Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XIII: Semper fidelis

[zoffoli]

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Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Semper fidelis: "Always faithful"

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is K+

You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.

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Chapter XIII: Semper fidelis

song: Live it with love, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

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Sing oh
Sing oh
Tomorrow you will know there's no day better than today
We don't see how lucky these days are till they go away
Till these days go away

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Martha Hudson had always liked gossip. It was always interesting to know what was going on around and chattering with her friends and neighbours had always been one of her favourite occupations. She liked being home by herself too, but enjoyed company even better. Now...

Well, there was always Mrs. Turner next door. Such a good woman. She was so kind she even used to let her use her computer to read...

Oh, and those tenants of hers were so lovely! Quite an adorable couple, nothing like...

Mrs. Hudson frowned slightly as she finished making herself a cuppa. 'There is nothing better than a cuppa to cheer someone up', she thought decidedly.

It had been two weeks or so since she had come back from her sister's. It did her some good to go there and rest herself a bit, what with the never-ending flow of journalists and policemen who had been invading 221B over the summer. She could have gone earlier, of course, but she believed someone needed to be there to open the door... and slam it in their faces.

Her sister had been a darling. She must have been dying to know about... but she hadn't asked anything. She had gone so far as to avoid turning the TV on, which wasn't absolutely necessary but still denoted her consideration. The sweet girl had always liked good news, not bad ones anyway. And there was nothing good to be told about this whole dreadful business. D.I. Lestrade had been demoted and sent away from London. Dr. Watson was still a wreck and couldn't find a job as a doctor anywhere. And Sherlock... Sherlock was dead. He was, wasn't he?

Her eyes brightly shone, as they always did when she thought of her boys. She tried very hard not to think about it too much. What good would it do anyway? She wished John hadn't cut all ties with her, because he was the only one she could have taken care of. He still lived in London, of that she was certain. Mycroft was probably looking after him, too. But who was looking after Mycroft?

At the beginning of September, he had wanted to buy the flat where Sherlock had last lived - claiming it was all on Sherlock's will: buy 221B, and give it to John, just like everything else he'd ever owned. That sounded a bit odd to her: even if Sherlock was quite attached to the doctor indeed, he wasn't one to write a will in the first place. So she had asked to see it. Mycroft had smiled, thinly at first, then almost fondly. Almost, because of the tinge of sadness. She had been right, of course. There never was a will. He made it up because he wanted to help John financially, and as for that, he was adamant that this was what Sherlock would have wanted too.

Although Mrs. Hudson quite agreed, she had squarely refused the offer.

"I do not intend to rent that flat anymore, let alone sell it: God forbid I accept any money from you, Mycroft Holmes! This flat was the boys', and always will be."

Is what she'd said. When, upon returning home from her sister's, she had found the place in a rather poor state (and particularly Sherlock's room), she had no longer been so sure. Things had been thrown around and broken. The first-floor bedroom had been turned upside down. On the living-room's table lay a note: John was terribly ashamed of his loss of control, and apologized profusely. May I suggest you have Mycroft and his men come and move everything out? It is high time we cleared the flat. I am very sorry I cannot do it myself.

More than anything, the tone of the note had hurt her deeply. It was very polite. And distant. Almost perfunctory - it would have been, without that very last sentence. I cannot do it myself.

She had sighed and cried a little. Then she had changed her clothes and spent the evening cleaning the flat. Fixing the lamp and making sure the light bulb wasn't broken. Wiping the kitchen table clean. Picking that abominable skull she always tried to get rid off, and putting it back onto the chimney with a wistful tenderness.

However the worst was Sherlock's room. She could only imagine what state John must have been in to make such a mess. She noticed the mattress had been turned. She did not turn it back.

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Gotta live it with love
Again again again
Sing oh
Gotta live it with love
Again again again
Live it with love
Again

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Every time she passed the milk in the supermarket, she was reminded of John's frequent visits, his apologetic smile - Would you happen to have any milk? And... butter, by any chance? Ah, those boys really did not know how to take care of themselves. Or maybe Sherlock just had used everything that was in the fridge for his experiments.

