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By the autumn of 1881, Sherlock Holmes had acquired the sort of life which made sensible people cross the street. This, he had acquired gradually.
There had been the separation from James Moriarty, which had been neither clean nor final in the emotional sense, though it had been final enough in practical terms. James had become what London was beginning to call the Napoleon of Crime, and Sherlock, with his inconvenient conscience and even more inconvenient capacity for deduction, had discovered that being in love with the man at the centre of a criminal empire presented certain difficulties.
James had become too deeply involved in his own work, and Sherlock had developed the unfortunate habit of investigating things that came rather too close to the foundations of it. They had fought. They had parted. They had continued to think about one another with a persistence neither found particularly convenient.
Sherlock had gone on being Sherlock. Sherlock was now twenty-seven, brilliant, addicted to several things he really ought not to be addicted to, constitutionally incapable of maintaining regular meals, and living alone in a London where being discovered with the wrong man could ruin him. Worse, James knows Sherlock well enough to understand that loneliness makes everything considerably worse.
He investigated murders. He took cases nobody else wanted. But he also disappeared into opium dens when the cases became too ugly. He drank when he could not sleep and took things when drinking no longer worked. He acquired acquaintances who were charming, disreputable, or both. He occasionally woke in places he did not remember entering. And London, in 1881, was not a forgiving city for a man like him. Being queer was dangerous; being a drug-taking eccentric was dangerous; being a detective who had a distressing tendency to notice things other people wished to remain unnoticed was very often the most dangerous thing of all.
Being all three things was, from James Moriarty’s perspective, intolerably stupid. James knew exactly where Sherlock was at almost all times. He knew where he slept and with whom (he probably knew more about them than Sherlock did, in most cases). He knew which chemist supplied him. He knew which opium dens he frequented and which of their proprietors had begun extending him credit. He knew, with increasingly alarming frequency, when Sherlock had not eaten.
James had tried talking to him. Sherlock had listened with the grave attention of a man preparing to do precisely the opposite.
“You cannot continue like this.”
“I seem to be continuing perfectly well.”
“You were found asleep in a public lavatory.”
“It was raining.”
“You were wearing one shoe.”
“I had two when I went in.”
James had stared at him. Sherlock had stared back.
“Do you see my difficulty with the circumstances you are building around yourself?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t.”
The conversation had ended there, with James storming out of the rooms Sherlock was currently occupying. But James had subsequently begun plotting. This was not unusual in itself: James Moriarty plotted as other men breathed. The difficulty was that this particular plot involved protecting a man who no longer belonged to him. He could not simply take Sherlock home now: Sherlock would refuse. He could not send money to him: Sherlock would return it. He could not threaten Sherlock : he would regard that as an invitation to become even more difficult. And James could not simply appear in Sherlock’s life every time he heard that the man had done something idiotic. There were practical considerations, such as the small matter of the criminal organisation James was running. He could hardly explain to his associates that the reason he had postponed an important meeting was that Sherlock Holmes had forgotten to eat breakfast again.
So James did what he did best: he arranged circumstances. He simply purchases the lease of Sherlock’s building through an intermediary, informs the landlord that the arrangement will not be renewed, and makes certain that Sherlock receives a perfectly respectable notice.
Holmes was incandescent when he found out he was, to all intents and purposes, being evicted. He spent an afternoon pacing furiously around them, packing books into crates with all the care of a man burying enemies.
“Absurd.”
He threw a book into a box.
“Extortionate.”
Another book.
“Completely unnecessary.”
A third.
Then he stopped and looked around his small room before sitting on the edge of his bed. For several minutes he did nothing. And that was the problem: because when Sherlock stopped moving, his thoughts became very loud. He thought of James. He thought of London. He thought of all the things he had lost. Then he got up and went out.
Three days later, Sherlock sobered up enough to noticed an advertisement in the papers for rooms at Baker Street.
Sherlock’s catching sight of a notice of rooms to rent came very shortly after James had bought a house. Not for himself: he was by now firmly ensconced in his own rather lovely flat in Bloomsbury. No, this house was going to be for Sherlock. They actually both knew it very well- it stood in Baker Street, rather conveniently situated, and had once belonged to the Holmes family. Mycroft had lived there for a time, but the place had since passed into other hands. It was sure to catch Sherlock’s eye for that reason. James acquired it quietly. The lease changed hands for a reasonable sum and the furnishings were changed. Now, a housekeeper was required. James found one quickly through a network of useful people who were not actually criminals but who had a flexible relationship between necessity and the law. Her name was Mrs Hudson. She was a widow, practical, warm-hearted, possessed of an alarming ability to detect nonsense, and entirely unimpressed by wealthy men who thought money gave them authority over women.
