If you think Sherlock doesn't sing Schubert's lieder in the shower, well, you're wrong ;).

Martha Hudson was not a fool. She was also not a housekeeper, and yet here she was, taking a basket full of designer socks, pajama pants, and men's boxer briefs out of the dryer and settling down on her sofa to watch telly while she folded. Connie Prince's replacement really could not compare, but it was something to watch, to get her through the tedium of folding Sherlock's undies. She wasn't his housekeeper, but she loved the scoundrel, and if she acted like his housekeeper once in a while to keep him happy, what of it? They both knew the truth. Martha Hudson wasn't doing anything she didn't want to do.

But back to the point, Mrs. Hudson wasn't a fool, and when among the warm socks and t-shirts she encountered a little scrap of floral cotton, a dainty little pair of ladies bikini briefs scattered with roses, she was reasonably sure they were not for a new case Sherlock was working on. She knew they definitively were not her own, though twenty years ago she could have worn something like these. Nor did she have any reason to think that Sherlock had suddenly made a change in his underthings. Despite her initial suspicions about John and Sherlock's living arrangement, John's marriage had effectively put that speculation to rest for good—not that she labored under the delusion that John and Sherlock were a romantic couple for very long after having them under her roof. Besides, everyone knew that Sherlock didn't buy his own underwear. The personal shopper delivered a bag of new underpants, pajamas and the like—nearly always the same colors and brands- every few months or so—on Mycroft's orders, she assumed, as she was never aware of Sherlock shopping for anything other than a fireman's costume or a new set of specimen jars or a curved pirate's cutlass. Sometimes he bought beer for John if the good doctor was angry enough with him, but grocery shopping was different.

Mrs. Hudson held up the panties to the light and considered whether they could belong to one of John's old girlfriends—things did have an odd way of showing up in the wash long after you thought you'd lost them—tangled in the corner of a fitted sheet, scooped into the wash after being left in the corner of the closet. However, John had not lived in 221B in over a year, and even then, the last woman John had up to the flat tended to wear lacey thongs that peeked over the edge of her waistband (Mrs. Hudson had tried not to notice, but some things just drew the eye). Mrs. Hudson approved of these panties. Feminine, pretty, and practical. Not unlike a certain pathologist who was seen coming and going on Baker St. very frequently since Sherlock's recent return from the dead. She smiled as she folded the pants over her knee and gave them a little pat before placing them carefully on top of the basket of folded laundry. No, she wasn't a fool, but if Sherlock wanted to think he was fooling her, well, who was she to embarrass the poor boy with his first foray into love?

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson carefully made her way up the staircase to 221B carrying the basket of clothes. She attempted to knock, she really did, but she didn't want to set the load down only to pick it up again, so she gave the door a little push with the basket. The door was never locked. It couldn't be. Sherlock had shot the lock at some point, and no one had bothered to fix it yet.

"Hoo-Hoo!" she called out. There was no answer, yet she was positive Sherlock was home. She had heard him banging about not ten minutes before—thumps of furniture against the wall, scrapes of the chair on the floor, muffled exclamations. So she was puzzled by the empty flat until she heard the sound of the shower running. She smiled fondly at the thought of her boy, back home, doing normal things—it was a peaceful feeling though living with Sherlock was anything but. She carried the laundry through the kitchen and into his bedroom. She'd just put these few things away while he showered, and maybe after he'd be up for a cup of tea and a chat…

As she pushed open his bedroom door, she was rather surprised to see the state it was in. Pillows on the floor. The bed stripped of the covers which were in a heap at the foot of the bed. His clothes were strewn about. She shook her head. That was no way to treat his nice suits. She kicked the duvet out of the way and set about putting away Sherlock's clean garments before tackling the mess of clothes and sheets on the floor.

The shower was running steadily, and from behind the frosted glass of his bathroom door, she could hear him singing—oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes could sing. Did sing, in fact. Often in the shower. She smiled fondly to hear it. It was one of the Schubert lieder he liked, and she chuckled to hear him singing lustily in German Roslein, Roslein, Roslein rot! Roslein auf der heiden! Mrs. Hudson's eyes pricked with tears. It seemed too good to be true that he was home again.

Mrs. Hudson had just picked up the final article of clothing, about to leave the room in a much better state than she found it, when she heard another voice join Sherlock's—it was hesitant, tripping over the German, but sweet as she sang the part of the rose: "Ich steche dich,"

Over the sound of the running water, "No wait… that it? Dass du ewig dankst…"

"Denkst," corrected Sherlock in a rumbling baritone, picking up the tune, "Dass du ewig denkst"

The sweet, if uncertain, soprano of Molly Hooper joined him, and they sang together, "an mich,Und ich will's nicht leiden." They drew out the final note high and sweet in some semblance of harmony before utterly losing it and beginning to giggle. Sherlock's deep, warm chuckle sounded and it was all laughter and the sound of water behind the glass door.

"I like that one," said Molly's voice, echoing off the tile, "Can you play it?"

"If you'd like." He answered. There was a pause, a sound of splashing. There was a clatter of a plastic bottle dropping and a soft, "ow!" before Sherlock's voice echoed again, "I like this. What can we do with this?"

There was a soft gasp and a giggle as Molly answered, "I can't think of anything new that we haven't already done with it."

"Nothing wrong with the standards," Sherlock's voice was low and deep, "and I am quite fond of routine in its place. It sets the rhythm, the steady pace that makes the unexpected all the more exciting. "

Molly's sweet laughter sounded again, "No, nothing wrong with the classics, I suppose."

And then there was silence and the sound of water.

Martha Hudson wasn't a fool. She wasn't a housekeeper. And she wasn't a busybody—sticking her nose where it didn't belong, but sometimes, you just had to play the role that the situation handed you. She hurried out of Sherlock's room, out of the flat as fast as her hip could take her. She had a call to make.

Author's Note: Here is the song they were singing:

Sah ein Knab' ein Röslein stehn,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
War so jung und morgenschön,
Lief er schnell es nah zu sehn,
Sah's mit vielen Freuden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Knabe sprach: "Ich breche dich,
Röslein auf der Heiden."
Röslein sprach: "Ich steche dich,
Dass du ewig denkst an mich,
Und ich will's nicht leiden."
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Und der wilde Knabe brach
's Röslein auf der Heiden.
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,
Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,
Musst es eben leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Saw a boy a little rose,
little red rose on the heath,
young and lovely like the morning.
So he ran to have a close
look at it, and gladly did.
Little rose, little rose,
little red rose on the heath.

Said the boy: I will pick
you, my red rose on the heath!
Said the rose: I will prick
you and I won't stand it,
and you won't forget me.
Little rose, little rose,
little red rose on the heath.

And the rough boy picked the rose,
little red rose on the heath,
and the red rose fought and pricked,
yet she cried and sighed in vain,
and had to let it happen.
Little rose, little rose,
little red rose on the heath.