Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13242903.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms, Whiskey_Tango_Foxtrot_
      (2016)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/Original_Female_Character(s), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Original
      Female_Character(s), Mycroft_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade, Mycroft_Holmes_&_Greg
      Lestrade
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Original_Watson_Character(s), John_Watson, Iain
      MacKelpie, Mrs._Hudson_(Sherlock_Holmes), Mycroft_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade,
      Mummy_(Sherlock), Sherlock_Holmes'_Father, Sherlock_Holmes'_Mother, Clara
      (Sherlock), Harry_Watson, John_Watson's_Family, Original_Female_Character
      (s), Victor_Trevor, John_Watson's_Father, Original_Morstan-Watson_Child
      (ren), Mary_Morstan, Original_Male_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Post-Series, Post-Season/Series_04, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-
      PTSD, Who_is_Hannah_Watson?, Sherlock_Being_Sherlock, Sherlock_is_Married
      to_His_Work, And_Then_He's..., SPOILERS!_NO!, Just_read, please?, Greg
      Lestrade_is_a_VERY_good_friend, Greg_Lestrade_is_a_saint, Established
      Mycroft_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade, Sherlock_Holmes_is_an_idiot, Hannah_Watson
      is_an_Idiot, Idiots_in_Love, Scotland, Scottish_characters_-_Freeform,
      The_Holmes_Clan_is_NOT_Small, Sherlock_has_a_big_family, Hannah's_family
      is_growing, Angst_and_Hurt/Comfort, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending, I_never
      thought_I'd_tag_that, I_hate_myself, I'm_Sorry, I'm_Bad_At_Tagging, I
      Don't_Even_Know, Why_Did_I_Write_This?, no_more_tags, Crossover, Borrowed
      Iain_MacKelpie_from_WTF, not_sorry, Past_Sherlock_Holmes/Victor_Trevor
  Series:
      Part 1 of Valentine_Blind, Part 6 of The_Assorted_&_Collected
      Misadventures_of_John_H._Watson,_RAMC,_MD
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-02 Completed: 2018-01-03 Chapters: 17/17 Words: 59228
****** Valentine Blind ******
by FourCornersHolmes
Summary
     Hannah Watson is a returning veteran home from the Afghanistan
     campaigns, with more nightmares, PTSD-that-isn't-quite, and emotional
     baggage than most people own pairs of shoes. Her mundane, miserable
     existence is upended very literally one day while she's out on her
     routine trip out from her flat. She runs into Sherlock Holmes and, by
     extension of that encounter, Greg Lestrade. Needless to say, Hannah's
     life is never going to be the same again. A rogue Consulting
     Detective with as many problems as she has and a heart of gold might
     just be what Hannah needs to make a difference in her life. She has
     certainly made a difference in his, even if she doesn't recall doing
     so as clearly as he does. Even if there's a history between them they
     have both forgotten.
Notes
     A Watson upholding a family legacy of service to Crown and Country
     comes to London after leaving said service. She doesn't come home,
     London has never been her home. Home is...somewhere else. Time for
     her to find where she is happiest.
     ::
     Valentine Blind was inspired by, of course, Valentine's Day, but also
     by the theory that true love is blind and most depictions of Cupid
     show them blindfolded. No road is ever smooth, and love can certainly
     be one hell of a bumpy ride.
     ::
     Rated and tagged for safety
***** Encounter In Whitechapel *****
Chapter Summary
     Returned veteran Hannah Watson lives an unexciting life in London,
     surviving a miserably predictable daily grind in a little bedsit flat
     and leaving only to make her appointments. That all changes when she
     meets Sherlock Holmes. After a close call in which she nearly gets
     herself killed in the course of a foot-chase, she takes off to bring
     the responsible party (not Sherlock, btw) to justice.
Chapter Notes
     At the start of Valentine Blind: Hannah is 44, Sherlock is 39,
     Mycroft is 49, and Lestrade is 52. Hannah sits exactly between the
     brothers in regards to age, five years dead on the mark between the
     two of them. Mycroft is 10 years older than Sherlock in this story.
     See the end notes for more.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
===============================================================================
Hannah Watson didn’t believe in things like fate, especially not since she’d
been shot and shipped home half-delirious and with no prospects. She had a fine
pension, access to counselling, and a few more medals for her dress-uniform
jackets, but…she didn’t have a job, she didn’t have stable housing, and she
didn’t have any friends or family to talk to or go to when things got rough.
So, when she woke up on the morning of December 13th, she was dreading the day
for many reasons. It was hard to motivate herself to get out of bed and prepare
for her day, but she did it.
Grabbing her bag, she slung it over her good shoulder, picked up her cane, made
sure she had her phone, and set off into the crowded, bustling streets of a
city that just didn’t feel like home. And really, London had never been home,
it was a place she had lived for a while, at different times in her life,
but…it wasn’t home. She lived in a cramped studio-flat in Whitechapel, never
left except to make her counselling appointments or get food, which almost
never got eaten, and didn’t really talk to anyone. She wasn’t even sure her
neighbours knew her name. That was fine, though. As she walked from her flat to
Aldgate East Station, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
It wasn’t until she was crossing Whitechapel High Street at Commercial Street
that anything actually happened. She was waiting for the traffic-signal when
there was a commotion behind her.
“Stop! Stop!” Someone shouted, people reacted in different ways. There was
shouting, profanities were uttered, and someone knocked into Hannah from
behind. Her balance was iffy on the best days, and this was not a good day for
her. So, when she was knocked off-balance, she went down hard. The shouts of
the bystanders took on a new tone as she stumbled off the kerb, but no one
could catch her as she stepped right into the line of traffic. Whoever had
knocked her over was long gone by now, and her only instinct was to duck and
make herself a smaller target for on-coming traffic. But before her knees
touched the asphalt, she was dragged backwards. She landed hard on the
pavement, and she didn’t think she’d hit her head, but Hannah wasn’t sure the
man kneeling over her was real, either. One hand cradled her head, to keep her
from getting a concussion, and one knee was between her thighs.
“Are you alright?” She hadn’t expected his voice to sound like that, it was in
the middle of the baritone register, smooth and almost soothing. There was a
clipped tone to it, a breathless quality. Had he been the one shouting just
now?
“What?”
“Are you alright?” He repeated the question, more slowly, “I do hate repeating
myself.”
“No, no. I…I’m fine. I’m…alright.” She coughed, “No, I’m fine.”
“Good. Stay.” With that, he was up on his feet and shouting at someone behind
them, “Lestrade! Take care of her! I’ll be right back!”
“Wait! Sherlock! Don’t…fuck, there he goes.” And in the time it took her to
blink, her mysterious saviour was gone in a whirl of motion, coattails flaring
and giving his coat the appearance of a cape as he took off after asking Hannah
which way she thought she had seen her assailant go.
“Er, that way, I think? He’s…you’re not going to catch him!”
“Watch me!” She could have sworn he winked at her before disappearing. The
adrenaline was still pumping and Hannah was jumpy. It didn’t take long before
she was surrounded. A tall, grey-haired gentleman stood in front of her,
getting to one knee so he could see her and she could see him.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little winded is all.” She leaned her head back, “Who
was that?”
“Which one?”
“The tall one.”
“Oh, that’s my brother-in-law.” The man smirked and took her hand, pressing two
fingers to her wrist, “Do I need an ambulance for you?”
“No, I shouldn’t think so.” She shook her head and looked for the tall
stranger, “What’s his name?”
“Sherlock Holmes. If you haven’t heard his name before, you’ve either been out
of town or living under a very large rock.”
“Sherlock…Holmes.” She tried the name, it was familiar. She didn’t know why,
but it was a name she knew.
“Did you happen to see which way he went?”
“That way.” She pointed down Commercial Street to her left, “But your wanted
man went straight.”
“Oh, that moron. If he gets into a scrape, I’m going to have some words for
him.” The Yarder huffed, clearly annoyed with Holmes’s behaviour. “Can you
stand?”
“I think so. Give me a hand?”
“Yeah, sure.” He got up, held out one hand, and gave her both when she asked.
“Sorry, bad days like this my knee locks up.” 
“You’re kind of young for that sort of trouble, aren’t you?”
“Might be.”
“On three, then?”
“On three.” She tightened her grip on his arms, grateful he wasn’t questioning
her need for a little patience and an extra hand. The cold weather always made
her aches and pains that much worse, today was absolutely no exception. She
counted in her head, he counted out loud, and on the count of three, they got
her back to her feet. She groaned as she got her feet under her and brushed off
her jeans. She’d lost her cane somewhere in the chaos, which was just one thing
of many that weren’t looking very good for today. Suddenly, from somewhere
distant of them, she heard a yell. It sounded like Holmes. She had no idea
where he might have been in the vicinity that she was able to hear him shout,
but her body was still in flight-or-fight mode and her brain kicked over from
the instinct to protect herself to the instinct to protect others. Before she
could remind her stupid body of two very important things, neither of which
were really that important just momentarily, she turned in the direction of the
shout she’d heard and took one step away from the kind police officer. He was
probably a detective, a senior detective no less, high on the ladder but still
with both feet firmly in the field.
“Where are you going?”
“I heard something.” She listened, separating different levels of ambient sound
around her. “I think we have a problem.”
“Oh, not you, too! Hang on!” He tried to make a grab for her, but she was
already on the move. Hannah let instinct guide her steps and after two blocks,
her body remembered how to run and she was sprinting. She felt nothing thanks
to the adrenaline, and she didn’t have time to worry about the excruciating
pain she would be in later as she tore around a corner and caught up with
Holmes. She saw the suspect ahead of him and when he ducked right, Holmes lost
him and went straight. Hannah groaned and went right. She took a hard corner,
swung close to the wall, and came upon the runner. He didn’t see her, didn’t
know she was behind him, and she tackled him from behind, taking him to ground
in a side-street between Brick Lane and Code Street. They rolled and tussled a
bit, but she had fought men his size and bigger and ended up pinning him face-
down, both arms pulled behind in a full-nelson hold, and was sitting on him to
hold him down when Holmes came tearing around the corner.
“Oh my god! Where did you come from?”
“Where you left me.” She grunted as the suspect under her bucked. “You, knock
it off! You could have gotten me killed, you fucker, so stay still or I’ll
break both your arms!”
“You couldn’t break me in two, girlie!” The man huffed.
“Sir, I’m the one who’s sitting on your back. Believe me, I can do that and far
worse.” To prove her point, she put specific pressure on his right arm and he
yelled.
“Okay, okay! I won’t! Please!”
“That’s better.” She patted him on the shoulder with one hand and put her
weight down in strategic places. Sirens sounded moments later and she looked at
Holmes, who was breathing hard and wild-eyed with the rush of a good foot-
chase.
“What do you want to bet that’s your cop buddy?”
“Oh, that’s him. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” She grinned up at the tall man who had saved her from getting hit
by traffic back on Whitechapel High Street, “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Saving me. You pulled me out of traffic before I could get hurt, maybe
killed.”
“I don’t think my brother would be too pleased if he found out that you had
gotten yourself killed or seriously injured in a traffic accident.” Holmes
paced a bit, looking at his phone, “I guarantee he saw it all on the CCTV
cameras, I’m almost surprised he hasn’t called looking for you.”
“Why would your brother care what happens to me? I don’t have any family or
friends in London.”
“My brother is the one who got you the Victoria Cross and the Conspicuous
Gallantry Cross. And quite likely the rest of your decorations, merits, and
orders.” Holmes looked up as a gang of police descended on them, “He would have
seen you granted a Damehood if he’d been able to get away with it.”
“Who is your brother?”
“My brother is Mycroft Holmes. You and I have met at least once before this,
Captain Watson.”
“Mycroft…Mycroft Holmes?” She tilted her head, “Wait a minute.”
“Six months before you were shot outside of a village in Helmand, you risked
your life and that of your entire squad to rescue a diplomat from a caravan
that had come under enemy fire. You carried him, by yourself and with a
shrapnel fragment in your leg, four miles to a village you knew was friendly to
ISAF forces to get help. It took three days to get a chopper out to airlift you
and your men, and another three weeks before you let them airlift the diplomat
to Germany.” He helped her up as a few constables came to collect the suspect,
“You never asked his name, never cared about who he was or where he had come
from, what business he had in Afghanistan to begin with, to you he was someone
with a family somewhere, people who cared about him and would miss him if
something went wrong.”
“I found a picture of you in his pocket and asked him who you were. I knew you
were important to him, men like that don’t just carry random pictures.” Hannah
brushed off her jeans, “He told me you were his brother, younger by ten years
and with a head for the worst kind of trouble. I told him he didn’t have much
room to talk, given his current condition. I gave him back the photograph and
told him to take care with it and with you. I didn’t have much of a family to
miss me, but he did, and I would make sure he got back to them.”
“He did. Spent two months in a private hospital in Scotland, three months
recovering in the family seat, and returned to London a changed man.”
“I remember your brother, but I didn’t know who he was at the time. My guys
thought he was dead when we found him, but I knew he wasn’t, I did everything I
could to save his life.”
“You saved my life, too, Captain. A year before you saved my brother’s.”
“I remember yours better than his.” She sniffed and looked up at the sky,
“High-profile mission, blacked out, not even a name, dark entry to the location
and orders to fire-bomb the place off the map when we were done. You were
delirious when we found you, skinny as a rail, desperately in need of a shower
and a barber, and a good doctor on top of that. You asked me…”
“If you were an angel.” He took her hand, “Thank you, Captain.”
“You need to stop getting yourself into trouble, Mr Holmes. Or at least get
into trouble you don’t need me getting you out of.”
“You’ve been following the papers.”
“Absolutely.” She turned his hand over in hers, “You’re a bit of a posh idiot,
absolutely no manners at all, and no filter. One of the smartest men in London,
a perfect target. But you’re still here and the people who tried to ruin
you…aren’t.”
“Sherlock!” The senior detective came up to them, “Christ, you bloody moron!
Don’t run off like that, alright? I can’t keep track of you like I used to!”
“I’m sorry, Lestrade. But we got you your man.”
“Yeah, you did. Thanks for that.”
“Well.” Holmes made a face and looked at Hannah, “Watson did.”
“You’re Watson?” He turned to her, something flashed across his face so quick
she nearly missed it. This was the husband. She remembered him saying that
Sherlock was his brother-in-law, which made him Mycroft’s husband.
“Gregory Lestrade, allow me to introduce Hannah Watson. Watson, this is
Lestrade. He is a Detective Chief Inspector with The Met, one of their best and
certainly their smartest.”
“But not much to be said about the rest of his division?”
“Not much to be said about the rest of his division.”
“Oh my god. You’re Hannah Watson!” And there was that moment of recognition.
“Jesus Christ, I never thought I’d get to meet you! Thank you, Captain! Thank
you so much, for everything!”
“You’re welcome, Inspector.” She knew what he was thanking her for.
“My God, you look so much like your pictures it’s…eerie. I mean, you’re
supposed to, I know, but…I should have known you back on Commercial Street. You
look just the same.”
“I don’t look at all like I used to.”
“Of course you do! Maybe not in uniform, Captain, but you have that air to you,
that look. Same stance, same bearing.”
“You’re being very kind, Inspector.” Hannah felt a troubling twinge in her
shoulder, “But thank you for the kindness.”
“You don’t need an ambulance after all, do you?”
“No, no. I don’t. This is just…”
“The run stressed your knee, and that spectacular take-down stressed your
shoulder. And the tumble earlier was no good to you, either.” Holmes frowned,
“Still hasn’t quite healed, has it?”
“Bad weather and excessive physical activity will always make it worse.” She
rubbed her shoulder, regretting her silly decision to run a little over half a
mile, “Today was a day of both things in surplus and it’s not even eleven.”
“I’ll get your statements later if you don’t mind coming down to the station
tomorrow?” Lestrade looked from Holmes to Hannah, seeming to understand an
unspoken signal she wasn’t sure if she had given or Holmes had. Or if they both
had? Possibly.
“Sure. I don’t have anything else on tomorrow.”
“Great. Thanks for your help, you two. And thanks for this, and everything
else, Captain.” Lestrade took her hand again, “It’s really, really great to
finally meet you properly.”
“Of course, Inspector.” She shook hands with Lestrade, suspecting this was not
the last time she would see him, or in this capacity. Once the police had
cleared out of the area, Hannah looked around.
“Where are we?”
“Brick Lane is in that direction.” Holmes pointed west, “Can you manage a short
walk?”
“Should be able to. If I had a half an idea what the hell had happened to my
cane, I’d be much happier.”
“You must have lost it in the excitement after I pulled you out of the street.
I’m very sorry about that.”
“It’s alright, I can replace it. Easier to replace things than people, anyway.”
She sighed and followed him around to Brick Lane where a black government car
waited at the kerb, idling and intimidating. Hannah sighed and looked at
Holmes.
“You didn’t call him, did you?”
“I never said anything. I told you, he saw everything happen, he knows where we
are.” Sherlock held the door for her, “After you, Captain.”
“Ta.” She ducked and slid into the warm, dry interior, “Much nicer than a cab.
Where are we going?”
“Back to mine.” Holmes sat next to her on the bench and pressed a button on the
armrest once they were on their way, “Baker Street, Charles, if you don’t
mind.”
“Of course, Mr Holmes. Busy morning, I take it?”
“A bit, yes. If he asks, you can tell Mycroft everything.”
“Of course, sir.” The driver touched his cap and it was quiet for the rest of
the drive.
                                      -&-
Thirty minutes later, the car slowed to a stop and Sherlock got out. The driver
held the door for them and gave Hannah a hand out.
“Ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She stood on the pavement and looked up at the house. She had
never been here, but it felt a bit like she thought a home ought to.
“Captain.” Holmes stood by the door, waiting for her, so she shuffled into the
house. He locked up behind her once she was in and shouted for someone as he
went through the foyer and up a set of stairs. “Mrs Hudson! Company!”
“A client, dear?”
“Not this time. Tea?”
“In a moment, Sherlock. In a moment.” A woman poked her head out of a doorway
and watched them, “Who is it?”
“A friend of my brother’s.”
“Oh, lovely!” Then she was gone again.
“Who was that?” Hannah asked as she made her slow, painful way up the stairs.
“That’s Mrs Hudson, my landlady. She keeps this house for me.”
“She seems very kind.”
“She is very kind. And exceptionally patient. She should like you just fine.”
Holmes helped her up the last of seventeen steps and ushered her into a rather
chaotic-looking flat. There was stuff everywhere, stacks of books and papers,
odd memorabilia scattered around. Filing boxes full of manila folders were
stacked with lids askew, a glass case displayed a collection of pinned
butterflies and a taxidermied bat alongside an in-tact human skull on the
mantle. By the windows overlooking the street was a work-table cluttered with
more papers and a laptop. There was a music-stand with a few sheets of what
looked like hand-written music on it, and on the table beside it was a violin.
Behind her was the kitchen, which was just as cluttered as the rest of the
place, the table being used as a chemistry bench if the array of graduated
cylinders, Petri dishes, and test-tubes was any sign of it, nevermind the
official-looking microscope.
She sat down in a faded red armchair and groaned as her body objected to the
unwanted exercise.
“Here.” A hand on her shoulder was her unwitting host, “Here, take this. You’ll
feel much better.”
“Take what?”
“Head back, and open. Trust me.” He had a medicine dropper in one hand,
something inside.
“What is it? Codeine?” She had to be careful with narcotics, certain types
knocked her right over on her ass and she was known to sleep almost twelve
hours in a go. He touched her jaw and she let him give her whatever it was. The
taste was, of course, awful. He gave her water next.
“No, that’s something a bit stronger.” He moved around her and went to start a
fire in the hearth to warm the room a bit more. “You may feel a bit lucid and
drowsy, don’t be afraid to fall asleep.”
“Roger that.” So, something better than Codeine. She went over a list of every
pain-killer and pain-reliever she knew of that came in liquid suspension and
raised an eyebrow.
“Did you just give me Roxanol?”
“Mhm.”
“I’m moving to the couch, in that case.” She got up and shuffled to the couch,
sitting down again and feeling that fuzzy, loopy sensation. “Stuff acts fast on
me.”
“That’s alright. I’ll be here.” Holmes finished what he was doing and she slid
sideways on the couch, curling up. It didn’t take long for the Roxanol to kick
in and she drifted off to the sound of quiet violin music. That original piece
she’d seen earlier? Perhaps. A blanket was put down to keep her warm, which was
very kind of him, and Hannah slept undisturbed.
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     For streamlining, I've tagged everyone with the actor's RP
     birthdates, making a couple of modifications where necessary.
     Therefore Hannah Watson's birthday is 1 April 1971 (yep, she's an
     April Fool's baby); Sherlock Holmes's birthday is 19 July 1976
     (which, by no coincidence, happens to be Benedict Cumberbatch's
     birthday. So sue me.); and Mycroft Holmes was born 11 December 1966
     (Mark Gatiss's DOB is 17 October 1966, but canon/fanon puts Mycroft's
     birthday on 11 December 1973. I combined the day/month of Mycroft's
     birthday with Mark Gatiss's birth-month. Works for me.); and dear
     Lestrade sits pretty at 3 August 1963 (canon/fanon says DOB: 3 August
     1970, and Rupert Graves's DOB is 30 June 1963. See what I did with
     Mycroft's DOB for this story, same concept with Lestrade. He's the
     old man of the group.)
***** Baker Street *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock opens his home to Hannah and contemplates a future that
     doesn't preclude being alone anymore.
Chapter Notes
     We meet a couple of familiar faces and a new one. Sherlock isn't a
     heartless machine anymore, and Hannah Watson might be a weakness.
===============================================================================
As Hannah Watson slept on his couch, Sherlock Holmes went about his usual
business. He had been following Watson for almost a year, had interacted with
her several times, but never had a chance to properly introduce himself to her.
He doubted she remembered him, anyway, their last proper encounter had been
several years ago and very brief. But then, when she had taken down a suspect
for him, she had mentioned taking care of Mycroft in Afghanistan, finding the
picture in his brother’s pocket. She did remember, and rather well. This was
the least he could do to repay her for everything. Mrs Hudson came up with tea
and just cooed sadly when he explained Hannah’s predicament to her.
“Well, if she needs a place to lay her head, she can come here. I’ll go get
that upstairs room cleaned up.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
“That girl deserves more than a dry, clean room, you know.”
“I know, Mrs Hudson.” He let his landlady go upstairs and as soon as the
upstairs bedroom was ready, which didn’t take very long, he carried Hannah
upstairs and put her to bed properly, removing her shoes and jumper before he
tucked her in, even going as far as removing her trousers so she slept in pants
and vest. He found a charger for her phone and plugged it in at the bedside,
setting a glass of water and some soda-crackers next to it for when she woke up
again. He had given her the smallest prescribed dose of Roxanol, knowing it
would take her down quickly, but she needed the rest and the relief. Sure she
would sleep until the drug wore off, which would be anywhere between six and
twelve hours, he left her alone and went back downstairs. He was not surprised
to find his brother in the sitting-room, looking rather tired and quite
concerned.
“Sherlock.”
“Mycroft.”
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs. She was not injured beyond what she came home with, brother, don’t
worry yourself. She should be able to sleep it off.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
“For what?”
“Bringing her to Baker Street.” His brother shook his head grimly, “I have
arranged for her things to be moved if she agrees to living here, which I
suspect she will as she is in dire need of a better flat.”
“She lost something while she was chasing down my suspect, but I can replace it
with something far better.” He thought of the cane she had lost, and how her
limp was nearly completely psychosomatic. It would take some time to get rid of
the limp, if she would let him.
“She ran half a mile at a sprint this morning, it was only in the aftermath
that she realized she had lost it.”
“I found and recovered her cane for her.”
“She will be very grateful, it was clear she was suffering.” Sherlock took the
offered item, “I had to dose her with Roxanol.”
“That was a risky gamble, Sherlock.”
“A risk I was willing to take.” He sat down in his chair, setting Hannah’s cane
by the side-table as his brother went into the kitchen and fixed tea. “She has
a history of black-out episodes after taking morphine drugs, I will happily
fill in any gaps in her memory when she wakes up.”
“You’ve changed, Sherlock.” Mycroft came out minutes later with two cups of tea
and handed him one before taking the red armchair for himself.
“You have, too.” Sherlock twirled a biro between his fingers, realizing
belatedly it belonged to Hannah. Where had he gotten it from? Her bag, perhaps?
“Is that hers?”
“I believe it is. I haven’t a clue how I got it.” He shrugged. It was quiet for
a while as they spoke of other matters. Setting his cup aside when it was
empty, he got to his feet.
“If we need something of you, brother, I guarantee you will know before we come
to you for aid.”
“Of course. Be well, Sherlock.” Mycroft got to his feet, brolly in hand,
smoothing his overcoat with one hand, “You and Captain Watson both.”
“And you, brother. Goodbye, Mycroft.” He saw his brother to the street and
waited until the black car was out of sight to go back inside. Out of instinct,
he looked up to the cameras he knew were placed on Baker Street, one under the
eaves of Speedy’s, another under the eaves directly across the street, and a
third on the light-post. Those cameras were there for his protection, and now
for Hannah Watson’s. Going back into the house, he locked the door behind him,
touching the butt of the pistol tucked into a concealed-carry holster in the
back waistband of his trousers for reassurance. He knew of the SIG Sauer L105A1
Watson carried in her waistband for similar protection. But unlike his, hers
was not permitted or registered. She had simply retained it after her discharge
from the Army and no one had bothered to reclaim it. He suspected that had
something to do with his brother’s interfering ways, so perhaps it was
permitted if not registered. He personally preferred a custom-built Browning
L9A1.
Going up to the flat, he closed the door but did not lock it and cleaned up a
bit. He reorganized several stacks of paperwork, disposing of two bags of
shredded material, did the wash-up in the kitchen, and cleared out the fridge
of the worst of expired goods. After some house-keeping to make the place a bit
more liveable and appealing, he grabbed his mobile and wallet and shrugged into
his coat as he went down the stairs after leaving a note for Hannah on the bed-
side table and a text to her phone just in case she woke up for some reason
while he was out.
“Going out, Mrs Hudson!” He called as he opened the door.
“Now where are you going?”
“Needing a few things for the flat, won’t be out long. Might stop by Bart’s to
visit Molly, she had some things for me to collect.”
“You know the rules, young man.” His landlady shook a finger at him and
disappeared back into her flat as he went out. His first stop was to the Tesco
Express down at Melcombe Street, and he took everything back to the flat,
putting it away in the proper places before leaving again for Barts. He spent a
few hours in Molly’s lab, working on a few experiments he was keeping there,
asked after Molly and how she was getting on.
It had been a year since his sister had overturned everyone’s lives, but things
had long since settled back into some semblance of a normal routine, and Molly
had moved on with her life rather nicely. She had a steady girlfriend, a far
cry from the questionable characters she had dated for some time, and Sherlock
had met and approved of the woman. Annika Gabriel was one of Lestrade’s people,
a sweet-natured sergeant with ambitions to work her way to the top, and
currently worked in SO6 as an officer of Parliamentary and Diplomatic
Protection, guarding 10 Downing Street as a member of the security staff
assigned to the Prime Minister’s residence. There was a bit of hero-worship
where Sherlock was concerned, but that was standard these days. But Molly and
Sergeant Gabriel never treated him like a high-pedestal god-figure, he was very
human to them and very fallible, but they respected him and enjoyed his work.
Never mind that Sergeant Gabriel had an alarmingly dry sense of humour and a
great wit, she was perfect for Molly. When Gabriel arrived while he was working
on a time-sensitive experiment, which at one time in his life would have been
very annoying to him, he checked his results and set things aside for a bit to
talk to her.
“Sergeant Gabriel.”
“Mr Holmes.” She leaned against the bench, “Heard you were up to your usual
stunts this morning over in Whitechapel. Got a civilian involved, did you?”
“She involved herself, I’m afraid. And I suspect she isn’t quite a civilian.”
He grinned, knowing Gabriel was talking about Hannah Watson’s take-down,
“You’ve spoken to Lestrade, then?”
“The whole department’s buzzing. There’s some water-cooler talk you might be
losing your touch if a civilian got your mark down before you did.”
“For a wounded veteran, she moved rather nimbly, I’m afraid she was a bit more
observant than I at a critical moment and I was forced to double-back after
losing the suspect.”
“It’s a she?”
“Her name is Hannah Watson.”
“Ooh! The soldier!”
“The soldier.” Gabriel knew about the whole mess in Sulana, and the incident in
Maiwand that had gotten Hannah sent home. And she knew about Serbia. 
“Oh, never mind then! Good for you, Holmes!” Gabriel grinned, “What’s she
like?”
“As sharp as I remember, and in desperate need of a few basic comforts.”
“Poor thing. No family, then?”
“None she’ll talk to, that we’re aware of. She does have a sister, but their
relationship is uncertain at best. I believe she has cousins as well, but that
relationship is…unknown. I know nothing.”
“That’s unfortunate. Well, trust you to get her back on her feet, then. Be good
to her, alright?”
“I doubt I could ever give her enough to repay her for all the things she’s
done for us.” Sherlock turned back to his experiment to check on it. It was no
secret that he and Mycroft had never really gotten along well, but the last few
years had brought them much closer and made it very clear that his brother had
been quite wrong all those years about emotional attachments: “Emotion is a
weakness, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Those words had
almost ruined them both in different ways. But he had always possessed a few
friends, a very small circle of more-than-acquaintances. And in spite of
everything, one of those friends was now family. He had just finished recording
the final results and was cleaning up the experiment when Molly came in with a
small cooler in hand.
“Hi, Sherlock! Sorry I took so long!”
“No worry, Molly, you were rather busy. I kept myself occupied.”
“Oh, good. Here, this is for you.” She set the cooler down next to his
computer, “There’s a few surprises for you, I got a very interesting autopsy
that kept me and the deceased donated their body to science. I couldn’t think
of anyone better to take the donations.”
“You’re a dear thing, Molly.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, “Thank
you.”
“Whatever keeps that great mind of yours busy, Sherlock. Is Annie keeping you
company?”
“She just arrived, very good company as always.” He collected his things and
checked his phone for messages. “So, I will leave you, ladies.”
“Thanks for coming by, Sherlock. It was great to see you.” Molly hugged him,
“Heard about your morning, you’ll have to fill me in over drinks some time.”
“If you insist.”
“Oh, as if you mind Pub Nights!” Gabriel scolded, “You’d better come to the
next one, Holmes! I’ll buy the first round if you do.”
“Time and place, Gabriel, you know the rules.” He wagged a finger at Molly’s
girlfriend, “I may have some company if that’s alright.”
“Of course it’s alright! Anyone is welcome to join us, the more the merrier!”
“Then we’ll be there.” He was thinking of Watson, and how she might benefit
from a night in good company. If he wasn’t mistaken, the next Pub Night they
had on schedule was a week from now, which was enough time for Watson to make
up her mind about moving into Baker Street, and get her affairs otherwise
settled. He would extend the invitation at the soonest, just as a lure to get
her out of her little bedsit and into like-minded company. In his limited
experience, soldiers and law-enforcement generally got on alright together.
Taking the cooler and his notebook, he left Bart’s and returned to Baker
Street. A small dinner of sandwiches and tea was enough to satisfy him and he
spent the night working a series of low-key experiments and composing on his
violin, having a care for his guest asleep upstairs and checking on her every
two hours or so to see that she maintained her drug-induced sleep. He didn’t
need additional dosages, she slept well on the one he’d given her. That was
promising. She needed a break, so desperately.
===============================================================================
 
***** Partners In (Solving) Crime *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock learns a bit more about Hannah, who's not quite what she
     seems. He likes what he sees, and wonders how to...help. There's a
     chapter of Hannah's history that he very MUCH does not like, but he
     will only intervene if she asks him to. She has so much potential,
     she just has to realise that those ugly little voices don't warrant
     the attention she gives them.
Chapter Notes
     Hannah and Sherlock call each other "Holmes" and "Watson" as a matter
     of respect and, possibly, out of laziness. It's not that Sherlock
     can't be bothered to remember Hannah's first name, he just doesn't
     feel comfortable calling her "Hannah" all the time. So, "Holmes" and
     "Watson" it is!
===============================================================================
Hannah Watson was no stranger to waking up from a morphine sleep, but it was
very disorienting to find herself in a strange room. An unfortunate side-effect
of taking Morphine in any form was memory lapses. They always happened,
regardless of dosage or method of delivery. It never mattered when she slept,
but she hated having almost no recall of what had happened prior to taking the
drug. Wherever she was currently, it was warm and she was alone. Sitting up
carefully, she swung her legs around and put her feet on the floor, or at least
off the side of the bed, the frame was a bit high and her feet didn’t quite
touch the floor. But that didn’t keep her from conducting a quick but thorough
self-exam. She had not been touched or violated in her sleep, which was a
relief. Where was she, then? And how had she gotten here? Someone had taken
care of her, had undressed her down to pants and vest and put her to bed. The
room itself was about the size of her bedsit, maybe a bit larger. The bed was a
double, with clean, soft sheets of a higher quality than she was used to, a
comforter in a blue duvet-cover, and a few quilts that looked handmade. Her
clothes were folded on a chair nearby and a cup of tea sat on the bedside table
next to a glass of water and a couple of homeopathics for inflammation.
On closer inspection, she discovered that her clothes had been laundered, every
piece of it, including what she currently wore. What on earth? She took the
homeopathics right away, drank all of the water, and picked up the tea, giving
it a suspicious sniff. It seemed alright, fixed the way she took hers. Whoever
was her unwitting host knew enough about her to know how she took her bloody
tea? Right, then. Well, it was unlikely she was in any real danger, and she
drank the tea. There was something just a bit off about it and she took a
careful sip. No poison, but…protein powder? Interesting. After drinking the
tea, Hannah found a water-closet at the end of the hall and made sure no one
was around before taking the opportunity to answer the call of nature. Then,
she returned to the well-maintained room and got dressed. Her watch, her phone,
and a bedside alarm-clock told her it was nearly eight in the morning. Morning?
She had lost almost a whole day to sleep. Roxanol was known to do that. She sat
on the bed and pieced her missing hours together.
Yesterday had started as every day did when she had the energy and the drive to
get out of bed in the morning, she had gone on her daily sojourn to Aldgate
East Station but hadn’t ever gotten there. She remembered a close call with a
speeding car on Commercial Street, which had somehow led to her running – no,
sprinting – a little over half a mile in pursuit of a runaway suspect on the
lam from The Met and tackling said suspect in an abandoned alleyway by a
disused Tube station in Brick Lane, which had apparently surprised a couple of
people who were involved. She remembered meeting Sherlock Holmes, and through
him Greg Lestrade, and piecing together that Sherlock was the brother of
Mycroft Holmes and that yesterday had not been the first time she had met the
younger Holmes sibling. It had been the first time she’d properly met Greg
Lestrade, but not Sherlock Holmes. Was she in Holmes’s flat? She seemed to
recall going back to his after Lestrade had summarily dismissed the two of them
from the scene of her remarkable take-down, which her body had punished her for
but she had no regrets over.
 
