Mrs. Hudson arranges and rearranges the biscuits on the plate. With an impatient toss of her short hair she turns to the cupboard and pulls out the pack of bourbon creams. "Think I'll need the big guns," she mumbles under her breath, adding half the pack to the plate, and then placing the plate on the tray. Taking a deep breath and looking toward the door, she tries to relax: she knows Sherlock will realise something is going on; still, didn't mean that she had to give it all away, without saying a word! Having calmed herself a bit, she picks up the tray and sets off up to 221B.

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John's eyes glaze over and he finds himself staring at the same line about subdural hygroma in his medical journal for a good five minutes. Shaking the daze off, he reaches for his cup and sees only murky dregs at the bottom. Grunting in irritation, he puts the journal down and glances around for Sherlock, who is sitting at the desk looking over some random papers in boredom.

"Sherlock, I'm going to make a cuppa, want one?" John says as he walks toward the kitchen. He pauses halfway across the sitting room and turns to Sherlock, to hear the answer.

"No John, and you shouldn't make one either," Sherlock comments as he shuffles papers.

John, confused, walks back towards Sherlock, "What? Why not?"

Sighing and shoving the offending papers away Sherlock blurts out, "Boring!" Then he turns his attention to John: "Because Mrs Hudson is on her way upstairs with a tea tray right now, I hear her on the stair."

Sure enough, as John stands there blinking, digesting this information, a trademark "Whoo-hoo" comes from the doorway.

"Boys, I brought up some nibbles; not that I'm your housekeeper, but I could do with a chat today if you don't mind."

John smiles and rushes to take the heavy tray. "Of course Mrs. Hudson; I'd love the distraction, and Sherlock certainly could use it as well! He's not had a case for a day or two, as I'm sure you know." He carries the tray over to the coffee table and sits on the sofa, gesturing for Mrs Hudson to sit down as well.

Sherlock observes the two of them settling down, chatting about the weather or something trivial like that; honestly he wasn't listening. His brain ticking overtime trying to discern the real reason their landlady came to see them. John was just pouring the last cup when Sherlock turns his chair, smiles and stretches, leaning all the way back and kicking his feet out in front of himself.

John notices the movement and warily puts the teapot down. "What's going on in that head of yours Sherlock?" Looking at the focus of his query, John misses Mrs. Hudson stiffening slightly and putting her cup down. Sherlock does not.

He continues to watch Mrs Hudson as she looks back at him evenly. Then, as suddenly as he leant back, Sherlock pistons forward into his contemplative pose and steeples his fingers together in front of his lips with his elbows on his knees.

"So what does Mycroft have to do with the biscuits Mrs. Hudson. Short of wanting to eat them all that is," he comments while swiping two of the bourbon creams along with his cup of tea.

John does a double take, "Mycroft? What?"

Mrs Hudson smiles slightly at the biscuits in Sherlock's hand. "You tell me, Sherlock dear; you've been quite bored."

Sherlock smiles. Biscuits gone already, he lowers his cup to his lap, adopting a standard derisive tone of voice as he rattles the observations off.

"Well, I heard you setting up the tray over half an hour ago, so you've been fussing over this little 'chat' for some time. It clearly means an awful lot to you, as not only did you dress very carefully; that is the necklace we gave you for your birthday, wherein the card along with it, John wrote: 'to 'Mum', from your boys'. But your outfit is also trying to draw on the mother figure relationship we have with you. Clearly, you think I'm not going to like your request, given the number of biscuits on the plate," - he takes a breath and palms two more chocolate ones - "it concerns Mycroft, then. Now given that you've added extra bourbon creams, you want me to do something with Mycroft. What exactly is it, Mrs Hudson dear?"

John has a half grin on his face. "Astonishing." he murmurs almost against his will.

Mrs Hudson looks at John and smiles. "Yes well, I do want you to do something with your brother, but it's a bit involved."

Sherlock smiles bitterly and gives her the 'go ahead' motion with his hand before returning to his thinking pose.

"You see, Marie is having a rough time of it right now." She notices John's blank look and Sherlock's impatient one. "Marie Turner, from next door." Sudden comprehension comes over John's face.

