Day Six: Don't Anger Mrs. Hudson


When Mrs. Hudson returns from her sister's on Monday, she brings over the doorstep with her someone much less savory. John hears the twin sets of footfalls before he sees the unexpected visitor, but he has the worst suspicion of who it is. These suspicions are confirmed when he hears the tenor of one Mycroft Holmes echoing from the hallway. He glances into the back bedroom, where Sherlock is sleeping—he's been doing that off and on all day—then back to the door, where he sees Mycroft's foot on the threshold.

"Look who I found on the doorstep like a lost dog," Mrs. Hudson says, presenting Mycroft as though his presence is to be celebrated. John sighs and goes into the kitchen to make tea, leaving the others to stand in the living room and stare at each other. Mrs. Hudson says, "Bad weekend, John?" A pause, then, "Did everything not go…right?" She's a beta. Doesn't exactly know how to talk about heats, and isn't really comfortable with it either.

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson." Waiting for the kettle to boil, he stands by the counter closest to the archway leading to the stairs and the bedroom. Creating a physical barrier between Mycroft and his sleeping brother. The last thing anyone needs right now is a typical Holmes blow-out, especially the delicate conditions forming in Sherlock's womb. Being a doctor makes him all too aware that anything, even stress, could change send things going pear-shaped.

Mycroft's presence is still not welcomed at 221B, at least not by John. Sherlock has been impressively forgiving about the whole thing—going right back to their typical sibling rivalry and seemingly unwilling to acknowledge what his brother's actions had gotten him into.

John has not been nearly so forgiving. One does not tend to be with the person responsible for the death of their mate—temporary or not.

Mrs. Hudson, who's still in her coat, glances between Mycroft and John then says, "Has he done something?" It's no mystery who the 'he' she speaks of refers to.

"Not that I know of," John says, and it's only a small lie. Getting pregnant isn't something he really considers 'something,' though Mrs. Hudson, with her previous century sensibilities, may. He has no illusions that it isn't the reason Mycroft has chosen to darken their doorstep, though. He's fully aware that after the bugging incident with Moriarty's web of criminal masterminds, Mycroft installed several cameras in the common areas of the flat. John made him promise that they would be on only when no one was home, but he's never thought Mycroft held that promise. This only proves it, although the fact that he's only showing up a week after the fact may refer to the tip coming from other sources.

For some reason, the idea that Mycroft has people following them is not any more comforting.

Obviously uncomfortable, Mrs. Hudson excuses herself to go unpack, and promises to be back in half an hour with biscuits and to recount them with the tale of what her ridiculous nephew had gotten himself up to while she was visiting.

"So," John says once she's out of earshot, "how did you find out? The bugs on the walls or the eyes you have following us?" Turns the kettle off and adds, "That's going to stop, by the way. We're grown men, Mycroft. More than capable of navigating our lives by ourselves."

Cool as a cucumber, Mycroft says, "I don't have anyone following you currently."

While currently is not a word he would have liked to have tagged onto the end of that statement, John chooses to address the much more prevalent issue first. Snorts and plants his hands on his hips, like he remembers his mum doing when he was young. Like Mycroft is a petulant child and he's the exasperated adult. "Right, you expect me to believe that. You show up six days after the whole thing and you really expect me to believe you don't know? Thanks for actually giving us a few days, though, instead of just bursting in here hours after the fact."

Come to think of it, he may have done that out of self-preservation rather than any sort of sympathy or propriety. In the state he'd been in—scared/confused/happy—Sherlock may have tossed his brother right back out on the street via the window. That, or he'd known Sherlock and John would not let him in, and had waited until Mrs. Hudson's return for that reason.

Mycroft isn't going to give up so easily, it seems. He scrunches his face into a good imitation of genuinely puzzled and sits himself in Sherlock's usual chair. Says, "I don't know what you're talking about. Six days since what?"

"That's just obnoxious," John snaps, keeping his feet firmly planted in the kitchen even though Mycroft is not-so-subtly swinging his brolly in the direction of the other chair. John entertains himself with fantasies of dropping the thing off the roof. Of Canary Warf, that is.

"Doctor Watson, I do not know what you're talking about." Mycroft looks angry now, like he's the one who's been wronged, and a niggling starts at the back of John's head, speculating that perhaps Mycroft doesn't know. That niggling grows louder when Mycroft goes on to say, "I came here to speak to my brother about presenting himself at our mother's birthday party in a month—nothing more, nothing less. Whatever you think I know, I do not."

