Anote: continued directly from the last chapter

Chapter 8-

John was taken off guard when Sherlock stood up suddenly and kicked back his chair. However, the good doctor quickly regrouped and moved to copy this gesture of manners as Mrs. Hudson expertly opened their front door with her elbow, and walked in carrying a heavy tray of meat.

'Hoo hou,' she called in her usual unique way.

It was unlikely she noticed anything strange though, as the dear lady concentrated on picking a safe path through the mismatched furniture of their cluttered sitting room. In the meantime, Sherlock was staring at her face eagerly, as though trying to trace a memory. John looked at him hoping for recognition, but after a while the young man glanced across and shook his head slightly in regret.

'My, we are all formal tonight, dearies,' Mrs. Hudson tripped brightly as she came closer.

So much for not noticing. Their landlady was sharper than most people thought, himself included, John realized with a grimace.

The men quietly resumed their seats while the woman began dishing out the hot roast into their plates. 'I didn't expect you back so early, were you waiting long? I just had to finish my hair.'

John looked up as the woman patted her hairstyle in the way the ladies did, when they wanted you to make a remark. It didn't look any different to John. Maybe a shade purple in this light.

'Very lovely,' he remarked warmly, deciding to err on the side of caution, 'you are going out?'

'I have a date,' she announced with a happy smile before rounding on Sherlock with a stern look, 'and I don't want to hear a single mean deduction out of you this time, young man. I will not listen to a word!'

Sherlock seemed shocked at being so addressed, and stared cross eyed at the finger that was wagging at him in a menacing way.

Mrs Hudson frowned at his response.

'Well, this smells yummy!' John interjected desperately, trying to distract the woman as she stared into the unusually subdued expression of one of her oldest friends.

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed softly, 'thank you, it looks delicious.'

To outsiders it was a strange relationship to watch in action. On almost a daily basis Sherlock happily "insulted" his landlady with his razor sharp observations and even sharper tongue, and she in turn was seemingly deaf as a post to everything her tenant shouted at her. It worked for them to politely ignore each other's eccentricities because those things were not important. In true British fashion, they never acknowledged out loud how closely they guarded each other's well being, stemming from a few years ago, when all they had in this awful world were each other. So for all her absent minded ways, Mrs Hudson knew the nuances of her friend's mood swings as well as John did, and she knew for certain now that something was indeed quite wrong.

The motherly woman leaped forward with a cry and cradled Sherlock's face between her withered hands, 'Oh dearest, what happened?'

She felt his head as though checking for a fever.

'Perhaps you should sit,' the doctor counselled. She obediently sat on a convenient foot stool, but didn't release her grip on Sherlock's hand. The detective smiled down at her warmly and he covered her thin hand comfortingly with his other much larger one, much appreciating this show of concern. John then opened his mouth but unexpectedly, nothing came out.

'Some time today,' she suggested tartly as the silence stretched on, 'while we are still young.'

Sherlock grinned at her fiery spirit. He could see why he liked her.

'I have lost my memory, Mrs Hudson,' he informed her crisply as John continued to dither, 'It is most inconvenient.'

'I would imagine so,' she murmured in shock as she pressed a hand to her chest. 'Dear me, that's not something your hear everyday.'

The doctor sighed in exasperation at Sherlock's odd way of explaining the situation, but froze as the other man suddenly telegraphed his distress with a sharp look. John's eyes cut to where the two friends were still holding hands. Quickly he rose to his feet and walked a few steps to the cupboard, where he kept a medical bag.

'Are you having trouble breathing, Mrs H?' he asked in a soft but commanding manner that always served to calm a distressed patient, 'Tell me where it hurts.'

Their landlady energetically batted away John's stethoscope that he was trying to place on her breast, 'Don't fuss, it's just a flutter. For goodness sake, I am not the patient here!'

She rose to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, as she glowered down at Sherlock in an irritated manner. 'Why does everything happen to you? Why?'

'Is that a rhetorical question?' Sherlock asked so seriously in turn, that it caused John to dissolve into an unbecoming fit of giggles.

Their landlady checked her watch again, before giving John a pointed look, 'I'll be back soon. See what you can do with him.'

She walked out the flat, quietly shaking her head at the madness that was part and parcel of living at 221B.