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A Matter of Reciprocity

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Part 2

With a deep frown, Sherlock opened the door to 221B and went inside. He had just come from the lab at Barts, where he had been analyzing dirt samples from a crime scene. Lestrade had asked him to have a look at the case, in that much more amicable way he had adopted around the detective ever since his return, and Sherlock had been grateful for the distraction.

John was on his honeymoon, and Sherlock had been bored. Something about this case was odd, though, and the afternoon in the lab had just proven that; the only problem was that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly it was that bothered him.

Slowly, he walked up the stairs, deep in thought. When he had just reached the first landing, he paused, unsure whether he had heard something. After a moment, there it was again- a thin wailing sound, coming from 221A. Not hesitating a moment longer, Sherlock turned and flew down the stairs, case not exactly forgotten but put on hold for the time being.

"Mrs Hudson?"

He found her on the floor in her kitchen, and she was in quite a state, obviously having fallen and landed on her bad hip.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whimpered as he knelt down next to her; from the looks of it, she had been lying there at least an hour. At least she didn't appear to have hit her head, nor was she bleeding elsewhere. Which in this case only brought minimal relief; Sherlock was appalled by the ashen colour of her skin. When he put a hand on her shoulder, he could feel that her whole body was trembling.

"I'm calling an ambulance," he said without preamble, causing fresh tears to run down her face: "No, no, I don't want to!" Her voice was thin and terse with pain. "Sherlock, I don't want to! Just help me up, will you?"

"You shouldn't get up, it might make it worse."

"Please, Sherlock..."

"I don't think we have a choice." Sherlock replied gently, digging his phone out of his pocket. As Sherlock spoke to the operator, Mrs Hudson began to bat at him with one hand, sobbing loudly now. He had never seen her so hysterical, not even during her husband's trial, and it was rather unsettling.

After Sherlock had rung off and quickly put the phone aside, he caught her hand with his now free one and held it as tightly as he could without hurting her further: "Mrs Hudson, look at me. Look at me. It's going to be all right."

"No, it's not!" she hiccuped between sobs, "I don't want to go to the hospital again!"

"You're going to be all right," Sherlock said, trying to appease her.

Still trembling and occasionally making little mewling sounds, she finally calmed down enough to focus on her tenant, and her crying began to subside. Sherlock would have preferred to have John at his side, but since that wasn't possible, he'd have to make do without him.

"You're going to be all right," he repeated, feeling like an idiot because he wasn't of any more help. "I'll stay with you."

When the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, Mrs Hudson clung to Sherlock's hand as long as possible. He made sure that she could see him even when he had to step aside to let the paramedics do her work. It was rather disconcerting to witness his landlady in such pain and distress; she usually was cheerful up to the point of being annoying, which probably was the reason why she was good at putting up with Sherlock's occasional rudeness.

"... Sir?" Oh. He hadn't been aware that one of the paramedics had tried to address him several times; he had tuned it all out, the standard questions Mrs Hudson was being asked while they tended to her, her now rather quiet sobs.

"Yes. Sorry. You were saying?"

"Your mother insists that you ride in the ambulance with us," the man repeated, "we're taking her to the Royal London."

Sherlock didn't bother to correct him, though he wondered what exactly Mrs Hudson had said. Or maybe the paramedic had just drawn his own, if wrong conclusion. It didn't matter, at least the old lady seemed calmer now.

In the hospital, Sherlock paced around the designated waiting area restlessly, debating whether he should call John. He'd probably want to know that Mrs Hudson had had an accident; on the other hand, Sherlock didn't even have any information about the outcome yet. And it was John's honeymoon, after all, something which he should enjoy instead of worrying about his former landlady. Having made up his mind, Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket. He was too agitated to sit down however. If John had been there, he'd have been calm and composed, as usual, which would have been soothing. The doctor had a talent for reassuring people.

Sherlock was pulled out these musings when his phone buzzed a while later: it was Lestrade who was calling. He frowned; he had entirely forgotten the case, it seemed unimportant now.

"Anything?" the DI asked by a way of greeting.

"I'm at the hospital," Sherlock replied, "Mrs Hudson's had an accident."

"... Gosh, I'm sorry," Lestrade replied after a barely discernible pause, sounding genuinely concerned. "What happened?"

"She fell on her bad hip."

"Bugger. So... just forget about the case, all right? You've got other things on your mind now, I understand that."

Sherlock wasn't going to tell him that he actually had done so already, realizing that he was in fact not at all in the mood to investigate further right then, but he gave Lestrade the bit of information he had gained in the lab that afternoon, seemingly an eternity ago.

"Thanks, that's something," Lestrade said. He hesitated again: "You okay?"

Sherlock was taken aback: "Of course I am."

"Okay... just checking. Call me if you need anything."

Sherlock stared at the phone with a bewildered expression after they had rung off: why wouldn't he be okay? It wasn't him who was injured, after all.

Goldfish, he heard Mycroft's voice in his head, and couldn't but agree with him. His thoughts wandered back to John, who'd have asked the same question. Only with John, it wasn't half as annoying. John was a doctor, he was supposed to do things like that. And John was used to it that Sherlock didn't always answer, which was a much more elegant escape than telling lies.

Though if John had been there, he'd have seen the truth anyway. He'd have seen how distraught Sherlock was about how frail Mrs Hudson had seemed, about her breaking down like that, about the accident itself. He wanted her to be all right, he needed her to. Without Mrs Hudson, Baker Street wasn't really home. The house was flooded by emptiness when she was gone.

