BBC Sherlock- Here's A Hand, My Trusty Friend c.31

The mobile on the side table pinged, announcing a new text. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and rolling over to check the time, 05:07 AM, John groaned. "For godsake, Sherlock..."

violet

The breath caught in John's throat and he was up and out of bed in an instant. Dropping the mobile back on the table, John unlocked the Sig from the drawer safe with practiced ease. He checked the clip and safety as he moved toward the door. It never took him long to adjust to moving about in the dark; he thanked the army for that. Reaching behind his door, he grabbed the length of rope he had coiled there and draped it over his shoulder so it hung down across his chest.

Moving as quickly and as silently as he ever had in the military, he made his way down the stairs. Sherlock was waiting for him on the landing; John's med kit clutched to his chest and the small fire extinguisher from the kitchen in his other hand. Sherlock's eyes glinted fierce in the fairy lights Mrs. Hudson had strung up in the hallway. John wished, at the moment, that they'd had the cover of darkness, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He put one finger to his lips and then pointed down the stairs. Sherlock nodded and fell directly in step behind him.

It had taken practice -- hours of practice actually -- demanded by Sherlock, to perfect their silent, tandem descent down the steps from their flat. Precise foot placement to avoid loose boards. How much weight each step could take without groaning. Avoiding step number thirteen at all costs. By the time all was said and done, Sherlock was only marginally satisfied with their progress, and John was left contemplating murder.

God, he was going to hate admitting that Sherlock had been right.

Safely at the bottom of the steps -- without so much as a squeak, thank you very much -- John held his hand up in a fist. Both men paused and listened intently. They could hear muffled Christmas carols, and there was definitely someone moving around in Mrs. Hudson's flat. A faint light barely shone from the crack under the door. Sherlock tapped John's shoulder, pointed to Mrs. Hudson's door and then to John's gun. John nodded and slowly approached the door.

Pressed up against the wall on the side nearest the doorknob, John checked the clip once more and clicked off the safety. He nodded as Sherlock, who was pressed up against the wall on the other side of the door, med kit at his feet, ready to wield the extinguisher as a weapon, reached out and tested the doorknob. Unlocked. How many times had they discussed this matter with their landlady? She was entirely too trusting, and their chosen profession was entirely too dangerous to allow such an obvious slip in security.

John held up three fingers and Sherlock tightened his grip on the doorknob. With a sharp nod, John counted down from three and Sherlock pushed the door open. He quickly picked up the med kit, and John, ready to shoot on sight, did a preliminary sweep of the front room. Lit only with fairy lights and the Christmas tree, the room was warm and cheerful, but John carefully scrutinized every shadow. He looked back at Sherlock, waiting just outside the door, and mouthed, "clear." Sherlock nodded and stepped up right beside him.

Narrowing his eyes and giving the room another once over, Sherlock tapped his ear and pointed to the kitchen. John nodded in agreement, he'd heard it too. Someone was definitely moving around in there. Tilting his head in that direction, John made his way toward the kitchen doorway, careful to stay out of direct line of sight. Sherlock once again fell into step behind him. Creeping through the doorway gun first, John scanned the entire room and came to a complete, abrupt stop. Sherlock, absorbed with observing his surroundings ran right into John's back, and managed to only huff a silent breath as he scowled down at John. Flipping the safety back on, but keeping the gun at the ready, John glared back at Sherlock. He pointed at his eyes, gestured around the room, and then shrugged. Eyes wide with frustration, mouth pressed into a tight line, Sherlock was pantomiming wildly with the fire extinguisher.

It was in the middle of this silent argument, just as John, gun still raised in his right hand, making a vulgar hand gesture at Sherlock with his left, and Sherlock mouthing muted insults, med kit still clutched to his chest, that Mrs. Hudson, the only other occupant of the room, turned from the sink where she'd been scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain from her best baking sheet and humming along with Bing Crosby, turned and saw her two red faced tenants. So startled was she that she screamed a rather blood curdling scream and dropped the baking sheet with an almighty crash.

"Oh! Boys!" Voice tremulous, Mrs. Hudson's hands fluttered first to her face and then to her neck.

"Bloody buggering hell," John gasped as he instinctively stepped into a more defensive posture, gripping his gun with both hands. He panted a litany of curses at himself for startling so easily and embarrassment tinged his face.

Sherlock simply took the ruckus as a signal that he could now add volume to his insults, and continued his word assault out loud without missing a beat. "...fathomleth asininity!"

"Did... Did you just lisp?" John cast a glance back over his shoulder and blinked in surprise. His rigid stance faltered as he bit his lip and tried not to chuckle.

