A/N: This chapter could theoretically be part of "Five times John punched Sherlock". I'd call it "And one time Mrs. Hudson did". Enjoy!

For my German readers: You have a beautiful and wonderful country, and I'm so blessed to have had the opportunity to explore it and learn more about your culture. I cannot wait to return!

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

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"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson admonished, "I thought you were more careful, that was my mums's...you clean it up right now young man!"

The gangly detective hadn't moved a muscle, arms held awkwardly in front of him like they were still holding the jar. Like he still was in control when in reality the situation had already slipped through his grasp.

"Today would be nice!" she admonished, thrusting a broom into his hand.

"What am I going to do?" he moaned, closing his eyes. He was crying now, he realized. Again.

"You are going to clean up the mess you made! And crocodile tears aren't going to get you out of it, you aren't the first spoiled child I've dealt with dear!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I can't do this right now. John…" his voice cracked. Damn his blasted transport.

"Excuses will get you nowhere! Get to it!"

"I remembered what I said," he replied, automatically going through the motions of sweeping the glass fragments into a pile.

"And?"

"And…" he didn't want to repeat it. He was so deeply ashamed to have said it even once. But the look Mrs. Hudson gave him left him no choice.

"I called him a sobbing, sentimental, useless, friendless…" his voice had dropped to a whisper. John is never going to forgive me. Ever.

"Finish it, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson had gone quiet as well. Danger, a small part of his brain alerted him. But it was lost underneath the mantra of John what have I done John please John what was I thinking John what have I done John I'm so sorry John...

"Cripple," he spat out between clenched teeth. Dear god how could I have even thought of that? John's in better shape than I am, and a war hero to boot. He hasn't limped in months, his shoulder never bothered him anyway…

He didn't see the slap coming until it was too late. He wouldn't have avoided it though, even if he could have.

"Such language from one of my boys, I am absolutely ashamed, Sherlock! Come here this instant."

Sherlock obeyed, limply.

He had forgotten how disgusting soap tasted.

The flavor didn't improve after five minutes, either.