"Boys!" Mrs Hudson shrieked, cowering in a dignified way that only Mrs Hudson could.
Sherlock burst through with a specifically sized riding crop just long enough to cover the end of his hand to his elbow. It can only broaden the imagination to think of the reason.
The source of distress for Mrs Hudson had to be serious for a woman of her intergrity and grace to ask nothing of the men of 221b. In any case, the spider that was cycling the floor as if caught in a washing machine was more than a valid reason.
Sherlock having been torn away from a particularly intense confrontation and attempt to dissect the anatomy and validicity of a phone wire not holding back from literally hurling himself holding only onto John who had been attempting to pull him back who had dropped his cup of tea and pieces of china had spilt on the floor, Sherlock's toe balancing on the window sill.
The scream/queen bee demand had the hive scurrying to attend to her bidding. Though, Sherlock did plummet from the window and land on the pavement below. Seemingly unscathed. Though with Sherlock you can never be sure. Fingers stuck to hair John thrust his head through the window which might as well be fixed by super glue because they never did leave.
He battled with the window, heavings upwards, downwards, sidewards, every possible angle-wards to prise it open without success so he extend the limited view of Sherlock's death waiting to happen. Although he wouldn't be suprised if Sherlock was the grim reaper himself; he certainly had the stance for it. Stumbling like a moth in light, he blotted out John's insults. He'd never win a game of scrabble, Sherlock retorted mentally. It was a very nice thought. He was still sore from the endless Cluedo losses.
Sherlock reentered the building, dotting his finger marks along the plaster line and wiping it with a steady, poised thumb as he crossed into Mrs Hudson's flowered lare of exceedingly bright and war veteran physciche. It must be why John and Mrs Hudson get along so well; their interests crossed quite fittingly.
John Watson had already sprung to the kitchen and he was using a jam jar resting his weight on one knee, head cocked to the side and his black cardigan pushed back from his forearms exposing the thin and light hair of his arms and leather watch. Sherlock used the fridge to lean on (Lean being a loose term; for Sherlock only supports himself, and quite rightly.) to entertain how the situation would resolve.
Mrs Hudson hadn't leapt upon a chair like a conventional housewife. She had set her limits higher. She was so light and frail that she was sat without harm on the top of the highest cupboard her white tighted legs and size 4 shoes dangling over. Her hands that she often pretended had simply wrinkled from a luxiourous bath hadn't disappeared yet so she "Can feel younger, John dear." clinging harshly the the edges but her legs were crossed and she was sat as if she was just taking a rest instead of hiding from the mortal threat of a spider climbing up her dress.
John concentrated. He could pass as animal rights activist and in his mind, maybe he is. Fondly he coaxed the glass closer to the spider. It wriggled as if to say "Buddy, look. My plans were purely innocent."
John's lips pursed sucking on his bottom lip as he came closer and closer to the spider, now on two knees.
He inched further.
Closer and closer-
until he was just they were almost engaging in eye contact, a staring contest of a sort,
In came the jam jar edging around like a child was moving a toy train across a toy raill line.
Almost there,
Just a little nudge,
Mrs Hudson almost weeping for joy,
Barely space between the spider and the jar,
Sherlock let out a full bellied roar of laughter. The spider sprang upwards into John's face and he flew backwards into the fridge where Sherlock was making throatal sounds of amusement that came from very dark and rural places in London, heard in the pipes and whirl of taxi wheels upon curbs. The jar flew into the kitchen table and smashed in two. The shock making Mrs Hudson fall very oblivious from the top of the kitchen.
In a fraction of a millisecond John catapulted to the other side of the kitchen. He caught her just as she was about to hit the ground, his arms acting as a trampoline and a parachute for her needs.
Dazed, Mrs Hudson spoke out as if she needed glasses and was looking out through mist. Overall she sounded chippy. "That was close wasn't it John, dear?"
John's mouth was an expressive O shape. Not an 'oh' O a 'Oh my fucking god you utter fucking moron.' O. He shot it like an arrow at Sherlock who seemed as if the whole ordeal had simply distracted him from other things.
Mrs Hudson gathered her mentality. Her forgiving nature swaying not even once, as if nothing had happened. She was extremely pleased to hear Sherlock's rare laughter. "Oh Sherlock you naughty, naughty boy."
John on the other hand, believed there was a time and place for laughter. None which Sherlock ever chose.
Sherlock's tone was fond.(Sickly and irrelevant to John.) "Mrs Hudson, the magnificent flying housekeeper class act. Critically acclaimed yet unmistakably beautiful."
John rose and he set Mrs Hudson down on one of the chairs at the table. As soon as he guranteed her safety, checked for a concussion or even such as a graze on her. He walked straight up to the fridge and pressed his finger straight into Sherlock's chest causing him to loose footing and fall back into the fridge.
Sherlock's lip turned in the proximity that John had managed to claim. Why always was that? His eyes took a detour to John's eyes that were speckled with blonde. Odd. Always odd. The anger that dwelled there. Not odd. Very John. He should know. Very John is his expertise.
John pressed his finger into Sherlock again, more forceful this time. Pulling it back and using the force of both his hands to slam him into the fridge again, umimpressed with his actions.
"Do you have a heart in there?" implored John, awaiting an answer in a seething fashion.
He wasn't sure why he was asking that question. Obviously being a medical man every being had a heart. If not for that knowledge he certainly wouldn't have made it into play- school: nurses and doctors club when he was four let alone a humbling university. And of course, he knew more than anyone the heart he always saw beat gold underneath Sherlock's clothing but cunt actions like these made him reconsider.
"John, the way in which you approached that spider was like walking in on Anderson naked. It was too humourous that my physical reactions were too strong for me. It's something I always working on to remove any idea to any thing that I am thinking for me and myself only-"
"You've seen Anderson naked? My god, Sherlock. I hope that was hypothetical."
He frowned. "Partially."
"You mean-"
"Yes."
"Naked- I mean-"
"Yes."
John's hold loosened. He tightened it fiercely collecting himself from a confession section from a tabloid.
"Just..." he puffed outwards the tiredness showing in his face. "...keep it to yourself next time Sherlock, please. Mrs Hudson could have been hurt."
John looked back over at Mrs Hudson who had somehow gotten ahold of his laptop and was puzzling over where to find the '?' key.
Gaping, John moved his attention back onto Sherlock who looked over at Mrs Hudson as if she was his superhuman calling and they were trapped in a marvel movie. John softened, rolling his shoulders slightly and giving way to Sherlock who went over to stand behind Mrs Hudson and rest his hand on her shoulder as she leant in close to the laptop her forehead nearly touching the screen. Sherlock pulled her back gently and she leaned in again, her facial expression baffled by what she was looking at on the screen.
John opened the fridge and brought out a carton of milk and put the kettle on. He landed himself into the chair opposite. Something that hadn't occured to him before, occured to him now.
"How-how did she know my password?"
Sherlock's eyes glinted as Mrs Hudson gazed upwards adoringly at him. It was like a club whose privacy was revealed. Lord knows how many nights while John had fallen onto his bed after crawling in from an exhausting day at training for the surgery and catering domestic goods for the three of them and running around after Sherlock in a wild goose chase had they been spending evenings exploring the inner-most of his files.
Although he preferred his private life remain his own he could forgive the intrusion. Why had he questioned Sherlock's heart? They broke eye contact as Mrs Hudson moved her head to look up at Sherlock again. John's heart swelled like jumper in water and smiled in admiration.
"Oh, where is that lovely, lovely poem we found that John wrote about you, Sherlock dear?"
John's smile fell.