Sherlock couldn't sleep. And it wasn't from guilt over drugging John (or, rather, attempting to drug John, since it hadn't been his fault anyway) or worry about how Mycroft was handling the Moriarty situation (he'd slip up but Sherlock would fix it and vice versa, no doubt) or even the intermingling images of the Hound and the Woman that appeared every time he closed his eyes (he was used to that by now.)

No, it wasn't for any of the usual reasons. Sherlock couldn't sleep because the vocals of Jackie Wilson were trailing up the hall and creeping beneath his door, penetrating his eardrums and disrupting any hopes he had at a peaceful night.

My heart is cryin', cryin'

Lonely teardrops

My pillows never dry of

Lonely teardrops…

John often told him to turn his deductive skills off sometimes. Like with Henry. "Take a day off," he'd muttered. (Of course, Sherlock had been showing off in that instance.) The truth was, though, Sherlock didn't have a little switch in his mind that he could flick on and off when convenient. If he could, he admitted, sometimes, he might just shut down for a while. Investigating crime scenes were difficult when his brain was constantly getting distracted by tedious little details: that the victim's crying wife had toast for breakfast, that her three-year-old child hadn't slept through the night, that Lestrade was sleeping on the couch again and Sally was still sleeping with Anderson, that John had an appointment at two-thirty that he didn't want to be late for but that he would willingly miss if the case wasn't closed, that the store owner across the street was worried about his teenage daughter, who was dating a boy with a motorcycle, who, unbeknownst to the worried father, was buying a pregnancy test at the drug store down the road from a man at the counter three weeks sober…

Of course, if he shut his mind off, he'd also miss the smoking gun, like any other, ordinary person would. His mind was who he was, it was what defined him. He needed his mind, his deductive skills, his abilities to notice, to differentiate himself from the regular world. So he changed his earlier stance. He was his mind. He could never switch it off. Even if it might make some things easier.

Things like sleeping. Like a child, Sherlock slammed his pillow over his head in a final attempt to drown out the noise. It muffled the music, and Sherlock closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace.

Or attempted to. Just the knowledge that, below him, the music was still playing was enough to lock the door. Groaning, he tossed the pillow across the room. Useless thing. Lying the dark, staring at the ceiling, another voice joined in.

"Oh, yes, let's have a sing-a-long!" Sherlock said shrilly. "A two-in-the-morning, party-for-one music festival." He contemplated getting up and retrieving his pillow, but deemed that too much effort for very little reward.

The voice of Jackie Wilson and Martha Hudson mingled for a moment, then it was only the one again. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as his landlady's off-pitch voice was replaced by a different noise – long inhalations (asthma attack?) – a delayed release (choking?) – a noise not unlike a cat being strangled (a cat being strangled?)

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Oh. She was crying.

Sherlock threw off his covers and stepped into his slippers, grabbing his robe on the way out the door. Through the hall and down the stairs, he knocked once on Mrs. Hudson's door before letting himself in.

She was seated at her kitchen table, nightgown beneath her dressing robe, a mug of steaming tea clutched in her hands. On the chair beside her was an old record player, playing the accursed music that had been plaguing Sherlock for some time now. Mrs. Hudson's hair was loose, hanging about her shoulders, and her face was red, tears streaming down her cheeks and landing in her drink. Well, that is highly unsanitary.

She jumped when he slammed the door. "Sherlock," she said, her voice quivering. "What on earth are you doing here? You know I always enjoy you, dear, but I'm in my nightgown and it's ear-early." Her voice broke on the last word.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began, walking over to her and taking the chair not occupied by the damned record player. "This can't go on."

She wiped her eyes. "Yes, dear, I know. I'm a silly old woman."

"Yes."

She chuckled softly. "I've ended things with him, you know. It wasn't very delicate, the way you told me about the affair, it...it really wasn't very kind at all." She shot him a look.

Oh, yes. John had told him to apologize for that. Right. "Ah."

Apparently that was good enough. She nodded and continued. "But it is good to stop things before one becomes too emotionally invested."

She appeared incredibly emotionally invested, but, Sherlock admitted, emotions were not his area of expertise. All the more reason to get on with the purpose of his venture downstairs. "Very good. Now-"

"Do you think I'm too old to look for love, Sherlock?"

"Probably. Mrs. Hudson-"

"Is there really an age limit, though? Love doesn't know any ages, isn't that how it goes?"

