Hi readers! Head's up, this story will contain corporal punishment in the form of spanking (in chapter 2). Enjoy!
Present day
"You really put your foot in it this time, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson stood in the foyer, arms crossed tight, foot tapping impatiently. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she peered up at her tenant. Sherlock's eyes were down, staring at her skirt. His shoulders were rounded forward and if he had a tail, it would be hugging his thighs. That she was much shorter than him didn't make a difference. He had discovered, annoyingly, that she could cow him with just her stance and a glare, much like now.
"I don't know why you care so much." He muttered. He looked up when she sighed sadly.
"Oh, Sherlock…"
He had gotten hurt. That's all. He was on a case, he got injured, he went to hospital, and now he was fine. At least, that's how Sherlock saw it. Mrs. Hudson though, had a different view of how this past case had played out…
Two weeks earlier
Sherlock thundered down the steps in 221B, yanking his gloves on. His eyes were gleaming and he couldn't keep the grin off his face, the one that John had told him in the flat was 'a bit not good.' The good doctor was behind him, galloping down the steps as eagerly as he was.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came out off 221A and Sherlock hesitated as John barreled out the front door.
"What?" He tried not to sound as snappy as he wanted to. Did she really need to interrupt now‒right now? They were heading out to grab a suspect and every second counted.
"Is this about that mad gunman in the news?"
"Yes." He growled.
She came out of the flat in her purple flowery dressing gown and slippers and absently adjusted his scarf. "Be careful, love. Don't do anything stupid."
He missed the way she said it, the deep worry in her tone and her glassy eyes. He didn't know that she hadn't been sleeping well since she knew he was taking on this case, the one on the news about the serial shooter whom Sherlock had indentified mere hours ago: a young man who was dangerously angry. She always worried about him, John too for that matter, but this case was especially troublesome. She much preferred it when he investigated dead bodies with that lovely girl at the morgue. Not when he was dashing about all night after deranged live ones.
"I won't!" With that, he was off into the night.
She spent another sleep-deprived night worrying and tossing fitfully and it was early the next morning when she heard noise in the foyer. She popped her head out the door and saw a weary John trudging towards the stairs.
"John?" She asked.
"Oh, hi Mrs. Hudson." He said, one foot up on the first step. "We got our suspect. He's with Dimmock."
She tightened her dressing gown and came out into the hall. "Where's Sherlock?"
"Sherlock's fine. Rather, he will be fine. He's in hospital."
She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Don't worry." John came to her and wrapped her in a brief hug. "He will be okay, I promise."
"What happened?"
John was quiet. "Well…"
"John?" She prompted.
"He was shot."
Two days later, Sherlock was home. The bullet had grazed over his left forearm, leaving torn flesh and lots of blood, but it wasn't bad enough to warrant a long hospital stay. Mrs. Hudson heard them arrive, and within the hour she was knocking on their door.
"Sherlock!" She pulled him into a hug when he answered it, minding his bandaged arm. She kissed him on the cheek, ignoring his rolling eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?" At the desk, John grinned.
"I'm fine." He groused.
"You are not 'fine,' young man." She countered. "No one who gets shot is fine. Here." She put a bag of biscuits on the kitchen table and John's eyes widened happily at the sight.
"Tea?" He offered, rising.
"Oh yes, please, John. Now what happened?" She bustled Sherlock over to the sofa and sat him down, holding his left arm gently, armoring the wound with her hands.
"Not much really. We found the suspect. He ran. We chased him. I got shot."
"And nearly hit by a lorry!" John chimed in from the kitchen. Sherlock grit his teeth, mentally thanking the doctor for volunteering that bit of info.
"A lorry?!" Mrs. Hudson repeated, startled.
"The suspect ran out into the street…" Sherlock grumbled. John appeared, balancing three mugs of tea. He handed two over and Sherlock gave him a look, trying to convey to John to shutup! He either didn't understand or didn't see it. He set his mug down on the desk beside his computer and left the room. The loo door shut moments later.
"So you followed him out into the busy street? At night?!" Mrs. Hudson sounded less concerned now and more outraged.
"He would have gotten away, otherwise." Sherlock protested. He sipped his tea, not liking where this conversation was going.
"And how did you get shot?"
"He…" Sherlock frowned at the floor. "He told me if I took one step closer, he'd fire." A pause. "I thought he was bluffing." Oh yes, definitely not a good direction for this conversation to be going.
