#the shop is a front for mrs hudson's drug empire

[0832]

flowershop au

[vateacancameos]

Chapters: 1/1 Words:1629 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, vague depictions of domestic abuse, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Tattoos, Healing Series: Part 2 of Tattoo My Name On Your Heart Summary:

Prequel to Secrets Are Mine to Keep. 

Martha Hudson needs to heal after leaving an abusive situation. She stumbles upon a Sherlock at the beginning of his tattooing career. He helps cover more than scars.

This can be read as a stand-alone, but works best when read in conjunction with the previous story in this series. If reading this before Secrets Are Mine to Keep, just know that Sherlock is a tattoo artist instead of a detective.

(CW for mentions of domestic abuse)

-----------------------------------------

Martha Hudson married young, but that didn’t make her stupid. She knew the likelihood of Frank being The One was highly unlikely, but she was in love and he had a great car and a gorgeous body.

There might have been a chance at some long-term happiness if they’d stayed in England, but Florida did her husband no favors. It started with a bad crowd and moved to late-night drug deals and a few people being permanently hushed. But Martha liked an exciting life, so she went along with it, if a little uneasily.

Even then, she might have loved Frank until the end, except that he decided that running a drug empire meant he should start testing the product himself, and like Florida, drugs did her husband no favors. The first time he hit her, she passed it off as a one-time thing. He’d been stressed already, and then she’d nagged him about some chore he’d forgot to do. It wouldn’t happen again, though. They loved each other.

Except that it did. Not often, and nothing so bad that a little makeup or a long-sleeved shirt wouldn’t hide it, but a couple of times a year, it did happen. And yet she stayed. Because Frank needed her. Because where could she go? Because their friends would side with Frank. Because she had no formal education and no skills beyond book keeping for a drug lord.

In the end, fate got Martha out of the bad situation she had found herself in. Frank learned about the warrant for his arrest two hours before the cops arrived. It was enough time to accuse Martha of tipping them off. Two hours later, he left in a cop car with blood on his hands. Martha left in an ambulance with blood on her back.

***

read the rest of the story after the cut or on ao3. 

When Martha met Sherlock Holmes five years later, she saw in his eyes the moment he understood what had happened to her. She walked into the shop on a whim because she wanted to cover the scars. Sherlock was finishing his apprenticeship and was given the walk-ins. He’d been stiff in his greeting, and Martha almost walked back out again. But then he’d looked, and he’d seen her, so she stayed.

After his knowing look, he asked only one question, very softly. “What did you wish for?”

A thousand regrets clamored in her head. There were so many moments she could have ended it. But what came out of her mouth was “I wish I’d flown away.” It was a silly, childish wish and not at all what she’d been thinking, but Sherlock only nodded.

“I need to see them.” They were in a private room, but Sherlock was a young man and Martha was from an era where you didn’t just strip off your shirt in mixed company (unless in specific situations involving exotic dancing). But she was doing this to learn to be brave and to forget her past, so she took a breath, turned to face away from him, and lifted her shirt.

Sherlock’s hands were gentle and warm. He was a perfect gentlemen as he measured her and asked a few questions about placement.

“I need time to work on some ideas,” he finally said, and her heart dropped. She didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to do this if it was drawn out. But then he continued. “Come back tomorrow at noon.”

She settled her shirt back in place and turned to face this solemn young artist she’d been assigned. Looking at him, she could tell his past was no rosier than hers. Despite their differences, she felt a kindred spirit, and her courage came back.

“Alright.”

***

The sound of smashing ceramic and an angry shout almost had her bolting back out of the door, but she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the shop. The young man behind the counter rolled his eyes. “Ignore the freak,” he said, pointing to the room where Martha had met Sherlock the day before. “He’s a toddler sometimes.”

“Oh. I have an appointment with him …” She fiddled with the strap of her purse and frowned at the man’s words. ‘Freak’ was a little harsh. These creative types were always overemotional. You’d think people working in a tattoo shop would be used to that sort.

