Sunday brunch
Author's note: A short little fic that was inspired by the comments on John's BBC blog! Hope you like it!
Sunday, 12 March. Comments posted on Dr. John H. Watson's blog:
I'm starving. Anyone fancy going out for brunch? - John Watson 12 March 11:57
Brunch! Fancy! - Mrs Hudson 12 March 11:58
Can't be bothered. Bring some food up, Mrs Hudson. - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:01
I'm not your housekeeper! - Mrs Hudson 12 March 12:02
But you've just come back from the cafe which means you've lots of cakes you won't eat. - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:04
That was going to be a surprise! - Mrs Hudson 12 March 12:05
Well, stop typing and surprise us! - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:07
Sorry, Mrs Hudson. John's given me a look. Apparently that was rude. - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:09
Please, Mrs Hudson. I'd really love some... brunch. - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:13
Alright, then I suggest we better get going. See you all downstairs. - John Watson 12 March 12:14
Wait, we're going out? - Sherlock Holmes 12 March 12:14
He remembered them all too well, those horrible, endless Sunday family get-togethers. Having brunch outside in the garden or – during the winter – in their cosy dining room, with the fireplace crackling peacefully, misleading one to think of it as an idyllic Sunday morning.
They were all around the place, uncles and aunts, cousins and great-cousins. His parents and his brother. All cheerfully chatting, eating, laughing. The clatter of forks and spoons on plates and cups could be heard. Somewhere a cough, the twitter of a bird.
He was standing in middle, somewhere lost in the room, all silent and all alone. He was there, but somehow, he wasn't, either.
"Come on, Sherlock," his mother said, her warm hands pushing him gently towards the other kids. "Go and play with them." He could feel how upset she was, even though her beautiful voice sounded so caring, so calm. But he felt the slight tremble of her fingers around his shoulders. She was scared of him, scared of being disconnected from her own son. Scared of not being able to reach through to him. He noticed it, he knew it. But he couldn't change it. He didn't know how to.
"Mycroft!" she called her older son as she realized that Sherlock wouldn't move on his own. He was standing stiff in her arms.
The older boy ran towards them, and Sherlock noticed that today was one of those horrible days when he couldn't even manage to remember their faces. Not Mycroft's – not his mother's. He looked at them and they felt like strangers.
She gave Sherlock's arm to Mycroft. "Go play with your brother."
Mycroft tugged his little brother along, not even bothering to stop the game he and their cousins were in the middle of.
Sherlock, however, was just following him like a puppet. It was one of those horrible Sunday brunches, but then, like all Sunday brunches, even this one would end eventually.
Sherlock blinked a few times, suddenly awaking from this supposedly long-forgotten daydream that had persistently found his way back into his consciousness. Maybe the soothing rattle of the cab had helped, too, he supposed. Nightmares from the past had never been his favourite. He didn't want to think about the ways he had felt back then in his childhood, not remember the weirdness, the play-acting, the disappointments. They had nothing to do with the present, which is why it was pointless to think about them. He usually managed to avoid them.
Still, right now, right here, with the spring sun shining warmly through the tinted side window of the cab, he couldn't help feeling somehow gloomy and depressed, and this lack of self-control turned those annoying feelings into anger and aggression.
The taxi stopped and so did John and Mrs Hudson's merry chitchat, as John paid the driver and got out of the car.
Sherlock watched him, but he didn't move. Through the window and past John, he could see the restaurant Mrs Hudson had picked, the Landmark London, a five star hotel in the City of Westminster. The memories of horrible family brunches were suddenly so present in his mind that he felt himself unable to move.
"You coming, Sherlock?" John knocked against the side window with his finger. "What's wrong?"
"I don't like it here," Sherlock replied and it was the truth.
"Oh, come on!"
He could see John tilting his head and rolling his eyes. "You haven't even tried it!"
"What's taking you both so long?" Mrs Hudson's voice called from the sidewalk.
"Well, in any case, you should decide soon," the cab driver suddenly announced. "I don't have all day, you know."
"Fine!" Sherlock snapped, getting out of the car. He didn't want to, he hated this place, despised it even. But then again, like all Sunday brunches, even this one would end eventually.
