She hadn't been back to Baker Street in two years, and the thought of returning made her left hand tremble and her stomach flip like a flapjack.
She consulted her watch. Joe was two minutes late. Time for her to go.
"Irene!" Joe called from the other side of the road. He skipped across the street, happy at the chance to look at the flat.
"Sorry," he said. "They were doing rehearsals for the parade on Saturday, and I had to detour."
She gazed over his wrinkled clothes and the same waistcoat he wore yesterday. He'd combed his hair, though, ginger streaks peeking through the brown, and had trousers that fit his long legs. He rubbed his palms casually on his thighs.
He was nervous, like her.
For entirely different reasons, though.
As they walked down the street, Joe looked around curiously, taking in their future neighbourhood. If he spoke to her at all during their walk, she didn't hear a word. Irene did her best to look straight ahead, the familiarity washing over her like a wave.
They'd pass the hat shop in a second, the one where she got her first bonnet. Her eyes darted across the street, and she quickly looked away. The shop still had a hole in the roof.
Next to the hat shop, were two apartment buildings, where she'd observed the neighbours, and where she discovered the husband's indiscretions with multiple women.
A boy had also lived across the street, in the upper flat. Irene played with him a handful of times, but after his father returned from The Great War, they'd moved away.
Then came the dress shop, and a book shop, both of which survived the bombings. At the corner was the old Lestrade house, broken and in pieces from one of the first Blitz waves.
Two more buildings until 221B, and with each step, Irene's past swung at her like a boxer going for the knockout.
Two years wasn't a long time, but when you're specifically avoiding a specific place, time stretches, and the place becomes some grandiose, dark nightmare. Baker Street brought back such conflicting memories and emotions that Irene didn't know how to feel about this return. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms, sweeping away any feelings, good or bad.
Joe was ahead of her, looking hard at the buildings.
"Oh no," he said. "The buildings are all... Oh wait, never mind. Here we are."
He stopped and grinned upwards.
Irene stopped beside him and turned slowly on her heel.
221B Baker Street looked exactly the same, save for a few chips and nicks in the brick. The three stories of new windows, curtains opened to the sun.
Front door, a dark cherry red, unchanged in the past thirty years. A vertical line was worn in the wood, about ten inches in from the knob, from years of her elbow hitting before she got the knob completely turned, too excited to pause until the latch was free.
If the door upstairs going in and out of the flat hadn't been replaced, a similar wear pattern marked it as well.
The window garden off of the first floor flat had been kept up, the flowers in full bloom.
"Lucky one, eh?" Joe's voice broke her reverie. He had his hands on his hips, and he squinted against the sun at the neighbouring buildings.
For the first time since their arrival, Irene finally looked around.
Baker Street had become quite a busy place, but the pavement was large enough to allow people a wide berth around the front stoops.
Piles of rubble sat on either side of 221B. The house to the left was a literal pile of bricks, half of which had been cleared away. On the other side, the foundation of the old bakery still stood. Half the second floor made a partial roof, and the rest of the house was torn down, bricks piled up on the pavement.
If she tugged on the memory hard enough, she could still smell the cakes and bread that drifted to her room in the early morning.
Joe rang the bell before she was ready. He was unaware of all the thoughts running through her head, and telling him seemed foolish. Joe seemed a nervous man in general, which was unusual for an army surgeon, but either way, she didn't need to add to his worry by stating her trepidation for returning here.
He might not even understand. What if he was a 'house is just a place to lay your head' type of person? Though, if she read him correctly, he was sentimental.
Not a terrible thing, but that made for an emotional, sensitive person. If that was the case, she certainly wouldn't share. She didn't need pity or a shoulder to cry on.
She hadn't shed a tear yet, and she didn't intend to.
The curtain rustled, and within a second, the front door flung open.
"Irene!" Miss Hudson leapt out of the doorway. Her thick arms enveloped Irene and squeezed her tight. "You're back."
Just as the two of them became a pavement hazard, Miss Hudson released her, cupping Irene's face in her hands.
"My goodness," she said, Scottish accent ripping through each word. "You are stunning. You look brilliant, and your hair! You always suited long hair, that short cut did nothing for you. You're not skin and bones any more, either. Still could use a few pounds, but you look healthy again."
Irene cringed, knowing the whole street likely heard Miss Hudson's pronouncement. The landlady was tactful, though commonly her emotions got the better of her, and she didn't mind who was around, she made her opinion known.
Beside her, Joe grinned from ear to ear, clearly loving this touching moment between the two women. Irene tried to throw him a disapproving look, but Miss Hudson waved them inside.
"Come in," she said, then looked Joe up and down, nodding with approval. "Both of you. Come, come."
Miss Hudson neared seventy years old, hair white, crows feet well-entrenched. She had filled out a little herself but was as plucky as ever as she led them past the steps and to her own flat. She didn't let either one of them say a word until they were seated at the kitchen table, and the kettle was on.
She slid into the chair across from them, placing her hands on the table, ready to get down to brass tacks.
"Please tell me," she said. "That you are here to fill that empty space above me again?"
"We are," Joe said.
She turned her sharp gaze to him.