The man sighed again just as Sherlock stomped into the front area. His fierce walk stuttered to a stop when he saw Martha. “Ah, yes. Just a minor setback. Let’s … um, go out.” He exited as quickly as he’d entered, but he was back a moment later wearing a dramatic coat and carrying a sketchpad. He nodded for the front door, holding it open for her (such a gentlemen) as they exited.

“I’m afraid I’m having … difficulties visualizing your art,” he explained after they’d found a nearby café and sat with their drink. He frowned down at the cover of his sketchpad. “Normally …” He shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his wild curls.

“Everyone gets … what’s writer’s block but with art? Artist’s block?” She patted his hand. “It’s alright.” Funny that she was the one comforting him. She did that a lot.

Sherlock scowled. “Not to me. I see a person, and then I visualize their tattoo. It’s what I do. My process has never failed me before.”

“Can I help?”

“What? No. How could you help?”

Martha shrugged. “What else do you need to know? Should I tell you my favorite colors or my childhood dreams?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Purple and dancing. That’s no use.”

She sat back, startled. “Oh. Well. That is impressive.”

He raised his eyes from where they’d been focused on his cup. “You’re not scared I’m some sort of stalker?”

She laughed. “Oh pish. No. You’re observant is all. You said so yourself. So. Tell me what you need to know so you can design my tattoo.”

He sighed dramatically. Oh, yes, this boy would be a handful.

She smiled. “Fine. I’ll just start talking until you tell me to shut up.”

And she did. She told him about her childhood best friend, the stray cat she took in right after she got married, how the weather in Florida always felt wrong. She talked about her wedding day, her older sister, the uncle sent to prison for making moonshine during American Prohibition. She talked and talked, and Sherlock never stopped her. She wasn’t sure he was always listening, but she could see that his brain was working, so she figured she was doing something right.

“And then, they ended up arresting Frank on tax fraud, of all things! He shot a man’s head off and there wasn’t a word, but the moment the government wasn’t getting its due, they raised a fuss. Oh, America. Such a strange country.” Odd how she could talk about that without feeling a thing. And it really was funny, when you thought about how it all went down, minus the hospital visit.

Sherlock’s head shot up. “They have the death penalty in Florida, correct?”

“Oh yes, but not for tax fraud.”

“But for shooting a man’s head off, they would.”

She nodded half-heartedly. “They can’t charge him for that, though. He’s very good at what he does, my Frank.”

“So am I,” Sherlock replied slowly.

“Well that remains to be seen. Seeing as you’ve reneged on our deal to have a sketch ready by today.”

“No, the other thing. I help the police with cases sometimes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really.” It was sort of sweet how he tried to talk himself up. The poor boy must not have received enough love growing up. Her heart broke for him. He needed someone in his corner.

“Fine, I’ve helped a policeman. Once. And I was sort of high at the time.” He waved a hand. “But that doesn’t matter. I am capable of doing what the detectives do. And far better.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m going to put your husband on death row.”

She stilled. Despite the glib tone, she knew he was serious. At least serious about trying. And yes, they were talking about death, which should never be mentioned lightly. But really, if Frank was put on death row, it was only his own fault for not following American laws. He should be bound by those punishments, shouldn’t he? But it was Frank, and no matter what he’d done, she did love him still, in a way. But …

“I can’t afford to pay for both a tattoo and a detective …” she began slowly.

He leveled a disbelieving look at her. “You took care of his books for years. As if you didn’t squirrel away some money of your own or find a way take the bulk of his fortune after he, well, after.”

“Well, I never.” But she was smiling. He really was very good at his job. Well, one of his jobs, it seemed. She could do worse than to believe in him.

***

In the end, it took less time to find the necessary information to put Frank away for good than it did for Sherlock to design Martha’s tattoo. Still, she couldn’t complain. Her freedom was worth more than some pesky scars she only rarely saw. More than that, Sherlock made her feel comfortable with herself again. The poor boy needed someone looking after and believing in him. And she needed to keep busy.

By the time he’d come up with the final draft of the tattoo, they’d become business partners, opened a little tattoo shop, and Sherlock had moved in upstairs. And truly, the tattoo was worth the wait. She might not be able to fly, but the wings on her back made her feel like she could do anything.