Work Text:
The Sustenance We Share
Mrs. Hudson knew from the start that Sherlock Holmes was going to be an interesting tenant.
He was polite enough, and dressed respectably, though his suit showed signs of wear and tear that indicated a family fallen from prosperity—or a relationship with said family that precluded economic assistance. Either way, it was clear that the young man wouldn’t be tossing money about on whims, which was actually preferable to the young layabouts who assumed that their good looks and large trust funds could solve any problem.
“There are several points I would like to be very upfront about,” Mr. Holmes announced after seeing the rooms. “I am a detective; I will come and go at odd hours, and it will be most beneficial if I am provided my own keys to the building as a whole, as well as to my rooms.”
Mrs. Hudson, who had of course noted the odd occupation listed by both him and in the letter of reference from his current landlord (a dry and somewhat acerbic missive stating that despite his oddities Holmes paid his rent on time), asked innocently, “Oh, a detective with the Metropolitan Police?”
Holmes’ lips twitched into a grimace of distaste. “No. I am a consulting detective. Though I work with the police when they have need of me, I am not beholden to them.”
“A consulting detective? Is that different from a private detective?” Mrs. Hudson asked, honest inquiry taking over her attempts at confirming character.
“Quite different. Most private detectives spend the bulk of their time stalking husbands and wives who are less enamored of each other than they once were. If I were to spend the majority of my time doing so, I would perish of boredom. No, I seek for and find the more exciting crimes; the more grotesque breaks between human nature and Godly intention for our race.” Holmes’ eyes sparkled with excitement as he described his profession.
Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help smiling. That bright, burning light reminded her quite a bit of her late husband, and she was glad to see it in a potential boarder. “I think access to all the keys could be arranged, given your good standing and my desire to get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Wonderful. There will also likely be many visitors, including some young children that I employ—the Irregulars, they call themselves—but I am certain we can work out an arrangement if it becomes too taxing; if it becomes too taxing, perhaps one of my Irregulars can be hired more traditionally.” Holmes paced the length of the sitting room of 221B, his hand twitching as he clearly imagined various ways of rearranging the simple furnishings. “I should also warn you that I dabble in chemistry. Nothing dangerous, I assure you, but there may be the occasional untoward scent.”
“Provided you don’t burn down the whole structure, I’m happy for you to dabble in all the science that you want. I’ve seen a great lot of good come from people dabbling in the sciences these past decades.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, gesturing to the gas lamps.
“Thank you, my good lady.” Holmes came to a stop in front of her, tapping his cane restlessly against the ground, creating little noise but making the movement consistently, repetitively. “There are a few other points I should bring to your attention, that we might get them out of the way. I am certain that your cooking is perfectly acceptable—”
A frown crossed Mrs. Hudson’s face at the unexpected insult.
“Exemplary, even,” Holmes hastened to add. “You could be the most decorated chef on the Continent, and there will be meals that you could not coerce me to eat with a gun to my head, and times when no matter what you cook I will not partake. If this will cause too many hard feelings, I will need to know now.”
What a peculiar thing to say when searching for new lodgings! Mrs. Hudson paused, considering the young man’s words. “I suppose, so long as you do not blame me for your own lack of appetite, this is perfectly fine.”
“I blame no one but myself for either my need to eat or my difficulties with doing so.” Holmes grimaced. “What else, what else—ah, yes. I play the violin, and sometimes at odd hours.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Hudson perked up. “What do you play?”
Holmes studied her with something like enthusiasm, and something like wariness. “I am quite adroit at most of the classics, but I also compose my own pieces, which are not frequently to others’ liking.” He spoke evenly, with the same equanimity with which he had discussed the keys, but there was something about the way he stood, and the way his cane tapped a little faster, that indicated this topic struck a little closer to his heart.
“What you do in your time and in your rooms is of course your business, provided you don’t wake anyone else.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, hoping that he could read the warmth in it. “Though I am of rather eclectic musical tastes myself, and would dearly love to hear you play your own pieces someday.”