James liked her immediately. Mrs Hudson liked James despite herself.
“You look tired,” she told him the first time they met.
James blinked. “I assure you, I’m not.”
“That’s what tired men say.”
“I’ve brought the papers concerning the lease and your employment.”
James looked at her, hands folded in a way he hoped indicated that he was a busy man and his time was precious.
Mrs Hudson looked back at him and smiled. “Tea? And for goodness sake young man, sit down.”
James sat down. This was how Mrs Hudson came into his employ.
She was told that she would be the proprietor of the Baker Street house for all practical purposes. Her name would appear on the tenancy arrangements and she would have authority over the household. She could employ servants as she saw fit, collect the rent and keep it to supplement the stipend James would pay her. And she was not, under any circumstances, to tell Sherlock Holmes who had arranged any of it.
Mrs Hudson nodded solemnly.
“So Mr Holmes must not know?”
“No. Not unless he discovers it.”
“Which he probably will.”
James sighed. “Eventually.”
Mrs Hudson poured his tea. “You care about him.”
James attempted to look offended for a moment, then looked down into the cup. “Unfortunately.”
Mrs Hudson reached across the table and patted his hand.
James looked at her. “Don’t.”
“You’re very thin.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Mrs Hudson.”
“You need feeding.”
“I have no need of feeding.”
“Everyone needs feeding.”
James considered arguing then decided against it. He was beginning to realise this woman had more than a touch of the Mrs Crowle’s about her.
That was the beginning of his relationship with Mrs Hudson. She was in his pay; she was his woman on the inside of Baker Street; she also adored him, which was tremendously inconvenient. And, all being said, rather nice.
⸻
So, Sherlock saw an advertisement for Mycroft’s old furnished rooms in Baker Street. Quiet household. Shared accommodation. Reasonable rent. He read the piece musingly over breakfast: breakfast being tea helped along with a dram of whisky.
He decided to go to Baker Street that afternoon. Just for a look. It almost certainly would not suit, but why not? He sent a message along saying he would visit to inspect the property that afternoon. He did not say that this week it normally took him until 3 in the afternoon to get himself into a fit state to leave his room.
When he got there, Mrs Hudson opened the door at the second knock.
“Mr Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Sherlock stepped inside. The house was warm, warmer than Mycroft had kept it, immaculately clean and delightfully quiet, as if the curtains were specially made to keep out the world in all its roaring, smelly glory. He disliked it immediately. It was too comfortable.
“You are Mrs Hudson?”
“I am.”
“The owner?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock looked past her. “How long have you owned the house?”
“A little while now.”
“Hmmm.”
She smiled and gestured towards the stairs. “Come and see the rooms.”
He followed. The bedroom was small but perfectly adequate with a bed, wardrobe, table and a good sized fireplace. It had been Mycroft’s spare room, where he had slept with…
Sherlock stood in the doorway. “The rent?”
“Half.”
“Half of what?”
She named a figure: too much for him alone but doable if the place was shared.
“Who is the other tenant?”
“There isn’t one yet. If you take the rooms, you would of course have a say in choosing your fellow lodger.”
Sherlock looked at her. “That’s unusually generous of you”
“I’d rather have two happy long term lodgers than two unhappy short-term ones.”
Sherlock frowned suspiciously. “Hmmm.”
Mrs Hudson remained perfectly serene.
“You don’t know much about your prospective tenant. You haven’t asked for references yet.”
“I know enough by looking at people. I’m very good at reading them. Never been wrong yet.”
Sherlock examined the room again. It was suspiciously suitable. He disliked it. He needed somewhere to live. He accepted.
⸻
James did not choose Watson himself; that would have been too obvious. He knew that Sherlock needed a doctor, someone solid and upright, moral and kindly. None of his own men fit the bill - it would have been rather counterintuitive if they had - but he had had dealings with a medical man who likely might have in the past. Dr Stamford. A decent man, all in all, but poor and rather fond of racing horses. James therefore arranged for a not quite anonymous benefactor to settle a rather inconvenient debt. Stamford was grateful. Very grateful.
