Fanfic: I'm your landlady, dear.
Title: Not Your Babysitter, Either.
Pairing: None
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: G
Warnings: Nothing really.
Words: 839
Summary: "Sherlock, you can't just sit around moping like a child all day. For heaven's sake, you're a grown man. Here, let me get you a cuppa tea."
Mrs. Hudson was a landlady, not a house keeper. Nor was she a doctor, actor, physicist, or anyone's cook. She'd lived her life as such since her husband had passed, and she didn't expect she'd be changing anytime soon. It was an interesting life, she thought. She was in charge of a few houses on Baker St, a nice place, and they were nice people. Always something to talk about.
Crash.
Well, if they weren't nice, they were interesting.
Crash.
The noise of glass breaking came from directly above Mrs. Hudson's fantastically comfortable book reading chair, startling her out of her pleasant day dreams of clever old Agatha Christie and her simply marvelous novels. "Sherlock?" She called up from her seat.
Crash.
With that boy, if it wasn't one thing, it was another. Apparently there hadn't been any cases recently, otherwise his energies would be spent on puzzle-solving rather than china-destroying. Mrs. Hudson regretfully pulled herself away from Murder on the Orient Express and headed upstairs to chide her resident.
"Sherlock," She scolded, stepping into the flat. "What in goodness name are you doing now?" The man in question was balancing on the back of the arm chair holding a stack of glass plates. New ones, too. I just saw John bring those in, I did. 'Spect he was tired of eating off paper plates that had been God knows where. Sherlock didn't even look at her and continued what he was doing. He held a plate out, examined it from all angles, and let it shatter to the wooden floor.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," He replied in a drawl. "I'm taking out frustration on these ugly dishes. Is that hard to figure out?"
The land lady bustled her way over to him, careful to avoid the broken glass and held out her hands to take the rest of the plates. "Those aren't even yours, dear. John bought those for himself."
"John's not here." Sherlock said in a monotone, but handed her the plates. As she took them and set them on the much safer table surface, she saw the lanky detective buckle his legs and roll backwards into the chair. He stared at her, legs in the air, hair brushing the floor. "You can't tell me you don't get bored sometimes?"
"Course I do," Mrs Hudson said. "But there are more... constructive ways of dealing with it. You could watch telly and yell at that."
"I have watched telly," Sherlock said, rolling off the chair and brushing himself off. "It's awful. I've watched all the episodes and they're incredibly dull. There's no challenge, it's entirely obvious who's sleeping with who or who's going to be voted off the island. The problem is the idiots on those shows are worse than the idiots I know." He spun in a circle and collapsed on the couch and curled up to face the wall.
Mrs. Hudson had a silent realization. "Oh, you and John had a fight?" Sherlock remained silent. "Sherlock, you can't go throwing a fit like this when you don't get your way."
"And why not?" He protested.
"You're a grown man, dear."
"So what? I had fantastic plans. A stake out. Lestrade's been tracking a thief who leaves no fingerprints and leaves the homeowners drugged and passed out. So they want the drug she's using before it starts killing people. Of course, they were missing the obvious clues, but I figured it all out and I can tell you she'll be at the bar two blocks over at 8:14 this evening."
"And John didn't want to go with you, did he?"
"He's at Sarah's." Sherlock muttered.
Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh and went to sit beside the man on the couch. "Do you want me to make you a cup of tea, dear? That always straightens people out when they're brooding."
"No."
"Sherlock," She chided gently. "John's a grown man too, and he's going to want to spend time with his other friends. You can't keep him all to yourself." Look at him, she thought to her self. He's like a child gone to primary school to find his best mate is playing catch with someone else. Sherlock said nothing, but flipped himself around so that his head lay half-way on her lap.
Still a child. But she smiled at him and pulled her fingers through his dark hair. He was silent, but his breathing slowed and she felt him relax. She hadn't been a mother in a long time.
"Here now, Sherlock." She said after a while."Let John take a break once in a while. He still lives here, after all, he'll have to come back sometime. I don't think he'd abandon you just like that."
"Of course not."
"Then why brood? Come on, sit up. I'll fix you that cuppa."
Sherlock sat up to allow her up before flopping back down and sprawling out over the whole couch. "And biscuits too, Mrs. Hudson. There's some in the fridge. I don't mind if they're cold."
