~*Hi all! Second go at a Sherlock-fic. This one was been filling up loose pieces of paper in my office as it comes to the fore. Please flame away and rip it to shreds. Read and enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes and associated character are the property of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle estate. The Sherlock television production is the property of the BCC. I do not make any profit from this story - it is a tribute to the great writers out there. *~

The Idiot's Guide to Deduction

Chapter One: I'm not Your House-Keeper, Dear.

BAM!

She jumped and frowned at the ceiling above. What is that boy up to now? The receding thuds signalled that the resident upstairs was not in a particularly good mood. Then again, when was he ever in a good mood?

She had lived with Sherlock for nearly three years now and she did not mind the experiments, the continuous police presence, even the midnight strains of the violin. She lived vicariously through his adventures and his shenanigans were always preferable to the long silence she struggles with now her husband is incarcerated. As long as the flat was unharmed she did not complain about her strange tenant.

Rather she worried about him.

FFSHHHHHHH... WHOOMP!

"MRS HUDSON!"

She sighed and put down her muffin. Wiping the crumbs off her blouse, she started towards the stairs. It probably should concern her that he was usually demanding of her time. But really, with no-one to look after and the brief encounters with Mr [] from the deli next door, she had a lot of spare time on her hands to help Sherlock with his investigations. Besides, if she was to tell the truth - it was nice to be wanted. Even if it was for some menial task.

"Woo-hoo?" she knocked on his door, looking around the lounge room. Boxes everywhere, sheet music on the floor and that eerie skull sitting on the mantle-piece. It grinned at her as if it knew that it wouldn't be long until she also wasn't amongst the living. She walked over to and turned it to face away from the door. Just you wait 'til he's left for work. We'll see who gets the last laugh.

She spied the tenant, peering into some science instrument on the kitchen table. His long grey pyjama sleeve rolled up, white gloves on his hands, his dark blue silk dressing gown danling from his shoulders and brushing the crumbs on the floor. His head snapped up and blinked at her through his goggles. "I need your phone," he drawled. The tow enlarged grey eyes commanding her from beneath the disarray of ebony curls.

Strange, beautiful man. If only I was thirty years younger.

She sighed, fished her phone out of her dress pocket and handed it to him. "Please don't send messages to the French ambassador again. The police are one thing, but the Secret Service trampled mud all through this place." He took it and began typing away on it. She didn't mind him using it as long as he paid the bill after.

She took a moment to look around at the kitchen. There were ears pegged along a clothes line over the sink, bottles of frogs kicking around in purple liquid, scribbles on the bench tops with she hoped was HP sauce. Not that mud would go unnoticed in here. "Sherlock," she tutted. "Just look at this place!"

He gave her a second of his attention, eyes darting around the room, shrugged at went back to texting on his phone. "Turn the telly on to Channel 4," he said.

"I'm not your servant, Sherlock," she replied and grabbed a tea-towel to wipe up the 'sauce'. He growled and uncurled from the kitchen chair, knocking it over and striding into the lounge room to turn on the television. "You really should invest in a cleaner if you're going to continue to live like this. It's very unhygienic," she turned noticing his absence and frowned at the chair on the floor. Mrs Hudson could not help herself. She straightened the chair and began to wipe down the table around all his jars and flames. "Maybe a flat-mate with a knack for cleaning?" she suggested.

"WRONG!"

She jumped at his yell, knocking over a glass and it fell with smashing to the floor. "Sherlock!" she snapped.

He glanced over and began furiously typing on her phone, uninterested. "How can Donovan be so stupid?" he mumbled.

Mrs Hudson began picking up the pieces. I hope it wasn't anything acidic. She dropped them in the bin and walked over to sit next to him on the sofa. She watched what looked like a live news broadcast which seemed to be fascinating the detective. He sighed loudly and began texting again. "Wrong," he hissed.

She took a moment to reflect on the man beside her. The brooding pale man was shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. Although Mrs Hudson knew she wasn't the brightest spark, and did not understand a tenth of what came out of the young man's mouth. But she did know one thing. People need people otherwise they become twisted and angry with the world. Loneliness and isolation was not an option. She didn't want Sherlock to end up alone.

"You really should look into getting a flat mate, Sherlock. Someone that can help out around here, keep you company," she quietly said. She knew he heard her, the muscle in his cheek twitched. But he's ignoring the sentiment. "Don't you have a friend that needs a place to stay?"

He glared at the television. "I don't have friends!" he spat, as if the word was poison.

It broke her heart. How can someone so young, smart and selfless not want to make friends? Was it really that hard to make an acquaintance? Couldn't he take the time? Was he purposely keeping people at bay? If so, what did that mean about her? A blinding fury seemed to come from nowhere, slipped through her lips. "Sherlock Holmes, you look at me when I'm talking to you" she ordered.

He put down the phone and raised an eyebrow at her. Quite right, startled myself too.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. "I want you to seriously look for someone to move in," she said sternly looking at him. He rolled his eyes and she knew she would lose him if she didn't put up a logical argument. "I can't keep pushing back you rent forever and with the explosions, fires and various other disasters in this flat the costs of repair the damage is becoming alarming," she confessed. Mrs Hudson patted his knee. "Besides, maybe you can find someone who'll make you tea on a regular basis, to leave your mind free to figure out your little mysteries," she smiled.

He grinned at her; "But you make lovely tea, Mrs Hudson."

She smiled warmly and shook her head. "I'm not your house-keeper, dear." She cringed at little as she pulled herself out of the cushion. Bloody hip! "And I won't be here forever. You need someone else to help out."

She chuckled to herself as she left the apartment; "Perhaps you can find someone to talk to other than that skull." With that she left him to his ramblings. There was only much she could handle of Sherlock. She needed someone else to take the fall occasionally.