gown tightly closed. Mrs Hudson's own flat is impeccably tidy but spartan. The only light comes from a small lamp on the table in the open plan kitchen. The rest of the living room is in darkness.
"You weren't sleeping Mrs Husdon. You couldn't sleep."
"I got up to make myself a cocoa, that's all."
"Heating a cup of milk would take, what, two minutes in a microwave? No more than five on your gas stove? You've been moving around down here for over 45 minutes."
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that Sherlock. It doesn't feel right, knowing you're listening."
She had been awake for quite some time - long enough to see the three of them arrive home. John Watson, hollow eyed and exhausted doing his best to comfort his still-trembling girlfriend. She'd liked Sarah and had hoped the punch and nibbles she had brought for the two of them would have helped make for a pleasant evening. Instead Sherlock had somehow dragged them both into his strange and terrible world. She looks at the man in front of her, clean shaven and in fresh, sharply pressed trousers and shirt and wonders at his composure.
"Oh do sit down Sherlock," she says, gesturing at the table. "Would you like a cocoa?"
"That would be nice Mrs Hudson," he answers, almost meekly, as he sits at the kitchen table.
She glances at him again as she pours the milk and busies herself at the microwave. His outer shell may be impeccable but, now she can see his eyes in the light of the table-lamp, the fatigue and the strain are apparent.
"What happened tonight?" she asks.
"A case."
She looks at him for a moment before pressing Start and moving to fetch the cocoa powder. "If Sherlock won't be drawn then he won't be," she thinks. Long association with the detective has taught her that one day a voluble mood will overwhelm him and she won't be able to stop him from telling her all the dreadful details. She thinks of John again. Quiet Doctor John Watson who stands so straight and speaks so calmly and that sometimes cries out so loudly in his sleep that she can hear it, even from her own flat. She wonders whether John Watson will survive his association with this man unscathed.
"I saw John tonight when you got home," she says without turning around. "He told me you were very..." she pauses while she turns over an adjective so unfamiliar in this context that it feels like a word from a foreign language, "kind to Sarah this evening."
"The woman was terrified. John couldn't reach her from where he was so I simply did what he would have done."
She turns to stare at Sherlock, wondering what could have been so dreadful that it would provoke sympathy from Sherlock. Mrs Hudson decides that she doesn't ever want to know the answer to that question. She's had enough dreadful moments of her own to last a lifetime.
"Besides," adds Sherlock after a long pause, "I could see how much her distress was upsetting him. It seemed like the quickest way of making things better."
The microwave beeps and Mrs Hudson removes the mugs. She adds the cocoa powder and stirs. She can barely look at Sherlock as she turns to place the mugs on the table. She recognises what she thinks of as his "end-of-a-case-face." Once the loose ends are tied up, she knows from experience, he will sleep for a day straight. He might wake with a zeal for some new study or pass-time if he thinks his performance lived up to the high standards he sets himself. More often, though, he emerges in a blue mood. On those occasions he won't speak, won't eat and might barely even move for days on end.
"I will never really know you Sherlock Holmes but I do know this - they think nothing touches you but they're wrong, aren't they? You store it all up, tabulating the profits and the losses so you can reckon up at the end of the case. Something tells me you've been pushed pretty far into the red this time." The woman who was made a widow by the combined efforts of the State of Florida and Mr Sherlock Holmes thinks, "I know all about having to store up your feelings until it's safe, believe me. But you could be safe here Sherlock, if you wanted."
"Drink your cocoa Mrs Hudson. It's terrible but it will only be worse when it's cold."
Startled out of her reverie, Mrs Hudson composes her features into her best benign landlady expression. "John and Sarah...?" she ventures.
"She makes him happy. I don't want him to be unhappy. So she stays."
In anyone else it might look like nobility but Mrs Hudson knows that this is the same relentless calculation that Sherlock always employs. But this is the first time she's ever seen him put the happiness of someone else in the credit column, even at the expense of his own.