An unusual sound got her attention and she looked to the door, which she had
left propped open a bit. That was a violin, played rather well by her
standards. Holmes owned a violin, and a rather nice one if she remembered
right. She remembered snatches of a song intruding on her hazy somnolence
before losing all awareness, but that was one of her few clear memories before
going blank. Despite the Roxanol, which had done its job, she was still quite
sore and knew she was going to need her cane, but she had lost it back at the
start of this mad adventure. Or…wait a minute, there it was. It was leaning
against the night-stand, how had she missed it before? Probably because she
hadn’t been looking for it. Well, that was a fancy thing. How she hated the
miserable piece of metal, but it was a sad necessity for her. Taking the stupid
thing in hand, she got to her feet and made her slow, careful way downstairs.
Peeking into the sitting-room, she was witness to a remarkable sight that
seemed so strangely domestic and yet…so very normal. She had never set foot
anywhere near this house, but it felt more like home than anywhere she’d been
in the past year.
At the moment, Holmes was standing by the windows she recalled looked out over
Baker Street, back to the room, the violin tucked under his chin and his head
tilted to the instrument as he coaxed rather lovely music from the carefully-
tended strings. She looked around and noticed how clean the room was. She
seemed to remember it being rather messy and cluttered, rather well lived-in if
she had to put a word on it. A bit of disorganized chaos that only made sense
to the man who called this place home. There weren’t as many stacks of papers
about, and it looked like some dusting had been done, too. What got her
attention, though, was the red chair. Sitting innocuously on the side-table was
a steaming cup of fresh tea and a plate of toast with jam. The toast was a
little burnt, which explained the slightly acrid tang on the air, but it was
the thought that counted. She chuckled, still trying to get her head on right
and a bit adrift. That was all very normal after a dose of Roxanol. She sat
down in the chair and watched him.
“You should eat that, for your own sake.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shrugged and picked up the plate, “I suppose I might be
grateful you didn’t accidentally burn the flat down.”
“I nearly did once.”
“I’d say it’s hard to get toast wrong, but that would be a very sorry lie.”
Hannah smiled and nibbled on the toast and sipped at the tea, fixed just the
same way as the cup she’d found waiting for her upstairs. After a bit more
play, Holmes scribbled on a sheet of music and set the violin down after
loosening the strings.
“Anything on today, then?”
“Only a visit to The Met to give our statements to Lestrade on yesterday’s
events. You do remember, don’t you?”
“Enough to give a decent statement.” She shrugged, “The lapses aren’t as bad if
I sleep it off like I did. How long was I out?”
“Oh, I would give you a good thirty-two hours.”
“Oh damn.” Hannah raised an eyebrow, “The Roxanol must have worn off while I
was asleep, but my body never kicked over into waking stages until morning.”
“Which means you’re still on a semi-regular sleep-schedule.”
“And that’s fine. At least I didn’t have any nightmares.” She looked around,
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get this business with The Met
out of the way before it gets too late.”
“After you, then, Captain.” He helped her to her feet and led the way
downstairs and out to the street, where he hailed a taxi like magic. It was a
quiet ride from Baker Street to The Met, and when they got to The Met, he paid
the fare and led the way to Lestrade’s office. She just followed his lead since
she had never had any business with The Met before this that required her to
visit in person. Hannah hadn’t really paid much attention yesterday, but this
morning, she took notice of a tension in the place that struck her as odd.
People gave Holmes strange looks, a few were outright hostile. She knew he
wasn’t an angel to work with, but that didn’t quite warrant the hostility, did
it?
                                      -&-
When the cab dropped them off at The Met, Sherlock led Watson into the
building, through the checkpoints, and up to the Homicide and Major Crimes
offices. Unfortunately, he had to deal with Sally Donovan when he got there,
and she always had something delightfully nasty to say to him. He was numb to
most of it by now, but she always had some barb ready for him no matter if he
had seen her just yesterday or two weeks ago. So when she got in his way, he
braced himself for something potentially unpleasant.
“Oh, look who it is. Get bored, Holmes? Just couldn’t stay away, could you? We
don’t have any work for you right now, so you don’t need to be here.”
“I’m here on business, Donovan, if you don’t mind. Is Lestrade in yet?”
“Yeah, up in his office. Heard about yesterday. Must be losing your touch, eh?”
The dark-skinned DI smirked, “Bested by a civilian? Had to hurt your pride a
bit, didn’t it?”
“My pride suffered a far lesser bruising than the woman who ended up stopping
the suspect in one rather spectacular take-down. I’m sure you’ve heard all
about it by now, yeah?”
“Whole division’s talking about it, whole department’s talking about it,
Holmes. Been a while since someone else stole your thunder.” She grinned cat-
like and mean, “What a blow to your ego.”
“I’m not a machine, I can’t predict everything at every moment, and the suspect
made an unexpected diversion. My associate either saw or predicted the
manoeuvre and cut after him before I had a chance to double back.” He noticed
Watson’s body-language, she was not pleased with the way Donovan was talking to
him. Interesting, but not unexpected given their history. “She has as much
reason to want him in handcuffs as we did, seeing as he nearly got her killed
yesterday.”
“Oh? You nearly got someone killed, then?”
“Not me, Donovan! The suspect pushed her into traffic and she would have been
severely injured or even killed, but I pulled her to safety before going after
the suspect. She came after us, I didn’t realize until I found her sitting on
the suspect’s back.” He stepped around the woman, “Excuse us, please.”
“Wait, wait. Who’s this?” Donovan blocked Hannah’s way, “You must truly be
desperate if you have a shadow, Holmes.”
“Ah. Hannah Watson, Sally Donovan.” He introduced the two and waited. After the
take-down, after yesterday’s chaos and her thirty-three hours of downtime and
recovery, Watson wasn’t likely to stand for any flak from Donovan, but she
wouldn’t lay a physical blow in a police precinct. Hannah sized up Donovan,
circling the woman. Coming back to face Donovan, who was a few inches taller
due to the heeled shoes she wore for work, or whoever she was trying to woo
this time with varying degrees of success, Watson raised an eyebrow, opened her
mouth, and laid out the most beautifully devastating series of deductions about
Donovan Sherlock had ever heard. As she finished, she stepped around Donovan
with a dismissive flick of one hand.
“So, I don’t think you have a whole lot of room to be passing judgment on the
likes of Sherlock Holmes, Donovan. Makes you a bit of a hypocrite, and nobody
likes a hypocrite. So, in the future, for your sake, keep your mouth shut and
spare yourself the embarrassment.” Then she was gone, leaving Donovan gaping
like a fish out of water. Sherlock was floored. All his life he’d been too
smart, too observant. It made his job fairly simple, nine times of ten, and he
could read a whole crime-scene in ten minutes, five for a contained,
uncontaminated scene. He had never thought for a minute that there might be
someone else like him. There was little in Watson’s records to indicate above-
average intelligence. Well…no, that was incorrect and an insult to the woman
making her way towards his brother-in-law’s office. But that was for later, not
right this minute. He filed it away carefully, along with the pang of hope that
he’d finally found his equal, his intellectual match.
“Donovan.” He patted the stunned woman on the shoulder and went to steer Hannah
in the right direction. It didn’t take long for the bullpen to erupt with the
slighted inspector’s indignation.
“Oh, are you fucking kidding me! There’s two of them now? You can’t possibly be
serious, the one is bad enough! No way we’ll put up with two!”
“Oh, what now, Donovan?” And there was Lestrade.
“You can’t do this to us! It’s not fair! We already put up with Holmes, we
shouldn’t have to put up with his little pet, too!”
“Oh, I take it you met Doctor Watson, then? Sorry, Donovan. She’s one of
Holmes’s people, my hands are tied.”
“No, they are not! You cannot let her onto our scenes, I won’t let you! You
can’t!”
“No, you misunderstand.” And here it comes. “She’s not one of Sherlock’s
people, Donovan, she’s one of my husband’s people. My hands. Are tied. Muscle
up, buttercup, there’s room enough in the sandbox for everybody. Play nice with
the other kids.”
“Oh, you have got to be off your rocker! You can’t be serious?”
“I am very serious, Donovan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a case I’m on and
I need to speak to the witnesses and the victim. Back to work.” It didn’t take
long for Lestrade to appear in the doorway of his office. “Making friends and
influencing people, Watson?”
“I can give as good as I get, sir.”
“Obviously. Nice job with Donovan, but mind your step.”
“I can handle it. I’m not an employee of The Met, I doubt I’ll be getting pay
for any work I do, so she has no jurisdiction over me.”
“You’ll be an interesting addition to the team.” Lestrade sat down at his desk,
“So, our fleet-footed assailant, one Mr Skip Billings, won’t talk. Asked for a
barrister and refused to answer questions.”
“I figured he might.” Sherlock sighed, “Well, we have enough to charge him with
premeditated murder, never mind the assault and endangerment charges he racked
up yesterday. He won’t be seeing the streets of London again for quite a
while.”
“Ever.” Lestrade passed over the paperwork, “Mycroft was not a happy man when
he got home yesterday. I can’t remember the last time I saw him so…angry.”
“He’s rather good at hiding it, isn’t he?”
“Not yesterday.”
“Not yesterday.” Sherlock looked at Watson, who frowned.
“What now?”
“My brother seems to have involved himself in the matter of seeing the suspect
you were quick enough to bring to ground for us yesterday put away for the rest
of his short, miserable life.”
“Why?”
“Because you were involved. Imminent mortal peril on your behalf seems to be a
very quick way to my brother’s displeasure.”
“That was two bloody years ago! Christ.”
“Three.”
“Fine, three years ago. Just don’t let him give me the keys to the city.”
Watson made a face, “I’m not a hero. I’m a soldier, I was doing my duty, I was
following orders. It’s just that simple.”
“When you carried my brother four miles to Sulana, that was not in line with
your orders. You did that on your own.”
“Fine, fine, I followed my heart instead of my head.” She twirled her pencil,
“I don’t regret what I did at Sulana, and I will never regret what I did in
Serbia. Ever.”
“Good.” He smiled and went back to his report. Watson filled out two reports
and apologised if they were a little disjointed, her exact recall of events and
details was a bit muddled because of the Roxanol.
“God, don’t apologise, Captain! Please don’t, this is still a better, more
detailed report than I get from some of my sergeants and constables.” Lestrade
flipped through her paperwork, “This is fine.”
“Do you need anything else, Lestrade?”
”Nope, you two can scram. I’ll call you if something really interesting comes
across my desk.”
“Thank you.” He shrugged into his coat and handed Watson her cane, “Come along,
Watson.”
“Right behind, Holmes, give me a minute.” She struggled a bit to get into her
coat and Lestrade came around the desk to help her, seeing as her shoulder had
gone stiff and was still giving her trouble. Never mind her knee giving its
share.
“There you are, Captain.”
“Oh, ta, Inspector.”
“My pleasure. See you around, then?”
“Knowing my luck, probably sooner than later.” Watson smiled and shook hands
with Lestrade, “Good luck, Inspector.”
“You, too.” He smiled and saw them out, holding the door of the cab that pulled
up for them. As the cab moved on, Sherlock looked at Watson.
“Where can I take you?”
“I don’t have anywhere particular to be.” Watson looked at her watch and
frowned, “Well, I’m supposed to see my therapist this morning. I should go.”
“Where is your therapist’s office?”
“Over in Bloomsbury, The Child and Family Practice.” It was obvious she wasn’t
looking forward to the appointment, and he knew it wasn’t the kind of help she
wanted or needed. He gave the driver directions to Watson’s therapist’s office
and as they drove from The Met to the clinic, he did his research and asked his
brother to collect everything he could find on Watson’s therapist. Maybe it was
time to find her a new therapist, someone who had more experience with
returning veterans suffering from PTSD-like psychosis. Hannah Watson deserved
respect and understanding, her civilian therapist, appointed by her care-team
upon discharge to London from the military hospital in Epsom, had very little
experience with Watson’s specific set of problems. When they reached the
clinic, he paid the fare and walked her into the building.
“You didn’t have to come with me, you know.” She said quietly as he held the
door for her when they got to the proper offices.
“I may go to Bart’s, if you wish to do this alone.” He had plenty of work to
keep him occupied for the duration of Watson’s appointment.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…not used to someone else caring.”
“I would like to know why you’re being seen by a civilian psychologist with
little experience with veterans.”
“The Army couldn’t get me in with any of the therapists who look after
returning veterans, everyone was booked out, so I just took whatever they could
find for me. I should have fought harder.”
“After all you’ve done, settling for second best is the last thing you should
do.” He frowned as she signed her name to the patient-log and gave her name to
the secretary.
“Watson, to see Doctor Thompson.”
“Oh, yes! Here you are, Miss Watson.” Sherlock looked at Watson, who rolled her
eyes. It was Captain Watson or Doctor Watson, never Miss Watson. Even he knew
that.
“Just take a seat, Doctor Thompson will be right with you.” The secretary said
with a too-sweet smile. “She’s running a bit behind this morning.”
“That’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but Watson was too tired and too content to
settle for less than to argue the point. They would wait fifteen minutes and if
she didn’t reschedule, he would. They took a seat in the nearly-empty waiting-
room. Sherlock sat down next to Watson, picking up a nearby paper to look for
anything interesting.
“That’s two weeks old,” Watson said quietly.
“I know. There should be something regardless of its age.” He flipped through
article after article, one caught his attention.
“That was solved last week.”
“It was?”
“Mhm. And the others you’re going to find were solved in the last month.” She
found a more recent paper and flipped through it with a speed he usually
reserved for doing this very thing, “I may be living in a room the size of your
brother’s walk-in closet, but I’m not broke.” Sherlock was reading an article
on something very interesting, it looked to be a case of blackmail backfired,
they always did in some way and that was such fun to figure out later, when it
suddenly occurred to him what Watson had said. He knew she was intelligent, far
more so than anyone else he’d yet encountered. Watching her tear apart Sally
Donovan at The Met had been so unexpected and so exhilarating he wanted to know
if she could do something like that again if she had the opportunity.
“Watson?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you the anonymous source who keeps stealing my cases?”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but that would be lying.” She looked up from the papers and
grinned, “Sorry.”
“I thought I was the only one who could do that!” Sherlock was amazed.
“Not so much, huh?” She shrugged. He couldn’t help a sly smile. If she was the
one stealing his cases, he did not mind at all. He’d initially thought it was a
wannabe armchair-hack detective who thought they knew better than the
professionals, who wouldn’t know a blood-stain from a ketchup splatter, let
alone how to read clues without seeing the evidence in person. But he knew
better now, and he was not that disappointed.
“You hide your intelligence. You have since childhood. Why?”
“Why do you think?” She looked at him, gaze steady and open, “You know
everything about me. Lay it out for me, from the beginning.” She was giving him
permission to lay out her darkest secrets, those he knew of.
“Are you sure you want me to do that to you? I can be very blunt and very
cruel.”
“Hit me with your best shot.”
“Very well.” He tucked his hands under his chin as he studied her from across
the sitting area. Her clothes didn’t fit quite right, she had lost a bit of
weight, perhaps too much, lacking motivation or direction after her discharge.
The Army had been her way of life for so long she wasn’t sure how to go about
living without it. But going back further, to the root of her concealed genius,
was a childhood riddled with grief, abuse, and at least one attempt on her life
before finding a way out through service in the Army. As a child, she had been
very smart, intelligent even. Above and beyond anyone in her family. But as a
young child, her genius had been nurtured and promoted. But then, when she had
been about ten years old, tragedy struck the family. It was the first of many
dark chapters in Hannah Watson’s life.
“Your father died.” Sherlock frowned, resting his lips against his knuckles,
“Your father was killed while overseas. He was in the Army as a…mechanic. A
tank mechanic.”
“Right.” There was a family history of military service. Her father had been
part of The Troubles, part of the British military presence in Northern Ireland
between 1968 and 2007. Watson herself had served in Northern Ireland during her
own service, following her late honourable father’s footsteps. As a member of
the Royal Army Medical Corps, she moved around quite a bit, going wherever
there was greatest need of medics with training.
“You were ten.”
“Absolutely the worst day of my life up until that point.” Watson turned the
page of the papers, “Mum was already settled with her next husband by the
funeral.”
“Which happened a month after your father’s death in…Northern Ireland? Oh.”
Feeling a pang of regret for the things she had lost, he kept going. He was
kind about it, she had asked for his gift and he would be kind with it.
Following her father’s death in 1981, and her mother’s very rapid marriage to
someone else, Watson had begun a downward spiral. To save herself and perhaps
ward off some of her step-father’s ire, Robert Leland had been a cruel creature
and had beaten his step-daughters for any small slight real or imagined, Watson
had concealed her intelligence and played dumb. Quite literally. He had beaten
their mother as well, but she wouldn’t leave him for any love or money,
beholden to him for whatever twisted reasoning she had. Watson and her sister
Harriet had suffered for years, often in silence, withstanding the worst sorts
of abuse.
Watson’s grades had begun to suffer six months after her father’s funeral, her
marks began to slide into the low registers and she barely made it out of
primary school. In secondary school, her education continued to suffer and she
would often arrive at school with bruising or some kind of injury. He would ask
Mycroft for her medical records, as soon as he had a calm mind to do so. Robert
Leland had beaten Watson for any reason he saw fit, and once her sister fled
the home at the age of eighteen after a very violent and unpleasant coming out
as a lesbian, she became his favourite punching bag. Desperate to defend
herself, Watson had taken martial arts and learned how to fend off unwanted
advances. In her teenage years, and quite possibly before then, she had
suffered many humiliating nights tied up at her step-father’s mercy as he did
whatever he pleased with her. At this revelation, which he did not speak out
loud, Sherlock almost choked.
He could stand for many human atrocities, he could stand in a pool of blood
without flinching and lay out the poor victim’s whole life, but when it came to
crimes against women, children, and pets, that was where he drew a hard-limit
line. Rape was among the most disgusting crimes and whenever they got a rape
victim, The Met knew they could always, always count on Sherlock to see it to
the bitter end and he would catch the fucker responsible if he had to. He had
taken down many a suspect accused of rape after a weeks-long manhunt or days-
long chase, always thrilled to put cuffs on the squirming, gasping sorry piece
of shit under his knees and ensuring, in quiet ways, that the man responsible
for such reprehensible acts never saw the light of day again. How many rapists
were rotting in prison-cells without windows because of him? How many were
little more than bits of decomposed flesh in wooden boxes or linen hammocks
because of him? Or even piles of cremated ash? He had no remorse for taking his
due from someone who thought there was no wrong in taking the choice of saying
no from a woman or child. Or even from another man.
 
Her step-father’s cruelties had scarred Watson in so many ways, but she was
stronger for it. Escaping her home at the age of sixteen through the Army
Foundation College, she had plunged head-first into something that had given
her a purpose for so long. Her service-record was long, decorated, and the
sheer number of people she had saved was dizzying. He could understand how
suddenly finding herself without her one stable home could be disorienting. He
suspected there was a bit of fear as well, desperation.
“Watson?”
“Hmm?” She had her hands folded over her mouth, her eyes closed. He swore he
saw tears on her eyelashes. These memories were painful. She had asked, he had
delivered.
“Are you alright?”
“It’s so strange to hear someone else pull apart each layer of my life and lay
it out for me, to look at those scars and memories from someone else’s point of
view.” Her voice crackled, he marvelled at her strength to hold herself
together, “I never thought someone would see through all of it and see…me.”
“It is my job to see what people don’t talk about. I apologize for making you
sad.”
“No, it’s…not your fault. And I’m more angry than sad.” She opened her eyes and
looked at him, her eyes possessing that bright dullness of tears, “I hate
Robert Leland, with everything that makes me human. He made my life an absolute
living hell, I lived in fear for six years, I dreaded every waking moment and I
never slept. He fixed my door so that he could lock it but I could not.”
“Watson…”
“He swore to kill me if I ever said a word to anyone about the things he did to
me, but I never said anything. I didn’t have to. My medical records are six
volumes thick with hospital stays and A&E visits for everything you can
imagine. But I begged the doctors not to tell the cops, he would only beat me
harder. I thought he would kill me if the cops got involved.”
“You were twelve, Watson!”
“I know. I had no childhood.” She sniffled, “And I’m still…still not safe.”
“Robert Leland is still alive?”
 “I don’t know. I…I don’t know.” And this clearly bothered her. This was why,
in the year since she had settled in London, Watson had avoided venturing out
much beyond her routine and avoided strangers, crowded places, and certain
types of men. She was still afraid of her step-father and the power he wielded.
“Watson, I am so sorry. No one should ever have to suffer like that, no one.”
Sherlock reached across and took her hands in his. “But a sorry rings hollow to
a survivor, a…victim, like you, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ve been to counselling and group-therapy for some of the things that
happened to me as a child. It’s always hard to talk about it.”
“There is no statute of limitations on rape.” He squeezed her hand gently, “I’m
sure we can do something. You were by no means his last victim, I guarantee he
terrorized other girls.”
“It’s not worth it, Holmes. He could be dead for all we know.”
“Perhaps he is, or perhaps not.” He leaned across towards his potential
flatmate, “I make a living on the wrongdoings of others, Hannah Watson, but
there is one that I simply will not abide. If I can make things right for one
victim, I can make things right for many. You have no reason to live in fear,
not thirty-five years on. You have come so far since then, accomplished so
much, you should be proud of yourself. You should hold your head high and
challenge those who think of you as less than.”
“I can’t, Holmes.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll help you. Whatever I can do for you, whatever you need of
me, I will make myself available to you for whatever needs you have.”
“So much for the cold-hearted consulting detective.”
“That was a very different time of my life, nearly a different person.” He
sighed, “Watson, I am unable to help myself most days, but I can certainly help
you.”
“What are you suggesting we do about this?” Watson looked at him, just as
helpless as he was and that hurt. He took a deep breath and braced himself for
a violent rejection.
“Move in with me, come live at Baker Street.”
“Sorry?”
“You need a new place to live, I could use a flat-mate. I’ve needed one for
years, but no one has ever lasted beyond a week or two, even those who claim to
be fans and not easily chased off.”
“Y-are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement for both of us, and I
need a partner.”
“We’re partners?”
“We could be.” He folded his hands between his knees and looked at the carpet
between his shoes, “I don’t need an answer now, take your time and think about
it. Give me your answer in a week.”
“A week.” She had her eyes closed, “A week to…this is huge.”
“I know. But you…there is something about you that’s different, and I need time
to discover what it is. You are no stranger to me, Watson. This is new
territory to propose living together, but we are not strangers to each other,
you know as much about me as I know about you.”
“You mean it.”
“Absolutely.”
“Wouldn’t we be too much alike? Too similar?” She tapped her fingertips
together, keeping one eye out for her therapist, who was nearly twenty minutes
behind by now.
“Not so similar as to be incompatible. You are by far the smartest person I’ve
met who isn’t related to me in some fashion.” He heard a door open somewhere,
“Think on it, and give me your answer when you are ready.”
“Will you stay here, or are you off to Bart’s?” She got up as her name was
called.
“Would you like me to stay?”
“If you want to, I don’t mind the company.” Watson smiled down at him and
leaned close as she passed by him, “Besides, you’re far better company than
Doctor Thompson.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to get a look at the woman
who knew next to nothing about how to handle Hannah Watson and raised an
eyebrow.
“I will stay here. When you are done, we’ll find breakfast somewhere.”
 “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“I…suppose. I haven’t eaten in nearly two weeks, a side-effect of the
psychosis.”
“Two weeks?”
“Don’t look so surprised, it’s not like you’ve got much room to talk.” She
rolled her eyes and patted him on the shoulder, “Hang out, I’ll be an hour.”
“I will be here.” He watched her leave and as soon as she was out of sight, he
got up, collected his coat, and left the office. Sherlock stopped once he was
on the street and placed a call to his brother.
“What do you have for me, Mycroft?”
“I have compiled everything I could find on Ella Thompson, and I have
requisitioned our dear Captain’s records as well. Are you available?”
“I can be. Are you at The Diogenes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on my way over.” He waved down a taxi and gave the driver the address to
his brother’s exclusive club. Ten minutes later, he paid the fare and entered
the club. He signed his name to the log, informed the steward that he was in to
visit Mycroft Holmes on business, and stepped into his brother’s private office
five minutes later. He nodded to his brother, who was not looking at him.
“Your files, Sherlock.”
“Thank you.” He picked up the stack of files, put them in a briefcase his
brother had on hand for such moments as these. Slinging the strap across his
chest, he nodded to his brother and left as quietly as he had come.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Has she given you an answer?” Mycroft finally looked up. He shook his head.
“I have given her a week to make her choice.” He looked at the clock and knew
he had enough time to get back to the clinic before Watson was done with her
appointment. “You know where to find us.”
“Very well, brother.” Mycroft made a quick, dismissive gesture and Sherlock let
himself out. Walking away from the club, he made his way to Charing Cross
Underground Station and caught the train back to Bloomsbury. Returning to the
clinic, he reclaimed his seat, ignoring the puzzled looks the secretaries gave
him. Sitting down, he tucked the work-bag between his feet and read the papers.
 
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and he looked up to see Watson come out
by herself. It hadn’t been an hour, but she was leaving. Getting up, he watched
her.
“Watson?”
“That was probably forty-five minutes I’ve wasted.” She went to the desk to
settle her bill. He picked up the bag and joined her.
“Are you alright?”
“Not here.” She whispered, looking at him as she handed over her card. He
understood the unspoken. She wasn’t going to be coming back to this clinic
again. As they stepped out onto the street, Watson bundled up against the
weather. It had been overcast when they had left Baker Street, now it was
raining.
“That’s just great. Fitting weather to match the mood.” Watson looked up at the
rain as she turned up the collar of her coat. Sherlock flagged down a taxi and
held the door for her.
“After you.”
“Ta.” She ducked into the cab and he followed.
“Where to?”
“Speedy’s on Baker Street, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The cabbie nodded and pulled into traffic when the way was clear.
“Some weather this morning, yeah? You weren’t out in it, were you?”
“No, we weren’t. Not for long.” Watson looked out the window, “There was a time
in my life not long ago where I would have given my kidneys for a bit of rain,
and now I’ve got too much of it.”
“Afghanistan?”
“You know how dry it is over there.” She sighed, “Not that I miss that hole or
anything.” He didn’t have anything to say about that and left her in peace
until they got to Baker Street. He got out first and held the door for her,
paid the fare, and hustled her across the wet pavement into Speedy’s, which had
undergone renovations at the same time the flat had been rebuilt. After waiting
through a short queue, they ordered and found a table. Two orders of egg,
bacon, and chips (egg done over easy) with two extra orders of toast and
mushrooms and two cups of black coffee were placed and they sat down at a
small, empty table. A server brought the coffee and two glasses of water,
bringing out their plates fifteen minutes later.
Sherlock watched Watson eat, unsurprised that she ate slowly and managed to
clean her plate. That was common with soldiers suffering PTSD, they could go
periods without eating anything and when they did eat again, they ate to
compensate for the deficit. Some developed a binge-eating disorder. Disrupted
sleep-patterns, night-terrors, and flash-backs at all hours were other
symptoms. Aggressive tendencies, anger issues, and behavioural problems were
also to be noted. He had seen a bit of the aggression yesterday and suspected
under proper circumstances he would see it again in the future. After finishing
their meal, they bundled up against the weather and stepped out onto the wet
pavement. As Sherlock fished out his house-key and got the door open, he was
distracted by a slight commotion behind him.
“Watson?”
“We have a problem.”
“Do we?” he looked over his shoulder. She had her back to the house and was
looking across the street. Across the street a couple was arguing, it looked
rather serious.
“Come on, you bastard, give me a reason to take your sorry arse to the
pavement,” Watson whispered, clenching and unclenching her right hand. Sherlock
got the door open and stepped into the house, quietly taking the cane from her
knowing she wasn’t going to need it. Running up the stairs, he dropped off his
bag and ran back downstairs so he wouldn’t miss any action. One foot out the
door and all he could see was Watson’s back as she ran across the street.
Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him and ran after her.
“Watson!”
“Hey, you! Stop!” She yelled, taking off after the man, “Holmes, look after
her!”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got this!” She disappeared around the corner and Sherlock offered a hand
to the woman sitting on the pavement.
“Are you alright, miss?”
“Please catch him! Please!”
“My partner’s already working on that. Do you need an ambulance?”
“Y-yes. Please.” The woman held onto him and Sherlock silently deduced her.
With one arm around the victim, he retrieved his phone and called an ambulance.
A few bystanders offered to watch the victim while he went to make sure Watson
didn’t get into trouble. She was going to need hand-cuffs and didn’t have them.
Sherlock, on the other hand, did have a pair. Taking off, he tracked Watson to
Regent’s Park and called for police back-up along the way. When he arrived in
the park, he found the pair being pulled from the duck-pond.
“Oh, Watson.” He tried not to laugh at the sight of his stocky companion
drenched and absolutely furious. The perpetrator scrambled and made a bold
break for freedom, but he didn’t get very far. Watson delivered a swift,
painful kick to the back of the fleeing assailant’s knee and he collapsed with
a howl. In a heartbeat, she was on top of him and holding him still. She had
kicked him in the back of the knee to take him down and delivered a swift blow
to his unprotected flank that laid him flat in agony.
“Don’t you move!” She snarled, “Hear me, you stay there! Don’t move or I’ll
break your arm!”
“Having a bit of fun, Watson?”
“Please tell me you have hand-cuffs.” She looked up at him, “And a towel?”
“Back at Baker Street. That’s twice, you know.”
“Who’s counting?” She raised an eyebrow as he tossed her his hand-cuffs,
“Do I want to know where you got these?”
“Keep those, I have another pair at the flat.”
“You stole this from Lestrade, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Not that he can’t replace them, of course.”
“You’re mean.” She grinned and slapped the cuffs around the assailant’s wrists
and hauled him to a nearby bench, where she sat him down and kept him still by
a pinch to his ribs that almost toppled him again when he tried to make another
break for freedom despite the hand-cuffs and the obvious fact that Watson
wasn’t playing around and could easily take him to ground if he made it far
enough she was forced to give chase.
“You, sit. You’ll wait right here for The Met to come get you.” Watson snarled,
blocking his retreat by standing in front of him, “Do that to any girl in
London again and it won’t just be a jail-sentence you face. I have no
reservations about pounding the slimy, entitled likes of you right into the
dust for thinking you can treat a woman like property and have your way with
her.”
Ten minutes later, the police arrived. As he’d expected, his brother-in-law was
leading the charge. It probably had to do with him placing that call to
dispatch for back-up to a scene on Baker Street, that was a very good way to
ensure Lestrade’s involvement.
“Again? Really, Sherlock?”
“What can I say? She’s faster on her feet than she looks.” He just shrugged.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” Lestrade shook his head and looked at Watson, who
hadn’t moved at all from her post by the bench, “Stand down, Watson, we’ve got
this handled.”
“Yes, sir.” Just like taking orders from a superior in the Army, he watched her
fall into parade-rest, her posture relaxing and her muscles loosening from the
tension of readiness to take after a runaway suspect. A couple of uniformed
constables took the suspect into custody, wrapping him in a towel and a shock-
blanket.
“What about the girl?” Sherlock remembered the victim he had left with good
Samaritan bystanders.
“She’s been taken to University, we’ll question her after she’s been seen to by
the docs.”
“Good.” He nodded, “I suspect she had been with him for some time before we
came into the picture and took him into custody, so it may be prudent to search
missing-persons reports over the past month or so and see if anyone matching
the woman’s description was reported.”
“Right. Two steps ahead of us, as usual. I can’t wait to see what that
bastard’s record looks like, he’s got something juicy in there for sure.”
Lestrade shook his head as he flipped his notebook closed. “What were the
chances someone like Hannah Watson would show up out of nowhere and just kind
of…slot herself into place like this?”
“You know what we say about coincidence.”
“There is no such thing. But it’s something.” His brother-in-law looked over at
Watson, who paced back and forth off to one side. “Think you can handle Hannah
Watson?”
“It will be an adventure to try.” He smiled, “I think the question should be,
can Hannah Watson handle me?”
“That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Lestrade smirked, “Well, I’ve
seen enough of the two of you for today, I’ll let you get back to Baker Street
or wherever you need to go. See if you can get a statement from Watson for me.”
“She’d be happy to give you one.” Sherlock nodded, understanding very well that
there was no reason for Watson to go back to The Met but that her statement was
vital. He kept stacks of standard blank reports on hand at Baker Street for the
times he had aided the Yard but didn’t want to go in or have a chance to go in
for a formal interview. When they returned to Baker Street, a small overnight
bag had been delivered from Watson’s bedsit with clean clothes and toiletries.
Of course, Mycroft had seen the chase and knew of its aftermath. Sending Watson
to take a shower, Sherlock collected the paperwork for her to write out her
reports and statements for The Met, which would be returned when she completed
them. She had Lestrade’s card, she knew the way to The Met and who to ask for
when she got there. He had given her a choice and would wait as long as
necessary to get her answer. He would take the time to read the files Mycroft
had compiled on Watson and get caught up on her history. She was a particularly
troubled individual, he wanted to know everything so he could better help her
find a stable middle-ground, maybe offer her work to keep her busy. Lord knew
he could use a partner, an assistant, someone to bounce ideas off of and aid
him on his cases.
===============================================================================
 