"What did I tell you before you left?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a quiet voice.
"You said to be careful."
"And were you?"
That tone. Sherlock knew that tone. He froze and slid his eyes to her. Oh God, he knew that look too. His bum tingled.
"Mrs. Hudson." He said, lowering the mug to his lap. "I had to chase him‒"
"You most certainly did not have to chase him! There were a whole team of officers also pursuing this man, were there not?"
"Well, yes…"
"Officers who I don't care about nearly as much as I care about you! You completely disregarded your own well being, Sherlock Holmes! And for what?"
Sherlock leaned forward, putting the tea down on the table. "You're upset." He glanced frantically towards the occupied bathroom. He really hoped John couldn't hear this. "I'm…sorry you're upset, but I had to solve the case."
Mrs. Hudson wasn't impressed with his excuse.
"It's what I do!" Sherlock said.
"You solve cases." Her voice was iron. "You do not take silly risks that put your life in danger because you think a madman is bluffing."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. His bum tingled some more in warning.
"I care about you, Sherlock." She said in a gentler tone. "You're like a son to me, and if anything happened to you, I'd be absolutely devastated." She laced her fingers with his. "We all would." She paused to let that sink in.
"Yes." He nodded frantically, trying to convey that he understood completely‒that he'd never understood anything so well in his life (as long as it kept him clear of that spoon.) "I understand. It won't happen again."
"Good." She smiled warmly and patted his knee and Sherlock sighed in relief. A spoon-themed crisis appeared to have been averted.
Mrs. Hudson continued conversationally, picking lint from his skirt, "so you won't argue when I tell you that you deserve a spanking for your reckless behavior."
"What?! But‒no‒I understand!" This wasn't how it was supposed to happen at all.
His argument that he was a detective and this is what he did for a living wasn't satisfactory to her, and he really had no other excuse for chasing that idiot and getting shot at. It was clear that another wretched spanking was imminent, and weirdly‒though he hated that damned spoon‒he sort of, in a way, liked that she cared so much. She was willing to try and keep him in line to keep him safe. He did appreciate it, and had to grudgingly admit that her methods were effective, at least for a while. He hadn't experimented on John in ages. He'd have to be more subtle about it next time he did…
"Sherlock…" She warned.
He let out a put-upon sigh. "Not here." He said finally.
The toilet flushed.
"Not now." He pleaded. "Not in front of…" He nodded towards the loo.
"No." She agreed, softening her voice. "Not now, love. You just got out of hospital, after all. But just you wait."
Sherlock relaxed back into the cushions, a frown on his face. He didn't want to get smacked. He was doing so well. It had been months since she'd taken that rutting spoon to his arse, and now‒now he not only knew it was coming, he had to wait for it. Well, no. He didn't have to wait for it. He could refuse. That option was completely available to him. She was his landlady for heaven's sake, not his mother. And yet, he allowed her method of corporal caring to go on. On some level, he appreciated it in a weird way‒her unique method of caring for him and wanting to show him that she cared for him in the form of fussing and smacking and his favorite biscuits. Sherlock scowled, irritated with himself that he ultimately did appreciate it all.
John entered the room went to the desk and Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock's left hand and kissed the back of it. "Poor boy." She smoothed her hand over Sherlock's hair, pushing it away from his face. "I'll let you rest, now." She stood. "Thank you for the tea, John."
"Oh, you're welcome." He popped up again and got the door for her. "Thanks for the biscuits."
"No trouble, dear."
John closed the door after her. The flat was silent for a moment and John watched Sherlock reclined on the sofa, looking relaxed and reposed with his eyes closed.
"I half thought she'd wallop you right here." John said.
Sherlock eyes blazed open. "Not yet!" He snarled. "If you hadn't said anything about the bloody lorry, she wouldn't be at all!"
"Hey, don't blame me for this!" He shot back. "You were careless."
"But we got the suspect." Sherlock growled.
"Yeah, and you got shot in the arm. Honestly, Sherlock. It could have been so much worse. You could be dead for fuck's sake, all because you thought the deranged gunman, who had already killed four people, was bluffing? I'm not surprised she's as upset as she is."
Sherlock let out a growl of frustration and rolled over, cradling his sore arm to his chest and facing the back of the sofa. All these people caring about him was a right pain in the arse. Literally.
Thanks for reading! Chapter 2 will be up soon :) As always, comments/critiques are welcome.