It had been nice to have someone to talk to about the groceries: what was on special offer this week, which strawberry jam wasn't too expensive and could still be called jam. She didn't quite dare talk about such things even to Mrs. Turner - there was something posh about her. The same couldn't be said of John. He had a very big, capricious and insufferable child to take care of, one that couldn't care less about money and spent most of it on cabs. Of course he'd want to know what products offered the best value for money.

Mrs. Hudson avoided the chip-and-pin machines and smiled up to a blank-faced clerk who didn't even seem to notice her. Oh well. She paid and went back home, alone. She was about to go in, when she was approached by one of her neighbours on the doorstep.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson! It has been a while. How have you been doing?"

"Quite well, Mrs. Palmer."

"Oh, but you have been through a lot lately."

"Me?"

"Well, yes, you. What with this terrible business you've had with your tenants - I don't mean to be rude, but they were already the centre of attention before this whole affair, and now..."

"Well, I am sure they do not care much for attention, now" she replied tightly.

"Oh I am terribly sorry if I have offended you, I wasn't..."

"I know, my dear, I know. Now if you don't mind..."

"It must be hard for you, I'm sure."

"Well yes, he was very dear to..."

"Certainly no one will want to rent that flat anymore, what will you do with this big house all for yourself?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You see, I think I might have found someone who wouldn't mind taking the flat of a psychopath if it were in Lond..."

"Sherlock wasn't a psychopath. And it's not for rent. Good day to you, Mrs. Palmer."

The door was slammed once more.

Mrs. Hudson stood there for a few minutes, furious beyond words. She had always liked to chat. She was starting to hate it.

The bell interrupted her thoughts, and she opened the door carefully.

"Hello my dear, I haven't seen much of you since you've been back from the country, and it's been ages since you've last asked to use the computer so... are you all right?"

"Quite all right, thank you Mrs. Turner. How have you been doing?"

"You look positively dreadful! Won't you come in for tea?"

"I don't think..."

"Please do."

Mrs. Hudson smiled weakly and nodded. "Let me just get my groceries inside."

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Tomorrow you will know there's no day better than today
We hold up and fall down these days are fading all away they're fading away
Gotta live them with love
Again again again
Live em with love
Again again again
Sing oh
Sing oh

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"Hasn't the weather been dreadful lately?"

"Oh yes, all this rain! We were rather lucky today, though."

"With those clouds? Oh you'll see it'll be pouring before night falls."

"Good thing I went shopping early today."

Mrs. Turner poured some more tea and took a sip.

"So, how was your sister?"

"Very well, thank you. The children came for the holiday, and they were very cheerful."

"Oh, you must have been busy then."

"I had plenty of time to rest. But you know I do not like to stay idle anyway. We picked apples in the orchard when the weather allowed it - oh I should bring you some stewed apples next time, they're delicious."

"I would love to! Speaking of apples, have you heard those eerie news?"

"About apples?"

"Someone's been killing young women using poisoned apples. The police are out of their depth! I thought that would have been right down... well, you know, his street. And I think it is that D.I. who used to come by who's on the case."

Mrs. Hudson looked up, confused.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? He is back in London?"

"Had he left? I didn't know. I just read the papers and his declaration was quoted."

"Was it, now?" said Mrs. Hudson absentmindedly, smiling a little. She'd have to give credits to Mycroft for that, at least.

"They don't even know whether it is the same person or not - it is the same poison, and used on red apples only, but the amount of victims seems too important for it to be only one murderer..."

"That's strange, very strange. Aren't there easier ways to kill someone?"

Mrs Turner stared, a little unsettled by the rather peculiar and offhanded comment. She blinked.

"Would you care for some cake?" she offered a little quickly. "Oliver made it for their anniversary - isn't that sweet?"

"Lovely. How are Joseph and him doing?"

"Well, very well. I think Joe would like to move to the country, but I'm not sure they quite agree on it yet."

Silence set in. Mrs. Turner stopped cutting the cake and looked up at the pensive expression on her friend's face, before resuming her task and serving her with a piece.

"It is such a pity they didn't marry before all of this happened, isn't it?" she asked in an uncertain tone.

She was surprised to hear Mrs. Hudson laugh and gave her a puzzled look.

"Oh dear, I really cannot picture them married... not together anyway."

"Not together? But..."