 
***** So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A turning-point comes to the relationship between Holmes and Watson,
     whether it's a good one or not remains to be seen.
Chapter Notes
     Valentine's Day comes to Baker Street and finds the dynamic duo on
     the job. An undercover job. Changes are coming, and it may not be
     good.
===============================================================================
After running down a suspect in Marylebone, Hannah Watson found herself back at
221B Baker Street. She took a shower after a quick swim in the Regent’s Park
Boating Lake to bring the suspect to ground, and found herself at odds.
Sherlock Holmes had offered her a place to live at Baker Street with him,
something to do with her time and not-inconsiderable skills working cases at
his side. She had already done that twice, and had enjoyed it. But she wasn’t
sure, at the same time, if she was really ready to make that kind of move, that
kind of commitment. He had given her a week to think on his offer and give her
answer, she suspected she might just need that time. She thought back on her
appointment that morning with Doctor Thompson and what a mild disaster that had
been. She had asked Holmes to lay out everything he knew about her, to show his
gift. And he had, going all the way back to her step-father’s abuse and how
that had driven her to hide her natural intelligence.
She had spent years suppressing her greater intelligence in nearly all aspects
of her life, having learned very quickly that behaving at an average level,
being normal and nonthreatening, was the best way to avoid trouble. She had
been bullied as a child for being smart, being different. She had turned her
anger and frustration to a more useful venue with the Army and by going to med
school to become a doctor so she could help others despite not being able to do
much to help herself. That had been her life for so long, and she had been
adrift without purpose or direction since discharge.
But Doctor Thompson had a very strange view of things and kept telling her to
write a blog, it would help her connect to civilian life. But nothing ever
happened to her, at least not until yesterday. Who wanted to read entries about
PTSD nightmares, half-cocked suicide attempts, hours spent polishing her
service-weapon and trying to talk herself into just pulling the damn trigger.
Just once. Or the nights she drank herself into a stupor and couldn’t remember
her own name in the morning. And then Doctor Thompson asked her if she liked
what she had done yesterday after she admitted to helping The Met with an on-
going case.
“Did you enjoy what you did yesterday?” Thompson had asked.
“Why is that important? I happened to notice something and acted on it.”
“You were almost killed and you went after the man who put you in harm’s way.
Did you want to make him suffer for hurting you?”
“That’s not how I’m wired. The only man I want to see suffer is the man who
spent years abusing me. I told you. Many times.” Finally fed up with trying to
explain that she didn’t feel any anger towards Skip Billings, who wasn’t going
to be much of a problem anymore and was unlikely to ever be able to hurt anyone
else, Hannah had excused herself and walked out of the appointment. She needed
a new therapist, someone with the right training. She needed a therapist
trained to provide treatment to returned veterans suffering from PTSD symptoms.
Hannah wanted to stay at Baker Street, she liked the feel of the place and she
liked Holmes. He was nice to her, and they did have a little history between
them. And his landlady was very kind, and thrilled that Holmes might have made
a friend. Hannah found Holmes in the sitting-room, reading the papers looking
for more cases. There was a manila envelope on the side-table beside the red
armchair next to a fresh cup of tea. It was still raining outside, she noticed.
Great. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up as she came into the room and
smiled.
“Feel any better?”
“Clean, warm.” She sat down and picked up the tea, “Do I want to know how you
know the exact way I take my tea, Holmes?”
“You know how I know.” That smile grew a bit and he nodded to the saucer, “Take
that with the tea, you will feel much better.” Two Paracetamol tablets sat on
the saucer, and she downed them with the tea.
“What’s in the envelope?”
“A few things for today. Lestrade needs your statements from the take-down this
morning.”
“Oh. Yeah, I can do that. Fill it out and get it back to him whenever?”
“When you have time.”
“Copy.” She flicked through the papers inside and picked up a half-sheet when
it slid out of the stack, “Oh, what’s this?”
“That is something my brother arranged for you.” Holmes studied her over folded
hands, two fingertips touched his lips, “You may find it very useful, that is
our hope.”
“What is it?” She turned the paper over and read it. It was a referral slip to
the Veteran’s Aid office in Westminster. Hannah’s heart jumped and she covered
a muffled gasp, “Oh my god. Did Mycroft do this?”
“Yes, he did. I did not ask it of him.”
“I keep meaning to go there, to ask…for help there. But I can’t. I’m…”
“You need help, Watson. I can’t think of any organization better equipped to
get you back on your feet.”
“Thank you.” She sniffled and pocketed the referral slip, “For this and
everything.” Hannah wanted to cry. Trust someone like Mycroft Holmes to take
initiative and arrange a formal referral to the needed resources. She needed
counselling and employment assistance, but housing wasn’t a concern for her,
not like it had been yesterday.
                                      -&-
After a couple of hours in Baker Street, Hannah decided to get on her way.
Thanking Holmes again for everything, and promising to be in touch and to think
about his offer, she let him help her into the cab that he managed to
materialize out of the rain. She waved as the cab pulled away, watching him run
back into the house to get out of the rain.
“Where to, miss?”
“40 Buckingham Palace Road, please.” She sighed, deciding she might as well
make a start on getting help. The driver nodded and she closed her eyes, not
saying anything until she felt the car slow and come to a stop. As she got out,
cursing the rain, she looked at the driver. “Do I owe you anything?”
“No, ma’am, you do not. Have a peaceful day, please.”
“Thanks. You, too.” She smiled at the driver, wondering who was footing the
bill for this. Probably Mycroft Holmes, again. She entered the building that
house the Veteran’s Affairs office, shaking rain out of her hair. She had her
phone and her wallet, all she was missing was her service-pistol, which she
usually carried tucked into a conceal-carry holster tucked into the back of her
trousers. Holmes had taken it from her while she’d been in the shower, but
hadn’t said anything about it and she hadn’t raised the issue. It was probably
best if she didn’t have access to her weapon right now.
When she was asked her business, she gave them the referral slip and spent the
rest of the day talking to a number of extremely helpful people. Her assigned
therapists were very smart, one of them was a fellow veteran from the Middle
East theatres and knew exactly what she had been through. She was given access
to counselling for her PTSD and the low-scale addictions it had spawned, one of
which was a problem going back to her teenage years. She had smoked and drank
since sixteen, off and on over the years, and in university, a stint with
recreational drugs. She had been through rehab twice on the Army’s dollar, when
she was certain she should have been kicked to the kerb they had put her into
intensive rehab and tossed her right into the deep end with probationary
training when she got out. Desperate to do things right, she had buried herself
in training, in the rules, regulations, and rigorous schedules of military life
to keep her distracted.
When questioned regarding what kind of assistance she needed, she suggested
that housing wasn’t an issue just at the moment, she would be in touch about
that, but she could certainly use help in other areas, such as job-training and
maybe finances. Her pension was all well and fine, but finances were very tight
and most of her clothes were second-hand. It was the job-training she was most
interested in, placement wasn’t as important considering she would probably end
up working with Sherlock Holmes, but something to put her skills to use would
be nice. She couldn’t work in the medical field with her shoulder, surgery was
out of the question, and she didn’t have the mental or emotional stability to
do clinical work. Maybe something in security would be good for her?
Provisional training in field-medic skills, as an Emergency Medical Technician,
would be good to keep her medical skills sharp, too.
Her care-team consisted of two mental health social workers, a barrister, three
addiction councilors that she would see on a rotating basis, and two case
workers. When she explained her current living situation to one of the case
workers, the case worker asked where she was living.
“Er, Langmore House, down in Whitechapel.”
“Oh, no! No, no, no! We can do better than that! Do you have other arrangements
in place already?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Well, do your thinking in a safer house. Come on, I’ll show you.” The man
smiled and grabbed a set of keys from a hook behind his desk, “New Belvedere
House is perfect for you.” Hannah had seen New Belvedere House Hostel before,
walked past it all the time and wished she had the means to stay there, it
seemed like a very nice place. Taking her from Westminster to Stepney, Roger
Malkin showed her the organization’s residential home. The rooms for offer were
the size of the upstairs room at Baker Street, decorated in a similarly homey
way, with hardwood floors, wide, double-glazed windows with nice curtains,
walls painted in a warm, light yellow. A king bed took most of one wall, with
two matching side-tables and reading-lamps. The bedding was neutral and clean.
“Oh, this is lovely.” She felt a pang of nostalgia for Baker Street, “The last
place I stayed at, the room was just like this. The bed was smaller, but…this
is nice.”
“Would you like to stay here until you’ve made up your mind?”
“He gave me a week to think it over, I figured I might need that time.” She
chewed on her lower lip, trying to stay calm, “Can I stay here?”
“Of course you can, Captain. Now, and if you ever need a safe place to stay,
you are welcome. New Belvedere House is home to those who need a place to
shelter a while.”
“Perfect.” She sighed, “I suppose I should see about clearing out my bed-sit.”
“We can handle that.”
“I’ve heard that a lot the last two days.” She smirked, “I don’t suppose you
might know a bloke by the name of Holmes, do you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. He called about your situation yesterday, said you were
needing a bit of help getting back on your feet.”
“God bless Mycroft Holmes.” She rubbed her hands together, “His brother’s the
one who offered me a place to live and a week to figure it out. I just need
somewhere stable to live until I make up my bloody mind on things.”
“Here should about do, Captain Watson.”
“Thank you, Mr Malkin.”
“Roger, please. And, I think you might do with a new wardrobe.”
“You noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed.” Roger plucked at the sleeve of her worn jumper, “We can do
better.”
“What’s your idea of “better”?”
“Trust me, dear.” He patted her on the hand and after arranging for her things
to be moved from Langmore House to New Belvedere House, took her on an
impromptu shopping trip. They were joined by another caseworker, a woman, who
was thrilled to have a new client to go shopping for. Her only hard limit on
clothes was no skirts. At all. Unless it was a gown, she would wear denims and
trousers. Skirts were not her thing. Roger and the female caseworker, her name
was Rebecca, just looked at each other and smirked.
An hour later, half of her wardrobe had been replaced and she had clothes that
fit and actually flattered her figure.
“Oh, wow.” She looked at her reflection from behind, she was wearing a pair of
well-fitted trousers with a grey button-down and a blue waistcoat. “Look at
that!”
“We’ll work on getting you enrolled in job-training tomorrow, Captain.” Rebecca
smiled at her, “That’s soon enough. You can get comfortable in your new rooms
and have a good think about your opportunities with Mr Holmes’s brother.”
“That works for me.” Hannah sighed and smoothed one hand over the fabric of the
waistcoat. It would be interesting to see where she found herself by the end of
this coming week.
                                      -&-
After moving from Langmore House to New Belvedere House and getting the kind of
help she had needed for almost a year, Hannah Watson found herself so
legitimately busy she almost completely forgot about her decision to stay in
her current housing or move to Baker Street. She followed Holmes’s continuing
work on the internet, offering her two-pence of opinion in the comment-threads
on his blog if she noticed something in the break-down of the case he was
covering. She sent him cases she thought might interest him and he did
likewise, sending her tidbits of whatever The Met had him on. They met up twice
to talk, but he never asked her about her impending decision and the end-date
came and passed by without any change to routine.
It was two months before it came up again. She was actually in the middle of an
active case with him and the very idea of moving anywhere was far from her
immediate concentration. She sat in the doorway of an abandoned shop that had
closed it’s doors to business months ago and was blacked out with old
newspapers and graffiti. She sat right in the doorway, just out of the way of
passers-by and almost invisible. For the purpose of her stake-out, she wore
some of her oldest, most worn-out clothes and sat on a stack of blankets. To
coax passers-by, and the target they were hunting, she had a small plastic
container that had once held hummus. A sign painted on a piece of cardboard
read “Homeless Veteran: Anything Helps. God Bless.” and sat propped against her
leg. She had been on location for almost three days and made herself a promise
that she would never, ever let it get so bad she ended up living on the streets
again. She had been homeless for a few months upon returning to London and had
hated every minute of it.
But now, as she sat with her head bowed and bundled in blankets and an old Army
smock to ward off the bitter February wind, her face covered with a scarf
Holmes had given her, she watched people pass her by. It was a study in human
nature and socioeconomic status to see who actually paid attention to her and
who stopped to drop something in her bowl. A young mother with twins had
brought her lunch from a nearby cafe; a grandfather type had offered a couple
of pounds, he had to pay for a train-ticket to Aberdeen, see, and couldn’t give
up much more but wanted to give a little; a woman her mother’s age had stopped,
looked at her set-up and made a disapproving sound, had scoffed: “Shouldn’t
have sold your soul without knowing you’d have anything for ya at home. Pity
they do the selfless thing and end up here. Go to the shelter, why don’t you?”
That kind of treatment was rather common, but mostly she was ignored. A passing
gentleman in clothes as nice as Mycroft Holmes’s had offered her a job running
numbers for his firm as an auditor, said she looked like the sort of person who
had a good head for numbers and a better head for reading people. From that
brief encounter, she had gotten a business-card and almost a hundred quid. To
“get yourself something nice”, a hot meal or a night in a hostel. Every cent
she earned panhandling went right into savings and it was incredible how much
she could make in a morning.
The Met had picked her target, Holmes had picked her stake-out, and she was
watching for her suspect. A spotter sighted their target, one Mr Calston
Groves, two blocks down from her post, and called it in. Right on cue, the rest
of the team went into action. Holmes walked past her while talking on the phone
with Lestrade, passing off a constant-update as a casual phone-call, and
casually tossed her a couple of bills. She would give them back later. Hannah
nodded her thanks and hunkered down, waiting for Groves. As he began to pass
her, she nudged her cup and rattled the coins.
“Spare change for a homeless veteran, sir?” She asked in a gruff, hoarse voice
that was part acting and part legitimate. Sleeping in the open on cold nights
always made her hoarse and if she didn’t get a bloody cold from this mess, that
would be fantastic. The rattling change got his attention and when he looked
down at her, she knew this would work. She subtly pushed the button on the
recording device hidden in her scarf and watched him. He looked at her sign, at
her cup, and crouched on the pavement.
“Got no work, then? No family?” He asked the right questions, she gave the
prearranged answers. No and no.
“I can give you work if you’re willing. It’s hard work, but good, honest work.
You’ll have a warm bed, you’ll get fed, all you have to do is work when I need
you.” Hannah leaned her head back and looked up at him. Groves ran a human-
trafficking ring in London, targeting young women and homeless veterans down on
their luck. Primarily women were targeted, but men had gone missing, too. He
tipped her head back, “Let’s get a look at that face, hm? Oh, you’re a pretty
one. Streets’ been bad to you, but you’ll clean up just pretty enough. Take
this and find me tonight, come to that very address and ask for Vex.” He gave
her a card and patted her on the cheek, if she’d been of the mind she would
have bitten him. As it was she wanted to take him to pavement for touching her
at all. She squinted at the card and muttered the code-phrase that would clear
the rest of the team for the take-down.
/“Thank you.”/ She blinked, /“Time to go now.”/ He didn’t speak Gaelic, they
knew this, and assumed she had simply thanked him. He smiled and shoved to his
feet, confident that he had snagged another victim and no one was the wiser,
completely ignorant of the squad of police all around the street. He bumped
into Sherlock, who was strategically standing behind him, and set off the next
sequence of events to ensure they got Groves into custody on proper charges. As
the two faced off, she backed up to the door to be out of the way.
“Oh, sorry. Excuse me.” Holmes had been looking at his phone, intentionally
distracted.
“Oi. Watch yourself, mate.” Groves snapped, turning on Holmes, “Pay attention,
why don’t you?”
“I said I was sorry, sir.” Holmes remained calm. Hannah hid her face and
listened. After some back-and-forth, Hannah heard the moment she had been
waiting for. After Groves wouldn’t take Holmes’s apology, he recognized him and
sneered, stooping to insulting the once-disgraced detective for losing his
touch. Holmes fired off a couple of low-grade standard deductions, knowing he
couldn’t go full-steam this once and not inspired to. Groves took a swing at
him and that’s when things went live. Holmes dodged the blow and danced out of
reach as two plain-clothes constables tackled Groves, taking him to the
pavement and slapping him in cuffs, reading off a not-inconsiderable list of
charges. Public disturbance, physical assault, resisting arrest were just a
few. The bigger charges were soliciting, menacing, coercion, of homeless and
underprivileged women and veterans. As Groves was hustled off, fighting and
spitting, Hannah looked up at Holmes, who blocked her way.
“Are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that question. And I shouldn’t have asked you to do
this at all, if I’d thought of it properly.”
“Holmes, we’ve both been like this before, it’s a terrible position to be in.”
She dug into her pocket and produced the bills he’d tossed into her cup,
“Here.”
“Keep it, please. That’s not charity, you need it more than I do, in every
sense of the word.” He looked down at her, “How are you?”
“Every day is better. I like the house, it’s nice.” She sighed, “Working cases
with you is keeping me pretty busy, too.”
“You’re good at it. Your job-training is going well, too, I hear.”
“Very well.” She grinned and took his hand, “Your brother was very helpful.”
“For once.” That smirk said it all. She chuckled and looked around him to see
if the cars were gone. The place was swarming with police personnel and she
caught sight of Lestrade talking to the Donovan about ten yards distant.
“What are you willing to bet Donovan’s going to have something to say about
this?”
“She always does.” He rolled his eyes, “Come on, up you go. Baker Street for
you.”
“Throw in a meal and a hot shower and I’m all yours.” She groaned as her knee
objected to the change in position, “Ow.”
“I can fix that. Come along.”
“I’ll catch you two later! Get on home, and stay warm!” Lestrade called as they
headed for the line of police-tape that shut off that part of the street.
“You know where to find us!”
“Take care, Watson, see you later!”
“Roger that.” She waved and ducked under the tape. It didn’t take long to get a
cab and soon they were on their way back to Baker Street. She sighed and leaned
against Holmes, who took her hand and turned it over in his, inspecting it
closely, taking note of the state of her fingernails and the chapped, cracked
skin. She had spent a week getting into character for her stint on the streets
of London, and she was looking forward to a long, hot shower far more than she
would have in other circumstances.
“Would I be wrong assuming you’re in need of a hair-cut?”
“Nope.” She scratched under the brim of the knit-cap she wore over her hair, “I
needed one a while ago, but now I really need one.”
“Is it really that bad?” One eyebrow went up and she huffed.
“I’ll show you when we get to Baker Street, I’m not getting us kicked out of
this cab and walking the rest of the way.” She shot a glance at the cabbie, who
wouldn’t stop watching them. She was really just that convincing as a homeless
veteran that he actually thought she was homeless. That was kind of depressing.
“What?” He had seen her expression change.
“Next time, you get to do this. I swore I’d never do it again after I got off
the streets the first time.”
“Then how did we talk you into it this time?”
“Because it’s my people being targeted. You’re a good actor, Holmes, but you’re
not that good. I was both a woman and a veteran and, as far as Mr Groves was
concerned, homeless. Three for three.” She made a face and spent the rest of
the ride wondering if it was time to finally swallow her pride and move into
Baker Street.
                                      -&-
When they got to Baker Street, she dug up her house-key and shouldered her two
bags, letting herself into the house while Holmes paid the fare. He came right
behind her, locking up as soon as he was in, and she went upstairs. Dumping her
bags at the foot of the stairs going up to the room she kept when she stayed
here, Hannah bee-lined for the bathroom. She shed her clothes in a pile outside
the door and locked herself in, running the water as hot as she could stand it
before stepping under the shower-head. Hannah scrubbed her skin until she was
sure at least two layers had sloughed off. It was disgusting to watch the water
turn black. She hadn’t legitimately showered in a week and needed one so bad it
hurt. She washed her hair three times and groaned as clumps came off. Time to
cut her hair. Thankfully, she could pull off some very short styles. After
drying her hair, she pulled it into a messy bun and went downstairs in denims,
vest, and a button-down, carrying her shoes and socks in one hand and her
laptop under her arm. Sherlock was in the shower, so she put on her shoes and
knocked.
“Holmes, I’m going out! I’ll be back in a few hours!”
“Be careful, Watson.”
“Always am.” She smiled and found her wallet and mobile, pocketed both, and
debated taking her cane. But after spending all that time on the streets, she
needed that extra assistance. She had a beanie she wore to cover her hair and
she stepped out onto Baker Street as she zipped up her coat and tied on the
scarf. She managed to hail a cab at the end of Baker Street and ordered the
driver to Covent Garden. Her stylist was there, and she pulled up the website
for Halo Salons London on her phone, making an appointment to see Victor. Once
the appointment had been confirmed, she pocketed her phone. This wouldn’t be
the first time she’d shown up last-minute. By the time the cab pulled up at New
Row, it was raining.
“Oh, great.” She sighed and got out, handing the driver a few bills before she
bolted across the pavement and wrestled the door open. It was warm and dry
inside, thank Christ. Once inside, she shook rain off her coat.
“Victor!”
“Hannah Watson!”
“Hi, sweetie!” She grinned sheepishly at the thin dark-skinned man who appeared
from the back,
“Sorry about this.”
“My God, you’re soaked! That was just crossing the pavement?”
“Yep.” She looked over her shoulder, “Thank Christ I was pulled from my stake-
out before it started raining.” She took off her coat and handed it to Victor
Trevor, who hung it on a coat-tree and hustled her back past the desk with a
dismissive wave at the receptionist, who just threw Hannah a pitying glance in
passing. Once she was seated, he looked over her shoulder at the mirror.
“Alright, you mad thing, what are we on for today?”
“Please don’t be mad at me, Victor.” She removed the beanie and the hair-
elastic, “It’s bad.”
“What happened to you?”
“Two weeks on an undercover job. It’s been a week since I showered, I got one
about an hour ago.”
“Oh, you mad thing. Mad, mad thing.” Victor inspected her hair, “What were you
doing?”
“Laying a clever trap for a trafficker.” She sighed, “Sorry, Victor.”
“Oh, that’s alright, love. How short do I get to go?”
“Short as you want.” She looked at her messy-haired reflection, “Do your worst,
Victor.”
“Ooh!” His face lit up. “Oh, can I?”
“Nothing too outrageous, I don’t want to give my flatmate a heart-attack.” She
chuckled, knowing her getting her hair cut would throw Sherlock for a loop,
especially since he hadn’t seen how bad it was before she’d skipped out while
he was in the shower.
“Oh, you have a flatmate now?”
“Of sorts.” She chewed on her lip, “I don’t want to go Army short, that’s well
behind me, but…short.”
“Oh, don’t you worry.” Victor got hold of her phone and snapped a quick picture
for the “before” bit. She snickered.
“Who’s this flatmate of yours, then?”
“Sherlock Holmes? You’ve heard of him.”
“Yeh! That clever, handsome detective, works for The Met sometimes.” Victor
grinned and hustled her up and over to the sinks to wash her hair again, “Awful
easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
“That’s one way to put things! What an attitude, though. Still, I love him.”
“You and me alike, hun.” Victor smiled, “You and me both. Used to know your
handsome fellow long time ago. Back in uni.”
“You knew Sherlock Holmes? I thought he didn’t have any friends.” She kept her
eyes closed, he gave her a hand-towel to cover her eyes, “What was he like?”
“Young, reckless, far too smart, and the most handsome thing I ever saw. We
went our different ways, as all people do, but he was a part of my life for a
while.”
“Lucky.” She muttered, glad that Sherlock had at least one other friend in his
life, even if he didn’t talk to them anymore. Once Victor was content with the
clean state of Hannah’s messy hair, it was right back to the chair and he
picked up a comb and trimming scissors.
“So, m’love, how are we doing this thing?”
“Er. Shoulder-length and go from there? Easier to go shorter. Can’t really get
length back.” She grimaced, “Do your worst, Victor.”
“Well, if you’re mixed up with Sherlock Holmes, you should look your sharpest.
I will make you look magnificent.” He brushed out her hair, dried it, and tied
it back just above shoulder-length before cutting at the tie-off. That lost her
almost four inches of hair.
“Whoa! My God, that’s a lot of hair!” She gaped at the tail, “Victor!”
“You took very good care of your hair…until now.”
“Sorry!” She blushed, “Alright, work your magic!”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and wielded a comb and trimming-scissors like a pro.
But before he did anything, she saw a glimmer in his eyes.
“What now?”
“You have such pretty hair, such a beautiful colour.” He ran his fingers
through Hannah’s hair, a mixed blonde-grey that was more grey than blonde,
“It’s so attractive, especially on you.”
“That’s not beauty, Victor, that’s stress and age catching up with me.” She
rolled her eyes. She was forty-five years old, single, with more baggage than
most people owned pairs of shoes, and a mean temper when provoked. As several
of London’s criminal-class had learned the hard way over the last two months.
Victor chuckled and told her to close her eyes. He gave her a polished pixie
cut with bangs that married feminine details and classic men’s tailoring. The
barbered edges gave it a surprisingly feminine touch when blended into a very
pretty, sophisticated side sweep that was so very simple.
“Oh, wow.” Hannah blinked when he told her to look. “Damn, Victor! You outdid
yourself!”
“Like it?”
“I love it! It’s perfect!” She messed with the short strands, playing with the
way they fell. “This is fantastic!” Victor chuckled and held up a print-out of
the “before” picture. He had sent it to himself and printed it out.
“See?”
“Ugh. I made three people swear backwards over their graves that I wouldn’t
have to pull another undercover job like that.” Hannah sighed, “At least, not a
job that has me on the streets as a member of the homeless community.” They
took a picture of the “after” results, and she insisted on a selfie with
Victor.
“You be good to yourself, Hannah. Hear me?” Victor scolded as they settled the
bill at the desk.
“I’ll do my best, Victor. I’m keeping pretty busy these days, no time for
feeling sorry for myself.” She handed over her card and a cash tip for him,
“I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
“Of course you will.” He rolled his eyes.
“Oh, Hannah!” One of the other stylists made a sound, having come up to the
desk while she was settling her bill and gotten a look at Hannah’s slightly-
worn out appearance. “What did you do to your hands?”
“That’s a two weeks on the streets of London, Mal.”
“Nope, no. No. You’re not leaving. Finish up with Vic and you’re coming with
me. Jesus, you idiot, can’t even take care of yourself!”
“I was working, Mal.” She shook her head, “You’ve seen me worse.”
“Not in a year we haven’t! Nope!” The stylist shook her head briskly, “You’re
coming with me right now! Come on!”
“Alright, alright, take it easy.” Hannah rolled her eyes as Mallory Vincent
grabbed her by the hand and hauled her back towards the stations for manicures
and pedicures. Victor just laughed at the look she tossed over her shoulder. A
quick check of her phone proved that Holmes hadn’t come looking for her, so she
hadn’t been missed yet.
“Take your boots off and sit. We’re doing this properly.” Mallory said,
pointing to the station in question. Hannah shook her head and sat down to take
off her boots.
“That’s what I get for trying to sneak out past you, Mal.” She swung her feet
as her stylist bustled around collecting what she needed for the job.
“Don’t do that again, alright?”
“Alright, I won’t.” She smiled, “But boy is my flatmate in for a surprise when
I finally get home.”
“You’re moving out of New Belvedere House?”
“No. Not yet. But the house I stay at when I’m not at the hostel.”
“Oh, right. You’ve got two places you stay at.” Mallory made a face, “You let
Vic have fun, do I get to have fun?”
“Nothing outrageous.”
“Oh, you know me! I know the rules.” Mallory grinned and went skipping off to
the wall-display of nail polish. Hannah giggled when she saw Mallory coming
back with four bottles. She took a sharp breath as Mallory wagged the selected
colours at her.
“Ooh, Mal.”
“Promised, didn’t I?”
“Clever thing.” She smirked, “That’ll do! But first…Hey, Victor!”
“Yes?”
“Turn around real quick!” She opened her camera app, “Smile!” She snapped a
quick shot of Victor smiling at the camera, “Perfect!”
“What are you doing?”
“Sending a quick reminder to my flatmate that his sister was a lying bitch and
nothing she said was true.” She fired off the picture she’d just taken in a
quick text to Sherlock, sending the selfie as well. She had captioned the
pictures with the words “Look who I ran into. He says hi.”
“If you want to give him a heart attack, that’s a good way to do it.” Victor
scolded from his station. She shrugged.
“He needs a kick every now and then. Besides, it’s sort of his fault I was out
on the streets on that job in the first place, this is some low-scale payback.”
“You’re a cruel woman, Hannah Watson.” Victor wagged a finger at her while
Mallory just chuckled and bent to her work. Her phone blew up with a string of
responses. Including a phone call.
“Oh, look at that.” She raised an eyebrow. “Hello?”
“Watson!”
“No, you’re not imagining things, that’s Victor Trevor. Turns out I’ve been
seeing him every few weeks to months for about a year.” She smiled, “Want to
say hi?”
“Oh my god.”
“Breathe, Holmes.” She looked up.“Victor? You busy?”
“Nope.”
“Come here, I think he needs proof.” She wagged her phone at him. Victor came
right over and took her phone from her, checking the screen before he lifted it
to his ear.
*“Hello, handsome stranger. Did you miss me?”* He spoke fluent French, one of
the innumerable languages Holmes spoke fluently. Hannah listened in on her end
of the conversation, unable to pick up much that was said by Holmes, but it was
clearly a very emotional conversation for him. For both of them.
“What’s that all about?” Mallory tipped her head at Victor.
“They haven’t spoken since going their separate ways in university after an
attempt was made on Victor’s life and he went under special protection.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“He lived out of the country for a few years and came back, but never tried to
re-engage with Holmes. This is the first time they’ve heard each other’s voices
since then.” She sighed, “One good deed done for the day.” An hour later, she
left Halo with Victor’s card in her pocket with orders to hand it to Holmes and
he would be in touch soon.
“He needs all the friends he can get his hands on right now,” Hannah twirled
the card between her fingers, “Thanks for everything, Victor.”
“I should thank you, Hannah! You…”
“I know. You’re welcome.” She hugged Victor, “Stop by Baker Street some time,
we’d love to have you.”
“Alright. Of course I will, I haven’t seen him in years, and pictures and
press-cons are awful for the real thing.” Victor kissed her on the cheek and
held the door of the waiting taxi, “You’re an angel, Hannah Watson, too good
for the rest of us.” She smiled and ordered the driver to Baker Street once the
door was closed. It was a quiet, uninterrupted drive back to Baker Street.
Letting herself into the house after paying the fare, she went upstairs and
found Sherlock at the window, playing a slow, sad melody on his violin.
“You’re amazing. Did I tell you that already?”
“I told him to come by and visit. He said he would.” She hung her coat and
shuffled over to the hearth, “Jesus, the weather is dismal today. So much for
Valentine’s Day.”
“How is your leg?”
“Sore and a little stiff, typical for the kind of weather we’re having.” She
leaned against the mantle and watched him, “Are you okay, Holmes?”
“Yes, I am.” He looked up and smiled, “Thank you, Watson.”
“My pleasure.” She ruffled her hair and flicked water from her fingertips, “I
should start carrying a brolly around like your brother if it’s going to rain
like this.” That got a chuckle out of the tall detective and he came over to
join her by the fire. He studied her appearance, making mental comparisons to
what she had looked like when she had gone out to what stood before him now.
“I never did see what you looked like before Victor cut your hair.”
“It wasn’t pretty, Holmes.” She showed him the “before” picture Victor had
taken for her,
“That’s what he had to work with. This,” she made a broad gesture, “is the
final product.”
“I like this look. Very in line with your personality type and skill-sets.” He
set the violin aside and went to get a towel for her hair, “Here.”
“Ta.” She took the towel and carefully dried her hair, “Anything good come up
while I was out?”
“No. Nothing that couldn’t be solved from here.”
“Rats.” She made a face, “Well, never mind. I still have to fill out the
reports for The Met.”
“They’re on the work-table.” He hugged her tightly and sent her off with a
quick pat on the hip. She muffled a yelp and looked at him.
“Oi!”
“Go on.”
“That’s not on, Holmes. That’s just mean.” She rolled her eyes and sat down at
the work-table to fill out reports from the undercover case.
                                      -&-
Hannah had just finished drafting notes for her next blog-entry, having started
a blog documenting her adventures with Sherlock Holmes and The Met, when a
knock sounded at the door. She glanced out the window and smiled.
“Perfect timing. He must have cleared his schedule.”
“Who is it?”
“That’s Victor. I’ve got to turn those reports in to Lestrade, so I’ll leave
you boys to your fun.” She got up and grabbed the envelope with the reports and
snagged her anorak on her way out the door after making sure she had her wallet
and mobile. Sherlock was halfway down the stairs to get the door before Mrs
Hudson could and she giggled.
“Alright, there, Casanova, take it easy!” She shook her head as she passed them
at the door, “Let the poor man in out of the rain, Holmes, for Christ’s sake!”
All she got for her scolding was a half-hearted obscene gesture. The boys were
far more interested in making up for lost time and completely forgetting how to
breathe by themselves. She caught sight of Mrs Hudson watching from the door of
221A and beaming, eyes shiny and wet. Hannah wasn’t jealous, maybe a bit sad
that she still didn’t have someone like Victor to pick her up when she was
down, to miss her like it was very clear Holmes and Victor had missed each
other. She grabbed the idling cab and ordered the driver to The Met. She sighed
and sent a text to Mycroft. She had messaged him earlier about finding out the
truth about who Victor was to Sherlock, and he knew the deeper, more intimate
history between the boys. It had been his suggestion to try and reunite them.
Reunion between Sherlock and Victor Trevor went off without a hitch. Left them
to their own devices, off to The Met with reports from this morning. – JW
                                                       How are you, though? – M
Tired, giddy, maybe a bit sad. Nothing I can’t handle. – JW
It wasn’t the response he wanted, but it’s what he was going to get. It didn’t
matter anyway, she hadn’t ever made any overtures and they had only kissed each
other on the cheek. Hannah paid the fare when she got to The Met and headed
inside to make sure all of their paperwork from this last case was in proper
order.
===============================================================================
 
***** So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     A turning-point comes to the relationship between Holmes and Watson,
     whether it's a good one or not remains to be seen.
Chapter Notes
     Part 2 of the Valentine's Day shenanigans at Baker Street. Hannah has
     reunited Sherlock and Victor, and is prepared to step out of
     Sherlock's life if it comes to that. Who is she to want the
     impossible, after all? She never made a move on Sherlock, content to
     be friends, possibly friends-with-benefits, she was never going to
     pursue him romantically without knowing he was at all interested in
     something like that.
     ::
     This is told from Greg's POV, for the most part.
===============================================================================
Greg Lestrade was processing paperwork from a week’s worth of cases when Hannah
Watson showed up with the reports for the trafficking case she had gone
undercover for. He knew very well what she had looked like when they took
Groves into custody that morning, that was not the woman standing inside his
office. She had said something about needing a haircut two days ago when he
stopped by one of her stake-outs, and how she planned on taking care of that as
soon as this job was over. It sure looked like she’d taken care of business.
“Captain Watson.”
“Inspector.” She smiled and held out the envelope, “All of our reports from
Baker Street for the trafficking case.”
“Thanks. Damn fine work you did out there.”
“Hated every minute of it, but it paid off, didn’t it?” She looked around the
office, “Nice digs.”
“You say that every time you’re in here.”
“It’s true.” She shrugged, “Anything on?”
“Just loads and loads of paperwork.” He gestured at his cluttered desk,
“Nothing exciting right now, I’m afraid.”
“Pity.” She sat down across from him, taking a stack of reports and a biro and
chipping in to cut down on the amount of paperwork he had to do by himself. She
did it every time she was in his office, sometimes spending hours at a time
helping him. He couldn’t help but notice a sadness to her mood, a tension that
didn’t have much to do with the case they had just closed.
“You alright, Hannah?”
“Hmm?”
“You seem a little off, I don’t think it’s just the case.” He narrowed his
eyes, “Is everything okay with you?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just…I’ve never been particularly fond of Valentine’s
Day.” She sighed. Greg raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t all it was. He also knew
he wasn’t going to get a better answer out of her, so he left it alone for the
moment. She had just finished half of the stack she’d taken when a call came
through for them. Greg groaned, wondering why holidays seemed to bring the
worst out in people.
“No rest for the weary, is there?” Hannah set aside the finished reports.
“Nope. This should be interesting.” He got up and pocketed his badge, keys, and
checked for his handcuffs and gun. Everything was in its place, time to go.
“Well, I’ve done all the damage I care to around here. I’ll let you get on your
way.” Hannah collected her things and he held the door for her.
“Thanks for stopping by, Hannah. Don’t be a stranger.”
“Not likely.” She snorted, “I’m surprised you lot aren’t sick of me by now.”
Greg chuckled and closed his office door. Hannah kept pace with him and
followed him down to his car. She was in absolutely no hurry to leave, and he
knew the loneliness of a couples’ holiday without a significant other was a big
factor in her sadness.
“Well, see ya, Greg.” She waved and turned to go on her way. The weather and
the case had really messed with Hannah’s injuries and she was moving rather
slow.
“Hey, Watson.” He had an idea, probably not the brightest, but there was always
one fail-safe way to break a clever mind’s funk. It had a 95% success rate with
Sherlock and a 100% success rate with Hannah, it was worth an honest shot to
try now.
“Hmm?”
“Want to come?” He grinned at her from over the roof of his car.
“Come…come with you? To the scene?”
“Yeah. Best cure for moody blues I know of is a good crime scene.”
“Oh, hell. It’s not like Holmes is going to miss me or anything.” She looked
around and made up her mind about something. “Sure, why not? What’s the worst
that can happen?”
“I manage to distract you, and maybe get the truth out of you.” He waited for
her to get in and headed for the crime-scene after she was settled.
It was fairly cut-and-dry, but the apparent cause-of-death baffled the on-scene
forensics team.
“We’ll have to let the coroner figure it out.” Philip Anderson shook his head
as he de-gloved outside of the bedroom that housed the primary scene, “I’ve got
nothing.”
“Are you sure? We aren’t missing anything?” Greg narrowed his eyes. It was
highly unlikely they didn’t have some clue, just…something Anderson had missed.
He seemed to do that quite often.
“Nothing stood out to me, Boss. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies.” Anderson
made a face. Greg sighed and looked past Anderson at Hannah, who had been
studying the body for the past five minutes while he spoke with Anderson. She
had something, he recognized her body-language. It was like having Sherlock,
just not as rude. But Hannah could tear into someone if she wanted to, he still
remembered how she had deduced a few of Sally Donovan’s ugly secrets the very
first time they’d ever had a thing to do with each other. It had been glorious
and hilarious and Donovan hadn’t spoken to them for almost a week. Donovan
seemed to be the only person on the team who didn’t like Hannah, aside from
Anderson. He sighed.
“Yeah, alright. Go on, I’ll get this one down to Hooper.”
“Roger that.” Anderson shot a look at Watson, who crouched at a neutral
distance from the body, “Watson! Don’t touch that body! Hear me?”
“Leave her alone, Anderson. She’s just doing her job. I brought her on, let her
work. Get on, now.”
“Don’t need civilian consultants to do the professional’s job, y’know.”
“She’s doing your job, Anderson! I swear, she does your job better and she’s
not even on our payroll! Probably should be for all the work she does!” Greg
snapped, finally having had enough of it, “Six cases, in the last two months!
Six, Anderson, that’s not a good statistic for you. Now, get. Before I write
you up and relieve you of your job permanently.” Sufficiently cowed, Anderson
scrammed and he approached the body and the clever consultant on the other side
of it.
“Please tell me you have something useful?”
“I’ve got plenty. All on record, too.” She waved her phone at him, and he
realized she had been running her voice-memo app to take notes of what she saw.
“God bless you, Hannah Watson.” He rocked forward on the balls of his feet,
“So, what is it?” She broke down the basics, things he already knew about their
victim, and then a few things no one else would have noticed.
“Do I have a cause-of-death for this poor woman?”
“Overdose. Choked on her own vomit. She was unconscious already, you’ll find
evidence in her lungs of the aspiration, so have Molly Hooper check for that.”
“So, was this an accident?”
“I don’t see any visible coercion marks or any sign of a struggle. Black-light
for bruising would be damn useful. Blood-toxicity testing is an absolute must
to figure out what she overdosed on. Something nasty, though, and probably
fast-acting.” Hannah looked at him, “Who called it?”
“Her boyfriend.”
“Is he still here?”
“Yep. Outside beyond the line. Why?”
“Because our miss here was raped.”
“You said…”
“No visible coercion marks. Whoever did this cleaned up the evidence. Not very
well, but I know the smell.”
“Is that what that is?” He had noticed a familiar, slightly-caustic smell to
the scene.
“Yep.”
“Wow. What an idiot to stick around like that, did he think he wouldn’t get
caught?”
“Take him in for questioning.”
“Absolutely! Anything else you can give me?” He rubbed his upper lip with one
finger, amazed as always at Hannah’s untapped gift.
“You’ll get the rest from Hooper. But I’ll search the house before I go
anywhere.”
“More evidence?”
“Yep. Start in the bathroom.” Hannah got up and stepped over the body
carefully, heading for the master-suite bathroom. She sorted through the bin
for evidence and found a condom wrapper, a used condom, a few soiled flannels,
and he heard a triumphant yell as he oversaw the moving of the body.
“Ah, got it! Oh, that’s just lovely!”
“What is it, Watson?”
“Got the murder weapon!” She waved something at them, “Consider ourselves lucky
he didn’t dispose of this properly!” The item in question was a spent 1mL
syringe with a 1-inch needle attached. It was inside a small sealed baggie,
along with a vial of some substance.
“What the…”
“Victim’s a diabetic, Type 1, she keeps all of her SHARPS in a proper
container. But idiot boyfriend didn’t think about that.”
“Watson, you evil little genius!”
“He wore gloves, unfortunately, but I saw blood under her fingernails. He’ll
have scratches from her struggle.”
“That’s why there aren’t any coercion marks! He wore fucking gloves!” Which
were bundled into the rape-kit.
“And covered any visible bruising with concealer.” Hannah pointed to a bottle
of liquid concealer makeup that sat on the vanity, knocked over and the lid
askew. Giddy, Greg had everything bagged up for evidence and stopped the
coroner’s team from moving the body.
“Hold up, you lot!”
“Sir?”
“Show me, Watson.” He waved Hannah over and she unzipped the body-bag, pulling
back the victim’s right sleeve and pointing out a small pin-prick injury above
the victim’s median cubital vein below the cubital fossa.
“He would have been kneeling on her shoulder and holding her down with one
hand, ambidextrous?”
“Nah. Held her down with his non-dominant hand, that’s why he knelt on her to
hold her down.”
“Nice work, Watson.” He smirked and waved the coroner’s team on their way, “Now
will you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Ugh.”
“Please? You just solved my case for me.”
“Damn it, Greg.” She yanked off her gloves and the blue PPE suit, bundling them
into the provided box. “Fine. But keep it to yourself.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” He followed her out of the house, “Is Sherlock
involved?”
“Yep.”
“Great. Do I need to knock some sense into him?”
“Nope.” She pulled up the hood of her anorak once she’d collected her things,
“I don’t suppose you know a bloke by the name of Victor Trevor?”
“Trevor? He was Sherlock’s best friend in uni, until he disappeared. They knew
each other as kids. Think he died.”
“Not even close.” Hannah did something on her phone and handed it to him,
“Recognize that fellow?”
“Oh my god, that’s Victor.” Greg blinked at the image. “That’s Victor Trevor!
Hannah, where the hell did you find him?”
“Turns out, he’s my stylist over at Halo. I never once put the pieces together
until today.”
“What tipped you off?”
“He said something about knowing Sherlock back in uni and it just sort of went
from there.” She shrugged, but it was obvious this bothered her. She had nursed
a bit of a crush on Sherlock for months, and it was likewise for Sherlock, and
yet the two of them had never got their heads on right to do anything about it.
“Oh, Hannah.” Greg sighed and handed her phone back to her, “Feel like you
might have missed your shot, yeah?”
“Just a bit. My fault, though, and I refuse to interfere on a chance for
Sherlock to be happy for once.”
“Don’t you deserve to be happy, too, though?” He raised an eyebrow and thought
about the times he and Mycroft had been proper idiots about the same damn thing
before finally doing something about it. It was hard to believe they were
coming up on two years married now. Hannah sighed and folded her arms against
the roof of his car, her cane leaned against it on her side.
“No, I guess I don’t. If I deserved to be happy, wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, Watson.” Greg sighed and put his head down, resting his forehead against
his arm, “Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Damn it, Watson.” He heard a commotion over by the line and groaned, “If
that’s…”
“Sherlock Holmes?”
“Don’t tell me he showed up?”
“Yep.”
“Honestly expected him earlier than this.” Greg looked up and over his
shoulder, the line was behind them. Sure enough, there was Sherlock Holmes,
giving Sally Donovan a hard time. Behind him was Victor Trevor and…who was
that?
“Oh, hello. Who’s that?” Hannah had noticed the third of their party, “Handsome
fellow.”
“Not a bleeding clue.” Greg ruffled his hair, “Well, should we go break this up
before she takes a swing at him?”
“Might as well.” Hannah grabbed her cane and they headed for the line. Greg
realized that Sherlock was actually behaving himself, just trying to get
through the line. It was Donovan giving him a hard time.
“All I need is two minutes to look for Hannah Watson, I don’t need to look at
the scene. Please, Donovan.”
“I said no, Holmes.” Donovan looked the tall detective over, “What is so
important about her anyway?”
“Oh, Christ.”
“I heard worse on the streets, Greg,” Hannah whispered. “She doesn’t like me,
and there’s nothing we can do to change her mind.”
“You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of treatment.” Greg muttered,
“What’s gotten into Sherlock?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Hannah shrugged. When they got to within line-
of-sight of the line, Trevor spotted them coming and got Sherlock’s attention.
When Sherlock’s handsome ex-boyfriend pointed them out, the way he reacted was
a little unexpected. Completely ignoring Donovan, who made an aborted grab for
him, Sherlock ducked under the line and broke into a run.
“Brace yourself, Watson.”
“What on…whoa! Hey, whoa!” Hannah stumbled when Sherlock finally got hold of
her and practically picked her up.
“Okay, you two, take it easy.” Greg picked up Hannah’s cane from where it had
fallen when she dropped it. “You okay, Sherlock?”
“Watson! Oh, god, I am so sorry!”
“Sorry for what? Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Damn good question. I’ll ask the level heads in the group.” Greg rolled his
eyes, “Keep it to a minimum, kiddies.” Not that Hannah and Sherlock had ever
gone beyond hugging on a crime-scene and a few innocent cheek-kisses. He knew
that cuddling on a grander scale happened behind closed doors at Baker Street,
he’d seen it with his own two eyes during the occasional match, and had even
seen the two get particularly cosy at a Pub Night or two.
“Alright, start talking.” He ducked the line and looked at Trevor before
looking over his shoulder, “What’s got into him?”
“How much do you already know, Inspector?”
“Not enough for that to make any sense.” He pointed at the couple on the other
side of the tape, “They’re acting like they haven’t seen each other in a month.
What’s going on? And who’s this?”
“I’m glad you asked before assuming, sir.” Trevor looked at the man beside him
and smiled, but it was a sad smile, “This is my husband, Jack Evans.”
“Oh, Jesus. You…” Greg put the pieces together and covered his mouth with one
hand, “You got yourself married off while you were under the radar! You lucky
bastard. Didn’t break his heart too badly, did it?” He knew how fond of Trevor
Sherlock had been, how excited he would have been to see him again.
“He knew before I said anything, he always knows things like that.”
“So you brought your husband into the picture to explain things properly. Oh,
poor Sherlock.”
“I think it’s Hannah Watson we should be more worried about.” Evans looked at
the couple, “I know it’s not something either of them will ever ask for, it’s
not in them, but they deserve what makes them happy.”
“And God help us all, they make each other so happy.” Greg leaned against the
squad-car to his left, “Christ.”
“Do you think maybe this will spur her to move into Baker Street for good?”
“Depends on a lot of things. The way this goes could make or break something
beautiful.” Greg worried his lip, “Oh, please don’t screw this up, kids. Not
now.”
“On a different subject, did she solve your case for you?”
“Yep. I threatened to fire my forensics lead for incompetence.” Greg watched
the consulting pair he called on for cold-case work and live cases alike, “I’ve
only had Hannah on the docket for two months and in the last month alone she’s
worked and closed six cases. That doesn’t look good when an unpaid consultant
is smarter than someone on my payroll. And never mind her closure rate for cold
cases.”
“Philip Anderson’s case-record wasn’t that stellar, to begin with, was it?”
“No, unfortunately. But he is good at his job, just not…not good enough.” He
kept an eye on Hannah and Sherlock as they ducked the line, “Where are the pair
of you off to?”
“I’ll meet you back at your office, Greg.”
“Alright, you know the drill.” He knew it wasn’t what they wanted to do, but he
could always depend on Hannah to get her reports out of the way right away if
she had the means and the time.
“See you tonight, Sherlock?” Trevor caught Sherlock by the sleeve.
“Of course. Angelo's at nine?”
“We’ll be there.”
“See you at nine.” Then they were gone, round the corner at the end of the
street and out of sight. Greg sighed and looked at Trevor and Evans.
“Alright, I’ll let you gents get on your way. It was nice to meet you, Mr
Evans.”
“Likewise, Inspector. Hannah speaks rather well of you on her blog.”
“Oh, god, you two read her blog?” Hannah’s crime-blog had quite a readership,
including everyone in Greg’s division and in other divisions at The Met. His
team had to endure some good-natured ribbing for a pair of street-tecs doing a
better job, but Sherlock had always had a nose for crime and now he had a side-
kick and a partner who was just as smart, just as observant, and rather good at
a take-down. Hannah was well-liked by a lot of people at The Met, so they were
just as likely to defend her as they were to laugh at her because she was smart
enough to do their jobs without pay or sufficient resources.
“Of course we read her blog! It’s always a treat to read up on the latest
misadventures.” Trevor smiled as they shook hands, “Good luck to you,
Inspector. Do try to keep Sherlock Holmes and Hannah Watson out of trouble.”
“I do my best. Have a good evening, gents.” He watched until Trevor and Evans
were out of sight and groaned. Tonight was going to be a nightmare for
paperwork. At least he hadn’t planned anything spectacular for the night,
seeing as he was going to be busy.
When he got back to the office, Hannah was busy with her reports for the latest
case and Sherlock was solving a stack of cases that had been festering on his
desk for two weeks. This was a very normal sight for him to come back to at the
office and a comfortable one. Hannah finished her reports and split the rest of
the stack Sherlock was working on and he chuckled as they traded theories and
clues like old women at gossip. Greg dug a ledger out of his desk and began
filling out a cheque for them. They paid Sherlock, and now Hannah, on a case-
by-case basis for the cases they solved, including live work and cold-case
work. He kept a tally of the cases worked and solved and eyed the stack between
them. Filling out everything except the amount, he kept up his bit of the work.
 