"I suppose I should ask who you are," she said.
Joe hesitated a second too long for Miss Hudson, so she looked to Irene, awaiting an answer.
"This is Joe." Irene kept his last name to herself, sparing Miss Hudson a fit of melancholy upon hearing the name 'Watson'.
"Is he your betrothed?" She asked, a slight surprised tone in her voice.
"Goodness no," Irene said. "We've only just met, but he needs a place to live, and so do I."
Miss Hudson let out a long-suffering sigh, standing as the kettle whistled. "Irene, love, you can't just rescue people off the street and force them to live with you. This poor man isn't a cat."
"Eddy's met him," Irene said, falling back into a young girl, chastised for making a poor decision. A wholly familiar feeling when across from Miss Hudson. "This was Eddy's idea. He said this would be okay because you were here to chaperone."
That settled Miss Hudson down. She'd known the whole lot of Lestrades, right from the friend of Irene's father, to the commander of police, to Eddy.
"Those Lestrades are crafty but good-hearted," she said, then spoke to Joe as she grabbed a few mugs from the cupboard. "But, if Edward's met you, then I will trust his judgement. Did you serve, Joe?"
"Yes," he said. "I was a Doctor of-"
Miss Hudson spun around, mug and kettle in her hands. "A doctor? Oh, Irene. This is destiny."
"It's not," Irene said. "It's a mere coincidence."
Miss Hudson poured the tea. "You know I don't believe in those. Tell me more, pet, where are you from?"
"Just north of Durham," Joe said. "On a small farm. My mother used to make and sell jams. Jars even made it to London for a few years. Watson's Wonderful Preserves, they were called."
Irene's breath caught in her throat and she kept focused on Miss Hudson
, ready to leap if the landlady reacted unfavourably.
"Watson?" Miss Hudson said, voice breathy. "Watson is your family name?"
Joe's eyes widened like he was caught in the crosshairs. "Yes."
"Watson!" Miss Hudson looked up at the ceiling and mumbled something pleasant. A huge smile spread across her face and she placed her hands to her chest, eyes glassy with tears.
"You," she said to Joe. "Can stay forever. Oh, Irene. This is destiny."
She continued to pour the tea, quickly dabbing her eyes. Joe mouthed 'sorry' at Irene, blushing. Irene shrugged. What's done is done. At least Miss Hudson didn't break down in a fit of tears. She couldn't handle Miss Hudson's bouts of sadness, and those added to the reasons Irene fled from Baker Street in the first place.
As she served the tea, Miss Hudson caught them up on what had happened on Baker Street the past few years. She tried to get out all the idle gossip, sentences stumbling over one another, her excitement barely contained. Joe sipped at his tea, fully enthralled with the stories, commenting in all the right spots to urge her on. Irene drank her own tea and observed them for a few minutes. She felt ten years old again, retreating from her father and uncle, listening to the gossip of the street.
Miss Hudson had come down from Scotland to take over the role of housekeeper from her own mother, the famous Mrs. Hudson. She'd opted to stay when Irene was born and aided Irene's father and uncle in raising her.
Miss Hudson was one of the only female role models in Irene's life, and Irene credited her with teaching her some valuable lessons that her single father and twice-divorced uncle couldn't teach her about being a woman.
No one messed with Miss Hudson, and in turn, no one messed with Irene.
Memories flooded Irene's mind as she sipped her tea, bringing pinprick tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, cursing the emotions welling in her heart.
"Right, well," Miss Hudson said. "Shall we have a look at your new home?"
"Yes, please," Joe said, standing. He took their empty mugs to the sink, and Miss Hudson raised her eyebrows at Irene.
And Irene raised a single one back at her.
The three of them climbed the stairs.
"I kept everything the same," Miss Hudson said, both her and Joe stepping on the fifth step, making it creak. Out of habit, Irene skipped the step.
"I did clean the carpets, though," Miss Hudson continued. "Honestly, you and your father made a right mess with those potions and general nonsense."
With the same practice, Irene hopped far to the right of the eighth step, avoiding the loud crunch from the middle.
"Oh, and there's a phone line now." Miss Hudson dug out a key as they reached the second floor.
Irene took a deep breath. The house still smelled the same. An interesting potpourri of faint tobacco and cigar and a hint of chemicals.
The small golden sign on the door read 'Knock Please', and the polished surface reflected the three of them. Her father put the sign up a few years after Irene was born, to prevent strangers from wandering in should they get past Miss Hudson. Many nights, Irene had snuck in, seeing her reflection in that sign as she unlocked the door as quietly as she could.
Her efforts at silence never worked. Her father was always up, smoking his pipe, waiting for her.
Even when she lived here herself, if she was out after dark, she hesitated before unlocking the door, keeping her entrance as quiet as she could out of habit.
Miss Hudson opened the door and ushered them in. Joe curiously strolled around the large sitting room.
Irene, however, stopped right at the threshold. The last time she was here, she emptied the place as fast as she could, eager to move on and forget the awful memories. Miss Hudson wailed behind her as Eddy helped her pack up decades of memories.
She willed her feet to move, but they wouldn't. She hated when her body didn't listen to her commands.