“Well.” Holmes paused the tapping of his cane, straightening to his full height, which was quite an impressive sight. “Assuming matters work out with regards to the flat, I am certain you will get many opportunities. How long do I have to give you an answer?”
She should have told him that he must give an answer at once, or risk being usurped by someone with more ready coin at their disposal.
A sane person, or one only concerned with continuing the income that the flats provided, would have told the young man to make a choice as quickly as possible.
But her dear husband, bless him, had left her comfortable if not rich, and she was intrigued by this fidgety scarecrow of a man—very rarely still, but also so utterly confident as he prowled around; polite, but also unflinching in his examination of both her and himself and their surroundings. He had spotted the damage done and repaired by the previous tenant immediately; he had noted her continued use of subtle mourning cues despite dear James being a decade in the grave; he had been far more upfront about potential issues than any other tenant she had taken on.
So instead she told him, “I will hold the flat for a week, in the hopes that we will be able to come to a satisfactory arrangement for us both.”
The sheer relief on the young man’s face at being given time—and a clearly delineated time-table—made her instantly certain she had made the right call.
***
Mrs. Hudson immediately loved Dr. John Watson.
How could she not? The man needed someone to care for him. He seemed practically see-through, a bundle of taut nerves, a skeleton wrapped in tanned skin, darting eyes but a quiet, respectful tongue. The war had clearly not been kind to him, and the least that she could do was offer him a gentle place to rebuild himself.
For their first dinner at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson decided to spoil them a bit; it was clear the lads had been hard at work trying to arrange the flat to their liking, and Dr. Watson was limping badly by the time he poked his head out of the flat and said they were done.
She didn’t take out the fanciest china, but she did use the second best rather than the typical dining set, and she brought their meal up to them in proper courses. A hearty chicken soup, to try to entice even difficult eater Holmes; that at least succeeded somewhat, though Holmes did leave all of the celery and several pieces of the chicken in the bowl without apology.
Then a roasted duck, stuffed with vegetables that had been simmered and sauteed in her own family recipe sauces before their introduction to the fowl. The meat turned out absolutely perfect, practically falling off the bones.
Dr. Watson ate everything, exclaiming with delight as he did.
Holmes drank his wine in silence, poking at the meal, causing it to crumble into pieces.
When Mrs. Hudson cleared the main dishes away, Dr. Watson and Holmes both watched her with an anxiety she hadn’t expected.
Mrs. Hudson drew in a breath, and smiled at the young men. “Is it to your liking, then?” she asked.
“Marvelous,” Dr. Watson said with honest enthusiasm.
“You are an exemplary cook,” Holmes said evenly, not looking at his still mostly full plate.
“I thank you for the compliment,” she said, debating which of the children who helped about the house she might offer the remainder of the meal to.
Or… well… if Mr. Holmes’ Irregulars were to make an appearance, surely they would appreciate the meal?
Holmes seemed to relax, a tiny smile twitching across his face and vanishing again.
“I’ll be right back with the dessert, then,” she said with a smile.
Watson’s face immediately beamed with joy; Holmes’ crumpled into a chagrined pout, but he did stay at the table while she brought up biscuits, cheeses, and two slices of early cherry pie.
She considered it a victory that Holmes at least ate half of the filling out of the pie, even if he left the entirety of the crust.
He might be a difficult eater, but he wasn’t cruel about it, and she would make sure that he found enough to eat to stay fit.
And if she managed to put a few pounds on Dr. Watson, as well, the good lad clearly needed it.
***
The first time Holmes collapsed in front of her, Mrs. Hudson had no idea what to do.
He’d been her lodger for approximately fifteen months at the time. They’d developed an understanding, she felt. He and the Doctor both went about their work, and Mrs. Hudson kept the house, and they gave her interesting stories to tell her friends at church, while she ensured their flat didn’t end up infested with either insects or rodents despite Mr. Holmes’ absolute lack of organizational skills.
The case that Holmes had been pursuing had kept him out at all hours of the night for the last four days, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t certain that he’d actually been present for any meals, though she’d ensured that both he and Dr. Watson were provided with their usual fare.
Now he returned midday, looking dispirited and chagrined beneath a false beard and face paint that aged him at least three decades.