At one point, the superintendent stopped by. She always did when Sherlock was
around, it was kind of her way of keeping an eye on things and making sure
Sherlock kept in line. Also, Greg suspected his superior
actually liked Sherlock, not that she would ever say as much out loud if asked.
“Lestrade.”
“Ma’am.”
“Holmes. Watson.” Victoria Graham smirked as she leaned against the door-frame,
“Good work on the trafficking case.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The pair was respectful of Greg’s superior. They always had
been, Sherlock especially in the aftermath of the last few events to shake
things up in London.
“And Watson, good job with the Milliner case. Heard you made a bit of an idiot
out of Anderson again.”
“Didn’t mean to do his job, ma’am. It was right there, plain as day.” Bless
Hannah for being a bit smug while still being modest.
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Watson. If I had six of you, things would be a lot
simpler. You’re good at this, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah blushed, praise from Greg’s bosses was hard to come by and
usually begrudgingly given. But Graham liked her, a lot.
“Watson.” Uh oh. Greg knew what that tone of voice meant, and so did Hannah.
“Ma’am?” She was already on her feet. Graham simply beckoned with one hand.
Without another word, Hannah followed Graham outside. Whatever they said was
cut off as Graham closed the door.
“She’s not in trouble, is she?” Sherlock asked in a whisper.
“Doubt it. Graham likes Hannah, a lot more than she likes anyone else around
here. Not sure what the attraction is.” Greg shook his head, fairly sure Hannah
wasn’t in any trouble.
“I believe Superintendent Graham was one of Watson’s superior officers at one
point.” Sherlock glanced at the closed door, “They do get along rather well.”
“I noticed. I just thought Hannah had charmed Graham like the rest of us.” Greg
went back to work, one ear to the door. He wouldn’t be able to hear a damn
thing, but it was the principle of the matter. As Sherlock worked, he kept
thinking about what he’d witnessed at the crime scene.
“I can hear you thinking, it’s rather distracting.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, “So, uh, Trevor and Evans? How…did that go?”
“I knew Jack Evans in university, we were all classmates. I knew right away
that Victor was married, Lestrade, I make my living on observation.” Sherlock
looked up at him, “He’s happy, he’s safe, and that’s all I need to know.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” Greg rubbed his forehead. God, Hannah and Sherlock were so
stubborn.
“What?”
“You and Hannah both, a bloody pair of martyrs. Christ, why are you afraid of
being happy, Sherlock?”
“Have you forgotten my history, Lestrade?”
“No! But that mess does not preclude you getting a chance to be happy! And son,
long as I’ve known you, I have never seen you as happy as you’ve been these
past two months! It’s a bit mad how much you’ve changed! Watching you and
Hannah work a scene together is always a treat, I swear half the time you don’t
even talk to each other, you just…know.” He rested his elbows on the desk,
folding his hands under his chin, “Sherlock, if anyone deserves to be happy,
it’s you. I’m not talking a fairy-tale Happily Ever After, that kind of thing
doesn’t really exist in the real world we live in, but Hannah Watson is
everything you deserve in a partner. I’ve seen you, in the field and behind
closed doors, I know you two share the same bed, that’s not a secret. But
you’ve never kissed her, you’ve never…wanted.”
“Wanting and having are very different things.”
“And you have a shot at both!” He rubbed his chin with one finger, “Sherlock,
please, please. For once in your messed up life, follow your heart.”
“Never let your heart rule your mind.”
“Bollocks, and you know it! Where would I be if that was true, hm? Where would
your brother be if that was true? We’d both be lonely, desperate men wondering
if we’d lost a once-in-a-lifetime chance at real happiness. I have never
regretted that decision, not once in two years. Two fucking years, Sherlock,
that’s a long time!”
“What do I do?” Chameleon eyes were hazel as Sherlock looked up at him,
frightened. “Two months is hardly enough time to know everything.”
“And yet, you knew everything inside of a bloody month, you idiot.” He sighed,
“Sherlock, that girl has been as lonely, broken, and lost as you. I mean, for a
while, she was part of your Homeless Network. She’s saved your life, she’s
saved Mycroft’s life, on more than one occasion for you, and you saved hers two
months ago. And it wasn’t just her life you saved, it was everything that makes
Hannah Watson the brilliant, sassy consultant who solves cases almost faster
than you do.”
“How do you know if it’s love?”
“Hmm?”
“Love, Lestrade, you know what I mean.”
“It’s not something I can quantify, Sherlock. But if you’re asking if two
months is enough time to know, I’d say yeah. I knew within two weeks of meeting
Mycroft, but it took us too fucking long to get out of our heads and do
something about it. I almost lost him, Sherlock, so many times.” Memories of
what he had seen and experienced at Sherrinford and Musgrove Hall would haunt
him to his deathbed, the legitimate fear that Mycroft was dead before he
realized it was all a very clever trick.
“Lestrade?”
“Hmm?”
“Go home tonight.”
“I can’t, Sherlock.”
“Yes, you can. You need to be with your husband tonight.” The stack of finished
files had grown a bit. Sherlock worked well under stress, he had noticed, and
this was definitely stressful for him. Emotions were still a very new idea to
the detective, the idea of letting someone get close was alien to him, and
yet…in two months, the impossible had happened.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Follow your heart tonight. Just this once, don’t worry about rejection.”
“Will you go home to your husband?”
“Will you take an enormous risk and step into the unknown?” He watched the
door, wondering what Graham had wanted Hannah for.
“It’s not so much stepping as it is holding my breath and jumping into the deep
end.” Sherlock looked shy, “I can’t…”
“Don’t worry about saying the words, Sherlock, just do what feels right.” He
looked up as the door opened and Hannah came back in. Sherlock looked at his
partner, Greg was familiar with that particular look, and in a heartbeat had
grabbed his phone and fired off a text message. A response came back quickly
and it was apparently the answer Sherlock had hoped to hear. He smiled, tucked
the phone into his pocket, and pushed the chair out with his foot so Hannah
could sit down. They worked in coordinated silence, cutting his workload to
half, and Hannah finally asked to go home.
“Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go home.” Not “Let’s go back to Baker Street.” That was huge. Greg
smiled as Sherlock checked his phone again and nodded.
“Yes, lets. Do you need anything else, Lestrade?”
“Nope! You two kids have a good night.” He saw them to the street, he always
did, not missing when Hannah openly reached for Sherlock’s hand, pulling off
his glove and tucking it into her pocket. They always walked so that her left
side was free in case she had her cane and needed the manoeuvring room like she
did today. He smiled as he held the door of the taxi for them and gave the
driver the Baker Street address.
“See you two in a few days.” He leaned into the cab, “Take it easy, alright?
You two worked hard enough for the whole division these last couple of weeks.
Take a break.”
“Call us if anything interesting comes up.” Hannah smiled and he kissed her on
the cheek.
“You get some rest, Captain, God knows you’ve earned it.” He backed out and
watched until the cab was out of sight. Going back to his office, Greg finished
up a few things, setting the finished files aside for the archives.
“You’re going home, right?” Graham stopped by again.
“Yep. Just shutting down for the night.” He cleared off his desk of everything
except the files, put his computer into hibernation mode, and grabbed his work-
bag. He took a couple of the remaining files for homework, made sure he had his
keys, badge, and gun, and grabbed his coat on his way out, turning off the
lights and locking his door.
“Have a good night, Lestrade.”
“You, too, Graham. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night. I’ll make sure Dimmock and Gregson take the calls tonight.” She
waved him off and he checked on his team before leaving. A quick call to
Mycroft ensured that his husband was home and would be so until further notice.
Good. He didn’t have anything particular planned, but it was nice to know there
weren’t going to be any disturbances from work. At least not from his work. He
couldn’t speak for the higher powers Mycroft answered to. He just hoped that
Hannah and Sherlock had a night to themselves.
===============================================================================
 
***** So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Part 3 of the Valentine's Day shenanigans at Baker Street. Hannah has
     reunited Sherlock and Victor, and is prepared to step out of
     Sherlock's life if it comes to that. Who is she to want the
     impossible, after all? She never made a move on Sherlock, content to
     be friends, possibly friends-with-benefits, she was never going to
     pursue him romantically without knowing he was at all interested in
     something like that.
Chapter Notes
     I think this is where the angst makes itself known. I'm sorry. So, SO
     sorry. However, if angst is your cuppa, then I hope you enjoy. If
     it's not...I promise I don't make them suffer for too long. A chapter
     or two worth of angst with what I hope is a satisfying resolution.
===============================================================================
When Hannah had started her day, she hadn’t expected it to end quite the way it
did. She had started the day on the streets, masquerading as a homeless
veteran, and things had kind of just...happened from there. There had been
plans of some sort to meet up with Victor and his husband for dinner, but those
plans had been changed in favour of what was a typical night in for them. But
the mess of the undercover case had left her craving a bit of normalcy. Not
that her normal was what anyone else might consider an adequate description of
the word. Her normal was running the dark streets of after-dark London chasing
criminals and writing up blog-entries about her misadventures, late-night
takeaway while Sherlock composed music or worked on experiments in the kitchen.
Usually, she watched bad crap telly while he worked, and put up with his belly-
aching and rude deductions of the talk-show hosts and guests, or taking apart
one of her procedural dramas, scoffing at how inaccurate it all was. She had
started watching The First 48, a show from America, just to keep him occupied
since he seemed to enjoy deducing the cases. He was rather good at it,
actually, and it was always fun to test his skills.
Tonight was a little different, though, and she was okay with that. After they
had gotten home from their day out, Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom
and she heard the water go on. He was taking a shower, then. That was fine.
Hannah went upstairs and got changed into comfortable clothes, wearing her Army
PFU track-pants and a black tee-shirt decorated with the insignia and motto of
the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. When she got back downstairs, she got a
fire started in the hearth and turned on the telly, looking for something to
watch. As she waited for Sherlock to come out, Hannah thought about her
conversation with Victoria Graham. They had talked for a good fifteen minutes,
the longest she’d ever spoken to any of Greg’s superiors, but it was a
conversation between old friends. She had served under Graham ages ago, back
when she’d been fresh out of boot-camp and still an optimistic young recruit
who could barely tie up her boot-laces the right way. Graham, an observant
woman by nature and familiar with Hannah the way very few people were, had
basically had a sit-down with her and laid out a few things for her
consideration.
Hannah knew Sherlock liked her, liked her more than he’d ever have the guts to
admit to, and she was guilty of a not-insignificant crush on her flat-mate. But
when Victor Trevor had reentered the picture, for however short a time that had
turned out to be, she had been reluctantly willing to back off and let Sherlock
have his shot at a happy ending. And yet, she had always been a treacherously
jealous individual when it came to partners she was very fond of, and three
different people had picked up on her jealousy. Mycroft knew, and Greg had read
her like an open book, and how many times had she poured her heart out to
Graham after things went sour with a partner while she’d still been in the
Army? Of course Graham knew what it looked like when Hannah’s heart was broken
and she just didn’t have the guts to say it out loud! And Graham had basically
sat her down and explained that she wasn’t imagining things with Sherlock, he
really did like her, but he was a man. And men, as they both knew, were
practically idiots any way you cut it. That did not exclude her genius flat-
mate, and she knew that. But having it read out for her by a second party was
hard. Hannah had tried to deny it, but Graham wasn’t stupid.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes?”
“Watson.”
“Ma’am?” She had looked up at Graham, feeling for a moment very much like she
had when she had been reprimanded for doing something wrong.
“Do. You. Love. Sherlock Holmes?”
“I adore him, ma’am, I would do anything for him.”
“Which is why you stepped back when you thought you had no place in his world.”
“I don’t, though! I told you, Victor Trevor’s an old, long-time friend of his
and they used to date! I can’t get in the way of that!”
“Bollocks! Trevor’s married, and rather happily, if I had to hazard a guess! He
showed up at Baker Street to put things to rights with Sherlock and come clean
with him!” Graham had looked down at her, a familiar hard gleam in her eye,
“Get it out of your head that you lost a chance, because that’s only going to
happen if you two continue to be willful little idiots!”
“Victor’s…married?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Oh my god.” Hannah had almost broken down in tears at that. She still didn’t
regret reuniting Victor and Sherlock, she never would, it meant so much to them
both. But…where did that leave her? Graham had leaned over Hannah and given her
a very simple piece of advice: “Follow your heart. Just this once. Whatever you
want, I guarantee he wants the same. Just follow your heart.” So, with a
heaviness in her chest, she had gone home with Sherlock. Something told her
that Sherlock had gotten a similar talking-to from Greg, and now she was trying
to figure out what the hell she was going to do.
 
She was distracted from her dismal train of thought by the sound of the bell.
Mrs Hudson was out, on another date with Mr Turner no doubt and she should be,
considering the significance of the day. Sherlock was still in the bathroom, so
she shoved off of the couch and made her way downstairs, grabbing her pistol
from the coffee-table and tucking it into the back of her track-pants. When she
got to the door, slow going no thanks to her dodgy knee, she wrestled it open
and was fully prepared to berate whoever had come knocking three seconds before
she recognized the beaming man standing outside their door.
“Oh! Angelo! Hi!”
“Hello, dear.” The cheerful Italian dragged her out of the house and into a
hug, “Heard you’ve had a day of things.”
“That’s a word for it.” She sniffled. Angelo smelled like fresh pasta, Pomodoro
sauce, basil, and wine.
“Well, maybe this will cheer you up!” He hefted his burden, an insulated
zipper-top bag, it smelled glorious. Hannah wasn’t sure the sound that got
stuck in her throat was actually human. She was nearly starving by this point,
so any food was welcome.
“Oh, Angelo.”
“Come on, come on with you!” He hustled her into the house, making sure to
close the door once he was in. “And don’t worry, my nephew is manning the helm
tonight.”
“Was I going to ask?” She raised an eyebrow and followed him back up the stairs
to 221B. Hannah got into the flat and found him setting the table in the
kitchen, carefully moving Sherlock’s things out of the way. She stood in the
doorway of the kitchen, baffled by what she was witnessing. The cheerful
Italian who seemed to have made it a personal goal of his to not only ensure
that Hannah and Sherlock never went hungry on a case or post-case, but had
tried everything in his meagre mortal power to set them up as a proper couple,
was currently moving around the kitchen like he lived there. He clearly knew
his way around, and she was at a loss.
“Angelo?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing?” She watched him open a bottle of what she recalled was
the restaurant’s best wine.
“Exactly what it looks like. Go get Sherlock.” He just grinned at her and
jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. Hannah sighed and padded
through the kitchen to the bedroom, knocking before she went in.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
“Er, Angelo’s here.”
“Oh, good. Did he come up?”
“Yes.” She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, watching as he
pulled a white tee-shirt over his head, “Did I miss something?”
“Is it imperative that you know everything?”
“Well, no.” She made a face, “But, a little head’s up would be nice. Did you
call him or something?”
“No, I sent him a text message while we were still with Lestrade.”
“Oh.” She sighed, “So, instead of us going out, Angelo brought the experience
to Baker Street.” That actually made sense, in a weird way. She hadn’t really
felt up to spending more time around crowds of people, never mind ungrateful
people, and wondered if she had really been that obvious. Of course, it was
Sherlock, he would have noticed right away. Hannah sighed and leaned her head
back against the door, closing her eyes. She didn’t hear him move, but
suddenly, she was blocked in by the tall detective. She stilled as one hand
curved around the back of her neck, calloused finger-tips sliding into her
hair, she heard him make a soft sound as he explored the shorter strands.
“Oh, Watson.” He breathed, his breath soft against her cheek, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.” She whispered, “Just fucking kiss me already.” He chuckled
and touched noses with her before his lips touched hers. Something in her chest
unravelled and she moaned into the kiss. Sherlock was not her first kiss, not
by a long shot, but it was the first that made her feel like she mattered to
someone. The only time she pulled away was when she had to breathe, and she
blinked unfocused eyes.
“Whoa.”
“I am not nearly as skilled as you are.”
“Bullshit.” She caught her breath, “Surprise me, why don’t you?”
“The surprise is in the kitchen.” He smiled and reached around her for the
doorknob, “Do you trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Always.” He opened the door and let her out first. The kitchen had gone
through a transformation while she’d been in the bedroom with Sherlock, and she
stopped short.
“Not to repeat myself but, whoa! What happened to the kitchen?” Any sign of
Sherlock’s equipment had been cleared from the kitchen. Every surface was
clean, the table had been cleared off and re-set with a white tablecloth and
laid with tea-candles and a squat vase with six red roses as the centre-piece,
and full place-settings. Plates loaded with food were set at each place, hers
and Sherlock’s, there was salad, pasta, and bread enough to feed a small army.
Glasses of wine and water sat at each place.
“Angelo, you’ve outdone yourself.” Sherlock murmured, eyes glowing in the light
of the candles. The whole place was warm thanks to the fire, and additional
light was provided by more candles set on any flat surface available in the
kitchen. They were all LED candles, she noticed, and there were a lot of them.
The work-table lamp and her reading-lamp were on in the sitting-room, but that
was it, none of the overheads had been turned on. Angelo stood at the head of
the table, his back to the sitting-room, beaming like he’d won the lottery.
Hannah caught her breath as Sherlock nudged her into the temporarily-
redecorated kitchen and sat down as Angelo held her chair for her. He did the
same for Sherlock and laid something by Hannah’s plate as he leaned over the
back of her chair to kiss her on the cheek.
“Please have a blessed evening, my dear soldier. You do not smile enough, you
have so little to be happy for. Find your happiness here.”
“Thank you so much, Angelo. For everything.” She took his hand, “You’ve been so
good to us.”
“It is what I am here for. Sherlock.”
“Thank you, Angelo. For everything.” Sherlock smiled at the cheerful man, who
kissed them both before disappearing down the stairs, whistling a bright
Italian love-song. That’s when she realized there was music playing. Soft
ballads played at just the right volume.
“Did you ask him to do this, Sherlock?”
“Not this, I swear.”
“It’s fine.” She picked up her glass, “After the last couple of weeks, this is
perfect.” It was quiet as they ate, and after she had eaten all she could
stomach, he shooed her out of the kitchen and cleaned up. But Angelo had seen
to that as well and he joined her shortly with their wine-glasses. She took
hers when he held it out and patted the couch next to her. Sherlock sat down
carefully, but once he was settled, she snuggled up against him and wondered
how on earth she was going to make the most of “follow your heart”. He flipped
through channels looking for something to watch on background and came up with
a football match. She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine.
“I thought you didn’t like football.”
“Not particularly, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else on at the moment
and I’m not in the mood to get up to find something in our collection.” He
sniffled. “Our collection” he’d said, and Hannah smiled.
“I can move if you need me to.”
“Don’t you dare.” he grabbed her by the hand just in case she thought it might
be a good idea to get up. “It’s fine, it’s perfect. Don’t move. Please.”
“Okay.” She settled back. It was quiet for a while as they watched the match,
Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered about bad calls and Hannah booed the refs
for favouring Manchester United. After a while, she thought of something and
set her glass down.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry. About Victor. I didn’t know, I didn’t know anything.”
“I’m not sorry about Victor. We were never exclusive, and he’s very lucky to
have survived this long. He is no longer in danger, but we are only friends.”
“Okay. I’m just…sorry about it.” She rubbed her arm, “I feel kind of bad.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just…do.”
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“What did Major Graham tell you?”
“I imagine the same thing Greg must have told you.”
“And what do you think he told me?”
“Some nonsense about doing the right thing for once and forgetting what your
head tells you to do.”
“Is it really nonsense, though?” He asked softly, “Do you really think that?”
“I don’t know what to think, Sherlock. My life was flipped upside-down almost
two years ago and I barely have my head above water.” Hannah folded her arms
across her chest.
“You are in a much better place than you were two months ago, and we both know
it.” He was smart enough to avoid touching her, but she knew he wanted to. It
was one thing that had surprised her, how tactile her partner could be, how
much he enjoyed touching. It was always small, subtle, and publicly acceptable,
but when they were on a scene or she was staying over at Baker Street, he was
nearly always touching her in some way. Holding hands in the cabs; hands on
shoulders, thighs, or knees, passed off as supporting touches at crime-scenes;
sitting pressed together shoulder-hip-thigh at Pub Nights with The Met, holding
hands under the table and keeping the rumor-mills running full steam ahead;
quiet nights at Baker Street, just like this one, with takeaway and something
suitably awful on the telly as background. Sometimes they worked cases,
sometimes they didn’t. And tonight. That kiss, that bloody kiss. It wasn’t that
she hadn’t enjoyed it, because she certainly had, but she just didn’t…she
didn’t feel like she deserved it. That was Robert talking, and she knew it, but
his voice was always loudest.
“Hannah?”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so tired I can barely think straight. I’ll see you in
the morning.” She heaved herself off the couch, grabbed her phone from the
coffee table, and headed for the stairs, “Thank you, really, for everything.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine.” She knew he didn’t believe her, she wasn’t expecting him to, and
made her way upstairs to her room. Setting her alarm for the morning, she
plugged her phone in and went through her nightly routine. Hannah did not sleep
well that night, and she blamed her exhaustion, the pain in her joints, and the
weather on it.
                                      -&-
When her alarm went off the next morning, she got dressed in the dark,
collected her things, and quietly left Baker Street without saying anything to
Sherlock. She reported to her job-training at the assigned time and place and
gave her full focus. Her trainers and co-workers knew about her side-work with
The Met, and the case she’d solved yesterday was already in the news, but she
deflected the questions with her usual bluntness.
“We’re not clucky old women at gossip around here, people, we’re professionals.
Act like it.” She snapped at a pair of younger medics who were comparing notes
about Sherlock. Their wide-eyed stares followed her around the corner and she
shook her head irritably. It was going to be one of those days, it seemed.
***** Run From Your Past *****
Chapter Summary
     Hannah Watson has left Baker Street, and the detectives are being a
     couple of idiots. It really is just that simple.
Chapter Notes
     Angst ahoy! I'm so sorry!
     ::
     A very dark chapter of Hannah's past is about to come crashing
     squarely into her present. This is not going to be pleasant for
     anyone.
===============================================================================
It was two weeks before Hannah saw Sherlock again after Valentine’s Day,
despite numerous phone-calls and text messages as he attempted to make contact.
He apologised for saying the wrong thing, it was very clear something had gone
wrong that day, and if she would forgive him, that was all he wanted. But he
had nothing to apologise for, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Then why was she
punishing him as if he had?
Things went from bad to worse one night as she walked home from Stepney Green
Station, a thirteen-minute walk to New Belvedere House. She had turned from
Belgrave Street onto Troon Street, which would take her home with a right on
White Horse Road, and was focused only on getting back to the hostel, back to
her room. She needed a shower and sleep, she was covered with any number of
bodily fluids, almost none of them her own. Sweat plastered her hair to her
scalp and it stuck up at odd angles, she had blood, urine, and vomit stains on
her uniform, and a particularly violent patient had landed a solid blow to her
gut. Another patient had actually bitten her, thankfully it hadn’t broken skin
and he had taken more of her uniform than her arm, but that was another notch
on a terrible day.
 
So when she was jumped by a half-mad homeless man, she didn’t even think to
fight back. She did have the sense to run and took off towards Whitehorse Road
Park. He was right behind, but she kept one step ahead of him until they
reached Ben Johnson Road/B140. Cutting right on Ben Johnson, she ran until she
intersected with the pedestrian Bermuda Way, which took her up to Dongola Road,
where she cut left again and ran for Duckett Street, where she turned right and
went north a while, cutting right again when she got to Bale Road.
Along her run on Duckett, she caught a glimpse of blue and white out of the
corner of her eye and turned her head enough to make out a couple of Met
vehicles and some police-tape over on Bohn Road. Salvation was just that close!
She kept running, though, dragging east on Bale Road and running again until
she got to Harford Road. She was slowing down, her body was yelling “Stop!
Stop, God’s sake, STOP!”, but she couldn’t stop until she reached the police.
Even if Greg Lestrade wasn’t there, she wasn’t a nobody and there was bound to
be one person on-scene who knew her. And even then, all she needed to do was
yell for help. She was very clearly in trouble, an idiot could see that, and
her would-be assailant was hot on her heels. Bohn Road was closed off at the
middle round-about drive, with primary lines set up on either end closer to the
intersections with Duckett and Harford, and she put on a burst of speed. She
was within shouting distance and someone had seen her, she was kind of hard to
miss, when something hit her from behind and she went down hard. It wasn’t the
initial impact that made her scream, it was when she landed on sore ribs.
Something snapped, and she just waited for the inevitable. Without meaning to,
she screamed Sherlock’s name. Well, if they hadn’t known she was in trouble
before, it was bloody obvious now, wasn’t it? This many cops around, they
weren’t going to ignore her. They couldn’t.
                                      -&-
Greg Lestrade was hunched over a cooling body, homeless drifter caught up in
something if he had to guess, Sherlock Holmes on the other side, when one of
his team came over.
“Hey, Chief?”
“Not now, Jensen.” He muttered.
“Uh, sir? We’ve got a problem?”
“What?” He looked up, tired, annoyed, and running on six hours of sleep in the
last week and too much bad food and worse coffee. He had chain-smoked three
packs of cigarettes in the last three days, he was suffering from exhaustion
and nicotine poisoning. Whatever it was, it had better be damned important or
someone’s head was going to roll.
“One of the lads saw a runner, sir, over there on Duckett. Think there might be
a domestic. Should we do something about it?” Charlie Jensen looked nervous,
and Greg didn’t blame him. He sighed and ruffled his hair with one shaking
hand.
“Jesus Christ. Send a car, see where they went. How many did you see?”
“Uh, one, sir. But there was another right behind.”
“Damn!” He leaned his head back, “Can I get one break? Just one?” With his
orders, Jensen disappeared again. Greg looked across the body to Sherlock, who
seemed to be debating on saying something. He glared at the consultant. “You,
shut your mouth. It’s your fault, and hers, that you haven’t seen her in two
weeks. I don’t want to hear a word, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Do you know this one?” Meaning the body between them.
“No, sir. Not one of mine. It was a hate-crime, though.”
“Fantastic. Not like we’re in a posh part of town, anyway.” He shoved to his
feet. A minute later, there was a commotion off towards Harford Road, and a
familiar voice broke into a scream. In a heartbeat, Greg was on alert and
heading for the lines. That was Hannah Watson! What in Hell’s name was the girl
doing up here on Bohn Road? She lived around here, he knew, down on White Horse
Road at New Belvedere House. He’d given her a ride home a couple of times. He
saw someone running away from the scene, and had his radio up in a heartbeat.
“Suspect on the move heading east on Bohn Road! Track him down on Harford! Get
him! I want that fucker in handcuffs ASAP, do you hear me!”
“Roger that, sir.” The responding cars were already on the move and the streets
lit up with white and blue as they ran down the fleeing suspect. Someone had
been running down Hannah, who had probably been on her way home from work given
the time of day.
“And someone get an ambulance up here!”
“Already called them up, Chief!” Donovan called in from the other side of the
line, she had been the first to reach Hannah, “She’s in bad shape, sir, we
might have to take her in!”
“Jesus, what is it with you two making my life harder than necessary?” He
glared at Sherlock, who was under the line in a heartbeat. “She may not want to
see you, Sherlock!”
“I’m willing to take that risk!”
“Moron.” He followed the consulting detective, who had already reached Donovan
and was on his knees beside the straight-laced, by-the-book Detective Inspector
he had never really gotten on with as long as the two had anything to do with
each other. It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive, and he helped them
load Hannah onto the gurney. He knew that the blood on her uniform was not
hers, thank Christ. It didn’t take long for them to diagnose a concussion of
unknown severity and a few broken ribs. She’d been hit from behind with a rock,
thrown by her assailant in an attempt to take her out. They took the rock for
evidence. If they didn’t catch that bastard tonight, any DNA left on the rock
by him would lead them in the right direction.
He convinced the ambulance team to let Sherlock go with them to the hospital,
he knew the man would be all but useless to him until he knew for certain that
Hannah was alright. As the ambulance left the scene, lights flashing and siren
on, Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Damn fool kids. Lovesick
idiots, the both of them. Sherlock was like a kicked puppy and Hannah was
broken by her past. Her step-father’s shadow had a long reach and they didn’t
know if the fucker was still alive, waiting in the shadows to spring his wrath
on his unsuspecting step-daughters. Hannah was in her forties, she should not
still be living in fear of a man who had stolen her innocence in the very worst
ways.
“Chief?”
“What, Donovan?”
“They got him.”
“What’s that?” Greg looked at his former sergeant.
“The man who ran down Hannah Watson. We got him. They’ve got him in a car over
on Harford and Ben Johnson.”
“Good. Have them take him down to Holding, I’ll deal with him after I’m done
here and I’ve stopped by the hospital.”
“Do you think they’ll keep Watson overnight?”
“In her condition? Probably. She was in pretty rough shape, wasn’t she?” He
went back to the body, wishing for a minute that things could just be…quiet. He
wished Hannah and Sherlock could be happy together, because it was very obvious
to him that there were feelings on both sides, but something was getting in the
way.
“Want me to cover this one, Chief? You need a break.” Donovan put a hand on his
arm, “You need to deal with Holmes. I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Go on.” She smiled and squeezed, “You’re a bloody open book sometimes,
Chief. Go on, get out of here. See you at the office.”
“It’ll be tomorrow at this rate.”
“That’s okay.” Donovan pushed him towards the Harford line and he dug up his
keys. He needn’t have bothered, a familiar black sedan appeared behind his car
like a wraith and he sighed. Of course Mycroft had seen, of course he knew. A
appeared and took his keys, just pointing at the sedan with a familiar stern
look.
“He said it’s no trouble.”
“Meddling bastard. Thank god for cameras, A.” He smiled tightly at the woman
and ducked into the warm, dry interior of his husband’s car.
“Thanks for this.”
“Not quite my pleasure, but the sentiment remains.”
“Royal London Hospital, Charles, if you don’t mind.”
“You got it, Chief.” Mycroft’s long-time driver just nodded and touched his
cap.
“Anthea will drive your car back to the house.”
“Of course she will.” He sighed and settled in for the drive, “You don’t happen
to know the identity of the moron who ran down Hannah Watson, do you?”
“I certainly do. And if you would like, I can take care of things.”
“Who is he?”
“Someone with a choke-hold influence over Hannah’s personal happiness and any
hope of a blissful future she may still have left.” Mycroft handed over a thin
file, “That’s just some of it, the regular file is much thicker.
“All I need is a name and a head-shot for this bastard. Who is he?” He flipped
open the file and looked at the face-sheet, the paper-clipped mug-shots, and a
recent booking report. Apparently, his anonymous mister had been booked a few
weeks ago on a public intoxication charge and released after the magistrate
laughed him out of the courtroom. Judge Morrison’s exact words to the moron’s
barrister had been “Come back to me when you have a serious charge to file. I
have better things to do with my time than pander to misguided drunks. If he
hurts somebody, then I’ll take you seriously, but you’re wasting your time
fighting a charge like this, Mister Philips.” And that had been the end of it.
Well, Judge Morrison wasn’t going to be very happy to see Mister Leland back in
her courtroom so quickly after he’d been returned to the streets. She had
labeled him a menace to the public and a threat to himself and others, so if he
did anything particularly stupid (such as run down a hard-working, heartbroken
paramedic walking home after a hard, thankless day of taking care of London’s
citizens), they were free to book his arse into a jail-cell and wait for her
pleasure sentencing him to something appropriate.
Greg looked at the booking photo and the older mug-shots and narrowed his eyes.
“Christ, this guy has a mean record. Vandalism, public intoxication, public
indecency, menacing, solicitation, and a couple domestics. Abuse, rape,
assault. Assault against a minor by an adult in a position of trust.
Endangerment of a minor by an adult in a position of trust.” He shook his head
at the long rap-sheet. “Who is this guy?”
“That is Robert Leland. You’ve heard him spoken of, and seen his pictures
before.” Mycroft twirled his brolly with one hand, his expression grim. “I can
think of two people of our mutual acquaintance who would benefit greatly from
his removal from the populace and the solace of knowing he was no longer in any
position to trouble either of them.” The car slowed and came to a stop and Greg
looked out the window. They had reached the hospital, which wasn’t that much of
a surprise. He got out first, holding on to the file. He waited for Mycroft and
headed into the hospital, knowing who they’d arrested tonight and wondering how
fast he could make the man disappear. Part of him wanted a chance to face him
down and tear him apart for all the things he’d done to Hannah that had made
her think she was unlovable and didn’t deserve to be happy. The other part of
him wanted Robert Leland dead before sunrise.
Before he reached the circulation desk, he grabbed his radio and got an update
on their suspect. They hadn’t made it to Holding yet, and he looked at Mycroft,
who nodded and dialled a number on his phone. After a few words, Mycroft looked
at him.
“Where is the car?”
“Hang on.” He clicked his radio.
“Car CW2067, where are you right now relative to the Bohn Street scene?”
“We’re up by Bloomsbury Street, couple of road-works and snarls slowing us
down.”
“Roger that. I’ve got a car from MI5 heading your way.” He looked at Mycroft,
who nodded and spoke into his phone, “There’s going to be a bit of a hand-off
with Mister Leland. Just don’t ask questions, these boys know what they’re
doing. Let them do their work and I’ll handle the details.”
“Who is this guy, Chief?”
“He’s the one who took Hannah Watson’s childhood away.” That was all he had to
say about it. Hannah was well-liked in The Met, he’d even say well-loved in
some divisions, his included.
“You got it, Chief. I’ll let you know when I’ve handed him over.”
“I won’t be the only one grateful, Constable Vance.” He signed off then and
headed for the circulation desk. He asked for Watson and was directed to a
waiting room. They hadn’t given her a private room yet, but that would probably
happen in a bit. Mycroft peeled off to stop by the circulation desk near the
waiting-room they had been sent to and Greg knew he was asking for the names of
Hannah’s doctors. She would get the finest care the hospital’s A&E department
could afford her tonight, no doubt of that.
A lot of patrol officers saw her during the week when she ran her training
routes and she was always taking time to say hi and ask how they were, how
their families were if they had any, and had even patched up a couple after a
rough go with a suspect who got violent. Hannah was sweet, personable, and good
at what she did. But she could be cold and efficient just as she was a kind
soul. It was part of what made her so efficient and so good at what she did.
 
