I don't know what to put here seeing as I just did an author's note in the last chapter and I'm posting these on the same day...
REVIEWS ARE MY LIFE FORCE. FEED ME.
After being dragged around London by a baking-obsessed consulting detective, John found himself abruptly shut out when he got home by Sherlock locking herself back in her kitchen-turned-lab.
John sighed, turned to his chair, and picked up his laptop. Checked his emails. Nothing. He put the laptop on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, then got up and took off his jacket properly, putting it on a hook and everything.
A small knock came from the door, and he frowned, then took the two steps and opened it, though he wasn't expecting anyone.
"Hello, dear! I just wondered how your cake had turned out, you know, and I had a minute. Also I was wondering when I could have my tins back?" Mrs. Hudson was smiling at him kindly, and it made John feel even worse about yesterday's failure than he had before.
"Oh. Ah, well," John stammered, "It ran into a little - trouble. I've got your tins, though. Come on in."
Mrs. Hudson stepped in and followed him into the kitchen, the corners of her mouth twitching down as she asked, "What happened to it, dear? I thought you were doing so well."
"I did, too," John admitted, handing her the pans and realizing that the kitchen was a mess. At least he'd washed the tins. "Thank you, by the way, for those."
Mrs. Hudson just stood there, waiting for an explanation. John sighed.
"Well, ah. It seems while I was downstairs talking to you, Sherlock decided she needed her sugar back and replaced mine with salt. So it, ah. Well."
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, her face kind and understanding. "I'm so sorry, dear. Were you able to replace it?"
"Replace it?" John asked, frowning.
"Well, I figured you needed the cake, for a get-together of some kind," Mrs. Hudson prompted, and John shook his head.
"Oh, no. I just -" John stopped, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. "It's my sister. She says I have to get a hobby by the next time I see her. I'm having a bit of trouble with it, actually."
Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, I know. It's hard to find things you just enjoy doing. I knit, you know."
John raised his eyebrows. One of his friends in Afghanistan had knitted; she always had a pair of needles and a skein of yarn stashed in her kit somewhere. She would joke about the needles being handy weapons if it came down to it. Luckily it never did. John always saw her packing her little woolen articles off home around Christmas.
"Is it hard?" he asked, and Mrs. Hudson flushed happily at his interest.
"At the beginning, dear. But after a bit you catch onto it, and now I can do it almost without thinking while I watch telly." John could picture her, needles clacking as she watched Doctor Who.
John nodded and thrust his hands in his pockets. "I've got - well, my left hand isn't the steadiest," he said, and Mrs. Hudson understood, which was the wonderful thing about her.
"Oh that's no problem, dear, just so long as you can grip the needles. There's no rush to it, after all."
John looked down and scuffed his foot on the floor, then glanced back up at Mrs. Hudson with a rueful smile on his face. "I don't suppose you've got a pair of needles I can borrow, and some spare time? I'll - ah - need a tutor."
John hadn't realized Mrs. Hudson could smile so brightly. "Of course, dear! I'll be right back up."
"I'll make you a cuppa," John offered as she headed out.
"Thank you, dear!" he heard from the hall as he put the kettle on.
Mrs. Hudson was an incredibly patient teacher, but John didn't feel like a very patient student as he struggled with the needles and ball of wool that Mrs. Hudson brought up. By the end of the night, however, he had finally managed to knit a small square, and Mrs. Hudson had praised his work, and if he'd lost one stitch, well. She showed him how to fix it with a crochet hook, and he figured he'd learned something extra.
Or at least, that's what he told himself when she went downstairs to grab him a pattern she said "was the simplest thing, dear, you needn't worry about it being too difficult for you."
It was for a simple dishcloth, and the only thing that really made it a pattern was that it told you when to drop or add stitches, and Mrs. Hudson taught him how to read it, then left. John stared at the needles and took a deep breath, and began.
A moment later he was pulling up his music on his computer for a distraction, because once Mrs. Hudson left it felt as though he hadn't learned a thing. Still, John was nothing if not persevering, and he was damned if a simple string and two sticks were going to show him up. It took him four times just to get started correctly, but he finally got a line of stitches that looked decent.
"John?" Sherlock asked later, sticking her head through the door. John looked up and blinked; he hadn't realized how dark it had gotten, he'd been so focussed on the yarn in his hands. Sherlock stopped whatever she'd been about to say to stare at him. "Are you knitting?"
"Mrs. Hudson taught me the basic stitch," John said, and was suddenly absurdly proud of his progress, in a way even he knew was goofy. "I'm making a dishcloth," he offered, holding up his work on the needles.
"Oh," Sherlock said, and blinked at him, then grinned. "Can I borrow your tea cosy?"
John nodded, then looked at his computer, realizing his music had turned off without his noticing. He touched the trackpad to see the time, and blinked a few times at the light before making it out. Half two in the morning. He groaned. "I'm going to bed," he announced to Sherlock, who was now in his kitchen rummaging through drawers.
"Fine," she said in return, and John surveyed his work, wondering how one stopped without forgetting where they were; luckily he was at the end of a row, so he settled for just sticking the ball of wool on the tips of the needles to keep his work from sliding off and setting it carefully on the coffee table before getting up and heading to the shower, yawning.
Would you like to make John's washcloth/dishcloth? The pattern's on my profile.