Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Technically speaking, this is a prequel to "Be Near Me When My Light Is Low," because it's set in the same universe, but it can be read as a standalone. Rated hard T for some swearing. And as always, feedback is appreciated: Enjoy!

THE BOY ON THE STEP

Baker Street, London

September 15th, 2000

He's a bit skinny and a bit cheeky, and he's so tall she feels like a garden gnome when she stands next to him.

But he doesn't smell of ganje and he's never tried to steal her handbag- which is more than she can say for most of the would-be wide boys she's encountered- and for that reason Marie Hudson doesn't object to the boy she keeps finding sitting on her step.

Tall as an ash tree, he is. Thin as a rail. Black curls, shaggy and unruly and long, worn past his collar with that sense of coltish confidence that only teenagers can really get away with. His hands and feet seem enormous, puppyish, too big for the thin body they're attached to. Eyes slanted, exotic, watching her carefully as he rolls himself a cigarette. Watching everyone else when he thinks that she can't see. Marie knows why he's here, knows what he's up to. The entire street's talking about that troublemaker up in number 227, Caspian he calls himself, him and that posh girlfriend of his selling drugs right out of their front room on a respectable street like this. It's a scandal. Taking deliveries at all hours, seeing people at all hours too. The soon-to-be stoned hanging around their door like bees around a hive, buzzing and insistent and threatening. She's tried to get the tenants' association to do something about it, has even thought of calling the police. But Caspian's been vocal about his family's level of influence- one of his uncles is an MP, apparently- and Marie really doesn't think she can handle the sort of trouble which making an unsuccessful report to the police will entail.

So most of the time she ignores what's going on on her doorstep and keeps her head down.

She has more than enough troubles of her own to be getting on with, she tells herself; She doesn't need to start sticking her nose into other people's.

Marie thinks all this as she sees the boy stand now to let her in her front door, those exotic eyes fixed past her to Caspian's door, the expression intent. Unsatisfied. Though she's aware she shouldn't- even she knows it's not wise to stare at a drug dealer- she follows his gaze. Shifting one plastic bag of groceries from her left to her right in order to hunt for the keys even as she looks as unobtrusively as possible down the street at 227. And sure enough, she sees her friendly neighbourhood drug dealer loping towards her. Designer jeans that would cost more than a week's shopping hanging on his hips, his blond hair swinging around his shoulders in long, ochre-tipped dreads. He's carrying an expensive mobile phone in one hand, nattering animatedly into it, while in the other he carries a brown paper bag, the sort they give out in delis. He looks relaxed. Happy. Like he's having a good day today.

Marie supposes that he is having a good day, judging by the amount of people she's seen wandering in and oust of his house in the last 24 hours. He's probably having a great bloody day.

He slows as he gets to her place, smiles down at the boy on the step. "Sherlock, good to see you, man," he says, ignoring Marie completely though she's right beside him.

The boy- Sherlock- shoots him a tight smile, though Marie can't help but notice that it doesn't touch his eyes. "Nice of you to finally join us," he says, in a deep baritone which belongs to a thirty year old scotch drinker, not a university student. "Now how about you hand over my order and I'll get off this nice lady's step."

And Sherlock looks at Marie, a small, real smile warming his features. She might be fifty years old and married to boot, but even she has to admit… It's quite a smile.

As if the boy's speaking to her is the only thing that reminded him of her presence, Caspian turns and looks down at her.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he drawls, leaning over her.

His height makes it just a mite intimidating.

"I live here," Marie points out, putting her shopping down and crossing her arms. Glaring up at him.

Caspian gives a loud guffaw of laughter, the kind that tells you you're being laughed at, not with.

Her husband has a laugh like that, Marie remembers, and the thought sends a shiver threading down her spine.

"Look," the boy Sherlock says then, "This is her step, and this is a public street. Unless you want to be caught passing along-" he glances at her- "herbal remedies, then I suggest you give me what I paid for."

And he holds out one long, elegant hand in expectation, staring at Caspian.

The other young man stares back at him, trying to eyeball him, but after a moment hands the paper bag over.