“Done with your case, Mr. Holmes?” she inquired softly. When he looked so fatigued with the world, loud voices or sudden motions could be as disconcerting to him as they often still were for Dr. Watson.
“Done, and what a sorry excuse for a case it ended up being! I should have been more cautious about taking the word of Mr. Harris about his wife’s motives and motions.” It was obvious from Holmes’ downcast eyes that he considered this a grave failing.
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time. You’re hardly the first man to be taken in by another man’s poor grasp of a woman’s heart.”
“Yes, but those other men were not Sherlock Holmes.” Grimacing, he set a trembling hand upon the rail and started to hoist himself up the steps to 221B as though each of the seventeen were a half mile high.
“You’re only human, my good man,” she said, frowning at the tremble and the speed of his assent. Usually Holmes bounded up the stairs like a mountain goat rather than a man. “Did something happen during your investigation? Were you hurt, or—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish her question, because Holmes’ long legs buckled under him, and he tipped over backwards, tumbling down the six stairs he had managed to climb.
Mrs. Hudson moved without thinking. Holmes was far larger than her despite his gaunt frame, but if she could at least keep his head from striking the hard wood of the floor, it will be to all their benefit.
He crashed into her, lanky limbs utterly flaccid. He was breathing still, but his lips were a curious blue color, and though his eyelids were half open, his eyes were rolled back in his head, the grey of his iris barely visible.
“Dr. Watson!” Mrs. Hudson screamed as loudly as she could. “Dr. Watson, come quick!”
Watson was out the door of 221B and down the stairs in a flash, wearing a tattered brown dressing gown over trousers and an undershirt; at least she now knew what to get him for his birthday.
“Holmes!” he exclaimed, dropping down the stairs two at a time despite his bad leg.
Mrs. Hudson almost scolded him, but she really would like fast assistance with the detective’s body. How could someone who ate so little still manage to be so heavy?
Watson scooped Holmes’ upper body into his arms, rearranging him off of Mrs. Hudson, grabbing his wrist between fingers that were rock steady despite the panic evident on his face. Apparently satisfied with the speed of Holmes’ heartbeat, he scooped the man against himself and asked, “Are you hurt?”
It took Mrs. Hudson a moment to realize that he was referring to her. She blinked. “A little bruised, but proud I kept it from becoming something worse,” Mrs. Hudson returned, stretching out her arms and legs to confirm that this was true.
Watson smiled at her, utter gratitude in the expression. “You are an angel that we do not deserve. If it is not too much imposition, could you help me by getting his legs?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said, standing and dusting herself off before taking the detective’s limp legs and helping Watson get him up to 221B and onto the settee.
Watson grabbed his medical bag from his room, kneeling next to Holmes and feeling his pulse again with his good arm. The other he took a moment to rotate, grimacing; clearly manhandling Holmes exacerbated his pain.
Really, did Holmes understand how much the good doctor cared for him? How much Watson was willing to put up with if it kept Holmes just a little safer, a little happier?
Mrs. Hudson squashed the thought. Of course he understood. Holmes saw so very much, all the time. Perhaps that was why he turned out a little bit strange.
A lot a bit strange.
But it was a strange she’d come to treasure, and she dearly hoped there was nothing seriously wrong with him.
Watson tapped two fingers lightly against Holmes’ cheek. “Holmes? Can you hear me?”
With a groan and a shiver, Holmes managed to open his eyes, staring around in bleary confusion. “...Watson?”
“Yes.” Watson had Holmes’ wrist between his fingers again, Holmes’ pulse held with delicate tenderness. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Hudson found her hand rising to cover her mouth. How often had Holmes admitted that he didn’t know something?
“I… fell?” Holmes blinked, his eyes finally alighting on her. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, are you all right? I’m terribly sorry. How ugly of me. I do apologize.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Holmes. I just want to make sure you’ll be all right,” Mrs. Hudson said gently.
“I’m fine,” Holmes declared, sitting up and trying to swing his legs off the settee.
