A Study in Cerise
The flat was quiet, relatively speaking. The only sounds were Sherlock's faint tapping on the computer keyboard and the homey, comforting sounds of Mrs. Hudson tinkering about in the kitchen.
Sherlock could tell exactly what was going on without even glancing towards the kitchenette. The whistle of the kettle, the clink of china as she carefully placed the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray. The opening of the fridge for leftover sandwiches from yesterday's tea.
Same lovely traditions. She always fixed tea and sandwiches for the two of them, for afters.
His sensuous mouth curled into a slight smile as she walked into the living room and put the tea tray on the corner of his desk. She was wearing his robe.
"Here you go, dear."
He smiled.
"How's the hip?"
"Better now that you popped it back in place, Sherlock. Such a talented young man. I'm glad you convinced me to read that...what's it called again, dear?"
"Kama Sutra."
She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek before pouring tea for them both. He'd pulled a chair up by the desk for her. It was also their custom to sit together in silence with her watching him work, his royal blue robe wrapped around her body, the bed sheet they'd rolled around upon wrapped around his.
"You're quite sure John won't be home for a while?"
"Quite," Sherlock said, continuing to type. He was answering an email from Lestrade about some theory Anderson was postulating about his latest case and trying to think of another word for "moron" since he'd already used it twice.
"Good," she said. "He's such a sweet lad and we wouldn't want to upset him. He would never understand."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You don't give him enough credit. He's weathered worse storms. And life is full of disappointments, right? Some people need more than one lover, especially those with strong sex drives. No need for him to be greedy."
"Yes, dear, but hiding it all the time does get tiresome. And John does love so deeply."
Sherlock stopped typing and pondered his best friend. Sometimes Sherlock could be oblivious to the clues when they came from those in his inner circle. There had been signals from John early on, hints of unconventional attraction. There were the furtive glances over breakfast, the protective manner he displayed, the deep concern, the fierce loyalty. It was Sherlock's way to miss those signs, but by the time he'd noticed them one thing had led to another. He was surprised that the moans and cries of passion coming from 221B Baker Street had not wakened the neighbors.
"Well, I'm off to shower, dear." Mrs. Hudson stood, patting him on the hand. Sherlock glanced back as she walked from the room. He liked the way she did not cling afterwards. It was just sex to her. Just hot, steamy sex.
He continued to work. There were other emails, requests for interviews and then he moved on to reading the daily weather reports, John's blog, and lastly the crime reports that revealed nothing his quick mind already didn't know.
The door opened and he looked up, shocked.
John Watson's routine never varied on Tuesday mornings. He walked down to the coffee shop and then met Stamford in the park where they passed time talking. On the way home he would stop by the market to pick up whatever they needed for lunch. It was always the same. Always. Sherlock frowned at the betrayal of schedule.
"What are you doing back?" he snapped.
"What are you doing in a sheet?" John replied. The former army doctor studied his friend. He'd adopted some of Sherlock's skills, skills of deduction. When he'd left, Sherlock had been wearing his white shirt and dark pants. Why was he now naked, with mussed hair and wearing a sheet?
"Oh Sherlock, dear. I'm just going to throw this robe in the laundry along with the sheet. They're quite sweaty now and..."
A freshly showered Mrs. Hudson had not seen John until she'd rounded the corner and now she stood there, stopped in mid-sentence, wrapped like both men in a sudden and awkward silence.
John looked from his landlady to his best friend and back again. He turned, facing the wall, and then turned back again. He stormed over to Sherlock, his voice shaking with anger.
"How? How could you? How could you hurt me like this?"
"John..." Sherlock began.
"Did my feelings not matter? Is that it?"
"John, of course you matter. But Mrs. Hudson is..."
"...mine, Sherlock," John said. "She's mine."
He whirled on her. "I can't believe this..."
"She's her own person, John," Sherlock said, rising to step between them. "Don't think she has to limit her options simply because she's our housekeeper."
"I'm not your housekeeper, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I'm your lover."
She looked at John. "And yours, too."
She held her hands out to both of them. "Don't fight. You're both such lovely boys, and you can share, can't you? The last thing I want to do is to ruin a friendship..."
John and Sherlock glanced at each other. They glared for a moment and then John sighed.
"You're right, Mrs. Hudson. And with your sex drive I can't expect to satisfy you alone."
Mrs. Hudson put her arms around both men. "Such lovely boys. I'm so lucky to have you. And I'm so glad to see you both sort your differences. No need to be at odds. It's just sex. Let's all enjoy it."
She walked to the kitchen, relieved. She figured this would happen sooner or later and was pleased at how easily things had been resolved. She hated complications.
The phone rang and she picked it up.
"Mrs. Hudson," the cultured voice said when she answered. "I've been thinking of you. Dinner? My place tonight? Eight? I have something to show you. I bought the loveliest set of restraints yesterday and I'm eager to break them in."
Mrs. Hudson could only smile as she looked across the room at her unsuspecting tenants. Complications. For someone who enjoyed avoiding them, she certainly was good at inviting them.
She turned and spoke softly into the phone. "You're in luck, Mycroft," she said. "I just happen to be free..."