Hi! I'm finally back! Sorry for the wait, inspiration for this story abandoned me, then I got ill (I probably shouldn't even be looking at this computer screen) and read too many Merlin and Harry Potter X-overs. Yeah...So, enough of me! On with Mrs Hudson!
P.S. Mycroft is less awesome this chapter as Mrs Hudson is a close friend of Sherlock's, probably too close in Mycroft's book.
Atomix330- Thanks! I will write a one-shot after I finish this story. Please enjoy the next chapter!
DetectiveSilence- Thank you for reviewing again! It took me a while to finalize the details on the case, I'm glad it turned out well! I see what you mean, when I read your review I saw Mycroft as one of those James Bond villains with an umbrella instead of a cat. I wonder what that says about me and my imagination... Anyway, thanks! Here's that chapter you wanted to read!
49478-Don't worry, I'm back with more! Thank you so much! I hope you like the next chapter!
PastaandNutella-It's fine, I love your enthusiasm! Thanks so much! Please enjoy the new chapter!
Guest-Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoy what I write, its a reward in itself. Once again, thanks, here's my newest chapter! I hope you enjoy it!
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(Thoughts, Flashbacks someone else Mrs Hudson, Flash-forwards someone else Mrs Hudson)
April 8th- Day 6
An elderly lady sighed fondly as she exited the building. The door, which bore a golden '221b' on it, swung shut with an almighty crash. Her short, blonde hair was quickly ruffled by the wind and she drew her beige trench-coat around herself in an attempt to stay warm. She shook her head in exasperation and her coffee-coloured eyes flashed with amusement. Her black heels clicked on the pavement as she began to stroll down the street while on the lookout for a taxi. She, unlike her tenant, did not have the ability to summon a taxi at will.
The elderly lady was a Mrs Alexandra Hudson and she was the unfortunate landlady (Not housekeeper!) of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.
A black car began to cruise down Baker Street and the elderly lady sighed for a second time as it pulled up in a conveniently vacant space. Mrs Hudson kept walking, assuming that the familiar black car was for one of her tenants (They kept the strangest company!). She fixed her destination firmly in her mind as she continued to trot down the road. Mrs Hudson was getting the groceries for her tenants (It's a one off, I'm not your housekeeper, dears) because John tended to get stressed in supermarkets (A row with a chip and pin machine?) and no one trusted Sherlock unsupervised in public (Sherlock, you don't need to tell him that his wife his cheating on him! I'm sure he already knows.).
Mrs Hudson was only a few meters away from the flat, when she heard a female voice calling her name.
"Mrs Alexandra Hudson?" The young, female, voice called from behind the landlady.
Mrs Hudson turned around, noting as soon she did that the street was oddly deserted. Her eyes flashed to the window, where Sherlock stood, watching the scene below him. When Sherlock gave his landlady a firm and encouraging nod Mrs Hudson responded to the woman. "Hello, dear, how may I help you?"
The young woman was in her mid-twenties. She had lush, russet-brown, hair and shimmering, dark-auburn, eyes. Her face had elegant makeup and her accessories matched her official outfit of a female suit. Polished, black, high-heels adorned her feet and a BlackBerry was clutched in her manicured hands. All in all she was a very beautiful lady (I bet John's already made a pass on her) and she most likely had many men chasing her (O how I wish I was young again!).
"Someone would like to see you," The stylish woman explained. "Please step into the car."
The woman was holding the door of the black car, which Mrs Hudson had seen earlier, open. The elderly lady glanced up at the window again and caught Sherlock's eagle eye. He nodded severely before displaying a small, yet reassuring, smile. Mrs Hudson looked away before taking a deep breath and sliding into the black car.
(It seems like I've been kidnapped. Oh well, I was going to happen someday.)
Mrs Hudson was not too bothered about her voluntary kidnapping. Being the landlady of the world's only Consulting Detective, she was used to all sorts of peculiar things. I was only a matter of time before someone kidnapped her.
Mind you, did going voluntarily count as a kidnapping?
"Yes, it does." The woman with the BlackBerry spoke up, not looking away from her phone as she answered Mrs Hudson's silent question. "Well my boss would count it as a kidnapping; he has a flair for the dramatic."
"Okay, dear. Do you have any idea why he kidnapped me?" Mrs Hudson replied keeping up her light-hearted attitude no-matter what lurked beyond the horizon.
