Chapter Text
Sherlock woke with a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. His foot stung, but it was clean, and his stomach was full. Opening his eyes he felt particularly groggy, possibly because he had not slept that well since he'd left London. There was a weight by his right foot which he couldn't place.
"Mama, he is awake," called out the little girl, hopping off the bed and running out of the room. At the young voice, the day before came back to him. He’d been running on fumes; it was actually surprising he’d made it as far as he had. He tried to sit up, and groaned as he felt his muscles protest. As he gave up and put his head back on the incredibly comfortable pillow, a figure leaned against the door frame.
“Good morning, mystery man.”
“Morning,” he said quietly, his voice gruff from not having been used. He was uncomfortable, he felt strangely indebted to this woman, and he had no idea as for what to do now. So he sat quietly.
“You are not a criminal; my daughter would not have talked to you. You are not from here, that’s obvious. So, who are you?”
Sherlock considered lying, protecting what little cloud of enigma he had left. But then he looked around at the shabby, small, dirty room. They might have flushing toilets, if they were lucky. Nothing Sherlock did now could ever make it to anyone of importance. “Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock, what kind of name is that?”
At this point he would have abandoned the conversation, grabbed something from the kitchen, and busied himself with something. But he did not know this place, its layout, or who was in it. He was oddly stuck, and the only thing he could do was answer her questions. “My name.”
“Very smart,” she said, walking towards the foot of the bed. “You’ve been asleep for thirteen hours; I need to change your bandages.” She flipped back the sheet and started unravelling the bandage. He sat quietly, waiting for a reason to do something.
He tried to remember everything he could from the night before. It had been strange. There was no father, he had died. The mother, Radha, made money for all three of them, but only the daughter had started school. The girl's name was Chaaya, and the boy's, Naahbi.
These were details that he seldom acknowledged, let alone stored. In truth, whether he wished to admit it or not, he craved humanity. No matter how dull, how simple, there was a very basic human need to be around something other than your own thoughts. Of course, Sherlock would not admit this to himself; he had pushed it so far down that he didn’t even know there was something to be admitted.
“Come eat,” Radha said, winding up the old bandage.
“I don’t-”
Sherlock Holmes, you will eat.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, remembering that he had a guest. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath, sitting up slowly. Radha went to his side and offered a hand, and he ignored it. Once he stood solidly he looked at the room that he’d practically hibernated in. The walls were a faded yellow, and it was flaking off in places. There were two other beds on the floor. The mattress looked to be stuffed with blankets, but at least they were comfortable. Those must be the beds the children slept in; it would explain the worn toys. A lump of fabric that looked to be a bunny looked up at him from under a floppy ear.
But if the children shared a room, and there beds were stuffed with blankets, the bed Sherlock had slept in must have been Radha’s. But it was small, not big enough for two people. If this was the room they all slept in, she and her husband must have needed a bigger bed. Ah, she’d sold it when he died. Or traded. Money really is tight then; how peculiar that they still extend such hospitality towards a stranger.
He looked down to Radha, who was already looking up at him. Nice clothes, that’s odd. A very nice necklace, how strange. If she had sold, or traded, the bed they shared, why not do the same with her clothing? In fact, the clothing was too nice for someone living in this sort of a house. Oh, of course! He got sick, he couldn’t work. She had to get a job, but medical bills were too high. They downsized, everything that wasn’t necessary was gotten rid of. But not her clothing? Why? Sentiment? Most likely. He must have bought it for her, or some other silly story as to why it had meaning.
Looking at her more closely, there were lines on her face where water had not gotten rid of the caked-on dirt. No shower, then. He knew they had a faucet though; she’d gotten water from the tap as she cleaned his foot.
That brought him back to his other question: if they were struggling so much, why help a stranger, especially to this extent? He thought about her sick husband, lying in bed. She must have taken care of him near the end if they couldn’t afford a hospital. She was his nurse, but in the end, he'd died. Maybe she just couldn’t bear the thought of someone being hurt and letting them get away again. If she had failed her husband, she would not fail anyone else.
He looked into her eyes, intrigued. “Breakfast.”
***
John woke to the smell of coffee and gentle humming. He looked up at the ceiling, and even though it was blank, it wasn’t empty anymore. He smiled and sat up. Last night had been fantastic, more than he could have hoped for. He tried to remember as much as he could, but most of it seemed to go by in a blur.
He stood, acknowledging their room. It felt like there was a small balloon, right in the middle of his ribcage, and it was just lifting him up. His heart was all aflutter, as well. He was truly and properly besotted.
He walked out to the kitchen where Mary sat, skimming the paper.
“I knew the scent of caffeine would get you,” she teased, not looking up from the paper.
“Doctors' curse: we’re drawn to it like moths to a light.” He walked around the table to turn the kettle on. He turned around and leaned down to kiss Mary on the cheek. “And how are you?”
“I’m wonderful, thank you,” she said, beaming up at him. She folded the paper and placed it on the table, turning in her seat so she could talk to John as he shuffled around the kitchen. Putting the kettle on, toast in the toaster, taking jam out of the fridge. Mary rested her head on the back of her chair, watching him. “You know, I don’t think anybody knows but the two of us, unless you told someone.” John smirked at that, he had no one to tell, and she didn’t have many more. “Who do you think should hear first?”
“Oh, I think it’s up to you. I’m going to be staying in my flat, after all,” John said with a smile, sitting across from Mary with the freshly brewed tea in his hand.