Mrs Hudson looks at the man opposite her, staring into his mug. She is struck by how young he suddenly seems. This man who saved her life by ensuring her husband's death. Whatever else he may be now, Sherlock was her saviour then. She would do anything to stop the crash she sees coming.
"Sherlock," she says quietly as she places her hand on his, "have you ever considered that John Watson might not be the only person in the world?"
"He is Mrs Hudson. He is to me."
He slowly pushes himself up from the table. He looks wan and somehow broken. As he closes the door behind him Mrs Hudson nods to herself and starts to clear up. She's suspected for a long time that Sherlock feels things more deeply than most people would ever realise. She sends up a silent prayer of thanks that she's never loved anyone as devotedly as Sherlock loves John.
It is 36 hours later and the case is closed. John and Sherlock are looking at the lurid headlines their adventure has provoked.
"You mind, don't you?" says John.
Sherlock thinks "Yes!" but says "What?" He knows when a gambit is too risky to play. If he stays silent, the worst case scenario is stalemate.
"That she escaped, General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."
"Ah," Sherlock pauses whilst he reroutes his train of thought. "Must be a vast network John. Thousands of operatives."
They discuss the case for a while, and the difficulty of cracking book codes. Two colleagues. Job done.
The crash is inevitable now.
Later that evening, 221B Baker Street will resonate to the mournful sound of a violin.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoO
[8th August 10.30am BST: ETA] Sorry. Sorry. I know. Put the kettle on. Make yourself a cup of tea. Pull your dressing gown on over your clothes, SirACD!Holmes style and read His Companion. Gratuitous pimp I know but it'll make you feel better. Or cry. Or something.
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, John
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~ 1,300
Summary: Sherlock can't sleep and neither can Mrs Hudson, so they drink cocoa and talk about John.
Warnings: Spoilers for The Blind Banker
This is a follow up to Love and First Sight and Spanner in the Works. Whilst it still features our favourite landlady and detective, it's not quite as cheery I'm afraid.
"Mrs Hudson? Can I come in?"
"Sherlock? It's 4:30 in the morning!"
"If I wanted to know the time I would have rung the speaking clock, now will you let me in?"
She opens the door to her flat. It is smaller than the one shared by Sherlock, John and, for tonight at least, Sarah. She is in a dressing gown that Sherlock can tell is pure silk and probably quite expensive He wonders fleetingly if his widowed landlady is ever lonely.
"What are you doing waking me up at this hour?" she asks as she lets him into the flat, pulling the neck of her gown tightly closed. Mrs Hudson's own flat is impeccably tidy but spartan. The only light comes from a small lamp on the table in the open plan kitchen. The rest of the living room is in darkness.
"You weren't sleeping Mrs Husdon. You couldn't sleep."
"I got up to make myself a cocoa, that's all."
"Heating a cup of milk would take, what, two minutes in a microwave? No more than five on your gas stove? You've been moving around down here for over 45 minutes."
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that Sherlock. It doesn't feel right, knowing you're listening."
She had been awake for quite some time - long enough to see the three of them arrive home. John Watson, hollow eyed and exhausted doing his best to comfort his still-trembling girlfriend. She'd liked Sarah and had hoped the punch and nibbles she had brought for the two of them would have helped make for a pleasant evening. Instead Sherlock had somehow dragged them both into his strange and terrible world. She looks at the man in front of her, clean shaven and in fresh, sharply pressed trousers and shirt and wonders at his composure.
"Oh do sit down Sherlock," she says, gesturing at the table. "Would you like a cocoa?"
"That would be nice Mrs Hudson," he answers, almost meekly, as he sits at the kitchen table.
She glances at him again as she pours the milk and busies herself at the microwave. His outer shell may be impeccable but, now she can see his eyes in the light of the table-lamp, the fatigue and the strain are apparent.
"What happened tonight?" she asks.
"A case."
