Summary: If the British government won't do anything, Mrs. Hudson will take matters into her own hands. After all, why did he give her his private number if not for situations like this?

Sort of a missing scene (a conversation we weren't privy to anyway) set during the car chase in The Lying Detective.


A red Aston Martin speeds through the streets of suburban London. At the wheel is Mrs. Hudson, steering with one hand, while she dials her phone with the other. The call is connected as the car swerves around a corner. Mrs. Hudson hits the speaker button and drops the phone onto the center console.

MRS. HUDSON: I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes.

ANTHEA: I'm sorry, he's unavailable. How did you get his private number? It's for official use-

MRS. HUDSON (harried): Who do you think I am, dear? Now if you know what's good for you, you'll put Mycroft on this very minute.

The phone goes silent. For a moment the only sounds in the car are the engine, the squeal of tires and a siren from the police car that's now in pursuit. Mrs. Hudson, glances at it in the mirror, then floors the accelerator.

MYCROFT: Mrs. Hudson, I was in a meeting. This had better be important. Sherlock hasn't blown up the flat, has he?

MRS. HUDSON (scolding): Of course it's important, not that you seem to care a lick about what your brother does these days. He's determined to kill himself with all the drugs, and I've been forced to take action.

MYCROFT: Assuming an ambulance is not necessary since you've called me instead of 999. I'll contact a rehab facility. Someone will be there within the hour.

MRS. HUDSON: Don't be ridiculous.

Muffled thumps and shouts can be heard from the car boot.

MRS. HUDSON (turning toward the back and raising her voice): Oh do be quiet, you. It's for your own good!

MYCROFT: Where are you? Is my brother with you?

MRS. HUDSON: We're on the way to see some sort of therapist, I think.

MYCROFT (incredulous): A therapist? Who's stupid idea is that? A therapist would need to be psychotic or a miracle worker, or both, to get through to my brother.

The car flies around a traffic circle in reckless fashion, police cars still in pursuit. The thrashing in the car boot gets louder. Mrs. Hudson reaches up and flips on the sound system. The thundering notes of 'Ode to Joy' fill the cabin at top volume.

MYCROFT (shouting to be heard over the music): Good Lord, what is that racket?

Mrs. Hudson turns the volume down a notch, then takes the phone off speaker and holds it up to her ear, once more steering the car with one hand.

MRS. HUDSON: Sorry, I had to drown out the yelling.

MYCROFT (a bit agitated): Mrs. Hudson, where is Sherlock? Is he all right?

MRS. HUDSON: He's right here in the car with me. A bit tied up. He's fine for the moment, but we need your help.

MYCROFT (annoyed): Well, you seem to have the situation well in hand. If you won't let me send him to rehab, I'm not sure what assistance I can offer and I really am right in the middle-

MRS. HUDSON: Don't you dare hang up on me, Mycroft Holmes! I'll tell you what I need you to do...

She takes another corner at top speed and races down a street of suburban homes, glancing at the car's Sat Nav screen. Just as another police car appears dead ahead, she swings into the driveway of one of the houses, crashing into the bins and sending them flying across the pavement.

MRS. HUDSON (tone softening): Ah, we're here. What I need is for you to speak to this lovely policeman. Just give me a moment, dear.

On his side of the conversation, Mycroft rolls his eyes and his shoulders slump in defeat.

MYCROFT (exasperated): Yes, of course. Put him on. I'll wait...