The Quiet Man

Bad News

Oh: It’s Mrs Hudson. What does she want?

“Hello?” Must keep my voice down; I’m out in public. There’s nothing more annoying than an asshole shouting into his phone in a coffee shop.

“John? It’s me, dear, it’s Mrs Hudson. Are you busy? Am I interrupting you?”

“Good morning, Mrs Hudson. You're not interrupting me, how are you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. Well, no, to be honest, I'm in a bit of a..." She pauses. "I’m in a bit of a bind. There’s been a–” There’s a muffled sound in the background. What on earth is going on?

“What is it?" Have they got her now? Is there someone there with a gun pressed against her temple? It wouldn't be the first time. It's been years, but it could be. It could happen. It’s my fault, I called Mycroft. I shouldn’t have. She’s in danger. "Are you all right?”

“Oh, I'm fine, John, I'm fine. It's just the boiler." Oh, right. Her boiler. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. Relieved: yes, definitely. I’m relieved.

"You had it replaced, didn't you?"

"Well, I did," she says. "Yes, they came by and installed a new one. But it's never been quite...well, it’s not as reliable as the old one, and the fellow said he’d come by this week to have a look. But I’ve no more tenants, not after those last ones. And my sister’s had a fall, you know about my sister? She’s up in Bristol, poor thing, she wants me to come sit with her, you know, help her out a bit until she’s back on her feet. So I’m a bit desperate. I’ve run right out of eyes and hands.” Did I know that Mrs Hudson had a sister in Bristol? I don’t remember her saying so. That’s a bit embarrassing, do I pay as little attention as that?

"You need some help, then?" That's what she wants, isn't it? Some help. She's a kindly old lady, she needs a hand. She has no children of her own. I have no family. I’m all alone in the world. She might as well call me.

What does she need me to do? Take her to Bristol? Mary could probably drive. Maybe that would be good, a few hours in a car together, Mary and I, with a third party. That would keep us civil. Could be a good thing. Or a terrible thing, really. Best not to end a relationship in a car. There’s nowhere else to go.

Does she want me to watch over the boiler? I have no idea why she thinks I’m any use with a boiler, it’s not as if I’ve ever fixed one. Or installed one. I don’t know anything about boilers, what does she want?

“Do you think,” she says, then pauses. “Do you think you’d consider spending a few days in the flat this week? Just this once? I’m not sure when the fellow is set to arrive, he didn’t specify, it could be tomorrow, or Friday, I’m not sure. I could bring up some bedding, do a bit of shopping if you wouldn’t mind...”

Ah. She wants me to come back. Spend the week at 221b, watching out for a repairman. Of course.

She hasn't tried to lure me back in ages. She gave up on that years ago, she let the place out to someone else. She isn't trying to lure me back now. She's only in a bind, she needs help. That's all. I’m just someone helpful, a friend. I understand.

A week in 221b: I could read the paper in peace, I could leave in the middle of the night to watch arrests, gun in hand, and avoid all the constant haranguing about my deadlines and obsession with the news. I could build a massive crime wall from one end of the flat to the other. I could watch some crap telly and sit around in my pants. I could say goodbye to you properly, maybe. Seeing the place again without you in it, that’s something final. I couldn’t bear it before. Maybe I could bear it now.

It’s hard to believe I haven’t stepped foot in the place since before the funeral. It was too hard to stay, then. It was too painful, and you were everywhere. It still smelled like you. Your things were still there. That won't be true anymore. It’s been too long, other people have lived there.