This was inspired by John's comment in the Great Game about watching too much telly with Mrs. Hudson, and Molly saying that Sherlock complained to her about John in Scandal in Belgravia.

Mrs. Hudson's POV

A week had passed since John moved in with Sherlock and solved the case with the cabbie, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't be happier. They were getting along as well as they could, for a reclusive army doctor and a brilliant, if not egotistical, detective.

She'd grown accustomed to most of Sherlock's unique mannerisms, and it was a source of great entertainment for her to hear or see John experience them. He didn't always react as drastically as she, though that was to be expected, but he did bellow a lot. Cursing often accompanied his discovery of limbs and organs in various kitchen items, or the strange, and often destructive, experiments, especially when they were performed on the doctor.

Sherlock's lazy demands were often met with melodramatic sighs and obnoxiously loud footsteps, when they were heeded. She knew that the detective could be rather lazy and demanding, and early on, she'd ignored his hollered requests. He always seemed to interpret her unresponsiveness as a disability, a product of poor hearing. It tickled her to think that she'd outsmarted him.

Though this was the first time she'd ever been his landlady, she'd housed him before, years ago when he'd helped her put her husband behind bars. She'd experienced Sherlock's quirks at a lower stage of his life, a time where he was high during a majority of their interactions. Which escalated his quirkiness, though she hadn't minded. The detective was always good to Mrs. Hudson, and he'd done more than enough for her. Even if his unusual habits bothered her, she wouldn't have chastised him for it. He had been more than helpful, and it wasn't her place to judge someone's quirks when she had plenty of her own.

Of course, that didn't mean she'd never been caught off guard by Sherlock's habits. Mrs. Hudson was still startled by the organs and/or limbs she would come across in the detective's fridge, but for the most part, Sherlock's behavior ceased being abnormal. The detective's air of aloof other-worldliness ensnared her in ways she hadn't anticipated; he'd quickly become like a son to her. The more she began to see him as her family, the less awkward Sherlock became. His frosty exterior didn't put her off like it did others.

John, it seemed, was equally tolerant of a majority of Sherlock's quirks. The army doctor had many of his own, Mrs. Hudson had seen, but they complimented each other.

Despite their chemistry and quick partnership, when John respectfully asked if he could have tea with Mrs. Hudson, she expected the reason to be because Sherlock had driven him away. The army doctor had patience, but there was only so much most people could take. He didn't seem like the sort of man to flee from an annoying flat mate, though.

She prepared their tea, and they sat awkwardly in front of her telly. She'd been half-listening to Connie Prince's show before John had arrived, but the telly seemed ten times louder than it had been fifteen minutes ago, though the volume hadn't increased from its previous setting that she was aware of. Connie Prince scolded a girl loudly about the horrors of wearing bright yellow with her skin tone; perhaps it was just the woman's voice that gave the illusion of change. Connie could fluctuate from braying to whispering in mere seconds; it wasn't impossible or implausible to place blame on her.

Mrs. Hudson looked away from the woman, fixing her gaze instead on the mildly amused army doctor.

"Is this what passes for television these days?" He asked, fixated by the beauty show.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "It isn't the worst show out there. Just the other day, I saw a show about two woman selling other women undergarments. Quite strange, really, and I don't see why it should be on the telly."

"That does sound worse than this," John murmured as he raised the cup to his lips.

There was a comfortable pause as both drank their tea and stared absentmindedly at the telly.

She didn't know what he was thinking, but Mrs. Hudson thought him too at ease to be fleeing Sherlock. What little attention he truly paid to Connie Prince was an adorable blend of amusement and horror, though at what exactly she didn't know. Maybe he just thought the idea of him watching a beauty show was absurd.

Come to think of it, it was rather funny to see an army doctor paying any attention to Connie Prince, though perhaps what tickled her the most about it was not the man's past profession, but his current. Sure, Sherlock wasn't paying him for assistance, but it was an exchange of services, even if Sherlock wasn't aware of it.

The detective let Mrs. Hudson interfere in his life because he trusted her, but there were things he needed that she couldn't give that maybe John could. And, in exchange, the army doctor could assist Sherlock, though the detective didn't seem to need much help with solving cases. He'd done well enough with his intellect and Scotland Yard to truly need a coworker.

She'd seen the way Sherlock acted around John during the case with the suicides. Sherlock was never that excited about a case so mundane, even if it challenged his intellect somewhat. It was obvious to her that the detective was showing off, was trying to impress the army doctor. It had worked tremendously; John's demeanor completely changed after Sherlock when back to the flat for him.

She'd also seen the way they laughed in the hallway, their euphoria thick and rich in the cool autumn night. She'd seen Sherlock's grin as he shouted to Mrs. Hudson that John would, in fact, take the room upstairs. She'd seen Sherlock's grin widen as John stared at him in awe, at the detective who'd cured his limp.

Mrs. Hudson looked at John. He still bore the remnants of that night; it was in his posture, in his eyes. From the moment she met the army doctor, he held himself with a stiff wariness and strange emptiness that shook her to the core. Now, he was slightly softened, the promise of adventure and mystery already seeping into his countenance, slowly entering the void in his eyes. He wasn't whole, far from it, but it looked as though he could be, someday.

"Where's Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, wrapping both hands around her empty cup.

"Out," John replied. "Said he had something to do at the morgue." He sounded entertained at the thought of the detective spending spare time at the morgue, and Mrs. Hudson grinned as she reached for John's empty cup with her free hand and took them to her sink.

It didn't sound like John would be fleeing any time soon.