He almost immediately folded up again, and Dr. Watson caught him, manhandling him back into a supine position on the settee. “Please just stay still for a moment until I figure out what’s wrong. You’re dehydrated, and your pulse is slow and erratic. Have you eaten anything strange in the last twenty-four hours?”
Holmes made a soft humming noise and shook his head.
“...have you eaten anything at all in the last twenty-four hours?” Watson asked with a growing thundercloud expression and deep suspicion.
Holmes shrank back against the settee. “Food is a burden and a distraction that I could not afford. Or rather thought I could not afford. The entire case was a farce start to finish.”
“Your condition is not a farce!” Watson drew in a deep breath. “My God, man, you could have been badly injured falling down the stairs, or injured dear Mrs. Hudson.”
The first possibility didn’t seem to get through to the detective; the second had him curling up, eyes averted, clearly shamed.
“I am quite fine,” Mrs. Hudson announced. “And it sounds like a meal is in order?”
“If you could wait a moment, Mrs. Hudson.” Dr. Watson drew in a deep breath, and collected both his medical demeanor and the unending patience that he usually had for Mr. Holmes’ foibles. “How long has it been since you ate, Holmes?”
“...ninety-seven hours, give or take,” Holmes admitted. “Though I did have coffee on several occasions.”
“Well. Any liquid intake is better than none.” Dr. Watson turned to her. “Do we have honey, Mrs. Hudson? Perhaps some milk and honey—”
“No,” Holmes whispered, his eyes closed. “Please, no. I’ve no wish to embarrass myself further, and that will be the case if you try to force that upon me.”
“Holmes, you need fast sugar. If there were some way to measure blood glucose, I’m quite certain yours would be just about nonexistent right now.”
“Having me vomit milk and honey would not be helpful to any of us,” Holmes bit out, grey eyes flying open to fix the doctor with a look of frustrated helplessness. “When I was young, some was forced upon me when I was sick. Ever since then I find the taste and the texture…” Holmes didn’t manage to pale any further, but he did somehow develop a strange ash-blue undertone to his skin that seemed decidedly unhealthy.
“Oh.” Dr. Watson sat back on his heels, and Mrs. Hudson watched the play of emotions across his face: understanding, anger, grief, and finally a slumping of his shoulders in acceptance. Always so easy to read, Dr. Watson, and she saw how Holmes relaxed as he watched Watson’s reaction and realized that he would not be forced again. Instead Watson brushed stray strands of hair from Holmes forehead and whispered, “I’m sorry, old chap. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“If I may…” Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. “I know you prefer your tea black, Mr. Holmes, but might a bit of sugar in some Earl Grey be acceptable? And I could see what I’ve got for biscuits—I know that you like some of what I’ve made.”
“Something soft, with minimal ingredients, easy to chew; perhaps that will not be intolerable dunked in the tea?” Dr. Watson offered hopefully.
“I can certainly try,” Holmes agreed, his head once again turned away.
The poor dear really was so dreadfully embarrassed, wasn’t he?
Mrs. Hudson hurried about her task, heating the water as quickly as possible, setting the tea to steep and searching through her cupboards while she waited for the tea to be done, looking for anything that might have medicinal properties the doctor might want.
When she returned to the sitting room of 221B, Holmes still lay on the settee, but Dr. Watson had pulled a chair over, and had Holmes’ hand in a more normal grip. His thumb stroked gently, repetitively over Holmes’ knuckles, and the motion thankfully seemed to be soothing rather than further agitating the detective.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said without opening his eyes. “You are a wondrous woman, and I again apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“Not to worry, my dear boy.” Mrs. Hudson hesitated, and then took the opportunity to gently pat Holmes’ dark hair, which had been streaked with grey for his disguise and was now in utter disarray.
Holmes opened his eyes, fixing her with a fierce look, but he didn’t pull away.
Well then. She was in very elite company indeed, to be one of two people that Mr. Holmes allowed to touch him without flinching.
“Tell me anything else I can get you, Doctor,” she impressed upon Watson.
“I will do so. At the moment I can say that we will definitely need something light for dinner—perhaps a fish soup with a thin broth? Do you think you could manage that, Holmes?”