Greg grabbed a couple of coffees from the overused vending machine and sat down
with Sherlock, who looked so very lost as he waited for someone to tell him how
bad it was. He had been here since the ambulance had gotten in, and probably
hadn’t moved. Greg wondered how much of a pest Sherlock had been to the staff
trying to get updates on Hannah.
“Hey.” He nudged the tall detective in the shoulder as he sat down next to him,
“Here, you need this.”
“Lestrade.”
“Worse than the swill they brew at the office, but it’s coffee.” He handed him
one of the two cups, “How are you holding up?”
“She woke up in the ambulance, just for a little bit.” He sipped the hot,
bitter coffee, “She recognized me.”
“Jesus.”
“She…said she was sorry.” He hadn’t seen Sherlock this upset since the mess
with their sister, who would never trouble anyone ever again. “She asked me to
stay. She said she was afraid.”
“Oh, Sherlock.”
“Greg, who did this to her?” He turned dim, wide eyes to Greg, his voice
crackling. He had missed Hannah for the two weeks she’d been out of touch with
him, fleeing a demon of her dark past. “I know about her step-father and every
awful thing he ever did to her! I don’t care about that!”
“You run from your demons, she runs from hers.” He sighed and took a deep sip
of his coffee, “But I don’t think Robert Leland will be much of a problem after
tonight.”
“Oh, it was him! I knew it was him! I could only think of one person so
hateful! So blatantly desperate he would attack her in public like that. None
of mine would ever treat her like that, they all love her, she takes such good
care of them for me.”
“Yeah, it was Leland.” Greg looked up at the sound of familiar footsteps,
“Mycroft and I have taken care of things.”
“Make him disappear. Make him suffer, make him pay, then make him disappear.”
This was to Mycroft, who was tucking his phone into his pocket again.
“The hand-off has been made, there was a bit of a struggle but no violence was
executed on Robert Leland’s person beyond that necessary to restrain him
appropriately. He is being transported to a secure location and they will
contact me again once he has been dealt with.”
“Are you going to go out there?”
“Yes, I thought I might.” Mycroft tugged on his gloves, “You don’t want to come
with me, do you, Sherlock?”
“I need to be here for Hannah.”
“I thought you would say that. I will be in touch as things develop.” Mycroft
tapped his brolly on the linoleum and looked up at them from beneath lowered
lashes, “Please give Captain Watson my deepest respects and wishes for her
swift healing.”
“I will. Be careful with Leland.” Sherlock got up and the brothers regarded
each other for a moment before hugging.
In the aftermath of what was being called The East Wind Incident, the brothers
had been far more open with each other and with others. That was almost two
years behind them, and Greg had gotten a happy ending of his own out of the
madness. Sherlock had asked him to look after Mycroft, to take care of him, and
he had happily done just that, waiting a few months before presenting Mycroft
with a little token of his greater affections and a heartfelt question he was
dreading the answer to. Mycroft had accepted and in a small, private ceremony
with only a very small crowd of friends and family to witness, they had
exchanged simple vows.
He walked with Mycroft back to the waiting car and stood with him under the
awning of the department’s entrance.
“Thanks for this, Mycroft. Maybe this time, they’ll do right by each other and
themselves.”
“My brother deserves to be happy. Being apart from Hannah Watson had broken him
in ways not even Eurus could try, not even Magnussen, or Moriarty.”
“He’s never cared about someone the way he cares about her, and it’s amazing to
watch. He bonded with her so quickly, I couldn’t believe they didn’t just move
in together that day.”
“There were a number of things that interfered, but he was wise to give her a
chance to think things over instead of demanding that she overturn her entire
life just to move in with him.”
“That’s what he would have done six years ago. Watching them work together
these past few months has been a pleasure, she’s so damn smart and he’s always
looking forward to finding a case just interesting enough to get her
attention.” Greg smiled and leaned over to kiss Mycroft, “I’ll keep an eye on
them here, you deal with Leland. Let me know when he’s out of the picture.”
“Absolutely.” Mycroft smiled and turned into the kiss, “You’re good to us,
Gregory. To all of us.”
“Someone’s got to be, you’re not about to be good to yourselves. Go on.” He
nudged Mycroft towards the car, “Get him to the right places, Charles.”
“That’s my job, Chief. I’ll be back for you later.”
“Thanks. Safe travels, traffic’s a bit wonky tonight.” He waited until the car
was gone and went back inside to find Sherlock. He was talking to a man in
scrubs and a lab-coat, probably Hannah’s doctor.
“What’s the verdict?” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he came up
alongside, “How’s Hannah doing?”
“They’re moving her to a private room after she’s out of imaging. Mycroft made
all the arrangements for it.”
“Absolutely! He owes her more than a private room in a hospital.”
“He knows it.” Sherlock sniffled, “She’s getting a…what did you call it?”
“She’s undergoing a full-body CT-scan and we’re doing an MRI as well.”
“For a couple of broken ribs and a concussion? That’s a bit overkill, isn’t
it?”
“I asked them to.” Sherlock looked at the doctor, who nodded, “I can’t risk
them missing anything.”
“Does she know this?”
“Yes, and we were able to secure her consent for all subsequent testing.” The
doctor, a young bloke about Sherlock’s age but not as tall, or half as
handsome, smiled. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Absolutely.” Greg nodded absently. “Who gets to call the shots when she can’t,
then?”
“He does.” The doctor pointed at Sherlock, “He’s her emergency contact.”
“Two weeks without a word between you and you’re her emergency contact? How
long has that been a thing?” He narrowed his eyes. It must have been before the
Valentine’s Day fiasco.
“Prior to tonight, her information had been updated in our system two months
ago.”
“Right after you two met that first time.” He smiled, “I guess she wasn’t
desperate enough to change it.”
“Her only living family is a sister who is often too drunk to know what day it
is, never mind have the capacity to make an informed decision regarding
Hannah’s health and well-being.” Sherlock looked very grim, “Thank you, Doctor
Harrison.”
“My pleasure, Mr Holmes. I’ll be back when I know something.” The doctor
nodded, “As soon as we have her settled, you can go see her. I’ll let you know
where she’s going.”
“Thank you.” The two shook hands and Greg offered his hand to the man.
“Inspector.”
“Doctor.” He watched the physician leave and sank into the uncomfortable chair
to wait.
                                      -&-
It was almost two hours later that they were taken by a nurse to a private room
and let in. Hannah was asleep, or at least resting, and Sherlock stood at the
foot of the bed and watched her. It was so strange to see Hannah in a hospital-
bed, bundled under thin blankets and wrapped in bandages. Not many of them,
thank Christ, but they had wrapped a couple of layers around her head to
protect the wound the attack had left her with. He could see the outline of
more bandages under the gown from the broken ribs. That was more for protection
than practicality or necessity. She was hooked up to a number of machines, a
couple of IV lines, and oxygen by nasal cannula.
“Is she allowed to sleep? If she’s been concussed, should she be asleep?”
“She’s not sleeping.” The nurse provided, “We gave her a stimulant that won’t
affect her brain activity too negatively.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stop…stop talking.”
“Hannah!” Sherlock was at Hannah’s side in a heartbeat, “You’re not okay, I
know. How do you feel?”
“Not good.” She blinked at them, “Where are we?”
“The Royal London Hospital. We’ve been here for several hours.”
“Oh, right.” She sniffled and made a face, “Did you ever catch the guy who
attacked me in front of a couple dozen Met personnel? It’s a special moron
who’ll do that.”
“Yeah, we got ‘im alright. And he’s not going to be a problem once Mycroft’s
people are done with him.”
“How did Mycroft get involved? Do I even want to know?” Hannah frowned, keeping
her eyes closed.
“Don’t let her talk too much.” The nurse cautioned, “She’s had a bad night.”
“We know.” Greg turned to the woman, “We were there when she was attacked.”
“And don’t let her fall asleep.”
“The time-limit is four hours post-episode. We’ve nearly reached that
threshold. You can’t keep her awake forever.” Sherlock was in a mood, and Greg
didn’t blame him. 
“That’s a question to take up with Doctor Harrison.”
“Then find Doctor Harrison and I’ll do that!”
“Sherlock.” Hannah was hoarse from the O2 and the drugs in her system, “Don’t
argue with the nurses. I know they’re idiots, but you can’t make their jobs too
hard or I’ll never get out of here.”
“Go get Doctor Harrison.” Greg looked at the nurse, who was not entirely
thrilled with them, but he did not care. As soon as she was gone and the door
was closed, a lot of the tension in the room disappeared.
“Idiot.”
“Jinx.”
“Rubbish.”
“Not rubbish. Jinx! You said it at the same time I did! Jinx!”
“Alright, you two.” Greg rolled his eyes as Sherlock and Hannah bantered, “You
might have suffered a concussion, but you’re in a fine mood for sparring,
Captain.”
“So, what now?”
“Now we wait. For Doctor Harrison to tell us when you can sleep and for Mycroft
to call us back.”
“Are either of you going to tell me why he got so involved?”
“For almost the same reason he involved himself in December. Except this time,
the suspect won’t get so lucky.”
“Who was it?”
“You’ve spent years, most of your life, looking over your shoulder for the
shadow of one man.” Sherlock took her hand in his and sat down, “After tonight,
that man will no longer have any kind of power over you. Real or imagined.”
“Leland.” Her vitals spiked, which was only to be expected.
“Calm down, Hannah, he never laid a hand on you tonight and he never will
again. For all anyone at The Met knows, he disappeared in transit to Paddington
Green Police Station.”
“I knew something was wrong! I knew it, as soon as he came after me! None of
the Homeless has ever bothered me before!” She covered her face with both
hands, “Oh my god, I knew it was him!”
“Calm down, Hannah. You’re absolutely safe now. Mycroft will do whatever he
must to ensure you never have to worry about Robert Leland ever again.”
Sherlock leaned over and carefully hugged her, “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Well, maybe not. But it is what it is, and I won’t let anything happen to
you.”
“You can’t promise anything.”
“I can promise you a safe place to live, enough work to keep you busy for
several years, and better company than you keep at New Belvedere House.”
Sherlock sat on the bed next to her and held her close, rocking her in a gentle
motion, “It’s alright, Hannah. Please don’t cry.” The machines tracking her
vitals screamed and without missing a beat, Greg walked over and silenced all
of them. A minute later, or less than that, the door flew open and Doctor
Harrison came in with a couple of nurses. Greg blocked their way and kept them
away from Hannah and Sherlock.
“She’s fine. Besides, you can’t put her under with a concussion.” He glared at
the nurses, “Don’t you go anywhere near that girl.”
“What happened?”
“We told her the identity of the man who attacked her tonight. This was a
personal attack, if he’d been given half a chance, he would have done worse
than throw a rock at her head and break a couple of ribs.”
“Initial scans showed evidence of recent fracture in a couple of the broken
ribs. What happened?”
“She was kicked in the chest by a violent patient. She works for St John’s
Ambulance.” He frowned, “Or, well, she did.”
“She’ll be out of commission for quite a while between the broken ribs and the
concussion.”
“How bad was it?”
“Severe Grade II, possibly Grade III, it was hard to tell.”
“Fine. Has it been four hours?” Greg stared down Doctor Harrison. The man
checked the chart in his hand, checked his watch, and did some quick mental
math.
“Give it another hour. And we’ll wake her every two hours after.”
“Fine. If we need anything between now and then, we’ll let you know.”
“Of course, Inspector.” Doctor Harrison was smart enough to know that the
nurses wouldn’t be getting anywhere near Hannah, so he dismissed them and reset
the machines himself, keeping the volume muted. If things got too bad, they
would know. There was a trauma-alert override built into the machines, but
until that was necessary, they didn’t need the background noise. Hannah
admitted that her head hurt and she felt nauseous, but in light of her night,
that was not a surprise to anyone. Offering her something mild for the pain,
Doctor Harrison told them to use the call-button if anything came up.
“Oh, don’t worry. If we need you, you’ll know.” Greg held the door for the man.
Once he was gone, Greg groaned and rubbed his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, what
a night.”
“You don’t have to stay, Greg.”
“No, I guess I don’t.” He checked his watch and sighed, “Wonder if Charles is
back yet? Guess I’ll head out, see you kids in the morning.” He checked his
pockets for his badge and his belt for his gun, his keys were with A, and
buttoned up his coat. Going to the bedside, he put a hand on Sherlock’s
shoulder and leaned over to kiss Hannah on the forehead. “Get some sleep when
you can, sweetie. Feel better sooner than later.”
“Thanks for everything, Greg.”
“Thank me when you’re out of here.” He smiled, “Think you’ll go to Baker
Street?”
“Absolutely. Not that I think I’ve got much say in it.” She rolled her eyes and
Sherlock made a sad sound. “Time do right.”
“Sure is. See you later, kiddo.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and left the
room. Charles was somehow waiting for him outside the hospital and he sighed
with relief.
“Where to, sir?” Charles asked once they were on their way.
 “Home, Charles.” Greg leaned his head back against the headrest, “Just…home.”
“Been a long night, hasn’t it?”
“That’s a word for it. Try a long couple of weeks.” He rubbed his face, knowing
he needed sleep, a few square meals, a hot shower, and Lord help him he needed
a good razor. The sound Charles made was sympathetic and understanding. The
house was dark when he got back, not that he was surprised, and he thanked
Charles for being so helpful when the cheerful driver took the keys from him
and got the door open for him.
“You have a good night, Chief. Get some rest.”
“I plan to, thank you, Charles.” He looked around as Charles went back to the
car, whistling to himself, and kicked the door shut with one foot. Locking up,
he dumped his keys, coat, and gear by the door, kicked his shoes off, and
trudged upstairs. He took a quick shower, he’d take a longer one later, dragged
himself to bed, and fell asleep almost before he got there.
                                      -&-
It was three in the morning before Mycroft Holmes returned to his home in
Kensington, and he was worn out but content. He had taken care of Robert Leland
in due time and fashion, ensuring the disgusting man would never have any way
to hurt Hannah Watson again. Once he’d done with that business, he had gone by
The Royal London Hospital to inform his brother and Watson, who had blessedly
been asleep when he arrived. Sherlock had not been asleep and when he heard the
news, had wept. Maybe now, perhaps they could both be happy. It wouldn’t happen
overnight, of course, but there was a better chance they could have some kind
of life together.
Wishing his brother the kind of peace and stability hehad, Mycroft let himself
into a quiet, dark house.All of Gregory Lestrade’s things were scattered by the
door, and he collected them, hanging his coat, keys, and belt in their places
and picking up his shoes, before adding his own things. Going upstairs, he
found his husband passed out on their shared bed, apparently fresh from a
shower judging by the wet towel on the floor and the fact that he had fallen
asleep naked. Hanging up the forgotten towel, he rearranged his slumbering
husband more comfortably and warmly in the bed and joined him. The past two
weeks had been hard on all of them, and perhaps now they could begin to put
things to rights.
===============================================================================
 
***** Fàilte Dhachaigh - Welcome Home *****
Chapter Summary
     In pursuit of healing, Sherlock and Hannah travel north to the land
     of their ancestors seeking a peace they cannot hope to find in
     London.
Chapter Notes
     I prescribe to the belief that Sherlock, being a Holmes, has family
     roots somewhere in Scotland. I did some cursory research into the
     clans and I found Holmes is a sept of Clan Hume, which is perfect for
     this story. And Watson, of course, is Scottish as well. Two stubborn,
     hard-headed Scots the likes of Holmes & Watson are going to make for
     some interesting adventures. And really, it kind of explains why the
     two are taking for fucking ever to see what's right in front of them.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
===============================================================================
After being discharged from the hospital, Hannah Watson recovered for a month
from a concussion and broken ribs. She took her convalescence not in Baker
Street or at New Belvedere House, either of which she hadexpected, but outside
of London. Sherlock packed up for an extended holiday into the country. And not
just the country, a completely differentcountry!
“Hang on a minute!” She stared at him as he moved their bags, “We’re
going…where, precisely?”
“Scotland.”
“Scotland. Right. And we’re getting there…how? Pretty sure flying is out of the
question.”
“Nope. We’ll take the train.”
“The train? Sherlock, that’s four and a half hours, just to Edinburgh!”
“You’re familiar with the trip, I take it?”
“A bit!” she folded her arms, careful of her sore ribs, “In case you forgot, I
have family up there! Watson?”
“Oh, I know. Grandparents?”
“Yeah. And cousins. Haven’t seen ‘em in a while, maybe I should try and visit
while we’re up there.”
“That might be a nice thing to do. I didn’t think you had family you still
spoke to.”
“Oh, hell, plenty on Da’s side, but they’re way up there in Scotland and
I’m…kind of not available. My fault, not theirs.”
“Come on, let’s get out of London first.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek
before disappearing downstairs.
When he came back, she went down with him and said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, who
was just glad she had come to her senses a bit.
“You two be safe up there, hear me? Don’t get into any trouble now!”
“Don’t ask for the impossible, Mrs Hudson.” Hannah smiled at Sherlock’s patient
landlady, “I’m more than half-Scot, not the best judge of keeping out of
trouble.”
“Not you, especially! Just try, then.”
“That’s fair. Keep the house for us, we’ll be back in a while.” She patted the
door-frame, “Goodbye, Baker Street.”
“Watson!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” She sighed and followed Sherlock to the waiting car.
Mycroft had sent a car for them to take them to King’s Cross Station, where
they would take the train from London to Edinburgh, at which time they would
pick up a car and drive to their final destination. Wherever that ended up
being.
With her body in full recovery-mode, Hannah had taken to sleeping whenever she
could and so slept for much of the trip from London to Edinburgh. Once
inEdinburgh, it was a simple matter of obtaining a vehicle they could use to
get them to their next destination. They both had good driver licenses, but
Sherlock took over getting them from Edinburgh to…wherever they were actually
going. He had been terribly and annoyingly tight-lipped about their final
destination.
“So, where are we going?”
“Lauder. About an hour south-east of here.” Sherlock looked over at her as they
joined the A720/City of Edinburgh Bypass.
“What’s in Lauder?”
“Alltendour Castle.” He grinned as he named their destination. Hannah frowned,
repeating the words silently. She spoke very good Gaelic, Sherlock said she
spoke better Gaelic than he did, and she knew those words.
“Allten…dour. Alltendour Castle. Otterburn Castle?” She raised an eyebrow,
“Castle?”
“You’ll see.” He chuckled, “It seems a habit of ours when in need, we go home.”
“Otterburn Castle. Family seat of the Holmes sept of Clan Hume, then?”
“Something of the sort.”
“Okay, but…I’m not family.”
“No one is going to care, I promise.” He took her hand and squeezed, “I
wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t think you would be welcome.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” She sighed and looked out the windshield.
“I never said you had to believe me, I asked you to trust me.” He corrected.
She shot him a look but kept her mouth shut. He wasn’t wrong.
                                      -&-
It was a quiet drive from Edinburgh to Alltendour Castle, taking about an hour
or so, and she wasn’t sure what to expect, but the sprawling country estate
plunked into the middle of Midlothian borderland was notquite it. Castle was no
joke, and the main house was…impressive.
“Holy shit!” She squawked, covering her mouth with both hands, “Oh my god! You
weren’t kidding!” As soon as the car had rolled to a stop, she was out and
standing on the gravel-paved drive, staring up at the place that would, for the
next month or so, be home.
“Jesus Christ, I thought wehad a big place!” She was thinking specifically of
her own clan-seat in Leven, “Uh, we’re not the only people here, are we?”
“Nope!” Sherlock grinned as he stood on the running-board of the Land Rover
they had bought in Edinburgh with the understanding that the longevity of their
stay in Scotland was uncertain, pointing towards the main entrance of the
castle, “Not by a longshot.”
“Oh, lord.” She caught sight of a small but sizable group of people coming
their way. Grandparents, possibly great aunts and uncles, other relatives of
assortment.
“Wow.”
“Hannah Watson, welcome to Alltendour Castle.”
“Welcome to the bloody familyis more like it! They’re all wearing your tartan!”
The women wore beautiful hostess skirts and sashes, the men wore either
phillibeg or great kilt, depending on preference, all in the Hume Ancient
tartan. These were immediate descendants, next in line for succession if it
ever came to it. Technically, if she should ever bother, Hannah was allowed to
wear the Watson Ancient. She was a direct living descendant of the Watson line,
living blood to the patriarchs, and probablyone of the only surviving Watsons
in her branch of the clan and the family. That was depressing.
But she didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the grim reality that her family,
and her clan by extension, was small and pretty scattered these days. One of
the matriarchs pulled her into a careful but firm hug, kissed her on both
cheeks, proceeded to lay out a tongue-lashing the likes she hadn’t stood for
since childhood all in Scots Gaelic, and then threw something around her
shoulders. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Sherlock had spilt to his
Scottish clansmen that he was coming home for a bit and bringing some company,
one of the errant Watsons needed a place to lay low for a spell.
“Holmes?”
“Just…do what she tells you, it’s alright.” He looked a bit sorry, “My
grandmother, Rowena McCallum.”
“Okay.” She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry, she hadn’t been treated like this
by anyone in…well, a bit longer than she wanted to recall. And with Robert
Leland only a few days in his grave never to trouble her again, she was finally
free to find someone to love her, scars and broken edges and all. The women of
the clan were so welcoming it was almost embarrassing, the men as well, they
were busy scolding Sherlock for being away for too long and getting into the
worst sort of trouble. In anticipation of her visit, they had procured a stole
in the Watson Ancient tartan, and probably other pieces of costume. This was
what Rowena had flung about her shoulders. Hannah hadn’t had any piece of her
heritage in so long, Robert had burned every piece of tartan he got hold of out
of spite, and she buried her face in the soft, heather-and-peat scented wool.
It was like coming home when you didn’t realize how long you’d been gone or how
long you’d missed it. Rowena put an arm around her shoulders and touched her
cheek.
“Come take a rest, you poor thing.” She cooed, leading Hannah by the hand
towards the house, “You’ve had a bad way of it these last years or two, yeah?”
“It hasn’t been allbad.”
“Terrible liar, but all Watsons can be.” One of the aunts shook her head, “Not
that you’re anything but honest and faithful. You’re James Patrick’s girl
Hannah.”
“Da would roll in his grave if he knew half of what I’ve been through.”
“Is that monster dead, then?”
“Yes, thank Christ. You can thank your grandson for that blessing, ma’am.” She
rubbed her nose with her sleeve, “Mycroft did…something. I still don’t know
what. All I know is that on paper, he disappeared during a prisoner-transfer to
Paddington Green.”
“Good riddance to ‘im. Well, nothing for that, he’s dust and you’re not leaving
here ‘til you’ve healed up a bit.” Hannah would have to learn names, soon as
she got her head on right.
Her room, or rooms, were about the size of all of 221B with the upstairs
bedroom included. Even New Belvedere House hadn’t been thisspacious. The bed
was enormous, a hand-hewn hardwood frame with a luxurious springy mattress that
was going to be very difficult to leave in the mornings, made up with fresh,
clean cotton-silk sheets and warm comforters and duvets. The floors were
hardwood covered with soft rugs and skins and warm underfoot. Underfloor
heating. There were dressers and wardrobes and a gorgeous vanity that dated
back to the mid-1800’s. There was a massive, spacious private en-suite with a
sink, shower enclosure, and claw-foot bathtub. And the best part, a wood-
burning fireplace that was fully functional.
                                      -&-
After seeing that she was settled, Sherlock’s kin left Hannah in peace. The
aunt who had recognized her came back with tea and biscuits and sat with her
for a while. She introduced herself as Rachel McCallum, she was Rowena’s
daughter and Sherlock’s aunt. Hannah found Rachel to be typically smart and her
sense of humour was a bit dark, and she was very observant. It seemed to be a
family trait, unusual intelligence that Hannah saw only in her own family, and
then only in her cousins. Her father had been the sharpest of the lot, though,
and had passed his intelligence on to his children, what they did with it was
their choice. Hannah had tried to cultivate her smarts to help her in her daily
life, but her sister had decided it was better to drink her troubles and
sorrows away and had spent far more time than was safe or sane or practical
drowning at the bottom of a bottle.
“What’s on your mind, Captain?” Rachel spoke up quietly. Hannah took a deep
breath and looked at the flames in the hearth. They had settled by the fire,
which burned warm and cheerful. It was perfect for a cold February afternoon.
“It’s a silly thing. But…my father died when I was ten years old, left me with
my mother and older sister. It was awful, and Mum’s dishonesty was no help.”
“And after your father’s death?”
“I was so sure I would never be happy again, how couldI be happy again?” She
looked up for a minute, “I was so desperate for something to be normal again,
to be happy, that I imagined that the body they buried under Da’s headstone
wasn’this. That it was someone else.”
“But it was him?” Rachel was thoughtful and curious, but respectful if there
was something Hannah didn’t want to talk about.
“See, we don’t know it was him. All we know is they told us he’d been killed or
lost, or some awful business. They wouldn’t let me see him before they buried
him, said it wasn’t right. So I made up stories that he was wandering around in
Ireland, lost and out of his head, not a clue he had a family or even what his
own name was.”
“And when you served in Ireland?”
“I looked for him, but I never found him.” She rubbed her hands together, “I
still don’t think he’s dead.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a gut feeling. See, Mum and Da were having troubles before he died, which
is why Harry and I just got so mad at her for marrying Robert Leland so quick.”
Hannah shook her head at those awful memories, “And I remember what he looked
like, I remember his face so well.”
“And?”
“And…this is mad of me, but there was this one superior officer of mine, had
him a couple of times over the years, just reminded me so much of my old man.
The way he acted, the way he talked. Didn’t quite look the same, of course, but
it was just like Da. We got along like a bee to honeycomb, I did whatever he
asked, he never steered me wrong. He wasn’t Medical Corps like me, he was in a
different regiment.”
“What did he do?”
“He was Fusiliers, Royal Northumberland. Didn’t take long for him to do some
pretty asking and get me made company medic to his part of the Fifth. Wherever
they went, I went with them. He retired out a couple years ago, told him to get
out before he got himself killed and his family had to bury him.” She shook her
head, “Oh, the look on his face. I thought he’d seen a ghost.”
“What happened?”
“I asked if he had any family to miss him, he said not really. As far as he
knew, they already thoughthe was dead.”
“Oh, Hannah.” Rachel looked sad.
“I didn’t pry, it was clearly sore on him and I didn’t want to upset him. But
when he retired out, he told me if I ever found myself needing a hand, to find
him.”
“Did he say whereyou could find him?”
“He talked about settling somewhere up in Scotland, said he had some family
there he didn’t mind talking to if he got the nerve up to tell them he wasn’t
quitedead.”
“You think…”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, “I don’t have a clue.”
“What was his name?”
“Jameson.” Hannah rubbed her nose. “Uh, Patrick Jameson.”
“Your father’s name was James Patrick Watson.”
“Yep.” She caught her breath, feeling a familiar stab of hope. It was quiet for
a bit, the silence broken only by the crackle of the wood as it burned in the
hearth.
“Hannah, do you believe your father is still alive?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at Rachel, “And if he was, I wouldn’t have the
first clue where to find him. If he would even want to seeme.”
“You underestimate the way things work around here.”
“I haven’t been to Scotland since I was twelve.” She sniffled, “I’ve completely
forgotten.”
“We’ll help you remember. Right now, love, you need to rest and recover.”
Rachel just smiled, that soft, maternal smile Hannah had never really seen from
her own mother, and hugged her. It was nice, to be hugged like that. Sherlock
hugged her like that when she had a bad nightmare or a really long day at job-
training. Sometimes she missed the easy, close intimacy she had shared with
Sherlock before she had panicked and tried to run from the things that made her
happiest. But that had brought them to this place and she hoped she would get a
chance to try again with Sherlock.
 
