Mrs. Hudson had a headache. A terrible headache. Nonetheless, she pulled herself out of bed not long after the sun came up and set about making the batch of biscuits she had promised Sherlock the previous evening, before things had happened upstairs that would likely keep both of her boys in bed much longer than her or the sun. Sherlock had most likely forgotten the promised biscuits, but, she reasoned, it was as good a reason as any to go upstairs and say hello.

An hour passed, and then two. She made the chocolate biscuits that John liked so much, and the plain for Sherlock, who had less of a sweet tooth. She made herself several cups of tea and took a paracetamol for her headache, had a bath and put on her favorite purple dress, the same color as Sherlock's favorite shirt, one of several she had bought for him over the years.

No one was moving upstairs. Or not so she could hear.

She did the washing up after the baking, swept the kitchen and made her bed.

Still no sound from the upstairs flat.

Mrs. Hudson was getting impatient, but sat down at her kitchen table with a fresh cup of tea and the new novel she was reading for her book club. It was hard to concentrate, but she managed. Listening all the while.

Around noon, the creak of a door, and light footsteps. Sherlock. She heard him make his way to the kitchen and turn the tap on long enough to fill the kettle (but still not long enough for the washing up-those dishes would be getting whiffy fairly soon, she might have to do them herself). Through the pipes she thought she heard him humming-yes, definitely humming one of those lovely songs he sometimes played on his violin at midnight. Though not last night. No violin at all-not that she would have noticed. The wine put her right to sleep. But Mrs. Hudson put her own landlady powers of deduction to work in figuring out her boys had better things to do last night than argue about the violin.

A heavier tread made its way to the kitchen above her head-John. "Good morning," drifted through the pipes-sleepily, contentedly. There was a long pause. "Mmmmm...It really is quite a good morning. Are you making tea?"

"It's hardly morning," she heard Sherlock say. "But yes, I am making tea. I'll even bring it to you, on the couch, if you wait for me there."

"Will you really? The great Sherlock Holmes is going to bring me my morning tea?" Mrs. Hudson could actually hear the smile in John's voice, and was unable to resist smiling herself.

"I would think you could do a bit better than 'great' this morning, really, John." Silence, and the shifting of feet, close together. "But yes, I will bring you your morning tea. And if we are very good and put our dressing gowns on, I would be willing to guess Mrs. Hudson will bring us a plate of biscuits, since she has been baking all morning." Mrs Hudson sat up straight, startled. Then Sherlock was addressing her, his voice echoing very clearly through the drain. "I can smell the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "But give us five minutes to be decent, will you, before you bring them up?"

There was an odd sputtering sound. "Oh my God, Sherlock...do you mean Mrs. Hudson can…"

Fifteen minutes later (it was best to be safe), the landlady, with her plate of biscuits, was knocking gently on the upstairs door.

"Come in," she heard Sherlock say, so she did.

Her boys were decent enough in their pajamas, thank goodness, and spread out on the couch. John, the back of his neck a vivid pink, sat with his feet between two cups of tea on the coffee table, a book in one hand, Sherlock's head in his lap. Sherlock had his eyes closed, thinking no doubt, holding John's other hand resting on his chest.

John looked up, a bit shy, but still with a little something in his face that reminded the landlady of a cat that had got into the cream. "Biscuits! Lovely! Did you make the chocolate ones?"

"Of course, dear." She crossed the room and set the plate on the table. "And the plain for Sherlock. Don't you two look cozy this morning? Did you have a nice evening?"

"It was quite a...stimulating evening, really." Sherlock reached up his hand and first touched the back of John's neck, now bright red, then, glancing at Mrs. Hudson, his own rapidly pinking ears. "But yes, quite cozy this morning, thank you," Sherlock rose and chose a biscuit from the plate. "We might even start a fire-there's a bit of a chill in the air, don't you think?"

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her ample purple chest, looking fondly at her young men. "Yes, a fire would be lovely, I'm sure. It's a perfect day to stay in and curl up. You boys enjoy the biscuits." She made to leave.

"Mrs. Hudson-" She turned to find Sherlock standing right behind her-gracious but that child could move quickly. "Mrs. Hudson-" he bent his head to whisper in her ear. "Thank you. For everything." He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Of course, dear," she whispered back. "Always happy to help."

As she made her way out of the flat and down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson was satisfied that 221B would be domestic-free.

At least for today.