SH Fic: His Merits as a Housekeeper
Nov. 4th, 2010 11:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: His Merits as a Housekeeper
Author: Piplover
Fandom: Holmes 09, Canon
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Pairing: H/W
Word count: 5000
Warnings: Only for being a bit cracky!
A/N: This story is just for entertainment, and I by no means claim any knowledge of Montague Street. It's probably a very nice area, and nothing like I've described. Many thanks to Enkiduts for her help in imagining this! Mostly, this story is for anyone who has lived in less than wonderful accommodations!
“This way, Watson! Quickly now!”
The two men darted down the shadowed alleyway, feet splashing in puddles of unidentifiable substances as they fought to keep the man they were chasing in sight. When they erupted onto the busy street a moment later Watson feared they had lost the miserable scoundrel.
“Over there!” Holmes bellowed, and took off across the bustling road, mindless of hansom drivers or carriages.
Watson grimaced as a horse reared, hooves coming perilously close to Holmes’ head before the detective darted out of danger. He was catching up to the young man they had been chasing for the better part of ten minutes, and it seemed nothing was going to stop him now.
Just as Watson managed to navigate the dangerous crossing he watched as Holmes put on a burst of speed and tackled the criminal, sending them both sprawling into a fruit stand. Bits of apples and peaches splattered across the thoroughfare and the two men, while boxes skittered into the street. Several women screamed and a man bellowed as his horses shied away from the sudden obstruction. Down the street a police whistle started to blow.
“Holmes!” Watson called, trying to make his way through the wreckage to reach his friend’s side.
When he finally made his way over to the still forms, heart beating rapidly at what he might find, he was relieved to see Holmes beginning to stir, propping himself up on his elbows as he surveyed the mess around him with a bemused air.
“I’m all right, mother hen,” Holmes assured him, picking bits of smashed fruit from his (Watson’s) shirt. “Not so certain about our friend here. I think I may have hit him rather harder than I intended.”
“No worries,” Watson sighed, finally kneeling down beside him with a wince of disgust as fruit pulp ground into his knee, casting his eye quickly over Holmes to make certain there was no damage.
A small cut above his eyes dribbled blood, but Watson had seen far worse injuries after a boxing match, and Holmes seemed in good spirits despite the mess he was sitting in. Beside him, groaning loudly, the young man they had been chasing stirred, blinking open dazed eyes.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Watson growled, not in the least bit charitable after the chase they had been led on.
Before the man could comment the constable ran up to them, puffing slightly from his sprint. Watson recognized him from a previous case, and it seemed to be mutual as the officer nodded to both him and Holmes before retrieving a set of manacles from his belt and deftly attaching them to the young man’s wrists.
“Here now, Mr. Holmes, what have you found for us today?” he asked cheerfully, taking in the mess and the young man’s ratty attire with a pleased grin. “One of your odd ones, is it?”
“Afraid not, Jeffries,” Holmes sighed, nodding his thanks to Watson as the doctor helped him to his feet, keeping a steadying hand under his elbow until he was certain the other was stable. “A bit of jewelry heist and possibly a thievery ring, but nothing too terribly exciting. I’m certain the boys at the yard will have some questions for him, though.”
“Right you are, sir,” Jeffries agreed affably. “We’ll just take him down there now, shall we? Peterson will be here in a moment to help straighten out this mess, and then we can get this lad behind bars where he belongs.”
True to his word, a few minutes later several more constables arrived, immediately setting about restoring order to the chaos around them. Though it was not a far walk, they elected to take a cab, and within a half hour were all four entering Scotland Yard.
***
“…and all we could get out of the slimy bastard was Montague Street,” Lestrade sighed, sniffing discreetly and wrinkling his nose at the smell emanating from Holmes clothing.
The bits of fruit had begun to turn sour, though the detective seemed to pay the stench no mind as he paced back and forth in the tiny confines of the Inspector’s office. Watson maintained a safe distance from his friend, sitting near the open window with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the smoke further masking the smell.
“Interesting. Did he give the address as well, or just the street?” Holmes asked, tapping one elegant finger against his lips absently.
Watson couldn’t quite understand Lestrade’s grin, but when the inspector didn’t speak, Holmes stopped pacing and turned to look at him, his eyes widening slightly in realization.
“Very interesting,” he murmured, his own lips turning into a smile that could only be termed mischievous. “Are they still owned by the same landlord?”
“I’m having Andrews check into it now, we should know by morning.” Lestrade laughed, a nasty little chuckle that had Watson’s eyebrows raised. “Think he’ll give you trouble?”
“I doubt he’ll be there,” Holmes answered cryptically. When he caught sight of Watson’s confusion, he waved him down, his universal signal for explaining later. “If that’s all, Lestrade, I think we should head out. I need to change and poor Watson must be pining for his supper now!”
“We did miss lunch,” Watson grumbled, taking one last drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it and throwing it out the window. “And most of breakfast. Unlike you, Holmes, we can’t all live on air and mystery!”
“See?” Holmes mock whispered, leaning closer to Lestrade, to the other man’s obvious discomfort. “He gets a bit grumpy.”
“We’re leaving,” Watson said firmly, snagging Holmes’ arm in passing and waving a brief goodbye to the inspector.
It was only once they had obtained a hansom that the doctor allowed his curiosity to emerge.
“What was that all about in there?” he asked as they settled firmly in their seats, Watson grimacing in disgust as the rotten fruit smell assaulted his nose. “As soon as we get back, you’re burning that jacket,” he added.
“Nonsense, a bit of a wash and it will be good as new,” Holmes scoffed, waving away the matter as he did all things not related to an open case. “It appears the young man has been living in my old building, the one I was - ahem - forced to leave rather quickly by the unkindly old goat of a landlord.”
“Really?” Watson asked, amazement coloring his tone as he regarded his friend. “Was this right before we met?”
“Yes, and a more fortuitous day has yet to present itself!” Holmes agreed, smiling. “It will be interesting to return and see the old place. I haven’t been back since the disagreement, and I fear I may have left a few items. We can see if anything is retrievable when we investigate tomorrow.”
“Holmes,” Watson laughed, taken by surprise at the other man’s unusual optimism. “It’s been nearly fifteen years since you were last there! I highly doubt anything you may have left behind is still there.”
