Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. This is a sequel of sorts to Honeymoon In Croydon, which you should probably read first, though this should do okay as a standalone. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

**ADVENTURES IN THE TEA TRADE**

~ The Best Christmas In Walford, Ever ~

The first time it happens, Mrs. Hudson thinks Sherlock's talking to himself.

After all, he does that quite a bit, even more now that John's married and has a family of his own. Her favourite tenant will yell at the telly, swear, throw things. Sometimes she even hears him practicing, doing accents, and more than once she's walked in on him in costume, trying to perfect a character. But since he's not putting body parts in the fridge or shooting the walls she never interrupts- In fact she never says anything-

Just like his playing the violin, she wants to encourage his less gory pursuits.

And maybe, just maybe, she likes seeing the son she never had enjoy himself in a way which won't endanger him and everyone around him.

And so she never tells him that she notices. In fact, she suspects that even if she did tell him he'd just delete it. But today, as she's dusting outside his door, something just doesn't seem… right about the voice he's doing. For one, Sherlock's tone has gone all funny. She's known him since he was twenty-one, has heard that deep, baritone voice do everything from yelling to whispering and yet she's never heard it sound like this. It's gone all low and gravelly, the words mumbled almost. In fact, the only reason she can hear them at all is that he's clearly standing near the flat's front door. And his accent has gone strange too: Those cut-glass consonants his parents (and his elocution teacher) must have been so proud of are gone, his intonation lengthening and narrowing until it sounds like something from London's East End-

Ah, so that's it, she thinks. He's doing a character.

And he must be thinking of playing an old man or something, considering how breathless he sounds.

Well, she thinks, at least he's not setting anything on fire… I wish every day were this boring…

And so, mystery solved, Martha continues with her dusting. If she thought she'd get away with it, she'd dust inside Sherlock's flat but frankly she'd rather not be yelled at and chased away for interrupting his "creative process," today. So she goes to move away, humming happily to herself. Pleased that at least he's not getting himself into any trouble-

And then the first bang sounds against the flat's door, a dark shape pressing up against its glass panels.

For a second Martha thinks that it must be some sort of assailant- why are people always beating up Sherlock on her property?- but as she turns she realises that the shadow is too small to be a man- Or if it is, he's going to get his arse kicked by someone about nine inches taller than him.

She frowns, takes a step towards the door. If her boy is getting beaten up then she's going to call the police, she doesn't care how shouty he'll get. She reaches for the hall phone, preparing to make the call. She'd ring Greg Lestrade if she had her mobile, but she's not going downstairs to get it: Sherlock could be dead by the time she gets back. She lifts the receiver, listens for the dial tone. She's learned to check, the phone line's been cut before. She reaches out, pressing the nine button as stealthily as she can-

And then suddenly she hears it. Oh Lord, does she.

A sigh. An exhalation of breath- Make that breaths, because there's clearly two of them. The door bangs slightly, as if the small person on the other side of it has been pressed into it again. As if Sherlock's leaning on it with all his weight. The wood groans, protests, and then rocks back on its hinges, before rocking forward again. And again. And again. And again. The movement getting quicker, more urgent, more suggestive with each small motion. Martha creeps forward, frowning, because the slightness of the movement doesn't suggest someone being pulverised- And Lord knows, she wishes she didn't recognise that on sight. And the sounds coming from behind the door don't sound terribly… violent either.

No, no they sound quite happy, actually. Happy and moany and very, very pleased with whatever's going on.

It's all very peculiar.

So she creeps nearer, curiosity and worry warring for supremacy inside her. She's not spying exactly, she tells herself. She's just making sure her tenant is alright-

As she goes through this little piece of self-justification however, she hears something else. A woman's voice. A woman's voice, being low and throaty and, and… Well, she doesn't sound like she's being beaten up in anyway. No, on the contrary, she sound like she's having herself a fine old time. With Martha's favourite tenant. On the other side of that door. In the middle of the day. And him barely back from that holiday with dear little Molly-

Oh, Martha thinks, torn somewhere between being horrified and delighted. Oh, my.

Could it be that my boy's finally gone and gotten over John? With a woman, no less?

I'll have to ring his mum and tell her the good news!