The taxi drove away and John, Mrs Hudson and Sherlock went up the stairs that led to the entrance of the hotel. The glass door had been cleaned neatly and the floor and the wall panelling – obviously made of finest marble – were shining in the lights of hundreds of tiny lamps. A friendly concierge led them to the breakfast hall, where they were assigned a small round table next to a large window.
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he noticed how childishly excited John and especially Mrs Hudson seemed to be in anticipation of the brunch. Did they even know how expensive their little trip to this hotel actually was? Eighty pounds per person! Compared to the average amount of food a human ate per meal – which was around 800 grams – they would pay ten pence for each tiny little gram they ate. Oh yeah, it's so great to get your money squeezed out of your pockets! Sarcastically, he grinned along with them, until John and Mrs Hudson shook their heads at him.
Just a few moments later, a young waitress with a brown ponytail and straight bangs appeared next to the table, offering them coffee. She was wearing a beautiful golden necklace and a silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand.
"Oh, yes, please," Mrs Hudson replied immediately, turning her cup around which had been placed on the table upside down.
The waitress filled it quickly, the mild scent of the coffee spreading out all around the table.
"For you, too?" She turned to John, who answered her look with a friendly smile. She smiled back at him and poured the coffee into his cup.
At this exchange, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, while Mrs Hudson seemed to observe it with delight. It was always the same with those two. Annoying. How could they find joy in primitive actions like that? He snorted, crossing his arms even tighter.
As the waitress turned to him, he snatched his cup away from her, calling her off with a simple, harsh "No."
The young woman hesitated, peeking to John and Mrs Hudson for help, but they just shook their heads, asking her to forgive their friend for his behaviour.
"That was rude again," John reminded him, after the waitress had left. "You could have at least looked at her."
"Oh, the way you did, I suppose? People from three tables away could witness you ogling at her with salvia dripping from your mouth. But my prediction is: you and her wouldn't work out any better than you and any other woman before." Having made his position clear, Sherlock kept on staring at the ceiling.
John simply sighed, not really surprised, not really offended. In fact, Sherlock was just proving him right. But then again, he didn't intend to let Sherlock ruin his nice, well-earned, delicious Sunday brunch. "You're acting like a little kid," John hissed. "In fact, you're just jealous, that's why you're being so grumpy about this."
"Ha!" Sherlock shook his head, ready to throw back a snarky retort, when Mrs Hudson cut him off lifting her finger.
"You know, I do think the two of you should get married soon," she said with a serious face.
Pondering if the landlady had really meant what she'd just said, Sherlock and John both stared at her in disbelief, until she added, "well, of course! There are so many nice girls out there, after all."
"Oh, Mrs Hudson!" both exclaimed in unison.
"What?" She felt insulted by their behaviour. "I'm sure that would help keeping the flat just a little bit tidier. Take Sarah Sawyer for instance. She was a sweet angel. And as for you, Sherlock, I'm sure that Molly Hooper would be the perfect choice."
Sherlock gave her a bittersweet smile. "Why don't you go over there, Mrs Hudson, and check out the delicious buffet, hm? Isn't that why we came here in the first place?"
"Yeah, let's go, Mrs Hudson," John suggested, taking his plate. "Who cares what's gotten into him. We should just leave him sitting there all by himself. That's the way he wants it."
"Very true," Sherlock called after them, crossing his arms. He would sit here and wait, because like all Sunday brunches, even this one would end eventually.
"Is everything alright with your hip, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, when he met her again at the buffet. He had decided to start with cereals, toast and marmalade. "I could have brought something along for you."
"Oh, thanks, dear, but I'm fine." She patted his shoulder. "Have you tried the croissants, yet?"
"No, but I intend to."
The food had been arranged on several tables and chillers in a separated round area of the large room. Hundreds of small lamps had been illuminated right above the food to make everything look bright and even more delicious. They offered anything you could wish for breakfast: toast and bread, fruit, puddings and desserts, a variety of marmalades, sandwiches, ham and cheese, as well as international specialties like croissants, buns and ciabattas, even ice-cream. In the middle of the buffet, there was a bearded cook wearing a clichéd white chef's hat frying eggs and sausages.
When John arrived back at the table, Mrs Hudson had already started eating. He looked at her plate, curious. "Oh, where did you get the smoked salmon from?"
"They serve it in the corner back there," Mrs Hudson pointed at the buffet. "Do you want me to show you?"