Weirdly enough, John is starting to believe him. Mycroft is a master manipulator, it's very true, but rarely ever does he outright lie, and never so passionately. It leads John to believe he's made a big mistake, and he cautiously allows himself to say, "You honestly have no idea?" Because even if Mycroft hasn't had someone report to him, he's a Holmes; shouldn't he be able to tell what's happened by just taking a glance about the room?

"I'm afraid not." It's said with the implication that if John does not start explaining, he may find himself being dropped off Canary Warf.

"Do you know the date?"

Looking increasingly irritated, Mycroft says, "I don't know how that's relevant."

"Yeah, but do you know it?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes—an oddly petulant look on him—and says, "Monday, November twelfth. 2013, if you must know." He sits there haughtily for a moment, his resemblance to Sherlock almost uncanny, before his face drops into an odd expression which, if he had to put a name to it, John would call lost. Says, "Where is my brother?"

Nodding, John says "Now you're starting to get it. He's sleeping."

"He never sleeps. Much less in the middle of the day."

John raises his eyebrows. Says, "I know," very pointedly.

"What happened?"

He's been expecting for Mycroft to get it by himself, to realize that the flat doesn't smell like heat and the fact that there is a new scent—Sherlock's changed scent—wafting about. But he forgets that Mycroft is a beta—it's easy, to be honest, because he so successfully broadcasts Alpha. All the mannerisms are there, and he dabs the scent on his wrists and neck like cologne. John has always wondered why Mycroft needed to cover up being a beta, of all things—they're by far the most common gender and both Alphas and Omegas find their presence tolerable—but he supposes being thought to have the typical bullheadedness of an Alpha could help a political career.

It's going to be awkward though, explaining how he got Sherlock pregnant to his brother.

"Er," he crosses his arms, fidgets, hems and haws and eventually says, "The condom broke."

Far from any cliché expression of surprise, Mycroft's eyebrows narrow and he says, "And he wasn't on any kind of birth control?"

"He thinks they're…stupid."

"He took no extra precautions? None whatsoever?" Mycroft shakes his head, rolls his eyes to the ceiling as if it's him that's so put-upon in this equation. "How idiotic."

"Well you've got to remember that most Omega birth controls are less than seventy percent effective." As is his wont to do, John becomes immediately defensive when faced with Mycroft's easy belittlement. "And the stuff that's actually higher than that is ridiculously potent stuff—as in, it could mess an Omega's hormones up for a long time if they don't know what they're doing."

"My brother is a chemist, as you well know. He should know what he's doing."

"Yeah, and I think he's not taking birth control because he knows what he's doing, rather than despite."

Undoubtedly Mycroft had a retort, which he would have expounded on if Sherlock himself didn't sway into the kitchen at that moment, point at Mycroft, and say, "You. Out of my house. Now."

The display doesn't amuse Mycroft in the slightest. He sighs and takes a passing glance at the heavens once more before muttering, "Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"

"Nothing yet, but I'm about to commit fratricide." Sherlock sits down across from his brother, in the chair that John usually occupies. Glances at John and says, "Are you making tea? Make tea," before turning back to his brother. Thus they engage in one of their infamous staring contests, Mycroft tapping his umbrella against the floor and Sherlock's foot jiggling uncontrollably where it dangles next to his calf.

It's Mycroft who finally breaks the silence, nearly ten minutes later when the water for the tea has boiled and John has left three bags to steep in mugs. He heaves a great sigh and says, "Well I suppose there's nothing to do, now that you've gotten yourself in this state. You're sure you're pregnant, yes?"

"There's only a distant possibility that I'm not, considering the change in scent, my incredibly recent lethargy, and the fact that John was knotted within me for well over half an hour before we discovered the broken condom." John winces, but neither Holmes brother looks phased and, at this point, John has stopped being surprised at their general lack of perception when it comes to social taboos. He knows Sherlock just generally does not understand them, but he has a feeling Mycroft knows them very well and chooses to ignore them. Either way, it's very Holmesian.

"You know Mummy will want confirmation. As will I."

"You can take a long walk off a short pier, Mycroft. As for Mummy, she'll have to wait a few weeks. I trust even you realize that pregnancy isn't immediately detectible, even in Omegas?"