She didn't finish her sentence when she saw her friend's face darken.

"Dr. Watson is a good man" Mrs. Hudson went on. "He deserves to meet a good person, who would care for him."

After that, they drank their tea in silence. Mrs. Turner was beginning to feel a little uneasy and fidgeted on her seat.

"Oh, there is this show on at four I always watch on Thursdays, would you mind...?"

"Of course not, I should get going..."

"No, please don't! Won't you stay and watch it with me? It is very funny, and..."

"... a new event in the Sherlock Holmes scandal. This morning Holmes's grave located in Newport cemetery was vandalized. The police hasn't made any declaration but campaigning members of the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' manifested their outrage at such a..."

Mrs. Hudson did not need to hear more than this - the image of Sherlock's gravestone spattered with red paint and the thick red letters covering the grass in front of the tomb were enough to send her on her feet. FAKE.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Turner I'm afraid I must really get going."

"You're not going to go there, are you?"

"Sorry dear, I'll talk to you later. Thank you for the tea!"

"It's starting to rain!" she called after her - but she was already gone.

.

How'd we get so far
Far from who we really are
Gotta live it with love
Live it with love
Again again again
Sing oh
Sing oh

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The clouds were getting darker and darker, but Mrs. Hudson paid it no heed and arrived in front of the grave with determination on her face and a bucket full of disinfectants in her hand. Rolling up her sleeves, she was about to put on the latex gloves she had brought when a voice interrupted her.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson. I should have known you would come."

"Well, I'm not sure I was expecting you."

Ignoring Mycroft, she took a step towards the stone. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you not believe I would have the grave of my own brother cleaned up after it was defiled?"

Her lips quivered with irritation and exhaustion. It had been a bad day.

"Can't people let him rest in peace? He's..."

She stopped suddenly.

"Is he really dead, Mycroft?"

"What are you saying? You can't possibly..."

"When you asked to buy the flat, I was hoping..."

The grip on her shoulder tightened and Mycroft's face clouded over at the trembling in her voice.

"I'm afraid he is."

He let his arm fall back limply alongside his body. A sob racked Mrs Hudson's body and she did not take another step towards the grave.

After a very long pause, she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"How is Dr. Watson doing?"

"Well, very well."

"Oh, don't you dare lie to me, boy!" she burst out.

"As well as can be expected of someone who's lost his pillar," he amended.

"I cleaned Sherlock's room," she said darkly.

"Why did it need cleaning?"

"You know very well why. I'm sure you've left those cameras of yours in the entire flat."

"Nobody lives there anymore, there is no reason for me to do that."

"Then what was your reason for putting heroine in one of the drawer, pray tell?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth curved imperceptibly. Then the expression was gone and replaced by an amused smile.

"I should never underestimate you, my good woman."

"Mycroft Holmes, answer me."

"Mrs. Hudson, do you know how likely it is for someone who just suffered the death of the dearest person in their life, when said person had history as an addict, to go on drugs?"

She shivered.

"So you thought providing him with the drug would help? Dear God, you are out of your..."

"Of course not. But I needed him to take it at the flat."

"Excuse me?"

He sighed. Oh, this was tiring. Mummy gave him headaches too, but at least she understood. Quickly. However, Mummy barely had a heart.

"If he took the drugs in the flat for the first time, he was more likely to be in a state of very violent grief. Seeing the flat again would be a blow, because Sherlock wouldn't be there, as obvious as it may sound. He'd feel desperate and look for him - or anything of him - anywhere, but especially in his room..."

"You are horrible, I cannot believe..."

"... so he'd find the drugs there, but it shouldn't be cocaine - it heightens the senses, and would only make the pain much worse, in his case. But it had to look like cocaine."

"Why in the world?"

"Because John Watson wouldn't have gone on drugs if it wasn't something that somehow linked him to Sherlock. It had to be cocaine. Except it couldn't be. So, white powder."

"Which I had to clean up in the room, thank you very much."

He smiled.

"I hope you put on a mask."

"Of course I did!" she cried in outrage, then saw his little smile and sighed. "Oh, Mycroft, just tell me where this is going already."

"He'd take the drug. Realize it wasn't cocaine, because he's a doctor - and not so much of an idiot."