A week later, he happened to encounter Dr John Watson.
“Watson?”
“Stamford?”
“Back in London?”
“For the moment.”
“You must meet a man…..”
And that was how John Watson came to Baker Street.
⸻
Watson arrived with a battered medical case and an army trunk. Mrs Hudson liked him at once: he was polite and insisted on carrying his own luggage despite a slight limp. He thanked her for showing him the room and when she asked whether he had eaten, he looked embarrassed and admitted that he had not. So Mrs Hudson fed him. Within half an hour, she had decided that he was lovely.
Sherlock, when he finally appeared, was more difficult. He appeared from the sitting room wearing a dressing gown and holding a book. “Would you like the room?”
“I would.”
“Then you may have it.”
Watson looked at Mrs Hudson, startled - surely Sherlock was a lodger not the owner? How did he come to have any say in the matter?
She smiled. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, then.”
She went downstairs and Sherlock watched her go. “Odd woman.”
Watson smiled. “She’s very kind.”
“That remains to be established.”
Mrs Hudson heard this from the hallway and smiled to herself. By the end of the week, she had decided that both men needed feeding. By the end of the month, she had decided they both needed mothering. By the end of the second month, she had decided that Sherlock needed considerably more of both. If he had known her plans, he would have trembled.
On Thursday mornings, Mrs Hudson left Baker Street at half past ten with a basket on her arm. Visiting, she said. This was not, in itself, remarkable - Mrs Hudson was an eminently respectable woman, the kind who visited respectable friends regularly. She wore respectable clothes, carried herself with respectable dignity, and had the air of someone who would know precisely how much coal a household ought to consume in February.
What was less respectable was the destination. Every Thursday, she walked to Bloomsbury and entered a large, extremely respectable house where several of James Moriarty’s associates were beginning to suspect that something quite extraordinary was happening.
The first time they saw her arrive, one of them had asked James who she was.
“Mrs Hudson.”
“Yes, sir. But, I mean, who is she?”
“My housekeeper.”
“At Baker Street?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is she here?”
James looked up from his papers. “To discuss the tenant there. Whom I have under observation.”
There was a silence as the man looked towards the door through which Mrs Hudson had disappeared. “Every Thursday?”
“Every Thursday.”
Another man frowned. “And you trust her?”
James looked mildly offended. “Immensely.”
This did not reassure them. Mrs Hudson was an unsettling presence in a criminal organisation. She was too cheerful, too ordinary. Too domestic: she arrived carrying the basket containing scones, jam, and occasionally a small cake. She would nod pleasantly to murderers and then ask whether anyone had seen her umbrella. The men found this unnerving.
One afternoon, after she had left, one of James’s lieutenants finally said, “She’s a spy.”
James looked up. “Yes. At Baker Street. I told you that already.”
The man seemed to relax at that. “A poisoner?” He spoke the words with a look of hope on his face.
James considered this. “That too,” he agreed.
The man’s face brightened further. “I knew it.”
“She is very good with poison.”
“Good.”
“Excellent, in fact.”
This produced immediate respect.
James returned to his paperwork. “In fact, Mrs Hudson is responsible for certain insurance arrangements.”
The man waited. James said nothing more.
“What sort of insurance?”
“Complicated.”
“Life insurance?”
“Among other things.”
The lieutenant nodded slowly. This was satisfactory. A respectable widow from Baker Street was apparently a highly skilled poisoner who arranged insurance schemes for James Moriarty. It explained everything and the matter was never raised again.
Mrs Hudson, entirely unaware of the details of this fiction, continued her Thursday visits. She would arrive at the Bloomsbury house, surrender her basket to nobody, and proceed directly upstairs, nodding to the men on the stairs who now beamed back at, they thought, one of their own.
James always knew when she had arrived. The sound of her footsteps had become familiar.
“James, dear.”
He looked up. “Good morning.”
“You look tired.”
“I am not. You always say that.”
“You are.”
“I’m perfectly well.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I was perfectly well last week.”
“You weren’t.”
Their traditional initial skirmish complete, James smiled and Mrs Hudson put the basket down.
“Eat.” She produced a paper-wrapped parcel.
James opened it: scones, still slightly warm, and a jar of jam.
He looked at it. “Is this the new batch?”