There is more staring, and John carries the mugs into the living room. Sets one down in front of Mycroft, hands another to Sherlock, and perches himself on the arm of the chair Sherlock is sitting in. He could sit on the couch, but if the confrontation becomes physical he might not be able to intervene before one or the other causes damage. In nearly four years, the brothers have only resorted to physical violence once, and to be honest it was warranted on Mycroft's part, because at that point in time—right after Sherlock made it known that he was still alive—John had wanted to clobber Sherlock as well.

Hopefully this won't dissolve into fisticuffs. John would hate to have to break his hand on Mycroft's nose, which he would have to do if the elder Holmes even thought about jeopardizing the health of his unborn child.

Then Mycroft says something—something confusing which, given his expression, he knows he shouldn't speak about. He says, "Honestly, Sherlock. The fact that you've now gotten yourself into the same situation twice is pitiful."

"What?" John asks sharply, unable to stop himself.

"Sherlock, you've never told your mate about what happened in 1996?"

John looks down at Sherlock. He looks absolutely furious, jaw clenched and face turning red. Says, "It didn't seem imperative. It was a long time ago."

"Not so very long."

"Let me reiterate: It's irrelevant to my current circumstance. The situation is entirely different, so shut your buggering face, Mycroft." It really looks as though Sherlock may leap across the space between and strangle his brother. Ordinarily, this would be the point at which John would make Mycroft leave. Now, however, he's bent on figuring out what they're talking about.

"Okay. One of you. Explain."

Sherlock stares at John, suddenly apprehensive, and Mycroft says, "When Sherlock was sixteen he found himself pregnant by a young man named Victor Trevor, quite in a similar manner."

"Birth control for Omegas was in its infancy back then," Sherlock snaps, "and father wouldn't have pulled himself out of denial of my gender long enough to sign for me to obtain some, even had it been readily available at the time."

"Wait, wait." As much as he agrees with the statement, and can fully understand Sherlock's reluctance to reveal the information, he still feels he has a right to it now that it has been mentioned, and he'd like to have some of his questions answered before Sherlock and Mycroft begin tearing into each other again. He says, "So you had a baby when you were sixteen?"

"No, I became pregnant when I was sixteen."

"Well yeah, but that usually leads to babies." He thinks for a minute, then adds, "Unless you had an abortion?"

"Father would have liked that, but no. I…" He sighs. Rubs the area between his eyes. "I miscarried at three months. I wasn't mature enough, my body wasn't ready to handle it. It was my first heat, and…I didn't know how to deal with it. I didn't take care of myself." He sighs and slides down in his chair. He's upset, probably as much about Mycroft bringing it up as John making him explain. If he's never mentioned it, it's surely something he never wanted to talk about in the first place. John is caught between sympathy and annoyance.

There is silence. John stares at Sherlock, Sherlock and Mycroft stare at each other. Both Holmeses have impassive faces; it's incredibly hard to tell what they're thinking, although Sherlock is slightly easier than Mycroft. All John can detect from Sherlock is an urge to have his brother gone now.

So he stands up, picks up Mycroft's umbrella (Which he has set beside himself since coming in) and holds it out. Says, "I think it would be best if you left, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks as though he wants to protest, but from behind John, Sherlock growls out, "Please, Mycroft. Go." His teeth are clenched, his hands are bunched into fists on his thighs, and his face is turning red. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock plead for his brother to do anything—granted, it hadn't been a particularly nice plea, but a plea all the same, and just the use of the word 'please' has John (And Mycroft, for that matter) on high alert.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, looking concerned and perhaps—although it's hard to believe—a bit regretful. He knows his manipulation has gone too far. "I didn't realize it was such a sore—"

"Mycroft!" John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock reach such a volume without build-up. It's like a sudden explosion of noise, a motor going from zero to sixty in one second flat. It actually makes him jump—and army doctors are not known for their skittishness. Sherlock continues, "For once in your miserable life, listen to someone when they ask you to do something! Get out of my flat!"

Evidently, Mycroft decides that he best thing to do at that very moment is to get the hell out of dodge. He grabs his umbrella from John (His arm has slackened and the tip is now digging into Mycroft's thigh, but neither of them notice in light of Sherlock's outburst) and stands up. Doesn't even do his usual pompous suit-straightening and dust-ridding. Simply heads towards the front door, with a pause next to Sherlock's chair. He hesitates, extremely wary of Sherlock when he's in such a state (and rightly so) before saying, "If you need anything, you know where I am." He catches John in his gaze too.

