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Feb. 5th, 2011
Gang Aft Agley
Feb. 5th, 2011 01:52 pmSherlock had had a plan. The moment that he encountered his former anatomy professor Mike Stamford, (incurable optimist, incorrigible matchmaker) it had blossomed, fully formed.
Actually, he'd had a plan before that, but it was excessively flawed, and depended far too much on Mrs. Hudson's susceptibility to a continuous display of charm that was impossible to sustain over the long run. He had just all too thoroughly demonstrated that impossibility to his own -- and his current landlord's -- dissatisfaction. It was not an experiment which bore repetition. Worse, the plan hadn't taken into account Mrs. Hudson's very real financial requirements. Yes, she'd managed to scrape together enough money to take on the building at 221 Baker Street, thanks to the reward, and yes, she truly wanted Sherlock to be one of her tenants, but gratitude wouldn't pay for heat or water or food, and the rent Sherlock could afford to pay (and still have money for necessities like chemicals, books, and nicotine patches) wouldn't cover even the property tax, not in that part of London.
But an additional income for her would prevent a situation where Sherlock had to hunt for new quarters, and the right sort of man would (eventually) be willing to overlook the flaws of the unfinished basement flat Sherlock had rejected (dampness, minimal daylight, narrow staircase) in view of the central London location and the proximity to a Tube station and Regent's Park. And all Sherlock would have to do is get the fellow to move in with him to 221b long enough for Sherlock to become entrenched, and then act normally (normally for Sherlock, that is) until he was driven out of the upstairs flat. The only tricky part would be finding someone desperate enough to stay in London, and waiflike enough to encourage Mrs. Hudson's protective instincts so that she would offer the basement for less than the going rate.
It had been a good plan. And Mike had come through brilliantly, as Sherlock had known he would, towing a small, limping Army veteran into the laboratory only hours after Sherlock had primed him with a carefully worded complaint. The man was older, and convalescent, although he'd been a practicing physician before his injury. His well-kept, but older, clothing indicated financial caution, so he was probably living on a disability pension and desperate enough to take on any flatmate who was clean and relatively well spoken. The shiny new expensive phone -- clearly a gift -- indicated an ability to swallow a well-developed pride, so Mycroft's inevitable bribe would give them both a comfortable margin. And the entirely reasonable objection to Sherlock's failure to give name or address indicated both intelligence and sufficient obstinancy to make the process of nudging him downstairs interesting. Sherlock had swanned out of the laboratory, collected his riding crop, and went off to tell Mrs. Hudson that he'd "met someone" and wanted to start moving in.
There was only one factor he hadn't taken to account.
John Watson.
Actually, he'd had a plan before that, but it was excessively flawed, and depended far too much on Mrs. Hudson's susceptibility to a continuous display of charm that was impossible to sustain over the long run. He had just all too thoroughly demonstrated that impossibility to his own -- and his current landlord's -- dissatisfaction. It was not an experiment which bore repetition. Worse, the plan hadn't taken into account Mrs. Hudson's very real financial requirements. Yes, she'd managed to scrape together enough money to take on the building at 221 Baker Street, thanks to the reward, and yes, she truly wanted Sherlock to be one of her tenants, but gratitude wouldn't pay for heat or water or food, and the rent Sherlock could afford to pay (and still have money for necessities like chemicals, books, and nicotine patches) wouldn't cover even the property tax, not in that part of London.
But an additional income for her would prevent a situation where Sherlock had to hunt for new quarters, and the right sort of man would (eventually) be willing to overlook the flaws of the unfinished basement flat Sherlock had rejected (dampness, minimal daylight, narrow staircase) in view of the central London location and the proximity to a Tube station and Regent's Park. And all Sherlock would have to do is get the fellow to move in with him to 221b long enough for Sherlock to become entrenched, and then act normally (normally for Sherlock, that is) until he was driven out of the upstairs flat. The only tricky part would be finding someone desperate enough to stay in London, and waiflike enough to encourage Mrs. Hudson's protective instincts so that she would offer the basement for less than the going rate.
It had been a good plan. And Mike had come through brilliantly, as Sherlock had known he would, towing a small, limping Army veteran into the laboratory only hours after Sherlock had primed him with a carefully worded complaint. The man was older, and convalescent, although he'd been a practicing physician before his injury. His well-kept, but older, clothing indicated financial caution, so he was probably living on a disability pension and desperate enough to take on any flatmate who was clean and relatively well spoken. The shiny new expensive phone -- clearly a gift -- indicated an ability to swallow a well-developed pride, so Mycroft's inevitable bribe would give them both a comfortable margin. And the entirely reasonable objection to Sherlock's failure to give name or address indicated both intelligence and sufficient obstinancy to make the process of nudging him downstairs interesting. Sherlock had swanned out of the laboratory, collected his riding crop, and went off to tell Mrs. Hudson that he'd "met someone" and wanted to start moving in.
There was only one factor he hadn't taken to account.
