14. Mrs Hudson is brilliant

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Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat for breakfast in 221B's small kitchen. They were getting up late, exhausted from a night of racing after art forgerers in Tate Modern. The expert criminals had had an inside man to disconnect the alarm system and the cameras, allowing them to explore the vault-like deposits of the museum. John had the common sense to point out that they were hardly connoisseurs of artistic paintings. Sherlock muttered something about an art-related entry on his blog. Thus proving at least one of them was familiar with some type of art. John shrugged his shoulders. They left it at that, before the detective could pout again about the 135 perfumes profiles, or the 243 types of tobacco ash. Apparently there was a new entry about five non-invasive methods of identifying Parisian blue pigment in older paintings. And that alone, John expected, explained the new state of 221B's kitchen.

'Blue again, Sherlock? You realize you're repeating yourself?' John asked casually, getting some bread on the toaster.

The consulting detective allowed himself a half-smirk.

'I was bored again', he played along.

'Too bad those art thieves got away last night.'

Sherlock agreed gloomily and sipped some coffee in hope that John would skip the usual nagging about general nutrition and the importance of breakfast.

Before John could fuss, though, that one step on the beginning of the stairs creaked heavily, followed by uneasy silence. Sherlock and John crossed gazes.

'Not another break-in', John sighed. 'I thought Mycroft was on this, Sherlock.'

They were talking in whispers, trying to keep track of further footsteps.

'He must have got side-tracked with cake', Sherlock snapped, unfriendly. 'Good thing is we don't need to search for the thieves anymore, they came to us.'

'My gun is downstairs', John lamented.

'What's the use of a gun if you never carry it?'

'I was just sleeping on the sofa. Do you really think I'd sleep with a gun behind my back?'

'It wouldn't be the first time', Sherlock shrugged.

'No, but it's downright uncomfortable, Sherlock', John smiled back dangerously. 'What's our plan, Sherlock?'

'Don't worry, John, it's under control.'

All the lights went off in 221B at the same time. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. Amateurs.

'Hands in the air! Get up slowly, no tricks!'

John glanced at Sherlock to see him already complying. With less enthusiasm he copied the gestures.

The armed man – who happened to be the head of the art thieves they had been chasing all over Tate – gestured to the stairs. Sherlock got up and walked ahead first, giving the man a dangerous measuring stare as they past each other. John followed right behind.

As soon as they reached the end of the steps, Sherlock halted, though. Looking over his shoulder he recommended: 'You might want to raise your hands, Price.'

'And why would I do that?'

'Because of the gun behind you.'

Both Price and John looked back at the open door of 221A, where Mrs Hudson stood calmly with John's gun in her hand, pointing at the thief and frowning her face as if she was watching some boyish mischief at play.

Price raised his hands, stunned, after handing over his gun. Sherlock took the chance to grab some handcuffs from his coat pocket and restrained the man to the banister.

As Mrs Hudson lowered the gun at last, John offered her sweetly: 'Mrs H, you are brilliant.'

Then he turned back to Sherlock and his smile fell.

'You knew they were coming all along?' John asked in a demanding voice, his ears turning red.

'Yes, of course, John.'

'And you didn't tell me a thing?'

'You were perfectly safe, John, I kept a vigil all night so you could sleep.'

'You were sleeping too, Sherlock.'

'Only for two hours. I knew for sure they'd take at least a couple of hours to define a new plan. As it turned out, they were remarkably slow.'

'Why didn't you tell me? I didn't even have my gun! I was asleep when you thought they'd be coming after us! Even Mrs H was...' he glanced at the old lady with his gun still in her hand and froze, unsure. Mrs Hudson was certainly not looking vulnerable in his mind right now.

'I knew I could trust you both, and you needed to rest, John.'

John tightened his jaw. 'You don't get to do this, Sherlock. Convince me you were keeping me out of the loop out of kindness.'

Sherlock frowned, but didn't say one more word. Last major times he had kept John out of the loop included St. Bart's rooftop phone call and an underground carriage full of explosives. John still wasn't happy about those either.

'Mrs Hudson', Sherlock invited kindly, 'care to come up? We were just having breakfast upstairs.'

She looked from Sherlock to John, understanding. 'Be right up in a second dear. Just need to get me a washcloth.'

'A washcloth?' John repeated, blinking. Washcloths and breakfast. Business as usual.

'Yes, dear, and some gun oil. I'll give you back your gun nice and clean in a jiffy. I can tell it's been fired last night.'

'Nice and clean?' he whispered.

'Of course, John, but just this once. Not your housekeeper, remember?'

John looked from Mrs H to Sherlock before erupting in an unstoppable giggle. Sherlock was looking at them with a broad smile.

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Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.