It was never Mrs Hudson's habit to keep the radio up loud. Even though she loved Sounds of the Sixties on Radio 2 each Saturday, she didn't love the idea of an axe murderer breaking in under cover of Tom Jones' 'It's Not Unusual'. They got all sorts around here. So - despite fingers itching for the volume knob to counter the sploshing dishwater - she engrossed herself in breaking the back of some scorched sugar that was affixed to a saucepan and impervious to even a Scotch-Brite.

Inevitably, the doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson flicked off the radio. She crossed to the hall, on her way sparing an indulgent glance for the antique battle club sitting in her brolly stand – one could never be too careful. It had been a gift from Sherlock after her run-in with those CIA ruffians and the expensive phone. Which reminded her...

She paused at the foot of the staircase; listening for any tell-tale shuffling overhead, she called, "Sherlock? You up yet?"

No response.

Mrs Hudson sighed. The poor dear had been awake till dawn, fretting about John after that Guy Fawkes stunt. She had last seen him collapsed on his bed this morning; fully-clothed, reeking of wood-fire and petrol. He was not even rousable for his morning pot of tea, which she had left by his armchair. Ah well; the prospect of clients should wake him up, she thought. Meanwhile, the doorbell announced itself again before Mrs Hudson realised she'd been gazing maternally at the ceiling for nigh on a minute. She bustled over to answer it.

Facing her on the doorstep were a woman and a man about her age; presumably husband and wife. Neat and prim and perfectly-matched. The woman had a familiar glimmer in her rabbit-like eyes, and the husband… well if she was a fan of sci-fi, she'd have suggested the future Sherlock had invented a time machine and gone back for a 1970's shopping spree and a botched nose-job. Not a sci-fi aficionado, however, she settled on the next most logical conclusion: but surely not… they couldn't be…

The woman spoke first, raising a hand to shake. "Hello! You must be Sherlock's landlady!"

Mrs Hudson took it, bemused. "Sorry - are you-...?"

"Margot and Richard? Well of course! Mrs Huds-? Oh…" She stopped, perplexed by Mrs Hudson's apparent bemusement. "Ah. Didn't he tell you we were coming? We're Sherlock's parents. No, no, no, you needn't look so surprised – practically everyone is when we introduce ourselves."

The man - Richard - chipped in, "They don't generally expect people like us to have brought up someone so-"

- Eccentric? Disruptive? Mad, bad and dangerous to know? Mrs Hudson couldn't help but think -

"-Untidy as he is."

"He's not that bad!" His wife clipped him over the shoulder.

"You're the one who likes all the clutter about the house! All that bric-a-brac!" Richard chuffed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He turned to Mrs Hudson, mischievous. "You know, she has a penchant for collecting figurine owls."

Mrs Hudson beamed. Things were starting to make sense. "Why don't you come in? Sherlock's still in bed. Shall I fetch him?"

"Give him some time. He'll come down when he's ready."

"Then I'll put the kettle on. We can have a nice little chat!"

Tucked into a seat at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table, Margot smiled as their host placed a steaming pot of her best loose-leaf Darjeeling on the table. "Thanks! I'm gasping. We've been subsisting on Network Rail tea since Evesham, and I must say even stained milk-water would be a blessing in comparison."

"Sorry," Mrs Hudson amended, as a plate of ginger nuts followed. "I haven't got anything fancier to eat. If Sherlock had told me you were coming, I would've baked something."

"Just don't tell him you're using up his favourite biscuits on us," Richard replied.

"Oh, not to worry," Mrs Hudson leaned forward conspiratorially, a crafty smile creeping up her features. "After the fright he gave me? Two years missing, then he just waltzes home expecting a mince pie and a hoovered flat? I've put him on biscuit probation. We've only just graduated to the Hobnobs."

"Ah, yes. His second-favourite."

That set them all off laughing.

Mrs Hudson sighed. "I can never stay mad at him for long."

Margot snorted. "I don't know about that; once when he dragged home a dead b-"

"We don't need to regale her with that tale, do we, dear?"

"Anyway," Mrs Hudson continued, "the poor dear has a lot on his plate right now, what with John not talking to him."

Margot set down her cup. "Not talking to him? Why?" She pursed her lips. "Mikey didn't tell us that."

Mikey? Who was Mike- oh. Pfff. Mrs Hudson swilled the tea leaves round in her cup before replying, "their reunion didn't go too well."