"No." The young woman quickly answered, sensing that Mrs Hudson could be quite the chatterbox.
There was silence for a few minutes as the (New, Sherlock?) driver (What do you mean you traumatized the last one?) sped down the roads pragmatically (What do you mean he deserved it? No mental map? Sherlock!). Mrs Hudson quickly found that she was unable to keep quiet so she swiftly attempted to strike up a conversation.
"This part of London is very nice," Mrs Hudson commented softly as she stared out the window. "Don't you think dear?"
"Yes." The woman gave only a short reply, her attention never wavering from her BlackBerry (Honestly! Young people and their technology, back in my day…).
(This woman needs to learn some manners. One word answers? Even Sherlock isn't that bad!)
They pulled up in a derelict building; it seemed to be some sort of crumbling car-dealership. Mrs Hudson was ushered out of the car by an eager woman with a BlackBerry. The woman had been listening to the landlady's chatter for the last ten minutes and was desperate for a respite. Mrs Hudson was offended; having only received one word answers until she asked for a name (I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again? I didn't, its Anthea.).
Mrs Hudson looked around the grubby building (Needs a woman's touch.) before training her eyes on the man several meters away. He was a great contrast to the building. With his short, black hair, posh, navy-blue, suit, smart, grey tie, and gleaming shoes, he looked the epitome of official. His pinstriped umbrella (Hang on, Sherlock has a new black umbrella lying about the flat!) even managed to work, somehow. The man gave Mrs Hudson 'The Look' with his piercing, green eyes. It was one she had seen many times when used by Sherlock on people he did not exactly like. 'The Look' (Honestly, Sherlock! You don't have to scare the poor woman!) did not carry quite the same weight coming from this man, Sherlock somehow managed to look like an eagle when he used it, this man looked akin to an angry pigeon.
Mrs Hudson held her head high as she stepped daintily towards the man. She avoided the pieces of machinery strewn across the floor (It's impolite to have a messy house when inviting guests!) with ease. Her experience with her tenants' non-existent ability to walk without being fickle about the destination aided her. She reached the man after a few minutes; she refused to hurry for the sake of her kidnapper (Power-play, Mrs Hudson. You need to learn about power-play! What do you mean, Sherlock, dear? Kidnappers. Why would I be kidnapped? No, not the table, I just replaced that! Sherlock!). It also gave her time to prepare herself mentally; she was very good in a crisis, if she had time to prepare.
As soon as Mrs Hudson arrived in front of him, the official offered her a chair. "Ah, Mrs Hudson. Please take a seat, your hip must be paining you."
Upon noticing that there was only one chair, Mrs Hudson assumed it was one of those 'power-plays'. She also resented the patronizing (Respect your elders, young man!) tone that the man was using; she did not appreciate his lack of respect. "I'm quite alright, dear." She responded, her tone cheery yet sly. "Besides, what about you? I don't believe you particularly enjoy standing around." Mrs Hudson hoped that she had correctly interpreted the look that had flashed over the official's face.
Mrs Hudson had become quite good at assessing even small mood changes after being exposed to many of Sherlock's habits (Sherlock, don't take your anger out on the table! Go to the morgue. What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson? I'm perfectly calm. Sherlock, don't lie to me! Fine.). The official seemed to be in distress, as if he did not particularly enjoy standing up, and the way he clenched his umbrella reminded Mrs Hudson of Sherlock's way of showing pain or discomfort (Sherlock, your injured! No, I'm perfectly fine, Mrs Hudson. Not a single scratch. John, he's injured! Just look at him! I'm perfectly alright, Mrs Hudson! Sherlock!).
The official's lips twitched in response, like Sherlock's did when something amused him, before he raised an eyebrow and sighed. "I'm perfectly alright, Mrs Alexandra Hudson." He answered smoothly, attempting to change the topic in the process. "That is your name, correct?"
"Yes, and don't try to change the subject on me, young man!" (I'm perfectly alright, Mrs Hudson. No, that isn't a bullet wound. Sherlock! Fine, maybe it is. At least it wasn't my leg. Thank goodness! I don't think anyone could deal with you cooped up in here for so long! It took my brother years to adjust. Your brother, dear? Nothing.) A spark of understanding flitted through Mrs Hudson's mind; this was the brother that Sherlock had mentioned in passing. She had a feeling that the reference was less accidental than he led her to believe. "Are you absolutely sure, Mr Holmes? Your leg must be paining you. A bullet wound, very nasty."
