She was surprised when Sherlock announced that Inspector Lestrade would be moving in, but not disappointed. She knew the Inspector a little, of course, and he seemed like just the man to keep Sherlock under a modicum of control.

He had sought her out for the first time since the incident with the fireworks, and had honestly seemed excited at the prospect of having a flatmate again.

When she teasingly called him on this, he responded airily that it was simply hateful to have to get up and make tea when he was trying to think. She took this to mean he was lonely, but decided to keep that nugget to herself. No need to antagonize the poor boy – he'd had a rough couple of weeks, even if he had been the cause of some of the discord – and was truly looking forward to some actual peace for a change.

She wasn't getting peace now, though, what with the noise and confusion of moving in. A floor up, she could hear her new tenant – Greg, he had said to call him – shouting at Sherlock about something or other, and Sherlock calling a reply from the floor above that. There was the usual crash and rattle of large boxes being dropped and moved, the inescapable confusion of where everything was to go, but rising above it all was Sherlock, being his usual good-natured, irritating self. As long as no one (or thing) came to harm, she was quite content with life this way.

Remembering what had happened the last time she'd thought that, she hurriedly turned her attentions back to the welcome meal she was preparing for this evening. It wouldn't do to give the impression that she made all of their meals – not their housekeeper – but it was only decent to get the Inspector off to a good start.

Speaking of the Inspector, here he was now, looking frightfully out of sorts as he pushed open the door and stepped out.

She made sure to keep an ear on Sherlock - it wouldn't do to have him destroying his new flatmate's belongings, after all – and her new tenant returned shortly, carrying a small Tesco bag.

"Shopping already, dear?" she called out to him.

"Jam," he replied, cracking a smile and holding up the bag. "I guess it's a sort of… peace offering, you could say."

"I understand, dear. It doesn't sound like he's blown anything up while you were out, so it's probably safe to go up.

"Much obliged," he joked, half-serious, before trotting back up the stairs.

Yes, she had a very good feeling about this, indeed.

Mrs. Hudson was sat in her sitting room with her feet up, watching the telly when she was startled by the door to 221B slamming open, giving way to the vehement argument of her two tenants.

"I don't see why you have to use yours!"

"Because it's better!"

"It is not!"

"That is a matter of perspective, Lestrade, something you are quite notorious for lacking."

"Yeah, okay, fine, but you could've just remembered it!"

"Don't change the subject."

Their voices faded as they hurried up the stairs, although she was sure they were still going at it.

Sure enough, the volume increased again as the two of them came hurdling back towards the door a minute later, Sherlock tucking something into his pocket.

" – if we just went the other way, on the A40 – "

"I am not taking the A40 this time of day, we're late enough as it is!"

"Why don't you ever listen– "

The door swung to again, effectively cutting her off from the rest of their conversation. She smiled softly to herself.

Her boys. Whoever they were at any given time, they were always a pair to be reckoned with.

"Mrs. Hudson," called a petulant voice from her doorway.

"Yes, love?" she called back, not wanting to leave her book.

"May I come in?"

"Yes, love."

Sherlock wandered into her sitting room, and threw himself down into one of the chairs across from her.

He let out a long breath as he stared wearily at the ceiling. Getting no reaction, he heaved another long-suffering sigh.

Mrs. Hudson turned a page in her book.

Still gazing at the ceiling, Sherlock decided to elaborate.

"He made me do the shopping, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good for him."

Sherlock sat up and looked at his landlady askance. "What?"

"I said 'good for him,'" she replied, not looking up. "It's about time you learned, you know. You can't always rely on everyone else."

Sherlock snorted. "I see no reason why not."

"You know you do, Sherlock. You just don't want to admit it."

A disdainful sniff this time. She refused to look at him.

"What led you to presume that?"

Sighing herself, she closed the book over a finger, marking the page, and finally looked at him, albeit over her spectacles.

"You've experienced it, dear. People don't always remain exactly the same, in exactly the same place. You need to learn to not lean so heavily on people."

"Please, I don't 'lean so heavily on people.'"

"You certainly relied on John."

"That's one person, not 'people.'"

Realizing what he had just admitted, Sherlock looked pulled his knees to his chest and looked away.

