Hi, darlings! For those of you who followed me from the Dobry Hall story..first of all, I love you. I don't have anything else to say so second of all, I fucking love you. Your reviews are the cutest. (All two of them. Me? An ego? Nah.) This story is kind of different but also really not. So no. But yeah. I wrote this late last night and I don't remember (at ALL) where I was going with it. So any prompts, random ideas, or just loving encouragement *hinthinthint* would be appreciated and reciprocated with virtual cookies and hugs. Much loveee, Hope.
Sherlock Holmes was having a no-good horrible very bad day.
He had laid absently in his bed for several hours past noon – his mind gradually becoming more and more entangled in the attempt to go blank – until Mrs. Hudson had knocked lightly on the door frame, echoed by her cheerful little "boop boop!" as always.
"Sherlock, darling, are we feeling a bit ill this afternoon?"
The consulting detective's eyes jerked up to the doorway where his landlady stood, her elderly, bent over frame still somehow radiating more light and warmth than he had felt since late last night, when John had hurried out the room in his date night shoes, mumbling something about "Caroline" and "out late".
"Caroline," Sherlock's thoughts sneered. "Caroline, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline. What a stupid name. Nothing like Joh—"
"Sherlock? Sweet'eart?" the voice floated into his mind, interrupting his thoughts abruptly.
This time Sherlock's pale eyes snapped to attention and stayed there, focusing on the land lady instead of drifting off into space.
"Yes, of course I'm quite all right Mrs. Hudson," he said, making a legitimate attempt to keep the growl out of his voice and failing miserably. Lucky, Mrs. Hudson was used to the man's gruff mannerisms.
The narcissistic brunette could practically feel the blatant look of disbelief painted over the snow haired woman's wrinkled features, even though he could not quite see it, due to the dim lighting situation in the room. He frowned, waiting. Mrs. Hudson did not move. His hands, pushed together in a prayer-like position, clenched involuntarily – remaining flat as boards, but the long fingers as stiff and unmoving as a brick wall. Finally, Sherlock sighed, tired of waiting.
"Honestly, Mrs. Hudson, I am perfectly fine. Don't you have maternal duties to perform elsewhere?" his tone was almost his usual "I'm-surrounded-by-idiots-bloody-fuck" voice, but it was softer somehow, as though he really was talking toh is mother.
This seemed to satisfy the dignified woman, because she just chuckled and walked firmly out of the flat. Well, not directly out of the flat because the consulting detective could easily tell that his landlady – not housekeeper – had tiptoed around the kitchen, leaving a steaming cup of tea, and if Mr. Holmes knew Mrs. Hudson, several significantly less grimy surfaces.
When he did finally hear the front door to his and John's small living space close, Sherlock sighed dramatically, swinging his long legs out of bed.