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Sherlock’s phone beeped with an incoming text. He glanced at it, leapt out of his chair and grabbed his shoes.
“Where are you going?” John asked.
“Hospital visiting.”
“You hate hospital visiting.” John put his book down and looked more closely at Sherlock. “Shit, it’s not Mycroft, is it? No, you’d not be rushing like that. Your mum or dad?”
“No. A friend.”
“What?”
Sherlock didn’t stop to enlighten John.
***
Earlier the same day Sherlock had attended a crime scene at the request of Inspector Bradstreet. It was one of the old warehouses that stood on the banks of the Thames. Partially converted into offices, renovation was still being undertaken on some of the upper floors. The river police rope access team had been called in to search the outside of part of the building, since it was suspected some of the evidence they were searching for had been secreted in the nooks and crannies of the upper wall, which had yet to be upgraded. Sherlock and Bradstreet had been standing inside the warehouse.
Suddenly there had been shouting and a voice over the radio had said “Officer down!” An ambulance was called and it hadn’t taken long to establish Inspector Hopkins, descending past one of the windows, had spotted someone in one of the rooms which should have been empty. Unfortunately the occupant had seen Hopkins and had tried to push him away. The ropes had held, but Hopkins had been injured when the man subsequently grabbed him and pulled him into the wall.
Sherlock had waited long enough to give his deductions relating to the room where the original crime had been committed before demanding he be taken back to the Yard. Bradstreet had no wish for Sherlock to remain now he had the information he wanted from him, and told one of his officers to take him. As they drove back Sherlock phoned Lestrade to tell him to meet him on his arrival.
Lestrade, well used to Sherlock’s demands, had sent Donovan down to meet him. She took one look at Sherlock’s face and decided to ignore Lestrade’s instructions to ‘slow him down for as long as you can’ and took Sherlock straight up.
Lestrade looked up as Donovan knocked on his office door.
“Sherlock, what’s happened?”
“Hopkins has been injured. I need to know which hospital they’ve taken him to, how badly he’s been hurt, and when I can see him.”
Lestrade was used to Sherlock's demands and would normally have sought to protect his colleague from Sherlock’s overzealous attention. However it was clear this was more than just a desire to obtain information from Hopkins and therefore he said, “Okay. I’ll make some calls and find out for you. Sit down and try not to interrupt me while I do so.”
Sherlock waited whilst Lestrade phoned round, his body rigid as he listened to the half conversations and mentally completed the other half.
Finally, Lestrade said “He’s at Tommy’s; he’s going to be okay but they’re still checking him out; you can see him later. I’ve asked them to let me know as soon as he can receive visitors.” He looked at Sherlock, expecting a snarky comment. When he received none he continued, “Go home and I’ll text you when I hear.”
Sherlock nodded and silently left the office. Lestrade stared after him, the lack of argument following his instruction leaving him stunned.
***
The text had said “Okay to visit Hopkins. Have warned staff you are on your way.”
Sherlock ran down the stairs and into the street, hailing a taxi as soon as one came in sight. On his arrival at the hospital he was tempted to use the latest warrant card he’d lifted from Lestrade, but decided that on balance the chance of running into someone who knew the inspector was too great.
He walked up to the main desk. “I’m here to see Inspector Hopkins.”
The receptionist looked up. “Sherlock Holmes? We were told you were coming. Alan will show you the way.”
A hospital volunteer approached, gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile, which Sherlock responded to with a glare and said, “Follow me,” as he led the way down the corridors to Hopkins’ ward.
When Sherlock sat down by the bedside he realised he had no idea what to say; he picked the notes up from the bottom of the bed, but Hopkins said, “Wrenched knee, severely bruised shoulder and possible concussion, but nothing broken. Could be worse, they just won’t let me out tonight.”
“You could discharge yourself.”
“I suggested that. The sister said I was welcome to walk out but they’d have to wheel me back to bed when I fell over.”
Sherlock gave a wry grin. He’d had his own encounters with sisters of a similar ilk.
“How long are they keeping you in for?”
“Until tomorrow morning, assuming there’s no problems overnight. And they’ve said I should be able to walk sufficiently to make my escape by then.”
