- 4 -
The next morning, Mrs. Hudson went over to Marie's, to talk.
They watched the second half (on a tape; Marie had only begun recording when Martha had implored it of her) of the first episode of Sherlock three more times, pausing and talking about each thing they found interesting.
Neither of them could make heads or tails of the matter. So they decided to stop turning over the hows and whys and wherefores and just accept that Sherlock had pulled some elaborate trick of some sort on them, because the thing was so unbelievable that if God wasn't involved (which he couldn't be; why would he concern himself with this kind of tomfoolery?), Sherlock was the next best thing.
He must have been trying out some new spy technology and gotten a bit carried away with the results. And sent it to their televisions remotely. And it was easy enough to make a few web-pages, of course.
Moreover, Mrs. Hudson could attest that the man was prone to first-degree boredom, and that the thing might have been inspired by a fit of wondering about whether or not someone could be conceivably convinced that their life was a bit role on a television show.
Heaven knows some murders must have been committed by people - deranged actors a la All About Eve? - who believed they were just acting out a script!
Just because it was both of them, Martha and Marie, meant nothing, of course; Sherlock was smart enough to know that Mrs. Hudson would confer with her friend.
So it all must have just been an experiment on them.
Having reached this conclusion, Mrs. Hudson was filled with indignant anger, but she was also more than a little excited.
Was Sherlock filming them right now, having this conversation?
Probably not, they decided; it seemed that Mrs. Hudson's role in the show was, at least for the moment, limited to when she interacted with Sherlock.
So if she went upstairs right about now...
Quickly, as they were seized with inspiration and were very aware that the boys could potentially leave the house at the drop of a hat, Mrs. Hudson and Marie tossed some day-old muffins in the microwave, plated them with a pot of tea at their side, and they went back next door to 221.
They shushed their giggles at the base of the stairs and ascended, noisy in a normal way, talking exhaustively about remodeling work.
And they knocked. And waited.
And John opened the door, bleary-eyed and donned in rumpled pyjamas.
"Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner," he greeted each of them in turn, as bumbly and disoriented as a newborn fawn, and they pushed past him, nearly making him topple on his newly-awake legs.
"We brought you a spot of breakfast, since you were out so late." Mrs. Hudson deposited the tray on the counter, which John seemed to be in the process of clearing anyhow to make himself a pot of tea.
"Not because I'm your housekeeper, mind. Also, I want to show Marie the molding that I want redone, if it won't be a bother. Her brother might be able to do it."
"If it's too fucking lovely, though, I'm afraid I will have to suggest a professional to work on it," added Marie pleasantly.
"Oh...that's nice of you?" said John, a bit confused but not that much; Mrs. Hudson came in to tidy things up and bring them breakfast rather more frequently than most landladies did, but she was a friend. "Thanks."
He poured himself a cuppa and buttered a muffin numbly, eating it standing and gazing out the window at the morning sunshine, dulled by clouds.
"Mind the rubbish," said Mrs. Hudson, a woman on a mission, and she was moving the armchair over so that she could reach the curtain-rod in the living room.
She paid not the least attention to Sherlock, who was a huddled heap on the couch, fetally curled and hiding his head under four pillows.