#mrs. hudson

[thegreatmousebafoon]

Sherlock: (drinks a full bottle of water)

John: … Did you just…? Did you actually… you- YOU JUST DRANK WATER?!

Sherlock: … Yes? This surprises you-?

John: OH MY GOD! YES! LETS GO- THIS IS A WIN! A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION! MRS. HUDSON!!!

Mrs. H: ( from downstairs ) YES, DEAR?

John: SHERLOCK JUST DRANK WATER!!!

Mrs. H: WHAT?! NOT TEA OR-

Sherlock: NO- I- WATER! I DRANK WATER! What is wrong with you lot-

John: Oh my God- I have to tell Greg-

Sherlock: Greg? Who-

John: ( on the phone ) SHHH. Greg. Get over here.

Greg: Is something wrong? Are you and Sherlock ok-

John: I just watched Sherlock finish a bottle of water.

Greg: … You’re pranking me. He’s snickering in the background isn’t he-?

John: Nope. Rally the troops. Have Molly pick up a cake- he loves those-

Sherlock: I’m still here you know-

John: SSHHH Sherlock. The adults are planning a party.

Sherlock: … Because I drank water?

John: Yes.

Sherlock: ….

John: ….

Sherlock: … Are you trying to psychologically condition me, Doctor Watson?

John: …. Is it working?

Sherlock: … What flavor cake?

John: Chocolate.

Sherlock: Then yes. Throw in some coffee flavored ice cream and I’ll eat a full meal instead of just nibbling at one.

John: DEAL! DEAL- 100% YOU’VE GOT A DEAL!

[malevolent-muse]

❔🌎❔

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[chriscalledmesweetie]

Day 16: Chocolate

When John finds himself wide awake And craving a chocolate fudge cake He knows Sherlock’s hopeless At making things dopeless Thank god Mrs. Hudson can bake!

You can find all 31 of my Holly Jolly Johnlock Limericks on AO3.

Thanks to @notjustamumj for the December 2024 prompts and to @ghostofnuggetspast and @friday411 for their own delightfully inspiring limericks.

[edosianorchids901]

Never Shaken

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "could have been worse"

Cw: blood and injury from accident

Holmes winced, watching as Watson bent close to his hand and examined it. “There is no reason for you to look so alarmed. I’m perfectly all right.”

“You are not perfectly all right.” Shaking his head, Watson reached for tweezers. “You’ve badly scalded yourself, and there is glass embedded in your hand.”

“Mm.” It was difficult to argue that point given the considerable pain and the blood dripping to the table. And yet. “It could have been worse, Watson.”

Watson gave him an unimpressed look. “It is quite bad enough, Holmes.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Shaking her head, Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room. “Well, the fire brigade was a bit skeptical given all the smoke, but I think I’ve managed to convince them that we don’t need their services.”

“It is evident that we don’t need their services,” Holmes snapped, his vision blurring as Watson began to pick bits of glass from his hand. “There is a distinct lack of fire, Mrs. Hudson!”

“Yes, sir.” She sighed and came to his side, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Oh, your poor hands. Is there glass in both of them?”

“Thankfully just the one,” Watson said, dropping a fragment of glass into the metal dish that he’d set out for exactly that purpose. “The other is only slightly burnt.”

She patted Holmes on the shoulder. “Still rather painful, no doubt.”

“Nonsense. It is an exceedingly minor burn.” Dizzy now thanks to the ongoing searing, Holmes nevertheless managed to flick a smile at his landlady. “Perhaps you would be so good as to fetch us some brandy? I have given Watson a little fright with tonight’s chemical explosion, and I believe that a drink would be advantageous. Regrettably, our decanter is empty.”

“Well, I’m sure we can’t have that.” Very gently, she smoothed Holmes’ fringe out of his face, then petted his head. “Is there anything else I can fetch, Doctor? More bandages?”

“No, I think I have plenty here even for Mr. Holmes.” Watson gave her a soft smile. “But perhaps you could turn the lights up? I believe I’m straining myself a bit squinting to see the glass.”

