II.
"A bit of a domestic this morning, dear?" she said to Sherlock's back (having a pout on the couch, clearly) as she made her way into the kitchen and pushed her bags onto the table, clearing a bit of a space.
The sound of clinking glass brought Sherlock upright. "What are you-oh." Seeing she wasn't trying to clean things, he flopped back down on the couch. Then sat up. "Domestic?"
"A bicker, a scrap, a row, a quarrel...you and John had a bit of a fight, then?"
"A fight? A disagreement." Sherlock stood, stepping over the coffee table on his way to the window, his dressing gown trailing behind him the same way that coat of his did when he walked about outside. "Did you see him leave?" He looked sideways out the window-as if trying to catch sight of the doctor before he turned the corner.
Such drama. "Yes, he almost knocked me over on his way out. Didn't even offer to help me with the groceries. So unlike him." She opened the icebox, prepared for the worst, but was confronted only by several jars of fingers and toes floating in liquid. At least they were sealed up-Sherlock often left bits just sitting out on plates. She nudged the jars to the back of the shelf with the tips of her fingers and began to put away the milk and jam and eggs. "He's normally so polite." She sighed.
Sherlock snorted and turned away from the window. "Polite-of course he's the type to be polite to nosy old ladies."
"He is," she agreed, unperturbed. Years of his barbs, which she realized were his only way of expressing affection (not being a fool, no, not Mrs. Hudson), had created a thick skin. Mostly they bounced right off her and back to him, where they stuck, leaving him to feel terrible about how he treated her. He hid it well, but she knew. After assuring her good-for-nothing husband rotted in prison, Sherlock had not disappeared from her life, but remained constant even before he moved into 221B, showing up now and again to sit at her kitchen table, eat her biscuits and comment on her lack of taste in men. But at least she knew when her gentlemen friends were being less than forthcoming about their lives or habits or marital status-Sherlock always made sure she knew. Not necessarily kindly, mind you. But it is the little things.
The groceries stored, she folded her shopping bags and put them under her arm-but had no intention of leaving just yet. "So," she said. "This nosy old lady would love to know what the latest row was over. I don't see a head on a plate in the icebox, I didn't hear any explosions this morning, there's still a bit of milk leftover from the last quart I brought, and you weren't up at all hours playing that dratted violin. Oh, yes, I hear it all," she said to his shocked and almost sheepish expression. "The violin doesn't bother me a bit, bless you, it puts me right to sleep-but the fighting that follows! That's another kettle of stew."
Uninvited, Mrs. Hudson sat down in John's armchair-after brushing it clear of crumbs-and set her bags on the floor. "Sit down, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something rude, but the old lady held up her hand and looked very stern. "You are going to listen to me or I am going to have to evict you both-which would make me upset to have to do, and I know you don't want me to be upset, so you are going to sit down and listen to me right now young man!" She snapped the last sentence out like a drill sergeant whipping a recalcitrant private into shape.
Sherlock sat, his mouth opening and closing in surprise.
"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Hudson picked up one of her own biscuits from a plate by John's chair a nibbled it. "And close your mouth. You look like a fish."