It was about ten past eleven, or maybe more like a quarter past, when Mrs Hudson heard the front door open as the boys returned home. She knew it was silly of her to wait up, really, but when they went rushing off in the way they did she always worried so much! Oh, the things they got up to! And she knew they could take care of themselves, she really did, but waiting up for them didn't do anybody any harm now, did it.
She opened the door to her own flat and peeped out. They were standing together at the bottom of the stairs and John seemed to be having some sort of problem with Sherlock, pushing and pulling at him by his shoulders. Sherlock was clutching at John's jacket and at the wall on his other side, and there was a constant stream of muttered words coming from his mouth, just a touch too quiet for her to make out.
"Hoo hoo," she called tentatively, and crossed the hall towards them. John turned, looking a bit worried, as he often did.
"Mrs Hudson, I'm surprised you're still awake," he said mechanically. "Uh...you might not want to hear this, he's being a bit-"
"Arse wank!" Sherlock declared, and Mrs Hudson clapped a hand over her mouth and gasped. Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot and he was slurring, wobbling on his feet like a drunkard.
"He's drunk," John reported.
"Shut fucking up!" Sherlock snapped, then burped loudly.
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson sighed, and hurried forwards to help John settle Sherlock onto the floor and prop him into a sitting position against the wall beneath the coat hooks. "But he doesn't drink! What happened?"
John sighed and helped Sherlock pull his gloves off. "We were at that restaurant, the one where the owner's a suspect." She nodded, and he batted Sherlock's hands away from his scarf and took it off him before continuing.
"Well, the owner spotted us posing as customers. I think the brother must have warned him. He put something, maybe ethanol, maybe just strong spirits, into Sherlock's drink. He's been cursing like a navvie ever since."
"Goodness!" Mrs Hudson murmured.
"Buh-asshole! ...Ass-tard..." Sherlock tried, bless him.
"It's not gone as far as alcohol poisoning, thankfully. I think he'll sleep it off, but I'll sit up and keep an eye on him," John told her. He turned and addressed his friend in loud, clear tones.
"Sherlock, you stay here. I'm going to get your bed ready. Okay?"
"That ...that magnificent fuckwit, John," Sherlock said plaintively.
"Yeah, I know. Don't worry though, we got him."
Sherlock replied with a vague burbling noise as John dashed off up the stairs, and he looked up folornly at Mrs Hudson, his eyes so huge in his pale face that it made her feel all soppy.
"Oh dear, are you feeling a bit rough?" she asked softly, crouching in front of him. His lower lip popped out into a pout and he nodded.
"Wuz John?"
"He's gone upstairs dear. He'll be back in a moment."
"Pissing hell," Sherlock replied, but there was no fervour in it. He let his head drop back against the wall and shut his eyes, and seconds later he appeared to be asleep.
Not one to miss a rare opportunity, Mrs Hudson reached out and gently patted the top of his curly head. Oh he was sweet, even when he was all sweary and bringing homeless people in at all hours and covering the hob with sewage and... well, he was quite sweet when he was unconscious.
She could hear John moving about upstairs and decided it wouldn't hurt for her to go and give him a hand. He'd left the door to the flat open, and as she entered he was carrying a tray into Sherlock's bedroom, a plastic bucket hanging by its handle over his forearm. He was still in his coat an scarf, having put Sherlock's wellbeing ahead of his own comfort, as he often did.
Oh she did have nice tenants.
"Would you like a hand dear?" she asked, and followed him into the bedroom. He nodded wearily at her, and she began to turn down the bedclothes so Sherlock could get straight in, while John arranged water and pills and a flannel in a small basin of water on the bedside table, and placed the bucket on the floor next to the bed, where it would be convenient for...well, for Sherlock's needs. When they were done, John surveyed the room with his hands on his hips, then nodded.
They set off back down the stairs to collect Sherlock, and discovered that he was awake again. He was attempting to ascend the stairs by lying face down on the steps and trying to sort of... smear himself up them.
"Oh no, no, come here you," John said as he got down next to his flatmate.
"Fuck off, I can bloody do it," Sherlock whined, but his eyes were barely open. John squatted next to him, grabbed Sherlock's arm, bent sidewards awkwardly and then with a great heave of effort, got to his feet, Sherlock's long wiry body draped over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.
"Oh dear, are you okay like that?" Mrs Hudson asked, nipping to the other side of the hall so she was out of the way.
"It's fine Mrs Hudson, thanks for your help," John replied, a touch breathless, and he set off up the stairs.
"Sh-shitbag," Sherlock stuttered balefully. Mrs Hudson put her hand over her mouth again, to stop a titter this time, and watched John's steady progress up the stairs, Sherlock muttering at him the whole way, until he turned around the bend in the stairs and she could no longer see them.
Shortly after they vanished from sight, she heard the distinct sound of somebody being sick, then a gloomy sounding sigh.
Oh dear.
It occured to her that John had no idea she was still standing in the hall and that she'd heard it. She could just go back into her flat and quietly shut the door.
Hmm. What to do?
::
I like Mrs Hudson. I like Sherlock's floofy hair. So I had Mrs Hudson pat Sherlock's floofy hair.
I am satisfied with how this turned out.
I used to have a job as a barmaid in a hotel, and we got one regular customer who would often get so drunk that the only words left in his vocabulary were obscenities and that was like an alert to us to kick him out, because shortly after he reached that point he would usually try and poo in the fire grate in the lounge, regardless of whether the fire was lit or not. Ah, those were the days.