"Just in from Jamaica," the young man says. "Best I've had in a while. It's strong, good quality, organic." He snorts. "Fuck, it's practically fair trade."

Marie feels annoyance welling within her. This is her house, and it was her mother's house before her. She won't have this sort of thing happening on her doorstep. She won't have people handing over… herbal remedies in front of her home. But when she opens her mouth to say something, Caspian cocks an eyebrow, his gaze turning colder. Posh boy or not, there's nastiness in this one: She can see it when he looks at her, just as she can see its absence in the boy who sits on her step.

Sherlock moves between them, placing himself in front of Caspian, his parcel moved behind his back. He stands up a little straighter, and though the other young man is bigger, something tells Marie that in a fight these two would be evenly matched. "Causing trouble on the street's not a good idea," he's saying, sotto voce. "Next time, just let me make the deal in your front room. We needn't do this in public, it's trouble none of us want."

The other young man snorts. "Holmes, my friend," he says, and Marie sees the boy Sherlock's shoulders stiffen at this salutation, "you know Portia won't have your skinny arse inside the house. She's never liked you- shagging her sister's boyfriend will do that, you know- and after Friday, you can bet she'll never let you darken our door again." He shakes his head. "Fuck, you're lucky I was able to sell you this: If she knew I was out here, she'd have my balls in a vice for a month."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, his expression one of deepest cynicism.

It occurs to Marie that there's none so cynical as your average teenaged boy.

"Caspian, Caspian, Caspian." He clucks his tongue in long-suffering amusement. "Firstly: Portia having your balls in a vice is an ongoing domestic experience, not something to do with me. Secondly, the day you stop being willing to take my money is the day you'll marry that girlfriend of yours, accept that job in the bank that daddy's got lined up, and start parking your Jag up on Teddington Lock." Sherlock snorts in disgusted amusement. "In other words, it's at least the rest of your university career- and possibly some sort of post grad degree- away. So kindly stop shovelling bullshit in my general direction, and try to remember that we are standing on a public street with a member of that public-" he nods to Marie- "watching us. And that thus far she has been… surprisingly unannoying about this whole thing, which is something she might not keep up." He grins angelically.

"So in other words, cop the fuck on."

Caspian looks at Sherlock with a smug little smirk then. "Aw, you afwaid the nice lady's going to know what sort of naughtiness you've been up to?" he snickers.

"No, I'm afwaid the nice lady's going to call the police because you've threatened her on her own doorstep, and now I'm going to have to find another place to sit. Which will be tedious." And Sherlock sighs the sigh of a martyr and looks at Marie as if asking her to give him patience.

"Spare a thought for me," he tells her. "Everyone I know is like him or his girlfriend. And they all think I'm exactly the same as them which, frankly, I find a really bloody depressing thought. In fact, I think if I spend any more time with them then I'm going to end up on a rooftop with an AK47. Do you ever think that?"

An image flashes through Marie's mind, her husband with his hand raised, her husband dragging her by her arms through their building.

He's been in the States three years and she still has flashbacks, still wakes up in a panic, sometimes, thinking he's next to her in bed.

"I know what its like to crave a clear view and a big gun, yes, dear," she tells him primly.

She shoots Caspian her most unimpressed look.

"I can only imagine it's worse for you. You'll be surrounded by idiots for the next four years."

The boy Sherlock's eyes widen at her remark and then he lets out a bark of laughter. The sound of it is rough, joyous, like something that's kicked its way into existence and is bloody happy it did. After a split second Caspian joins in, but Marie can tell he doesn't know why he's doing it. He's just trying to show Sherlock that he's in on the joke perhaps, or that he's not unnerved at all by what the young man said.

But he moves away from Marie and he never comes to her step again with drugs, or brown paper bags, or anything else, though she sometimes sees Sherlock sitting there.

He holds open the door for her sometimes, or offers her a cigarette, and though she never takes one, the offer always makes her smile.

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. And if you did, why not review :-P Also, I am aware that Mrs. Hudson is more usually given the name Martha, but I've always loved the name Marie so... Shrugs. They're each about as canonical as the other, in anyways. Hope you enjoyed and hobbits away, hey!