It was barely past noon, but she was tired and sore and sleep sounded like a
very good idea. She had been a week in the hospital before they discharged her,
she had a lot of work to do to recover properly. It was a good thing Sherlock
had gotten her out of London, she was more likely to relax properly awayfrom
the bustle of the metropolitan city. Rachel helped her prepare for bed and
asked if she needed anything.
“No, thank you, though.”
“We’re all here if you need us, love. Sleep well, I’ll send someone to check on
you in a few hours.”
“Okay.” She watched Sherlock’s aunt leave and wondered why these people were so
willing to treat her like family when they had truly only just met. At least,
she would remember meeting such a dynamic family before, wouldn’t she?
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     I named Sherlock's family seat Otterburn Castle (Alltendour is my
     take on "Allt Dour", which is an actual body of water that flows
     through the grounds of Blair Athol Distillery in Pitlochery, and
     literally means "the burn of the otter" in Gaelic) as a little nod to
     the fandom depiction of our favorite detective as a sleek little
     otter. Also, Ben C kinda sorta looks like one, so there is that, too.
***** All In The Family Pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     The beginning of Happily Ever After gets a little bit of a push.
Chapter Notes
     Rachel McCallum is no fool, and there is a history between the
     Watsons and the Holmeses that is much, MUCH older than either of our
     silly idiot detectives think. Time to go shake the branches of the
     Watson tree a bit.
     ::
     We get to meet the family Hannah doesn't get to talk to as much as
     she would like. We meet her brothers, John and Iain, and...well,
     you'll see! And yes, I am aware that Iain is another form of John.
     But they ARE twins. John Hamish and Iain James. John Hamish, Iain
     James, and Hannah Jolie. Done, done, and done.
===============================================================================
After leaving Hannah Watson to sleep off a long journey and a legitimately
traumatizing experience that had occurred nearly a week before, Rachel McCallum
checked her surroundings and looked at her watch. She had some research to do
and a few phone-calls to make. She knew for a fact that Hannah had more family
living, and in Scotland, it was just a matter of collecting names and making
contact with them. Her mother found her in the study, sitting before one of the
many computers, looking up the local Watsons. Hannah had grandparents, aunts
and uncles, a gaggle of cousins, and three members of her immediate family.
Those were the family she was most interested in.
“What are you doing in here? You’ve been in here workin’ for two hours
already.” Her mother watched her, “It’s the Watson girl, isn’t it?”
“She needs family. She needs herfamily.” Rachel narrowed her eyes, “How’s
Sherlock?”
“Worried himself sick about that girl of his. Guess they had a bit of a spat
back in London couple of weeks ago and didn’t talk or see each other for a
spell. Felt terrible, guilty as sin, but no word for what he’d done or how to
make things right.”
“Was she punishing him?” Rachel looked up. Her nephew was a bit dense, and he
had a nasty habit of doing and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And
every Holmes knew the Watsons were a passionate, hot-blooded lot. Stubborn to
the last breath and unfailingly loyal.
“She was punishing herself, silly idiot. Her stepfather really did ruin her
proper, in every wrong way that matters.”
“What can we do?”
“Mycroft took the first step and eliminated Leland. Now it’s up to us to set
things to rights for those two.”
“They were well on their way by themselves before she panicked.” Rachel sighed,
“That poor, poor girl. She’s made so much for herself, and none of it
mattered.”
“What will you tell James?”
“That it’s safe for him to come out of hiding. His daughter needs him.”
“Try going through her brothers?”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Rachel was looking at a photograph that showed
Hannah Watson with two very handsome blokes who looked just like her. On public
record, and on private record as well, they were cousins. But concealed birth-
records listed all three of them as siblings.
Hannah, John, and Iain were triplets, Hannah being the youngest and John the
eldest, born between 31 March and 1 April 1971. John had been delivered at
11.53 pm on the 31st, with Iain right behind him at 11.55 pm, and Hannah coming
into the world dead last at precisely midnight on the 1st after the doctors
realized, belatedly, that she had never turned head-down and presented breech.
After a bit of work to get her turned the right way, out she came. It was a
miracle Hannah had even survived childbirth, never mind her childhood, she had
come out with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around her neck and spent two
months in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit fighting her own body. But the girl
had thrived, despite hardship, and now…well, Rachel was willing to do what she
must to give the girl something to be happy for. Printing off a couple of more
recent photographs of Hannah, both from last year and the last few months,
Rachel collected her coat and keys.
“Off somewhere, are you?” Her father caught her with one foot out the door.
“I have some work to do. Where’s Sherlock?”
“Down at the barn. You know how he is.”
“Hmm.” She smirked, “If he asks, you can tell him Hannah’s asleep.”
“Good, the girl needs her rest.”
“Yes, she certainly does. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Rachel smiled, kissed
her father on the cheek, and left feeling very confident that she could pull
this off. She knew exactly where to find James Watson and his sons. This was a
risky gamble, but she had to take it. For Sherlock’s sake, for Hannah’s sake,
she had to take the risk and tell James Watson everything. It wasn’t like they
didn’t know anything, they knew absolutely everything and more. It was a matter
of setting things right with the Watsons. Maybe she couldn’t help Harriet, and
Lord knew Rachel had done everything she could for that woman, but she could
help Hannah and the rest of her family. So, with every file available on Hannah
Watson in a work-bag, a slew of recent photographs in her pocket, and a
mission, Rachel set out for the village of Humbie, which was a bit over ten
miles from Lauder.
Twenty minutes later, she pulled up to the house in Humbie and watched it for a
minute. She hadn’t had any reason to come out here in a while, but this
wouldn’t exactly take them by surprise. It stood to be seen if the boys were
home, or if it was James by his lonesome. John and Iain did not live in the
family home, but they were very good about visiting. As she got out of the car
and locked up, a habit adopted from years of living in urban Glasgow, the front
door of the house was thrown open and the family’s dogs came tearing out.
“Hi, lads!” She greeted the carousing pair, “Hi, yes, hello. Down, and I’ll
give you a treat.” Like magic, the rowdy pair of German Shepherds calmed down
and sat obediently.
“You know you’re the only person who can get away with that, don’t you, Aunt
Rachel?”
“Afternoon, John.” She grinned at the eldest Watson son, “Your Da home?”
“Yep. He’s in the back. What brings you up our way?” He leaned against the
door, arms across his chest. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well, you’ve been out of the country for a while, son.” She chuckled, taking
in the sight of John Watson in dusty fatigues. “When did you get back to town,
then?”
“Few hours ago. Flew into Edinburgh.” John Watson smiled, “Thought I saw my
sister on my way down.”
“You probably did. She made it in on the early train from London.”
“What’s she doing up here with Sherlock, then?”
“Trouble came knocking in London. It’s been a bad go of things for your
sister.” She adjusted the strap of her bag, “But I may have some good news.”
“We could use some of that. Rumour came my way that Robert Leland was raising
hell in London.”
“That’s not just a rumour, but he won’t be making any more trouble of any kind
for your kin.” She ushered the dogs towards the house, “He attacked your sister
a week ago while she was walking home from Stepney Green Station after work.”
“She lives in Stepney now, down at the Veterans Home.”
“Yeah. Or, she did. She’s living up at Baker Street now with my nephew.”
“About fucking time. She’s an idiot sometimes.” Oh, so he knew about it, too?
Not surprising, there were few secrets between the Watsons. Rachel handed him
the photographs.
“These are from the last couple of months. As you can see, she’s found reliable
if not steady work with Sherlock.”
“Good! He needs someone to look after him, speaking of idiots.”
“Don’t we know it?” She went into the house, “How much do you know, John?”
“Mycroft called me three weeks ago, I was still in Kabul. I never said a word
of it to Da, I didn’t want to break his heart like that.”
“I need your help, Johnny boy, I need your help bad.”
“Tell me what I can do.” He led the way to the kitchen. “Tea, Aunt Rachel?”
“Please. Thank you, dear.” It had never bothered her, not at all, that the
Watsons all called her “Aunt Rachel” even though they were not related by any
bond but love. Well, John and Iain did. She wanted to give Hannah the chance to
do the very same. Over tea, she and John went over every one of Hannah’s
current records and pieced together a plan, getting help from James when he
wandered through looking for food.
“Ah, hello, Rachel. Thought that was you the dogs went after.” He smiled as he
gave her a kiss on the cheek, “How’s things in Lauder?”
“Sherlock came down with Hannah this morning. You heard about London?”
“Some of it. If that clever nephew of yours, who runs the government and says
he don’t, hasn’t taken care of things, you tell that boy to get on it right
away.”
“Don’t worry about that, Da.” John flipped a page in Hannah’s records from the
Veteran’s Aid Office, “Mycroft took care of that the night it happened.”
“Good. Of course, get that silly sister of yours involved and he’ll move a
fucking mountain for her.” James rolled his eyes and fixed a sandwich, plating
three after deciding that they all needed the fuel. Rachel smiled and knew
she’d done right coming out to Humbie.
                                      -&-
It took a week for Hannah to stop looking over her shoulder, but Sherlock kept
her company and the rest of the family made it very clear that she had nothing
to fear. It was nice to have people who cared, and she found herself missing
her own family. She missed her brothers most of all, and wondered how they were
doing, if John was home from Afghanistan or not. He should be, at this rate.
Iain was in Israel covering the unrest in that part of the world, and it was
anyone’s guess when he would be home. She wondered how many people knew that
the twins she had grown up calling her cousins were, in fact, her brothers and
she was one of triplets. She couldn’t remember when they had worked it out, but
it had never really mattered or affected their relationship. Hannah had always
been ridiculously close with John and Iain, realizing they were siblings and
not cousins had only made them closer.
One thing she started doing, kind of without thinking about it or even
realizing, was she began addressing Sherlock’s relatives as she would her own
family. Rachel McCallum became Aunt Rachel veryquickly, Rowena McCallum told
Hannah to call her Nani (apparently, Grandma Rowena had been a bit of a
mouthful for two-year-old Sherlock and he’d spit out “Nani” one day, it had
stuck ever since), and Rowena’s husband Alexander all but insisted that she
call him whatever she felt comfortable with. She was as good as family, good as
kin, she could call him whatever she wanted.
Her own grandparents were Granda, Gram, Papa, and Yam. Yam had come about for
her mother’s mother when Hannah had been learning to talk and couldn’t get out
“Grandma” quite right. Elizabeth Vincent had just laughed and told a flustered
two-year-old Hannah that she could call her Yam if she wanted to. Her mother
may have been a despicable woman, but Mallory Watson’s parents had been
wonderful people to their grandchildren. And they still were, Hannah wrote to
them and called on a fairly regular basis. Or she had, before returning broken
from Afghanistan and getting herself lost in London.
After thinking about it, she decided to call Sherlock’s grandfather Dedu, which
was a short version of the Russian “dedushka”, which translated to
“grandfather”. It seemed to work for him and he was just absolutely charmed
that she had decided to give him any kind of name at all and refused, on
principle, to let her call him by his first name.
===============================================================================
***** All In The Family Pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The beginning of Happily Ever After gets a little bit of a push.
Chapter Notes
     We get to meet the family Hannah doesn't get to talk to as much as
     she would like. We meet her brothers, John and Iain, and...well,
     you'll see! And yes, I am aware that Iain is another form of John.
     But they ARE twins. John Hamish and Iain James. John Hamish, Iain
     James, and Hannah Jolie. Done, done, and done.
     ::
     A bit of short-lived angst here as Hannah and Sherlock work out the
     history that stands between them. Resolution and Happily Ever After
     in sight, I promise!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
===============================================================================
About two weeks after she settled in Scotland, Hannah drove up to Edinburgh
with Sherlock for a routine excursion to get some shop done. It was a bit of a
family affair, Aunt Rachel came along with her husband Mark, who was rather
fond of Hannah and kept telling her she was a very pretty girl to be friends
with his rascal nephew Sherlock. They spent several hours in Edinburgh, getting
everything they needed, but it didn’t take long for Hannah to realize there was
something going on. They had far too much for just their family-group.
“Aunt Rachel, what are we doingwith all of this?” She asked as she helped load
a couple of boxes full of shop-bags into the boot of the Land Rover.
“Oh, this is for a friend of mine over in Humbie. Not that he can’t get out,
but I usually get a few things done for them when I’m up here.” She smiled,
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, I guess not.” She looked around the car at Sherlock, who was leaning
against the driver's door and smiling at something on his phone. “If Holmes
doesn’t mind a detour.”
“What’s that, Watson?” He raised his head and turned their way.
“Mind a quick stop in Humbie?”
“Oh, not at all! I know where we’re going!” He pocketed his phone and came
around to help them load, “Is this all they need?”
“It’s all they asked for when I was up there at the start of the week.”
“Excellent. Well, that should do.” He closed up the tail-gate and looked at
Hannah, almost glowing, “Come on, then.”
“What’s so interesting about Humbie?”
“Old family friends.” He patted her on the shoulder, “You grew up there, you
might know them.”
“How the…do I want to know how youknow I grew up in Humbie?” She got in on the
other side after saying goodbye to Aunt Rachel and Uncle Mark, who just told
her to have a good time and not worry about a thing. Why she would be worried
about visiting Humbie was a bit of a mystery. Yeah, she’d lived there as a
child and some of her old neighbours were probably still there, but that didn’t
mean it was going to be awkward.
“My family and yours have been friends longer than either of us have been
alive.” Sherlock gauged traffic and merged once it was clear, “I doubt you
remember. We were very young.”
“We lived in Humbie until I was ten, after Da passed. But I don’t think we ever
were proper strangers.” She rubbed her jaw, “Holmes?”
“Hmm?”
“We’ve been friends longer than we’ve been together in London. A lotlonger. You
didn’t live up here as long as I did, but I remember Mycroft.” She looked out
the window at the soft rain, “I was friends with your brother first.”
“I thought your name was familiar the first time I heard it in 2013, but I
couldn’t remember why and Mycroft wasn’t exactly going to tell me who you
were.”
“But who was the girl you kept seeing in old family photos?” Hannah smiled,
“That was a very young, very awkward me.”
“Now what?”
“Time to do what we should have done yearsago.” She leaned across the console
and kissed him on the cheek, “I’ve been a proper moron and a terrible friend,
Holmes, and I can’t believe you took me back.”
“Of course I took you back! I always will! You’re truly my best friend, Hannah,
and I think it’s safe to admit that I love you. I probably always have.” He
took her hand and held on.
                                      -&-
It was quiet until they got to Humbie, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It
was the kind of quiet she’d gotten used to on the nights she’d stay over at
Baker Street after a long day at work or after a difficult case, or even when
she just felt like spending some time alone with Sherlock. When they stopped at
their destination, she looked out the window and studied the house. It looked
very familiar.
“Oh my god. Holmes?”
“Get out.”
“That’s my house!”
“I know! Out!” He laughed and unbuckled her seat-belt for her before she hurt
herself trying to get out of the car, “Take it easy, Watson!”
“Oh my god! Are we still here?”
“Oh, absolutely!” He threw open the tail-gate and eyed the house, “Hasn’t
really changed much since you were here last.”
“No! Thank Christ it hasn’t! Oh, Holmes!” She leaned against the car, shaking
and wondering if it was okay to cry. There had always been a Watson in that
house, even after Da’s death in ‘81. Relatives had kept it in the family for
them, she thought she’d heard that John and Iain had acquired it for a bit
recently. As she stood there, debating the risk of knocking on the door, the
door flew open and a couple of furry blurs launched from the house. German
Shepherds. Her family had always kept dogs, the breeds had varied over the
years, and she recalled her brother John owning a pair of Shepherds. Astor and
Moby, pups raised from near birth by her brother.
“Astor!” She patted her shoulders, “Mobs! Come here, you rascals! Hi, boys!”
Recognizing her in a heartbeat, the dogs were all over her and she cried into
Moby’s fur.
“Oh, Jesus, hello, sweet boys! I’m so glad to see you!”
“Oh, nice to know you’re happier to see the dogs!”
“John.” She looked up over Moby’s shoulder at her brother, who stood on the
drive, grinning like a fool, “Hi.”
“About bloody timeyou made it home, Hannah.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you dare. What Leland did to you was beyond forgiveness and beyond
understanding. You’re a strong woman, Hannah Watson.” He came to the car and
pushed the dogs out of the way, hugging her tight, “You’re bloody fortunate the
Holmes brothers got their hands on you.”
“Found me again, didn’t they?”
“Sure did.” He kissed her on the cheek, “Don’t cry, love, it’s okay now. It’s
alright.”
“It’s notokay, John.”
“Maybe not, but it’s all we have.” He rubbed the back of her neck, “Don’t cry,
you’ll make yourself sick again. And Da would skin us both if he thought you
weren’t looking after yourself.” Hannah went very still and processed what
she’d just heard her brother say.
“John…”
“You’re a damn smart girl, you knew.”
“Not dead?”
“Not dead. Came a bit too close, but…not dead.”
“Oh, God.” She covered her face with both hands, “Does Holmes know?”
“Doubt it. Aunt Rachel did, of course, she probably knew right away.”
“The Holmeses will keep a secret for a good cause. If Mum or Robert had known
he was alive, it would be…”
“Don’t think about it. Come on inside.” He looked over at Sherlock, “Need a
hand, Holmes?”
“If you’ve got a spare one.”
“Sure do. Come on, Hannah.” He took one of the boxes and handed another one to
Hannah. The house looked very much as it had in her childhood, a few things
were different, but the feel was there. It smelled musty and a bit damp, there
was a fire burning in the hearth, so the house was warm. Coats hung on hooks by
the front door, a few pairs of well-worn Wellingtons sat under the bench.
Going to the kitchen, she helped unpack the things they’d brought from
Edinburgh. As she bundled the shop-bags under the skink, Hannah looked out to
the back of the house. She saw the small shed where Da had kept a workshop, the
doors stood propped open. The little stove would be warming the place for sure
on a day like this one, and she remembered hours and hours wasted playing under
the bench while Da worked on…whatever it was that had his fancy at the moment.
Usually carpentry. He had been very good with his hands, she remembered, making
and repairing furniture for friends and family, creating beautiful figurines
for the children. She had a collection that had only survived her late
childhood because she had given them all to her brothers when her mother
uprooted the family and moved them to London when she was eleven. She leaned
against the open door of the main house and debated crossing the yard.
“What are you looking at?” Sherlock had noticed her diverted focus.
“Watching Da’s old workshop. Used to spend hoursout there, no matter the
weather, playing under that old work-bench. I built little cities out of scrap-
wood and glue and nails, made up stories.” She had built things out of scraps,
and Da had started teaching her wood-carving. She had kept up the practice for
a long time, taking it to the Army with her, using a multi-tool knife and
whatever scrap of wood she could get her hands on.
“I found this, the other day. I thought it was a strange little trinket.” He
handed her something, “I couldn’t for the life of me think of what it was
supposed to be or where I might have gotten it. I’ve had it since I was a lad.”
“What isthis? What a funny little thing!” She took the little bit of wood,
obviously a scrap from a larger project. She turned the object over in her
hands, “Not very well made, was it?”
“Not quite the skill of a more experienced carpenter, but there was love put
into the effort of making it.” He smiled at her, “I think it was supposed to be
a duck.”
“That does not look like a duck to me! What on earth?” She giggled, “Oh, lord,
did Imake this?”
“The last Christmas you lived up here. Mycroft has one just like it, he never
got rid of it.”
“You keptthem!” Hannah looked from the bizarre little carving, clearly a
child’s work, to Sherlock, “All these years, you keptthem!”
“This came with me when I travelled the world taking down Moriarty’s networks,
razing his empire to ashes. I thought I’d lost it a time or two, but it never
left my side.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” She only called him by his first name very rarely. And he
almost nevercalled her Hannah. Using their last names with each other was a
form of affectionate respect, first names came out for rare occasions. Like the
hospital. Hannah couldn’t believe that he still had her silly little carving,
or that it had been so many places. Or, that it meant so muchto him that when
he went off to make the world a safer place, he took it with him. At the time
he’d begun his work dismantling a madman’s empire, they had barely had a thing
to do with each other and hadn’t put a thought to long-lost childhood friends
in too long. It had taken a crippling injury to send Hannah home to London,
anywhere near to Sherlock, and she had never once thought to get back in touch
with him, despite having saved his life a few times in the very recent past.
She had simply trusted that he would have no knowledge or recall of who had
helped him in his times of deepest need, despite knowing that it wasn’t quite
true.
“Jesus Christ, what an idiot I am.” She muttered, “Why do you even put upwith
me?”
“Because you put up with me.” He looked out across the yard, “You should go out
there, see him, let him see you, tell him if he doesn’t know.”
“He knows. I guarantee you he knows.”
“Then tell him it’s over.”
“Will you come with me? I’m not…” She stopped herself from saying she couldn’t
do it alone. She didn’t want to do it at all. Sherlock took her hand and pulled
her out of the house and across the yard. The workshop was warm and well-lit,
smelling of pine and sawdust and woodsmoke. Hannah stood in the doorway,
suddenly a child again waiting for her father to invite her in. She had always
been welcome to come and go as she liked, but she had always loved it when he
told her to come in and join him.
The man at the work-bench was the same she remembered from childhood memories,
just a little changed with the passage of time, the advance of age and the
troubles of an unkind world that had carved their stories into his skin in the
form of fine lines and bold scars. His hair wasn’t as fair as it had been when
she had been a child, being a rather handsome silvery grey now, close to the
shade of Greg Lestrade’s hair but lighter than that still. His back wasn’t
quite as straight, his shoulders slightly sloped, but that instilled posture
would always be there. After all, he’d only retired from the Army three years
ago. His hands were still steady and sure and capable. This was a man who had
taught her everything she knew about so many things, from carving wood to
firing a weapon, and he would teach her still more if she cared to pay
attention. She didn’t say anything, just stood and observed. He knew they were
there, she couldn’t say how she knew he knew, but…he did. He knew. She saw a
shift in his posture, watched his hands. There it was, a subtle field-signal
from her days overseas.  A familiar sequence of hand-signals: ^“You. Enter.”^ 
^“You. Enter. Two.”^ When she didn’t move right away, he repeated the sequence.
Of course he knew Sherlock was there. Nodding, she stepped into the small space
that had always seemed bigger when she was a child. It wasn’t terribly cramped,
but it was smaller now that she was an adult. Sherlock pulled the door closed
to conserve heat and she approached the bench, touching the familiar work-
surface and handling the tools set to the side until he needed them, putting
them right back where she found them.
She had played in this workshop, had practically grown up in here. Relatives
had shared stories, often, of how her father would bring her out here from her
very earliest days in this world, setting her nearby to his workspace in a
little basket, usually near the stove to keep warm when the weather was
disagreeable. People who knew James Watson knew his gifts were numerous and his
skills varied, but so very few understood just how skilled he was with a block
of wood and a set of carving tools. Without really stopping what he was doing,
he took something from a shelf above the bench and slid it across the dusty
surface.
“Your brothers found those, thought you might want them back.” He glanced at
her sidelong, smiled, and went back to what he was doing. Hannah knew what it
was before she picked up the small bundle. It was wrapped in canvas and
leather, about as long as her hand from wrist to the tip of her middle finger.
“What is it?” Sherlock looked over her shoulder as she pulled on one end of the
leather cord.
“My old tool-kit.” She unwrapped and unrolled the canvas and looked at the
carving tools. Her old set, a small but sufficient miniature set of an adult’s
tools, was tucked into the wrapping.
“Why are there two sets?”
“These are the tools I used when I was little. John gave me this set five years
ago for Christmas.” She bundled the child’s tools and set them on the shelf for
safe-keeping and went to the scrap box.
“What are you doing?”
"You’ll see.” She pushed the lid up and rummaged through the pieces after
pulling on a pair of thick gloves. From the bench, she heard a soft, amused
chuckle. She had always liked carving from scraps and rarely carved from a
fresh block. The scrapped pieces had more character, she said, and made it more
fun to figure out what they were going to be. Uncle More liked to say that all
she had to do was look at a piece of scrap-wood that she found suitable and she
could just seewhat it would be. After tossing aside a few pieces that didn’t
suit her this time, but could use later for something, she found a rather
sizable piece that was irregular in shape but about six inches across and six
inches in length. She almost tossed it aside, but something stopped her. She
set it aside on the lip of the scrap-box and turned, holding the lid up.
“Need something, love?” Her observant father had noticed her hesitation.
“The pad?”
“Find something?”
“Think so.”
“Can you pass over that notebook, son?” Her father tipped his head to the
battered notebook sitting on the bench near him, “And you might want to get her
a tape.”
“Yes, sir.” Sherlock obediently collected the notebook and found a tape,
handing both to Hannah. She let the bin close as she measured the piece of wood
she had picked out, getting precise dimensions. She wrote them down on a clean
page and drummed her fingers on the bench.
“If you need to think about this one, go get inside. Sit down and think about
it with a cuppa.”
“Of course you can read my mind.” She smiled and packed up her things, “Thanks,
Da.”
“Will you tell me someday what makes your heart so sick?”
“You know what it was.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, “But he
won’t trouble the Watsons anymore. He’ll haunt us in dreams only and in the
dark voices in my head.”
“Find something to bring light to your darkness, love, if anyone in the family
deserves to be happy. I gave up on that sister of yours years ago, can’t do a
thing to help someone who can’t help themselves.” He smiled sadly, “No one
should ever suffer like you have, my love. Please heal.”
“It’s why I’m here, Da. It’s the only reason I’m here.” She hugged her father
as tight as she could, wondering why she wasn’t more surprised to find him
alive and figured that she was only so calm because she had known. Deep in her
heart, she had always known he was alive somewhere, and that if fate was kind
to her for once, she would see him again. And she had seen him, many, many
times.
 
Taking her haul from the workshop back to the main house, Hannah settled in the
sitting-room by the fireplace and curled up in an armchair, laying the notebook
open across her lap. Sherlock followed her in and collected her coat, hanging
it by the door with the other coats, she didn’t miss him putting up his
Belstaff on the same set of hooks. She smiled and bent her head to the page.
She had seen something special in the odd piece of scrap-wood, which was split
in a few places but sound regardless. Balancing the scrap on her knee, she
studied it and started drawing what she saw in her head. She only stopped when
she was aware of a cup being set down on the side-table and looked up at
Sherlock, who stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder.
“Is this what you do?”
“I haven’t done it in years. I miss it.”
“I didn’t know you could draw.” He reached over her shoulder and smoothed the
corner of the page, “This is the third page you’ve filled, haven’t you worked
out the design yet?”
“I’m figuring out what size I want it to be.”
“Hmm.” He smiled and leaned over, kissing her on the cheek, “You’re a brilliant
girl, you’ll figure something out. What are you trying to make of it?”
“Hmm?”
“When you looked at it like that, what did you see?”
“One of these.” She showed him her last complete sketch, “You’ve seen one of
these before.”
“Not usually out of wood. Metal, like silver or gold, or surgical steel. I saw
one in copper once when I was a lad. I thought it was beautiful.” He touched
the lines of the sketch, “You saw a Luckenbooth. I wonder why?”
“Not a clue what to tell you.” She picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. She
looked at the sketch and thought maybe going smaller, maybe an inch or two. She
had drawn out a “Queen Mary” Luckenbooth, which was both simple and elegant,
and where the tines of the smaller, second heart met she had put a thistle. The
whole inner heart was fashioned as a thistle, in fact. Her own twist on a
classic, elegant design.
“Do you think you can do that with wood?”
“Watch me.” She set her cup down picked up the carpenter’s pencil and the piece
of wood. The first thing she did was lay down marks where she wanted the
sizing-cuts to be made, cuts to remove the corners and extra wood. She took the
lot back to the workshop when she had the cut-lines marked and gave the scrap
to her father to cut for her while she scanned her sketch into the graphing
program on the computer. Making it the right size, she printed it out and laid
it down on the cut wood with a piece of transfer paper and a clean pencil. Then
she made a few more cuts and smoothed the edges. She cut the outer edges of the
heart and the blocked-off bit where the crown would go leaving her to hollow
the inner lines and do the detail work by hand.
She spent several hours in the workshop with her father, just like old times,
working on her little Luckenbooth. It got dark, the temperature plummeted, and
John and Sherlock came out to try and coax them inside for dinner. But old
habit died hard and they stayed out. Sherlock returned ten minutes later with
covered plates and begged them to eat.
“Thought it was my job to remind youto eat, wasn’t it?” Hannah smiled at him as
he set one of the plates down next to her.
“We seem to have switched roles. Please eat something? You need it to recover.”
“I will. Don’t worry about me.” She leaned her head back for a kiss, “I guess
you get along with my brother alright.”
“He’s just like you, of course I do.”
“Cheeky bastard.” She smacked him on the cheek, “Be nice, Sherlock.”
“You know, you’ve started using my first name more since we came up here. Why?”
“Same reason you’ve started using mine.” She shrugged and blew dust from her
Luckenbooth. “This place is something special.”
“You’ve got that right. So are the people.” He left her again and she realized,
only after he was gone, that he had never once looked at or asked after her
project. She had never made a secret of what she was doing, but he seemed
content to know whatit was on paper, but not beyond that in finished form.
Shrugging, she took a break to eat. It was nothing special, simple sandwiches
with crisps and coffee, but it was good enough.
“All these years later, and you are still in love with that Holmes boy.” Her
father smiled over the rim of his coffee-cup, “How long were you two out of
touch?”
“From ‘98 until 2012, and then we lost touch again until last December.” Hannah
looked at the little wooden Luckenbooth she was working on that would be 3-5/
8"long by 3-1/8"wide when she was done with it. She was giving it to Sherlock
to carry in his pocket the way he had carried that silly little duck. Time to
do right and follow her heart for once. It was like Greg and Colonel Graham and
Mycroft, even Victor and Evan, and Angelo had been telling them for months, at
the very least for weeks: “You deserve to be happy. Don’t miss your chance
because you were afraid of losing.” Hannah finished eating and stacked her
dishes. With most of the intense work done, it was time for sanding, detail
work, and varnishing. She found her small tools, they were perfect for the
delicate detail-work she had left, and decided it was a good idea to go back to
the house. Warmer, for one, and she could do detail-work in a comfortable
chair. The boys had found a match and were having a grand time booing bad
plays, bad calls, and ref favouritism. Sherlock was delighting John deducing
the players and refs, and especially the studio-announcers.
“Having a good time, boys?” Hannah chuckled.
“Absolutely! Hannah, you’re a moron. You know that, yeah?”
“That’s the consensus these days, get in line.” She rolled her eyes at her
brother, “But if I’m a moron, so’s thatone. He’s worse than I ever was.”
“You’re both a pair of proper idiots, and that’s going to change!”
“Good luck with that.”
“Oh, come on, Hannah, be nice to the lad. He means well.” Sherlock giggled. He
fucking giggled. Hannah snorted and sat down, splitting her attention between
the match and the boys. She eventually settled on a pillow by Sherlock’s feet,
back against the couch, head against his knee, carefully chipping away bits of
wood from the thistle and crown of her Luckenbooth. She was careful with the
details, and liked the way it looked. It was a bit rough, but considering it
was her first serious piece in two years, it looked pretty good. Finally,
content that it was about as good as it would ever be, she sanded the rough
edges and details, blew away the dust, and looked at it.
“Are you done?”
“Not yet, I still have to put a lacquer on it.” She wrapped it in a piece of
oilcloth and tapped Sherlock on the calf, she needed to get up. He moved and
she shoved to her feet, using him as a brace. “Ta. Be right back.”
“Not going anywhere.” He muttered, more or less addressing his beer-bottle. She
wasn’t sure how much he’d had to drink, but neither of them was in a condition
to drive back to Lauder tonight. Putting everything away in the workshop, she
returned to the house and sat on the couch next to Sherlock.
 
After the match was over, Arsenal beating Chelsea, Hannah collected empty
bottles, disposed of them in the kitchen, and decided it was a good time to get
to bed. Going down the hall with Sherlock in tow, she found her old bedroom.
Things had obviously changed, but not by much. A small double bed was pushed
against one wall, barely enough room for two grown adults but who was
complaining, this room was clearly home to the much younger generations
whenever they stayed over going by the brightly-coloured bedding. The comforter
and duvet were a very acceptable white, but the sheet-set was decidedly less
grown-up. There were very clear signs that this had once been her room, not as
obvious in the dark, but she picked up a faded, ratty-looking stuffed animal
perched on the pillows.
“I’ll be damned.” She smiled and rubbed the moth-bitten ears of the toy, a
well-loved fox that was missing an eye. “You survived too, Cheese?”
“What is that?”
“This is Cheese.” She smiled and held the toy out to Sherlock, “I carried him
around for years. He was my favourite toy.”
“He seems rather worn out, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s been through generations of children, never mind some international
travel.” She sat down on the bed and took off her boots and socks, quick to add
her trousers, jumper, and button-down to the pile of clothes.
“Did you take him with you in the Army?”
“Harry sent him to me in a care-package once, said if she hadn’t he’d have been
burned.”
“Your mother and step-father were very vindictive, spiteful people, weren’t
they?”
“That’s a word for it. But Cheese survived that, he snuck home once with John
and I just had to hope he made it somewhere safe.” She shrugged and got under
the covers, “We had adventures, Cheese and I. Played pirates and such.”
“Pirates?” That got his attention. She smiled in the dark as he turned off the
lamp. Sherlock, if she remembered correctly, lovedpirates. Somewhere in some
dusty family archive, she was pretty sure there were pictures of her and
Sherlock playing pirates together. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if her old
costumes were still in storage somewhere.
“If I’m not mistaken, you adored pirates as a child. Still might as an adult,
but what would I know about that?” She chuckled and squeaked when he put both
arms around her and yanked her backwards until her back hit his chest. He was
careful of her broken ribs, but it didn’t hurt that much.
“You played pirates?”
“Soldiers and pirates, precisely. I dragged my brothers and yours into the fun,
you were there, too, I think.”
“Two rival pirates and the law-abiding navy officers sent to bring them to
justice.” His breath was warm against her ear, “I’d forgotten.”
“I think we both had, Sherlock.” She sighed, thinking of her Luckenbooth. As
soon as it was ready, she would give it to him to keep in his pocket wherever
he went. Hannah closed her eyes, asleep in moments as she listened to Sherlock
breathe. For the first time in weeks, maybe a month, Hannah slept well and
without dreams or nightmares to trouble her.
                                      -&-
After spending the night in the same bed with Sherlock, something they did
regularly, Hannah was up at her usual time and going about her day. Dressing
warmly, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and went out to the workshop. It
didn’t take long to get the fire going and she finished the Luckenbooth. Using
tinted lacquer, she painted the charm red and gold. After letting it dry by the
fire, she coated it in a clear lacquer and laid it to dry again. It was gone
three in the afternoon before it was finished. After ensuring that it was
completely dry, she wrapped it in a small box. She was sitting on the fence
that marked the boundary of her family’s property, looking out across the
moors, when she heard familiar footsteps behind her. It was still very foggy
and cold, but she didn’t feel it.
“Have they missed us at the castle?”
“They’ve asked.”
“Figured they would eventually. After all, we didn’t come back last night.” She
smiled, turning the box over in her hands.
“What’s that, then?” He touched the box.
“It’s for you.” She handed it to him and watched him turn it over, studying it,
trying to deduce the gift inside. Giving him something with this kind of
symbolism was a huge step for her, for both of them, but it was about fucking
time she took control of her own destiny and did something about making things
right between them. She wasn’t expecting anything in return, of course, but she
wanted him to have something she had made for him, something new and
significant. Curiosity won out and he untied the thin white ribbon, sliding a
fingertip under the blue Mylar paper to break the cello-tape seal without
tearing the paper. Hannah bit her lip as he bundled the paper into a pocket and
studied the white box before pulling off the lid and unfolding the cotton-fluff
batting she had used to protect the Luckenbooth. When he saw the finished
Luckenbooth, his eyes widened. He had watched her make it, had watched her
carve it, but she had never told him what it was for.
“Oh my god. Hannah!”
“You know what this is for, don’t you? Why people give these as gifts?”
“Oh, Hannah. I don’t…” He trailed off as he lifted the carving and held it,
weighing it in his hand, “I don’t deserve this.”
“You deserve this and everything I can offer.” She curled his fingers around
the charm, “I haven’t been here for you when you’ve needed someone, Sherlock,
I’ve been an awful friend. I want to change that. And that change starts right
now.”
“You’ve changed. In less than a week, you’ve…you’re a different person.” He
looked at her, so much in his eyes that he couldn’t put into words.
“My lifehas changed, Holmes, in violent and traumatizing ways. I was discharged
from the Army two years ago, I suffered in London for another year, existing
but without friends or direction. Then I met you, and my life changed again.”
Hannah shook her head, wondering at how things had turned out, “I had a chance
to help myself, and make something of myself and for myself. For two months, I
had a purpose again and direction. I had friends I wanted to spend time with,
two reliable jobs, and a best friend who would have done anything for me. Then
I screwed up.” She took a deep breath and felt him shift, but she put a hand up
before he could speak.
“Don’t. I’m not done. Let me talk.”
“Okay.” He sighed and leaned against the fence beside her, keeping her company.
“I screwed up, very badly. I let a mean little voice get into protected places
and I ran from everything that made me happy.” She looked out at the foggy
landscape beyond them, knowing she had to put this out before it ate her alive,
“I punished the wrong person for something he had no control over, convincing
myself that it was for his good and my own, that he couldn’t possibly want
someone as broken and careless as me. And then my life changed again.”
“Watson.”
“I’m sosorry, Sherlock Holmes. You deserve so much better, especially from me.
I shouldn’t have left you like that, not after everything you did for me. I’m
not asking for anything from you, but for your forgiveness. If you have it in
your broken heart to forgive a blundering, heartsick idiot like me, that’s all
I need. I won’t ask for more than that. I’ll find my way in another city if
that’s what needs to happen.”
“No! No, don’t you dare!” He grabbed her by the arm, fingers tight around her
bicep, she could feel the grip through her layers, “No, Hannah! Don’t you ever
leave me! Do you understand how muchyou mean to me?” He pulled until she turned
and faced him on the fence, standing between her legs. They were nearly level
with her sitting on the fence like she was, and he held her still with one hand
against her face.
“Hannah, my god, why did you everthink I didn’t want you? Why did I ever letyou
think that?”
“You didn’t know. I never said.”
“You told me everything! I knew everything! I missed that! If anyone between us
was an idiot, it was me!” He leaned her head back, “Hannah, don’t. Leave. Me.
Don’t ever leave me again. What can I do to make you stay? How can I make you
stay with me?”
“At the very least, you carry a piece of me with you always.” She put the
Luckenbooth in his coat-pocket, “A broken heart belongs to you, a small piece
of it in your pocket always. Wherever you are, if I’m there or not, that’s me.”
“That’s not good enough. I can’t imagine a life without you anymore, Hannah.”
He shook his head, “The week I spent in the hospital at your side was
terrifying. I’ve beenin hospitals plenty myself, it’s a sickening experience in
the worst ways, but being on the other side of it is so much worse.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry I made you hurt like that.”
“I loveyou, Hannah, I’m fairly certain I always have in some way. You are the
most important person in my life, and that’s something. I don’t care about
people, I don’t do emotional attachments. But you took everything that made
sense in my world and turned it on its head. You put a match to it and burned
everything. And I letyou.” He leaned in until their foreheads touched, “You did
what no one else could. You did what not even Jim Moriarty could get done, what
my sister tried and failed to accomplish.”
“Sherlock.”
“You took this jaded, careless heart, and burned it. I let you do it, I wanted
you to do it. Two weeks without you was the most awful thing I’ve ever done, I
would have rather gone back to Serbia than face another day without you.” He
took her hand in his and pressed it against his chest, through several layers
of clothing she could feel his heart beating far too fast. He was shaking, with
cold, with grief, with…hope. “So many people in our lives called me a
blundering moron, told me to find a way and fix this before I lost you forever.
And then…”
“Sherlock. Oh, love, don’t…” She pulled him until they were flush and his head
dropped to her shoulder. Tears flowed freely and she rocked him. “My god,
Sherlock Holmes. I’m sorry.”
“Are we both sorry?”
“For the same things.” She stroked the back of his neck, “I love you, you silly
idiot. I think I always have and I plan to until there’s nothing left of this
world but dust and memories.” As they sat there, reconciled and ready to face
whatever future lay ahead of them properly, together, they didn’t see the
people gathered by the house.
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     So, I messed up on the math. Hannah was ten-years-old in 1981, if she
     was born in 1971. Whoops.
***** Let's Get Married *****
Chapter Summary
     Another step towards an inevitable Happily Ever After.
Chapter Notes
     Mycroft's in town, and he's being a very good big brother.
     ::
     Sherlock doesn't really ask, he just kind of...assumes. And he's not
     wrong about assuming anything, much to Hannah's amusement. Smart
     bastard. Of course she's going to say yes. She'd be an idiot not to!
     And the days of being a willfully stubborn idiot are, momentarily,
     far behind her.
===============================================================================
When Hannah Watson and Sherlock Holmes had made their way north to Scotland,
seeking refuge and healing in their homeland, Mycroft Holmes hadn’t ever
expected to make a trip of his own. But two separate people had called him from
London on behalf of the Baker Street detectives. His aunt, Rachel McCallum, had
called first to clarify that Robert Leland was no longer amongst the living
souls of London (he was not, Mycroft could personally attest to that); James
Watson had called next, with a strange but understandable request, to which he
had a ready answer. Two months earlier, when Hannah and his brother had
reconnected over a series of unrelated cases, Mycroft had quickly made up
papers in their names and, at different times, had them signed bySherlock and
Hannah. He had never told them what the papers were for, knowing it was better
to do this without their explicit knowledge and handle any potential fall-out
when it happened. Once all proper papers were on file, a certificate had been
written up in their names and put in the file and copied to the proper offices
in Edinburgh. He had those papers with him now as he watched Sherlock and
Hannah reconcile in the back garden of the Watson house in Humbie.
He hadn’t been to this house in decades and had been selfishly pleased to see
it had changed very little from the way he remembered it as a child. A few
things had changed, naturally, and it seemed a bit smaller in some places than
he recalled from memory, but it was the memories he hadof this place that
mattered. And that he had them at all.
“What did she give him?”
“A wooden Luckenbooth she spent almost two whole days on. It’s a rather lovely
piece, really, she was so careful with making it.” James shook his head, “Those
two are a right pair of idiots.”
“Yes, they have been. Perhaps that’s to be amended properly, for once.”
“If we’ve got any say in things, you’re damn straight that’ll be put right!”
Hannah’s oldest brother John, like her in so many ways and different in so many
others, made a face, “I love them both, it’s hard to watch them fight what we
all know is the right thing to do.”
“I’d say they’re done fighting.” That was from Gregory Lestrade, who had
accompanied Mycroft to Scotland without question or any warning beyond showing
up at the airfield with a bag packed and one question: “When do we leave and
where are we going?” He blamed Anthea for tattling on him but knew her heart
was in the right place.
“So, who gets to plan thatwedding?” John asked, grinning.
“Leave that to Aunt Rachel.” He said it without thinking, “She’s been planning
for years.”
“Really?”
“She’s got binders full of ideas and every piece of information she could
possibly want or need on those two.” He nodded to the ignorant couple who still
hadn’t noticed them. “Including Hannah’s dress-size and Sherlock’s exact
measurements for a kilt.”
“Now, that’s a sight I’d pay to see.” James snickered, “Sherlock Holmes in a
kilt. He’s got the right build for it, lucky bastard.”
“My brother did get the lion’s share in good looks and genetics, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, you shut up!” Gregory smacked him on the shoulder, “You’re too damn skinny
to talk like that, and I know you’ve gotten that lecture from Hannah before!
Don’t you dare think about it!” The Watsons chuckled and Mycroft just offered a
conciliatory kiss to his husband. No, he wasn’t as slim or half as attractive
as his younger brother, and he never would be. And yet, he was taller and
smarter still. And he had to reassure himself that he wouldn’t be in the
position of a happily married man if Gregory’s affections hadn’t been honest.
How many times had he pushed Gregory away and how many times had the man come
back to him, stayed at his side through innumerable troubles and grievances?
Hannah Watson was a perfect match for his brother, and all he wished was a
happy future for them both. Giving a copy of the papers that all but declared
Hannah Watson and Sherlock Holmes married to the Watsons, Mycroft took Gregory
returned to Alltendour Castle. Hannah and Sherlock would not be long behind
them, he suspected.
                                      -&-
A week after she gave Sherlock the hand-carved Luckenbooth, Hannah woke up one
morning in her rooms in Alltendour Castle to the soft sound of a violin. It was
live-play, she judged by the timbre and clarity, and close by. She smiled and
rolled onto her back. The bed beside her was, of course, empty now, but she
knew where he was. He had left something on his pillow, though, her hand
brushed against it. Traditionally, a rose was left upon the pillow as a token,
but Sherlock wasn’t like other men, and Hannah was not interested in being a
thing like other women. She rolled onto her side and carefully picked up the
single thistle laid on the pillow. There was something tied to the stem, and
she tugged on the string. A small piece of cardstock had been tied to the stem,
on it were a few words. She read them to herself. Written in Gaelic, a shared
language between them, more a statement than a proper question.
/“Let’s get married.”/ She repeated them and giggled. Really? He couldn’t even
ask the proper question? She’d roped a one-of-a-kind for sure. Leaving the
thistle on her bedside table, Hannah grabbed a pair of pyjama bottoms and a
hoodie and padded out to the sitting-room. She found him by the fireplace,
which contained a crackling blaze, and leaned against the chair, watching him.
He finished playing, it was a new piece, and set down the violin. She folded
her arms against her chest, smiling. It was Sherlock as she’d gotten used to
seeing him in the mornings: dressed in pyjama bottoms, tee-shirt turned inside-
out (unless he was wearing one of her old Army tee-shirts, which fit him for
some reason, those were always worn right-side-out), and a dressing-gown.
“Not even a proper question?”
“Do you really think it’s necessary? After all this time?” He looked over his
shoulder at her, shy and open. She smiled and went around to him. She wasn’t
going to say no.
“Of course not, but there are those who would question.”
“And they don’t matter.” He looked her over, studying every bit of her he could
see. “Give me your answer?”
“Absolutely! Why would I say no? After all the madness and idiotic missteps,
why the hell would I say no?” She leaned up and kissed him on the corner of the
mouth, “I don't suppose we have to concern ourselves with practical matters
like stating our intentions at the register office?”
“Mycroft did that for us. Both here, and in London.”
“Sneaky bastard.” She muttered, “How long has it been, then?”
“Two months in London, shortly after we met in Whitechapel.” Sherlock grinned,
“And two months in Edinburgh.”
“Clever bastard he is.” She wrinkled her nose, “Well, then, I suppose we had
better get on with it?” Sherlock just smiled and took her back to the bedroom.
They took showers and got dressed, and he took her up to Edinburgh. Mycroft had
given them a folder with all the paperwork they needed to hand to the registrar
in Edinburgh to be filled out and filed. Notice had already been given, the
rest was up to them. They were right on the hairy edge of too late, but notice
had already been given, the date had been set, and all they were really doing
was confirming the chosen date and submitting the proper paperwork. Once in
Edinburgh, they made their way to the New Register Office and spent two hours
filling out and filing paperwork with the proper authorities. Mycroft had
handled the notice-filing two months ago, she seemed to remember some business
taking Mycroft out of London shortly after she reconnected with Sherlock the
first time. It wasn’t unusual for him to travel for business on a whim, so she
hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
                                        