She looks at him for a moment before pressing Start and moving to fetch the cocoa powder. "If Sherlock won't be drawn then he won't be," she thinks. Long association with the detective has taught her that one day a voluble mood will overwhelm him and she won't be able to stop him from telling her all the dreadful details. She thinks of John again. Quiet Doctor John Watson who stands so straight and speaks so calmly and that sometimes cries out so loudly in his sleep that she can hear it, even from her own flat. She wonders whether John Watson will survive his association with this man unscathed.
"I saw John tonight when you got home," she says without turning around. "He told me you were very..." she pauses while she turns over an adjective so unfamiliar in this context that it feels like a word from a foreign language, "kind to Sarah this evening."
"The woman was terrified. John couldn't reach her from where he was so I simply did what he would have done."
She turns to stare at Sherlock, wondering what could have been so dreadful that it would provoke sympathy from Sherlock. Mrs Hudson decides that she doesn't ever want to know the answer to that question. She's had enough dreadful moments of her own to last a lifetime.
"Besides," adds Sherlock after a long pause, "I could see how much her distress was upsetting him. It seemed like the quickest way of making things better."
The microwave beeps and Mrs Hudson removes the mugs. She adds the cocoa powder and stirs. She can barely look at Sherlock as she turns to place the mugs on the table. She recognises what she thinks of as his "end-of-a-case-face." Once the loose ends are tied up, she knows from experience, he will sleep for a day straight. He might wake with a zeal for some new study or pass-time if he thinks his performance lived up to the high standards he sets himself. More often, though, he emerges in a blue mood. On those occasions he won't speak, won't eat and might barely even move for days on end.
"I will never really know you Sherlock Holmes but I do know this - they think nothing touches you but they're wrong, aren't they? You store it all up, tabulating the profits and the losses so you can reckon up at the end of the case. Something tells me you've been pushed pretty far into the red this time." The woman who was made a widow by the combined efforts of the State of Florida and Mr Sherlock Holmes thinks, "I know all about having to store up your feelings until it's safe, believe me. But you could be safe here Sherlock, if you wanted."
"Drink your cocoa Mrs Hudson. It's terrible but it will only be worse when it's cold."
Startled out of her reverie, Mrs Hudson composes her features into her best benign landlady expression. "John and Sarah...?" she ventures.
"She makes him happy. I don't want him to be unhappy. So she stays."
In anyone else it might look like nobility but Mrs Hudson knows that this is the same relentless calculation that Sherlock always employs. But this is the first time she's ever seen him put the happiness of someone else in the credit column, even at the expense of his own.
Mrs Hudson looks at the man opposite her, staring into his mug. She is struck by how young he suddenly seems. This man who saved her life by ensuring her husband's death. Whatever else he may be now, Sherlock was her saviour then. She would do anything to stop the crash she sees coming.
"Sherlock," she says quietly as she places her hand on his, "have you ever considered that John Watson might not be the only person in the world?"
"He is Mrs Hudson. He is to me."
He slowly pushes himself up from the table. He looks wan and somehow broken. As he closes the door behind him Mrs Hudson nods to herself and starts to clear up. She's suspected for a long time that Sherlock feels things more deeply than most people would ever realise. She sends up a silent prayer of thanks that she's never loved anyone as devotedly as Sherlock loves John.
It is 36 hours later and the case is closed. John and Sherlock are looking at the lurid headlines their adventure has provoked.
"You mind, don't you?" says John.
Sherlock thinks "Yes!" but says "What?" He knows when a gambit is too risky to play. If he stays silent, the worst case scenario is stalemate.
"That she escaped, General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."
"Ah," Sherlock pauses whilst he reroutes his train of thought. "Must be a vast network John. Thousands of operatives."
They discuss the case for a while, and the difficulty of cracking book codes. Two colleagues. Job done.
The crash is inevitable now.
Later that evening, 221B Baker Street will resonate to the mournful sound of a violin.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoO
[8th August 10.30am BST: ETA] Sorry. Sorry. I know. Put the kettle on. Make yourself a cup of tea. Pull your dressing gown on over your clothes, SirACD!Holmes style and read His Companion. Gratuitous pimp I know but it'll make you feel better. Or cry. Or something.