“Yes.”
He took a spoonful. It was excellent. James closed his eyes briefly. “That is extraordinarily good.”
“I know.”
“You’ve become immodest.”
“No. I’ve become accurate.”
She sat down. “Now.”
James knew that tone. “How was he?”
Mrs Hudson settled herself comfortably. “He has been working.”
“On what?”
“Three cases.”
“Any of them dangerous?”
“All of them.”
James sighed. “Naturally.”
“One involved a dead man in Whitechapel.”
James stopped eating. “Was Sherlock involved personally?”
“Of course.”
“Was he using?”
Mrs Hudson hesitated. “A little.”
James’s expression hardened. “How little?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mrs Hudson.”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Do you?”
“You’re going to worry.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
James looked down at his scone. “I’ve arranged everything. Or as much as I can.”
“Yes.”
“He’s safe.”
“Mostly.”
“He’s eating.”
“More than before.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Sometimes.”
James looked up and Mrs Hudson smiled gently. “You cannot make him well by worrying at him from Bloomsbury.”
“I know.”
“But you have made sure he’s not alone.”
James was silent. That was precisely what he had been trying to do. Mrs Hudson reached across and adjusted his collar. He endured it with the dignity of a man who had faced assassins with less discomfort.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I am busy.”
“Busy men still eat.”
She opened the basket again. “There are six scones.”
“Six?”
“Three for you.”
“And the other three?”
“For the gentlemen downstairs.”
James looked suspicious. “Do they know you’re bringing them?”
“No.”
“Mrs Hudson.”
“They need feeding too.”
James smiled. “You realise you’re feeding an entire criminal organisation.”
“Tchah. They still have empty stomachs.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently nobody else does.”
She stood. “Now, there’s something else. Dr Watson.”
James went very still. “Yes?”
“He’s good for Sherlock.”
“I know.”
“He’s patient.”
“Good.”
“And he has a temper.”
James smiled. “Even better.”
Mrs Hudson nodded. “He told Sherlock yesterday that he was an idiot.”
James laughed. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
“And what did Sherlock do?”
“Called him a military peacock.”
James laughed again. “And then?”
“They had dinner together.”
James’s amusement faded into something quieter. “Good.”
Mrs Hudson picked up her basket. “Very good.”
She paused at the door. “James?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to eat.”
He gave her a look and she gave him one back. He surrendered. Inevitably. “Yes, Mrs Hudson.”
She nodded, smiled, then left. Downstairs, three of James’s men watched her emerge. One of them whispered, “That’s the poisoner.”
Another nodded solemnly. “Insurance.”
They watched Mrs Hudson walk away with her empty basket. Her scones were indeed delicious.
None of them saw the little jar of jam she had left behind on James’ desk though. Just James. He opened it again. There was a label on the lid, written in Mrs Hudson’s neat hand. For James.
He smiled. Then, very carefully, he hid it in his desk. There were certain things a Napoleon of Crime did not share.
This Thursday morning came with rain. Mrs Hudson arrived at the Bloomsbury house carrying her usual basket, though today it contained no jam. Only scones, wrapped carefully in a cloth, and a small pot of cream.
The man who opened the door knew her now. “Morning, Mrs Hudson.”
“Good morning, dear.”
He stepped aside to let her pass and she smiled sweetly at him before heading upstairs.
James was waiting. He had been waiting since half past ten, though he would have denied this under torture.
Mrs Hudson put down her basket. “Tea?”
“The pots there. I’ve already had some.”
“Another cup won’t kill you.”
“I have work.”
“So do I.” She poured two cups as James watched her.
“Well?” he said.
Mrs Hudson sat down. “Sherlock is… all right.”
James’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “He’s been working.”
“Of course.”
“Too much.”
“Naturally.”
“He still forgets to eat.”
“I expected that.”
“He still forgets to sleep.”
“I expected that too.”
Mrs Hudson stirred her tea. “But there’s something else.”
James looked up. “What?”
“I think he’s sad.”
James was silent. He had expected reports of drugs, cases, fights and sleepless nights. He had not expected sadness.
“What makes you think that?”
Mrs Hudson considered. “He isn’t depressed about anything specific .”
James frowned. “That’s quite the distinction.”
“It is accurate.” She took a sip of tea. “He laughs. He argues. He complains about the food. He has begun criticising my housekeeping, which means he is feeling considerably better.”