At once, Mrs. Hudson nodded, seemingly quite eager to help. “Very good, sir. And then I’ll go and fetch that brandy, and perhaps a little tea too.”

Holmes waited until she had left to hang his head. He took a few hard, labored breaths, blinking away tears of pain. “Dear me. I suppose you were right that I ought to be a little more careful with my chemical experiments.”

“Yes, I should like that.” Watson carefully plucked another piece of bloody glass free. “You’re a danger to yourself when you’re bored, Holmes.”

“It was not intentional, Watson.”

“No, but it was careless.”

Holmes sighed. It was difficult to argue that point as well, given that his curiosity about adding just one more drop of an unstable chemical to his experiment had blown up the sitting room. Thankfully, aside from some damage to himself, his chair, the table, and the floor, it had done little harm.

“Next time I am bored, I will take time to consult my book before I do anything questionable,” Holmes muttered as Watson turned his hand to better examine it in the light. “Is that acceptable?”

“It would certainly make me feel better, yes.” Apparently content that he had gotten all the glass out, Watson reached for his bottle of disinfectant. “Although as you’re going to need a holiday to heal from this, we’ll have to find ways other than dangerous experiments to alleviate your boredom.”

He dabbed disinfectant on the damaged tissues, and Holmes jerked his hand away with a yelp of pain. The searing torment of the burns worsened, blending with the sting of disinfectant until he felt as if he’d just dipped his hand in acid.

“Easy, old man,” Watson murmured, voice gentler now. He recaptured Holmes’ hand and resumed treating him. “I know it hurts, but we must tend to these wounds properly in order to avoid infection.”

“Indeed. I should not like an infection.” Holmes did not like boredom either, particularly as the nature of his injuries certainly meant that he would be unable to entertain himself. “I shall require your assistance to prevent myself from going mad, my dear fellow.”

Watson chuckled and wiped the blood away, then reached for bandages. “I know. Don’t worry, I shall do my best.”

He bandaged Holmes’ hands, then wiped up the blood on the table while Holmes leaned back and struggled to control his expression. He had little wish to admit to pain, or to worry anyone. No doubt he could act as though everything was perfectly fine, and thus relieve any concern.

“Oh dear, oh dear. You look as if you could faint dead away from pain!” Mrs. Hudson said as she walked back into the sitting room with a tray. She set it down and poured three glasses of brandy, then set one near Holmes’ less injured hand. “There, sir. That will help, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes flicked a pained smile at her, then raised an eyebrow. “Are you joining us?”

“Of course. Dr. Watson isn’t the only one who had a fright from your explosion!” She sat at the table too, peering at them across the teapot and decanter. Apparently reassured by the state of wound tending, she smiled and raised her glass. “Shall we toast to a less eventful rest of the night?”

“Yes indeed,” Watson said fervently, picking up his own brandy. “To a quiet night.”

“Quiet is dull.” Holmes sighed, miserable at the prospect of rest. “Nevertheless.”

He raised his own glass in toast, then settled back to gingerly drink it. He would be exceptionally bored for the foreseeable future, but things certainly could be worse. He had people who loved him, and that was far better than facing life’s challenges alone.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide (Reichenbach feels...)

Mourning a Lost Soul

It was the last porcelain cup she had left. She’d always liked the blue and white flower pattern. Her mother and father had bought it on their honeymoon in Delft. Once there had been six plates, six saucers, six cups, and a small sugar bowl. After her parents died, she and her sister divided the items among them. Martha Hudson knew her sister still had every item intact. 

Something warm fell on her wrinkled hands. Tears. She could literally hear Sherlock’s voice in her head.

“Sentiment, Hudders! How commonplace of you.”

Martha gazed down at the fractured forms at her feet. They were almost unrecognisable. Only the handle was in one piece. It was lying a bit away from the other porcelain fragments. Alone.

Again, Sherlock’s voice infiltrated her mind.

“Alone protects me.”

Her cheeks and hands were wet with the spilling tears she no longer could keep at bay. It was her fault that the cup had broken. She washed it after her morning tea, and it had slipped out of her hands as the events of yesterday hit her full force.

