Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

All newspapers tell a story

The exterior of 221B Baker Street looked the way it always had - or at least the way I remembered it. It surprised me how little buildings changed; timeless artefacts, when life seemed to carry on continuously around them. They just stayed the same until they too were visibly eaten away by time when it got bored and turned on them.

I slammed the taxi door closed as John paid with a note he'd fished out of his pocket. It had definitely not come from his wallet, I thought, of that I was sure.

He joined me on the pavement before gesturing to the black door.

"Are you going in?" He asked, moving to the side as a pedestrian shuffled past us and into Speedy's cafe.

"I was waiting to be invited in." I said automatically, walking with him until he stopped to open the door.

Peering inside, I saw that even the inside of the building hadn't changed. It was just how I remembered it.

"John, dear, is that you?" A cheerful voice called from somewhere down the hallway before an older woman wearing a purple house dress walked into view.

She paused when she saw me, fixing me in a questioning gaze. Then her eyes filled with recognition and she grinned happily, her face creasing in good humour.

I swallowed and John began to speak but I cut him off by saying, "Hi Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson proceeded over, "Gosh, Everly! What on earth are you doing here?" She asked, pulling me into a tight and warming hug.

I wasn't really the hugging kind of person, usually I just stood stiffly as people cuddled me, but since it was Mrs Hudson, I made an effort to hug back slightly before pulling awkwardly away.

"How's your father?" She asked, her smile managing to thaw some icy part of me.

I swallowed dryly, "He's fine." I lied. She smiled happily though.

"Ah that's good to know. I thought I'd maybe hear from you soon. It's so good to see you!" She cupped the side of my face gently before pulling away.

John cleared his throat, interrupting our exchange, "Is Sherlock back yet?"

Mrs Hudson's face fell slightly, "He's upstairs." She gestured to the staircase, "He's in a foul mood though, for some reason. He keeps pacing back and forth muttering all sorts of gibberish. If he carries on he'll wear out my carpets!" She joked lightheartedly.

"It's not gibberish!" Sherlock shouted from somewhere upstairs before his footsteps faded again.

I smirked, "He's got hawk hearing, I tell you."

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes then said, "I'll make some tea."

I followed John up the stairs, "Do you have biscuits?" I called to her.

"I'm a landlady not a house keeper, dear!" She called back which really meant, "Yes I'll bring some up."

"You know Mrs Hudson?" John asked me lowly.

I nodded, "Yeah, she was a friend of my mum's." I said with a lump in my throat. I couldn't help but think of the speech Mrs Hudson had given at my mum's funeral and how I'd stared at the coffin thinking that mum wouldn't have wanted everyone to be stood around crying, reciting things that had happened in her life and giving her compliments that she would have blushed at.

Mrs Hudson and I had been quite close - she was like my auntie, but since the funeral we'd drifted and lost contact.

I shook the memory from my mind.

Inside the flat was a mess. However it looked just as I had imagined somewhere would look if Sherlock lived there. Paper and books were lying around, newspapers scattered. There was even a skull on the mantelpiece. By the window stood a music stand with Sherlock's violin propped up against it, the bow positioned perfectly so someone could just pick it up quickly and begin playing.