Miss Hudson slipped her arm through Irene's and gave a small tug.
"Come on, dear," she said quietly. "I'll get you through the door."
Irene stepped into the flat and let out a shaky breath. She walked to the middle of the room and planted her feet, ready for whatever emotions the room inspired in her. Miss Hudson patted her shoulder.
"I'll let you look around," she said. "The place is yours, so take all the time you need."
The empty room seemed so large. The living room merged with the sitting area, and the grand fireplace at the end was sad and dry, needing a log or two to complete the scene. The mantle was bare, and several trinkets came to Irene's mind that would have a home on the wood. The large windows had been replaced with ones easier to open, and let the rare sunshine into the place, the light flooding right back into the kitchen. The sun almost reached the little nook in the back, near the first bedroom, where the chemistry set had been. The one she hadn't been allowed to touch until she was five and could learn the difference between dangerous chemicals and slightly less dangerous ones. Between the nook and the spacious bathroom, was the secretary desk where two microscopes had sat, side by side, both stolen from the university.
"Oh?" Joe's voice came from the bedroom. Irene hurried to him and looked into the empty room. A small wall separated a corner of the room, sticking out three feet, and Joe stared at it, seemingly confused as to why there was a wall in the middle of a bedroom. Irene pointed to the narrow space, just big enough for a small single bed.
"My bed had been there," she said. "Sharing the room with my father. I'd slept there for the first five years of my life, then I moved upstairs to my uncle's old room when he married. Though, I hardly spent any time up there. I'd always come down and sleep here. When my uncle returned after a year, I was back to sharing the room with my father. They offered to share at one point, and that lasted all of three nights before they started bickering with each other even in their sleep."
She remembered that conversation verbatim. Both of them out cold, yet still snipping at each other. Amusing at the time, she'd laughed as the two of them, grumpy and tired, ate their breakfast the next morning.
"Sounds like you were well-loved," Joe said, putting his hand on her shoulder. He gave a little squeeze and smiled. "I'm going to look at my bedroom."
He walked away and headed up the stairs. Irene stared after him, concerned that she'd given away too much of her past. Joe may share the same last name as her uncle, but he wasn't family, and may never become anything more than a flatmate. She was careful with whom she shared her lineage, for fear of judgement or some false expectation.
She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a huff of exhaustion. She spotted the phone on a small table, against the far wall.
She crossed the room, shifting from side to side, avoiding imaginary furniture.
She picked up the receiver and dialled Eddy's number. He'd gotten a phone after the first time she'd been arrested, to make sure she could always get in touch with him.
"Hello?"
"It's Irene," she said.
"Irene? What are you doing? Shouldn't you be at Baker Street?"
"I am," she said. "Standing in my living room."
"Oh, wow," Eddy said. "Miss Hudson put in a telephone? That's wonderful."
"It is, yes."
A silence hung between them for a moment, then Eddy spoke, choosing each word carefully.
"How are you doing?"
"Fine," she said, not wanting to delve into her feelings over the phone. "I won't lie, though, I never thought I'd be back here. Listen, are you able to assist with the move? I want to get everything set up as quick as I can, try to make the place look not so...familiar."
"Of course," he said. "You think you'll be okay there? What about Joe?"
"We'll be fine," Irene said. "Miss Hudson likes him already, and she's beside herself that I've returned."
"This will be good for you," Eddy said. "This house should stay with you and your name. I'll drop in as soon as I'm done this paperwork."
"Thanks, Eddy." Irene pla
ced the receiver down gently and leaned back on the little table.
Countless times as a girl, she'd run from the window, over the couch, to the kitchen. From his favourite chair beside the fireplace, her father would slap his newspaper on the table, begging her to be careful. Her uncle would laugh and tell him that if Irene was going to run recklessly, she might as well do it with a doctor in the house and that her father shouldn't worry because children run. That's just what they do.
"It's certainly what I did," Irene muttered, staring out the window, the warm sun shining into her home.
The stairs creaked as Joe descended, humming some tune under his breath. Every step was so familiar, every sound a melody of memories.
Living here again would take some getting used to, but maybe Miss Hudson was right. Perhaps it was some sort of good sign that Doctor Watson and Consultant Holmes were residents of Baker Street once again.
Chapter IV
A Lesson in Deduction
Within a few hours, Joe had all his belongings moved into 221B. He tucked a handful of novels in his bedroom and his old university textbooks on the lower shelf of the bookcase in the sitting area. He'd kept half a dozen: A few on the anatomy of everything from horses to hounds, basic medicines, behavioural studies, and a particularly fascinating one on how house pets affected human psychology.
His books paled in comparison to the volumes that filled Irene's shelves. She had three books on poisonous plants alone, and just as many on ashes, from cigars to human.
His bed was thankfully spared by the car crash, and Lestrade helped manoeuvre the mattress up the two flights of narrow steps to Joe's room. They positioned the bed in the corner, chatting away to each other, becoming fast friends. Joe liked Lestrade. He was smart, competent, and didn't take himself, or his policing role, too seriously.
"How long have you known Irene?" Joe asked.
A Study in Victory Red Page 3