John’s ashen face. His blank expression. The impassive voice when he told her about Sherlock’s suicide. He was still in shock. They sat in her kitchen without saying a word, until John patted her arm and climbed the stairs to 221B.

Martha was sobbing, her throat constricted by a painful lump, but she didn’t feel a thing when the shards from the broken porcelain cut her palms and fingers.

“My darling boy. How could you do this to him?” she whispered hoarsely.

She made a mental note to hide John’s gun later.

“Don’t you understand that this will destroy him? What does he have to live for when you are gone?”

Her voice was angry now, scolding the man she loved like a son. She’d never met Sherlock’s parents and he rarely spoke of them, but Martha guessed that they were even more devasted than she was. 

Her thoughts went back to yesterday again.

Greg Lestrade confirmed John’s statement. He didn’t look as ashen as John, but it was a near thing. The DI had after all saved Sherlock’s life once. The determination to save John’s life, was heavily implied.

When she finally got rid of the concerned police officer – she was no fragile flower petal, mind you – she made some calls, while her mind was still able to function properly.

Her former employer heard the news from Mycroft Holmes but had nothing more to add. With a deep sigh she called Sherlock’s brother. The man she had quite conflicted feelings about. With one word, spoken in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use, he broke her: “Martha.”

She hung up before he could realise the state she was in. After she’d turned off her mobile, she cried until her eyes were sore. 

At Sherlock’s funeral, she asked to have a moment alone by the grave. Before the coffin was covered with earth, she strewed the remains of the Delft cup into the dark hole.

“Farewell, my darling boy. I hope you are at peace. We’ll all take care of John for you.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm sorry if I hurt you. Feel free to yell and pour your heart out. The urge to explore how Mrs. Hudson received the devastating news, was too overwhelming to ignore, I'm afraid.

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[safedistancefrombeingsmart]

If the BBC Sherlock characters had iPhones...

Oh, Sherlock's notifications for this one app *coughs* are for a case, of course!

[Insp] [Template] by @cal-kestis

[mayaruinstheinternet]

Sherlock HC

Sherlock used to collect bugs as a child. He put them in jars in his room and gave them names. He got incredibly attached to them and cried in secret whenever they died. Mycroft used to steal the dead bugs' bodies to dissect.

Even when he's older, Sherlock still secretly loves bugs, and only Mycroft and John know. And Mrs. Hudson has a suspicion.

[themuseinthewoods]

Imagine spending Christmas with your older brother John and his friend Sherlock.....

Gn!teen!reader, platonic! Sherlock and platonic! John. Reader is homeschooled by Sherlock. Use of y/n

You had spent the day helping your brother put up the Christmas tree in the corner of the small flat you, John, and Sherlock shared. As well as distracting Sherlock so your brother and Mrs. Hudson could get things done.

Sherlock personally oversaw your education and through Mycroft got you two diplomas, which you never quite understood. Thankfully he had decided to take a break over the holidays and you were more then grateful.

Now you were curled up in a corner of the couch, sipping tea, wearing a cozy Christmas sweater your brother had gotten you, and listening to Sherlock play as you admired the holiday festivities.

"Sherlock? I don't think I heard this before." Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen where she and John are preparing the meal. "That is because it is a new piece, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock pauses for a moment in his playing, you can't describe it but his shoulders look annoyed.

"Entitled 'the wise young friend'." He turns and winks at you and your eyes widened in surprise.

"Merry Christmas Y/n."

"Merry Christmas Sherlock. Thank you." And with that, once more, the fair melody of violin drifted through the flat.

[wipbigbang]

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FAQ

[sherlockianscholar]

the above is from granada's "the speckled band."

we all know that the sky's the limit when praising jeremy's acting, but i'll always be most in love with his eyes. he conveys so much power and depth through them. as this interaction with roylott plays out, holmes engages with him (for the most part) icily and concisely. but underneath it all, jeremy's eyes burn with an intensity and fire that's almost palpable through the screen. his revulsion towards roylott is visceral.

additional notes: watson's jump at the door opening. the iconic moment when holmes gulps at roylott bending the poker. all fantastic.

and now what more is there to say than i thank you, mrs. hudson, just another client.