“Then?”
“It’s when he thinks nobody is looking.”
James said nothing as Mrs Hudson continued quietly. “He sits by the window. Late at night.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing.”
That worried James more than any report of opium. “Sherlock doesn’t do nothing.”
“I know.” She folded her hands in her lap. “He sits there with a cigarette and looks out into the street.” Her expression was very gentle. “He looks lonely.”
James lowered his eyes. There were some things he could deduce from reports and
things he could arrange but loneliness was not one of them.
“Does he talk about me?”
Mrs Hudson looked at him for a moment. “No.”
James nodded. “Does he talk about anyone?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because I’ve lived with people who are lonely.” She paused. “There’s a difference between a man who enjoys being alone and a man who has convinced himself he must be.”
James looked towards the window. Rain traced the glass. “Do you think he’s lonely because of me?”
Mrs Hudson was quiet for a moment. “I think he’s lonely because he misses someone.”
James’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that for certain though.”
“No.” She smiled faintly. “But I am an old woman, and I’ve watched people miss each other before.”
James looked at her. “Does he know yet?That I arranged the house?”
Mrs Hudson laughed softly. “No.”
“Good.”
“I think he suspects something but not that, yet.”
James sighed. “Of course he does.”
“He thinks you had something to do with the lease.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He called you an interfering bastard.”
James smiled despite himself. “That’s almost affectionate.”
“I thought so.”
Mrs Hudson opened her basket. “Scone?”
James took one. Mrs Hudson spread cream on her own scone as she watched him nibble at it, his mind elsewhere. For a moment he was just a twenty-seven your old young man again, and Sherlock was beside him, talking too quickly about something ridiculous and brilliant, his hair falling into his eyes.
Then the moment passed. James took s larger bite. “How is Watson?” he mumbled through the crumbs.
“Very good. He’s patient with Sherlock.”
“Excellent.”
“And he worries.”
“Also excellent.”
“He makes him eat.”
“Then I shall keep him.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “You don’t own him.”
“I own the lease.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
James gave her a look which Mrs Hudson blithely ignored.
“Watson asked me yesterday whether Sherlock had always been like this.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know. I did tell him Sherlock was carrying something. That I didn’t know what but that I think he’s carrying it alone.”
James’s expression changed. For several seconds he said nothing. Then he asked quietly, “Does he seem frightened?”
“No.”
“Angry?”
“Sometimes.”
“Unhappy?”
“No. I think he worries about Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson thought about Sherlock sitting by the window. “That he seems … bereft.”
The word sat between them. James looked away but Mrs Hudson reached across the table and touched his hand. “There’s nothing you can do about that today.”
James gave a small, humourless smile. “You know me very well.”
“I think I do.”
“I can do something about most things.”
“I know.”
“Not this.”
“Not this.”
He sighed. Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand his hand once more.
“But you can keep the door open. And that’s what you’ve done.”
He smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“And perhaps one day he’ll walk through it.”
Neither of them said what they both meant. James took another scone.
Mrs Hudson watched him. “Eat.”
He laughed quietly. “You’ve become very commanding.”
“Someone has to be.”
She rose, collecting her basket. At the door she stopped.
“James?”
“Yes?”
“He misses you.”
James looked at her.
Mrs Hudson gave him a small, knowing smile. “Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.” Then she left.
James remained alone in the room. After a while, he reached into his desk and took out the little jar of jam she had brought the previous week. He opened it and ate a spoonful. It was still very good. But for once, even Mrs Hudson’s jam could not quite sweeten the thought that Sherlock Holmes was sitting alone beside a window in Baker Street, carrying a sadness neither of them yet knew how to name.
The following Thursday, Mrs Hudson arrived in Bloomsbury with a basket containing scones and a jar of raspberry jam. James was waiting for her, having spent the better part of the morning trying to decide whether to ask her something.
Which was ridiculous. James Moriarty was not a man who hesitated. He had ordered murders and created criminal enterprises; he had manipulated governments and financial institutions and had once persuaded a bishop to do something which the bishop had subsequently spent six months pretending had been his own idea. Yet he had been standing beside the fireplace for nearly ten minutes, wondering how one asked a middle-aged housekeeper whether one’s former lover’s new flatmate might be queer.
Mrs Hudson entered. “Good morning, dear.”