Some twenty minutes later, an Indian doctor approached him: "You're here for Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes. I'm her son," Sherlock said without hesitation, hoping that the man didn't recognize him.

"I'm Dr Gupta. If you will come with me, please, I'd like to discuss our next steps." He led Sherlock into a small office and showed him an x-ray picture: "Your mother is suffering from severe osteoarthritis in her left hip, Mr Hudson. The discomfort she's been experiencing during the past few years has derived from the slow but constant wear of the femoral head. The fall today has made it worse, since she's fractured the bone, which has already been brittle. It's only a minor trauma, but given the advanced osteoarthritis, we need to exchange it with a prosthetic implant."

Sherlock's head is reeling; this didn't come as a total suprise, of course, but still- he hadn't expected to be on his own when faced with such news. He'd have expected- well, John to be there, to take care of the medicinal aspects. Sherlock was better at bodies than living beings.

"Meaning you're replacing the hip?" he asked.

"In part," Dr Gupta replied, indicating the x-ray. "I've booked her for surgery tomorrow morning. Until then, she receives pain-relieving medication."

"How long will she have to stay here?"

"Depending on how well she'll heal, it shouldn't be any longer than ten or twelve days. Her stay here will immediately be followed by post-hospital curative treatment."

"Rehabilitation."

"Exactly. It is important in order to improve her mobility and build up the muscles which are stabilizing the hips."

"That will probably take a while."

"Three to four weeks, usually; afterwards, we advise further remedial gymnastics."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, trying to process all of that. Dr Gupka seemed to sense that, as he just waited patiently.

"Did you talk to her about it?" the detective then asked.

The doctor shook his head: "No, not yet. Since she was very agitated, I considered it wise to get you to join us."

"Yes, well." Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands. "Let's do that then."

To Sherlock's relief, Mrs Hudson was not crying any more. She looked tiny in the large hospital bed, and the standard-issue gown she was wearing made her face look even more pale than before. She was propped up only a little bit, but her eyes were open. When she saw Sherlock, her expression lit up, and she immediately reached out for him with the hand which wasn't hindered by the IV.

"Sherlock," she breathed, clinging to him just like before, as though he was providing a lifeline. He gave her a smile, hiding his worries and trepidation about the news she was going to get.

Now that the pain was under control, Mrs Hudson was much more composed however. Her grip on Sherlock's hand was almost painful as she listened to Dr Gupta, but apart from that, she remained remarkably calm, even though the detective could feel her trembling a little when the doctor had finished.

"Well," she said, her voice quavering ever so slightly, "I guess I had it coming." Sherlock was surprised by the surge of relief he felt at that. This was the old Mrs Hudson, the one he'd seen in Florida, the one who was unfazed by his own tongue lashings.

"The prognosis for a full recovery is good," Dr Gupta said. "It will take a while, of course, but you're very healthy otherwise, and it helps that you're rather slender and fit for your age."

Mrs Hudson blushed and looked at Sherlock, who squeezed her hand: "You'll long be home and running about again when Baby Watson arrives." He was tremendously relieved that she had taken it so well and that there hadn't been another panic attack. She really was going to be fine.

On the following morning, Sherlock arrived at the hospital early. He had gotten home just after midnight, paced around the living room for a while and had eventually lain down on the sofa, weary but wide awake. He tried to think of the case in order to distract himself, but it was futile, as he couldn't concentrate on it; his thoughts were with Mrs Hudson. He had dozed off in the early hours and had napped for an hour or so until the alarm on his phone had woken him.

He had to wait at first, but was allowed to see Mrs Hudson before she was wheeled off to surgery. She looked like she was close to changing her mind again.

"Did you sleep at all, or did you stay awake, worrying?" Sherlock asked after he had bent down to kiss her on both cheeks.

"The bed's not very comfortable," she said, evasively, but her eyes were wide with fear.

"It's a standard procedure," he told her, "they could do it with their eyes closed."

"What if something goes wrong?" she asked, her voice nearly giving out.

Sherlock shook his head: "It won't."

"But what if it does?"

"Then you'll haunt the surgeon for the rest of his life."

"Oh, you," she scoffed, sounding slightly watery. "They told me I'll need a walking aid at first," she then said, "one of those dreadful frames with wheels."

"You should probably try not to bump into too many other people who're recovering from surgery. You'd be allowed to swear like a sailor, however." Sherlock's face was completely serious, which in combination with his words had the desired effect and made her laugh a little.

"Are you staying?" she rather timidly asked after a brief pause.

"Yes, I am. And I called your sister, too. She'll be here tomorrow."

"Thank you." Her gaze roamed over his face: "They believed us," she said, a little mischievously. "About you being my son."

Sherlock smiled at her: "They did. Everyone called me Mr Hudson. It's a little confusing."

She giggled, but quickly turned serious again: "I'm so sorry about the whole mess. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," he interrupted her, "you did nothing wrong."

"I was being silly."

"You were being in pain."

"Still, I'm really sorry."

"You've seen me in worse situations, I believe," Sherlock said. "We're even."

"I'm just glad you were there," Mrs Hudson gave him a tiny smile. "And that you're here now. I missed you so terribly, Sherlock." He knows that she's referring to the two years of his absence.

"I was always going to come back," he replied, evasively.

She looked at him, sighing: "Yeah, well- it seems you've been just in time, my dear."

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The End

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Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback!

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There's a similar situation in my story Baker Street which also deals with their mutual history.

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