[thegreatmousebafoon]

So…. Y’all remember that fic I was talking about?

[malevolent-muse]

❔🩺❔

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[chriscalledmesweetie]

Day 8: Tea

Just landlady—housekeeper not But still she will brew up a pot Of their favourite tea Just this once, you see And give them the biscuits she brought

You can find all 31 of my Holly Jolly Johnlock Limericks on AO3.

Thanks to @notjustamumj for the December 2024 prompts and to @ghostofnuggetspast and @friday411 for their own delightfully inspiring limericks.

[edosianorchids901]

With a Bang

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "new year"

“But sir, it’s almost dinner time!” Mrs. Hudson protested. “And I’ve got a nice goose in the oven.”

“Another goose already? Dear me.” Holmes was admittedly fond of goose, but he would be expected to eat an actual meal if Mrs. Hudson had made something special to celebrate New Years. “It is not myself who is to blame for our absconding from dinner. The responsibility rests with Watson, who is insisting on this absurd concept of an evening ramble about London.”

Holmes returned to selecting which scarf to wear, and smiled as Mrs. Hudson turned a betrayed look on Watson. “Doctor! I have enough trouble getting Mr. Holmes to eat without you encouraging him to skip meals. Why didn’t you take him for a walk earlier?”

“He refused to go anywhere earlier!” Watson, already bundled up, was waiting in the doorway. “I should have preferred to take him for a walk after lunch, but he was preoccupied with changing his violin strings.”

“I am not a dog who must be taken for walks,” Holmes called, selecting his usual thick black scarf. He would need it on such a frozen evening. “I for one am perfectly happy to remain inside and enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s goose.”

“You haven’t been out of these rooms in days, old man.” Apparently not cowed by Mrs. Hudson’s look of admonishment, Watson brought Holmes’ coat into the bedroom and helped him into it. “Not since you solved that last case.”

“I have been taking a holiday. It is the time of year for it.”

“You have been sulking because there have not been any more interesting murders involving body parts turning up at Christmas parties.”

“That would be somewhat of a novelty if there were, as we are now past Christmas and there are no more Christmas parties at present.”

Although he could not deny that such an incident would have brightened these past days. There had been no interesting crime whatsoever, as if all London had decided to indulge in a little peace on Earth. It was indescribably dull.

“Well, I insist that you take at least a short walk,” Watson said with all his customary stubbornness. “Your health has not been at its best for some time—”

“Which is why you propose to freeze me to death?”

“—and it’s important that you get some exercise.” Gently, Watson took his arm. “And I will be better for it too. Neither of us are young anymore.”

Holmes sighed, capitulating, and gave Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look. “Very well, Watson. Mrs. Hudson, we shall only be enduring the boredom of a walk for some little time. You attend to your goose.”

She still did not look at all approving. “Very well, sir. And I suppose you’ll be wanting some hot drinks once you return, to warm up.”

Watson perked up. “A hot chocolate would be most agreeable, Mrs. Hudson.”

Holmes rolled his eyes. Watson’s enthusiasm for food and drink never failed to amaze him.

They went downstairs, and outside. The glow of the lamplight was certainly warm, but nothing else was. Indeed, it was a miserably cold night, with howling wind blasting between buildings.

“That’s a bit bracing,” Watson said in a voice that made it plain he was startled by the cold, but attempting to conceal his reaction. No doubt he did not wish Holmes to quite reasonably retreat from this absurd walk. “What a clear night, Holmes.”

“Yes, clearly too cold for a walk.” Shivering, Holmes hunched his shoulders and watched the rapidly scuttling passersby. “This is a horrible idea, Watson!”

“It is not my fault you refused to leave earlier.”