"Ah," was the short reply. "Of course."

The sounds of shuffling feet above their heads broke into their conversation.

"Is that what's kept him up all night?" Richard asked. "He's always kept teenager hours, but this is rather excessive."

Mrs Hudson grimaced. "Don't tell Sherlock I've told you this. He'll have my head. But there've been new developments," she said. "It's not very nice at all. Someone horrible put John in a bonfire. Sherlock and John's fiancée Mary fished him out."

"What! How is he?"

"Is Sherlock alright?"

Mrs Hudson reached out a placatory hand to each of them. "They're both fine. John went to A&E for the night for smoke inhalation. Sherlock came home to think things out. I believe he wanted to stay with John, but John apparently told him he'd be better off applying himself here."

"Well," declared Margot, "Whatever John Watson thinks of Sherlock after their surprise reunion, he must know he's a very lucky man to have him back."

"And Sherlock needs his friends," added Richard. "He's never coped well without them."

Mrs Hudson considered things. "Have you actually met John yet?" she asked. "When they went up to the Cotswolds for the newt's cradle case, I thought they might've detoured to see you."

Shaking his head ruefully, Richard replied, "Sherlock hardly ever comes to see us. It's only ever Christmas-time calls, or the odd birthday chat. As far as we know, John Watson barely knows our names. With all respect, you didn't."

"I'll get him to call more often. It's not right, treating your parents like that."

"Oh, we know he's embarrassed. Normality, domesticity. They never really suited our little boy."

Mrs Hudson certainly couldn't deny that. "So... it's been the same his whole life?"

Richard cast a glance at his wife.

It took a moment for Margot to look up from her teacup, and when she did, her face was inscrutable. "More or less... Yes. Yes, he was. Less artful now at concealing it when he wants something, though." She chuckled wistfully. Her hand wandered unconsciously to her trouser pocket. "Oh!" She brightened up. "I've got some pictures." She dug into her pocket and produced a sleek black smartphone. "Mikey gave me this..." She fumbled with the touchscreen. "...Said I needed to get up to speed with things, but I tell you, touchscreens aren't the way to go for these old fingers..." Pressing one last button, she seemed satisfied and held up the phone for Mrs Hudson to see.

It was a scanned photograph; a young boy, wild curls tamped down only by a charcoal-coloured pirate hat. Mrs Hudson was amused to see red stitching down the hat's front, reminiscent of a certain Belstaff coat.

"Mikey loaded these on for me, too. I wanted one for my background picture, but he put on a few. Including-" She swiped through a couple more - "there's a video here somewhere... Aha!"

Margot tilted the screen for a better view. Mrs Hudson caught a glimpse of a pirate's tricorne and heard the opening strains of "I am a Pirate King" before-

"Stop! It was for a case! Mother!"

Like a cavalry ambush, the clattering footfalls of a man leaping down the stairs to preserve his dignity stampeded over the tinny music. Sherlock appeared and skittered to a halt, seizing the door jamb to steady himself. His hair was mussed. A light whiff of smoke trailed after him.

Margot turned surreptitiously and winked at Mrs Hudson. Clutching a hand to her chest, she cried, "Sherlock! Dear dear, no need for such a racket!" She gathered her wits dramatically. "Still -" she smiled wryly - "at least you're here now."

Sherlock gave a conciliatory smile as he stalked over and pried the phone from his mother's grasp. "You know what we agreed about you and technology, Mummy. It's not worth your time," he said smoothly. In an instant, her phone was slipped into his pocket. "Ready to come up? There... there's a pot of tea waiting!"

"You might have to refill it now, Sherlock," sighed Mrs Hudson. She rose to clean up the table.

Sherlock's gaze alighted on the plate of biscuits. "Are those ginger nuts?" he asked. His question was more an affirmation as a handful went the way of the phone.

Mrs Hudson knew the futility of contesting his breach of probation. "Take the rest, dear." She chuckled. "Maybe it's timely to end the biscuit-ban, after last night's heroics."

His eyes meeting hers, a small, sad smile tugged at Sherlock's features. He turned to wave his parents out the door.

A/N: I have no authority on the quality of tea available on Network Rail lines; let's just pretend it was a new trainee in charge. Oh, and a bit of trivia: apparently, Wanda Ventham *does* have a penchant for owl memorabilia. Who'd have thought?