The boys upstairs

Home

You look up at it, a little underwhelmed.

221 Baker Street, with its unwashed windows, leaves billowing around the porch and knocker askew. You adjust that after you knock, greeted almost immediately by a short woman with greying ginger hair and a grin that told you she had seen fear and nonsense in her time. You immediately liked her.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson?" You say, adjusting your case in your hand.

"Yes hello dear- (Y/n) is it?" She says, backing off and pottering down the hallway. As you go to close the door, there is an unmistakable crash from above that has you covering your ears. Mrs Hudson doesn't even flinch.

"Oh don't mind Sherlock he's had a lot of spare time recently" she mutters absentmindedly as you smile wanly, following her into her flat. It's the sort of flat you would expect for someone like her- organised and proper, clean and feminine with a faint odour of carpet cleaner. She flicks the kettle on then gives you the tour, finishing up in your room; the West bedroom with one window. It'll do.

"Thank you" you say as she leaves. You hear her humming as she works around the flat and you make an effort to tune her out. And your own thoughts for that matter- worry buzzing around your ear like an annoying insect. Stepping to the only window, you look out onto the backstreet. You are struck by how completely unremarkable everything is.

This is where the great Sherlock and Watson lived, yet the paint on the stairs was peeling and the floorboards creaked unceremoniously at almost every step. You leave your bags and head back into the living room with its two armchairs and knitted throws. You sit on the less worn of the two then get almost instantly back to your feet.

You hadn't noticed the beautiful instrument on your first walk; it had long since been covered with a gaudy cloth and gilded photographs and wilting flowers yet there it was- a huge mahogany piano.

Without hesitating, you shift the clutter onto a coffee table, seating yourself and hovering your hands over the keys. Everything comes to mind and you pick, beginning to play from memory. The notes flow easily as you read them from inside your head, when you stop and move onto a different song. This one requires an accompaniment but you make do, feeling the music as it surrounds the flat, washing over you like warm waves.

And that's when you hear it. Quiet at first, suggestive as though a small child were wondering if they may interrupt. But it's definitely there. The sweet saw of the violin, resonating through the walls and responding to the song as the accompaniment.

You pause slightly then position yourself to play some more, adding yourself in and complimenting what is unmistakably the sound of a talented hand on a violin. You play with the stranger- though you have a good idea whom- playing together as though you had done all your life, it just seemed so natural. They stop before you do, and then you follow suit, gently laying the cover down and standing before you are hit with a hug and the strong smell of cat litter and aged perfume.

"Oh that was beautiful my dear! Oh how wonderful, how absolutely wonderful to hear you play" she sobs into your shoulder as you pat her back a little awkwardly, eventually enveloping her into your arms. It didn't matter who she was, she clearly needed a hug right now.

Finally she pulls away, wiping her eyes and apologising profusely while you gather some tissues and help her mop up. You feel bad, something had triggered this and it didn't take a genius to figure it was you.

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson" you say, helping her into a chair while she dabs at her eyes.

"I'm sorry I'm being silly" she hiccoughs and you immediately object.

"No no I didn't even ask to use the piano! I should have checked you were alright with it" you say and she shakes her head.

"I was just... so happy to hear... him play again... he hasn't... not since... Mary..." she sniffles and you offer comfort and condolences.

It is then that you hear the sound of a door closing upstairs and the rapid footfalls of an agile man coming down steep stairs. Actually two men, and by now they are knocking at your door.

Hudson looks in no position to answer it so you stand, pulling open the door before they can knock again. The thing with expectation is that it makes reality a diapointment in every sense. What was it Gatsby felt? Through no fault of her own she had failed to live up to his expectations?

You snap back into reality, observing the two gentlemen. The taller of the two is not that tall you note, with an upturned collar on his long coat, piercing blue eyes and angular face. Next to him stands a shorter man with greying hair, worn eyes and enough lines on his face that you could play noughts and crosses infinitely.

"Hello" says the taller and you blink. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is Doctor John Watson. I assume that exquisite piano playing was you? Forgive me Mrs Hudson but you've never seemed that musically inclined" says Mr Holmes and you smile properly, opening the door for them.

"Yes um hi, yeah that was me- were you playing the violin? It was lovely" You say and he smiles.

"Sorry I didn't catch your name" says Watson and you look at him.

"That's because I haven't said it yet" you remark and he sighs, entering the flat after Sherlock.

"It's (Y/n) though" you add, closing the door. "I'll make some more tea."

"I'm assuming you did this to our lovely Hudson?" Says Watson and you look over at her snuffling.

"Actually no, that was Mr Holmes" You reply.

"Sherlock will do" he says and you nod, a little embarrassed.

They sit as you work, Doctor Watson talking Mrs Hudson down as you prepare a fresh platter of tea and bring it to the table. Watson helps himself but Sherlock doesn't move.

"Now that's clever" says Sherlock quietly and you look up to see he is staring at you, perfect posture despite his tired chair, his eyes narrowed excitedly. You raise an eyebrow and he leans forward a little, so that the other two won't hear.

"I'm assuming from your travel coat full of cash and scuffed shoes that you have been moving around recently. But this is your first time here- I never forget a face. The doorbell rang nineteen minutes ago, and no one else has entered before or since so that was you."

You sip your tea as he talks, captivated by his lack of animation and shrewd thinking.

"The tea already on the table was made by Hudson, you're a guest so she wouldn't have had it any other way. You toured the apartment and played piano as she made the tea. You wouldn't have seen her prepare the drinks, yet you made no mistakes just now, choosing all the right cupboards as though you had lived here all your life. I can only assume you remembered it from the tour fourteen minutes ago but something so insignificant as where the sugar lies you shouldn't have retained. No, there's something else..." he says, and you place your cup down on the saucer with a clang which gets the attention of the other pair.

"Maybe, just maybe" you say in a voice tinged with sarcasm "I pay attention?"

Sherlock smirks and leans back. "Maybe" he says. Neither of you are convinced. You feel he is going to add something when his phone rings. He doesn't answer until the fourth ring where he rolls his eyes to the heavens.

"I am having tea Lestrade, if this is anything less than the murder of a child then I'm not interested" he drawls and you sip your tea. He blinks then turns the phone off, a little pale and adjusting his collar.

"Come on John" he says, standing briskly with Watson in tow before turning to the door where he pauses. "And you?"

It takes you a second to realise he is talking to you.

"What is it?" You reply. Yes, you were coming.

Sherlock smirks.

"The murder of a child."