Holmes just smiled mysteriously at him and turned his attention back to the case at hand, humming to himself as they pulled up to Baker Street.
***
The telegram arrived shortly after their breakfast, but as Watson was the one who received it, he refused to read it aloud until they had both eaten, Holmes shoveling food into his mouth petulantly while Watson took his time to enjoy the meal. Only after he had finished his second cup of tea did he hand the telegram over, watching in amusement as Holmes wiggled in his seat, grinning.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, jumping up and dashing into his room, calling from behind the door, “Watson, get dressed! Montague Street awaits us!”
When no further prying would reveal any more information Watson set about his own morning ablutions, listening to Holmes bustle about downstairs and shaking his head in amused exasperation. At least, he consoled himself, he had got the other man to eat.
“Watson!” Holmes bellowed, the strident shout more than loud enough to rouse the rest of the house. “Come, time is slipping past us!”
Deciding he had forced his friend to wait long enough, Watson quickly headed down the stairs, grinning at Holmes’ excitement and wondering what could have him so filled with energy.
“To Montague Street?” he asked, not bothering to hide his grin.
“To Montague Street, and my old flat, dear boy! With any luck, we’ll be able to find those jewels and something that will tie that lad in to the other thefts Lestrade has complained incessantly about. Oh, good, no rain in sight!”
At this odd pronouncement Holmes hailed a cab and the two of them were on their way, Holmes grinning to himself in anticipation. Watson returned his smile, admiring the cut of the detective’s summer suit, wondering where he had had it tailored, since it was not one he had seen before. It looked older than his normal attire, more worn around the cuffs and around the buttons, but presentable still.
When Holmes caught him looking his smile widened and he said, rather mysteriously, “I didn’t want to take a chance with any of your attire, Watson. Good thing you chose one of your more sturdy jackets today!”
At Watson’s confused frown his smile grew, and he shook his head, remaining silent the rest of the journey.
When they reached their destination, a building that was so covered in soot the original color of brickwork could not be distinguished, Watson was certain they had arrived at the wrong address until Holmes hopped out of the cab, staring at the dilapidated house before him.
“This is where you used to live?” Watson asked incredulously, looking around the shoddy neighborhood, taking in the rubbish strewn street, the broken windows and “for rent” signs nearly hidden by grubby windows.
“Well, I wasn’t always as profitable as I am today,” Holmes demurred, for the first time showing a hint of discomfort at allowing Watson this glimpse into his past. “I lived here five months before leaving, and although it wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t horrendous, either. Come now, the landlord is currently out of the city and won’t trouble us at all. Mind your step, I see he hasn’t fixed the hole there,” Holmes observed, leaping nimbly over a deep puddle that rested nearly directly in front of the doorway stairs.
Watson followed his lead, shaking his head in wonder as Holmes opened the door and walked into the house as though he still lived there. He had not seen the other man pick the lock, and the thought of leaving any door unlocked in this neighborhood astounded the doctor.
“Stay to the right, Watson! The left is a bit - well, the less said the better,” Holmes called over his shoulder, making his way confidently down a dark hallway, the wallpaper pealing in several places to reveal yellowed and cracked plaster. The wood underfoot was splintered and the grain worn down to a muddy black, creaking under their weight as they made their way to a staircase.
“ My God, Holmes, this place is a cesspool!” Watson marveled, his hand covering his nose to keep out the smell of urine and rotting vegetables, The floor, despite it’s abused appearance, was swept clean, so he was rather uncertain where the odor was coming from.
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Holmes protested, placing a hand on Watson’s shoulder to steer him towards a rickety staircase, hidden in the dim shadows near the back of the hall. “Mind yourself, the seventh step is a bit - dodgy,” he warned, testing his weight on the first step before making his way carefully up, keeping close to the wall and his curious eyes scanning the path before him.
“Dear God, what is that?” Watson exclaimed, grabbing Holmes’ arm as a dark, furry blob came into view, nearly wedged into the corner of the landing.
“Ah,” Holmes murmured, edging slightly further away from the shapeless mass. “Best not look too closely,” he advised.
“Holmes, I’m serious!” Watson warned, his grip tightening as they passed the thing, the doctor unable to take his eyes from its form. Had it just moved?
“So was I!” Holmes assured, tugging gently until they were heading down a second hallway, this one smelling even more rancid in the summer heat, the air humid and foul.
“Ah, here we are,” Holmes sighed, stopping in front of a door that at one time may have been blue, but was now an indeterminate color of muck.
He pushed the door open warily, as though expecting trouble, but the room which waited on the other side was apparently empty, the only sound the soft plink of water dripping into something metallic.
The room was horrendous. Small even by a poor man’s standards, it held a rusted bed frame with no mattress, a dresser with one of the drawers cracked nearly in half, and a bedside table which seemed to be covered in a sheen of something oily and gelatinous.
“Holmes,” Watson whispered in horror, looking around the cramped quarters in amazement. “It’s positively ghastly!”
“Oh, I see they’ve done some renovation,” Holmes observed, stepping passed his stunned friend and surveying the room fondly. “It seems to have glass in the windows now, and oh, the hole in the floor has been repaired!”
Still stood in the doorway, Watson watched as his friend went over to the single gas lamp in the room, turning it on with a delighted exclamation as it filled the dingy flat with light.
“They gas jets actually work! My goodness, they have made an effort, haven’t they?” he mused, motioning Watson to enter the room further. “Come in, old boy, I want to see if they fixed that hole in the - oh, no, looks like that is still pending. If the cheap bastard is waiting for me to pay for the repair, he can keep waiting!”
Watson stared in awed at the fist sized hole which the opened door had covered, light from the hallway clearly visible.
“Holmes,” Watson began, trying to find the words to convey his horror of their surroundings, finally settling for, “Even in Afghanistan I lived better than this!”
“Yes, well, of course you did, old boy,” Holmes agreed. “You were a war hero, of course. Queen and country and all that. Oh!”
The sudden exclamation was promptly followed by Holmes diving into the farthest corner of the room, pulling from what seemed to be a hole in the floor a filthy, torn piece of cloth.
“I thought for certain this was lost! A bit of cleaning up and it should still fit!” Holmes held up the item for Watson’s perusal, beaming proudly. “My favorite shirt. I’ve often thought I left it here, but couldn’t be certain until now.”
