The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

His Last Bow

Text. Lestrade. Case. A second murder (identical to the first). Brilliant. (Love a serial killer.) Text him back: tell him I’m on my way. (How will the incisions look? Perfect? Perfectly the same as the first? And the hands, the fingers? Posed just the same, with fishing line?) Shiver of delight. Jacket; keys; phone. Dropped into pockets. (Where’s John?) Pull open the door, and step–

“Oh!”

Mrs Hudson. Holding a plate (assorted biscuits). For a moment the plate (faint floral pattern, not her typical set, glued-over crack down the middle) looks as though it might tip over; Mrs Hudson catches it, cradles it against her chest. Rights herself.

Standing too close to the door (listening?). Checking to see if my young man is visiting? If I am indisposed? Otherwise occupied? Odd. Tarts: purchased from the bakery down the street. Biscuits: homemade. A set of brownies with a glaze on top. Two strawberries. She spent time arranging it. (Why?)

“Goodness!” She fusses with the biscuits. Attempts to rearrange them into their original order through the cellophane. Nervous. Not a regular visit. Has something to say. (Plate: possibly from a charity shop? Ancient, broken twice: a plate to give away. Not expecting it to be returned. For gifts. Gifts for bachelors. For me?) “So sorry, Sherlock, dear! I didn’t know you were in!”

“Just on my way out.” She’s dressed up a bit; her best shoes (black), new skirt (purple). Pressed shirt (violet). (Why all the effort?) Share my own news. “Serial killer.” Smile conspiratorially.

She smiles back and blushes, looks down, as though I’ve just said something off-colour. Waves her hand. “You and your serial killers.” A pause. “Is John going with you?”

“About to text him.” I am. The moment the door closes behind me, pavement under my feet, I will. Think of his face, a warm feeling rises in my stomach, thinking of him. Text him. Tell him where to meet me. Tell him it’s a serial killer.

“I just wanted to...” Mrs Hudson looks at her plate, then back up at me. “I’m sorry for yelling at you and John the other day. I shouldn’t have, it’s really none of my business.” Ah. An apology. (Should have guessed that. Apology for losing her temper. I’d nearly forgotten.)

“Quite all right.” Give her the faint smile that suggests that it is. (It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. It’s Mrs Hudson.)

“No, no. It’s not all right at all.” Sighs. Calculate: how much will I miss if I stop and talk to Mrs Hudson now? Consider. (Nothing.) They won’t move the body. Anderson will be afraid to. Lestrade will insist. Won’t be long. A few minutes. Like waiting for a taxi. (Am awfully fond of Mrs Hudson.) Study the pained look on her face. Needs to express something. To be forgiven. To set things right. Understood. (Have surely worn that expression myself recently. More than once.) Turn to the right, open the kitchen door. Motion to her to go through. An invitation. She accepts.

Kitchen is a disaster. She tuts out of habit, puts the plate down on the table. Sits. Sighs again.

Opportunity. Repair John’s reputation. (Make him more receptive to moving back in? It could. Worth a shot.) How much to tell her? What words to use?

“John wanted me to tell you,” I find myself pausing. Mrs Hudson looking up expectantly (hopefully). John wants me to tell her that he isn’t the monster she thinks he is. That he didn’t know he was leaving me (heartbroken) for Mary. That he tried to give me what he thought I wanted. Clear my throat. “In the past I had not,” (been honest? been brave? known the truth?) “made myself plain to him. We were not...” pause. Debate a variety of word choices. Can’t choose. Let Mrs Hudson assume a word of her choice. (We were not lovers? Were not Intimate?) Pause has gone on too long. “We were not. Prior to his marriage.”