"Oh, no, thanks. I'm waiting for the roast beef, anyway. Or do they already serve it in that corner I missed, as well?"
"No, I haven't seen any roast beef yet. But I'm sure they'll serve it later when the people have finished their breakfast."
"Are you sure you don't want anything, Sherlock?" John asked after a while, chewing.
Sherlock didn't even look back at him. "Besides going home? No."
"Well," John shrugged, "if you hate having brunch that much, you should have just stayed there in the first place."
"Oh dear, I don't believe it!" Mrs Hudson suddenly interrupted, dropping her toast.
"What is it?" John looked up.
"Over there, at the table!" Mrs Hudson pointed past John, whispering. "That's Olivia Salisbury, if I'm not mistaken! She went to school with me!"
Sherlock snorted quietly, indicating that he was about to toss off a snarky remark, but since neither John nor Mrs Hudson minded him, he kept silent.
John turned around and peeked over his shoulder inconspicuously, then he went back to his cereals. "And who's that guy sitting with her?"
"Geez, if I only knew!" Mrs Hudson whispered, all of a sudden very focussed. "He's so young and handsome…" She put her hand over her mouth. "A young lover! Aw, but she's such an old hag! That poor boy!"
"He doesn't seem to mind," John noticed. "Or maybe he's just her son."
"Olivia only has a daughter," Mrs Hudson continued. "She must be paying him…"
"Well, it's not unusual for a wealthy woman nowadays to have a much younger boyfriend," John mused while buttering a slice of toast. "And besides-"
Before he could finish his sentence, Mrs Hudson cut him off with sudden excitement. "Holy Moley!"
"What?" John turned around again.
"He's offering her an engagement ring!"
"Seriously?"
"I think so! I can't believe it!"
"Oh God, this is so exciting!" Sherlock suddenly burst out, his voice altered ironically. "It's so romantic! The young, good-looking prince is proposing to his ancient mistress!" His voice went back to normal. "If you would just stop obsessing over that like a bunch of schoolgirls, you'd realize that he – obviously – cannot be her lover or any other kind of romantic involvement."
Immediately, John and Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock, waiting eagerly for his explanation. Sherlock, however, hesitated. Was that some kind of trick to cheer him up, somehow? No, he would never fall for such a simple ploy.
"Come on," John said, however, with a wink. "I know you wanna spit it out."
Sherlock swallowed. Like hell he wanted to! "His suit," he began, talking fast, "expensive, clean, fancy. On the other hand, her dress – pretty, but ordinary. She didn't spend as much time thinking about what to wear to this special occasion as he did. Meaning, this Sunday brunch means more to him than to her, which would also explain his subtle, yet clearly noticeable restless leg. He's anxious, she's totally relaxed. Clearly, this is not the behaviour of an elderly woman trying to impress her young lover. Next – her handbag. Too small and too flat to contain a wallet. She didn't bring any money. On the other hand, he's keeping his wallet in his pocket, indicating he's the one paying for the brunch. Conclusion – he invited her, not the other way around, meaning no romantic attachment, since he is clearly planning on proposing to someone else with this ring, but the size of it would hardly fit on Mrs Salisbury's plump fingers. He wanted her opinion on it, indicated by the many times he looks up to her while talking, begging for her affirmation. Now, who would want to know an old lady's opinion on an engagement ring? Not a stranger, obviously, so he has to be either someone who's close to her or who's in love with someone she is close to. My God, all of it is so obvious. But please don't mind me. In fact, go on gossiping about them. It would only be fair, since – after all – it's what they're doing right now about you, Mrs Hudson, as you're here with not only one but two men half your age."
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson looked at him, offended. "I'm not seventy, yet, you know!" But then she turned to peek back at Olivia Salisbury, just to catch her companion look away from them. "You're right…" she whispered back to Sherlock. "They are talking about us! And all that other things you said-"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, staring intensely at the table of Mrs Salisbury and her companion. "The only thing left to find out is whether he's a nephew or maybe her daughter's boyfriend. I need a new clue for that."
Immediately, John and Mrs Hudson turned around. Everyone was now staring at the man opposite Mrs Salisbury, eying every slightest movement, every slightest twitch of his face. There had to be something to betray him! And each one of them suddenly wanted to be the one to find it.