Sherlock still wasn’t sure what he should do or say. As a rule he avoided hospital visits and on the occasion when he was the occupant of the bed he was invariably rude to his visitor. He’d been so concerned with finding out how serious Hopkins’ injuries were, he’d not given a thought to how he should be responding to the man. For want of anything better to do he reached over and squeezed Hopkins’ hand and was pleasurably surprised when Hopkins didn’t try to move away.
Finally Sherlock decided to say, “I’ve made considerable progress on the case today; I’ve been analysing the dust samples from the warehouse and there’s three, or maybe four, locations which have been used for storage.”
“Excellent,” Hopkins said. He took Sherlock’s hand to help himself sit up a bit further, although neither thought to let go afterwards. “Tell me about it. I’ve been signed off sick for a week so I’m not likely to hear any more for a while.”
Sherlock was about to start elaborating when a nurse came in to tell him visiting time was over.
He stood to leave. “Come over to Baker Street tomorrow about 6, I should have more to tell you by then.”
***
Being signed off sick for a week didn’t suit Stanley at all. Especially when there was no reason for it. Admittedly he was walking with a bit of a limp, which became more pronounced as he reached the end of his street. And his arm hurt slightly, but only if he swung it, and the painkillers were no doubt wearing off a bit quicker than expected. But he definitely didn’t have concussion or the doctor wouldn’t have let him come home. The medical staff had been concerned there would be no-one to take care of him, which was ridiculous because he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, as he was proving by taking a brisk walk, or rather hobble, down to the shops in the main road.
And what was he supposed to do all week, since they weren’t even going to let him have files to read? He’d said it would be the ideal opportunity for him to catch up with the quarterly reports. He could even help some of the other officers with theirs (he knew no-one would object to losing statistical surveys), but the powers-that-be had insisted he rest.
The one good thing was that Sherlock Holmes had said he should go to Baker Street later and they could go over some aspects of the case (without having to tell anyone that’s what he was doing). Stanley had to admit the attraction wasn’t just in being able to do some work, but the opportunity to see Sherlock again.
He had reached the corner shop and his knee was hurting badly, so he decided if he went into the shop he could lean against the shelves and take a long time deciding between two sorts of biscuits to give his leg a rest.
As he limped into the shop, Mrs Patel glanced up, took one look at him and said, “Mr Hopkins, are you all right? Hang on a second; I’ll get you a chair.”
With that she disappeared into the back of the shop, returning shortly afterwards with a dining chair which she placed next to Stanley. He sank onto it gratefully.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked. Then spotting movement added, “What are you doing here?”
Stanley looked down and saw that a little kitten had taken the opportunity of the open door at the back of the shop to come in to investigate. He clicked his fingers and the kitten trotted over to see him.
“Wretched creature,” Mrs Patel said. “She’s missing her brother and sister and keeps following me around. I’ll take her out again.”
Stanley leant down and picked the kitten up, intending to give her back to Mrs Patel. As he was about to pass her over, he stroked her and she began to purr.
“She’s very sweet,” Stanley said.
“Would you like her?” Mrs Patel smiled and looked hopeful. “She needs a good home.”
Stanley smiled back, but shook his head. “I’m not sure she’d cope with being on her own – I’m not home that often.”
“Cats are quite able to adapt to their owners’ lifestyles.”
“And besides which I have nothing suitable for a kitten, no food, or litter tray, or anything.”
“We can let you have what we’ve got. That’ll keep you going for the next week or so.”
By now the kitten had curled up on Stanley’s lap. He continued stroking her, and said, “And anyway, I couldn’t carry her home, with my leg as it is.”
“That’s not a problem. I can get my husband to give you both a lift back.”
Later, Stanley tried to convince himself it was just the suggestion of a lift home which made him agree to take the kitten.
Then, after he had made himself some lunch and fed the kitten, Stanley lay down on the sofa for a short rest. The kitten joined him and they both fell asleep.
***
When he awoke he realised he needed to get ready if he was going to be at Baker Street on time. Normally he would have rushed round and grabbed his shoes and a jacket, but he had to sort the kitten out and organise somewhere she could be left for a few hours. And he was feeling quite stiff as well. He had been planning on cutting back on the painkillers, but his shoulder and knee were hurting so badly that he decided not to.