Holmes’ lips twitched into a moue of distaste, but he gave a reluctant nod.
“And if you’re able, a light bread; the airier the better.” Watson smiled at her. “You truly are an angel, Mrs. Hudson, and we are forever in your debt.”
“Just make sure to keep taking care of each other.” Mrs. Hudson patted Watson’s shoulder, too, pleased that he leaned into the contact. He really was such an easy man to read; such an easy man to live with.
And though the same could not be said of Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson could think of no other men that she would like to have in 221B, not even if all the world were on fire.
***
When Dr. Watson didn’t eat well, it meant that he felt really terrible.
It happened occasionally in the early days of his tenancy, when his war wounds acted up more. When the weather was particularly cold, or the days particularly damp, he sometimes never managed to get himself out of bed, and though she would ply him with his favorite meals—with eggs made just the way he liked them, or bacon perfectly crispy, or the particular sausages he loved—he often couldn’t bring himself to eat.
Those days became less and less frequent as he healed, body and soul. They’d never disappear entirely—sometimes even his joy at the holidays couldn’t keep him from winding up bedridden if the weather decided to be particularly atrocious.
But never did those times of pain and melancholy last more than two nights at most. Dr. Watson liked his meals; he could be counted upon that way.
After Reichenbach, Mrs. Hudson might as well not have cooked any meals at all.
It wouldn’t have concerned her so much if she thought he were getting sustenance elsewhere. But he didn’t seem to want to leave the flat, either.
It was like she’d lost not one but both of her favorite young men to the Falls.
Not that they were young anymore.
Though Mr. Holmes wouldn’t be getting older anymore.
It seemed to her that Dr. Watson was aging for them both, his face drooping more with each day, his eyes dark and haunted, his hair turning more and more to gray, as if it thought that by changing to match Holmes’ eyes it would somehow let the good doctor carry a bit of the man forward with him.
When she returned two weeks after Holmes’ death to once more find Dr. Watson sitting in front of a full dinner tray, Mrs. Hudson squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and proclaimed, “Dr. Watson, you must eat.”
She’d known the effect the familiar words would have on him.
Her heart still ached as she watched him flinch back, covering his eyes with his hand.
Trying to keep his grief from her.
Did he not think to share it with her?
Or perhaps he thought there was nothing to him other than the grief.
Nothing he could share that would not be further pain.
Had the wounds that the war left in heart and soul healed as poorly as those on his body? Did he fear to show her the still-bleeding injuries that Holmes’ death had ripped wide open?
“If there is something else that I can make, tell me.” Mrs. Hudson twined her trembling hands together. “If there is somewhere else you wish to eat, let me know."
Tell me how I can help you+, she wanted to beg, but such a direct question was not only unseemly, it was unlikely to get an answer.
“I wish I knew what would entice me,” Dr. Watson murmured, and picked up his fork.
Though the meat was cold, the butter on the vegetables congealing, he took to eating with a steady determination.
At least eating wasn’t as physically difficult for him as for Mr. Holmes.
As it had been for Mr. Holmes.
Perhaps that would make it easier for them to weather this storm.
***
Mrs. Hudson crafted the biggest feast that she could manage for Holmes’ return.
A goose, of course; though they were out of season, there was nothing quite like a goose for a celebration.
Two different pies, one savory, one sweet.
Two different soups, one beef, one vegetable, in the hopes that she could entice Holmes.
Stuffing.
Pudding.
Six different types of cookies and three different types of cheese.
She’d probably overdone it, but she didn’t care.
Mr. Holmes was alive.
The entire house was alive again, filled with people coming and going; filled with Dr. Watson’s laugh, which was a sound she’d feared she’d never hear again.
Holmes seemed more exhausted than pleased with the spread, but he ate.
Granted, he mainly ate what Dr. Watson carefully cut up and served onto his plate.
For his part, Watson ate like a dying man—or like a man newly returned from the dead.
Like someone finding that the heart he’d thought was long buried in fact still beat in his chest.
