Chapter Text
It was a gruesome state of affairs. Yet, when one looked at the facts of the matter, it had to be. There would be no other reason for a poor soul to make the journey to 221B Baker Street. For that to happen, a person had to be desperate. A person had to be terrified. A person had to have no other options left. And, for dear Yasmin Khan, that was exactly the place she found herself in, through no fault of her own. Not that that served to provide a modicum of comfort.
She was sure that all eyes were on her as she hurriedly strode through the cobbled street, taking less care than usual to avoid the dirtiest parts of the road. Did they know what had happened? Or was the mere sight of a woman daring to walk at a fast pace enough to shock members of the public? Perhaps they were simply observing her with close scrutiny, which would have allowed them to have seen the dried specks of blood that now painted her mangled dress.
Everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective alive. The case notes of his unwitting partner ensured that Holmes’ brilliant mind went down in infamy. Yasmin Khan knew that that came with certain prerequisites. The detective would be busy. He would be rifling through hundreds, if not thousands of pleas for help for all sorts of stomach-churning incidents. In that sense, she understood that she was likely wasting her time by going directly to the source. But when a person was desperate enough and terrified enough, sound logic soon escaped them.
With those prying eyes still surely on her, she took the few steps up towards the door quickly, rattling the knocker before she could more acutely analyse her actions. A response didn't come as hastily as she might have appreciated, prompting her to knock again, more vigorously this time. She risked earning the ire of the Great Detective but surely the greatest tool in her arsenal was making it abundantly clear just how pressing the matter was. If she did not put forward a convincing case, then her journey would have been a wasted one. And her life would presumably be in tatters.
Yasmin Khan let out a small sigh of relief when the door finally opened. The man who greeted her wasn’t precisely what she’d conjured up in her head whilst she’d read all the stories about Sherlock Holmes. For starters, she’d always envisaged a rather lean man, whereas this figure erred on the side of portly. Not to mention the fact that he was smiling , something which Sherlock Holmes had never been documented to do. Was this truly the man who could solve her problems, or at least render her breaking heart nothing more than a gentle ache?
“Mr Holmes…” she began nervously, eyes fixed on the floor resolutely. “I come today…”
“Nah, love, you’ve got me mistaken,” the man interrupted her, and his colloquial nature came as a surprise to her. “I’m not Sherlock! Far from it! The only thing I’m good at looking for is extra food hidden in the cupboard, if you know what I mean!”
She didn't.
“Have I got the wrong house? Is this not 221B Baker Street?”
“No, you’ve in the right place, miss, let me assure you. It’s just that the detective doesn’t like to answer the door, so I’m the one who’s normally left to do it.” He puffed his chest out, as if to make himself look more grandiose. “You could see me as a sort of vetting service for their great mind, screening the people who ask to see the detective. You must understand what it’s like. Plenty of people come here for help.”
Yasmin’s confidence threatened to crumble. She hadn’t predicted that there would be multiple hurdles to pass for her to reach the famed member of society, even though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She’d resolved herself to speak directly to the man in question, ensuring she was perfectly prepared for that test, that the new figure had sufficiently thrown her off balance. As kindly as he seemed, surely it was a tactic used by the man to give his guests a false sense of security before promptly slamming the door in their faces.
“You’re one of those people, ain’t you?” the man asked.
“How…how do you mean?”
“You need help, don’t you? And there’s only one person who you think can provide that.”
The man, as was probably the requisite requirements of his job, was peering at her closely, assessing her. Perhaps he was trying to figure out the veracity of her tale without her having to actually tell it, as if he could learn everything he needed from a person’s demeanour alone. Perhaps that was a skill he’d picked up from being in the close company of Sherlock Holmes, as if the trait could be passed between people like a miasma. The man’s eyes locked onto the droplets of blood she’d tried so desperately to hide earlier, and he slowly nodded his head in thought.
He moved aside slightly. “You should come in, then.”
Her eyes dazzled. “Really?”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Or am I misreading the situation completely?”
Before he could have the chance to reconsider his decision or listen more attentively to his doubts, Yasmin stepped over the threshold. She was grateful for the warmth that greeted her, having previously assumed that the coldness was coming from her soul rather than the weather itself. The man shifted as if to take her coat out of politeness, but she simply clung onto it more tightly, knowing it was one of the few belongings she had left. At that point, she couldn’t afford to lose it.