Despite allowing plenty of time Stanley was nearly late leaving, because the kitten had wanted to play and he found himself unable to resist her. He had decided crossing London by public transport was not a good idea, since his knee was still painful, so took a taxi. This meant he could sit back and indulge in uninterrupted thoughts about Sherlock.
Following their first encounter Stanley had found himself working on a few more cases with Sherlock. At first he had been annoyed at the consulting detective’s lack of respect for the rules, but gradually he had come to appreciate Sherlock’s ability to connect apparently disparate clues. This, together with Sherlock’s powers of observation, and more importantly how he used those observations, had changed Stanley’s impression. In turn Sherlock seemed to have started to respect Stanley’s requirements. Even if it was only because, if he failed to follow the rules, Stanley refused to let him on the boat.
He had started looking forward to the cases where Sherlock was involved. Most people groaned when they heard he was coming, even though they knew the contribution he would make. But for Stanley this often meant the chance to walk along the side of his beloved river, takeaway coffee in hand, discussing aspects of the case, and increasingly other matters as well.
He hadn’t expected Sherlock to visit him when he was in hospital. He hadn’t expected anyone except for his boss, who, having satisfied himself that no lasting damage had been caused, had told him he was signed off for the week. So Sherlock’s visit had been doubly welcome. First because, although solitary by nature, Stanley had been feeling lonely stuck in his hospital bed, and secondly because Sherlock was the one person he didn’t have to make the effort to entertain or explain himself to. There was the added bonus that when he woke in the night he’d been able to remember Sherlock’s hand on his.
When he reached Baker Street Sherlock had all the evidence laid out ready. They sat side by side on the settee. And, as they reached out in turn to point out details of the photos and specific locations on the maps, Stanley became aware their legs were pressed together and their hands frequently touched as they discussed various aspects of the case. Sherlock’s knowledge of London was good, but Stanley knew the intricacies of the river even better and between them they were able to reconstruct the chain of events.
Finally Sherlock stood up. “More tea?” he asked.
“I’d love to, but to be honest, I’m knackered. I need to go home.”
Sherlock nodded and Stanley thought he looked slightly disappointed. “I understand. I shall be seeing Bradstreet tomorrow to tell him what he needs to know. If you come over tomorrow evening, same time, I can tell you how it went. I’ll get a takeaway.”
Stanley smiled. “I’d like that, thank you.”
***
When Stanley got back home he was greeted by the kitten, who once again demanded he should play with her. The Patels had assured him the kitten could sleep in the kitchen, but Stanley didn’t like to think of her being lonely, and he had put her bed in one corner of his bedroom. So, having made himself a cup of tea, Stanley took both tea and kitten to his room.
As he sat in bed drinking his tea, he told the kitten about his evening. To his surprise he found he was enjoying having her around. It was nice to have someone (he couldn’t think of her as ‘something’) he could share his day with and, more importantly, someone who would listen to him express his growing feelings for Sherlock. He smiled as she purred contentedly.
***
Stanley had been disappointed when he realised his second visit to Baker Street had probably been his last. Sherlock had given him his version of the discussion he’d had with Inspector Bradstreet and Stanley had mentally reworded it into the report he would eventually receive from the inspector. They’d eaten the takeaway and then Stanley had spotted Sherlock’s violin, which had led to a conversation about classical music concerts and soloists they had both heard.
However, there had been no reason for Stanley to return a third time, and he had resigned himself to being on his own until he was recovered enough to go back to work. At least he had the kitten for company and he enjoyed playing with her. He was also getting more rest than he had expected, because the kitten liked to fall asleep in his lap when he sat on the sofa and he didn’t like to disturb her, so found himself dozing as well.
On Friday evening Stanley had just given the kitten her tea and was trying to decide what to have to eat himself when he heard someone hammering on his front door. When he opened it he found Sherlock standing there, looking very wet and cross. It had been pouring with rain all afternoon and Sherlock gave the appearance of having been standing outside since it began.
“Come in,” Stanley said and took a step back as Sherlock dripped his way inside. “If you want to dump some of your wet clothing on the mat I’ll find you some spare clothes.”
When Stanley returned carrying a hoodie and joggers he discovered Sherlock was completely naked. He smiled and said, “You seem to have taken me slightly more literally than I expected. In which case why don’t you grab yourself a shower? It’ll help you warm up a bit.”