Then, after seconds of no movement, the young man put the ring back into his pocket, then pulled out a handkerchief to blow his nose and finally took a sip from his coffee cup.
"Daughter's boyfriend," Sherlock announced at once.
"Sherlock, wow!" John shook his head in disbelief. "That was so amazing."
"You read that just from the way he held his cup?" Mrs Hudson wanted to know, excited.
"No," Sherlock pointed at the door, "his girlfriend arrived."
There was a young woman waving at the man as she came across the room towards their table. Mrs Salisbury turned around and hugged her dearly, while the man got up from his chair, hugged her afterwards and kissed her. Then she sat down with them and they started talking merrily. The waitress welcomed them after a while and served them coffee.
Then the three of them got up to go to the buffet. When they passed Mrs Hudson's table, Mrs Salisbury clapped her hands in surprise to see her old friend again, both women ignoring the fact that they had already been gossiping about each other minutes ago.
"Matha, what a surprise!" Mrs Salisbury's voice sounded as if she was singing.
"Olivia! How do you do?"
They both hugged and John ate his toast, while Sherlock watched the reunion with curiosity. The women exchanged a bit of chitchat, until Mrs Salisbury introduced her daughter Lara and her fiancé Adam.
Sherlock's mouth formed a smug smile. His deductions had been perfect – once again!
The happy couple then went on to the buffet, but Mrs Salisbury didn't stop talking, not even as – after almost ten minutes – her daughter's fiancé Adam came back to her with a shocked face.
"Olivia," he said, looking shattered, "something horrible has happened! I think I lost the ring."
"You lost the ring?" Mrs Salisbury became pale. "When, where? Oh dear…"
"I don't know!" Adam shook his head. "I was just about to propose to her, then I realized it was gone! What do I do now?"
The young man was about to freak out, looking helplessly at Mrs Salisbury and Mrs Hudson, when suddenly John cleared his throat and said, "just try to calm down. We'll help you search for the ring. Don't worry, we'll find it. Just go back to your fiancée, okay?"
"John is right," Mrs Hudson said with a nod. "Leave it to us, we'll bring the ring back to you. Just make sure Lara doesn't get wind of it!"
"Oh, thanks so much!" Adam said with a sigh. "If you found the ring for me, I would be eternally grateful!"
"Thank you, Martha, and you too, Mr Watson," Mrs Salisbury said with a serious face. "Come, Adam, Lara's waiting for us!"
They both left and John hustled the last bit of his toast down his throat. "Well, that can't be too difficult. He clearly had the ring back at the table, so he must have lost it somewhere between the table and the buffet." He slid back with his chair. "I'll go take a look."
"The ring was not lost, it was stolen," Sherlock suddenly burst out, making John freeze before he could get up. "God, it's such a shame you can't get any brain for take-away at the buffet. Even you two watched him put the ring back into the right pocket of his jacket! After that, he pulled out a handkerchief, yes, but – as we all remember correctly – he had it in his left pocket, and put it back into the same one, which means, the ring cannot have fallen out accidentally during that. Now, assuming the pocket of his jacket doesn't have a hole somewhere and assuming he didn't do a handstand while waiting for his sausages at the buffet, there is no other reasonable possibility than another person navigating their hand into his pocket and removing the ring without him noticing." Sherlock's voice was about to crack when he shot the words at them like a salve of a machine gun. Then he paused and grabbed a cup of coffee from the table, taking a deep energizing swallow.
"Hey!" John objected, but it was too late. "That was my cup!"
A bit startled, Sherlock took a closer look at the cup, then put it back in front of John. "Sorry!" he said, getting up and took his plate into his hands.
"Wait, I thought you didn't want anything to eat?" John called after him as Sherlock rushed towards the buffet.
The detective turned around with sudden excitement in his eyes. "I just got hungry!"
Driven by sudden excitement, Sherlock felt a new kind of energy electrifying his blood. It made the dark clouds go away, that had been depressing his spirit from the moment he had set foot in this building. Now, everything was bright and clearly visible to him, every single detail, every little clue.
He stopped in the middle of the buffet area, his plate still clutched with both his hands, his eyes soaking up all the information he could get.
