A little bit of a longer chapter :)

John pushed open the door to 221B and trudged up the steps. What a day. It was like summer (what there was of it) had gone straight to winter. The weather went from a borderline-jacket balmy to a shivering windy bluster in a matter of hours. The surgery had been busy all afternoon as people came in with various aches and woes and mystery illnesses. He'd had to give several children jabs and one little girl got so upset with him that she kicked him in the thigh. That was this morning and he could still feel where her tiny shoe had hit.

The sound that emanated from the walls as he neared the flat made him frown. Sherlock, on the violin, screeching away. There had been no cases for ages (though three he'd turned down. Too boring) and the detective was starting to climb the walls. Morgue visits and science journals only went so far. Sherlock had been stroppy with him yesterday, giving John a shorter than normal temper, and John was not eager to repeat that night. He slipped into the flat, wincing as the instrument got louder. He tried to be quiet, but it was Sherlock, and he had ears like an owl.

"John!" The instrument went silent. "Where's my mobile?"

"What? How should I know? I haven't been home all day. Is there anything to eat? I'm starving." He opened the fridge. No human heads, that was something. There was a head of cabbage though.

"Where did you put it?" Sherlock insisted. He set the violin on the chair and stalked into the kitchen, arms folded defensively.

"I didn't take it." John told him, irritated now. He closed the fridge. "What the hell would I do with your bloody mobile?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and swept up the stairs.

"Hey‒what are you doing?" John followed him into the hall. "Sherlock, don't you dare go in my room!" John heard him rummaging around in there and he was about to stomp after the man have the row that had been building for a fortnight now. Instead, something shiny and silver caught his eye in the sitting room. A big metal bowl of red and lumpy liquid was on the coffee table. "What on earth…" He strode into the sitting room and nearly vomited. The bowl was filled with organs and blood.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, very much at the end of his rope. "Get this mess off the table right now!" He picked up the bowl‒ew, it was cold.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock hollered. Footsteps thundered as he dashed down the stairs. "Put it down." He commanded to John, who was heading for the door, intent on throwing the whole thing in Mrs. Hudson's bins. "John!"

"No. No‒I drew the line at the intestines‒I will not stand for a body's worth of parts in my home!"

"They're cow parts, John." Sherlock was almost whining. "And there are no intestines in there."

"I don't care what parts they are! They're disgusting!" John turned for the door again and Sherlock grabbed the edge of the bowl firmly in his hands. "Let go." John said, staring the man hard in the eye. Sherlock responded by trying to tug the bowl away. "Sherlock, let go." John said again.

"You let go‒these are mine." Sherlock tugged again. John didn't budge. If it hadn't been such a shit day, John would have seen that they were standing right in front of the newly papered wall and he would have put the pieces together earlier. If he and Sherlock hadn't been engaged in this moronic passive aggressive battle of wills for the past two weeks, they would have both had leveler heads. If Sherlock had a case to distract himself with, he never would have brought the cow parts home. If, if, if.

Sherlock tugged again. John yanked back. The tug of war went on for a few seconds until some blood sloshed up over Sherlock's hand, making the man lose his grip. John tugged, the metal lip flew out of Sherlock's fingers, and the bowl upturned everywhere. It arced up in the air, gleaming in the light as a waterfall of crimson spilled out. It slammed the coffee table with a loud clang! and the blood and organs splattered on the table, the floor, both of them, the sofa, and the shiny new wallpaper. The empty bowl smacked the floorboards and spun, making a sort of wooga-wooga-wooga sound as it rotated and went still.

Both men were stunned. John looked up at Sherlock, wincing at the sight of blood and gore dripping down his fine suit. It was like that time he took the Tube home with the harpoon. John knew he didn't look much better. He could feel blood oozing off his hair and down his neck, and a quick glance down revealed his work clothes covered in gore. The room smelled like iron and copper and the faintest hint of wallpaper paste.

"Are you okay?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. It was like the argument had evaporated the moment the bowl hit the ground. Something slimy slopped off John's hair and into his eye and he made a face. "Ulgh."

"I'll get the cleaning powder…" Sherlock headed for the kitchen.

