III
"Now," Mrs. Hudson finished her biscuit. "You are going to be quiet and listen to me, just this one time. You will not tell me I'm wrong or ridiculous or a silly stupid old woman. Just this one time, you will listen to me until I am done. All right?"
Sherlock, his mouth now closed, but set in a stubborn line, nodded once.
"My husband," began Mrs. Hudson, ignoring the rolling eyes of the young man opposite, "was delightful, charming and wonderful-at one point. I know you think I have terrible taste in men, Sherlock, and I suppose I'm not always the best judge of character, but he really was a lovely man-treated me like a princess the whole time we were dating. Restaurants, dinner parties, dance halls-we loved to go out. Everyone adored him, and, well, he adored being adored, I suppose.
"Then we got married, and moved into a house together, and started a life. But I had no idea who this man was who slept in my bed every night, who drank his coffee across he kitchen table in the morning-because he almost never said a word! This lovely man who was the hit of all the parties, who charmed the knickers off me-oh good heavens Sherlock, don't look so shocked-was just this...lump. We never fought, never bickered over anything. For a bit I thought that was perfect-we were meant for each other. My friends complained about fighting with their husbands and I would be quite smug, 'Oh, goodness, we never fight.'
"It took me awhile to realize why we didn't fight.
"I said I didn't want children. He said fine.
"i said I wanted three teacup poodles. 'Whatever you like, dear,' he said.
"I said I wanted to leave England and move to Florida. He didn't mind at all.
"I said I was going to color my hair pink and start sleeping with the pool boy. 'Whatever you like, darling,' was all the response I got. It was all the response I ever got. We didn't fight because he didn't care."
Sherlock opened his mouth, but cut him off, "Not one word out of you until I am done."
The mouth snapped shut, unused.
"I know he was using me as a cover, Sherlock, but that's not the point. The point is he really didn't care about me, so he never bothered to argue. He didn't care if I slept with the pool boy or colored my hair pink or raised poodles instead of children. He didn't care if I kept body parts in the fridge, or didn't eat or sleep for days on end, or stayed out all night, or blew things up in the kitchen, or was rude to my kind and patient and sweet landlady-oh no, wait, that's not me, that's you, isn't it? And there is certainly someone who argues with you about those things, isn't there?"
She tapped her chin with a wrinkled finger.
Sherlock shifted in his chair and she held up her hand. "I know all rows aren't love, Sherlock. But you can tell the difference between ones that are and ones that aren't-I can, at least. And your and John's fights are the ones that are, the ones that never get mean. Oh, you can be terrible, and to other people you are so mean-but not to John. I hear it when you swear at each other, I can hear it when you're slamming my doors. I hear the fighting of people who feel safe enough to say almost anything-and know the other person is not going to stop loving them. They may slam out, but they'll come home, eventually. John can toss a whole garbage bag of body parts into my bins and you might fuss, but you'd never throw him out. You can be gone for three days and come home starving and exhausted and tired and possibly bloodyand he'd be frantic, but he'd help you up the stairs and roll you into your bed and bring tea in the morning before asking a single question.
"But once your tea was gone-phew. That would be a row-it actually was, wasn't it? I seem to remember something about a pig? And a harpoon?
"We should all be so lucky, Sherlock, to love someone as much as you two love each other." She paused in her story. "My throat's a bit dry. Think I'll make a cuppa. Fancy one?"