Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. =(

About: Sherlock Holmes has been a fairly regular visitor at Baker Street long before he moved into 221B with his new flatmate; ever since Mrs Hudson has returned from Florida and taken up residence in her old house again, Sherlock has had an eye on her. Which actually means vice versa, really.

Enjoy!

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Baker Street

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Mrs Hudson hasn´t expected to see Sherlock so frequently. She is busy adjusting; even though her husband is dead, she can´t feel free for the first few months. She keeps looking over her shoulder, which is silly, really, but she can´t shake the habit off. She doesn´t sleep well and often gets up during the night to drink some warm milk with honey, which she loves. Most evenings she goes to bed early, also out of habit rather than being tired.

Roughly a month after she has moved back in however, Sherlock nearly scares the wits out of her when she turns on the light in her kitchen one night and sees a tall, dark figure sitting there.

"It´s me," he says quickly, seeking to appease her, and once she has her voice under control and her composure back, she steps into the room and slaps him on the arm: "Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack! How did you get in?"

"Through the front door."

"It´s locked."

"Yes."

She pauses and takes a good look at him; he is pale and looks like he hasn´t slept well either, but she´s seen him in worse states of being. Always so thin, this one. Always smoking too much and eating too little.

"It´s not decent, breaking into places," she says while she pours milk into a pot and turns on the gas. He watches her, and she realizes that she doesn´t know why he has come.

"Are you all right, dear?" she asks, sitting down opposite of him. And there it is again, the lightning-quick shutting down of his face, skilfully voiding his features of any emotions it might otherwise have displayed. He´s an actor, she knows, a good one at that.

"Just making sure you´re settling in," he says, though she can tell that it´s only an excuse. He´s also a liar whenever it suits him. The smudges under his eyes tell a different story; Mrs Hudson thinks she might see a bit of Mycroft in them. No drugs, not anymore. It´s funny how quickly she has learned to read the young man in front of her.

He has rid her of the burden that was an abusive husband and in return has given her himself to worry about. Unintentionally, of course, as he doesn´t consider himself in need of anyone´s care, but Mrs Hudson isn´t stupid. She´s got more than seventy years under her belt, and she´s seen a lot; apart from that, she´s watched enough telly to know how it looks when someone´s on drugs. She also knows that Sherlock doesn't always eat regularly, and that there are times at which he doesn´t go home to his small flat, but spends the nights who knows where. Alone, most likely.

She shudders involuntarily; the thought of him being on his own in some godforsaken part of the city most people would avoid even in daylight is difficult to bear. She has known him for roughly two years now, and he is taking up a rather large part of her heart, irrevovably so.

"It´s raining," he now says, but of course he hasn´t broken into her house to talk about the weather.

"You can stay here, if you like," Mrs Hudson offers, measuring honey into two mugs. Both their eyes follow the thick, golden liquid as it slowly glides off the spoon, catching the light on its way down: momentary beauty, soon to be destroyed.

The old lady skilfully adds the hot milk and puts one mug in front of Sherlock, then she takes a tin off her shelf and opens it; she has always liked baking, and the fresh batch of Swedish gingerbread she has made on the previous day goes nicely with their beverages.

For a while, neither of them speaks. They dip the cookies into the milk and enjoy the flavour, even Sherlock. That he´s actually eating tells Mrs Hudson he´s either distraught or bored. But he seems calm, so maybe it´s the latter.

"It´s a pity that the flat upstairs is rented out," she says after a while. "It might be the right place for you."

Sherlock is fiddling with his spoon: "Probably couldn´t afford it," he mutters without looking at her. Mrs Hudson opens her mouth and closes it again; she´d let him stay for free if that was possible, but sadly enough, she needs the money which the rent provides.

"I´d make you a special deal," she says, after pondering the matter. She wouldn´t starve because of that. She´s rewarded with a faint smile, though Sherlock still doesn´t look up. He´s preoccupied with something, and she would very much like to know what it is, but she knows better than to ask what´s on his mind.

He doesn´t stay that night, but slips out again after thanking her for the milk and the cookies.