John went to the loo and turned the tap on to warm. He splashed water up onto his face, grimacing and grunting again. This was disgusting‒and honestly, also a tiny bit funny. John found himself smiling as he rubbed water over his chin. Never a dull moment with Sherlock. Upon waking this morning, he'd have never thought he'd get a bowl's worth of cow parts poured over his head when he got home. He got most of the goo off his face and got the big bits off his hair. He was toweling himself dry when he heard a voice in the next room‒a very angry, scolding voice. He paused and listened.

"…should be ashamed of yourselves! Arguing like children‒fighting over silly things and now look…"

Mrs. Hudson. John threw the towel over the rack and crept down the hallway. They were in the sitting room, amongst the mess. Sherlock was standing, staring at his feet while Mrs. Hudson reamed him, pointing at the wall and the floors. John moved for the tea‒now back to its original home on the low shelf‒and set about making them all some, trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. "I've never had a tenant that was as troublesome as you!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "I should spank you until you howl!"

John made a face at the simmering tea kettle. Poor Sherlock.

"And that goes for you too, John Watson!"

John blinked. What? Him too? He turned slowly and looked at the pair, mild alarm tingling his limbs. Mrs. Hudson was staring at him, arms crossed and one hip thrust out, clearly waiting for John to answer. Sherlock, still looking contrite, was peering up at him, his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I, uh," John flicked his gaze between the two of them, "sorry about the wall." It was true. He genuinely didn't mean for the blood to get all over the wall, but it's not like it had been on purpose.

"Downstairs!" She pointed towards her flat. "Now!"

Sherlock took off, hurrying down the steps. John paused, looking between her and the stairs. He gulped. He knew what would happen to him if he followed Sherlock, and the thought was not appealing. Mrs. Hudson saw his expression and softened slightly. She took in the mess on his clothes and the remains in his hair, looking almost amused. "Do you know what I do when Sherlock does something he shouldn't have, love?"

"You spank him." John said.

"Do you know why?" She asked.

"Uh…because you're upset with him?"

"Well, yes. That, and I know that it will work‒at least for a time."

That John knew was true. After one of her smackings Sherlock was always quieter around the flat. Not subdued or cowed, but more mellow and respectful, especially towards Mrs. Hudson. John suspected Sherlock must get a sort of release or something from the discipline. Otherwise why on earth would he continue it? He confirmed it wasn't a sex thing, so repeatedly allowing himself to receive spankings must give him some sense of relief or even a kind of peace at having a mother figure in his life so willing to take an interest in his safety. John had no idea what Sherlock's mother had been like, but perhaps Mrs. Hudson was providing something she hadn't. Ultimately, John had no idea why Sherlock went through with it. He really hadn't given it a ton of thought.

"I know it will work because I used to be his and Mycroft's nanny, did you know?"

John hadn't known that.

"Years‒decades ago, yes. Of course, I didn't use the spoon on them. They were too little for that, but they did get a smack now and then. Not often, mind," she added, "but you can imagine."

John raised his brows. Christ, the Holmes boys as children?

"They're sweethearts, really." Mrs. Hudson continued. "Sherlock was an adorable child." She smiled, fondly lost in memories now. John patiently indulged her. "With his curly little head of hair and big bright eyes‒I remember, he would always fall asleep in my arms in the parlor after I'd read to him before his afternoon nap." She sighed. "When he was asleep, he wasn't getting into trouble, you know? Mycroft was always the better behaved one. The quiet one. Probably not surprising, really. He used to be blonde. Beautiful children, both of them."

"They must have been terrors." John mused.

She smiled. "They weren't so bad once one learned how to handle them."

This made a little more sense now. The spankings weren't something completely new to their already close relationship. Mrs. Hudson used to smack them as children and the fact that Sherlock was now a professional functioning adult didn't seem to bother either of them. Well, John shrugged mentally, good for them. If Mrs. Hudson was willing to provide something Sherlock needed and they were both okay with her whacking his arse to do it, then so was he.

"Sherlock's agreed to a spanking. Since you had such a part in this, from what I can tell, I think you deserve the same‒but," she held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I can't and won't force you. You're my tenant, and the choice is up to you."