“Holmes!” Watson yelled in horror, his voice more strident than he had intended. “Put that down this instant!”
“But-”
“Down! Now!”
“But Watson, it was my favorite shirt!” Holmes protested, and to Watson’s horror brought the disgusting rag close to his chest, as though protecting a cherished valuable.
“Drop it! And when we get back to Baker Street you are taking a bath!” Watson ordered.
Holmes pouted, his eyes going large as he regarded his friend and lover through watery brown orbs.
“But-” he tried, only to be silenced by Watson’s warning finger.
“Down,” Watson ordered, waiting until the supposed shirt was dropped to the floor reluctantly. “Now, let us see if we can’t find what we came here for and get out of this squalid mess!”
“Truly, Watson, you have become very soft,” Holmes scoffed, casting his gaze about the room fondly. “I lived here for a good five months before I - well, the landlord and I had a bit of a disagreement. It wasn't too horrible. Plenty of fresh air this time of year and all.”
“Yes, from the gaping hole in the wall!" Watson shouted, gesturing to the hole in question. "Do I even want to know what the disagreement was about, if it got you thrown out of this putrid pit?"
"Well, I was the one who put it there,” Homes admitted, nodding toward the hole.
"You -?” Watson sputtered, his eyes widening in sudden understanding.
"Well, it wasn't truly my fault. Lestrade helped. A bit," Holmes added, almost reluctantly, as though unwilling to give the inspector even a bit of credit for the destruction. Watson was certain it was pride rather than any protective instinct toward the other man that prompted the reluctance.
"Les- Lestrade?"
"Well, let me just say that - no, never mind, too long a story. You'll have to ask him. Come along!"
And with that, Holmes flung a door open that Watson had not even seen, revealing an even tinier room which contained a toilette he wouldn’t have used if he were about to wet himself and a rusted, dented metal tub nearly flush against the toilette, a brown liquid filling the tub with a mysterious scum floating on top.
"Oh, goodness! Well, I have to give the landlord credit, he certainly put my money to good use. Would you look at this, Watson? He placed the tub under the leak! When it rains, you get both bath water and cleaning water!"
Watson stared at his friend in amazement as Holmes carefully scrutinized the yellow and brown stained ceiling, wondering if he had hit his head harder than he realized the day before. He followed as they returned to the other room, Holmes standing in the middle as he examined once more the barren space.
“Well, old boy, I think we can safely say that the jewels aren’t hidden here. That nightstand and drawer barely held my shirts, they certainly couldn’t withstand the weight of a bag full of heavy metals. Not to mention I doubt they would hide such precious things in the tub when it clearly hasn’t been drained in several days. And here I was certain that young man was one of them! Someone has obviously been staying here, though. The bed was recently stripped, you can see the rust has been disturbed, there are flakes around the legs. Though from the looks of things they did not stay for very long. Why leave such a perfect hide out?"
"Oh, I don't know, Holmes. Maybe he feared for his LIFE?" Watson asked sarcastically, the tone of which was completely lost on the detective as he perused the room with his shrewd eyes.
"Yes, always a valid hypothesis. But from whom was he running, then?" Holmes murmured.
Watson buried his face in his hands.
“No one, Holmes!” he finally yelled, startling the detective, who stared at him with a worried frown. “Holmes, look about you! This place is horrible! No sane person would stay here longer than was absolutely necessary, good hiding spot or no! Honestly, I think we had best leave ourselves, before this place falls in on our heads!” Watson urged, casting a suspicious glare toward the water damaged ceiling in the other room.
Heaving a tremendous sigh, Holmes finally nodded, his eyes lingering on the detritus of his previous life as though recalling happy memories.
"Well, they weren't the best of my days, but they weren't too bad,” he finally said, grinning over at Watson as though they were talking about his time at boarding school, rather than his time spent dwelling in a building not suitable to rats. “ "Oh, Watson, stay away from that,” Holmes warned sharply, moving quickly to pull Watson away from something the doctor was determined not to look at. "I think I left that here when I moved out. Best stay clear."
“My poor darling,” Watson sighed, looking to his friend with what in any other man might have been termed pity. “However did you manage to come to such - such squalor?”
“Now, see here, Watson!” Holmes protested, gesturing towards the room at large. “Truly, this wasn't such a horrid place. Besides the landlord, it worked well enough to start my practice. I had a roof over my head, a bed to sleep on, and a door to lock at night. I wasn’t seeing very many clients back then, so it didn’t really matter what my living arrangements looked like, and it allowed me to save enough to finally move into Baker Street.” Here he paused, stifling a cough into his arm, much to Watson’s alarm.
"Although, I must admit, I do not miss that wretched cough that plagued me while I lived here. A bit damp for me, I think,” he added ruefully.
“Cough? What cough? You didn't have a cough when we met!" Watson exclaimed a bit hysterically.
"Well, no, it seemed to go away after a few days of living with Mycroft,“ Holmes said, as though the answer had been perfectly obvious. “And the assiduous attentions of his personal physician," he admitted reluctantly at Watson‘s continued stare. "Man gave me something vile to drink, said it would clear me right up and it did."
Watson closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then, with a determined stride, moved to Holmes’ side, taking his arm and steering him out the door.
“We are leaving. Now,” he said firmly, ignoring the detective’s spluttering protests. “If we survive this horrid place, we are never coming back, ever again. Now watch the steps, and keep moving!”
Once they were in the cab Watson finally released Holmes’ arm, sighing in relief as they started on their way, leaving the disreputable building behind.
“Where are we headed?” Holmes asked curiously after several minutes of silence had passed between them.
“Home to Baker Street. You are going home to take a bath and then get into bed,” Watson said firmly, feeling his fists clench as another cough erupted before Holmes could speak.
"Watson, really! It's barely noon! Control yourself."
He ignored the remark, knowing Holmes was just trying to tease him. He could hear the humor in Holmes’ voice, knew the other man was grinning and allowed himself to return the expression, finally feeling his shoulders relax since he had first laid eyes on the wreckage which had once been his dearest friend’s home.
“I am going to burn your clothes and mine once we get home!” he threatened, his grin fading into a scowl as he took in Holmes’ suit, understanding now why he had chosen it. “A little warning wouldn’t have gone amiss!”