"But now you have that nice Detective Inspector, don't you?"

Sherlock fidgeted in the chair for a moment before replying, although he still wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Yes, well, I suppose so. It certainly is more convenient this way, having greater access to case files and such."

Brief silence, in which Mrs. Hudson turned back to her book, before Sherlock stood in his typical abrupt leave-taking.

"Tea?" she asked, just before he got to the door.

He gave a brief smile. "No, thank you. There's some upstairs."

And with that he was gone, back up to his flat, leaving Mrs. Hudson smiling in his wake.

If Sherlock chose the DI's tea over hers, it must be very good tea indeed.

Mrs. Hudson hated the rain. It aggravated her hip, and it made everyone snappish. She knew that she couldn't escape the weather when it acted up like this, but she thought it reasonable that she prefer to pass these days in more congenial company.

She often visited her younger sister on days like these, and whiled away the time playing Scrabble or some such trivial thing, rather than worrying about the antics of her stir-crazy tenant.

No such luck this time. It wasn't often that she worried about driving in the rain, but these past few days had been a rare exception. So it was that this particular afternoon found her dozing on her sofa, trying with limited success to ignore the sounds of a bored Sherlock above.

He had some sort of case on, she knew, although she wasn't sure as to the details. The ceiling let out a low moan as the corresponding bit of floor creaked, and she bit back a moan of her own. Sometimes, the rain just made him lethargic, and he would be downright polite, and calm, and human, but if he had a case -

Of course he had a case. Of course he was cooped up indoors. Of course it would be a close thing whether it was the floor or everyone's nerves that were worn through first.

A tooth-grinding shriek from the ceiling. That had to have been deliberate. So it was to be the nerves, then.

A sudden clap of thunder nearly jolted her out of her chair, and certainly jolted her out of her thoughts. How was she supposed to get any kind of rest with both Sherlock and the weather acting up?

She decided a nice cup of tea was in order.

Just as she was getting up to make it though, there was the sound of someone tearing down the stairs. That would be Sherlock. The sight of Lestrade hurrying down the steps after him confirmed this. She sighed at the pair of them. Always dashing about, Sherlock dragging Lestrade behind, no regard for the time, weather, convenience, or anything really. At least he had his coat.

It was fortunate that Mrs. Hudson only awoke after their return a couple of hours later. Had she been there at the door to greet them, she would have been shocked by their state and horrified at the amount of water dripping off of Sherlock and onto the carpets. She would have fussed over the pair of them, sending Sherlock to take a hot bath and Lestrade to take a stiff drink. She would have brought up tea and biscuits, but then not allowed them to be consumed until the worst of the water was cleaned up.

As it was, she merely stirred slightly at the sound of the opening door, and let herself drift back off, trusting that Lestrade would be able to take care if everything.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the Inspector had children, but it did. Once she had that part, though, the rest was fairly simple. Of course they would be lovely, intelligent, and strong-willed. Of course they would be thrilled to see their father, and of course their visit would have put Sherlock off.

Well, the idea of the visit. Now that they had gone, there was surprisingly little damage control to be done.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade – she never did quite get the hang of "Greg" – seemed relaxed and good-natured, and if Sherlock set up his experiments again immediately they had gone, at least he had allowed them to be put away at all.

It was also a heavenly surprise to hear Sherlock actually play his violin rather than torture it. She had always loved Vivaldi, and he was really quite good when he bothered.

As for Lestrade, the visit of his two daughters had seemed to be what really settled him in. The hardest part of having a flat-share with Sherlock Holmes, she had decided, was that it was so difficult to have an equal standing. The detective was always perfectly willing to simply run roughshod over people's lives, and it took quite a bit of effort to keep that from happening.

Now, however, Lestrade really lived there. 221B Baker Street wasn't simply his mailing address any more - it was so much more. It was a place where his children would be welcomed, a place where maybe they could learn to follow in his footsteps. It was a place where he could work, but also a place where he could choose not to work. It was a place where he could make tea to please the great Sherlock Holmes, but where his landlady could bring them up a meal if he asked nicely enough. It was a place to get away from the world while trying to figure out how to fix it.

It was both his fortress and his refuge, and he was proud to call it home.