"Like that, princess?" she hears the Not-Sherlock voice ask then (because Martha Hudson will not think about her Sherlock talking like that, he sounds like a common criminal). "Is that what you want, darlin'?" A low, rough chuckle. "Is that what your dear old dad told you we couldn't do?"

And the door presses backwards again on its hinges, as if- As if quite a bit of pressure is being applied to it this time. As if something rhythmic and percussive and quite, well, enjoyable, were being performed against it. Something Martha resolutely will not picture. She won't.

Ahem.

"Yes, just like that," a woman's voice sounds breathlessly through the door, and it's odd but it… It sounds rather posh. Strangely familiar too, but Martha can't place it at all, and she's normally so good with voices. "He said we couldn't," the woman is babbling, "He said I mustn't, not with the help- I have to be a good girl-"

Again Sherlock's voice sounds. "Well, we'll show him, won't we? How good a girl you are?"

And a sharp, staccato rap sounds out with that, as if someone's smacked their foot into the door on the other side. As if two people have.

"Yes." The door rocks on its hinges again. "Oh God yes," the woman's voice sounds, "we will, Christ, we will…"

And she's not a prude but Martha turns bright red at the sheer, passionate longing in that voice. The arousal in it. The emotion. The woman's words trail off into mumbles and curse words, her enjoyment of what's going on obvious through it all. Clearly there's something Martha absolutely should not be listening to going on behind that door and she won't stay a moment more-

So she leaves down the feather duster and walks, quickly and sharply, back towards her own place. She's going to make herself a cuppa and put on the telly nice and loud and not think about what she just heard at all. Not. At. All. She's known Sherlock Holmes since he was barely out of his teens and his mother would be horrified if she knew Martha had listened to what was happening upstairs. They saw enough of that sort of thing when they worked together at the club. And anyway, it's none of her business. She's his landlady, not his parole officer. Or his parent. So really, there's no reason for her to listen at all.

A very sudden, very loud thump sounds upstairs in Sherlock's flat then, almost as if- Almost as if two bodies had landed on the floor together after some great exertion. Or something. But she's not thinking about it. Martha Hudson will not think about it.

And what's it to her if he's putting on funny voices anyway?

So Martha turns the telly on higher and watches Eastenders and refuses to cogitate on what all of this might mean. Or whether her property's being damaged.

She does note the next date that Sherlock looks happier than she's ever seen him- At least outside of a crime scene. And she can tell by the contented look on poor Molly's face that the poor girl has no idea why.

~ You Can Leave Your Hat On ~

The second time it happens, it is entirely by accident.

After all, it's not her fault that Sherlock has left his… accoutrements lying about.

He knows now that she comes in and brings him his tea in the morning, so why he thought she wouldn't find the… incriminating object poking out from under the kitchen table is anyone's guess. I mean really, Martha grouses, I know he says I'm unobservant, but I practically bloody tripped over it. And it's not like she's never seen a riding crop before either, or has no idea what can be done with one if you're into that sort of thing. She grew up in London in the swinging sixties, and most of the clubs she danced in had their fair share of… disciplinary enthusiasts. She knows that Sherlock- like John- doesn't want to think about her ever having had a sex life but come on: It's not like the head of an international drugs cartel would have married her for her baking skills (which are, admittedly, extraordinary).

And yet… She really wishes she hadn't found that riding crop.

Because now she thinks she might know who Sherlock's… practicing his disguises with. She suspects it's that Adler woman who got him into so much trouble a couple of years ago. And it's not that she thinks there's anything wrong with a little role-play- why, if she had a penny for every time she and Mr. Hudson played Gypsy Princess and Barbarian Pillager then she'd be a very wealthy woman. No, it's just that she thinks, what with Sherlock's ability to attract trouble and The Woman's capacity for landing him in it, that he should find someone else to experiment with. Someone nice and reliable, like that lovely Janine girl from John's wedding. Or maybe even little Molly, though she doubts that will ever happen, what with Sherlock's stubborn unwillingness to see the young pathologist in that light, and Molly's heartbreak over her broken engagement-

Even as she thinks this though, Martha hears an odd sound coming from Sherlock's bedroom. It's barely nine- he's never up at this hour of the morning- but she can hear someone pottering about. Whispering in a low, soft voice which sounds entirely female. Laughing lightly, huskily, and Martha knows the sound of a well-satisfied woman when she hears it. She's made it enough times herself. Martha frowns, wondering whether The Woman's in there, and whether she should be investigating if she is. She frowns, unsure of her answer and creeping forward, curiosity getting the better of her… And as she does so two things happen simultaneously.