“Honestly, Watson, you worry too much. And to think, I just found this shirt again! A bit of a scrub and it will be perfect!" Holmes practically beamed as he pulled the crusted, dirty garment from his suit, smiling smugly.
"Agh! Holmes! I told you to throw that thing away!" Watson yelled, recoiling from the soiled rag even as he grabbed it from Holmes’ grasp, attempting to throw it out the window.
"No!” Holmes argued, trying to grab it back and making an effort to wrestle it away from the other man’s firm grip. He watched in horror as Watson threw the garment out the window, smiling triumphantly as he did so.
"Good God, I need a bath now, too!” Watson grumbled, looking in disgust at his soiled hands.
"Watson! That was - do you know how much I loved that shirt? Honestly, it was perfectly fine!” Holmes whined. He actually whined, and Watson’s eyes narrowed as he stared him down.
"I think you must have hit your head harder than I thought yesterday! For pity’s sake, Holmes, you can have another one of mine!"
His voice was placating, though he could not hide the exasperation which gave the words an edge. Holmes crossed his arms and turned his back petulantly, looking for all the world like a spoiled child as he pouted in the corner the rest of the way home, ignoring Watson’s attempts to engage him in conversation.
When they finally reached Baker Street, entering the familiar territory, it was to Mrs. Hudson coming down the hall, a tea tray filled with dirty cups and teapot in her hands.
"Oh, good, I was just about to start dinner,” she greeted them, smiling pleasantly as she approached. “It should be ready - Oh, Lord, what have you two been doing?” She recoiled in horror as they drew near, wrinkling her nose and taking in their dirt and rubbish smeared clothes. “You're a mess! Upstairs, the both of you! And don't touch anything!"
"Trust me, Mrs. Hudson, I plan on a thorough delousing of us both!” Watson assured her, pushing Holmes towards the stairs before he could open his mouth. “A bath for both of us, and then you can burn these outfits if you wish!”
"Really," Holmes protested, glowering over his shoulder as he trudged upstairs. "You two are far too dramatic!"
Behind him, sharing an exasperated look, Watson and Mrs. Hudson rolled their eyes as she gestured with her head for him to follow the other man, her expression softening as Watson winked at her.
“I’ll make certain to get the stench out,” she promised as he passed, earning a heartfelt smile for her efforts. “Just leave the clothes by the door.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you are far too kind!” Watson called over his shoulder, running up the last few steps in an effort to catch up to Holmes.
“Bathroom!” he ordered when Holmes made as if to sit on the settee. “You are not sitting on anything so long as you smell like a refuse pile!”
Holmes rolled his eyes but complied, smirking as he shed his garments unselfconsciously on his way to the bathroom, watching with a mischievous smile as Watson started the bath and began undressing himself. He kicked his garments outside the door into the sitting room, knowing Mrs. Hudson would keep her word and collect them while they bathed, and practically jumped into the hot water.
"Honestly, Watson, you are overreacting,” Holmes chided as he joined him, sinking into the steaming tub and maneuvering around Watson’s frame with the ease of long practice.
He watched as Watson lathered up a flannel with copious amounts of soap, scrubbing his chest and arms vigorously.
"Holmes, I just walked through refuse that should only be found in the gutter!” Watson explained slowly, rinsing the cloth and then soaping it again, this time handing it to Holmes. “That place should be torn down!"
Holmes sniffed, though he followed Watson‘s example and wiped his upper body down, taking care of his neck and arms. "That was my former home,” he finally muttered, though there was no heat behind the words.
"Yes, and thank God for your damnable landlord for throwing you out and Stamford for introducing us!” Watson threw back, retrieving the cloth once more and proceeding to wash Holmes’ back. “Honestly, Holmes, you’re lucky you didn’t get tuberculosis, living in that mess!”
"Hmmm,” was all the detective answered, sinking deeper into the water and allowing Watson to finish his washing before turning to return the favor.
By this time the water was a murky grey, the soap and filth from the day mostly washed away. When he finally finished scrubbing Watson’s back and hair, the two of them settled back, sighing as the steam filled the bathroom with humid air.
After several minutes of silence Holmes turned his head to capture Watson‘s lips in a kiss, humming happily. When they pulled apart Watson eyed him suspiciously.
"No, you may not use that place as a bolt hole. I forbid it!” he pronounced, the words wiping the smile from Holmes' face. “I know you too well, Holmes. Don’t even think about it.”
"Don't be silly, Watson. The landlord would never let me back there,” Holmes scoffed, sniffing disdainfully as he turned back around, allowing his back to rest against Watson’s front.
He was not prepared, therefore, for Watson to dunk him under the water.
***
The telegram that arrived with breakfast the next morning was from Lestrade, and Watson handed it over easily to Holmes as the detective sipped his cocoa slowly. A brilliant smile spread across his face as he handed the note to Watson to read for himself.
“Thief finally talked STOP Brother is involved in ring, but no connection to current case STOP Thief stole jewels to pay for current hotel STOP Thief states Montague not habitable STOP Can’t really blame the poor bugger FINAL STOP”
Watson burst out laughing, covering his face with his hand as the inanity of the situation caught up to him.
“I told you!” he finally managed to gasp between bouts of laughter. “I told you he was running for his life!”
“Yes, well,” Holmes sniffed. He took another sip of his cocoa, regarding the doctor fondly. “I suppose it was a bit - horrendous.”
Watson laughed harder, throwing good breeding to the wind as he lay his head over his crossed arms on the table. Holmes smiled despite himself at the doctor’s mirth, quietly admitting, if only to himself, that being thrown onto the streets from such a disreputable flat was perhaps the best thing that had ever happened in his life.
That, and a colleague who had the foresight to introduce him to one estimable Doctor Watson, who was currently wiping tears of joy from his flushed cheeks.
“Come now, Watson, pull yourself together. We still have some thieves to catch!” Holmes suddenly exclaimed, throwing himself out of his chair in a sudden burst of energy.
“Ready when you are, Holmes!” Watson agreed, and the two of them fled the warm and cozy comfort of 221B Baker Street for the thrill of adventure.
Author: Piplover
Fandom: Holmes 09, Canon
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Pairing: H/W
Word count: 5000
Warnings: Only for being a bit cracky!