“Yeah, don’t even mention the packing. That’s gonna be a nightmare. I don’t even have much stuff!” Even though she said it with a whine, John could see in her eyes that she was happy. Which, interestingly enough, he was as well.
“Yes, but that is for a later day.”
“Oh? Then what’s for today?” Mary asked daringly, nudging his leg under table.
“I don’t know, but you know I’m no good without my tea.” He took another sip, closing his eyes. He hadn’t shared a flat with someone in almost two years. Looking into his tea he thought of Mrs. Hudson, who'd leave tea for them almost every morning. But she'd never take the cups, of course, because she wasn't their housekeeper. What if Mary and he would need a housekeeper? He tended to keep the flat clean, but maybe if-
John shook his head. Those were thoughts for another time. He looked up to Mary. Breaking into a ridiculous smile he started giggling so hard he had to set his tea down.
“What?” Mary chuckled. “Is there something on my face, what’ve I done?”
“Nothing, nothing,” John said through his laughter. “I’m just happy!”
At that Mary started laughing with him. “I am, too!”
They laughed for another moment, and slowly the laughter became smiles. John reached across the table, taking her hand, their eyes locked. He stood, pulling her up with him, pulling her in close.
“I love you,” He said, looking into her eyes so she could see he meant it.
“I love you, too,” she whispered with a smirk. He kissed her slowly, like making a promise that could only be promised with closed lips.
***
After a very lovely retreat to their bedroom, the two moseyed outside for a proper breakfast. Well, lunch now. There was a little place John liked to eat at just around the corner, and he was hoping if he took her she'd be even more inclined to stay. They walked hand in hand, talking about patients, traffic, William and Kate, happy couple things. He opened the door for her, giving a cheeky curtsey as she passed.
"John! How are you?" the young hostess greeted him. She was probably mid to late twenties, blonde, fair skin, petite, gorgeous. A real catch, frankly.
"Rosie, I'm really good. You?" John came almost every day he had off, so he'd made a few friends.
"Oh, same old same old," she said, faking a sigh. She eyed Mary while maintaining her polite grin. "I don't believe we've met. Are you Mrs. Watson? You never said you were married."
Mary played it off with a small laugh. John stepped up, put his hand on Mary’s back, “Yes, Rosie, I’d like you to meet Mary, my girlfriend."
Recovering quickly, Rosie held out her hand. "Rosie Taylor, and no I'm not named after Rose Tyler."
"Mary Morstan, it's nice to meet you," Mary said with a smile and giving Rosie's hand a curt shake.
All three stood there awkwardly for a moment, just long enough for Mary to take in the rustic feel, an updated bar, wrought iron furniture. Nice place.
“Yes, well, follow me,” Rosie said, perking up. She picked up two menus and bustled off to an empty table. She set down the menus, and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Have a good meal.”
They sat down and Mary cracked up. “Do I need to be worried about her?”
“Why? What about her?”
“She absolutely fawning over you!” she laughed, and nodded her head towards the slumping hostess. “You’re so clueless.”
“Rosie? No, she’s always like that.” John opened his menu and pretended he didn't know what he was getting already.
"Maybe with you. You should have seen her face when I walked in, I could almost hear her hoping I was your sister."
“Oh you’re just paranoid. It’s not like she’s competition.” He continued to pretend to look at the menu.
“I’m sure.” Mary picked up a menu, then checked her mobile. “It’s still early enough to get breakfast, I think I’ll get some pancakes.”
At that John could put his menu down and act like he’d just decided, “Right, well I think our server will be here soon.”
***
“A mango and some bread; that is all I can give you,” Radha said, holding a slightly overripe mango in her hand. Sherlock took it as he walked past her, getting ready to leave.
Thank her, Sherlock.
“Right, yes,” Sherlock said in annoyance. He turned around and looked Radha in the eye. “Thank you."
Just then the kids ran in. “Mama, Tarik wants us to come play with him.” The little girl brushed right past Sherlock, looking up at her mother. Naahbi watched from behind Sherlock’s leg.
“Are his parents home?” Radha asked, throwing a satchel over her shoulder.
“No, but we just want to go down the street,” Chaaya whined.
“The answer is no, unless you want him watching you,” Radha pointed at Sherlock with a note of distaste. “But I will be late for work if I don’t leave soon.”
Chaaya then turned to Sherlock and took his trouser leg between two fingers, tugging. “Please. We’ll be good, I promise. We just wanted to go down to the creek.”
“Chaaya,” Radha started, but Sherlock ignored her.
All you have to do is watch them.
“No,” he whispered.
Sherlock, they’ve given you their home and taken care of you. This is the least you could do.
“No, the least I could do is nothing.” He was getting aggravated.
Sherlock!
“Fine!” he yelled at John, obviously too loudly for now all eyes were on him. “Yes, okay, I’ll watch them.” Chaaya jumped and hugged Sherlock’s leg, and it took much willpower not to shake her off. Radha looked at him in surprise, but seemed to accept it.
“I have to go, or I’ll be late. Come on, all of you.” She paced out the door, and once she crossed the threshold, she turned around. The kids ran past Sherlock, but she put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Now, I’m letting you take care of my kids, and if I come to regret that decision, so will you. Understood?”
Sherlock looked for a moment, a slight smirk on his face, almost like he’d just accepted a challenge. “Understood.” And they both went off their separate ways, Radha to work Sherlock to his respective Hell.