"Leave," Sherlock grunts, loudly but not nearly so impressively as before.

Mycroft flees, closing the door behind him. Sherlock does not move, speak, or breathe until he hears the downstairs door close, at which point he gets up, walks to the couch, and plants himself on it, face-down, splayed.

"Sherlock," John says.

"Leave me alone."

John sighs. It's going to be one of those days. It's not altogether unwarranted, though. Instead of arguing, John merely says, "Sherlock, you shouldn't lay on your stomach, love."

"My uterus is still between my hipbones. I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, but it's better to break bad habits while you still can." When Sherlock shows no sign of moving, John walks over, grabs Sherlock's hip, and tries to tilt him into his side, facing the back of the couch. Sherlock's reaction is violent, flipping over all at once and slapping John's hand away before bringing a knee up, planting his foot on John's stomach, and shoving him away. Rolls back over onto his stomach, after giving John an acidic glare.

John, who just barely managed to stop himself falling onto the coffee table, balls his fists at his side and, ignoring the pain in his abdomen, growls, "Fine. Fucking fine. Do what the fuck ever you want, I don't bloody care! I have just…I can't bring myself to, anymore!" With that, he stomps towards the door, barely pausing at the bottom of the stairs to grab his coat off the hook.

The moment he's out the door, he wants to go right back inside. Whether it's the sudden cold hitting him and pulling him back to his senses, or what he's just said to the carrier of his child has just set in, he doesn't know. Perhaps it's both simultaneously. Either way, he feels like an immense twit.

But there's no going back now. He won't be welcome. Sherlock has undoubtedly declared Martial Law and won't let anyone into or out of the flat for several hours at least.

So much for keeping stress levels down.


Three hours, one pint, and six laps around the block later, John's phone vibrates in his pocket. He's hoping it's Sherlock, texting him to say he can come home. Instead it's a call from Mrs. Hudson who, when John answers the phone, shrieks, "John Hamish Watson!" in such a way that he has to check to make sure it's not his mother and he's misread the caller ID.

"Um…"

"You better get your butt back to this flat, young man, or so help me I will come track you down myself do you understand me?" It's astounding how such a gentle, soft-spoken woman can sound so threatening when the necessity arises. He's only ever gotten glimpses of her potential—the night Sherlock was arrested right in the living room of 221B, for instance—but now that the full package is being turned on him, it's rather terrifying.

"Mrs. H, I really can't…"

"Do you understand me, Doctor Watson?"

There's really no arguing with that tone. Something in John wants to stand at attention, salute, and march off to do as he's told. Instead he nods, although he knows the woman on the other end of the line cannot see him, and says, "Yes, alright. Right away, I will. Yes."

"Good." With that, the line goes dead.

It's only half a block to Baker Street from where he is, but John takes it at a run. If Mrs. Hudson is calling in a tizzy, things must have gotten extremely bad at an alarming rate. He's imagining all sorts of scenarios, all involving needles and syringes and Sherlock passed out on the living room floor. His mind comes up with a dozen worst case scenarios, and he's gotten himself into a full panic by the time he crosses the threshold to 221 Baker Street.

He charges up the steps, not bothering to shuck his coat or even take off his gloves.

Finds…well, not what he was expecting.

Sherlock is upright, sitting on the sofa. At the very least John had expected him to be horizontal, still on his stomach in his petty act of rebellion if nothing else. He doesn't look up as John enters, merely continues staring at something apparently fascinating on his computer.

Mrs. Hudson is in the kitchen, arms crossed, tapping her foot on the linoleum. When John comes into her sights, she points at the cushion next to Sherlock and says, "Sit down."

Deciding it would be wise not to question her, John drops himself onto the sofa. Sherlock, though sitting straight up, is somehow managing to take up an entire two-thirds, and so John hugs the opposite arm and tries not to touch him. In the state he's in—probably in—John isn't willing to risk it and end up pissing Sherlock off even more.