"Her 'married ones' have moved out, and she's broken-hearted over it. Dominic and Tom started the process for adoption this past spring, and their solicitor advised them that a more 'family friendly' address might be the difference between success and failure. So, given Dominic's great aunt has a house in Dulwich she's willing him, they decided to move in with her, help her out in her advanced years and have that desired address for their forms." Mrs. Hudson picks her teacup back up and fiddles with the spoon for a moment before going on.

"She was quickly successful in renting the space out, given the location being so desirable, as you well know. But she doesn't like the young man that has moved in. I think she's just holding him up against the example of Dominic and Tom, but she says he's cold to her, and it's got her rather down I'm afraid."

She looks from one to the other young man in the room with her; then, she fixes Sherlock with her calm watchful eyes again.

"For years she has been talking about throwing a big dinner, one of those Murder Mystery Dinners that were so popular a few years back. But she's never been happy with the halls she's looked into renting, well, the one's she could afford to rent that is..."

Held in the gaze of his landlady, Sherlock's eyebrows slowly start to climb his forehead. "You wish to use the Holmes Manor." There is no hint of a question in his voice.

"And..." Mrs. Hudson begins, prompting Sherlock on.

"You wish us to take part in the farce."

John, who till this point had been watching quietly, licks his lips and draws Mrs. Hudson's attention with a hand reaching out toward her. "You can't want Sherlock to take part; he'll," looking to his side at Sherlock for a moment as his hand tilts toward him, "No offense Sherlock, he'll have it solved before anyone can draw a breath."

Sherlock smirks, "Ah but John, I can't ruin the night if I'm the corpse, now can I?"

Mrs. Hudson is nodding along with Sherlock and John just laughs. "How exactly are yougoing to be a corpse? You'll get bored!"

"I'm sure watching you all bumble about trying to figure out who killed me will be amusing enough, but... You still think I'll refuse. Why?"

Mrs Hudson finishes her tea and places the cup precisely on the tray. Still looking at the tray, she forces the words out past a fake smile. "Because Marie already HAS the mystery kit and it's 'Arabian Nights'-themed."

Sherlock's eyes light up, "Ah, I see."

John flickers his glance back and forth between the two and tries to divine the answer. "Well I don't. Why is an Arabian-themed murder mystery the proverbial death knell for Sherlock?"

The smirk is back. "Never mind, John; my cross to bare."

Mrs Hudson can feel her face heating up, so she pops up and heads for the door before the blush can colour her cheeks. "Well I'll let you get to planning it then, shall I, boys? Do invite your brother, Sherlock; only fair if you want to use his house." Before either of the men can say another word, she's down the stairs and into her flat, the door shutting soundly behind her.

John looks after her in surprise, "Well, that wasn't odd at all now, was it, Sherlock?" Looking over at his flatmate, John sighs internally: Sherlock's already gone into his mind-palace. "Guess I'll take the tray down later then, shall I?" Still no answer. John shakes his head and grabs a lemon jammy dodger, knowing that if he left with the tray now there'd be a row over the remaining bourbon creams.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, half way through his shift at the clinic, John's phone alerts him that he has a text. He calmly ignores the intermittent buzzing in his pocket till the young woman with the chest infection has gone, and then, John pulls out his phone. Before he can read the message, there's a quick knock at the door, and Sarah barges in.

"John," she says in a dark foreboding tone, "tell me you did not give Sherlock Holmes my mobile number?!" John just stares at her in shock for a fraction of a second, then smiles winningly. "No Sarah, you and I parted ways amicably; I wouldn't do that to you."

"All right then, how did he get it?" She waves the mobile screen in his face as he looks back and forth, from his, to hers, to his again. He mutters distractedly, "I don't know, he's Sherlock Holmes, how does he do any of it?... Look we have the same message."

Her rant, interrupted, she looks at the devices too. "It seems we do; well, at least it's not a set-up, then."

There, on both their mobiles, the message read:

"Urgent. Meet me at Angelo's at your earliest convenience. SH"

John sighs and types in a response,

"We're not available till after 6PM. JW&SS".

Smiles at Sarah, showing her the message. "Saves you the 12p at least."

His phone pings again,

"Could be dangerous. SH"

Shaking his head at Sherlock's typical mood, he quickly responds,

"Sarah and I are the doctoring staff for the day, not closing up shop for you. JW"

John smugly returns the phone to his pocket, and Sarah turns to leave the office, complaining. "What are we getting our selves into?"