"Yes, well, I am fairly certain that you just now made up at least three of those vulgarities." Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked.

"Oh, god. We're idiots." John chuckled in earnest. He brought the gun down to his side and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Mrs. Hudson, we really need to talk about..." Both men turned their attention to their landlady. She stood completely still, with the exception of the trembling hands at her neck and her eyes darting between the two of them, the color drained from her face after the fright she'd received.

"Damn. Sorry... sorry." Rushing around the table, John removed the clip from the Sig in a smooth motion, placed the gun and clip separately on the table, and pulled a chair out. Propriety forgotten, he gently ushered Mrs. Hudson into the chair and crouched in front of her. Pressing two fingers to the pulse point on her wrist, John cupped her cheek with his other hand. "Martha? Hey... hey..." Adopting his most soothing tone, John attempted to comfort the stunned woman. "Mrs. Hudson? Martha, are you okay? Your pulse is a bit high. I need you to try to calm down, yeah? Take a few deep breaths. Sherlock, can you get her a glass of..." John was cut short by a smack across his face. There wasn't enough force for it to leave a mark, but it stunned him enough that he sat down hard on the floor, ego bruised, rubbing his cheek.

"John Watson, don't you sneak into my home, using that awful language and waving around that gun, and expect to tell me what to do!" Having recovered herself, Mrs. Hudson stood with a huff, crossed her arms over her chest, and shook her head at John with a look that exuded motherly disappointment.

"I... But..."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Exasperated, Sherlock, who had put the fire extinguisher down on the table, but still held tight to the med kit, as if it were a security blanket, took a step toward John. "John was, we both were, simply responding..."

"And you!" Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to Sherlock, and pointed at him, accusation visible in the tight line of her lips. "You're just as bad, with your insults and waving around whatever you can get your hands on like a weapon. It's enough to give a person a heart attack!" She looked from Sherlock, standing sheepishly a few paces away (out of arm's reach on purpose), to John, still sat on the floor, a repentant grimace on his face. "And just look at the state of you two. Bursting in here dressed the way you are. It's not decent!"

Giving each other a once over, both Sherlock and John devolved into giggles. "I'm sure none of this is in the least bit humorous." Mrs. Hudson huffed and wrinkled her nose in distaste. She scooped up the baking sheet off the floor and turned back to the sink to rewash it. Her tenants continued to giggle.

"You do look the very definition of ridiculous, John." Sherlock held out his hand and helped his flatmate up off the floor. "Like some sort of suburban action hero." He shook his head and huffed a laugh as he looked John up and down. Shrugging, John quirked a lopsided grin but crossed his arms over his chest in feigned modesty. Barefoot and shirtless, he was wearing worn and faded red and green plaid flannel pyjama bottoms and the length of rope still hung across his chest. The sleep mussed hair and two day old stubble completed the look.

"Yes, well, you're one to talk." John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who pulled his robe a little more tightly around himself and secured the belt a more snugly. He didn't have to ask whether Sherlock was wearing any pants under there. Everyone already knew the answer to that. An uncharacteristic flush colored Sherlock's cheeks as he pushed an unruly mass of curls from his forehead and shuffled his feet.

"Oh my god, your socks. They have reindeer on them!" John laughed outright.

"It is Christmas, is it not?" Sherlock huffed in exasperation, and then he snapped, "Take off that rope, John. Honestly..." Realization striking, he suddenly turned his focus to Mrs. Hudson, who was dutifully setting out a tea service, and narrowed his eyes. "You. It's your fault we're here in the first place. I'm sure John would much rather be asleep, and I was in the middle of an experiment."

Blinking up at him innocently, Mrs. Hudson continued about the task of setting three places at the table. "What are you on about?" She looked at John and motioned to his gun. John tugged his med kit from Sherlock's hand, carefully placed his gun and the clip inside, and placed the whole thing, along with the fire extinguisher, on the floor next to the doorway. John took over setting the table, his brow furrowed in confusion, as Mrs. Hudson turned to get the kettle started.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Apparently I'm... setting the table?" With a resigned shrug and a yawn, John continued placing cutlery at each place setting.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "You sent a text alerting us to a critical situation. John and I followed established protocols we had all agreed upon mutually. We entered your flat prepared for any eventuality, but I see no evidence of an intruder. And you at least appear to be in good health..."

"Dear, I'm sure I did nothing of the sort." Without sparing a glance in Sherlock's direction, Mrs. Hudson, with the aid of a Christmas-y oven mitt that matched her Christmas-y apron, pulled out a plate of sausages that she had been keeping warm in the oven. She then pulled out a dish of scrambled eggs. "John, would you get the clotted cream and the jam from refrigerator please?"