John Watson.
Gang Aft Agley
Feb. 5th, 2011 01:52 pmSherlock had had a plan. The moment that he encountered his former anatomy professor Mike Stamford, (incurable optimist, incorrigible matchmaker) it had blossomed, fully formed.
Actually, he'd had a plan before that, but it was excessively flawed, and depended far too much on Mrs. Hudson's susceptibility to a continuous display of charm that was impossible to sustain over the long run. He had just all too thoroughly demonstrated that impossibility to his own -- and his current landlord's -- dissatisfaction. It was not an experiment which bore repetition. Worse, the plan hadn't taken into account Mrs. Hudson's very real financial requirements. Yes, she'd managed to scrape together enough money to take on the building at 221 Baker Street, thanks to the reward, and yes, she truly wanted Sherlock to be one of her tenants, but gratitude wouldn't pay for heat or water or food, and the rent Sherlock could afford to pay (and still have money for necessities like chemicals, books, and nicotine patches) wouldn't cover even the property tax, not in that part of London.
But an additional income for her would prevent a situation where Sherlock had to hunt for new quarters, and the right sort of man would (eventually) be willing to overlook the flaws of the unfinished basement flat Sherlock had rejected (dampness, minimal daylight, narrow staircase) in view of the central London location and the proximity to a Tube station and Regent's Park. And all Sherlock would have to do is get the fellow to move in with him to 221b long enough for Sherlock to become entrenched, and then act normally (normally for Sherlock, that is) until he was driven out of the upstairs flat. The only tricky part would be finding someone desperate enough to stay in London, and waiflike enough to encourage Mrs. Hudson's protective instincts so that she would offer the basement for less than the going rate.
It had been a good plan. And Mike had come through brilliantly, as Sherlock had known he would, towing a small, limping Army veteran into the laboratory only hours after Sherlock had primed him with a carefully worded complaint. The man was older, and convalescent, although he'd been a practicing physician before his injury. His well-kept, but older, clothing indicated financial caution, so he was probably living on a disability pension and desperate enough to take on any flatmate who was clean and relatively well spoken. The shiny new expensive phone -- clearly a gift -- indicated an ability to swallow a well-developed pride, so Mycroft's inevitable bribe would give them both a comfortable margin. And the entirely reasonable objection to Sherlock's failure to give name or address indicated both intelligence and sufficient obstinancy to make the process of nudging him downstairs interesting. Sherlock had swanned out of the laboratory, collected his riding crop, and went off to tell Mrs. Hudson that he'd "met someone" and wanted to start moving in.
There was only one factor he hadn't taken to account.
John Watson.
Actually, he'd had a plan before that, but it was excessively flawed, and depended far too much on Mrs. Hudson's susceptibility to a continuous display of charm that was impossible to sustain over the long run. He had just all too thoroughly demonstrated that impossibility to his own -- and his current landlord's -- dissatisfaction. It was not an experiment which bore repetition. Worse, the plan hadn't taken into account Mrs. Hudson's very real financial requirements. Yes, she'd managed to scrape together enough money to take on the building at 221 Baker Street, thanks to the reward, and yes, she truly wanted Sherlock to be one of her tenants, but gratitude wouldn't pay for heat or water or food, and the rent Sherlock could afford to pay (and still have money for necessities like chemicals, books, and nicotine patches) wouldn't cover even the property tax, not in that part of London.
But an additional income for her would prevent a situation where Sherlock had to hunt for new quarters, and the right sort of man would (eventually) be willing to overlook the flaws of the unfinished basement flat Sherlock had rejected (dampness, minimal daylight, narrow staircase) in view of the central London location and the proximity to a Tube station and Regent's Park. And all Sherlock would have to do is get the fellow to move in with him to 221b long enough for Sherlock to become entrenched, and then act normally (normally for Sherlock, that is) until he was driven out of the upstairs flat. The only tricky part would be finding someone desperate enough to stay in London, and waiflike enough to encourage Mrs. Hudson's protective instincts so that she would offer the basement for less than the going rate.
It had been a good plan. And Mike had come through brilliantly, as Sherlock had known he would, towing a small, limping Army veteran into the laboratory only hours after Sherlock had primed him with a carefully worded complaint. The man was older, and convalescent, although he'd been a practicing physician before his injury. His well-kept, but older, clothing indicated financial caution, so he was probably living on a disability pension and desperate enough to take on any flatmate who was clean and relatively well spoken. The shiny new expensive phone -- clearly a gift -- indicated an ability to swallow a well-developed pride, so Mycroft's inevitable bribe would give them both a comfortable margin. And the entirely reasonable objection to Sherlock's failure to give name or address indicated both intelligence and sufficient obstinancy to make the process of nudging him downstairs interesting. Sherlock had swanned out of the laboratory, collected his riding crop, and went off to tell Mrs. Hudson that he'd "met someone" and wanted to start moving in.
There was only one factor he hadn't taken to account.
John Watson.