After that, he turns up quite frequently; not so regularly that Mrs Hudson can tell with a certainty when he´s going to visit her, but still in fairly even intervals. He always comes at night, never during the day; probably because it´s easier to slip through his brother´s surveillance network in the dark. It still does give her a sense of security, but while she is glad to see how Sherlock is doing, it also increases her concerns at times.

One early morning, she finds him asleep on her sofa, causing another momentary fright. He really needs to stop doing this, he´ll be the death of me, the old lady thinks while she regards him more closely.

He looks exhausted, his face has a slightly grey tinge. She is tempted to push up his sleeves and check whether he´s been using again, but that would mean to betray his trust. She takes a blanket instead and spreads it over him. He´s wearing a black trenchcoat, far too thin for the cold January weather, and certainly not suited to keep him warm during the night.

"I am working for Scotland Yard again," he tells her a few months later. "There´s one Inspector who has agreed to let me help on a more regular basis."

"Are they paying you?"

"No, of course not. They are... consulting me. They certainly do need me."

"So what does that make you? A ... Consulting Inspector?"

Sherlock snorts, almost amused: "Please. If anything, I´m a Consulting Detective."

"Sounds good to me."

"Hm. It doesn´t sound too bad indeed."

When Sherlock hasn´t turned up for more than five weeks, Mrs Hudson starts to get uneasy. She wrings her hands, debating what to do; she has already tried to call Sherlock on his mobile phone, but it went straight to voicemail each time. She doesn´t have the number of his brother, so she takes a cab to Sherlock´s address and rings the doorbell, but no one answers.

Back home, she anxiously paces around her living room until her hip protests, but then she has an idea. What was the name of the Inspector Sherlock is working with? With trembling fingers, she picks up the receiver and dials 999.

Inspector Lestrade calls her back two hours later; he´s been away from his office and couldn´t be reached on his mobile, Mrs Hudson´s been told, but she´s grateful that she´s gotten through to him one way or another in the end.

"My name is Martha Hudson," she says, careful not to sound like a senile old woman, "I have been trying to reach you because I am looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Sher- are you related to him?"

She doesn´t like the sound of this, but at least the Inspector does indeed seem to know him.

Feeling bold, she tells a little white lie: "I´m his aunt."

"And Mycroft didn´t inform you?" His tone is hesitant, causing her heart to accelerate with nervousness.

"Didn´t inform me about what, dear?" she asks, quickly adding "he never tells me anything, he thinks I´m made of glass."

"Well, then..." the Inspector clears his throat, "I´m sorry, but maybe you should talk to Mycroft about this."

"I´m talking to you now, aren´t I?" she says with more bravado than she feels, "and it will only upset me unnecessarily if I have to negotiate with that stubborn nephew of mine." Forgive me, Mycroft Holmes, she adds in the privacy of her mind, even though she has never met the man.

Inspector Lestrade seems to subdue a sigh: "Well, then, but I won´t be the one who´ll be explaining it to his brother. Sherlock´s in hospital."

She hasn´t expected it to hit her so hard. She can hardly breathe after she has hung up and needs to sit down; apparently, Sherlock has been mugged one night, God knows where he´s been again, and has been hit hard on the head. If it has really been a mugging; with Sherlock, you can never be certain, of course. Her hands are shaking as she tries to calm down and compose herself; he hasn´t woken up since it happened, which has been three days ago. She needs to go and see him. With fresh resolve and still trembling, she gets up again.

In the hospital she is told, kind but unmistakably, that the ICU only allows closest family members to see the patients. She doesn´t dare to lie again and feels near tears, but there doesn´t seem to be anything she can do. Simply turning around and leaving is not an option either, however; for one, her legs are trembling far too much, and apart from that, it feels like abandoning her boy. That is how she has come to think of him, she realizes, her boy. For a brief moment, she feels like sobbing; her own boy would have been about the same age as Sherlock now, had he lived.