"Look. Here." Sherlock held his mobile up to Mrs. Hudson's face so that she would have no choice but to see the text there.

"'Violet?'" She reached around Sherlock to hand John a tea towel covered basket of freshly baked scones.

"'Violet.'" Her tenants repeated in unison.

Peeking under the tea towel, John sighed contentedly. "That's the code you're to use if there's an intruder. You won't convince us you forgot. I know you passed that written exam Sherlock gave you. And the color coded key I made is right there on the refrigerator door." He indicated behind him with his thumb.

"I must have been confused. You know how silly I can be when it comes to technology. What is it... autocorrect? My mobile must have changed my message." Mrs. Hudson turned quickly away when the kettle whistled, and made a fuss over brewing a pot of tea. "I was trying to use the code to tell you I was fixing breakfast."

"There is no code for fresh scones," Sherlock condescended as he attempted to steal a sausage. John swatted his hand away. With a huff, Sherlock slumped into one of the chairs with a place setting in front of it. "We created the codes for a reason, John. So that we could respond properly. You were prepared to kill someone. And now we're about to sit down to breakfast with our landlady, the two of us in varying degrees of undress, at barely half five in the morning on Christmas." He scooted his chair a little closer to the table and managed to swipe a sausage before John could stop him. "Do you see the state of chaos into which we have descended? All because..."

"Sherlock." John chuckled. "Let it go." He took the tea pot from Mrs. Hudson and poured each of them a cup. "We've been played. I've learned the hard way Mrs. Hudson is a devious one, too much time with you I suspect, and I fell for it again. I guess I'm just not physically able to suspect the worst of her." He winked at his landlady; Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes in response. Setting the pot aside, John pulled Mrs. Hudson's chair out for her.

"Thank you dear." Mrs. Hudson turned to face John and patted the cheek she'd smacked. "I am sorry for smacking you, you boys just gave me quite a fright. And we've talked about that mouth of yours, love." She smiled fondly and passed John the plate of mysteriously dwindling sausages.

"If you two are quite finished with the domestic niceties, I'd really like to know why we are here so that I can get back to my experiment." Sherlock reached across the table and tried to steal the half of John's scone with the jam on it. John's fork put a stop to him, and he was handed his own scone.

"Mrs. Hudson fixed us Christmas breakfast. It's not too much to expect that we enjoy it with her for once, is it?" John scooted the pot of jam nearer to Sherlock.

"Not at all. If that were the actual reason for us being summoned here. But it's not, is it?" Turning his full attention to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock scrutinized her every action as she sipped at her cup of tea. He leaned in close to her. "What are you hiding? You weren't in danger. You aren't injured. You don't appear ill, though considering your advanced age, you could logically have contracted some terminal illness."

"Oi! Sherlock, don't be rude."

"I'll beg your pardon, young man!"

"That's it, isn't it?" Sherlock's eyes were wide with concern and he grabbed Mrs. Hudson's hand. "You're dying." He turned on John, his tone venomous. "How could you let this happen? I thought you were a doctor? Why didn't you see..."

"Sherlock!" John laughed. "She's not dying. You're not dying, are you Mrs. Hudson?"

"No dear, not today anyway." Mrs. Hudson chuckled and patted Sherlock's hand. He huffed and slumped in his chair once more.

"You always remind me to look at all the evidence first. Never assume." Taking a sip of tea, John leaned back in his chair looking rather smug. "You, Sherlock Holmes, assumed the worst. And you were wrong." He didn't even attempt to cover his gleeful grin.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson giggled, "don't be so hard on him. He's just concerned is all. You don't care for surprises, do you dear." She patted Sherlock's hand again, and pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. "I'll not make you wait any longer."

Pushing her plate away, Mrs. Hudson placed the envelope on the table in front of her and folded her hands on top of it. Sherlock's fingers fidgeted around the edge of his place mat. After another sip of tea, Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and began.

"As you both know, several years ago Sherlock helped me out of a very bad situation with my late husband. What you may not know is that before the cartel, and the crime, I had actually received a rather large inheritance from an aunt. But all of that was tied up in the legal system with my husband's troubles. Until just a few years ago. I didn't mention it then, because things got so..." She furrowed her brow and considered her words carefully. "Things were so difficult for you boys for so long. But when my accounts were released, I paid this house off right away. It's why I never really made a fuss about rent back then. But the rent you did pay, I kept back in a separate account."