"The adage is, 'Love knows no boundaries.' Now, as I was saying-"

"Oh, yes, that's it. You would know all about that, of course."

"Yes, I-" Wait, what? "Wait, what?"

She took a sip of her tea and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "You and John. You're perfectly happy."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, speaking slowly. He often had to do that with her. Enunciating helps too. "John and I are not in a relationship. Neither of us is gay." Sherlock didn't really care what people said about them, but John did.

She nodded absentmindedly, running a hand through her hair. "I've never been much good at this. You remember Mr. Hudson."

He did indeed. Drug cartel. Double homicide. Several raunchy affairs, one underage and another with a prostitute. All in all, it had been a rather enjoyable two weeks of Sherlock's summer that year.

"Yes, you seem to have a habit for picking…winners." Small talk about people and feelings, how wonderful.

"I really did think he was something special, though," she said wistfully, watching the record spin round.

"Mr. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, hoping that the disinterest he felt was evident in his voice.

"No, Anthony."

"He was seeing two other women, he stole your credit card and purchased several pieces of jewelry and articles of clothing that I assume were for the other women, if not, there's an entirely different problem to deal with, and he was incarcerated during his days at uni for public nudity." She blinked at him. "I looked him up. And cancelled your credit card."

"You looked him up?" She repeated.

"And cancelled your credit card."

She waited a moment, then smiled. "Thank you."

He nodded curtly. "Yes, now, back to the reason-"

"Do you want some tea?"

He sighed. "And biscuits."

Mrs. Hudson stood and straightened her dressing gown, busying herself in the kitchen. Sherlock occupied his mind by searching her flat. The laptop he and John had given her for Christmas was in the table, open to John's most recent blog entry. On the floor nearby were a pair of scissors and some newspaper clippings – he could just make out the outlines of two men, one rather short, the other taller in a funny hat…oh. The sink was dirty, unwashed dishes spilling out, including the plate that he had eaten breakfast off of that morning (she'd brought him sausage and eggs.) There was a checkbook out and a pile of bills beside it, which reminded him that he was late with that month's rent.

"It does get lonely, though, sometimes, don't you think?" Mrs. Hudson had returned, complete with tea and biscuits. She smiled warmly, although her eyes were still puffy from her earlier bout of self-pity. Why anyone would cry over such a trivial thing, Sherlock didn't understand.

He understood a lot of things. But not the things that counted.

He mentally flipped his switch.

He jumped to his feet and rushed to the box of records by the wall. "The Tennessee Waltz" stood out to him. He fiddled with the record player before reaching over and pulling his landlady to her feet. She gasped in surprise.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said formally, bowing slightly. "As the saying goes…shut up and dance."

She hesitated at first, eyes wide as he guided her lightly around the room. It only took a few moments for her shock to leave her, though, and then she laughed. She laughed and smiled as Sherlock twirled her, utterly delighted, when Sherlock dipped her as the record slowed. He raised her up and kissed her hand. She clapped like a child.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said breathlessly. "I had no idea you were such a wonderful dancer."

"Very few are aware of this," he said, remembering Mycroft's laughter when he first caught Sherlock and their mother dancing to the Patti Page song. "I would prefer it stay that way."

"I won't tell a soul, then," she whispered conspiratorially.

He responded in a similar tone. "That's probably for the best."

Laughing, she fell back into her chair. "Well," she said. "This was quite an unexpected turn of events tonight. You should stop by more often."

"I'll rouse you next time I finish a murder case in the middle of the night and we can do it again." She smiled, leaning back in her chair and watching him. When he began to feel uncomfortable (quickly) he excused himself. "As it is not yet 3 in the morning, I best be off." He hesitated before adding, in the same fashion as before, "People might talk."

She shook her head fondly and walked him out. "Sherlock, dear," he glanced back. "You were wrong before. Sometimes I do pick winners." She winked and closed the door.

Sherlock frowned. He was seldom wrong. Maybe she'd been taking too many of her "herbal soothers" lately. Rolling his eyes at his landlady's peculiarity, he made his way back to his flat. Picking up his abused pillow off the floor, he slipped back into bed.

It wasn't until the voices of The Chordettes singing "Mr. Sandman" crept into his room that he realized he'd neglected to tell Mrs. Hudson to turn the damn record player down.

After Sherlock so nonchalantly tells Mrs. Hudson about her boyfriend's unfaithfulness, I thought he owed her an apology or...something. Here's the "or something." I own nothing.