She doesn´t often permit herself these thoughts; he didn´t even get a name, hasn´t been there long enough to be properly christened. She and her husband never talked about him, but her feelings want out; she is still mourning him, has done so for the last thirty-odd years, but at least now she has someone else to call hers, even though Sherlock doesn´t know about it. What if she loses him as well and once again can´t even say goodbye?

The nurse on duty has been watching the little old lady who has heavily sat down on a bench and is holding her handkerchief to her face, obviously fighting to keep her composure. Mr Holmes hasn´t received any other visitors apart from his brother, who is coming in the mornings and the evenings, and that nice Inspector from Scotland Yard who has been there on the first day. Other than that, the patient has been alone.

The nurse is called Linda, and she´s been working on this station for eight years. She has become rather good at assessing people, that´s why she looks at the old lady again and decides that she can allow the rules to be bent a little; it won´t do any harm if she does, it might even do the patient some good.

Mrs Hudson can´t believe her luck when the nurse suddenly stands in front of her: "You are related to him, you said?" she says, winking. "My name is Linda. Come on, I´ll show you to his room."

Sherlock is surrounded by machines, and he is on a ventilator which is breathing for him.

Mrs Hudson can´t contain the little mewl which escapes her at the sight, but Linda put her hand on the old lady´s arm reassuringly: "He has been exhibiting signs of waking up," she says calmly, "he seems to be improving."

Mrs Hudson looks at the young man, her boy, and isn´t really comforted by that; Sherlock seems to still,too pale and lifeless altogether. She moves towards the bed after the nurse has left and takes his hand in hers, her thumb stroking the surprisingly warm skin: "You can´t leave me, my dear," she whispers, for she is sure that her voice will break if she speaks any louder. "I need you to keep breaking into my house, you hear me?"

Apparently, he does, because he doesn´t leave her.

Three months later he scares her once again, sitting in her kitchen on a warm summer evening. She has been visiting him a few more times after he had woken up, recovering remarkably well. There never were any other visitors, though occasionally fresh flowers spoke of other presences in his hospital room.

Mrs Hudson then didn´t see him for weeks as Mycroft Holmes, whom she still hasn´t met, has arranged for some kind of rehabilitation while Sherlock was dealing with the aftermath of his injury, such as a slight speech impairment due to the trauma. He did send her the occasional postcard, however, scribbled in his untidy, hurried writing she still remembers from Florida.

And now he looks like he always does, thin, pale, alone, as though nothing had happened. Mrs Hudson can smell stale cigarette smoke on him as she bends down to hug him: "Sherlock," she breathes, "thank you for the cards."

He smiles, waving his hand dismissively: "So you didn´t have to call the police again. Auntie."

Mrs Hudson blushes: "What was I supposed to do?" she defends herself. "You could have been-" She stops herself from saying it.

Sherlock looks uneasy; in order to give himself something to do, he gets up and puts the kettle on. This time it´s Mrs Hudson watching him as he makes tea; for a man who only drops by sporadically, he seems to know his way around her kitchen surprisingly well.

"What´s this?" he asks with a frown, holding up a paperbag he found next to the tea tin.

"Just some herbal soother for my hip," Mrs Hudson says, "you know, when it´s playing up again."

Sherlock sniffs at the bag: "Where did you get it?"

The old lady shifts around on her chair nervously: "My shaman gave it to me."

"Your shaman."

"That´s none of your business," she says, "put it back, will you."

Sherlock gives the bag another look, eyebrow raised at the contents, but does as she asks.

In the following months, Sherlock sticks to the established routine of a more or less monthly visit. Mrs Hudson has meanwhile settled in nicely and isn´t haunted by memories of her deceased spouse any longer; she still enjoys the occasional warm milk in the evening, though. She is getting along quite well with her tenant, a university teacher, and has struck up a tentative friendship with Mrs Turner, her next door neighbour.

However, her bad hip increasingly bothers her as winter approaches; on some days, she can hardly move.

One evening Sherlock nearly stumbles over her as he comes in, finding her on the floor after having fallen. She is crying because of the pain and also because of the humiliation, even if it´s Sherlock; only senile old women can´t look after themselves, and here she is, not even able to get up on her own.