A/N: This story is just for entertainment, and I by no means claim any knowledge of Montague Street. It's probably a very nice area, and nothing like I've described. Many thanks to Enkiduts for her help in imagining this! Mostly, this story is for anyone who has lived in less than wonderful accommodations!
“This way, Watson! Quickly now!”
The two men darted down the shadowed alleyway, feet splashing in puddles of unidentifiable substances as they fought to keep the man they were chasing in sight. When they erupted onto the busy street a moment later Watson feared they had lost the miserable scoundrel.
“Over there!” Holmes bellowed, and took off across the bustling road, mindless of hansom drivers or carriages.
Watson grimaced as a horse reared, hooves coming perilously close to Holmes’ head before the detective darted out of danger. He was catching up to the young man they had been chasing for the better part of ten minutes, and it seemed nothing was going to stop him now.
Just as Watson managed to navigate the dangerous crossing he watched as Holmes put on a burst of speed and tackled the criminal, sending them both sprawling into a fruit stand. Bits of apples and peaches splattered across the thoroughfare and the two men, while boxes skittered into the street. Several women screamed and a man bellowed as his horses shied away from the sudden obstruction. Down the street a police whistle started to blow.
“Holmes!” Watson called, trying to make his way through the wreckage to reach his friend’s side.
When he finally made his way over to the still forms, heart beating rapidly at what he might find, he was relieved to see Holmes beginning to stir, propping himself up on his elbows as he surveyed the mess around him with a bemused air.
“I’m all right, mother hen,” Holmes assured him, picking bits of smashed fruit from his (Watson’s) shirt. “Not so certain about our friend here. I think I may have hit him rather harder than I intended.”
“No worries,” Watson sighed, finally kneeling down beside him with a wince of disgust as fruit pulp ground into his knee, casting his eye quickly over Holmes to make certain there was no damage.
A small cut above his eyes dribbled blood, but Watson had seen far worse injuries after a boxing match, and Holmes seemed in good spirits despite the mess he was sitting in. Beside him, groaning loudly, the young man they had been chasing stirred, blinking open dazed eyes.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Watson growled, not in the least bit charitable after the chase they had been led on.
Before the man could comment the constable ran up to them, puffing slightly from his sprint. Watson recognized him from a previous case, and it seemed to be mutual as the officer nodded to both him and Holmes before retrieving a set of manacles from his belt and deftly attaching them to the young man’s wrists.
“Here now, Mr. Holmes, what have you found for us today?” he asked cheerfully, taking in the mess and the young man’s ratty attire with a pleased grin. “One of your odd ones, is it?”
“Afraid not, Jeffries,” Holmes sighed, nodding his thanks to Watson as the doctor helped him to his feet, keeping a steadying hand under his elbow until he was certain the other was stable. “A bit of jewelry heist and possibly a thievery ring, but nothing too terribly exciting. I’m certain the boys at the yard will have some questions for him, though.”
“Right you are, sir,” Jeffries agreed affably. “We’ll just take him down there now, shall we? Peterson will be here in a moment to help straighten out this mess, and then we can get this lad behind bars where he belongs.”
True to his word, a few minutes later several more constables arrived, immediately setting about restoring order to the chaos around them. Though it was not a far walk, they elected to take a cab, and within a half hour were all four entering Scotland Yard.
***
“…and all we could get out of the slimy bastard was Montague Street,” Lestrade sighed, sniffing discreetly and wrinkling his nose at the smell emanating from Holmes clothing.
The bits of fruit had begun to turn sour, though the detective seemed to pay the stench no mind as he paced back and forth in the tiny confines of the Inspector’s office. Watson maintained a safe distance from his friend, sitting near the open window with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the smoke further masking the smell.
“Interesting. Did he give the address as well, or just the street?” Holmes asked, tapping one elegant finger against his lips absently.
Watson couldn’t quite understand Lestrade’s grin, but when the inspector didn’t speak, Holmes stopped pacing and turned to look at him, his eyes widening slightly in realization.
“Very interesting,” he murmured, his own lips turning into a smile that could only be termed mischievous. “Are they still owned by the same landlord?”
“I’m having Andrews check into it now, we should know by morning.” Lestrade laughed, a nasty little chuckle that had Watson’s eyebrows raised. “Think he’ll give you trouble?”
“I doubt he’ll be there,” Holmes answered cryptically. When he caught sight of Watson’s confusion, he waved him down, his universal signal for explaining later. “If that’s all, Lestrade, I think we should head out. I need to change and poor Watson must be pining for his supper now!”
“We did miss lunch,” Watson grumbled, taking one last drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it and throwing it out the window. “And most of breakfast. Unlike you, Holmes, we can’t all live on air and mystery!”
“See?” Holmes mock whispered, leaning closer to Lestrade, to the other man’s obvious discomfort. “He gets a bit grumpy.”
“We’re leaving,” Watson said firmly, snagging Holmes’ arm in passing and waving a brief goodbye to the inspector.
It was only once they had obtained a hansom that the doctor allowed his curiosity to emerge.
“What was that all about in there?” he asked as they settled firmly in their seats, Watson grimacing in disgust as the rotten fruit smell assaulted his nose. “As soon as we get back, you’re burning that jacket,” he added.
“Nonsense, a bit of a wash and it will be good as new,” Holmes scoffed, waving away the matter as he did all things not related to an open case. “It appears the young man has been living in my old building, the one I was - ahem - forced to leave rather quickly by the unkindly old goat of a landlord.”
“Really?” Watson asked, amazement coloring his tone as he regarded his friend. “Was this right before we met?”
“Yes, and a more fortuitous day has yet to present itself!” Holmes agreed, smiling. “It will be interesting to return and see the old place. I haven’t been back since the disagreement, and I fear I may have left a few items. We can see if anything is retrievable when we investigate tomorrow.”
“Holmes,” Watson laughed, taken by surprise at the other man’s unusual optimism. “It’s been nearly fifteen years since you were last there! I highly doubt anything you may have left behind is still there.”
Holmes just smiled mysteriously at him and turned his attention back to the case at hand, humming to himself as they pulled up to Baker Street.