Now this was a weird situation. Sherlock may need the spankings, but he didn't. The first and most obvious answer to this situation would be to refuse. He was an adult. He'd seen Sherlock come back to the flat all tearstained after an encounter with her. He remembered how hard it was for Sherlock to stand still in that airing cupboard when those kids had played a joke on them all those months ago. He should be saying a resounding "no!" and leave it at that. And yet…he doubted. The fact that he doubted that 'no!' was weird in itself. Why was he doubting it? Why was he considering for even a second taking what would be the first spanking he'd had since he was about eight?

Well, on one hand, he was responsible for the mess everywhere and he had been contributing to the prank war as much as Sherlock. The detective had started it when he put the intestines under John's bed, but John had continued it by retaliating with the sock index. However he spun it, there was no doubt whatsoever that they were both equally to blame for the current mess of gore ruining the paper and furniture. A spanking though? He could see her putting the damage costs on the rent‒after all, that's what she did when Sherlock actually shot the wall in the first place. Logically, saying 'no thanks' made the most sense, but ironically, despite Sherlock's rigid logic, John had found his life becoming even more nonsensical the longer he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Seriously, John was willing to bet money that no one else in London was dealing with a flatfull of spilled cow parts.

Another reason he wasn't yelling 'no!' was because by extending this invitation (as it was) Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were inviting him in. They had a special relationship‒which now made a little more sense with her having been the Holmes' nanny‒and that was a relationship John had never been a part of or had ever even been close to until now. He knew Sherlock was like a fifth son to her. He would have to be to allow her to do something as personal as give him a spanking. And with Mrs. Hudson extending the invitation to John, it was like she was inviting him into 'the family.' That idea was very appealing. He'd even go so far as to say that being in 'the family' was more appealing than the spanking was unappealing because to be honest, he didn't really have a family. He saw Harry on holidays and they forced themselves into the odd phone call, but there was no real support there. His parents were both long gone. In Afghanistan his family had been his platoon, and before that, it was Uni mates. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were, terrifyingly, the closest thing to a family he had in his adult life, at least emotionally and in terms of physical proximity.

Or it was possible he was being a sappy twat and Mrs. Hudson was just angry with him and wanted him punished for the wallpaper.

Still though, he believed in taking responsibility for one's actions, and he thought too that Sherlock might just pout and be petulant if John refused the offer, or go the opposite direction and be snide and proud that he had taken the spanking and John refused. A bitty little part of him supplied a sort of male macho sentiment that wanted to boast that if Sherlock could take it, so could he‒and honestly, Mrs. Hudson was in her sixties. He had been shot in war. What was a spanking after getting shot?

"I'll do it." He said.

"Fine. Go on down, love."

John did, jogging down the stairs and through her open door. Sherlock was standing in the center of the room, arms folded, looking worried. He glanced up when John came in and a look of surprised bafflement came over his face.

"Really." He said.

"I guess so." John looked over Sherlock's bloody suit, then down at his own stained clothes. They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"This is ridiculous." John muttered between giggles. "She was your nanny?"

"For years, yes."

"That somehow makes this whole thing reassuringly less weird." John said.

"Don't get too reassured," Sherlock said. "It hurts." They both sobered when they saw her coming.

"Well, I hope you two are feeling better after that little outburst. If you're so happy about the spankings, I'm sure we can arrange to have them more often." She said briskly. That shut them up. Sherlock's mouth fell when he saw his own flat-backed wooden hairbrush in her hand. "Are you using that?" He asked.

"I didn't bring it down here to do your hair, love."

"What about the spoon?" Sherlock pressed.

"Do you want the spoon too?"

"No!"

"That's settled then. John, shut the door."

Surprised, the doctor moved towards the open door. She turned to Sherlock. "Are you okay with this?" She asked in a low voice. Sherlock glanced at the brush, wondering briefly if she meant that, or if she meant the fact that John was here and was apparently going to be getting spanked too.

"Yes." He answered both questions.

John came back, looking worried.

"Who first?" She adopted a business-like tone and manner that was so unlike her usual warmth. Mrs. "Nanny" Hudson. "Sherlock?" She said. "May as well be you. You can show John how it's done. C'mon." She sat on the sofa and patted her thigh with the brush. Sherlock crept to her left side and stood there, facing towards John and the room and looking down at her legs with ill disdain.

"Trousers down and over my knee."

Damn, John thought, she goes right for the jugular.