By the time Sherlock emerged from the shower, Stanley had made some coffee, which he handed to him. “Do you want something to eat? I was about to start cooking my tea, and you’d be welcome to join me.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock wandered into the kitchen to join Stanley. “You haven’t asked me what I’ve been doing, or why I was so wet.”
“Unless you have a particular fetish for the rain, I had assumed it was for a case. And therefore you would tell me if you thought it might be relevant or interesting to me, but otherwise you wouldn’t have answered had I asked.”
Sherlock gave Stanley an appraising look and nodded. “You’re right, of course. However there are a few minor points you might be able to assist me with. Which we could discuss while we eat, as you’ve just offered to feed me.”
They sat at the kitchen table to eat. Partway through the meal Stanley fetched paper and pencil so he could sketch the location Sherlock was asking about. When they had finished they moved to Stanley’s sofa and the conversation, as it had on previous occasions, drifted from the case to other matters. At one point Stanley fetched a second bottle of wine to refill their glasses. As they both reached down to pick up their glass their hands touched. They turned to face each other and then tentatively moved closer.
They kissed briefly and then Stanley started to move back, concerned he’d overstepped the mark, but Sherlock put an arm around him and pulled him back into a longer kiss. This time when the kiss finished they remained pressed close to each other. They resumed their conversation, now punctuating it with kisses, until Stanley found himself being shaken gently.
“You’d fallen asleep,” Sherlock said. “Which I don’t mind, but I think you’d be better off lying down. If I can borrow these clothes I’ll bring them back tomorrow, mine won’t have dried yet.”
“You can stay if you want,” Stanley said groggily. “I’ve got a decent sized double bed.” He paused. “I mean, I’m not suggesting anything. It’s just it’s late and it’s still raining and you’ve had quite a bit to drink.”
Sherlock briefly looked surprised, but then nodded. “Why not? It’ll save having to come back tomorrow morning. I thought we could spend the weekend together – I’ve got various hypotheses I want to try out.”
“That would be good.” Stanley stood up, put too much weight on his injured leg and pivoted forward.
Sherlock caught him, put an arm around him and helped him into the bedroom.
***
Sherlock stretched and then nestled further down into the bed. Having spent the night with Stanley, he wanted to hang onto the feeling of pleasure as long as possible. He was aware of something patting his nose, which seemed peculiar behaviour if it was Stanley. He opened his eyes and found a pair of bright eyes in a furry face looking back at him. He started to sit up and the kitten bounced down the bed before pouncing on his toes.
Sherlock heard a low chuckle and Stanley came into the room carrying two mugs of tea. Stanley picked the kitten up, stroked her and then put her on the floor. The kitten promptly climbed back onto the bed.
“Tilly, you are a naughty kitty,” Stanley said, tickling the kitten under the chin.
“Tilly is a ridiculous name for a cat,” Sherlock said.
“She’s really called Matilda, but that’s a bit long for such a little kitten.” Stanley picked her up again, sat down on the bed, and settled the kitten on his lap, where she purred happily.
“Why choose Matilda, then?”
“Because Tabitha didn’t suit her!”
Sherlock leant across and kissed Stanley. “I take it back, it’s not a ridiculous name, you are a ridiculous person.”
Stanley laughed again. Sherlock put his arms around Stanley and gave him a hug. Tilly licked Sherlock’s fingers.
“I believe you said you had plans for this weekend,” Stanley said. “Although I may have imagined it, I was rather fuzzy at the time.”
“Excellent. There are various places I need to visit and your help will be invaluable.”
Stanley looked slightly doubtful. “I’m not sure my leg’s quite up to a lot of walking yet.”
“That doesn’t matter. You sit in places and read guidebooks while I check things out. I’ve got a number of theories I want to test and your powers of observation may come in useful. And then I’ve got two tickets for a concert tonight which I think you’ll like.”
“Will we be out all day?”
“Not if you pay attention to what’s required. I realise we shall have to return to feed and play with Tilly. Who, incidentally, is well on the way to become the most spoiled kitten ever.”
“How can you say that?”
“A deduction based on who was asked which cheese they’d prefer when you got the cheese and biscuits.”
Stanley was prevented from trying to frame a reply by Sherlock leaning forward and kissing him again.