After finishing their business at the Register Office, which included stating
their intention to marry in a handfasting ceremony at the end of the month,
they ventured out into Edinburgh proper and Sherlock took her ring-shopping.
Their fathers had stepped in as witnesses back at the start, and they were
considering keeping the guest list short. Her father and siblings were invited,
by default; his parents and brother were, of course, going to be there, it was
Mycroft’s subtle hard work that had made it all happen legally; and because
Mycroft was invited, Greg Lestrade would be there. There were, of course,
cousins, aunts, and uncles to consider; mutual friends like Angelo, and Colonel
Graham, and she debated asking Sherlock if he wanted to invite Victor Trevor
and Jack Evans. Mrs Hudson, of course, was invited, and maybe Molly Hooper and
hergirlfriend. Not quite a small wedding, but certainly an intimate one.
Hannah wasn’t surprised that they couldn’t find anything on their first trip,
but she wasn’t disappointed. If anyonecould find the perfect ring, it was
Sherlock Holmes. He knew her tastes and she trusted him to choose wisely. She
had the feeling that what they were looking for wasn’t to be found in a
jewellery store, but that remained to be seen.
===============================================================================
 
***** When In Glasgow *****
Chapter Summary
     A bit of Watson family drama to keep things interesting. No one gets
     hurt, but there are misunderstandings and reconciliation. And
     Sherlock proves that he can be just as kind to someone as his saintly
     Watson.
Chapter Notes
     We get to meet Harry Watson. Writing her was...interesting. But I
     thought the interactions between her and Sherlock were a suitable
     challenge, and Sherlock gets to play nice with his future sister-in-
     law.
===============================================================================
As time wasted to within two weeks of the wedding-day, Sherlock Holmes started
to worry. Everything was on schedule and going smoothly, but there was one
important element missing and it botheredhim. Hannah Watson, bless her soul,
was patient as ever as his mood got worse and worse. He suspected she knew what
the problem was, she had that knowing look in her eye. Rings. A traditional,
visible symbol of what was supposed to be a life-long promise to love and
cherish the person you had given the ring to. 
He had foolishly asked her to marry him, on a whim, without a ring to give her.
She had never said anything, never made him feel inadequate for it. Rings were,
realistically, a bit impractical for the likes of Hannah, but he still…it was
the principle of the thing. He wantedthe world to know, and to know that she
didn’t belong to just anyone. And he felt guilty. She had given him a lovely
gift, not quite an engagement gift but it might as well have been. A small,
hand-carved Queen Mary Luckenbooth that she had created over the course of two
days from a piece of scrap-wood she found in her father’s workshop. It was a
beautiful little piece and the perfect size to carry in his pocket, which he
did. What made it so special was knowing that shehad made it for him. Not for
any reason other than she wantedto, wanted him to have something of hers. And
he didn’t have anything to give her in return. Not that she had ever asked for
anything he couldn’t freely offer, but again, principle.
                                      -&-
One day, he travelled to Glasgow without Hannah, who was trapped in the thralls
of wedding-day details with his aunt and mother. He did not begrudge her that
experience, it was bad enough for him with the rest of the clansmen from
bothfamilies going after him. The women had descended on dear Hannah like
wolves, but she had yet to buckle under the overwhelming onslaught of well-
meaning if not slightly misguided advice. And the men had come for him the same
way. Her brothers had, in good spirits, laid out very detailed threats about
what they would do to him (if Hannah didn’t do it for them) should he make the
mistake of breaking their sister’s heart. He wasn’t about to do that, at least
he didn’t plan on it. It was more than his sorry neck at stake if he did, and
he knew it.
With a goal in mind and a list in his pocket, he set off along the wet streets
of Glasgow to see if he could find his fiancée’s ring. If not, he wasn’t above
asking for help from the family elders. It would probably get him a scolding
for not asking themfirst, but he felt obligated to go the “traditional route”
of looking in jewellery stores first. Not that he wanted to, but it was an
effort he was willing to put forth and suffer through for Hannah. As with
previous excursions, he had no luck and was composing a text message to his
mother to beg her assistance in this when he heard someone calling his name. He
didn’t knowanyone in Glasgow, so hearing his name was a little unusual.
“Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!” It was a woman’s voice, hoarse with alcohol and
nicotine, and vaguely familiar. “Oi! You can hear me, you great berk! Turn
around!” Groaning, Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket and took a sharp
pull of the cigarette between his lips. Buggering hell if one of his cousins
had found him. Raising his head, he looked over his shoulder and got a glimpse
of the woman who was trying to get his attention. Not a Holmes, she was a
Watson. Sherlock had seen plenty of pictures of her and had several foggy
memories of her from childhood.
“Oh, you have to be kidding me.” He blew out a slow breath, “Patience,
patience, Sherlock. Be nice to your sister-in-law.” Not yet, his mind
unhelpfully pointed out, and not like he reallyowed her a kindness. As the
stocky, angry red-headed woman stormed up to him, he wished for one moment that
Hannah had come with him. Well, anyonewould be good company against the coming
storm of Harry Watson’s fury. He couldn’t tell if the woman was drunk or not,
suspected she might just be, and hoped she wouldn’t try to get physical.
“Hello, Harry. Been a while.”
“You’re fucking right it’s “been a while”!” She hissed, “Sherlock fucking
Holmes! Been wondering when you’d show your sorry face again.”
“Nice to see you, too.” He studied the woman beside him, making a number of
scathing split-second deductions in his head and very wiselykeeping them to
himself. “What can I do for you, then? This isn’t a happy coincidence.”
“You’re getting married!”
“Not exactly state-secrets, Harriet.”
“Who the fuck are you getting married to? I thought you were Ace!”
“Well, if that’s any business of yours.” He blew a stream of smoke at the sky,
“What have you heard?”
“You’re getting married to some tart! I can’t believe you would do that to my
sister!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Now it made sense. Harry wasdrunk, had probably just
now gotten around to reading the invitation they would have received last week,
and misunderstood the whole thing.
“Harry?”
“I swear, Holmes, I swear if you do another damn thing to break that poor
girl’s heart, I will skin you alive and use your guts for bootlaces!”
“Harry!”
“What!”
“Will you just shut up for a minute? My god, you’re pissed!”
“Am not!”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re quite soundly drunk.” He reached out and caught her as
she swayed on her feet, “Stand still, you’re making me motion-sick.”
“’m not movin’.” Harry slurred. Sherlock sighed and put out his cigarette,
kicking the stub into the street for the sweepers. He had been in Harry’s
position more than once, and it hurt to see her like this. While she swayed
against him, he pulled up his calendar and did some mental math. The wedding
was in four days, everything was in order and proceeding according to schedule.
“What are you doing over there? Plotting world domination or something?”
“My brother’s the one planning world domination.” He grinned, “I’m not the one
you have to worry about.”
“Nah, you’re just the mad one.” She didn’t mean that hurtfully, and he
snickered.
“I’ve been called far worse than mad.”
“I know.” Harry made a face. Sherlock sobered and looked at his phone again.
“What?”
“Harry?”
“Hmm?”
“Where are you staying in Glasgow?”
“Small place over on, um, West Princes Street.”
“I’ll take you home.” He fired a text off to Mycroft with a list of things he
wanted to have delivered after finding out Harry’s address.
“I don’t need…babysitting, Holmes.”
“Like Hell you don’t. Where is your wife?”
“In Canada. Some conference or other.”
“I see.” He hummed and watched Hannah’s sister very closely. Hannah had sent
him a text asking if things were good, she was languishing in flowers and
wanted to die if she had to look at another arrangement. To prove it, she sent
him a picture and he snorted. She would kill him in his sleep for laughing, but
it was rather entertaining to see her surrounded by piles of flowers, clearly
displeased with things and unable to do more than glare at the camera. He
suspected Aunt Rachel had taken the picture. Shaking his head, Sherlock
pocketed his phone and steered Harry in the proper direction. Getting her
situated in the car, he sent a text back that he was fine, had found a case to
keep him a bit but not to worry. If he needed her, Hannah would be the first to
know. That got him a reply that simply said the following:
 
 Don’t you dare do anything stupid without me. We are getting married if it’s
               the last fucking thing I do, understand me? – HW
 
Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything later. – SH
 
                                   Git. – HW
                               Love you. <3 – HW
 
She sent a heart emoji and that was the last of it. Mycroft replied to his
request with word that everything had been delivered already and if he needed
further assistance, to simply send word. Grateful for his brother’s usefulness
in a few things, and his fiancée’s trust that he wasn’t going to do something
to put their future at risk and he would, eventually, tell her the truth of
what kept him in Glasgow this close to their wedding, he turned to the problem
at hand.
It was a quiet, uneasy drive to Harry’s West Princes Street residence, which
was small but lovely, and clearly not a bachelorette’s miserable home. There
were personal touches and signs of a happy life all over, pictures framed and
hung on walls and on the mantle of Harry and a very attractive woman with long
brown hair and wide, smiling eyes.
“Thas’ my Clara girl.” She drawled, catching sight of one such picture, “Lovely
thing, stays with me at m’ worst. Beat the shit out of her once and she forgave
me for it.”
“That’s a strong woman.” He steered his stumbling sister-in-law to the master
bedroom and got her out of her clothes, which had been worn far beyond
propriety. Wrapping her up in a robe, he got her to the bathroom and sat her on
the toilet while he ran the water in the shower.
“What are you doing?” She blinked up at him like he’d grown another head.
“You’re so drunk you can’t see straight, I’m surprised you recognized me or
remembered my name. I’m going to get you sober and take you home.”
“Home?”
“Your family misses you, Harry.”
“No, they don’t. Family hatesme. Hates what I am. Says I’m a…a monster. A
freak.”
“What your step-father did to you and your sister was inexcusable and
disgusting.” He got her up and out of the robe, “He’s been dealt with.”
“Hah! Justice will never come for that fucker! He’s too…too…ugh!”
“Take it easy.” He steered her into the shower-stall, pushed her against the
wall, and took off his shoes and socks. “Trust me, Harry. I know everything.”
“What do you think you know?”
“Your sister? She let me deduce her and asked me to tell her what I saw. I
saweverything. I see it in you, too, and it’s heartbreaking.” Sherlock shucked
his suit jacket and added it to the small pile of clothes, “Your wife is the
strongest woman I know who’s not family to either of us already for taking that
kind of history on and sticking around.”
“H-Hannah? What’d he do to her?”
“What he triedto do?” He shook his head, “I’ll tell you when you're sober.”
“M’kay. You’re nice to me, Sh’lock. Treat me good.” She hummed, head lolling as
he stepped under the shower-head and cleaned her up, “Maybe…too nice.”
“Thank me when you’re sober. You’ll hate me before then.”
“Naah. Hate m’self first.” Harry made a face, “Brave man coming in a shower
with me.”
“You’re not just my friend, Harry.” He finished what he was doing, remaining
clinical about the drunken, naked woman he had to take care of. He was soaked
through by the time he was satisfied, but that was fine. Turning the water off,
he got out, bundled Harry up in her robe and several towels, grabbed a couple
for himself, and steered her to the master bedroom. In anticipation of their
arrival and a quirk of amazing timing, a fire burned in the bedroom fireplace
and in the living-room hearth. The house was cosy and warm despite the weather
outside. Getting Harry dry, he put her into pyjamas and went to change into dry
clothes, bundling his wet things for later. Mycroft’s people had provided a
change of clothes for him, several at his request, and he took a minute to sort
himself out. As a matter of convenience, Sherlock’s clothes could either be
dry-cleaned or machine-washed, and he would put his things through the dryer
once he had Harry situated. Going back to the bedroom, he found her dozing off.
Unpacking the medical kit, Sherlock quickly set up and started an IV line.
Clean saline and a blend of vitamins and prophylactics. What had worked for him
at his worst would work for her just as well. And really, it was the least he
could do for her. He owed it to Harry and Hannah both to get Harry sober in
time for the wedding and bring her tothe wedding.
Once Harry was stable and sleeping off the first round of remedies, Sherlock
made himself at home and cruised news-sites for cases, solved a couple for the
local precincts that had fallen cold, and asked Mycroft to keep the truth of
his stay in Glasgow from Hannah.
“I take it you’ve had dismal luck otherwise?” His brother asked on a phone-call
regarding his mission.
“No luck at all. I have nothing, Mycroft.” He rubbed his forehead, “I need to
give her something. Anything.”
“I may have a solution for you. It was put to me by John Watson.”
“What is it?” At this rate, Sherlock would take anything on offer.
“Apparently, in the settling of their mother’s affairs after her death, Harriet
Watson inherited her mother’s bridal set. She wanted nothing to do with it and
it ended up with John, who held onto it for posterity.”
“Is he…willing to part with it like this?”
“He all but insisted. Apparently, it’s a ring that belonged to their
grandmother before it was passed to Mallory Watson.” Mycroft sounded rather
touched by the family history behind the ring. Sherlock paced a bit, wondering
which grandmother it had belonged to.
“Did it belong to Elizabeth Vincent or Lucia McKay?”
“I believe it belonged to McKay.”
“And they’re still living, yes?”
“Far as I am aware, they are still living. And yes, before you ask, they are on
the guest-list and have said they will come to the wedding.”
“Thank you. Tell John to keep that ring safe.”
“I will. Shall I have him give it to Hannah on your behalf and that of Gram
McKay?”
“If you think that’s the best course of action. She’ll never get it otherwise.”
He could always exchange rings with her per tradition on the wedding-day at
their handfasting ceremony if they ran out of time. Mycroft promised to keep
the McKay ring safe until they figured out what to do with it, and to keep
Hannah in the dark about Harry. That gave Sherlock enough time to get Harry
sober and wait for the wedding day. If they needed him before then, he could
judge whether it was important enough to leave Harry, but he suspected he would
stay with her as long as he possibly could, at least until she was coherent.
Suffering a detox alone was always awful and he would never abandon someone so
in need, especially not family.
                                      -&-
It was three days after he met her in Glasgow that Sherlock declared Harry
completely sober, and it had been a wretched, long three days for both of them.
He had kept himself busy solving crimes over the internet and by phone, making
tip-calls to the proper authorities, between coxing Harry through bouts of
withdrawal. On the morning of the last day he was in Glasgow, the fourth day he
was in the city, he fixed breakfast for both of them. While Harry took a
shower, he laid out the outfit for the wedding, the invitation on top of it. He
knocked on the door and poked his head in.
“Harry, love?”
“Yo?”
“I have to get back to Lauder, I’ve been gone a bit too long.”
“You didn’t have to stay with me, Sherlock, you’ll miss your own fucking
wedding at this rate!”
“Not likely, but I’d rather not.” He looked over his shoulder, “I left
something for you on your bed.”
“Ta. Tell my sister she’s an idiot for letting you slip through her skinny
little fingers, will you?”
“Who said she did?” He grinned and ducked out again, “See you ‘round, Harry
Watson!” He left the house with his bag over one shoulder, keys in his pocket,
and locked up behind himself. Whistling, he set off for his car and drove back
to Lauder. He had plentyof time before he had to be anywhere, and made it back
in time to start getting ready. Mycroft couldn’t stop smiling, knowing what he
did about Sherlock’s absence, and Sherlock honestly hoped that Harry would come
to the wedding. It would make Hannah so happy to see her sister again.
Especially today, of all days.
===============================================================================
 
***** Blind Love Pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     The Big Day is here! Family, friends, and loved ones gather for a
     very special day!
Chapter Notes
     This is from Harry Watson's POV
     ::
     I got the title from the way it goes during the ceremony for Sherlock
     and Hannah: both are blindfolded so there is no way at all they can
     see each other before they stand before the Registrar. I don't know
     where I came up with that idea, but it wouldn't leave me alone and I
     liked the idea of adding a little mystery to the big day.
===============================================================================
When Clara Oswin walked through the door of the little house on West Princes
Street, tired from a long flight but eager to see her loved one, Harry Watson
was sitting on her bed, staring at the cardstock between her fingers. It was a
familiar invitation, but one she hadn’t properly paid attention to or read
clearly the first time. It had come to the house at the start of the month,
addressed to Harry and Clara, inviting them to the wedding of Sherlock Holmes,
who had long been a friend of the family and dear to Harry’s sister Hannah. She
hadn’t read beyond that or hadn’t comprehended, and in an alcohol-induced haze,
had stormed the streets of Glasgow looking for the sorry fucker who thought he
could get away with breaking her sister’s heart. At least, that’s what she’d
thought at the time. And she hadn’t even known if he was inGlasgow. It was far
more likely he would be in Edinburgh, and she was willing to go down there and
rip him to shreds if that was a necessary thing. Four days later, it was a
very, verydifferent story and Harry was nearly in tears.
“Hal?” Clara came in and found her there, “Oh, dear, what’s wrong now?”
“Clara?”
“What happened, love?” Her patient, adoring wife sat down on the bed with her
and put an arm around her shoulders, “What is it?”
“You know how sometimes you’ll make up your mind about something without
knowing all the facts and then you turn out to be wrong about the whole thing?”
“Harry, what happened?”
“I was so wrong to hate him! And he stayed with me, Clara! He stayedhere when
he needed to be in Lauder!” She handed over the invitation, “Why did he stay?”
“Oh, my god. It was Hannah! Harry, you idiot, I said it was! You didn’t believe
me!”
“I didn’t know, Clara! I thought he was marrying someone else! He never said he
wasn’t, but he…” She sniffled, “He left this for me this morning. Why do we
deserve Sherlock Holmes?”
“Your sister is a lucky woman.” Clara smiled and kissed her, “Come on, you
silly thing. We’ve got a wedding to go to! I am notmissing this for any money!
Can you imagine the kind of party that’s going to be?”
“I haven’t seen my family in years.” She let Clara get her up on her feet. She
was worried about seeing her family after so many years alienated from them,
but that was entirely her own damn fault. Clara ducked into the loo and took a
shower before they got ready. She was dying to know where Sherlock had found
hostess skirts in the tartan Harry and Clara had created when they got married,
it was a lovely touch for the day. Usually, she hated skirts, but she would
wear one for Hannah’s wedding.
                                      -&-
They took the ScotRail from Charing Cross to Edinburgh Waverley, walked six
minutes to Lothian Chambers, where the wedding was taking place, and Harry
prepared for what could be a very awkward reunion. They weren’t quite late, but
they were among the last guests to arrive, and that was fine. Standing outside
the room to greet guests and direct them were Mycroft Holmes and his charming,
handsome husband, Greg Lestrade.
It was one of the only times in her life that Harry could honestly remember
seeing Mycroft in anythingexcept a three-piece suit. For the occasion of his
little brother’s wedding, he wore a family tartan that he had made up with
Lestrade for their wedding and a Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat. But it
wasn’t a half-arsed get-up, it was the whole nine and he looked positively
smashing. Harry was so glad to see Mycroft, he really had been instrumental in
helping her clean up her act and settle down with Clara, even if she did keep
falling off the fucking wagon once every three months. When he spotted them,
Mycroft smiled.
“Harriet.”
“Mycroft. God, you look amazing.” She gave her brother-in-law a hug.
“How are you?”
“Nervous. But I think my sister’s more nervous than I am.”
“Actually, she’s been pretty chill about this whole thing, give or take a
couple of breakdowns.” Greg Lestrade smirked, “Care to guess what pushed her
over the edge?”
“Flowers?”
“Yep.”
“Poor dear. Well, this is a handsome piece.” Harry tugged on the boutonnière
pinned to Mycroft’s jacket, a little sprig of St. John’s Wort bundled with
Lisianthus, Rosemary, and Sea Holly. “Think we can sneak in?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Greg pushed the door open for them. No one really noticed
them sneaking in, and Harry tugged Clara towards the Holmeses. They were, of
course, thrilled to see her, and understood that she was nervous about
encountering her own family, but that could wait for after. Sherlock stood at
the front of the room by a small table, and if Harry thought Mycroft looked
sharp, Sherlock looked amazing.
“I alwayssaid he looked good in that fucking kilt.” She muttered, shaking her
head, “Never believed me.” It was very clear that he was nervous, but that was
to be expected, and she felt a little sorry for him. It was obvious so much
thought and personalisation had gone into this ceremony, which was really just
a simple handfasting, and Harry noticed that there was something in Sherlock’s
hands as he waited for those doors to open again.
“Is that…is that the Strad?”
“That’s his violin.” Clara whispered, “Oh, this is going to be amazing!”
“Wait, what?” Harry knew he was a gifted player, better than some
professionals, but she could only think of one reason he would be holdinghis
violin at his own wedding. At some pre-determined signal, her brother John
blindfolded Sherlock, whispered something in his ear, and got an affirmative.
“What did he ask?”
“If he can see anything.” Rachel McCallum was absolutely beaming.
“I guess that’s a solid no?”
“Averysolid no.” Rachel smiled and took Harry’s hand, “I’m so glad you came,
Harry, I’m so glad you made it. And Hannah’s going to be so very thrilled.”
“You can thank your scoundrel nephew. Dragged my sorry drunk arse home four
days ago and stuck around until I was sober. Left me to put the pieces in order
and here I am.”
“Good for you.” Rachel squeezed her hand as the doors opened. As they did,
everyone in the room turned to face the doors as the most beautiful music began
to play. A solo violin piece, soft, simple, and heartfelt, it was gorgeous.
Harry turned and realized what was happening.
“Oh. My God. He’s…”
“Breathe, Hal,” Clara whispered. Blindfolded so he couldn’t actually see Hannah
coming, Sherlock was playing music hehad written for this very occasion,
putting his heart and soul into the music as he played her up the aisle to give
her promise to stay with him through whatever madness came for them. Sherlock
Holmes was playing his wife up the aisle at their wedding, as she was led by
the fathers. James Watson (not dead, as believed by so many) on her left,
Timothy Holmes on her right, guiding her as she was blindfolded. It was the
most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen, and she was dying to know who had
come up with the idea of blindfolding the couple so they couldn’t see each
other until they stood before the Registrar together for the first time. Of
course, her brother Iain MacKelpie was responsible for taking pictures and was
doing a bang-up job of getting some prime shots. Harry wondered what it would
take to get a copy of the finished album for herself. It wasn’t herwedding, but
Christ she wanted the pictures! She wanted to remember this forever, there was
so much that made it special.
Sherlock looked dashing and handsome in his family tartan, wearing the same
Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat all of the clansmen wore with the tartan of
their respective families, a beautiful purple shirt instead of traditional
white, every pleat crisp and just right, the fly-plaid pinned in place with a
clan-crest on the left shoulder, black brogues and hose with tartan flashes and
a sgian dubh tucked into it’s traditional place of honor, a “formal” sporran,
and a black Balmoral cap adorned with a band of his family tartan on the brim
with the ribbons untied topped off his outfit. Harry wondered where Sherlock
had gotten his sgian dubh, seeing as Timothy’s had gone to Mycroft when he
married Greg, it was clearly a father-son hand-me-down according to a tradition
older than most of the people in this room.
Hannah, likewise, was gorgeous in a white long-sleeved dress with illusion mesh
sleeves, a flattering, wide-set V-neck and daring low back that struck a lovely
balance between covered and bare, and an A-line skirt with a sweep train that
added a softly voluminous finish. Over one shoulder, Hannah wore a sash in the
Watson colours, family pride in plain view pinned with her regimental badge
from the Army. Instead of a traditional hairpiece, she wore a flower-crown put
together from St. John’s Wort, Lisianthus, Rosemary, and Sea Holly to match the
boutonnières adorned with white silk ribbons left untied. It was just perfect.
===============================================================================
 
