Work Text:
The taxi ride from the cemetery was a silent one. Martha Hudson sat pensively by John Watson, glancing over occasionally at the former soldier’s erect posture. To others, it seemed a subconscious muscle memory build of long habit, but Mrs. Hudson knew that John was tense near to the breaking point.
“It was nice to see the stone finally in place,” she said softly. “Gives a bit of closure to the thing, don’t you think?” she said softly.
“I suppose,” John said absently. “If you can have closure with something like this.”
She had tried everything to get John to engage that day, but he was unwilling to discuss memories of Sherlock, and he wasn’t interested in coming back to 221B. She knew he had taken a bedsit near where he had lived when he first came to London, and he was working long hours in the surgery. To try to forget, she was certain.
One of her boys was dead; one was hurting. It was heartbreaking to watch.
“John, dear, are you sure you won’t stop back at mine for a cuppa? I’ve been trying to clean out the flat, but there’s so much that needs done, I hardly know where to begin. I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator, and you know what a job that was. I’ve boxed his science equipment to donate, but I just don’t know where,” she said, spying John clench his fist in mirror image of the twitching muscle in his jaw. She continued on, undeterred. “And aren’t there things that you want? His books, his pictures from his bedroom walls; something that you can remember him by?”
“No,” John bit off, and then more kindly, “No, Mrs. Hudson, I can’t. I can’t look at…those things…every day and be reminded of him alive. I just can’t,” he said, his voice starting to break. “I just can’t face this right now.”
John put his hand on top of Mrs. Hudson’s as the cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker. “I’m sorry. I am. But I just can’t.”
“I understand, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, kissing John softly on the cheek. John motioned to the cabbie that he had the fare, then faced forward once Mrs. Hudson was safely on the pavement, driving away from Baker Street without looking back.
***
Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door to the building and locked it behind her, continuing on to her own small flat. It seemed so quiet since Sherlock’s death. She supposed she’d have to deal with the flat one way or the other. John was gone too, and she certainly couldn’t afford to have a building like that in Central London without tenants. But to rent out 221B to anyone but her beloved Sherlock and John seemed so wrong, she couldn’t stay to see it.
She had known the Holmes family since Sherlock and Mycroft were little boys, living in the same small village until she married Frank and was whisked off to Florida to a life she never expected. She remembered Mrs. Holmes struggling at first with her two children, seven years apart. Mrs. Holmes clearly loved her boys; she explained that she had given up a promising university career as a mathematician because she believed there was no substitute for a mother’s attention in the early years, and she was content with the idea that she was giving up her prime years of productivity in her field for child-rearing.
But try as she might, it became clear that she could leave the academy, but academe wouldn’t leave her. Mrs. Hudson – not Mrs. Hudson, then -- heard her explaining abstruse cryptograms and intricate analyses to these boys as they walked along the country lane together, Mycroft manfully almost keeping up with his mother’s knowledge – the boy would clearly pass her up soon. And Sherlock, bouncing wildly from lane to fence to grassy rise, gathering pieces of twig and samples of rock and constructing the most fantastic tales of what they might mean. It was clear that both boys wanted nothing more than their mother’s respect and approval, and it was equally clear how painfully Mrs. Holmes missed her life of intellectual stimulation, no matter how fulfilling she may have found her children.
Mrs. Hudson tried to inject some normalcy into the boys’ lives, but it worked better with Sherlock than with Mycroft. Mycroft was already too old enjoy the doting of a kindly adopted aunt, but Sherlock took readily to the attention. Mrs. Hudson remembered days of listening to him babble rapidly about some imagined mystery he was solving, and she would reward his cleverness with freshly-baked biscuits or meat pies taken directly from her oven which he would devour, curls falling forward over his eyes and obscuring that piercing blue gaze.
When Mrs. Hudson returned from Florida years later, Frank having been sent to his deserved end, it was thanks to Sherlock. The boy had never completely lost track of where his beloved neighborhood friend went, and he swept in to save her, now a man in his 20s, still more cocksure than certain. He saw to it that Frank was convicted; the evidence against him was readily available, but the Dade County police had bigger fish to fry than a mid-range drug dealer.