Mrs. Hudson knew that she shouldn’t press them. That she should give Holmes and Watson both space in which to find themselves and a new equanimity.
She couldn’t quite help putting a hand on Holmes’ shoulder, reassuring herself once more of his solidity and gravity.
He replied by placing his hand over hers, and turning to her with one of his tiny flashes of a smile, before pointedly filling his mouth with a forkful of goose.
Smiling broadly herself, feeling as though a star were burning bright in her chest , Mrs. Hudson returned to her own room, glad that for once Death had seen fit to undo an injustice.
***
When Holmes collapsed ten weeks later, Mrs. Hudson found herself torn between terror and exasperation.
At least he wasn’t on the stairs this time. He was in the entryway, just finishing up telling her that he wouldn’t be around for dinner tonight and she didn’t need to worry about him.
Then he was on the floor, his eyes rolled back in his head again.
Mrs. Hudson spent a few seconds just staring at his prone form, hands on hips.
Dr. Watson was at his surgery. There was no one else in the house. She couldn’t very well manhandle Holmes up the stairs on her own.
But she could drag him into the kitchen, and put her apron under his head, and brew a cup of strong tea mixed with as much sugar as she could dissolve in the liquid.
He was already awake by the time she finished the tea and knelt by his side.
“My apologies,” he murmured, staring at the ceiling. “This was most uncalled for.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson acknowledged, holding the drink for him. “But thankfully no longer unexpected.”
“It hasn’t happened that often,” Holmes muttered, but the words seemed more sulky than honestly argumentative, so Mrs. Hudson let it go.
When he’d finished the drink, Holmes gingerly pushed himself into a seated position. He sat with his head between his knees.
“What else can I make you?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“A body that doesn’t need food,” Holmes suggested lightly, and then more quietly, “Or one that is better equipped to accept the food that it needs.”
“Failing that, how about those puff pastries that you managed three days ago?”
“...I can certainly try one,” Holmes replied.
Mrs. Hudson sat with him as he doggedly chewed and swallowed tiny bite after tiny bite. When it seemed that he wouldn’t be able to manage another, she asked, “How did you find sustenance while you were… away?”
Holmes glanced at her, and managed to eat another bite as he contemplated an answer. “With difficulty, sometimes. But also… I knew that I had to stay healthy. I needed to return home one day; to protect Watson.” He swallowed another bite. “To protect everyone I had left behind here.”
“He was quite undone by the whole affair, you know,” Mrs. Hudson said as gently as possible.
Holmes still closed his eyes. “I know. I knew how it would affect him, but I… I couldn’t risk him. Not here, and not with me.” His voice dropped to an almost inaudible register. “Will he ever forgive me, do you think?”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I think he forgave you the moment he heard your voice again.” Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on Holmes’ shoulder.
He leaned into her touch, something he hadn’t eve r done before. “And you?” he asked just as quietly.
Mrs. Hudson considered. “I am just as glad to have you back as he is. I wish that matters had been different. I’ve mourned enough men in my time that I wasn’t terribly pleased to have to mourn another. But I also recognize what a blessing it is that I was able to stop mourning you, and I trust you to have done what you thought was most right.”
“I did.” Holmes sighed, finishing off the pastry. “But I am only human, despite what Dr. Watson says. I have made errors in calculation before. And if I made one that harmed so many so deeply… I truly did not understand the depth of sorrow it would cause.”
Mrs. Hudson considered what she’d seen of the great man before her over the years, and believed him. “But now you know. And now you will ensure we never have to mourn you again.”
“Only human, Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured once more.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, standing and offering him a hand to help him stand. “Does that mean that you’ll be trying to eat more regularly again, so that you and the floor do not have quite such a solid understanding with each other?”
Taking her hand, Holmes gingerly helped himself to his feet. “I think that can be arranged, Mrs. Hudson.”
She knew better than to think that all of this would solve their problems with regards to getting Holmes to eat regularly. His was a strange constitution, and though she knew he never meant to harm himself or those who loved him, she suspected it would happen again.
But she knew that it would not be intentional, and between her and Dr. Watson, surely they could keep this great man on his feet for quite a few decades more.