"Not your housekeeper, dear."
Pairing: None
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: G
Warnings: Nothing really.
Words: 839
Summary: "Sherlock, you can't just sit around moping like a child all day. For heaven's sake, you're a grown man. Here, let me get you a cuppa tea."
Mrs. Hudson was a landlady, not a house keeper. Nor was she a doctor, actor, physicist, or anyone's cook. She'd lived her life as such since her husband had passed, and she didn't expect she'd be changing anytime soon. It was an interesting life, she thought. She was in charge of a few houses on Baker St, a nice place, and they were nice people. Always something to talk about.
Crash.
Well, if they weren't nice, they were interesting.
Crash.
The noise of glass breaking came from directly above Mrs. Hudson's fantastically comfortable book reading chair, startling her out of her pleasant day dreams of clever old Agatha Christie and her simply marvelous novels. "Sherlock?" She called up from her seat.
Crash.
With that boy, if it wasn't one thing, it was another. Apparently there hadn't been any cases recently, otherwise his energies would be spent on puzzle-solving rather than china-destroying. Mrs. Hudson regretfully pulled herself away from Murder on the Orient Express and headed upstairs to chide her resident.
"Sherlock," She scolded, stepping into the flat. "What in goodness name are you doing now?" The man in question was balancing on the back of the arm chair holding a stack of glass plates. New ones, too. I just saw John bring those in, I did. 'Spect he was tired of eating off paper plates that had been God knows where. Sherlock didn't even look at her and continued what he was doing. He held a plate out, examined it from all angles, and let it shatter to the wooden floor.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," He replied in a drawl. "I'm taking out frustration on these ugly dishes. Is that hard to figure out?"
The land lady bustled her way over to him, careful to avoid the broken glass and held out her hands to take the rest of the plates. "Those aren't even yours, dear. John bought those for himself."
"John's not here." Sherlock said in a monotone, but handed her the plates. As she took them and set them on the much safer table surface, she saw the lanky detective buckle his legs and roll backwards into the chair. He stared at her, legs in the air, hair brushing the floor. "You can't tell me you don't get bored sometimes?"
"Course I do," Mrs Hudson said. "But there are more... constructive ways of dealing with it. You could watch telly and yell at that."
"I have watched telly," Sherlock said, rolling off the chair and brushing himself off. "It's awful. I've watched all the episodes and they're incredibly dull. There's no challenge, it's entirely obvious who's sleeping with who or who's going to be voted off the island. The problem is the idiots on those shows are worse than the idiots I know." He spun in a circle and collapsed on the couch and curled up to face the wall.
Mrs. Hudson had a silent realization. "Oh, you and John had a fight?" Sherlock remained silent. "Sherlock, you can't go throwing a fit like this when you don't get your way."
"And why not?" He protested.
"You're a grown man, dear."
"So what? I had fantastic plans. A stake out. Lestrade's been tracking a thief who leaves no fingerprints and leaves the homeowners drugged and passed out. So they want the drug she's using before it starts killing people. Of course, they were missing the obvious clues, but I figured it all out and I can tell you she'll be at the bar two blocks over at 8:14 this evening."
"And John didn't want to go with you, did he?"
"He's at Sarah's." Sherlock muttered.
Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh and went to sit beside the man on the couch. "Do you want me to make you a cup of tea, dear? That always straightens people out when they're brooding."
"No."
"Sherlock," She chided gently. "John's a grown man too, and he's going to want to spend time with his other friends. You can't keep him all to yourself." Look at him, she thought to her self. He's like a child gone to primary school to find his best mate is playing catch with someone else. Sherlock said nothing, but flipped himself around so that his head lay half-way on her lap.
Still a child. But she smiled at him and pulled her fingers through his dark hair. He was silent, but his breathing slowed and she felt him relax. She hadn't been a mother in a long time.
"Here now, Sherlock." She said after a while."Let John take a break once in a while. He still lives here, after all, he'll have to come back sometime. I don't think he'd abandon you just like that."
"Of course not."
"Then why brood? Come on, sit up. I'll fix you that cuppa."
Sherlock sat up to allow her up before flopping back down and sprawling out over the whole couch. "And biscuits too, Mrs. Hudson. There's some in the fridge. I don't mind if they're cold."
"Not your housekeeper, dear."