Firstly, she trips and slams forward, careening headlong into Sherlock's bedroom door and knocking the door open.

And secondly, as she does so, she sees the flash of a very pale, very naked female body disappear into Sherlock's en-suite bathroom with a delicate, girlish cry of, "Eek!" followed by the sound of the bathroom door's lock slamming shut. And then a distinctly muttered, "bugger."

Martha suspects Sherlock would have followed his naked lady friend, except that he's handcuffed to his bed's headboard and is wearing nothing but his deerstalker.

Needless to say, Martha rather wishes he were wearing it atop his head.

A beat.

For a moment tenant and landlady stare at one another, dumb-founded. Both of them wishing they were anywhere but here and both of them painfully aware of their inability to turn tail and flee. Now, Martha Hudson has been through a great deal in her life; She has seen all manner of human folly and debauchery, and it has never stopped her for a moment. She has had knickers, underpants and even rubber duckies thrown at her onstage and she has reacted with aplomb. But the sight of her Sherlock, tied to a bed and clearly engaging in the sort of naughtiness he wouldn't want his Mummy to know about is enough to render her speechless.

It is not, however, enough to wipe the slightly delighted smile from her face- I can't wait to tell his parents! she's thinking- and it's this which apparently shocks Sherlock into speech.

"I have three words for you, Mrs. Hudson," he mutters in his lowest, deadliest voice. The voice most London criminals fear. "This," he says, "Never. Happened."

Martha snorts. "Judging by the state of that hat, dear boy, it merely hasn't happened yet." And she grins happily, her eyes alight with glee as she winks at him.

She really is delighted to see him taking his boy-bits out for a test-drive.

Sherlock sighs like a martyr though. "Alright then: What will it take for this to go away, hmm?" he asks. "To have it never be mentioned again? To Mycroft or John, or, or anyone?" He lifts his chin arrogantly and looks down his nose at her. "Come on, Hudson," he sneers, "name your price-"

Martha looks at him, the possibilities of this scenario presenting themselves. She really could get him to promise anything, she thinks, judging by how red his face has just gone.

So she draws out the moment, lets him stew. Lets him think about all the really terrible things she could ask of him. And then-

She gestures to the bathroom. "If you promise to treat that poor girl in there, whoever she is, well," she says, "and if you promise to at least try to do this whole being human, having a girlfriend thing, then I promise you I will never tell a soul, Sherlock." She crosses her heart playfully with her left hand. "Not a soul."

Except, perhaps, she thinks, Mary. But there's no need to tell him that.

He narrows his eyes at her. "Not even Mummy?" he asks suspiciously.

Martha grins. "Especially not Mummy," she assures him. "There's no polite way to bring this up in our weekly phone-calls."

Sherlock eyeballs her for a moment longer, clearly not convinced, and then he relents. Sighs. "Fine," he snaps. "Deal. I'd shake on it but obviously…" And he shrugs. Gestures to his cuffed hands.

Martha thinks it's slightly… adorable, because though he's embarrassed, he looks a little… smug too. That's my boy, she thinks.

"Don't you worry, dear," she says. "I won't hold it against you. Now would you like your riding crop in from the kitchen?" She beams at him as his face goes bright red. "No? Alright, well, don't get up, I can see you're busy…" Again she winks. "I'll just let myself out…"

And she gets up, makes for the door. As she does so, she hears a snicker of laughter from the bathroom and Sherlock snorts. "Watch yourself, princess," he yells at the bathroom door, but the threat is merely greeted by another peal of laughter, this one warmer. Fonder. It once again reminds Martha of someone she just can't place though she doesn't know why. As she leaves she hears the bathroom door open, catches a flash of pale skin, reddish- brown hair. She notices a woman's fur coat discarded beside the room's door and Martha smiles, pulling the door shut quietly behind her-

She doesn't go near Sherlock's flat for the rest of the week, and she receives no complaints about his lack of tea.