“I’m Graham Hudson, if you’re wondering,” the man remarked, apparently making conversation to put her at ease. “I live in the fine apartment below Sherlock. It’s mostly a nice position to be in, because I invariably get to talk to all sorts of characters. The only downside is that I actually have to put up with them, if you don’t mind me saying. They’re…peculiar, to say the least. Lots of banging comes through the ceiling, and I daren’t ask why. Not to mention that blasted violin. They barely ever put it down.”
She didn't rightfully know how to respond to that unprompted information and a certain air of awkwardness descended upon the two of them. Yasmin was left with nothing to do besides stretching out her hand, realising that she’d forgotten her manners thanks to her unrelenting distress. She wondered what Mr Hudson must have thought of her, presumably thinking that she was of common birth, but he took the hand all the same as if he, himself, had completely forgotten that part of their greeting too.
“I wish I could say that it was a pleasure to meet you, but the circumstances prevent me from having any positive feelings, I’m afraid.”
“You know something? Most of the people who come through that door are in the same position. I’d tell dear Sherlock to keep cheerier company, but who am I to know what keeps them happy? I don’t think they even know what puts them in a good mood.”
“If most of your visitors are like me, does that mean the detective is able to help them?”
“You wouldn’t be here in the first place if you didn't already believe that.”
She risked the smallest of smiles. “You might be right about that.”
“Why don’t you head upstairs and I’ll get started on making everyone a lovely, hot cup of tea? I might not be able to solve mysteries like my bedfellows, but I know what’s required to soothe a troubled soul.”
“Up…stairs?”
Mr Hudson frowned, as if he couldn’t follow her confusion. “Yeah…don’t you want to see them? Their apartment is on the next floor, right at the top of the stairs. Can you manage?”
Yasmin’s gaze shifted from her latest companion to the described flight of stairs. Even from their position on the lower floor, she could see perfectly well the door that housed her target. Her hands began to shake once more and her vision came perilously close to blurring in an uncomfortably nauseating fashion. Now that she was inside, having to face knocking on yet another door, the prospect felt even more daunting than before. And she hadn’t quite thought that that was indeed possible.
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled, feeling as if she had to say something . “I’ll be quite alright. Thank you for your concern.”
“You’re much obliged. I can’t remember if Sherlock has returned home yet but, if they haven’t, then I’m sure the Doc will be more than happy to entertain you.”
Mr Hudson tipped his head towards her and then set about shuffling away, eventually disappearing behind his own door. That meant Yasmin was once again on her own, a state that had only become prevalent since the recent incident. The only company she had left was the stairs that represented the final hurdle in her journey, or perhaps just the latest in a long line of stumbling blocks. But, since she’d gotten so far, she wasn’t about to take the coward’s way out. Her sweet Ettie wouldn’t have allowed that.
She was growing rather tired of knocking on doors but that was what she was made to do when she finally navigated the sheer steps. A quick fire of raps against the door announced her arrival and shouts from within greeted her soon after, only serving to make the balance of her stomach more tumultuous. Unlike how she’d been made to wait the first time, the door this time around was opened surprisingly quickly. Yasmin might have been grateful for that, if she wasn’t so intimidated by the figure who now towered over her.
In truth, it was much more like what she’d been expecting from Sherlock Holmes. Whilst Mr Hudson was friendly and approachable, the man staring at her had been gifted with a startlingly severe face, with eyebrows that only seemed capable of displaying anger. Or, at the very least, annoyance. His eyes were his most intimidating feature, cold orbs staring right at her and, perhaps, through her. It came as no shock that he managed to wrangle the truth from so many resolute people; his eyes felt powerful enough to make Yasmin divulge every secret she’d ever held.
“Yes?” he greeted her in a clipped fashion.
She detected an accent. Scottish? Surprisingly enough, his origins and his dialect had never come up in the case notes of his many investigations. Or was it a detail that Yasmin had simply overlooked during her reading? The sort of detail that the fabled Sherlock Holmes would never fail to recognise, which was entirely why she was visiting him now. Instead of being scared by his brash demeanour, she told herself that his attitude was precisely the reason why he was so sought after.
And why it was such a long shot that he would elect to help her.
“Your…your friend…he told me that I could meet you up here,” Yasmin explained. “Mr Hudson?”
“Did he, now? I hate it when he does that.” He took the time to look her up and down. “Is this a social call?”
“I…I have a case for you.”
“A case?”
“To solve.”
“Naturally, most cases need solving or they would no longer be cases.”
“...quite.”
“Are you normally this nervous?”
“The day’s events have shaken me, I must admit.”
The detective hummed. “You’re not going to be able to give me the appropriate details on my doorstep.”