“Good morning.”
“You look worried.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She put the basket down. “Eat.”
James sighed. “Yes, Mrs Hudson.”
He took a scone.
“Now. What is it? The thing you’ve been wanting to ask me.”
James looked at her.
“How did you know?”
She merely raised an eyebrow and poured the tea. He cleared his throat.
“About Dr Watson.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think he might be…”
Mrs Hudson waited. James made a vague gesture. “One of those.”
“One of what, dear?”
James stared at her. “You know.”
“I really don’t.”
“Like that.”
“Like what?”
He lowered his voice. “Mrs Hudson.”
“Yes?”
“Is Dr Watson…” He paused.
Mrs Hudson considered him. “Scottish? No, I don’t think so, dear.”
James blinked. “Scottish?”
“Well, you said ‘like that’.”
“I meant…”
She waited. James tried again. Exasperated by his own mealy-mouthedness, he said rather louder than he meant to, “Is he queer?”
“Oh!”
Mrs Hudson’s face cleared. “You mean a lover of other gentlemen?”
“Yes!”
“No, I don’t think so, dear.”
James stared at her. “You’re certain?”
“Not entirely.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t asked him.”
“Why?”
Mrs Hudson looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would I?”
James opened his mouth but nothing came out this time.
Mrs Hudson took a scone. “You could ask him yourself.”
“I could not.”
“Why?”
“Because that would be extraordinarily indiscreet. And I’ve never met him. You cannot just go up to a strange man and ask what he does with his….”
Mrs Hudson looked straight at him. James stopped immediately and looked back. There was a pause.
“You’re very curious,” she noted through slightly pursed lips.
“I am not curious.”
“You are.”
“I am assessing a situation.”
“You’re curious.”
James sighed. “Very well.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “You’ve been wondering whether Dr Watson might be a suitable companion for Mr Holmes.”
James nearly choked on his tea. “I certainly have not.”
“You have.”
“I merely think Watson is good for him.”
“Yes.”
“And Sherlock is…”
“Lonely.”
James looked down. “Yes.”
Mrs Hudson’s expression softened. “I think Dr Watson likes him.”
James looked up sharply. “Likes him?”
“Yes.”
“In what sense?”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “I don’t know.”
James stared at her as she calmly buttered another scone. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking like a man trying to solve a murder.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
James rubbed his forehead. “Mrs Hudson, this is important.”
“I know.”
“If Watson were…” He stopped, then forced himself to continue. “If Watson were inclined that way, it might explain certain things.”
“What things?”
“The companionship.”
“He is a good companion.”
“The patience.”
“He’s a doctor.”
“The way he watches Sherlock.”
“He’s observant.”
“The way he worries.”
“He’s kind.”
James looked increasingly frustrated. “And he hasn’t objected to sharing a bedroom wall with him.”
Mrs Hudson raised another eyebrow. “Neither have I.”
James stared. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“No? Though I do think Dr Watson would be rather shocked if he discovered how much you’ve been thinking about his private life.”
James sank back into his chair. “This is intolerable.”
“What is?”
“I am reduced to discussing Sherlock’s romantic prospects with his housekeeper.”
Mrs Hudson patted his arm. “You could have chosen a less complicated man to love.”
James looked at her. “Could I?”
“No.” She smiled. “Probably not.”
James took another scone. Mrs Hudson poured him more tea.
After a moment, he said, “Do you think Sherlock knows?”
“Knows what?”
“That Watson might…”
“Be Scottish?”
James gave her a look at which she smiled innocently. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.” Then Mrs Hudson continued, “for what it’s worth, dear, I don’t think Dr Watson is in love with Sherlock.”
James’s expression fell slightly. “But,” she added, “I think he has become very fond of him.”
James looked thoughtful. “That might be enough.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Sometimes it is.”
She closed the basket. “Oh, and Sherlock asked after you. Well, he called you ‘the person who actually owned the lease’.”
James went perfectly still. “What did he say?”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “He said, ‘Tell the interfering bastard I don’t need him.’”
James’s mouth twitched. “And will you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I told him you were busy.”
James looked at her. “Why?”
“Because you are.”
She stood and picked up her basket. “And because I thought he sounded rather pleased that you were still paying attention.”
James watched her leave and sat alone with his tea. He looked at the empty doorway then the scones then the ceiling.