Sherlock goes to get a blanket and a pillow for her, because he isn´t sure she should be moved. Despite her protests, he calls an ambulance (from her landline, no need to get Mycroft riled up unnecessarily), then sits with her until help arrives. She doesn´t want to let go of his hand, and this time, she doesn´t hesitate when she tells the paramedics that she wants her boy riding in the ambulance with her. Sherlock doesn´t let on what he thinks about that term.

Mrs Hudson stays in the hospital till a few days before Christmas, and it is her sister who is picking her up afterwards, about to take her home with her for the holidays. They do stop by Baker Street to collect a few items of clothing etc., and Mrs Hudson, who´s been visited by Sherlock a few times and doesn´t expect to see him again before the New Year, is surprised to find a small package on her mantel.

Merry Christmas, the small card says, SH. Inside is a mobile phone, and she knows what he wants to tell her: always have this in your pocket, so you can reach me.

Merry Christmas, my dear, she texts him that evening, after her niece has explained to her how text messaging works and she has practiced a bit. Thank you. She doesn´t get an answer, but that´s all right.

January brings a bout of exceptionally cold weather, but the next time Sherlock shows up, he is wearing a new coat. It looks expensive and as though it can keep him sufficiently warm.

"Happy Birthday!" Mrs Hudson embraces him and holds him close for a moment. "I´ve got something for you, and it is quite the coincidence, mind you." Smiling mischievously, she hands him a package.

Sherlock carefully extricates a blue scarf from the paper; it is soft and of a good quality. "Thank you," he murmurs, putting it on immediately: he wraps it around his neck, frowns and unwraps it again, making a loop instead and sticking the two ends through it. That´s better, apparently.

"You looked frozen the last time I saw you," she says. "And it goes nicely with the new coat."

He looks down on the blue cloth and inwardly agrees.

They don´t always talk when they meet; sometimes, Sherlock only needs a quiet place away from his flat. Sometimes he sleeps on Mrs Hudson´s couch, and one time he is so soaking wet that she insists he take a hot shower and hangs his dripping clothes in front of her fireplace to dry.

But no matter what it is that compels Sherlock to come to Baker Street, he never leaves before he hasn´t made sure Mrs Hudson is well. And she knows how to make him stay when he doesn´t seem to be all right; on those occasions she is grateful that he has come to her at all, instead of hiding and doing something which he might later regret. He´d never explicitely ask for help, of course, but by now Mrs Hudson can read her boy even better, can see whether he´s hurt or upset or both no matter how good he is at concealing his emotions. She can tell from the way his shoulders are hunched and his one hand is kneading the other, for example.

Two years go by in a flash, it seems. Mrs Hudson is pleased to see that Sherlock is always wearing the blue scarf when it´s cold outside, and the coat seems to have become his trademark. He rarely seems to take it off.

One night, she turns on the light in the kitchen and finds Sherlock at her table, typing something into a small laptop. "I´m updating my website," he informs her without looking up. "There are two hundred and forty-three different types of tobacco ash, did you know?"

"Oh dear," she shakes her head. "You did have some time on your hands lately, didn´t you?"

Sherlock frowns, but Mrs Hudson interrupts him even before he can protest: "My tenant of 221B has informed me that he is going to move out," she says. "The flat will be free in a month, Sherlock."

For a moment, it is silent. When Sherlock finally raises his head, his expression is strangely absent: "That could be very nice," he murmurs. "I´ll need to find someone to share, but that could be very nice indeed."

He snaps out of his reverie and looks at her: "I´ll take it."

Mrs Hudson laughs a little giddily as her new tenant takes her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. She hasn´t realized it before, but this is what she has been waiting for, the boy moving in with her. So to speak. To have him nearby and see what he´s up to, and know that he´ll be there in case she needs him. Maybe he´ll find himself a nice girl, too.

"But remember, dear," she says, as she smoothes out the crinkles he has left in her tablecloth, "I will be your landlady, not your housekeeper."

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The End

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