"Honestly," Mrs. Hudson hisses, coming to stand before them, the coffee table separating them. Her hands are on her hips, and she's somehow an imposing figure in her purple frock and her baby pink kitten heels. "I can't believe I'm having to do this. You two are grown men. Grown men! And yet I have this one throwing tantrums," here, she gestures to Sherlock, who has the decency to slump his shoulders and lower the lid of the laptop, "And this one slamming out the door like some…teenager! Honestly, I'd have expected more from you boys."

"Mrs. Hudson, with all due respect, the arguments John and I have are our arguments," Sherlock says, and he really does try to say it respectfully. It doesn't necessarily means it comes out that way, but John can tell he's trying.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, is having none of it. Something has angered her, and she is not going to let it go. "They are when you're having them under my roof, you better believe it! You be quiet, Sherlock Holmes! When I tell you that you can speak, you'll be allowed to speak, and not a moment before. Do you understand?"

Meekly and perhaps slightly grudgingly, Sherlock nods.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm herself, Mrs. Hudson continues, "You two need to treat each other better. I'm tired of the arguments and the slamming doors at all hours and the stomping about and the screaming. Oh my goodness, the screaming. Someone would think you two have no respect for each other at all." She looks to Sherlock and continues, "And speaking of respect; you, young man, need to show that brother of yours some. I'm aware that he can be controlling and a tad annoying, but he's just trying to look out for you. He cares about you, Sherlock, and you walk all over him."

"Mycroft walks over anyone he wants," Sherlock snaps, giving to attempt to polite this time. "I see no reason why he shouldn't be treated to his own medicine."

"Because aside from your mother, you are the only family that man has got!" Mrs. Hudson replies. Sherlock looks a bit surprised. Frankly, Mrs. Hudson does too, but she's quick to cover it as she continues, "That's right, Sherlock Holmes. I pay attention to your conversations. That man hasn't a wife, or children, or anyone but that assistant of his and frankly, I don't think there's anyone at home in that head of hers sometimes."

John risks a look at Sherlock, just to make sure he's hearing what John is hearing. From his wide eyes, John surmises that yes, they heard the exact same thing come out of their landlady's mouth a moment ago.

"I'm not saying," Mrs. Hudson says, sagging a bit as some of her rage leaves her, "That you have to change overnight. But you two need to be nicer to each other. Especially now that, well, you've got one on the way."

Neither Sherlock or John can stop their mouths from dropping wide open. Sherlock tries to say something, fails, and John manages, "How…did you…how long…?"

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes. "Honestly, you two must think I'm a right flake if you don't think I noticed."

"But…Mycroft didn't even." It's Sherlock who speaks, somewhat unintelligibly. John nods stupidly along with these words.

"Mycroft is your brother, dear. He's naturally less perceptive to changes in your scent. Doesn't matter how observant he is, he's not going to be able to smell something his body tells him not to." Mrs. Hudson comes around the coffee table and pats Sherlock's head. "My senses aren't what they used to be—I used to be able to smell an Omega from fifty yards away; it was how I knew whether one of the girls I was staying with on the countryside had been in my things or not. Sticky fingers, you see. Always have to watch those ones. Never know what they'll get into. One time my mother sent me some Belgian chocolates, and of course we had a war on so they were terribly expensive—" Sherlock grunts and looks up at her through his lashes. She sighs, pushes back his hair, and continues, "My point being, I can still tell whether or not an Omega is pregnant and, frankly dear, you're not doing yourself any favors by not showering for days on end."

They're quiet for a long time, all three of them. Mrs. Hudson stands up and pours a cup of tea for John, then arrives back and budges Sherlock over with a few light shoves. Sherlock pulls in his limbs until there's room for her on the sofa, and consequently ends up pressing his body against John's, whosemuscle memory makes him reach an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock is stiff for a moment, but then leans back into John's body and nestles his head under John's chin.

John kisses the top of Sherlock's head.

Mrs. Hudson stares at him, then meets John's eyes over his head. They're soft and brown, showing all the concern of a mother for her dear child. She says, "I never had children of my own, and I'm not close with my nieces and nephews. You two are all I have. I wish you'd be better to each other."

All John can do is shamefully drop his eyes and press another kiss to Sherlock's hair.

She and John watch an episode or so or Doctor Who and have a bit of conversation over their tea and it's almost like normal, except for the oppressive silence of Sherlock between them. They keep glancing at him all through the episodes, but neither mentions their concerns. Soon enough, it becomes nine o'clock and Mrs. Hudson retires to her own flat. Sherlock has now been quiet, head pressed below John's chin, through the better part of an hour. He's so quiet, in fact, that John thinks he's fallen asleep and, when Mrs. Hudson leaves, shakes him and says, "Wake up, love."