“I was thoroughly occupied. Changing violin strings is a delicate operation, and one that cannot be interrupted for something as commonplace as a walk.” Holmes flashed a quick smile at Watson’s unimpressed expression. “And then it was of course necessary that I should play for the remainder of the afternoon in order to test the new—”

Someone moved towards them out of the crowd, a subtle motion that nevertheless caught Holmes’ attention. He twisted towards it, and was greeted by a gun leveled at his head.

“Holmes!”

Holmes was indeed not as young as he’d once been, but he could still move quickly, especially if Watson was in danger. He lashed out with his cane, slamming it against the gunman’s forearm.

The explosive noise of the gun so near his head left his ears ringing, and pain seared along his cheek, but his head was still intact. He blinked away tears of pain and readied his cane for another attack.

At once, the assassin dropped his gun and drew a long knife. Holmes blocked the rapid slash, although not as accurately as he would have liked. Pain sliced across the back of his fingers.

He shifted his stance, tracking the blade as it swung back up. And then, quite suddenly, the blade swung in entirely a different direction, flinging off wildly down the street as Watson tackled the assassin.

“Watson!” Throwing his cane to his other hand, Holmes bent and snatched up the gun. “Stand aside, my good man. It’s all right.”

Watson, instead of standing aside, delivered a series of quick, somewhat excessively violent punches to the assassin’s face. He did not seem to hear the admonition.

Although he was out of breath and unsteady enough to have need of his cane, Holmes hooked it across his gun arm and gently touched Watson’s shoulder. “Watson. John.”

Watson startled and froze, one hand on the assassin’s chest holding him down, other arm cocked back for the next punch. He looked up at Holmes with wild eyes. “Holmes—”

“All right, Watson. You have done an excellent job incapacitating him.” Holmes flashed a reassuring smile and patted Watson on the shoulder again. “Well done. As he appears to be unconscious, you may stop beating him now.”

Watson looked down at the man with some little confusion, then shoved back to his feet. He was trembling, and looked almost on the verge of tears. “Holmes, he just tried to kill you.”

“He did, yes. You were quite right that we should go for a walk! Most invigorating.”

“Assassination attempts are not invigorating. You could have been killed.” Hand shaking, Watson wiped his eyes. Then he glanced across Holmes and stiffened. “You’re bleeding. Do you have any other wounds?”

Hot blood ran down Holmes’ cheek, rapidly cooling as it soaked into his scarf. His slashed hand dripped blood to the pavement. He quickly indicated the two wounds. “Only what you see. I’m all right, Watson.”

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” Gasping, Mrs. Hudson ran outside. She glanced between them and the downed assassin. “Oh dear, oh dear, what’s happened?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes turned his reassuring smile to her. “Nothing to signify. Just the first assassination attempt of the new year.”

“Oh, sir, you’re bleeding!”

“So I have been told.” Suppressing a wince, he passed the gun to Watson, then took the gunman’s original position and extended one hand. He adjusted it, swinging to the side to account for his own blow, and then followed the trajectory of the shot to the bullet hole. “Dear me, he’s shot our door! My apologies, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Holmes, we must get you inside.” Watson waved down the constable who was running up, apparently having heard the gunshot. “That wound on your cheek will need stitches.”

“Then you now agree with my earlier assertion that talking a walk tonight is a horrible idea?”

Watson gave him an exasperated look, then sighed and nodded. “Yes, all right. I will agree if it means you will allow me to treat you.”

“Excellent.” Dizzy, Holmes leaned on his cane and tried to catch his breath while Watson spoke with the constable. The wind still shrieked between the buildings, relentless. “Even without assassination attempts, it really is a horrible night to be outside. Mrs. Hudson, would you be so good as to make the doctor’s requested hot chocolate?”

Although she still looked quite distressed, she bustled inside. Soon, he and Watson followed.

Holmes eyed the stairs, displeased at the need to ascend. This was no longer as easy as it had once been, his body worn down by a lifetime of hard use. But he proceeded without hesitation, not giving Watson any chance to worry.

Watson was worrying enough. He escorted Holmes to the settee, retrieved his doctor’s bag, and quickly tied a pressure bandage around Holmes’ bleeding hand. Then he sat as well, holding a linen compress to the cheek wound.