***
The telegram arrived shortly after their breakfast, but as Watson was the one who received it, he refused to read it aloud until they had both eaten, Holmes shoveling food into his mouth petulantly while Watson took his time to enjoy the meal. Only after he had finished his second cup of tea did he hand the telegram over, watching in amusement as Holmes wiggled in his seat, grinning.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, jumping up and dashing into his room, calling from behind the door, “Watson, get dressed! Montague Street awaits us!”
When no further prying would reveal any more information Watson set about his own morning ablutions, listening to Holmes bustle about downstairs and shaking his head in amused exasperation. At least, he consoled himself, he had got the other man to eat.
“Watson!” Holmes bellowed, the strident shout more than loud enough to rouse the rest of the house. “Come, time is slipping past us!”
Deciding he had forced his friend to wait long enough, Watson quickly headed down the stairs, grinning at Holmes’ excitement and wondering what could have him so filled with energy.
“To Montague Street?” he asked, not bothering to hide his grin.
“To Montague Street, and my old flat, dear boy! With any luck, we’ll be able to find those jewels and something that will tie that lad in to the other thefts Lestrade has complained incessantly about. Oh, good, no rain in sight!”
At this odd pronouncement Holmes hailed a cab and the two of them were on their way, Holmes grinning to himself in anticipation. Watson returned his smile, admiring the cut of the detective’s summer suit, wondering where he had had it tailored, since it was not one he had seen before. It looked older than his normal attire, more worn around the cuffs and around the buttons, but presentable still.
When Holmes caught him looking his smile widened and he said, rather mysteriously, “I didn’t want to take a chance with any of your attire, Watson. Good thing you chose one of your more sturdy jackets today!”
At Watson’s confused frown his smile grew, and he shook his head, remaining silent the rest of the journey.
When they reached their destination, a building that was so covered in soot the original color of brickwork could not be distinguished, Watson was certain they had arrived at the wrong address until Holmes hopped out of the cab, staring at the dilapidated house before him.
“This is where you used to live?” Watson asked incredulously, looking around the shoddy neighborhood, taking in the rubbish strewn street, the broken windows and “for rent” signs nearly hidden by grubby windows.
“Well, I wasn’t always as profitable as I am today,” Holmes demurred, for the first time showing a hint of discomfort at allowing Watson this glimpse into his past. “I lived here five months before leaving, and although it wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t horrendous, either. Come now, the landlord is currently out of the city and won’t trouble us at all. Mind your step, I see he hasn’t fixed the hole there,” Holmes observed, leaping nimbly over a deep puddle that rested nearly directly in front of the doorway stairs.
Watson followed his lead, shaking his head in wonder as Holmes opened the door and walked into the house as though he still lived there. He had not seen the other man pick the lock, and the thought of leaving any door unlocked in this neighborhood astounded the doctor.
“Stay to the right, Watson! The left is a bit - well, the less said the better,” Holmes called over his shoulder, making his way confidently down a dark hallway, the wallpaper pealing in several places to reveal yellowed and cracked plaster. The wood underfoot was splintered and the grain worn down to a muddy black, creaking under their weight as they made their way to a staircase.
“ My God, Holmes, this place is a cesspool!” Watson marveled, his hand covering his nose to keep out the smell of urine and rotting vegetables, The floor, despite it’s abused appearance, was swept clean, so he was rather uncertain where the odor was coming from.
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Holmes protested, placing a hand on Watson’s shoulder to steer him towards a rickety staircase, hidden in the dim shadows near the back of the hall. “Mind yourself, the seventh step is a bit - dodgy,” he warned, testing his weight on the first step before making his way carefully up, keeping close to the wall and his curious eyes scanning the path before him.
“Dear God, what is that?” Watson exclaimed, grabbing Holmes’ arm as a dark, furry blob came into view, nearly wedged into the corner of the landing.
“Ah,” Holmes murmured, edging slightly further away from the shapeless mass. “Best not look too closely,” he advised.
“Holmes, I’m serious!” Watson warned, his grip tightening as they passed the thing, the doctor unable to take his eyes from its form. Had it just moved?
“So was I!” Holmes assured, tugging gently until they were heading down a second hallway, this one smelling even more rancid in the summer heat, the air humid and foul.
“Ah, here we are,” Holmes sighed, stopping in front of a door that at one time may have been blue, but was now an indeterminate color of muck.
He pushed the door open warily, as though expecting trouble, but the room which waited on the other side was apparently empty, the only sound the soft plink of water dripping into something metallic.
The room was horrendous. Small even by a poor man’s standards, it held a rusted bed frame with no mattress, a dresser with one of the drawers cracked nearly in half, and a bedside table which seemed to be covered in a sheen of something oily and gelatinous.
“Holmes,” Watson whispered in horror, looking around the cramped quarters in amazement. “It’s positively ghastly!”
“Oh, I see they’ve done some renovation,” Holmes observed, stepping passed his stunned friend and surveying the room fondly. “It seems to have glass in the windows now, and oh, the hole in the floor has been repaired!”
Still stood in the doorway, Watson watched as his friend went over to the single gas lamp in the room, turning it on with a delighted exclamation as it filled the dingy flat with light.
“They gas jets actually work! My goodness, they have made an effort, haven’t they?” he mused, motioning Watson to enter the room further. “Come in, old boy, I want to see if they fixed that hole in the - oh, no, looks like that is still pending. If the cheap bastard is waiting for me to pay for the repair, he can keep waiting!”
Watson stared in awed at the fist sized hole which the opened door had covered, light from the hallway clearly visible.
“Holmes,” Watson began, trying to find the words to convey his horror of their surroundings, finally settling for, “Even in Afghanistan I lived better than this!”
“Yes, well, of course you did, old boy,” Holmes agreed. “You were a war hero, of course. Queen and country and all that. Oh!”
The sudden exclamation was promptly followed by Holmes diving into the farthest corner of the room, pulling from what seemed to be a hole in the floor a filthy, torn piece of cloth.
“I thought for certain this was lost! A bit of cleaning up and it should still fit!” Holmes held up the item for Watson’s perusal, beaming proudly. “My favorite shirt. I’ve often thought I left it here, but couldn’t be certain until now.”
“Holmes!” Watson yelled in horror, his voice more strident than he had intended. “Put that down this instant!”
“But-”
“Down! Now!”
