The Coffee Shop

Chapter 9 - Thursday 6th April, Lunchtime

Biting into a ham and cheese sandwich, Sherlock sat on his chair, his laptop balanced on his knees.

He was on Facebook, trying to make sense of the now-viral post. The account didn't have any indication as to who was behind it, no name, profile picture or description, simply the very disturbing photo taken of what was unmistakably a boy bound by rope, his eyes screaming at the camera.

James Grant was alive, and the city was aflutter.

Sherlock swallowed, then put the rest of the sandwich back on the plate, thinking. The comments were turned on, and there were many, a range of responses from all sorts of people. Some were horrified and typed in all caps; others concerned and with questions, and perhaps the most unsettling of all were the comments left by those inspired.

Whoever was behind this wanted chaos, just like Jim Moriarty. And Sherlock, haunted by his memory, was scared.

He closed his laptop, got up and journeyed over to the kitchen, where he put the plate with the sandwich on the table.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called.

"What is it?" She answered.

"Got any biscuits?"

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock." And she came to join him in the kitchen. "You're an adult; get your own biscuits."

Sherlock supposed she was right. He looked at her.

"Go sit down. I'll make you a tea."

"Honestly..." she said, but did as he instructed. And so Sherlock, for the second time, found himself making tea for another person. He found the routine quite favourable.

"James Grant is alive," He told her while looking through the cupboards for a pack of teabags.

"That's nice, dear."

"Nice..." Sherlock muttered, with an intake of breath, and located the PG Tips. "He's in danger. Serious danger."

"There's nothing you cannot handle, Sherlock."

He stopped, and looked round.

"No?"

She rolled her eyes.

"You know that. Now, don't let it go to your head, I know what you're like."

Sherlock smiled to himself, then boiled the kettle.

"Excuse the lack of biscuits. Will you take sugar as a substitute?"

Mrs Hudson got up. "Let me see if I have any in my flat... will that make you happy?"

Sherlock looked at her. "Yes. I suppose it would."

She left through the doorframe, and Sherlock picked up the kettle and filled the mug with hot water. He liked the sound of it pouring; he found it consoled him. He opened a drawer, selected a tea spoon, and left it next to the mug while he searched for milk in the fridge.

"Okay, no milk..." He tried not to panic.

"Here we go, Sherlock. I had a feeling you wouldn't have any – here." And she passed him a litre.

"Oh. Thank you." He poured it in the mug, and removed the teabag.

"None for you?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No, thank you."

"Well, here's a ginger nut; there are three left in the packet. In fact, you can have two. Then there's one left for me."

Sherlock was grateful.

Discarding the teabag and handing Mrs Hudson the mug, they went over to the living space and sat down on the chairs next to the old fireplace.

"John used to sit there." He told her.

She brought the mug to her mouth, and blew gently to cool it.

"I know – you miss him. You do, I can tell. Not much gets past me."

Sherlock smiled, then bit into the ginger nut. He tried to swallow it, and choked on the crumbs.

"Careful, love!"

He coughed, and coughed, and coughed some more. "...Water."

"I'm not your housekeeper." She muttered, but got up and went to the kitchen to pour a glass.

"Where is he now?"

"Working," Sherlock said, struggling to see. His eyes were streaming.

"Here, love, drink it, it will clear your throat."

"I know," He said, annoyed. But he accepted the water graciously, and wiped his eyes.

"He's working." Sherlock said, composed once more. "He got a job as a physical therapist. Good for him, obviously. He's living his life, so of course I am happy for him."

"...But?" Mrs Hudson interjected.

"But what? There's nothing else to say. I want his help on the case. That is what I want. And what I want is irrelevant."

"Hmm." She said, sipping her tea.

"It's as if he never sees things from my perspective," Sherlock said quietly. "And, what's more, he never will. It's a tale as old as time."

"You care for the man. It's normal to care for one's friends, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson told him.

Sherlock put his biscuit down. "To an unhealthy degree? Where you would die for them if it meant saving their life?"

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Love takes many forms, Sherlock."

He sat back, and let her words sink in. Then he grabbed his phone.

"I've got to tell him," He said, his heart racing. "He should know."

Mrs Hudson got out of her chair and rested her palm on top of Sherlock's shaking fingers. "Let it be. You'll see him again soon, of that I have no doubt," She told him gently.

And he breathed, slowly, digesting this.

"Okay." He said, then grabbed his laptop, phone, and keys.

"Where are you going?" The old woman asked.

"To talk to my brother. I want to know what he thinks of the latest development."

"You'll be careful, won't you?"

"Oh, Mrs Hudson. What good does being careful do?" And he threw on his black coat, turned up the collar, and left the room.

Mrs Hudson heard his footsteps click down the stairs, and shook her head, dazed.

The man would never learn, she thought to herself, and God help whoever crossed him.