Both Sherlock and John leaned back in their chairs and stared at their landlady, stunned into silence. She chuckled and continued. "My sister and I have gone in together and bought a little summer cottage. She and I want to travel and go on holiday while we both still can. And I... Well..." Mrs. Hudson ducked her head and blushed. "I don't really have to worry about money at all. And I don't want you two boys to ever wonder about whether or not you'll have a home here. Because I believe there is some universal law that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong at 221 Baker Street. So..." Ever so gingerly, Mrs. Hudson opened the envelope and removed the enclosed documents. "I had your brother help me with these, Sherlock. Such a gentleman. I don't see why you two can't get along."

John snorted and unsuccessfully tried to cover it with a cough. Sherlock growled and covered his face with his hands.

"This," Mrs. Hudson held up one packet of papers, "is the deed to the house, made out in both of your names." She handed the bundle to Sherlock, who looked absolutely gobsmacked. "The house is yours, boys. And these are the papers granting you access to the bank account I mentioned. It's set up for maintenance and upkeep of the house. You both have access, but you're listed primary John, since you're probably going to have to be the one to make sure himself doesn't burn the place down." She handed the bank papers to John, who was furiously attempting to blink back tears.

"You won't..." John had to take a deep breath and clear his throat before he could speak. "You aren't leaving us though? You'll still live here?"

"Oh, dear, no, of course I'm not leaving. I'll keep my rooms here at Baker Street for as long as you'll have me."

With a relieved sigh John stood and wrapped Mrs. Hudson in a crushing hug. "How can we ever thank you?"

"My dear boy, you don't have to thank me. I should be thanking you." She broke the hug and took both of John's hands. "I never did have any children of my own. Having you and Sherlock here, well, it's been like having my own sons. I couldn't have picked two better if I'd tried. And we've all been through so much together, it's... Well, we are a family aren't we? I like to think maybe you've come to love me the way I've come to love the two of you."

Silent tears slid down John's cheeks as he nodded huffed a breathy laugh. He helped Mrs. Hudson stand so he could wrap her in another tight embrace. "After my own mum..." He released a shuddering breath. "You're the only..." Mrs. Hudson sobbed and they held onto each other for long moments. "Damn. Sorry. Sorry. I'm just rubbish at this. Yes, of course I love you." John planted a tender kiss on her cheek as they broke the hug. "Thank you." He laughed again. "The scarf and tea set we got you hardly seems appropriate now, right Sherlock?"

"I'm sure they're lovely dear." Mrs. Hudson grinned and patted his arm. They both turned to look at Sherlock, who still looked utterly astonished, was sat stone still and unblinking, with the deed to 221 Baker Street held tightly in his grip.

"Oh god. I think you broke him." John stepped around the table, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him. "Sherlock? You all right?"

Slowly Sherlock blinked and looked from John to Mrs. Hudson and then back to John. He still held tight to the deed. "This..." He held the papers up without looking at them. "This is our home? Our home."

John patted him on the shoulder. "Yeah. Our home." He smiled reassuringly down at him and then looked to Mrs. Hudson. "Why don't I do the washing up, and I'll let you... handle this." With a chuckle, John managed to get Sherlock into the front room and situated onto one of the sofas. "I'll make some fresh tea as well."

"Sherlock, are you quite all right, dear?" Mrs. Hudson sat down next to him on the sofa and brushed some hair back from his face. "I didn't mean for the gift to upset you. I thought you'd be happy. I thought you loved living here..."

"I do!" Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson and rushed his explanation. "I never really felt that I belonged anywhere. Not after Mycroft and I... My family loved me very much, but I stayed away from them. And there were people who helped me some along the way. But it wasn't until here, at Baker Street, with you, and with John, that I actually ever felt I had a place that I belonged. We've been through so many terribly hard things." Sherlock sniffed, glanced toward the kitchen where he could hear John stacking the plates, and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. "But there has been so much more joy. And love. And I belong here. I belong here." He glanced down at the deed. "And it's forever." He smiled a tiny genuine smile at Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson began, but she found herself wrapped in a solid embrace with Sherlock's head resting on her shoulder. "Oh, love. You've always belonged here."

When John entered with the tea tray only ten minutes later, Sherlock had fallen asleep leaning on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, and she was smiling at him fondly, running gentle fingers through his hair.

"Should I try to get him upstairs?" John whispered.

"Don't you dare move him. We'll be fine here for a little while."

John smiled and poured Mrs. Hudson a cup of tea and placed it in her free hand. He gingerly reset the needle on her record player and turned the Christmas carols on low. Selecting the quilt from the back of the sofa, John covered Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, placing a kiss on his landlady's cheek. He wrapped the throw from the back of the armchair around his bare shoulders and took up his own tea cup. "Mind if I join you?"

Smiling up at him, Mrs. Hudson patted the seat next to her. "Right where you belong. Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."