“But Watson, it was my favorite shirt!” Holmes protested, and to Watson’s horror brought the disgusting rag close to his chest, as though protecting a cherished valuable.
“Drop it! And when we get back to Baker Street you are taking a bath!” Watson ordered.
Holmes pouted, his eyes going large as he regarded his friend and lover through watery brown orbs.
“But-” he tried, only to be silenced by Watson’s warning finger.
“Down,” Watson ordered, waiting until the supposed shirt was dropped to the floor reluctantly. “Now, let us see if we can’t find what we came here for and get out of this squalid mess!”
“Truly, Watson, you have become very soft,” Holmes scoffed, casting his gaze about the room fondly. “I lived here for a good five months before I - well, the landlord and I had a bit of a disagreement. It wasn't too horrible. Plenty of fresh air this time of year and all.”
“Yes, from the gaping hole in the wall!" Watson shouted, gesturing to the hole in question. "Do I even want to know what the disagreement was about, if it got you thrown out of this putrid pit?"
"Well, I was the one who put it there,” Homes admitted, nodding toward the hole.
"You -?” Watson sputtered, his eyes widening in sudden understanding.
"Well, it wasn't truly my fault. Lestrade helped. A bit," Holmes added, almost reluctantly, as though unwilling to give the inspector even a bit of credit for the destruction. Watson was certain it was pride rather than any protective instinct toward the other man that prompted the reluctance.
"Les- Lestrade?"
"Well, let me just say that - no, never mind, too long a story. You'll have to ask him. Come along!"
And with that, Holmes flung a door open that Watson had not even seen, revealing an even tinier room which contained a toilette he wouldn’t have used if he were about to wet himself and a rusted, dented metal tub nearly flush against the toilette, a brown liquid filling the tub with a mysterious scum floating on top.
"Oh, goodness! Well, I have to give the landlord credit, he certainly put my money to good use. Would you look at this, Watson? He placed the tub under the leak! When it rains, you get both bath water and cleaning water!"
Watson stared at his friend in amazement as Holmes carefully scrutinized the yellow and brown stained ceiling, wondering if he had hit his head harder than he realized the day before. He followed as they returned to the other room, Holmes standing in the middle as he examined once more the barren space.
“Well, old boy, I think we can safely say that the jewels aren’t hidden here. That nightstand and drawer barely held my shirts, they certainly couldn’t withstand the weight of a bag full of heavy metals. Not to mention I doubt they would hide such precious things in the tub when it clearly hasn’t been drained in several days. And here I was certain that young man was one of them! Someone has obviously been staying here, though. The bed was recently stripped, you can see the rust has been disturbed, there are flakes around the legs. Though from the looks of things they did not stay for very long. Why leave such a perfect hide out?"
"Oh, I don't know, Holmes. Maybe he feared for his LIFE?" Watson asked sarcastically, the tone of which was completely lost on the detective as he perused the room with his shrewd eyes.
"Yes, always a valid hypothesis. But from whom was he running, then?" Holmes murmured.
Watson buried his face in his hands.
“No one, Holmes!” he finally yelled, startling the detective, who stared at him with a worried frown. “Holmes, look about you! This place is horrible! No sane person would stay here longer than was absolutely necessary, good hiding spot or no! Honestly, I think we had best leave ourselves, before this place falls in on our heads!” Watson urged, casting a suspicious glare toward the water damaged ceiling in the other room.
Heaving a tremendous sigh, Holmes finally nodded, his eyes lingering on the detritus of his previous life as though recalling happy memories.
"Well, they weren't the best of my days, but they weren't too bad,” he finally said, grinning over at Watson as though they were talking about his time at boarding school, rather than his time spent dwelling in a building not suitable to rats. “ "Oh, Watson, stay away from that,” Holmes warned sharply, moving quickly to pull Watson away from something the doctor was determined not to look at. "I think I left that here when I moved out. Best stay clear."
“My poor darling,” Watson sighed, looking to his friend with what in any other man might have been termed pity. “However did you manage to come to such - such squalor?”
“Now, see here, Watson!” Holmes protested, gesturing towards the room at large. “Truly, this wasn't such a horrid place. Besides the landlord, it worked well enough to start my practice. I had a roof over my head, a bed to sleep on, and a door to lock at night. I wasn’t seeing very many clients back then, so it didn’t really matter what my living arrangements looked like, and it allowed me to save enough to finally move into Baker Street.” Here he paused, stifling a cough into his arm, much to Watson’s alarm.
"Although, I must admit, I do not miss that wretched cough that plagued me while I lived here. A bit damp for me, I think,” he added ruefully.
“Cough? What cough? You didn't have a cough when we met!" Watson exclaimed a bit hysterically.
"Well, no, it seemed to go away after a few days of living with Mycroft,“ Holmes said, as though the answer had been perfectly obvious. “And the assiduous attentions of his personal physician," he admitted reluctantly at Watson‘s continued stare. "Man gave me something vile to drink, said it would clear me right up and it did."
Watson closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then, with a determined stride, moved to Holmes’ side, taking his arm and steering him out the door.
“We are leaving. Now,” he said firmly, ignoring the detective’s spluttering protests. “If we survive this horrid place, we are never coming back, ever again. Now watch the steps, and keep moving!”
Once they were in the cab Watson finally released Holmes’ arm, sighing in relief as they started on their way, leaving the disreputable building behind.
“Where are we headed?” Holmes asked curiously after several minutes of silence had passed between them.
“Home to Baker Street. You are going home to take a bath and then get into bed,” Watson said firmly, feeling his fists clench as another cough erupted before Holmes could speak.
"Watson, really! It's barely noon! Control yourself."
He ignored the remark, knowing Holmes was just trying to tease him. He could hear the humor in Holmes’ voice, knew the other man was grinning and allowed himself to return the expression, finally feeling his shoulders relax since he had first laid eyes on the wreckage which had once been his dearest friend’s home.
“I am going to burn your clothes and mine once we get home!” he threatened, his grin fading into a scowl as he took in Holmes’ suit, understanding now why he had chosen it. “A little warning wouldn’t have gone amiss!”
“Honestly, Watson, you worry too much. And to think, I just found this shirt again! A bit of a scrub and it will be perfect!" Holmes practically beamed as he pulled the crusted, dirty garment from his suit, smiling smugly.
