Mrs. Hudson finished her glass of wine and thoughtfully poured herself another. Fortifying-she needed to keep up her strength and stay calm, because heaven knew the row those boys might be working themselves into. She strained her ears, unashamedly (well, there was no one around to see, and she was, mostly, just concerned for their well-being), hearing John's slow, slightly off-kilter tread heading for the kitchen-perhaps the tea she left him had gotten cold. Ah, yes, a rush of water, long enough to fill the kettle, but not long enough to be the washing up. Of Sherlock's lighter steps she heard nothing, but she knew he was still in the living room-she hadn't heard his bedroom door close. He always closed it quite hard.

Eventually she would break them both of that habit.

John returned to the living room and settled in his chair-he always fell into it a bit, and the legs scraped across the floor, then he would scoot it forward again, closer to Sherlock's chair. Then Sherlock's steps-ah, he had gone back to the window, trying to look unconcerned, she was sure, but was returning to his chair-bounce-he liked to jump over the back and land curled up like a child. But today she heard the scrape of the feet across the floor (oh, goodness, now they were ruining the floors) as Sherlock apparently dragged his chair closer to John's.

Hm.

Low voices, men's voices, really-she always thought of them as boys but that was hardly fair, they were grown men and here she was, being a such a busybody...but it was all in the name of domestic peace. She loved them both so much, like they were her own, but without the bother of actually having to raise them. She couldn't hear what they were saying, she wasn't directly under the living room, but resisted the temptation to stand on her chair to get a bit closer. If she fell and had to call for help, that would be terribly embarrassing.

The low voices continued, calmly. John had clearly gotten over his tantrum, and Sherlock was likely attempting to keep it that way. There was the sound of chair legs scooting forward again, then again. "Good heavens, they must be practically on top of each other by now." Sherlock had no idea about maintaining polite distance-unless it came to him, then he was quite happy to shove you back, if necessary. She worried he might be trying to intimidate poor John. The low voices continued. Minutes ticked by.

Mrs. Hudson realized her glass was empty and poured herself another.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you talking about?" Oh, dear, that was John. What was Sherlock saying? Mrs. Hudson shook her head in frustration, all she was able to hear was a constant deep murmur, Sherlock's voice with no words, just that tone he took sometimes when explaining something he thought was very simple but actually might be rather difficult for the rest of the world to understand. She heard, "John, just listen, listen to me." Oh, she had certainly convinced him, hadn't she?

There was a long almost-silence, just that voice on and on, falling through the floor like rain. A chair scooted again, but she couldn't tell if was Sherlock shifting forward, or John shifting back.

Kettle. Whistling. This time it was John's chair moving (oh, Sherlock must have gotten quite close) and his tilted step across the floor. "I'm just going to make some tea, Sherlock." She heard him quite clearly, he often raised his voice a bit when he was confused or uncomfortable. "I'll listen, all right? I promise I'll listen. I understand this is important, and I'm not leaving. Do you want tea?" The whistling stopped. Then suddenly two feet hit the floor hard, and Mrs. Hudson heard Sherlock's light step toward the kitchen, culminating in "Sherlock, what are you…" and the crash of a teacup, two teacups, and what sounded like the kettle as well. "Sherlock, you great git, what did you-" A shuffle of footsteps, more than two feet in close proximity.

"John…" then silence. No footsteps, no voices. For much too long. Mrs. Hudson bumped the wine next with her elbow and noticed her again-empty glass. "To hell with it," she thought and poured herself the rest of the bottle.

The floor creaked right above her head, where the kitchen counter would be, but still neither man spoke.

Creak. Step. Silence.

"Sherlock…" John's voice traveled down the drainpipe and echoed in her sink, giving her shivers. It was a very warm voice, and it said again, "Sherlock…" then, "I don't know if I can do this…"

Oh, goodness. She thought perhaps it was time to adjourn to her bedroom and away from what was quickly becoming a terribly private moment, but instead took a great gulp of her wine and stayed put.

Sherlock's voice emptied into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "I think you can. I think I need to. Please just let me…"

Creak. Step. Long, long silence.

"All right, all right, damn you, Sherlock, but not in the kitchen...for God's sake, just stop a minute and we can go…"

Two sets of footsteps, moving quickly, one slightly behind the other-probably, Mrs. Hudson imagined, John being dragged bodily along by an anxious flatmate. Then Sherlock's bedroom door slammed shut and she heard a crash, like a lamp falling, or maybe two bodies falling, or maybe she just didn't want to think about it anymore.

She looked at the wineglass in her hand, and drank the rest in one long swallow. Probably better to be a bit tipsy, since things might get...noisy. She stood, kicked off her shoes and made her way to her bedroom. But at least not yelling at three in the morning.

Mrs. Hudson smiled.