~ Let's Hear It For The Boy ~

Over the next few weeks, she endeavours to stay away from Sherlock and his lady-friend. Especially not when they seem to be getting on with things so well on their own. After all, they don't need her hanging around, giving them pointers (the mental image of Sherlock's face were she to try such a thing does make her laugh to herself for days though).

Instead she continues with her chores, dusting. Cleaning. Pretending she doesn't notice the noises coming from upstairs. The yells. The moans. The occasional requests to borrow her silk scarves and her baby oil, though for what, Sherlock couldn't possibly say. She does, however, continue to check up on Sherlock's bio-hazard of a flat when she thinks he's not out, and she does continue to do his laundry for him. To that end she finds three pairs of women's knickers, another riding crop as well as a flail, two sets of furry handcuffs and a bright blue Elvis-style jumpsuit (made, by the looks of it, for a slimly built man over six foot in height) but she says not a thing-

She doesn't ask and he doesn't tell her, but Sherlock looks very happy with himself indeed, and she believes she knows why.

The only thing that occasionally worries her is the identity of his new girlfriend. She sincerely hopes he hasn't taken up with that Irene Adler again. She doubts that a professional dominatrix would have run and locked herself in Sherlock's bathroom just at the thought of meeting little old her, but still… She's never even seen him be interested in anyone else, except John. And the less said about that, the better. After all, yes, he did steal Molly away from her wedding. And yes, she does sometimes notice him staring at the young pathologist with something which, from another man, might almost be interest. Or lust. But he's Sherlock: He's got a funny brain and a funny attitude and a funny way about him, and he doesn't think of Molly that way. So it must be Adler.

Which is not something she's terribly comfortable with, she just knows it's not her business.

And then, one snowy night, awfully close to Christmas, Martha Hudson realises how wrong she can be-

And why it's probably a good idea that she left Sherlock and his new friend to their own devices.

~ Love Letters, Straight From My Heart ~

The last time it happens, it happens because Martha's nosy.

She knows that Sherlock bought her something for Christmas- his mysterious lady friend talked him into it, he let it slip when returning her back massager- and she wants to know what it is. So to that end she lets herself into his flat and- there's no nice way to say it, so she's honest- she snoops. Pries. Ferrets out. She's no idea where he's hidden it, but she's going to have herself a look and nobody's going to stop her-

Which is why she makes her way into his living room, though it is not why she stops dead.

No, she stops dead because Sherlock is lying on that big, long sofa of his, clearly asleep, and he has his arms…

He has his arms wrapped around a clearly sleeping Molly Hooper.

Wrapped. As if he doesn't want to let her go. As if he's afraid she's going to be pulled away, and Lord but Martha remembers how that feels. There's a fire hissing in the grate and candles burning away to nothing; They wash the flat in flame and ochre, limning the couple golden where they lie. An old-fashioned record player has been set up near the door to Sherlock's bedroom: it's playing Love Letters by Elvis Presley very quietly, the needle hissing and dancing lightly across the vinyl. The low timbre of the singer's voice bringing back all sorts of girlish memories from when Martha was young. Molly's wearing a silly Christmas bow in her hair and no makeup, her little red dress rucked up around her knees while she burrows into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock, on the other hand, is wearing black trousers, a black shirt (no tie) and a white dinner jacket. The remains of a rather impressive quiff are obvious when he moves his head to press an unconscious kiss to Molly's temple and in that moment it occurs to Martha how much he looks like his father when he's trying to be a teddy boy.

His mother would be delighted to know that, but she knows she won't share such information on him.

On the table beside him lie two tickets to Las Vegas- Of course, Martha remembers, they were supposed to be going for a case- and a brochure for an Elvis-themed wedding chapel. As the older woman watches Molly murmurs in her sleep, twists. Wraps her small arms more tightly around Sherlock and smiles to herself, as if even in sleep she is pleased by having him near. For the first time since all this started Martha feels truly like she's intruding so she smiles, brushes the hair back from Sherlock's face and then tiptoes silently away. She can figure out what he got her tomorrow, she thinks, tonight Molly can have him to herself-

She never does find out where he his her Christmas present, but seeing that one moment of peace between him and Molly was the best present he ever could have given her...

Now he just needs to be reminded about babies, Martha thinks as she slips back to her own flat.

After all, he's not getting any younger and neither are his Mummy or I.