“I’ve practised summarising what has happened in my head a number of times if that’s your main concern.”
“That was an invitation for you to come inside.”
Unlike Mr Hudson, who had waited for her to make those steps into the warmth, Mr Holmes simply walked away, as if he expected her to follow. He had no reason not to believe that, seeing as she was the one who’d travelled all that way to see him. When people craved your attention so much, it was no wonder that your ego soon became inflated as a result. Yasmin was willing to put up with his peculiarities , as Mr Hudson had previously put it, if the detective was able to help her.
Stepping into the apartment was like travelling into another realm entirely. The world Yasmin knew was refined and planned with meticulous care, at least until you ventured onto the streets, where anything went. Mr Holmes’ home was an eclectic mix of objects that probably signified a number of cases he’d worked on, all of them clues that had helped him piece together the various puzzles. Yet they were scattered haphazardly, so much so that there was barely a surface in sight that was clear, which was why the detective busied himself by moving some of the offending items.
“Sit.”
He probably meant it as a polite instruction, a way of welcoming her into his home. Yet his tone made it sound like a barked order and she dutifully did as she was told. The armchair she found herself in wasn’t anything fancy, which could be said for the rest of the space as well. If the detective was so well acclaimed, why wasn’t his money on show? Unless he didn't remotely care about the finer things in life or financial gain, which would have set him apart from nearly everyone else in the city of London.
“Do you want to explain what’s brought you here?”
Yasmin hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy. She now held the attention of Sherlock Holmes, or she did only once he’d dusted off an old chair and had placed it right in front of her so that he could sit down. Amidst the chaos of his apartment, his eyes took on a different look. They were kinder now, and a touch warmer. The persona was changing right in front of her as he gazed at the woman who needed his support. She idly wondered how many times he’d been forced to be in this very position, changing his behaviour to make a grieving person open up.
“I’m sure it’s the same reason as to why everyone comes here,” she replied, searching for the strength to recount her tale, building up to the ordeal.
“You’re not everyone. You’re…forgive me, I haven’t even asked what your name is.”
“Yasmin Khan, sir.”
She was idly distracted when the door opened once again, though she tried not to let her eyes linger for too long, as if she owed the detective all of her focus. A woman strolled into the apartment, flowing brown hair complimenting a burgundy dress. Yasmin didn't pay her a lot of attention, assuming that it was simply the maid arriving in the attempt of wrangling the home into something resembling tidy. Mr Holmes glanced in the woman’s direction, a pointed look shared between the two of them that Yasmin had no chance of deciphering.
“Do you have information for us, Yasmin?”
“A plea more than anything.”
“This is a safe space. You won’t receive any judgement within these walls. We’re not the police.”
“I know that. That’s the main reason why I’ve come here, Mr Holmes. I’m quite certain that the police would either refuse to listen to me or throw me behind bars as soon as…”
“I beg your pardon?”
She momentarily stuttered after the interruption. “Have I said something wrong?”
“Mr Holmes?”
“Do you…prefer to go by another title?”
“I prefer to be called by my actual name. Doctor John Watson. I feel as if we’ve got off on the wrong foot…”
“You’re not Sherlock Holmes? But…Mr Hudson said that I’d find him up here.”
“You’re going to have a hard time with that, seeing as no man of that name exists.”
“Are you trying to tell me that those stories…the reports you, it turns out, have written…are entirely fictional? He’s fictional?”
Dr Watson puffed out his cheeks. “He’s much worse than that.”
“Meaning?”
The woman from a moment before was laughing to herself, presumably finding a rich source of entertainment from Yasmin’s evident discomfort. She watched as the woman slowly sauntered over, doing her best not to be drawn in by the easy smile and the mesmerising brown eyes. The newcomer perched on the edge of the chair Dr Watson had claimed for himself, earning a withering look from her partner. The woman didn't seem to care, her eyes fixed upon Yasmin as if she represented a truly delectable treat.
“Meaning he’s a woman,” she said.
Her strong, sharp tone of voice was a stark contrast to the Scottish brogue Yasmin had become accustomed to, but that wasn’t the reason as to why her mouth was making a perfect ‘o’ shape. It turned out that she was keeping the company of Sherlock Holmes, who wasn’t nearly as fictional as she’d briefly feared. It just so happened that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t remotely like the images Yasmin had concocted, but who could blame her for never picturing the Great Detective in a dress?
“Yeah,” Sherlock added, brilliant white teeth flashing in delight. “I’m just as stunned as you are.”