"Mycroft!"

"Please let me finish, will you? He'd take the drug, and the whole experience would be a torture. He wanted to see Sherlock. There was a high chance he would. So maybe all of it wouldn't be horrible. But the end would be, undoubtedly."

"That was a terribly cruel thing to do."

"It was a necessity."

Just like lying to you is. And preventing anyone from cleaning away this mess too early, before Sherlock has a chance to hear from it somehow. We never know.

"He won't ever touch drugs again," he added firmly.

"And how can you be so sure?" she almost screamed, turning to look him in the eye.

He held her gaze.

"Because he will not stand another farewell. And because he realized once and for all that it wasn't Sherlock - could never be Sherlock, whatever he saw or heard or felt. He will never take drugs again, because every time he'll wake up from it, Sherlock will die all over again."

"Sometimes I think you are a horrible man..."

"Whatever are you thinking the rest of the time?" he asked with a world-weary smile.

"Oh, don't be cynical."

"I was quite serious."

"I know you were. And I know you are doing your best to protect John Watson from himself - but if you could remember that he is a living, conscious person, I think it would do you some good."

I don't think so, no. Sherlock already made the mistake to care, I certainly shall not follow such an ill-advised example. Not to mention the utter wreck John Watson has become all because of sentiments.

"I still do not quite understand, you know" he said almost to himself. "How Sherlock could have gotten so attached to John Watson."

"I wonder how attached he was to him if he thought the best idea was to throw himself from the roof of a building in front of his very eyes."

Precisely, Mycroft thought grimly.

"Why? Do you know why Sherlock killed himself, Mycroft?"

"I still cannot quite fathom it, I must say."

It was true. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want the three people he ever cared about to die. But he had known Moriarty would target them - and he knew who he wouldn't think of targeting. He hadn't just killed the man or asked Mycroft to put them under protection: he had set out to destroy (or control?) the threat at its source, cutting himself from them because he was the reason their lives were put into jeopardy in the first place. This wasn't just 'not wanting them to die'. This was wanting them to live, safely, happily if possible, without him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how utterly childish - or insane - that had been, even for his brother. He wouldn't have done it just to defy him - but it had been a mix. A terrible mix of very different factors: his own request and betrayal - though Mycroft didn't like the word: he hadn't betrayed his brother, he had sold him, and informed him of it - , his addiction to the thrill, his ridiculous pride and audacity, his feelings for people he should have only used. Because he was the one at fault in the end: they became targets not because they associated with him, but because he was stupid enough to love them and make it obvious for anyone to see. Well, for anyone with a proper brain, anyway.

"John was interesting, what with the addiction to the thrill of near-death situation. But still."

If Mrs. Hudson wondered what that had to do with Sherlock's death, she didn't point it out. Mycroft had seemed lost in his thoughts, and she preferred to let him ramble - it was such a rare occasion, something must really have been on his mind. He never truly talked, because he always thought very carefully of each and every word he uttered, and always uttered them for a very specific purpose. Unlike Sherlock, she thought wistfully. Mycroft would have probably begged to differ on that point.

"I can't quite comprehend how Sherlock could become so attached, nor how John could suffer living in the same flat with him for so long."

Mrs Hudson shrugged.

"Sometimes, you are a very silly boy, Mycroft Holmes, very much like Sherlock."

He snorted, but she ignored him and went on.

"Your brother does not care for 'interesting' people. He cares for interesting murderers and victims, because people don't come near him. Dr. Watson came, and he stayed."

She paused, and he sent her a half-concealed puzzled look. But her eyes were on the gravestone and she did not see him.

"That in itself must have been enough for Sherlock. He was intrigued with Dr. Watson because Dr. Watson was intrigued with him. He cared, because the good man cared for him."

Mycroft's eyes grew slightly wider and he marvelled at her insight. Then he smiled, because he should never have expected anything less of the dear woman. She was the only one who managed to give him lessons in humility unwittingly.

Silence fell over them and the rain started to fall. Turning his gaze to the empty grave, he opened his umbrella, and raised it above their heads.

"He cared for you too."

And as she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, he added quietly: "Thank you."

.

Gotta live it with love
Again again again
Live it with love
Again again again
Sing oh

oOo
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