***** Blind Love Pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The Big Day is here! Family, friends, and loved ones gather for a
     very special day!
Chapter Notes
     I got the title from the way it goes during the ceremony for Sherlock
     and Hannah: both are blindfolded so there is no way at all they can
     see each other before they stand before the Registrar. I don't know
     where I came up with that idea, but it wouldn't leave me alone and I
     liked the idea of adding a little mystery to the big day.
     ::
     This signifier/placeholder: ...***...***...***... marks where the
     naughty bits begin and end. Please read accordingly. If hot and
     steamy smut between two fully consenting adults is your cup of tea,
     then read to your heart's content. If sexual acts of any graphic
     description make you squick, feel free to skip. That is all. Please
     and thank you.
===============================================================================
Hannah Watson had spent nearly a month working out the fine details of her own
wedding-day, most of it had been planned for years in advance and there was
truly little to concern herself with, but that hadn’t kept her from
worryingabout it. She was getting married, for fuck’s sake! To Sherlock Holmes,
of all people! She had absolutely no regrets about any of it, but…that didn’t
keep the nerves at bay. It was a simple civil ceremony, neither of them was
particularly religious, and a handfasting ceremony would do for making them man
and wife. Her dress was traditionally white, with a rather daring open back,
but she loved it. It was just girly enough for her liking but not what she
called a “cupcake dress”, all poofy layers of silk and lace and organza and no
practicality. She hadn’t seen Sherlock in almost a week, between tradition
stating that the couple should not see each other before the wedding and a case
that had come up in Glasgow, but she was fairly certain he hadn’t managed to
sweet-talk his way out of wearing a kilt. John had promised to hold a gun to
his head if he tried, it was dress-code and he was going to wear the damn thing
if it turned out they buried him in it.
                                      -&-
When she finally stood outside the doors of the room inside Lothian Chambers
where she was about to give her future away to the one person she trusted to be
careful with it, and with her battered heart, she reminded herself to breathe.
Her father andSherlock’s were going to take her up the aisle, such as it was,
for one very simple reason. She was going to be blindfolded. So was Sherlock,
she wasn’t sure whose idea thathad been, but it was rather charming. Besides,
if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t really freak out. John was in charge of
Sherlock, and Iain was in charge of Hannah. He was waiting for them and held up
the length of white silk.
“Ready for this?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, you’ll be fine. You look gorgeous, love.” He beamed as he kissed her on
the cheek, “You should see that man of yours, fine sight for sore eyes he is.”
“Iain!” She gave her brother a look, “No!”
“Got you to smile, didn’t I?”
“Iain, behave yourself.” Timothy Holmes rolled his eyes, “If you can
possiblymanage.”
“Oh, I’ll behave myself. I had Mary swear a thing or two if I cocked up today.”
“I can’t believe she came up.”
“Of course she came! She’s your sister-in-law, ain’t she?” Iain went around
behind her and she closed her eyes as he tied the blindfold in place. Her
brother’s wife had been invited right off, but even when she had informed them
that she was coming, it was no certainty she would make a showing. Mary Morstan
was a woman of skill and one of the kindest people Hannah had ever met. The
story of how John and Mary had met was one of those “you had to be there to
believe it” sorts, but they had been married for three years and had a
beautiful little girl named Rosamund Elizabeth Mary, who was just the dearest
little thing and a show-stealer wherever she went. She had her mother’s looks
and her father’s charm, and she was adored by all the family who knew her.
Hannah was so glad to know her sister-in-law had made it to the wedding and
spared a thought for her own sister Harriet, who was God alone knew where in
the troubled world. Probably drowning at the bottom of a whiskey-bottle, if she
had to guess.
“Can’t see, can you?” Iain whispered, squeezing her shoulder. Hannah opened her
eyes and saw nothing but white.
“Not a thing. Just white.”
“Good. Alright, ready for this?”
“No.”
“Come on, you.” He chuckled and was gone. She heard the doors creak open and
then the sound of music. A solo violin. Played live, and verywell. Was that…no,
Sherlock wouldn’t be, would he? Would he? On his own wedding day? She knew he’d
been working on something the last few weeks, spending hours cooped up in a
study with the door closed. She had left him to it, knowing it was something
special. As James and Timothy ushered her along the aisle, keeping her in
motion and also keeping her upright, she recognized the song. It was an
instrumental version of “Feels Like Home”, made famous by the likes Bonnie
Raitt and Linda Ronstadt, carefully transcribed for the violin. “Feels Like
Home” was one of her favourite songs, Sherlock knew this, had rememberedher
favourite song, and gone ahead and done this for her. Finally, she was tugged
to a stop. The music had ended, and she heard the sound of rustling as their
guests faced the front of the room. The Registrar who was marrying them asked a
very simple question.
“Are we all present?” There was a murmured “yes” from their small gathering of
friends and family. “Then the attendants may remove the blindfolds and allow
the couple to see each other.” Hannah took a deep, shaky breath as Iain
carefully untied the blindfold, itching to reach for Sherlock, who was standing
less than a foot dead in front of her. She couldn’t remember the last time
she’d been this nervous about anything. Having a pretty decent idea what to
expect, she let out the breath she’d been holding and opened her eyes. She had
to assume her expression matched Sherlock’s, he looked absolutely dumbfounded.
It was a good thing she hadn’t been expected to memorise anything, she was
fairly certain it would have been forgotten when she set eyes on her best
friend. Sherlock, already unfairly handsome, was stunning in the kilt and fly-
plaid, the Prince Charlie jacket cut just right for his slender frame and the
kilt sitting perfectly on his hips and waist. She wasn’t sure if the small
sound she made was audible to anyone else, but she heard the soft whine. She
paid attention to the Registrar, she had to, but…oh, Sherlock.
She remembered to say the proper words at the proper time, and when the
Registrar asked if they were going to exchange rings, John stepped up. As a
matter of fact, yes, they were going to exchange rings. She had received the
ring-box in John’s left hand two days ago from Timothy and Wanda, who had all
but insisted that she take the rings inside and give them to Sherlock. It
turned out that Wandahad done the asking when they got engaged all those long
years ago, and Timothy had, for years and years, worn both rings proudly. But
as his sons grew to marriageable age, he set them aside in hopes that one day
he could pass them on, instead wearing a simple gold band. Mycroft and Greg had
purchased their own rings and with no hope for Sherlock in sight, the rings had
gone unused. Until Hannah had stumbled into his life and stayed there, until
today. The Registrar looked at Hannah and Sherlock and nodded.
“Hannah, will you give your token to William and repeat these words: I give you
this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you
receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Hannah took the
ring she was giving to Sherlock and took a deep breath.
“Sherlock Holmes, I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises
we exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of
faithfulness to you.” Somehow, she managed to avoid dropping the ring and slid
it onto Sherlock’s hand. Marvel of marvels, it was a nearly perfect fit!
Sherlock really was his father’s son!
“William, will you give your token to Hannah and repeat these words: I give you
this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you
receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Sherlock smiled
and took the ring he was giving to Hannah.
“Hannah Watson, I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we
exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness
to you.” Sherlock slid the ring onto Hannah’s hand, shaking almost as badly,
but he didn’t drop his ring either. Hannah recognized it right away. It was
Gran McKay’s ring, which had gone to Harry when their mother’s estate had been
distributed following her death. Hannah had honestly thought it had been sold
off or lost and wondered where it had been kept all these years, knowing damn
well Harry hadn’t kept it safe.
“William and Hannah, you have exchanged your promises and given and received
tokens in my presence. By these acts, you have become wed. According to the
laws of the City of Edinburgh, and The Commonwealth of Great Britain, I hereby
pronounce you are married. You may seal your promise with a kiss.” And by god
did they kiss. James had to put one hand on Hannah’s shoulder when Sherlock’s
kiss almost knocked her off her feet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the newlyweds.” The minister was absolutely beaming. A
rough start had led to a smooth ending. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
Hannah couldn’t stifle a squeak of alarm when her centre of balance shifted and
Sherlock dipped her. But he wasn’t about to drop her. Giggling as he set her
back on her feet, she took a minute and caught her breath. The Registrar held
out a biro and they signed their names to the proper papers that marked them
officially wed. Once that final bit of official business was out of the way,
Hannah grabbed Sherlock by the hand and headed for the door. Outside, they
ducked into the waiting car, arranged for them by Mycroft to take them from
Lothian Chambers to Norton House for the reception.
                                      -&-
As they left the venue behind, Hannah tried to remember how to breathe again.
That was kindof hard when Sherlock had other ideas about what to do with their
time.
“I missed you.” He breathed against her neck, “While I was in Glasgow, I missed
you so much.”
“Solve that case you were on?”
“Solved several, in fact.”
“Of course you did.” She giggled as he threatened to leave a mark but didn’t.
Well, not a highly visible mark, at any rate. “You’re Sherlock Holmes! Can’t go
anywhere without solving a case or two for the hell of it!”
“You know me too well.”
“I hope I do.” She threaded her fingers through those glorious curls, stroking
the black ribbons of his Balmoral cap. He could tie them now, seeing as he was
married and such. Quickly, and with care for the movements of the car, he swung
her up and she straddled his lap.
“That’s a risky thing, sir.”
“A risk I am very willing to take.” He looked up from laying down a trail of
kisses to the dip of cleavage revealed by her dress, grinning mischievously.
“The driver will maintain discretionary silence.”
“You, sir, are a horny bastard!”
“And you’re the one they called Three Continents Watson.”
“Oh, I should hateyou for that!” She tugged on his hair, not really that upset
with him. He snickered and snuck one hand under her skirts. When he reached the
inconsequential fabric barrier of her carefully-selected knickers, a gift from
Aunt Rachel that morning as she got ready for the ceremony, and found the slit,
she stifled a mean snicker of her own. Oh, he hadn’t been expecting that, had
he?
“Oh, Hannah.” His voice was a hoarse growl.
“Mhm. Thought you might like that.”
“You mean thing.”
“Only if I don’t follow through.” She kissed his temple and nuzzled his ear, “I
was taking bets, you know?”
“On what?”
“If you went old-fashioned wearing your kilt.” She tugged on a fold of tartan,
“Did I tell you that you look absolutely stunning in this kilt? I’d even say
gorgeous.”
                             ...***...***...***...
“You are far too kind, Ms Watson. Far. Too. Kind.” He lifted his head for a
proper kiss, punctuating each word with a soft peck. At the same time, Hannah
slid her knees further apart and canted her hips just so as she swept aside the
folds of tartan fabric, and gasped when those long, clever fingers slid up
inside.
“Oh. Jackpot.” She whispered, finding him quite bare below the belt as she
tucked the kilt up out of the way. “You evil genius.”
“It’s not mandatory, y’know? Wear it how you like it.”
“You’ve always been an exhibitionist!” She moaned, “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised
to hear you’ve waltzed into Buckingham Palace in a bedsheet.”
“Oh, I have.” He twisted his fingers just so and she gasped, clutching at his
jacket as he brushed against her G-spot. “For a case, of course.”
“Of. Course.” She whined, rocking against him, “Oh, don’t! Don’t tease me,
Sherlock, you’re a cruel man!”
“Who said I was teasing?” He kissed her ear, “This is foreplay, love.”
“It’s unfair is what it is!” Hannah flexed her hips and rutted against his
fingers, desperate for the real thing, which happily rose to the occasion with
a few careful, deliberate strokes. They were up against a rather slow-moving
clock, but time was not in their favour. Anyone looking for the signs would
read them loud and clear, but if any of their guests had honestly expected them
to keep their hands off each other now that they were legally married, in the
eyes of the Crown if not the Church, they were going to be sorely disappointed.
Hannah buried a yelp in Sherlock’s shoulder, biting down on the fly-plaid, as
he stroked her to the edge and held her there. Begging would do no good, and
she had better things to do anyway. Without bothering to ask where he’d come up
with the condom he held up with a triumphant grin, she ripped the corner of the
wrapper with her teeth and dropped the rolled rubber into his hand. She knew he
was clean, they had both been tested very early in the proceedings, this was
for convenience. The condom went on smoothly and he held her by the hips,
letting her do the work. They used the sway of the car in motion to keep a
rhythm, but it wasn’t easy. It didn’t take long before she hit that edge again
and this time, he came with her.
                             ...***...***...***...
After a cursory clean-up, everything going into a discrete baggie, she curled
up against his side and laid her head against his chest, listening to his heart
hammering against his ribs.
“I did that.” She grinned, giddy and sweetly sore, “Y’know, they’re going to
know exactlywhat we got up to.”
“So? We’re not exactly children.” He stroked her shoulder, tracing the lines of
her scar. It had faded to pale white and pink, the harshest lines faintly
raised thanks to the careful diligence of a cosmetic surgeon who had
specialised in reconstructive breast surgery. She was not shy of scars, she had
several, but her surgical team in Surrey had assumed on her behalf and done
what they could to minimise the worst of it. Leaning in, Sherlock kissed the
scar and laid his ear against her chest.
“I nearly missed this.” He sounded sad, “I nearly lost you.”
“For the times I nearly lost you, love, it was as hard for me.” She stroked the
back of his neck, “We’ve both done reckless, careless things, put our lives in
danger many times. But we have both taken far fewer risks than before, as far
as we can in any case.”
“Don’t leave me, Hannah, please. Whatever I must do or say to keep you by me
until we’re old and have outlived our usefulness, I will make it so.”
“I gave you my vows today, Sherlock. I didn’t do that on a silly whim or
without thinking things over. I will not leave you of my own accord. Injury,
illness, or death will be the only thing to part us. We may not be married
before God, but we are married before each other.” She rested her cheek on his
hair, closing her eyes for a moment.
                                      -&-
The car made several turns, slowed, and finally came to a final halt. A member
of the hotel staff opened the door for them and Sherlock got out first,
offering his hand to Hannah. Everyone was going to meet them inside, but Iain
was there to get the first pictures of them as they arrived. The first thing he
did was offer them water, which they were glad to accept, and tugged on a few
errant wrinkles to set rumpled pleats and seams straight again. He never said
anything, but his smile said it all and his eyes were bright. One picture he
wanted was a clear shot of their rings. That had been kind of hard to get at
Lothian Chambers, and the personal histories behind the rings themselves
fascinated him.
“You got Gram McKay’s ring, Nan.” He smiled, “Where did you get yours,
Sherlock?”
“It was my father’s. I think he was hoping to pass it on to Mycroft, but they
purchased their own rings.”
“I bet he was more than happy to give it over.”
“He cried when he gave me the box.” Hannah leaned against Sherlock, feeling
like she was missing someone.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned, “I feel like we’re missing someone, but I can’t
think of anyone we might have forgotten to invite.”
“Is there someone we invited who may not have been able to make it?”
“That’s probably it. I’ve been in knots for days.” She shrugged. After getting
the shots he wanted, Iain gave their rings back and they headed for the
reception. The hotel was theirs for the taking, an indulgence Hannah was glad
for.
When they got to the reception, it was to find the party had started without
them. Not that she was too surprised, or that disappointed. Iain preceded them
into the room and had a word with their Master of Ceremonies, who got
everyone’s attention and Hannah took a deep breath.
“This is it.”
“Breathe, Hannah.” Sherlock scolded as the doors were flung open. Theirs had
been a small affair in the grander scheme of things, but seeing their families
together and celebrating something that was probably a few years long in
coming, it made her happy. There were people missing, she listed their names in
her head and was sorry they hadn’t been able to make it. Harry and Clara, she
couldn’t see them. James’s partner Thomas Balloch, who was in Akrotiri and
Dhekelia at Dhekelia Cantonment, was also absent.
Thomas Balloch was part of the reason her mother had been so cruel to Hannah
and Harriet. Harriet was the eldest of the four Watson children, but Mallory’s
cruelty had not been spared to her eldest. Hannah was the only one of the
triplets who had remained with the Watsons, and knowing damn well where she’d
come from, Mallory had shown an unusual breed of neglect and cruelty as she got
older. Robert Leland had only made things that much worse once he came into the
picture. She had written to Thomas several times, begging for any relief he
could offer her. He had been very good about giving her a sympathetic ear and a
safe place to stay when her house became too hostile and too toxic. Hannah
found herself wishing he could have been here today, he would have loved the
whole thing, would have probably helped Rachel plan the wedding.
===============================================================================
 
***** Tha Fortan An Cuideachd Nan Treum - Fortune Favours The Brave *****
Chapter Summary
     Hannah and Sherlock are officially married, and are ready to share
     their special day with their guests.
Chapter Notes
     A special guest comes late to the reception. He missed the wedding,
     but he didn't miss the party!
===============================================================================
After the reception was underway, they did some mingling and she used the
opportunity to do a head-count of their guests. Parents and grandparents, of
course, aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends and acquaintances. Molly Hooper
and Annika Gabriel had come, as had Victor Trevor and Jack Evans, who had
cleared their schedules as soon as they got word and promised to move mountains
to be there if they had to. It occurred to Hannah how many of their friends had
partners of the same sex, and wondered what it said about her that she was one
of two married Watson siblings who had married the opposite sex. Harry and John
were both married, to respective patient spouses who loved them for everything
they were and took their troubled pasts in stride.
“Auntie Nan!” A small voice squealed, giving her all the heads-up she needed to
prepare for John’s small family of three. Well, actually, four now.
“Well, hi there, Rosamary!” She reached down and scooped her niece into her
arms, flipping her upside-down, “How’s my girl?”
“Don’t drop me!”
“Oh, I’m not going to dropyou, silly. Here, up we go.” She flipped Rosie right-
way-up and hugged her, “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Auntie Nan, you look so pretty!” Rosie cooed, petting her dress and her hair,
playing with the flowers of her crown. Hannah chuckled and looked at Sherlock,
who hadn’t left her side for a minute except to get drinks. He was fond of
children, and she wondered if he’d ever had a chance to meet Rosie and spend
time with her before. She watched the two study each other and chuckled.
“Rosie, you know who this is, right?” Rosie looked Sherlock up and down and
made a face.
“Uncle Shel?” She tilted her head, adorable as she charmed Hannah’s husband.
Which wasn’t thathard.
“I guess Sherlock is a bit of a mouthful for a three-year-old, yeah?” John
chuckled. “You okay with that one, Holmes?”
“Absolutely! She’s adorable!” Sherlock looked affronted that they would
question his approval of the way Rosamund had shortened his name and held out
his arms for the little girl, who just about jumped from Hannah’s arms to get
to him.
“Well, that didn’t take very long at all, did it?” Hannah looked at her
brother, who just shrugged.
“Guess not.” Mary smirked, “I keep forgetting he likeschildren.”
“I love children. It’s the adults I don’t get along with.” Sherlock scolded
them as he held Rosamund, who played with his clan-crest badge pinned at his
shoulder. Hannah and the other two snickered. That, they knew, was verytrue.
                                      -&-
Leaving Sherlock to spend time with John’s family, he got along with them far
better than he got along with most people, Hannah went to do some mingling
solo. As she joined the Holmeses, she recognized two of the people chatting
with Aunt Rachel. She stopped for a minute, studying the couple from behind.
Finishing her drink, a glass of chardonnay picked out by Aunt Rachel, she
willed the woman to Aunt Rachel’s right to turn so she could see her face.
“Take your glass, ma’am?” A passing server touched her on the shoulder. She
handed over her glass and nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Ma’am.” The server nodded and smiled, disappearing into the crowd. Just then,
the woman turned and Hannah saw her profile.
“Oh my god. Harry!” She took off, wondering who had said the magic words and
how they’d done it. Where on earth had they even foundher sister? “Harriet!”
“Hannah!” Harry turned around and caught her, “Sweetie, you look amazing! Oh,
Christ, Hannah Watson!”
“Harry, you made it! You…where the hellhave you been?”
“Glasgow, hiding.” Harry kissed her on the cheek, “Oh, love, you look gorgeous
today! The blindfolds were a lovely touch. Were you nervous?”
“It’s a good thing I had Da and Dad, I would’ve gone down otherwise!” She
pulled back and looked at her sister, “Who talked? Who found you?”
“You have a very persuasive husband, did you know that?”
“Oh, Sherlock!” She stomped her foot, “That’s what he was doing in Glasgow! Oh,
that sly, sneaky…”
“What did he tell you he was doing?”
“Working a case! That sneaky bastard!” She looked over her shoulder and caught
sight of her husband still chatting with John and Mary, who was heavily
pregnant with the couple’s second child.
“Christ, I hope Mary wasn’t in the field like that.”
“Hmm?”
“Mary. She’s four or five months along, looks healthy, but if she’s been out in
the field like that, I’ll have some words for her.”
“John wouldn’t let her out like that, and she wouldn’t put the child at risk.”
Aunt Rachel shook her head, “Don’t worry your head, love.” Hannah huffed and
looked at her sister, who just flashed her a smug grin and sipped her drink,
something likely nonalcoholic. They had accounted for those among their guests
who did not drink. Curious, and not fully trusting her sister to have resisted
the urge to spike her drink with something, Hannah swiped her sister’s glass
and took a sip. Covering the taste of alcohol was almost impossible, and she
raised an eyebrow.
“Harry?”
“After the way your husband found me four days ago, I’m not about to spike my
drink. Or anyone else’s.”
“Jesus Christ, Harry.” She put her head down on her sister’s shoulder, “You
need to stop doing that, there’s too many people who would miss you.” So that’s
why Sherlock had been in Glasgow for the past four days. He’d passed it off as
case-work, but really he’d been looking after Harry and getting her clean. If
anyone knew how hard it was to come down from being drunk or high, Hannah and
Sherlock were both very familiar with it. She sighed and hugged her sister,
just glad they’d made it to the wedding. After making a few more rounds among
the guests, it was time to eat. Hannah, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, was
starving. Dinner was amazing, there was plenty of food and drink to go around,
and finally, it was time for the dancing.
Hannah and Sherlock were both very good dancers, secretly loved it, and had
spent hours dancing together at Baker Street. She made a mental bet with
herself that their first dance as a married couple would be either “Feels Like
Home” Or Anne Murray’s “Could I Have This Dance”. Before he’d split for
Glasgow, they’d danced a number of times to both songs. Sure enough, when he
took her hand on the dance-floor, it was to the strains of “Could I Have This
Dance”. Clever, observant bastard. Herclever, observant bastard. Hannah
wondered that all she had to do, in order to hear her husband’s heartbeat, was
lay her head against his chest. That was a rather nice bonus. It didn’t take
her long to realize that he was singing along with the music, he liked doing
that sometimes, and she smiled. This, all of this, was hers for the rest of
their lives.
Next, she danced with her father while Sherlock danced with his mother,
combining the father-daughter and mother-son dances into one. After that, the
dance-floor was opened to the guests and Hannah danced with both of her
brothers, both of the Holmes boys, Greg Lestrade, both of the fathers, and the
grandfathers on both sides of the family. Needless to say, her dance-card was
very full. She even danced with Victor and Jack, who thanked her for committing
to a lifetime with Sherlock and apologised for sort of getting in the way of
things back in February.
 “It wasn’t you, Victor, I promise it wasn’t you.” Hannah kissed Victor on the
cheek, “My stepfather’s voice was always loudest in my head, and always when
things were just starting to go well. Don’t blame yourself for me being an
idiot.”
“You’re amazing, Hannah.” Victor twirled her out and passed her off to Sherlock
when the song ended. “Do right by this girl, Sherlock, she’s one-of-a-kind for
certain.”
“I know she is.” Sherlock just smiled and put an arm around her waist, holding
her like that with his chin resting on her hair. She was just the right height
for that, too. Victor shook his head.
“You two really are perfect for each other. Absolutely. Thanks for the invite,
too.”
“Of course! You’re our friends!” Hannah rolled her eyes, “A lot more than that,
too.” Victor just laughed and hugged her tight, telling her to not be a
stranger once they were back in London. Mary came for Sherlock and dragged him
off to the dance-floor, insisting that he owed her a dance or two. Hannah just
laughed and waved them off, warning her sister-in-law to be nice to her
husband.
“Oh don’t worry about us, love! I’ll give him back the way I got ‘im!” Mary
wagged her fingers and Hannah went in search of a drink and some good company.
 
Procuring a glass of wine, she circuited the tables and spent some time with
Mrs Hudson and Mr Turner, who were ever so thrilled she and Sherlock had
finallycome to their senses.
“Sure did take us long enough, didn’t it?” She chuckled, “Well, it wouldn’t
have lasted much longer, I don’t think.”
“No?”
“Oh, no!” Hannah chuckled, “Not with the lot of you breathing down our necks!
Christ, even Greg’s bosswas on our backs about it.”
“Oh, I likeher! She’s such a charming woman!” Mrs Hudson giggled, “I’m so glad
you invited her.”
“I think she’d have said something not nice if we didn’t, Mrs H.” Hannah looked
across the room to where she could see Victoria Graham sitting with her husband
and some of the Holmeses. They had scattered the tables, peppering each table
with family from both sides and inserting friends where there was room for
them. “We did try to keep it small, y’know?”
“Doesn’t look small to me!” Mr Turner rolled his eyes and sipped at a glass of
whiskey, “Didn’t think you knew so many people, love.”
“Neither did we.” She shrugged, “But, looks like most everybody made it.”
“Hmm. You’re missing one, aren’t you?”
“I might be.” She wondered at how observantthe landlords were, “We invited him,
but I don’t know if he would have made it. He responded with a maybe and we put
him on the lists for everything.”
“Oh, that’s lovely of you, dear!” Mrs Hudson patted her on the hand, eyes damp,
“You look so pretty today.”
“Through no easy feat of tying me to a chair long enough to get me ready.” She
sipped her wine, “Would you believe me if I told you they literallytied me
down?”
“Oh, Hannah!”
“I hate wearing make-up, it’s so impractical. But today, I had no choice.”
 “Well, you look just lovely.” Mr Turner leaned across Mrs Hudson and kissed
her on the cheek, “Pretty as my own daughter did when I gave her away.”
“Don’t get too teary-eyed, it’s right back to jeans and trousers when I get
back to London.”
“Will you go back to work with the ambulance corps, then, dear?”
“I might. Just on a part-time basis to bolster the income when cases get thin.”
She shrugged, “And yes, I ammoving into Baker Street permanently. My things are
already there.”
“Yes, you moved in before you left for Scotland!” Mrs Hudson beamed, “Oh, and
do tell your brothers they are welcometo visit Baker Street! Such lovely men,
they are!”
“Oh, of courseJohn and Iain charmed you, Mrs Hudson.” She smiled, “Have you
danced with them yet?”
“Oh, yes! Quite the dancers they are.” The way her landlady blushed said
everything. 
“Don’t worry, Mr Turner, John’s married with one and another on the way. It’s
Iain you’d have to be worried about.” Hannah patted Mr Turner on the hand when
he made a face. “But he’ll hunt the singles tonight.” A couple of handsome
young bucks like Hannah’s brothers flirting with hisdate had probably ruffled
his feathers a bit, but she knew John and Iain didn’t run like that. They could
be very charming, but they had limits.
“He’s such a dear thing. Lovely boys, the both of them.” Mrs Hudson sighed
happily, eyes fixed on her brothers, who were currently chatting with Sherlock.
It looked like a very interesting conversation, and when her husband covered
his face, cheeks bright red, she knew they were having thatconversation. She
laughed.
“Oh, dear. Should I go rescue my husband?”
“Nah. Let him squirm a bit. Good for the soul.” Mr Turner grinned, “I do like
your brothers, my dear. I was rather vexed when I heard you had little family
to speak of, or speak to.”
“Today was a very good day for my sister, but that was thanks to Sherlock.
Sneaky git went off to Glasgow for four days and didn’t say why. Said it was
work that kept him. I’m notstupid.” She sniffled, not at all angry with
Sherlock for keeping it a secret that he’d found Harry and helped her get sober
in time for the wedding.
“You have quite a family, don’t you, Captain?”
“It got a little bigger today.” She smiled. She still felt that ache of missing
a loved one, knowing it was for Thomas Balloch. He had been a friend of her
father’s as long as she’d been alive, and had kept in touch with her after 1997
on and off throughout the years. When he had later had come out as a partner to
Patrick Jameson, she had never hated him for turning his back on her father.
                                      -&-
After a while, she went back to the head table and watched the party. It was
nice to see Sherlock enjoying himself, he was going to sleep well after the
craziness of their day. She was distracted from her dismal thoughts by a slight
commotion by the door. It wasn’t any trouble, but she raised her head a bit to
watch. She saw a server speaking to someone she couldn’t quite see because of a
couple of guests in the way. The server looked around the room and she realized
that someone had asked for her and Sherlock. She narrowed her eyes but stayed
put as the server spotted her at the head table and pointed her out. Sherlock
was over at another table speaking to some of their family and looked up,
feeling her gaze. She waved a stand-down and he nodded. She wasn’t in any
trouble, and he knew by now that if she needed him, she would be veryclear
about it. She was distracted by someone approaching the table and turned her
head as a shadow fell across her.
“There is something quite wrong with the world if the bride is sitting alone on
her own wedding-day with that kind of look in her eye. You should be happy
today, Hannah Watson.” He came around the table and stood behind just to her
left, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, a familiar, careful touch. Life-
long familiarity with her moods and troubles was behind the touch, a care for
how long it had been since they’d seen each other, and how much had changed
since then. And, also, how much hadn’t. Hannah felt something in her chest give
way, a tightness she had carried all day disappeared. He sat down in the empty
chair beside her and hugged her before she broke down.
“I’m so sorry, my love. I tried so hard.”
“You’re here!”
“Don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s alright. I did my best.” He rubbed her shoulders,
rocking her, “Oh, Hannah. Sweet little Hannah Watson. My little girl grew up
when I wasn’t looking.” For the uncounted teenth time this day, Hannah was glad
for water-proof, sweat-proof makeup. Against all hopes, and every fear, Thomas
Balloch had made it. Not to the ceremony, and he’d missed most of the
reception, but he was here now. And that, really, was all that mattered to
Hannah. As he had when she had been a child, Thomas held her and let her cry.
She heard him speak to someone, ask for something, but paid no heed. She was in
safe arms, loving arms, and she felt only relief.
===============================================================================
 
***** Happily Ever After *****
Chapter Summary
     The party continues, and Sherlock Holmes observes
Chapter Notes
     This is from Sherlock's POV as he observes Hannah with Thomas Balloch
     and reflects on what he knows and what he's learned.
===============================================================================
Sherlock Holmes knew every single person they had invited to the wedding, how
many had replied with “Yes”, and how many with “No”, and how many had left it
at “Unknown”. They had purposely left places for those who had responded with
an “Unknown”, on the outside chance they were able to make it. Among those who
had been on the “Unknown” list was James Watson’s partner Thomas Balloch.
Sherlock knew about Thomas, about his long, intimate history with the Watsons,
who he was to James and especially to the triplets, who he was to Hannah. He
had put word to Mycroft after discovering the man’s whereabouts and gotten his
brother’s word that he would do what he was able to arrange things, but no
promises had been made. If Thomas made it to the wedding, in any capacity, it
would be a work of miracle, timing, and bloody good luck.
So, when a newcomer arrived towards the end of the evening, there was still
plenty of time left but things had begun to wind down and Mary Morstan had
taken her leave an hour ago to put her daughter to bed. John had gone with them
but had returned to the party. Sherlock turned his head to track the newcomer,
who was greeted warmly by several people in passing, stopped once by James, who
seized the man by the arms, beaming and a bit more than tipsy. Sherlock was
with some of his family at the time, and he simply observed. Whoever it was,
James was very glad to see them, and Sherlock watched the two speak for a
moment, observing body-language and such things as made his living as a
detective. This wasn’t just a friend of the family, this was a relation. But
not a cousin or a sibling. A spouse, or a partner? Hmm. Then, the man turned
his head a bit and laughed, giving Sherlock an unobstructed view of his face.
“Oh.” It was a very soft, low sound that came out of his chest. That, if he
wasn’t far mistaken, was Thomas Balloch. Hannah’s father. Well, second father.
It was an unspoken chapter of the family history, an unacknowledged union kept
from the wrong ears as best was possible. Attempts to use it against the
parties involved had never quite gone as planned, Watson and Balloch were both
well-liked and skilled, and the people who mattered cared far more about two
able-bodied soldiers than a couple of spiteful rumours. That’s what they had
considered Mallory Watson’s attempts to undermine her husband and his friend in
their service to the Army, mere spiteful rumour stirred by a wife who imagined
herself wronged in some fashion. She had accused them of improper liasons, of
sleeping together and having intimate relations.
Later attempts had included running DNA and paternity testing on Hannah. John
and Iain had been untouchable as they were being raised by other family members
and she had no idea what had become of them after they were born. For all
Mallory knew, they’d died in childbirth or in the post-natal period. The
triplets had been born by Cesarean, as was typical for multiples. But the
testing had brought back unexpected results, which had spurred the troubles of
Hannah’s later childhood after James went missing and was listed dead in
Northern Ireland. It was a secret that Sherlock had known for a while, and had
never spoken of. It broke his heart to think that Hannah had never actually
known a loving, stable family. The woman she had called mother was, in fact, no
mother of hers. She had no biological bond with Mallory Watson. Her mother was
a nameless, kind-hearted surrogate who had done so much when she became
pregnant with triplets after James and Thomas decided they wanted children of
their own and Mallory made it clear that she not only wanted no more children
but she was not about to carry some fag’s child in her womb.
It had been done discretely, and when the triplets had been born, John and Iain
had been given to another family member to be raised as cousins to Hannah and
Mallory and James’s eldest, Harriet. They had gone on to make an attempt as a
family-unit, but Mallory’s infidelity and James’s absence had fractured the
troubled family and when he had been injured and left without any concrete
memory of who he was, James had simply started a new life for himself. He had
eventually regained his memories but had kept his identity and continued
survival secret from his family. Hannah and the boys had made the connection
that they were sibling and not cousins sometime in the last few years, but it
had not changed anything between them and Hannah had continued to live her life
as she could. The boys had figured out who Patrick Jameson really was and
reconciled with him, keeping it from their sister at his request until she was
able to put the pieces together on her own time.
                                      -&-

When Sherlock had met Hannah in London, she was a broken woman struggling to
piece her overturned life back together as best she could with her limited
resources. He had never expected things to turn out the way they had, but he
had little to regret of it. After all, he had gained so much more than a wife
today. He had gained a match to him in intelligence, she was kind and harsh in
equal turns as needed, her skills were insurmountable and invaluable to his
work. He had a help-mate, a soul-mate, someone who completed him in ways he
hadn’t known he needed. Someone who, against every odd, loved him for himself
and wasn’t asking him to change anything that made him who he was. She accepted
him as he was, flaws and troubled history all. She loved him for those things.
Hannah was everything he had desired in a partner, and so much more beyond
those simple things. She wasn’t the feisty girl of his childhood memories, she
had changed in the years between them, but it was still his Hannah Watson, the
girl he’d admired and perhaps had even loved when they were mere children.
When he looked for Hannah, she was seated at the head table, still, but the
newcomer sat with her, holding her as she wept. It was Thomas Balloch, and he
had come for his daughter’s wedding day. It broke Sherlock’s heart to see her
cry, but his intervention would not be appreciated at this precise moment. He
would wait.
After a while, Balloch coaxed Hannah away from the ruckus and they were gone
for nearly half an hour. But when they returned, she was smiling and her eyes
were clear. Sherlock watched as Balloch took Hannah onto the dance-floor,
giving her a distraction. After a while, his brother-in-law came to find him.
“So, who’s the handsome bloke in uniform who stole your wife?” Greg Lestrade
was well into his cups, not quite drunk but certainly well on his way there,
“Watson?”
“One of them.” He smiled, taking a sip of his own drink, “That is Thomas
Balloch.”
“Name’s familiar. So’s his face. Never met ‘im, though.”
“You wouldn’t have. He’s been stationed overseas until recently.” Sherlock
watched the pair on the dance-floor, wondering for a moment if this made
Balloch his father-in-law. Hmm. Most likely, considering Balloch was married to
James Watson. It was a recent development, only in the last few years had they
made it official.
“I have a very interesting family, don’t I?”
“Say that again.” Lestrade snorted, “So, who’s he to Hannah Watson?”
“Balloch is Hannah Watson’s father. I know you’re not drunk enough to work it
out.”
“Her…what now?” Lestrade squinted, “Uh, hang on. Hang on a minute.” His
brother’s husband went quiet as he worked it over in a foggy brain. When it hit
him, Sherlock saw his eyes clear a bit.
“Oh! That’s James Watson’s husband! That’s...well, damn. I was wondering when
I’d get to meet him!”
“Hannah would have been so relieved to know. She was missing him, I think.”
“She got her family today, the one that mattered. Reconciliation with her
sister Harry, that was thanks to you, reunion with her fathers. The people she
would have missed came for her special day.” Lestrade grinned, “It’s been a
hell of a day, hasn’t it? Hell of a few months, more like.”
“It has been very interesting. And as bad as it has been, I would not trade any
of it.”
“It’s been pretty bad, too, hasn’t it?” Lestrade grew grim, thinking back on
the two weeks he and Hannah hadn’t seen or spoken to each other. That was
behind them now and they were better people for it.
                                      -&-
After a while, Sherlock decided to get his wife back from their guests.
Lestrade wished him luck and Sherlock went to carefully get between Hannah and
her father.
“Excuse me, Colonel. I would like my wife back.” Words he had never in a
million years ever thought he would say. It felt so strange to say them, and
yet so very, very right. He had timed it perfectly, the song had just ended.
Hannah giggled and he got a quiet once-over from Thomas Balloch.
He remembered the man from his childhood, the rare occasions he had joined the
Watsons on a trip to Scotland, and in his later years when he had encountered
him outside of family events. He couldn’t recall why he’d seen so much of
Balloch, but he had, and part of Sherlock was very glad for it.
“Well, I would say you’ve gone and grown up well on me, Sherlock Holmes, but I
watched you grow up, watched over you for years and years. Did my damn best to
keep you out of trouble.” Balloch smiled, shaking his head, “You did grow up
well, lad. Damn well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So, you think you can handle my girl, then? Hasn’t run you off yet, has she?”
“No, sir. I think she might have tried, but I didn’t get the idea or like it
much. I stayed.” He offered Balloch one hand, but his father-in-law wasn’t
having anything of a measly handshake tonight and pulled Sherlock into a hug.
There had been a time in his life where Sherlock had abhorred physical contact,
hated it desperately, but that time was long behind him and he had come a long
way from there. Now, if someone in his family-group wanted intimate contact, he
let them do it.
“You take care of my little girl, Holmes. Look after her for us. Keep her
straight.”
“I will, sir, I'll do my best.” He sighed and felt at peace, for once in his
life. Hannah pulled him back onto the dance-floor, she still had enough energy
for it, and Sherlock let her lead him.
===============================================================================
 
***** Epilogue: Home At Last *****
Chapter Summary
     A short little end-piece to cap off the first installment.
Chapter Notes
     Another one from Sherlock's POV as they return to London, to Baker
     Street, to the lives they never had a chance to build together
     properly. Enjoy! I didn't expect for this part of the story to end,
     but it did! All by itself! A complete work! *gasp*
===============================================================================
Four hours later, having said their farewells to their guests and taken leave,
Sherlock turned his head to watch Hannah sleep. They were bound for London, for
Baker Street. For home. Mycroft had gifted them exclusive use of his jet for
their use. Wherever they wanted to go, his pilots would take them. And seeing
as his brother owned three, the gifting of one was a small blessing.
Dynamics had changed after the events of the past year, but his brother was
still someone to respect and fear in the government despite his influence being
lessened a bit by scandal. Mycroft had taken a step back from politics,
preferring to focus instead on his private life for a while. If they needed
him, they knew where to find him.
 
As the plane finished its descent into London, Sherlock carefully reached
across the space between their seats and nudged his wife in the ankle. Just at
the same moment, the pilot brought them to ground with a soft bump and Hannah
stirred.
“I missed it?”
“I'm sorry, love.” He smiled, knowing how she loved the view of a city from the
sky, especially at night.
“I wanted to see it.”
“You needed your sleep.” He knew she wouldn't like that, but it was true. She
made a face at him as they taxied and finally came to a stop.
“Next time, love, I promise.”
“I'll hold you to that.” She grumbled, sleepy and adorable. For the short
flight home from Edinburgh, she wore her favourite denims and a new jumper,
under which he was fairly certain she wore nothing besides a cami. Her parka
was folded on the seat next to her, along with her scarf and carry-on. She
unbuckled her belt and got up, collecting her things. As he left the plane, he
nodded to the pilot.
“Thank you, Tristany.”
“My pleasure, Mr Holmes.” The pilot smiled as he debarked, trotting down the
boarding-stairs right behind Hannah, who bee-lined for the waiting car.
“Baker Street, Jenkins.”
“Sir.” The driver nodded and touched his cap, closing the door behind Sherlock.
It didn't take long to load in their small luggage, and soon they were on their
way home to Baker Street.
Thirty minutes later, Jenkins opened the door for them and Sherlock ushered his
very sleepy wife out of the car. Getting the door open was simple and he helped
Jenkins move their things. Hannah stole the keys from him and went right
upstairs. He smiled and thanked Jenkins, who wished him a good night and left
again. Moving their bags upstairs, unpacking would happen later, he followed
Hannah to the back bedroom and found her in the bathroom brushing her teeth.
Her clothes had been discarded by the bed and she wore nothing but her cami and
pants. It was a lazy, fetching look on her, and he smiled as he watched her
from the doorway of the bathroom. A lifetime of this was his. He was one very
lucky bastard.
“What?” she caught him watching and made a face at him in the mirror as she
spit, rinsed, and washed her brush.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“A reflection, my dear Watson.” He slipped in as she vacated, “Counting myself
a very fortunate man.”
“Hmm. And what makes you a fortunate man, then?”
“A simple thing.” He nudged the door closed and did his business quickly. He
was legitimately tired and the idea of sleep, with Hannah beside him, was very
tempting.
“What's a simple thing in the mad world of Sherlock Holmes, then?” she asked as
he came out, turning out the bathroom light on his way.
“I never expected to live to forty, I never expected to find someone who meant
more to me than The Work.”
“You never expected to find someone who didn't expect you to change everything
that makes you Sherlock Holmes, who can keep up with you and take on all comers
at your side, someone to guard your six and step in front of you for the right
cause.”
“No. I really didn't. Especially not after the past few years, I certainly
didn't.”
“Then I tumbled into your life and stayed.” Hannah was a wise woman, smart and
insightful. “Did you think when you saved me that day in Whitechapel that we
would ever end up here?”
“Not once.” he pulled the blankets back and sat on the bed, “I saw a future
together, sharing my work with you and doing risky, stupid things together,
but...no. I never thought I would marry.”
“Honestly? Neither did I.” She tugged the blankets up around her shoulders as
she rolled to face him, “I thought my life was over after I got shot, what
future did I have after that? I couldn't serve, I couldn't do surgery, I was
useless.”
“Only in your own head. And getting stuck in one's head is a very terrible
thing.” He reached out and took her hand, “You are one of the most useful
people I've ever met, and I have met many, many people.”
“Someone's got to keep you out of trouble, Holmes. Might as well be me.”
“Well, to be fair, you didsay yes.” He chuckled and leaned in, kissing her on
the nose. “Sleep for now. Plenty to do in the morning.”
“Ugh. Crime never takes a holiday.”
“Not precisely.” He pulled her close, tracing the outline of the scar on her
shoulder. He would never admit how glad he was that such a devastating blow had
brought him Hannah Watson, it wasn't fair to her for all of the things she had
lost. But she had gained so much in turn.
“Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, Hannah.” He listened to her breathing even out and deepen, felt
her body relax in his arms.
Good night, my dearest companion. True love, soul mate, everything. He thought,
content for once with the universe and its workings. Hannah was warm and solid
against him, and he slept well with her in his arms. Sherlock had a whole
lifetime of this to look forward to, and it was lovely. For once in his long,
lonely life, things were starting to go right.
===============================================================================
 
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