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Mrs. Hudson returns to her flat, her arms laden with groceries. She sets the bags down on the worktop next to the sink and starts putting each item in its place—the canned food in the cupboard, the cold food in the refrigerator. It isn’t until she closes the fridge door that she sees a large, dark figure towering over her, and she jumps a bit at the sight.
“Goodness, Sherlock, you scared the breath out of me!” she exclaims, placing a hand over her heart.
“Wine,” Sherlock says. “Where is it?”
“Don’t you have your own bottle of that fancy stuff?”
“It isn’t fancy, it isn’t mine, and it’s empty.”
She shakes her head. “You know I don’t keep alcohol in my flat.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he takes a step forward, and Mrs. Hudson has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “You do keep alcohol here; if not for drinking, then for cooking. But we both know that it isn’t just for cooking, now, is it?” He motions toward one of the bags on the worktop. “You’ve just purchased a new bottle—the neck is sticking out over the top of the bag—and although you occasionally cook with it, this is the third you’ve purchased in a month. Conclusion: You do enjoy a glass of red with dinner every now and again, but you don’t dare tell anyone because—“
“Cupboard over the microwave,” Mrs. Hudson sing-songs as she grabs the next item to put away.
Sherlock says no word of thanks; he rushes to the cupboard and pulls out the bottle, inspecting the label and the amount left inside. He snorts, but cradles it under his arm as he opens the fridge again, removing some of the food Mrs. Hudson had already put away.
As she puts the new bottle of wine up and folds up the grocery bags, Mrs. Hudson turns to Sherlock and sighs. “That time again, is it?”
He hands over various ingredients—ham, potatoes, vegetables—and heads upstairs without a word, the wine still under his arm.
“I’m not your personal chef,” Mrs. Hudson calls after him.
Still, she prepares dinner for two.
_______________________
Sherlock checks the email. He checks it again. He checks it thrice. He cross-references the latitude and longitude of the flat and compares that to the estimate for the fourth time.
And once more, for good measure.
The approximate time will be 22:47 at 50 degrees from the horizon.
He has roughly two hours.
On the door of his wardrobe hangs his only blue suit. It is navy, so dark that it could easily be mistaken for black. His shirt is plain, a white striped number. He stares at the hangers, then at the clothes, and then at his shoes, resting just below them on the floor. Black, shiny; he had just purchased them not even a week ago for this purpose.
Sherlock showers, taking his time, letting the warm water run over his body. It’ll be cold tonight, he knows, so it’s best to get as much warmth as possible now. He towels himself off, foregoing a shave despite the frankly annoying texture as he puts a liberal amount of gel in his hair.
After that, he dresses.
When he leaves his bedroom, the food is on the small area of the kitchen table not covered in lab equipment. It’s still warm, and the scent of warm potatoes and ham fills the flat.
Sherlock checks his watch.
Half an hour.
He bundles the food in teacloths to keep it warm as he carefully puts it in a basket. The wine and two glasses join it along with two plates and cutlery. He opens the small closet in his bedroom and grabs the first blanket he can find, then sets it atop the basket.
Twenty minutes.
Sherlock goes out to the balcony, making sure the window is shut behind him. The night is clear; the stars are, surprisingly, very visible. He can make out Polaris and Sirius easily, and the very slight red shaving of what he assumes is Betelgeuse just over the roof of the building across the street.
It’s a perfect night.
With ten minutes left, he hooks the handle of the basket over his arm and drapes the blanket over the top. He crawls back out through the window and reaches up to pull down the fire escape, and he begins to climb.
The roof is flat, with a raised lip one foot in height and width. Sherlock sets the blanket and basket down on the other side of the lip as he pulls himself over it.
Sherlock spreads the blanket out, keeping the basket to one side as he takes the wine and the dishes out, letting the food stay warm for just a little while longer. He pours the wine into the glasses and sets the silverware out next to the plates in their appropriate positions.