"Agh! Holmes! I told you to throw that thing away!" Watson yelled, recoiling from the soiled rag even as he grabbed it from Holmes’ grasp, attempting to throw it out the window.
"No!” Holmes argued, trying to grab it back and making an effort to wrestle it away from the other man’s firm grip. He watched in horror as Watson threw the garment out the window, smiling triumphantly as he did so.
"Good God, I need a bath now, too!” Watson grumbled, looking in disgust at his soiled hands.
"Watson! That was - do you know how much I loved that shirt? Honestly, it was perfectly fine!” Holmes whined. He actually whined, and Watson’s eyes narrowed as he stared him down.
"I think you must have hit your head harder than I thought yesterday! For pity’s sake, Holmes, you can have another one of mine!"
His voice was placating, though he could not hide the exasperation which gave the words an edge. Holmes crossed his arms and turned his back petulantly, looking for all the world like a spoiled child as he pouted in the corner the rest of the way home, ignoring Watson’s attempts to engage him in conversation.
When they finally reached Baker Street, entering the familiar territory, it was to Mrs. Hudson coming down the hall, a tea tray filled with dirty cups and teapot in her hands.
"Oh, good, I was just about to start dinner,” she greeted them, smiling pleasantly as she approached. “It should be ready - Oh, Lord, what have you two been doing?” She recoiled in horror as they drew near, wrinkling her nose and taking in their dirt and rubbish smeared clothes. “You're a mess! Upstairs, the both of you! And don't touch anything!"
"Trust me, Mrs. Hudson, I plan on a thorough delousing of us both!” Watson assured her, pushing Holmes towards the stairs before he could open his mouth. “A bath for both of us, and then you can burn these outfits if you wish!”
"Really," Holmes protested, glowering over his shoulder as he trudged upstairs. "You two are far too dramatic!"
Behind him, sharing an exasperated look, Watson and Mrs. Hudson rolled their eyes as she gestured with her head for him to follow the other man, her expression softening as Watson winked at her.
“I’ll make certain to get the stench out,” she promised as he passed, earning a heartfelt smile for her efforts. “Just leave the clothes by the door.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you are far too kind!” Watson called over his shoulder, running up the last few steps in an effort to catch up to Holmes.
“Bathroom!” he ordered when Holmes made as if to sit on the settee. “You are not sitting on anything so long as you smell like a refuse pile!”
Holmes rolled his eyes but complied, smirking as he shed his garments unselfconsciously on his way to the bathroom, watching with a mischievous smile as Watson started the bath and began undressing himself. He kicked his garments outside the door into the sitting room, knowing Mrs. Hudson would keep her word and collect them while they bathed, and practically jumped into the hot water.
"Honestly, Watson, you are overreacting,” Holmes chided as he joined him, sinking into the steaming tub and maneuvering around Watson’s frame with the ease of long practice.
He watched as Watson lathered up a flannel with copious amounts of soap, scrubbing his chest and arms vigorously.
"Holmes, I just walked through refuse that should only be found in the gutter!” Watson explained slowly, rinsing the cloth and then soaping it again, this time handing it to Holmes. “That place should be torn down!"
Holmes sniffed, though he followed Watson‘s example and wiped his upper body down, taking care of his neck and arms. "That was my former home,” he finally muttered, though there was no heat behind the words.
"Yes, and thank God for your damnable landlord for throwing you out and Stamford for introducing us!” Watson threw back, retrieving the cloth once more and proceeding to wash Holmes’ back. “Honestly, Holmes, you’re lucky you didn’t get tuberculosis, living in that mess!”
"Hmmm,” was all the detective answered, sinking deeper into the water and allowing Watson to finish his washing before turning to return the favor.
By this time the water was a murky grey, the soap and filth from the day mostly washed away. When he finally finished scrubbing Watson’s back and hair, the two of them settled back, sighing as the steam filled the bathroom with humid air.
After several minutes of silence Holmes turned his head to capture Watson‘s lips in a kiss, humming happily. When they pulled apart Watson eyed him suspiciously.
"No, you may not use that place as a bolt hole. I forbid it!” he pronounced, the words wiping the smile from Holmes' face. “I know you too well, Holmes. Don’t even think about it.”
"Don't be silly, Watson. The landlord would never let me back there,” Holmes scoffed, sniffing disdainfully as he turned back around, allowing his back to rest against Watson’s front.
He was not prepared, therefore, for Watson to dunk him under the water.
***
The telegram that arrived with breakfast the next morning was from Lestrade, and Watson handed it over easily to Holmes as the detective sipped his cocoa slowly. A brilliant smile spread across his face as he handed the note to Watson to read for himself.
“Thief finally talked STOP Brother is involved in ring, but no connection to current case STOP Thief stole jewels to pay for current hotel STOP Thief states Montague not habitable STOP Can’t really blame the poor bugger FINAL STOP”
Watson burst out laughing, covering his face with his hand as the inanity of the situation caught up to him.
“I told you!” he finally managed to gasp between bouts of laughter. “I told you he was running for his life!”
“Yes, well,” Holmes sniffed. He took another sip of his cocoa, regarding the doctor fondly. “I suppose it was a bit - horrendous.”
Watson laughed harder, throwing good breeding to the wind as he lay his head over his crossed arms on the table. Holmes smiled despite himself at the doctor’s mirth, quietly admitting, if only to himself, that being thrown onto the streets from such a disreputable flat was perhaps the best thing that had ever happened in his life.
That, and a colleague who had the foresight to introduce him to one estimable Doctor Watson, who was currently wiping tears of joy from his flushed cheeks.
“Come now, Watson, pull yourself together. We still have some thieves to catch!” Holmes suddenly exclaimed, throwing himself out of his chair in a sudden burst of energy.
“Ready when you are, Holmes!” Watson agreed, and the two of them fled the warm and cozy comfort of 221B Baker Street for the thrill of adventure.
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Date: 2010-11-05 11:58 am (UTC)Especially how cheerful and nostalgic Holmes was for his old rathole apartment, something which many of us have gone through in our youth. Except that Holmes always takes it to extremes.
And it's established relationship, my favorite. Awesome banter and writing and everything! :D :D :D
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