Mists of London Chapter Eight

[nevermoreraven]

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: If I owned these characters, they wouldn't surprise me.  (Wait...that's an argument that means I don't actually own my own original fic either, hmmm....)
Summary: Mrs. Hudson assumes something.  It turns out not to be true.

The woman has begun to open up, just a little, by the time they reach the end of the ride.  It's not so much she begins to talk to him, for, after all, there's only so much she has to talk about at the moment.  More like the icy silence has begun to thaw, enough that the lack of talking is comfortable.  She really does see him as a sort of safety.

She looks strangely pleased when it begins to rain, staring at it.  The similarities, the doctor thinks, are striking.  Both are bleak, dangerous, wild and untamable, beautiful.  Sherlock would have dismissed such as sentiment.  Unneccessary.

Of course he ends up paying.  He always had anyway.

She doesn't stride, proud and beautiful, in front of him into the flat.  She sort of hides behind him as he comes in.  "Mrs. Hudson!  Here's someone else to stay in the flat!"

The kindly old landlady steps out of her own flat, a hesitant smile on her face, and then catches sight of the aristocratic, unsure face behind him.  And suddenly the friendly Mrs. Hudson, landlady not housekeeper, turns forbidding and disapproving.  "John!  Of all people, I'd hardly have thought you the type to...settle."

Victoriana catches the unsaid.  Of course she does.  She's like Sherlock.  She's had years and years dealing with this sort of thing, probably, lots of practice catching people and their expressions.

John turns, tries to tell her that Mrs. Hudson didn't really mean it, that it isn't so bad, that it was just another stupid assumption from one of the stupid little minds of ordinary people and not to take it personally.  He faces her just as her expression changes from hurt, so wounded that tears are tracing part of those cheekbones, to the sort of fury that the former blogger was also very familiar with.  Without another second, the woman dashed off through the rain, running as Sherlock had run, efficient and singleminded.

John's hand trembles.  This time he's pretty certain it's anger.  He turns back to her, shaking.  "That, Mrs. Hudson, is quite possibly one of the most idiotic things..."  He catches himself before he could say anything else.  Stupid as she was being, she was also one of the nicest people he knew and he'd regret it-at least partially-later.  "That was a Holmes sister, we think.  She has amnesia and it's quite possible she was targeted by some of Moriarty's friends.  And now you've scared her into the rain."

She looked horrified, but John swept upstairs brusquely, not wanting to hear her apologies or excuses.  If Sherlock had been attempting to hide, he guessed that he wouldn't have that much luck trying to find him.  He suspected it was the same for Victoriana.

Just as a precaution, though, he texts Mycroft.

Victoriana upset, ran out in rain.  Keep an eye out.

He gets a text back far too quickly.  As if Mycroft had been expecting one.

I wouldn't worry too much, Doctor Watson. -MH

What was that meant to mean?  And why was he texting?  'My brother never texts when he can talk'...

A memory of Sherlock.  Good, but painful.  Maybe he'd been interrupting a cabinet meeting or something.  He kind of hoped so, if only to carry on the tradition.  Sherlock's tradition.

Mrs. Hudson made biscuits and tea and brought both up, looking worried.  John stared fixedly at the skull, losing himself in the rain and the agony of the fresh loss, as bad as if he'd been watching his friend fall once more.