Holmes winced, then put on another calm smile. “Well, well, Watson. We certainly are starting the new year with a bang, are we not?”

“Holmes…” Watson drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “You do not need to make light of nearly being murdered.”

“Nonsense. If I wasted time being upset on every occasion that someone attempted to murder me, I should never have time to get anything done.”

“You will not be able to get anything done if you are shot in the head. Or poisoned. Or thrown to your death.” Expression tense, Watson merely gazed at him for a moment. “I am tired of nearly losing you, Sherlock.”

“It is a mere little scratch, my dear fellow.” Closing his eyes, Holmes leaned into the hand against his cheek. “I fear that the occasional violent incident is merely a fact of life in my line of work.”

“You enjoy it a little too much.” But Watson’s voice was no longer so burdened, and he patted Holmes on the arm. “You reacted very quickly.”

“As did you. We are not so old, hmm?”

“No, I suppose not.”

It was difficult to remain still for long enough for Watson to stop the bleeding, and even more irritating to need to remain still even longer in order to be stitched up. At least the stitches meant that Watson gave him a small dose of morphine, and Holmes sank into the familiar haze that he still sometimes missed.

He roused himself somewhat as Watson was bandaging his hand, though. “Ah, Watson. Here is Mrs. Hudson with dinner and your hot chocolate. How is the goose, my dear?”

“Ready for you two to have dinner. I’ll set everything out for you.” She proceeded to do so, then came over and patted Holmes on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to treat myself to a brandy.”

“An excellent idea, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson said as he secured the bandage. “I think we all ought to have one.”

“I quite agree.” Holmes gave a brisk nod, then winced at the throbbing in his cheek. That would be most distracting. “Would you care to join us for dinner? I see little point in you eating alone downstairs.”

“Oh! I’d be glad of the company.” With a teary smile, she patted Holmes on the shoulder once more. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

He flashed a quick smile in response. Watson waited until she was out of the room, then said, “Why do I suspect that invitation is primarily because you want to be sure she is not downstairs alone in case of further violence?”

“It is better to be cautious.” With Watson’s help, Holmes rose. He winced, sore everywhere. Watson had eased him out of his bloody scarf and coat earlier, and so he merely had to pull on his dressing gown before turning to the next matter. “Are you all right, Watson?”

“I… I feel a little guilty.” A shiver rippled through Watson. “Had I not insisted on the walk…”

“Now now, I will not hear such nonsense. An assassin would not have been deterred by our skipping a walk. Far better to be done with the attempt now, so we might enjoy ourselves.” Gently, Holmes drew Watson into an embrace. “It’s all right.”

Watson gave another long, shaky breath and relaxed in his arms. For a time, they merely held each other, and took comfort in the closeness.

Once comfort turned to overstimulation, Holmes drew back and twitched a smile at his friend. “There is one small matter I must attend to before we dine.”

Watson glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who had just come back with brandy. “We’re supposed to be sitting down to eat.”

“I shall, presently.” Holmes snatched up a blank piece of paper and went to the mantelpiece. He took down the old paper and waved it. “Last year’s assassination attempts, a grand total of three. It is time to start the tally for the new year!”

“Oh, sir!” Mrs. Hudson cried.

“Holmes, that is grotesque.”

“Well, well. One must find entertainment and stimulation where one can, and it so happens that I quite enjoy tallying things.” Holmes quickly labeled the new paper with the year and what was being tracked, and then added the first tally mark.

He set the tally of assassination attempts in a prominent place on the mantel, touched a finger to his lips, and merely admired his work for a moment. Then, smiling at the mildly appalled and yet fond looks on Watson and Mrs. Hudson’s faces, he joined them at the table.

Many men had tried to kill him, and yet here he was. Still working, enjoying time with his friends, and celebrating a new year at Baker Street.

[lokijiro]

[astudyinimagination]

Truly, the women of the Sherlock Holmes canon and the surrounding media are beautiful and excellent and messy and awful and human, human, human... and the fandom does not deserve them.