"I'm awake," Sherlock mutters into John's clavicle, too alert to have been just pulled from sleep. "I'm thinking."

"Oh. Well…can you stop thinking long enough for me to get up and use the toilet?"

Grudgingly, Sherlock shifts his body away and slumps onto the opposite arm of the sofa. John gets up, hesitantly squeezes Sherlock's shoulder, and walks out of the living room.

While he's washing his hands. John hears the telly switch off and Sherlock's footfalls into the bedroom, and when John exits through the en-suit door, it's to find Sherlock laying on their bed. On his side, at least.

"Tired again?" John says. Unsure whether to get in bed or leave and come back once Sherlock's fallen asleep.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise that could mean anything from 'Yes' to 'Leave.' John hovers in the doorway, waiting for some sort of elaboration or confirmation, and he gets it in the form of Sherlock reaching behind himself and patting the bed next to him. Unspeakably relieved, John hurries towards the bed and lays next to his mate. The bedsheets are cool, and so is Sherlock, and he wraps his arms around him.

"I'm scared," Sherlock says without preamble.

"That's not unusual," John murmurs against his neck. "I know you're Sherlock Holmes, but everyone gets scared sometimes. It's only human."

"Have you ever wondered why there's such an age gap between Mycroft and I?"

He's never thought on it, but he supposes the difference is a bit odd. Women usually don't space their children out so far, and usually not in such an odd number of years. More often than not, when a woman hits the five year mark and hasn't had another child, she's not going to have anymore. But instead of informing him of this, John gives the less clinical answer of, "Um…not really."

Sherlock sighs and most likely rolls his eyes, but John can feel him give a quiet laugh. "Okay, fine."

"No, really. What were you going to say?"

There's a moment of silence, and John almost thinks Sherlock isn't going to reply—or else, actually has fallen asleep—before he says, "My mother had three miscarriages and one stillbirth between my birth and Mycroft's. In fact, Mycroft was born premature and while pregnant with me, my mother acquired preeclampsia and had to have a cesarean section at only seven months. I wasn't breathing when I was born." He tells it as though he's heard the story many times. John imagines Sherlock's mother holding him when he was a child and telling him how extraordinary he'd been, even before he was an hour old. It makes a warm, yet bittersweet ball settle in his stomach.

"Why are you telling me this?" John asks, feeling as though he's missing a vital clue.

Sherlock says, "I've already had one miscarriage," and John realizes what he's trying to say.

"Potential for miscarriages isn't hereditary," John says, trying to be comforting. "There are no studies that have conclusively proven that chances of miscarriage increase with family history. It's more than likely your mother had some underlying condition that went undiagnosed. It was the eighties; Omegas were still having to fight for their rights, much less proper healthcare. There was no such thing as family planning back then."

"But the potential is still there," Sherlock says. He's quiet, then: "I don't want to go through that again, John. It was painful, not only physically, but…I had almost forgotten about it until my twat of a brother had to open his fat mouth and remind me."

John doesn't know how to respond. It doesn't help that this conversation—none of the conversations they've been having the last few days—wasn't expected, and subsequently never planned for. Eventually, he says, "As soon as we know, I'll make you an appointment."

"Call Mycroft," Sherlock says, sounding pained. "As much as it…really irks me to say it, he'll find someone good. I want the best."

Ordinarily, it would sound a bit pompous and selfish. But Sherlock is not only talking about himself. He's talking about their child, and his/her future health.

So John nods and says, "Me too," then, "I love you, you know. No matter what, I love you."

Sherlock turns over and lays atop John, cheek pressed against his chest. He doesn't say it, but the sentiment is there. It's loud and clear.


Notes: WHEEE LOOK AT ME IT'S THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

I figured I owe you guys some fic. And considering my beta just got back from vacation and has just now gotten to betaing Peril, and Unlocking Sherlock still has about four thousand words on this chapter, this was the only thing I had to offer. I hope it's satisfactory.

I was wary of the scene with Mrs. Hudson, but in the end decided to write it because, let's face it, we all know that woman has got to be keeping some cans of majorly potent whoop-ass somewhere in her pantry.

Thank you for reading!