That was, until Sherlock delivered the proof of his involvement in several murders. He also demonstrated Mrs. Hudson’s innocence, leaving her as Frank’s sole heir. The two went back to London together, and, after a time, Mrs. Hudson bought 221 Baker Street. She wanted something of her own that felt legitimate and lawful after years of watching Frank skirt the law; it was her own way of laundering money, she thought with a smile.
She was so pleased when Sherlock came to her some time later looking for a new place to live; something about the landlord on Montague Street tiring of his disruptive behavior and his even more disruptive experiments. She knew that Sherlock had been taking drugs; years with Frank had taught her the signs. But she also knew that her boy – by now, she thought of him as the son she hadn’t had – was doing so to help cope with a brain that ran too quickly, one that threatened to destroy him if he couldn’t find a way to calm it and focus it. She thought she could help; she thought a flatmate might do the same. She offered him a discount on the rent with the encouragement that he find someone nice to share with.
***
Mrs. Hudson was lost in thought about the past as she waited for the kettle to boil, when she heard the front door bell ring. She went to open it, and she was surprised to see the lean figure of Mycroft Holmes, leaning elegantly if a bit uncomfortably on his always-present umbrella.
“Mycroft,” she exclaimed, reaching up to touch his cheek and then pulling back at the last second. Mycroft had never been one for physical affection. “Won’t you come in,” she said, stepping aside so that he could do so. “Kettle’s just boiled, and I could use some company for tea.”
He nodded his assent, then followed her back to 221A somewhat nervously, she thought. But then, Mycroft Holmes was always so much more difficult for her to understand than Sherlock. The pair sat at her small kitchen table as she poured the tea and set the biscuits out.
“Mycroft, how are you dear?” she asked kindly. “I know this business with Sherlock has been hard on you. Your poor parents; they couldn’t even stand to come to the funeral.”
“Yes, well,” Mycroft said noncommittally, then reached into his briefcase.
“I’m afraid this is not a social call, but more of a business transaction.”
“Oh, of course, you want his things. I’ve tried to start sorting and boxing them, but poor John, he’s just not up to being any help right now. Can’t stand to be with all the memories, I suppose. And there’s only so many times I can go up and down those steps, what with my hip and all,” she said.
“No, actually, I want you to do nothing of the kind,” Mycroft said, sliding a cheque across the table. The amount included more zeros than Mrs. Hudson had seen in one place since her days with Frank.
“This cheque,” Mycroft continued, “is for the fair market value of the rent on two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street for the next six months,” he said. “I should like for you to retain the property exactly as Sherlock kept it for that time period. Shall I desire you to continue doing so after that, you will receive similar payments, adjusted, of course, if the real estate market increases the value of the property. I would not see you losing money over this transaction,” he concluded, folding his hands in front of him.
“Oh, Mycroft. I know you can’t bear to see your brother gone, but keeping his flat like a shrine isn’t the way. You have to accept and move on.”
Mycroft drew a deep breath. “Mrs. Hudson. I think you know that I am not a man of sentiment. I am unable to explain fully, but I would hope you would take me at my word that I anticipate a future use for this flat, and that it is necessary that it be maintained to Sherlock’s preferences. Can you help me with this?” he asked, making a rare request rather than a command.
“Of course, Mycroft, if that’s what you want,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But Sherlock never even let me dust up there. I’ve already cleaned the kitchen and the bedroom; there’s little else to be done. And you’re sure you want it left like that?”
“I do. And I count on your discretion to refrain from mentioning our arrangement to others,” he said, rising from his seat.
“Mycroft Holmes, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’ll do as you say,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You know, you were always one of my boys too.”
Mycroft cracked a brief smile but said nothing. He turned and exited the flat and the front door, getting into his waiting car.
Mrs. Hudson watched him drive off, holding the cheque in her hand. That boy was up to something, she just knew it. And if it meant that there was a glimmer of hope that 221B would be occupied again, she’d do just as Mycoft asked.