The official raised an eyebrow in surprise while inwardly flinching. Mrs Hudson knew more than she was supposed to, he might have to deal with her. "Very good, Mrs Hudson." He praised, still using a condescending tone, causing Mrs Hudson to bristle. "Sherlock mentioned me, yes?"
"Oh yes, apparently you had a hard time adjusting to the desk life." (I'm glad I'm not their mother. One Holmes, I can deal with. Two is going a little far. She must be a saint!). "Sherlock wasn't very concerned," (I can see why, his brother's even worse than him!) "How bad was it?"
"He's had worse." Mr Holmes countered vaguely, but Mrs Hudson quickly caught on. "I'm not here to talk about me, Mrs Hudson. Rather I would like to talk about my brother.
(The wound must be very bad then if it's only just below Sherlock's major injuries. Those were terrible! Maybe it was an infection, like John's always going on about.) "Why should I tell you anything about Sherlock? He's your brother! Talk to him, dearie."
"We… Don't get along." Mr Holmes stated with shame in his voice before it shifted back to a proud and monotone. "I would pay you a hefty sum for your service. I won't infringe on his personal life, I just need to monitor his comings and goings. I do worry so."
"No." Mrs Hudson retorted sharply, her loyalty to Sherlock shining through. "I will not accept bribery to spy on your brother." (He seems to worry, but it's closer to obsession. I won't betray Sherlock, there's a heart in him, somewhere!)
"You have two tenants paying with a discount on one rent. Your husband had nothing." Mr Holmes countered logically, his mouth trying to twitch into an oily smile. "You need the money, in six years, you'll run out." The man knew that he had to get rid of her if she did not accept his offer. She knew too much.
"I come to that when I get there." Mrs Hudson decided firmly. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes." She turned on her heel and marched to the car, gracefully avoiding the objects once again. Mr Holmes was left with his mouth open, about to say something. He waved his hand at Anthea as he snapped his mouth shut; the car was free to leave.
"221b, Baker Street." Mrs Hudson ordered as she stepped into the car, ignoring Anthea (What a rude young woman) and not bothering to look back at Mr Holmes (Honestly, you'd expect the older one to behave better! It seems like Sherlock inherited the manners.).
The black car slid out of the derelict edifice, fully intending to return to Baker Street. Mr Holmes fished his phone from his pocket, fully intending to get rid of the liability that was Mrs Hudson. It vibrated in his hand before he could begin dialling; it played an official-sounding ringtone, basic and classical. Mr Holmes glanced at the caller ID and raised the phone to his ear, fully prepared to counter the questions from his brother.
Sherlock's first words were far different from what his brother was expecting. "Mycroft! If you dare hurt Mrs Hudson, I will make sure that you do not see tomorrow!"
Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow, Sherlock had gotten attached. He never thought that he would have to class his brother as a sentimental fool. He had his suspicions after John Watson, but this angry defence on an elderly woman? How…childish.
"Leave her alone, Mycroft. I can do far worse things than steal your umbrella." Mycroft was well aware of his brother's capabilities. "Your P.A. will probably get the blame, and you won't be able to fight me." It was true; though Mycroft was an expert at martial-arts his brother was at the same level as him and had the advantage of practice.
"Fine, Sherlock." Mycroft decided that he was not going to risk his life for the death of an elderly lady. "I won't lay finger on her, but what have I told you about becoming attached? Sherlock? Sherlock!" Sherlock had hung up as soon as Mycroft had agreed to stay away from Mrs Hudson; the younger brother was unwilling to listen to another lecture on sentiment.
Mycroft sighed heavily before glancing down at the umbrella that was not his umbrella. He stalked towards another car, hidden in the shadows, shaking his head as he did so.
It was really not his week.
[Mrs Hudson arrived back at Baker Street unscathed and Sherlock was quick to greet her. John realised that Mycroft had been at work and decided not to ask. The doctor also put aside his row with the chip and pin machine in order to fetch the groceries, they managed to come to a fragile truce but John was not eager to visit the supermarket again.
Lestrade was still doing paperwork as music (Complaints, by Donovan and Anderson) played in the background. It was really not his week either.]
I won't be able to update next week. I'm taking a respite for my illness. Sorry!