“Scottish,” he muttered. And, despite himself, laughed.
The following Thursday, Mrs Hudson arrived in Bloomsbury carrying something considerably heavier than her usual basket. James opened the door himself this time. Apparently his men were elsewhere. His eyes widened when he saw the weight she was carrying. “What on earth have you brought?”
“Shepherd’s pie.”
He stared at her. “For me?”
“For everyone.”
“Mrs Hudson, there are usually six men downstairs.”
“Then they’ll have to learn moderation.”
She marched past him; James followed, faintly amused.
The pie was magnificent. There was crisp potato browned perfectly across the top, rich gravy underneath, meat cooked with onions and carrots, and enough of it to make the entire household suddenly appear much less criminal and considerably more domestic. James took one bite and closed his eyes.
“Good?”
“Extraordinary.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
He took another bite as Mrs Hudson watched with satisfaction. “You always do like proper food.”
“I’ve always liked your food.” James smiled.
He was halfway through his second helping when Mrs Hudson, apparently remembering something entirely unrelated, said: “Oh, by the way, Sherlock’s been having rather dangerous encounters in public places recently. Sexual ones, I mean. Not fisticuffs. And outside now.”
James inhaled. There was a terrible silence then he coughed violently into his napkin.
Mrs Hudson looked alarmed. “Good heavens.”
James eventually managed, “What?”
“Are you choking?”
“No.”
“You went red.”
“I am perfectly all right.”
He really was not. He stared at her. Mrs Hudson, completely calm, took another spoonful of pie.
“Public places?”
“Yes.”
“Sexual encounters?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know?”
“He came home at two in the morning looking very pleased with himself and rather dishevelled. And then there were the linens. Grass stains and… others.”
James put his fork down. “Mrs Hudson.”
“Yes?”
“You cannot simply tell me these things while I’m eating.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“I do want to know.”
“Then there you are, then.”
James stared at the pie. His appetite had vanished. Then, because he was James Moriarty, he recovered enough to ask:
“How risky?”
Mrs Hudson considered. “Very. In the past I think that he would go to houses but now I’ve seen evidence - brick dust. Mud. Grass. And…. blood on occasion.”
James closed his eyes. “He has no sense.”
“I know.”
“He has absolutely no sense.”
“I know, dear.”
James rubbed his forehead. “Where?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Mrs Hudson.”
“Near Covent Garden. I think.”
James’s eyes opened. “Anywhere else?”
“Parks. Allies.”
“An alley.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Behind a public house. I could smell beer on his trousers.”
James stared at her. “Good Lord.”
“He wasn’t arrested at least.”
“That is not the point.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to get himself killed.”
“I know.”
James stood up hurriedly, impelled to movement by what he had just heard. Mrs Hudson caught his sleeve. “Sit down.”
“Mrs Hudson.”
“Sit.”
He sat. She pushed the plate towards him. “Eat your pie.”
James looked at her in disbelief. “Sherlock is apparently having dangerous sexual encounters in alleys and you’re telling me to eat shepherd’s pie.”
“You’re no use to anyone hungry.”
James looked at the pie. Then at her. Then back at the pie. He picked up his fork and Mrs Hudson smiled.
“Good.”
James ate another bite. After a moment he said quietly, “Does Watson know?”
“No.”
“Should he?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why hasn’t he noticed?”
Mrs Hudson gave him a look. “Because Dr Watson is a gentleman.”
James almost laughed. “That’s the problem.” He ate in silence for several moments.
Then Mrs Hudson added, almost as an afterthought: “He does worry when Sherlock doesn’t come home.”
James looked up. “Does he?”
“Very much.”
James’s expression changed. “That,” he said carefully, “is rather encouraging.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “Yes.”
James looked down at his plate. The pie was still excellent and his appetite was returning.Unfortunately, however, his mind had already begun constructing an entirely new series of contingency plans involving Baker Street, Covent Garden, Sherlock, Watson, several locks, and possibly a lecture so severe that Sherlock might actually listen to it.
Mrs Hudson watched him. “Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
James sighed. “Perhaps.”
She reached over and gave him another helping. “Eat first.”
He obeyed. There were, he had concluded, limits to how much trouble one could solve on an empty stomach. And James Moriarty was already responsible for quite enough trouble.
