You boys come stumbling home, all bloody and dirty. I'm worried instantly and I know I'll be worried until I hear that sound. You know the one, Sherlock. The one where John lets out a disbelieving laugh and you chuckle next to him; then the telly will come on and he'll demand tea because you're tired and he's too busy to try. I suppose that's the time for me to march up and demand that you tell me what happened and I scold you for it. But I won't. I never do.

That's just the way you two are. Sweet John with his blog and saintlike patience and you with your crazy schemes and wicked experiments. Oh, dear, perhaps that should be reversed. You aren't a sociopath, after all. No matter what you say. I know that no sociopath would do what you do for John. For me. Cleaning your trays so I don't see the disgusting aspects of your experiments. You even did the laundry once to apologize for ruining my tea set. I don't even want to go down the list of things you've done for John.

It's far too long and too subtle for most people to catch (I see those pinpricks on your fingers, Sherlock, you've sewed up his jumper for him and that tea tray that you won't touch because his mum gave it to him).

With tea in hand I march up to see you. John is leaning on the couch, unable to move, and he'll probably sleep there tonight. I'll bring up a blanket later and a pillow. Maybe some aspirin as well, judging by his position. Sherlock you've curled yourself up in your chair like a cat, that can't be good for you. John agrees with me. But you won't listen.

I'll just give you the same treatment as John. And, so help me, if you complain about the blanket I will have your experiments chucked out. 'Essential' or not; once I've got you both taken care of and I've got all the details about your silly adventures I head back down. Some good old fashioned knitting will do me well; to calm my nerves.

At around three in the morning I sneak back upstairs. Oh, now, there's a sight. Sherlock, you're quite sneaky, aren't you? Already stuck a blanket on John and you're on the ground next to him. Both of you, sleeping like little angels. I'll never let you forget this, boys.

I'll just drop the aspirin here next to you. When you wake up, you can both have one. Only one, though, Sherlock Holmes. I know you're 'bad habits' almost as well as you know my past. But you don't know my future, or, rather, my hope for the future. My secret dream for you two. For the three of us, actually; the sight of a little one with your black hair and John's eyes and a sweet little voice calling me grandma even as he acts like his fathers.

Mrs. Turner's got married ones now, they're a cute family.

Now, you two, hurry up, because I want some married ones of my own.