His eyes stopped at the cook in the middle of the room. Dark hair, considerable tan – Mediterranean type. Still, fluent in English. Has been living in London for ten, maybe fifteen years. The label on his hat, clearly visible above his ear 'Gastronomia'. Spanish. The hat has been bought in Spain. Unlikely that he bought it himself – he would have just bought it around the corner. A present, more likely, probably sent to him by his family living back in Spain. They sent him a chef's hat rather than a personal present – meaning they're more interested in his job here in London than the actual person himself. He probably supports them financially. Result: he doesn't get to keep his entire salary. Could be needing all the extra money he can get. Anyway, considerable skill roasting the sausages; quick, controlled movements – cooking skills above average. Oh, yes.
The smell of roasted sausages wafted up his nose, spicy, hot, delicious.
No! He had to focus.
His eyes moved on to an elderly baker, who was just refilling the baskets with fresh bread, slices of toast and other pastries.
Her hair was the first thing he noticed. Short, curly hair. Naturally grey, but dyed blonde. She uses hair rollers, wears mascara and lipstick – cares about her looks. Probably has lots of friends and acquaintances – she's worried they could come here as guests and accidentally see her not perfectly styled. Okay, let's make that 'lots of shallow friends and acquaintances'. She's just a baker, which means her salary may be even smaller than the cook's, which means, she probably fancies all the nice jewellery her guests wear because she can't afford them herself but would love to, in order to make a good impression on her 'friends'. All that fits together with the way she refills the baskets – inattentively, more focused on her surroundings than the croissants…
Oh, the croissants . They really did look delicious, their colour so golden brown, perfectly shaped as crispy u's… Sherlock's stomach started to growl. Yeah, right, he hadn't eaten anything yet. For a short moment, Sherlock hesitated. Geez, to hell with it! What harm could it do to take one single croissant? Anyway, he was paying ridiculous eighty pounds for this brunch buffet, so at the very least he would be allowed to take one tiny little croissant, right?
The baker put the empty basket away and went on to the desserts. Sherlock realized the way she walked. Obviously, she – oh, isn't that yoghurt with fruit?
Sherlock whistled merrily as he waited for the toasts to pop out of the toaster.
"So, have you found out anything, yet?"
Sherlock turned around just to notice John and Mrs Hudson standing next to him.
John immediately noticed the pastries, sausages and desserts piled up on Sherlock's plate. "Wow, you really weren't kidding about the hungry part!"
"Well, I was just…" Sherlock stammered, angry that he let himself be caught by John. "I already know who the culprit is, so I had some spare time."
"Yeah, sure," John replied ironically. "Well, while you were busy… 'investigating', I've made my own observations," he announced, "and that way I've found out who the culprit is: the baker!"
Mrs Hudson nodded contently.
"Really?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"Oh, geez, think! It's so obvious!" he snapped, imitating Sherlock. "Let's start with the things she's wearing. Her shoes. Recently cleaned and polished, yes, but when she walks around, you can see that the sole is pretty worn out. She wants to look neat, but doesn't have the money. Same with her necklace and the earrings. Costume jewellery. Very cheap. Then, her make-up. Slightly smeared under her eyes. She's sweating while baking, but the make-up she's wearing isn't water-proof. Again, because she buys the cheap stuff and doesn't have a lot of money to spend in general. Of all the people around here, she, the one who seems to care most about appearances, is actually the poorest person in this hotel."
"Wow, John, I'm impressed," Sherlock praised, "perfect deduction. You just got one tiny little thing wrong."
John sighed. Of course. Sherlock just could have never let him enjoy his victory. "So, what was wrong about it, then?"
"Well, admittedly, most of it, but still, awesome job, John!" Without reacting to John's frustrated face, Sherlock continued, "Judging from the way the ring has been stolen, stealthy and professionally, we can assume that it hasn't been the first time our culprit has felt compelled to rid their clients of their belongings. Now, no one wears twenty rings at the same time, so it's safe to assume the culprit has already sold parts of their stolen goods on the black market. We are therefore not looking for the shabbiest looking person-"
"But for the richest of them!" John concluded, much to Sherlock's delight. And immediately, the solution was obvious: "The waitress!"
Immediately, the three of them turned around to look for the young woman, just to find her at the juice squeezer, helping a guest with some oranges.
"Well," Sherlock said, dragging John and Mrs Hudson with him, "I think it's finally time for you to do what you're best at, John!"
"What? You want me to come on to her?"
"I want you to distract her!"