Sherlock looked up at John and hesitated.

"None of that embarrassment now, young man. You should both be far more embarrassed about how you've been behaving."

Sherlock pouted, but unbuttoned his clothes, pushing his trousers to his knees and getting down over hers. John winced as Sherlock got into the old fashioned position‒his hands flat on the floor and his legs bent behind, offering his bottom up as a perfect target. The lack of clothing didn't bother John at all. After getting doused with cold cow organs, underpants were tame. He supposed it was just a surprising sight. Sherlock was always so in control, strutting around crimes scenes and owning any space he occupied. John had never seen him submit like this to anyone.

"Ah, should I…?" John pointed at the kitchen, intent on giving them some privacy.

"Nope. You stand right there, John. I want you both to watch what you've done to each other."

Ouch. John felt bad now‒her implication that his behavior had caused Sherlock to be punished was a particularly effective form of guilt. A sudden urge to apologize came over him, to say he was sorry for acting like an arse and all the stupid pranks and even sorry for having a hand in putting him in this embarrassing and submissive position, even though it was just as much the detective's fault as his.

She wrapped her hand around his outer hip and raised the flat wooden brush over his black boxer-brief clad backside. John grimaced in empathy before she slammed it down once, twice, three times…John couldn't help but startle a little at each smack. They were loud! She alternated cheeks, and John could tell she wasn't holding back. Sherlock jerked a little with each popping whack, his curly head hanging down so much that John couldn't see his face. Her pace was brisk and unbroken and after a few moments, Sherlock started curling his hands into fists, wriggling over her lap.

"Stay still." She said to him, giving him a thwack on the bare thigh. It made a different sort of pop sound and he jerked, mumbling apologies.

Oh boy, John thought. Maybe this wasn't the best choice. Still though, his resolve to do this too stayed firm. Sherlock held still for a little bit longer, then started to squirm again. John didn't blame him. She wasn't letting up and it looked painful as hell. "Mrs. Hudson!" His voice wavered. "I'm sorry about the wallpaper!"

"I know you are." She paused, setting the brush on the cushion, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and tugged them down a few inches. John blinked as she peered over his bottom. Okay, that was unexpected, but he supposed it shouldn't be. She had said she was going to spank them, so a bared bottom wasn't exactly a surprise. Sherlock's arse was facing away from him and the detective jerked up when the cloth was yanked away, an indignant squawk escaping his lips.

"Oh you're fine." She scoffed. "It's not like I haven't seen your arse more times than I can count. You're a little pink, dear, you can take more." She pulled his pants back up and continued to steadily pepper his bottom with smacks.

"Stop! It won't happen again!" He lifted his head and John saw there were tears dribbling down his cheeks. His nose and eyes were tinged red and he glanced frantically over his shoulder to see what she was doing. John's heart swelled. He was staring to regret his decision just a little, but he wasn't going to back out. No way. He'd agreed and he was going in one hundred percent. She smacked Sherlock a few more times‒four good hard ones‒then set the brush down. He shuddered and she carded her hand through his hair. "There, there…" She soothed. "All done now. Honestly, Sherlock, we don't do this very often, but it still seems like you find yourself arse-up over my lap more times than you'd like. Think about consequences before you take actions, love."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." He sniffed. He was much more relaxed now, John could tell. Her hand in his hair seemed to be a balm, calming and settling him. John almost felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn't be, that this was some intimate moment between them. She had told him to watch, though, and now John had an unpleasant realization staring him in the face. He was next. He was actually a bit nervous about it. Stop, he told himself, you're a grown man, a doctor and a soldier. The mental reassurance did absolutely nothing and he still found he felt like a little boy. Dammit.

"Feel better?" She asked after a moment. He nodded and scooted back off her knees, coming to his on the floor. He sniffed a few more times and then stood, hiking up his trousers and wiping his face. "Apologize to John and get a drink, dear." She said to him, her voice gentle and warm. "Then come back in here."

Sherlock nodded and trudged over to his flatmate, wincing as his bum ached. "Sorry for all the stupid pranks, John." His voice was hoarse and hitched in his throat.

"That's okay, mate." John said sincerely. Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen.

"John." Mrs. Hudson was back to the no-nonsense voice. She patted her leg. "Your turn."

tbc…