Once that’s done, he stands, left arm outstretched. He counts ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, lifting his arm incrementally as he counts.
There. Just above Betelgeuse.
He spreads himself out on his back on the blanket. It’s only five minutes now, and he can see the spot perfectly from his angle.
If it’s possible for Sherlock Holmes to be nervous, he might very well be right now.
The food is divided up in two and put on the plates. The wine is poured, filling both glasses. When Sherlock looks up, it's time.
The unmistakeable glow above Betelgeuse makes him smirk as he checks his watch.
You’re late.
Well, you know. Had a bit of trouble with Andromeda. You should hear the things she says about MW, let me tell you. The woman thinks she’s got the run of the universe.
Sorry?
Space humor, darling. You’re looking mighty fine tonight. Though you forgot to shave. Criminals keeping you up again?
You say you like it when I don’t shave.
Yeah, it’s cute.
Cute?
Yes. I mean, you don’t really grow anything. But it’s cute that you’d try.
I’m not cute. And I could grow a beard if I wanted to.
Sure you could. Cutie.
Stop that. I’m never not shaving again.
Uh-huh. What’s for dinner this time?
Ham and potatoes.
You spoil me. I don’t recognize that wine, though.
It’s Mrs. Hudson’s. I ran out of yours.
Pity. I wish I could taste it.
You really don’t want to. It’s horrid.
Oh, you’re a connoisseur, now?
No. Yours was just better.
Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Holmes.
Thought I’d give it a try.
A valiant effort. So what have you been up to in the last twenty-seven days, twenty-three hours, forty-nine minutes, and thirty-one seconds since I saw you last?
The usual.
Come now. No cases? No running around with that Detective Inspector of yours?
There was a lovely homicide three days ago, although there wasn’t any running involved. Rather disappointing, actually.
I can imagine. Only one homicide?
Yes.
The criminals of London are failing you, it seems.
The food is growing cold. Maybe you should eat some.
I’m not hungry.
Mrs. Hudson will pitch a fit.
She might.
You look thin.
I am.
Thinner.
Maybe.
Humour me.
Fine.
Sherlock takes a small bite of the potatoes, holding up his fork to show Victor. The light blips, disappearing for a brief moment before reappearing in the middle of the sky. Their time is nearly half up.
Good.
What have you been doing?
Same old, same old. Orbiting and spying on you.
You don’t spy on me.
Au contraire, mon frère.
I’m not your brother.
I was going for the rhyme.
You still don’t spy on me. That’s Mycroft’s job.
Well, we wouldn’t want to put your brother out of business, would we?
…Actually, yes, keep spying.
Believe me, I wasn’t going to stop.
The blueish glow has nearly reached the east end of the sky. Sherlock downs his wine all at once.
Looks like we’re going to have to say goodbye, darling.
Not yet. There’s a bit more time left.
Not too much. This is where I have to leave you.
But—
I’ll be back, love.
Victor.
I know you can still hear me.
Victor?
Sherlock lies on the blanket, watching the light disappear over the eastern horizon as he drinks the other glass of wine.
He remains in the same spot until the sun rises.
_______________________
When Mrs. Hudson wakes the next morning, she finds a pile of dishes and uneaten food in her kitchen sink, along with her bottle of wine and two glasses, both of which have probably held wine at some point, but are empty now.
She washes them carefully, taking her time, and when she’s finished, she prepares Sherlock’s morning tea and heads upstairs.
Despite the late hour (it’s nearly ten!), Sherlock is not awake. Or, if he is, he’s still hiding in his room.
She walks over to his bedroom door and knocks. There’s a thud and some sniffling, followed by a scratching sound, and then the door opens.
Sherlock hasn’t changed clothes since last night, and his eyes are red and watery. He takes the tea without a word, closing the door in Mrs. Hudson’s face.
“Poor dear,” she sighs.
That Victor had better come back for him.