Sherlock stood. "I really think this has gone on long enough, Mrs. Hudson. You really are being…"

"A ridiculous old woman-yes, I know, I know." Mrs. Hudson got up and wandered into the kitchen, poking among various objects on the counter in search of the kettle. "Did I say I was done? I'm not done. A-ha!" She located the elusive object and looked carefully inside before she filled it at the tap. "You haven't cooked anything foul in this lately?" She called over her shoulder. "At least nothing dangerous?"

She took his lack of response as a negative. "All right, then, do you want tea?"

Again, no response. "Fine, I'll put enough in for you. And John, too. Maybe he'll be home soon."

When she returned to the living room, she found the detective back at the window, again tipping his head to see down the street. "No, not yet?" she asked, sitting back down in John's chair.

Sherlock abandoned the window, glaring. "I wasn't looking for him. I was just looking." He sat back down. "Is there going to be tea at this tea party?"

Mrs. Hudson picked up another biscuit and took a small bite. "These are a bit stale, aren't they. I'll make you boys another batch."

Sherlock huffed like a cranky five-year-old and hopped his feet up under him on the chair. "Is this going anywhere, Mrs. Hudson? Now that you have put my gender preferences in question and pointed to John as the object of my affections-because of our little domestics, as you call them. A sure sign of love, I gather?"

"Oh, no, dear, I'm not questioning your gender preferences, or whatever you call them. I don't think you and John are anything like that lovely couple next door-they like boys in general. I don't think it's boys. I just think it's John-and I can hardly blame you there. He's just darling, like a sweet teddy bear. Oh, if I were a few years younger…"

Shocked seemed to be Sherlock's default expression for the evening.

"I see how you look at him. And he looks at you for that matter. You look at each other, behind each other's backs, like I'm not even in the room. I'm here quite a lot whether you notice it or not-and I have eyes! And I know what that looks like, Sherlock, when one person is looking at another like they want to-I don't know, eat them. I was a looker in my day, you know-I'm not much now, to be sure, at least not in the eyes of you boys, but there was a time when I turned some heads and you two look at each other quite a bit like those young men used to look at me." She shook her biscuit at him. "Especially you. Everything else in the world is nothing-or maybe just a thing-when you look at it. Observe, observe, observe-the little wheels turning in your head, collecting and cataloging all your little details. But John grinds those little wheels to a halt, young man, and smoke starts pouring out of your ears!" She paused. "Well, not really. Put they do get pink. Your ears." She bit into her biscuit, chewed and swallowed thoughtfully. "Not John's ears though. He blushes on the back of his neck."

She looked across the short space between them at the consulting detective, who had his hands clapped firmly over his ears. "That won't help, dear," she said. "And you'd best close your mouth or something unpleasant might fly in. Oh! The kettle! I'll make us each a nice cuppa. And one more, just in case. It is nice to get a word in edgewise for a change."