"Great, that's all I'm good for!"
Sherlock hesitatingly shrugged, then pushed John towards the waitress, while occupying the juice squeezer himself.
"Oh, hey," John started with a slightly embarrassed laugh, as he'd almost bumped into the young woman. "Sorry!"
"Don't worry," she replied with a smile. A beautiful smile, indeed. Alright, so there were worse jobs than this one, after all, admittedly. "Do you want to get some fresh orange juice?" She turned around to the machine, so that Sherlock quickly started fumbling around with the controls, giving her an excusing look.
"Oh, no, thanks," John immediately replied to distract her from Sherlock. "Actually, I was just…" he blinked, "Mrs Hudson!"
There was a hand coming up from underneath the table the juice squeezer was on, stealthily sliding into the waitress' pocket and back out.
"What?" The waitress looked at John, confused. "You are just Mrs Hudson?"
"Got it!" Mrs Hudson whispered from underneath the table, signalling an OK with her fingers.
"Uhm, I…" John stared back her, then at the waitress, his mouth wide open in disbelief. Slowly he realised what had just happened. They had made it! In some weird mrs-hudson-crawls-around-underneath-the-tables-and-saves-the-day-way, they had made it! Actually, when he thought about it, it was pretty funny. He blinked and smiled at the waitress. "Nice hair, by the way!" he said with a grind and turned around. „Goodbye!"
Without any further moments of hesitation, John and Sherlock walked across the buffet area back to the tables, after a few steps being joined by Mrs Hudson who was holding Adam's ring in her hands. And all of them had smiles on their faces.
"Awesome job, Mrs Hudson," John whispered, still impressed by her sudden initiative.
The landlady giggled. "I'll accompany you on your next case."
"Ha!" Sherlock and John both laughed out at the same time, then Sherlock winked at her warmly. "Oh, my dear Mrs Hudson. We would never dare to keep you from your important work as our housekeeper."
"Oh, Sherlock, stop it!" she replied, shaking her head. "Charming me won't work, either!"
"It was worth a try, right, Sherlock?" John added with a chuckle.
"We'll never stop trying."
They had almost reached their table, when Sherlock paused for a short moment. He looked around, feeling his own presence in the room, and the presence of an old memory. The clatter of forks and spoons on plates and cups could be heard all around him.
It was a Sunday brunch and he was standing in the middle of the room, silent, yes, but not alone.
"John!" Sherlock had returned with bacon and jammed eggs on his plate. "They're serving the roast beef now, you should hurry. There's already a queue."
"Seriously?" John turned around, getting up at the same time. "Should I bring some for you, too, Mrs Hudson?"
"Oh dear, that would be lovely," Mrs Hudson replied, dabbing her lips with the napkin.
"Sherlock?" John offered.
Sherlock looked at him pausing in the middle of his movement to wait for Sherlock's reply, his eyes attentive and yet, in a way that moved Sherlock's heart, warm and friendly. "Yes, please."
John nodded quickly, then rushed off to get the best pieces for himself and his friends.
Sherlock watched him run off and a strange comfortableness settled inside him. Where his heart had been so light before, it started to feel heavy now, and although that seemed to evoke a melancholic feeling of sadness as well, it made him happy and content at the same time. With John and Mrs Hudson, he felt welcome, appreciated and liked.
He sat down at the table and started eating while Mrs Hudson peeled an egg onto the saucer. Content, he took a deep swallow from one of the coffee cups, this time carefully avoiding the one he had accidentally grabbed before.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson interrupted immediately, "you've taken John's cup again!"
"What?" Sherlock stared at the cups. "No, that one is John's! I memorized it on purpose!"
"He switched the cups after you drank from his and took the one that had originally been yours."
"Oh, John!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, putting the cup in his hands back to John's place. With an apologetic grin he looked back at Mrs Hudson. "Don't tell him!"
"Of course, I won't," Mrs Hudson replied with a forgiving smile. "You know, Sherlock, it's nice that you came along, after all," she said with a knowing sigh.
A quick smile crossed Sherlock's face. "I agree, Mrs Hudson, I agree."
It was one of those Sunday brunches, but together with his family, it wasn't so bad after all.
Like all Sunday brunches, even this one ended eventually, but – Sherlock had to admit with a smile – he was actually quite sad about that.