Mrs Hudson toddled home from Bloomsbury in the early afternoon, her empty basket swinging gently from one hand. She had left James Moriarty sitting over the last of his shepherd’s pie looking distinctly troubled. He had eaten two helpings, which she thought that was a good sign: a worried James was still better than a starving one.
When she reached Baker Street, the smell of roasting meat met her on the doorstep.
“You’re home,” Mycroft called from the kitchen.
“I am. Is he out?” Mrs Hudson removed her hat.
Mycroft appeared from the kitchen wearing an apron, looking entirely at home beside the oven; he nodded. “And how was James?”
“Very well.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what your face says.”
Mrs Hudson smiled. “He ate two helpings of shepherd’s pie.”
“Ah.” Mycroft’s expression softened. “Then he was hungry. Did he like it?”
“Very much.”
“Good.”
He returned to the kitchen and Mrs Hudson followed. Mycroft was finishing the roast, arranging vegetables around it with the precision of a man who regarded dinner as a matter of national importance.
“James looked as though he needed it,” Mrs Hudson continued.
“He usually does.”
Mrs Hudson took off her gloves. “He was worrying.”
Mycroft glanced at her. “About Sherlock? His recent behaviour?”
“Yes.”
“I thought he might.”
She hesitated. “He has good reason.”
Mycroft stopped carving. “What has Sherlock done now?”
Mrs Hudson sighed. “The night-time encounters have been getting more dangerous- he seems to have developed a taste for public places.”
Mycroft closed his eyes. “Of course he has. The bigger the danger, the bigger the thrill.”
“That’s what James thought.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Not much. He nearly choked on his dinner.”
Mycroft looked almost amused. “At least he was eating.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She sat at the kitchen table. Mycroft put the carving knife down as his eyebrows drew together. “How risky?”
“Quite.”
“Does Sherlock know?”
“Know what?”
“That people are worried?”
Mrs Hudson thought. “I don’t think so.”
“Watson?”
“He doesn’t know. Yet. I think he’s got as far as realising that Sherlock isn’t the marrying kind but he’s too honourable to enquire into details.”
Mycroft sighed. “He’ll have to find out eventually. That was the point of arranging all this - to protect Sherlock.”
Mrs Hudson watched him. “You think James will do something?”
Mycroft returned to the roast. “About Sherlock? Or about Watson knowing?”
“Yes.”
He considered. “James will certainly do something.”
“To stop him? Or to protect him?”
Mycroft looked at her. “Both.” He began carving again. “If Sherlock is putting himself in danger, James will intervene.”
“Even though they aren’t together?”
Mycroft’s knife paused. “They aren’t together in the manner they once were. But James has never stopped loving him.”
Mrs Hudson was quiet. “That’s what I thought.”
Mycroft put the slices onto the serving dish.“He’ll be furious.”
“With Sherlock?”
“With the world.”
Mrs Hudson smiled faintly. “Possibly himself.”
“Certainly himself.”
She sighed. “He asked me about Watson again.”
Mycroft looked up. “What did he want to know?”
“Whether Watson was…”
She paused. “Like that.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “How did you answer?”
“I asked whether he meant Scottish.”
Mycroft laughed. “Mrs Hudson.”
“He looked very confused.”
“I can imagine.”
“Eventually he clarified that he meant whether Dr Watson was queer.”
“And? Is he?”
“I don’t think so.”
Mycroft returned to the roast. “Neither do I. I think it’s more important now that Watson is a sensible man. Sherlock will need one.”
“Yes.”
“And if James is wise, he’ll let Watson do what he is already doing.”
“Which is?”
“Keeping Sherlock alive.”
Mrs Hudson nodded, then glanced towards the roast. “That smells wonderful.”
Mycroft smiled. “It should.”
“I hope there’s enough.”
“There is.”
“For Sherlock?”
“Especially for Sherlock.”
Mrs Hudson smiled.
She looked towards the front door. Somewhere beyond, Sherlock was probably asleep, or awake, or reading, or doing something that would make both of them worry. Mycroft picked up the serving dish.“Come along. Dinner.”
Mrs Hudson rose. “And James?”
Mycroft looked thoughtful. “I think he’ll manage.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I know my brother in law.”
Together they carried the roast through to the dining room, while Baker Street settled into the quiet of the afternoon, unaware that somewhere in London James Moriarty was already considering precisely how much protection Sherlock Holmes would tolerate before he noticed that someone was protecting him.