Chapter Text
“Here y’are.” The greasy man driving the taxi said as they pulled to a stop on Baker Street, turning around to give the father and son a grin. “Two-two-one, Baker Street. That’ll be sixty.”
“Sixty quid?” David Watson cried at the outrage, but his seventeen year old son was already out of the taxi, unloading the boxes out of the boot. As they haggled over price, John took the opportunity to look around, admiring the sights.
“You’ll love it here, Johnny.” A feminine voice said from behind him, and John turned quickly, a smile on his face. “You’ve always wanted to live in London.”
“Hello, mum.” John chuckled. “Yeah, London has always been a dream of mine, but I had hoped you would be joining us.”
“I am joining you, you silly boy.” Ann Watson said, smoothing John’s hair down. “I’m just not as…alive as we would have hoped.”
Ann Watson had died in a car accident over a year ago. While it had been tragic, John hadn’t been able to shed a tear at her funeral, because he knew he would be seeing his mother again.
John Watson was a mediator. Not only could he see the dead, but he could talk and touch them as well, a fact that got him into a lot of trouble in his old school. He had discovered this ability at the tender age of five when his grandfather showed up in his room. He had excitedly ran down the hall, grandpa in tow, to show his parents who had come to visit, but they couldn’t see him. Grandpa had smiled at John sadly, then promptly vanished. He figured out very quickly that he should keep that particular ability a secret.
Of course, it was harder to keep his secret from the ghosts that haunted his town. Stare at one too long, and they’re jumping up and down, haunting you until you figured out how to send them off to the afterlife. Sometimes it took a good arse-kicking to get them to leave you alone, in which something would inevitably end up breaking.
“What do you think?” The voice of his father distracted him, and he looked over to see that his father looking a bit disgruntled. The cabbie, on the other hand, looked beyond pleased. It was obvious to see who had won that particular argument. “We’re on the upper floors. Flat B.”
“It’s nice.” John commented, peering up at the upstairs windows. “Small, but we don’t need anything bigger, now that Harry’s off to Uni.”
“Yeah…” David sighed. After a moment, he looked over at John, worry etched on his face. “Do you think we made the right decision?”
“Mom would want us to be happy.” John said knowledgably.
“Don’t be silly, David.” Ann said, though she knew her husband couldn’t hear her. “Of course you made the right decision. Who on earth did you think left those real estate pamphlets on your desk?”
John worked to mask his smile as he watched his dad, who nodded sadly. “You’re right, as always. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’d be fine.” John said, grabbing the last box out of the boot, then closing it with a slam. The cabbie took this as permission to leave, and he quickly ambled off. “Let’s get all this stuff upstairs.”
As David went to rap on the door, Ann pulled her son aside, smoothing his hair once again. “You’ll have a wonderful time in London, sweetheart.” She said. “Just you wait and see. Hopefully your father will be happier here than in our ghastly house.”
“I hope so.” John said softly. “Hopefully I’ll be able to maintain a reputation that isn’t ‘weirdo’ or ‘freak’ here. I plan on keeping ghostly activities to a minimum.”
“If I had known that all those bruises and cuts came from ghosts and not fights-” Ann began, promptly cut off by her son.
“You wouldn’t have believed me. No one did, you know. It’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Not your fault.” John chuckled. “Some ghosts didn’t want to move on, and got a bit physical when I made them. Hopefully I can keep myself off their radar here. No ghost hunting for me.”
Ann smiled, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek.
“Come on, John!” David called, and John turned to look, surprised to see a smiling woman around his dad’s age standing there, smiling cheerfully.
“Yoo-hoo!” She called, waving at him. “You must be John!”
“Yeah.” John said, walking up to her and shaking her hand. “John Watson. It’s nice to meet you ma’am.”
“Mrs Hudson, dear.” She hummed, welcoming them in. The landing was small, and John could see a small staircase leading up to what he assumed would be their flat. “Just up this way! Come along!”
“Will we be meeting Mr Hudson anytime soon?” David asked conversationally, something that seemed to amuse Mrs Hudson.
“No, dear. Mr Hudson died a few years back. Oh, no condolences needed, he wasn’t a very nice man.” Mrs Hudson explained. “I married him young. I was probably about John’s age when we married. My unmarried name was Sissons, but it didn’t seem right to go back to it…here we are!”
The door opened to a cosy lounge lined with busy wallpaper. Two mismatched chairs sat in front of the fireplace, and a leather sofa took up half of the opposite wall. John felt instantly at home.
“There’s a room at the end of the hall over there.” Mrs Hudson said, gesturing past the kitchen. “And another room upstairs.”
“I call the downstairs room.” John said, carrying his box and placing it in front of the door. His dad just laughed, spreading his arms wide in surrender.
“I’ll take the upstairs room, then. Thank you so much, Martha.”
“Of course, dear.” Mrs Hudson giggled, patting David on the arm. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
John watched Mrs Hudson leave, waiting until he heard her heels at the bottom of the stairs before turning to his father.
“Martha?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. David said nothing, but John could detect a hint of red on his cheeks before he answered gruffly.
“Come on, let’s get the rest of these boxes into the flat. They won’t carry themselves, you know.”
--
It didn’t take them very long to carry their belongings upstairs. The Watson men had never been much for a plethora of belongings. Anything they didn’t need, or that didn’t have sentimental value, was left in their old house for the new owners to have.
Unpacking, however, took ages, and by the time they were done, John was exhausted. He wiped the sweat from his brow, looking around at the lounge of their new flat with a smile. Mum was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly out of the ordinary. She spent time visiting other members of the family, checking to make sure they were alright.
“I have school in the morning.” John said, yawning. “I’m going to head to bed.”
“Night, John.” David replied, smiling at his son. “Sleep well.”
“I will.” John waved goodnight to his father, heading to his room. He opened the door for the first time, carrying his unpacked box and setting it down with an almighty thump. He turned around, barely remembering to stifle a shout when he saw someone already sitting in his bed, reading what looked like a century’s old book. John thanked the heavens that he didn’t yell; the translucent skin and 18th century garb told him everything he needed to know.
“Who the hell are you, and why are you here?” John finally hissed, glaring at the ghost who was haunting his room.