Chapter Text
To their surprise (to John's anyway), Greg came back fifteen minutes later and unlocked the cell. He seemed less pissed off.
"Get out of here." He said, stepping aside and jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.
They didn't need to be asked twice. "Who paid our bail?" John asked.
"Mycroft." Greg said. "Paid your bail, the car costs, the whole lot."
Sherlock muttered some very unflattering words under his breath about his brother as he stalked past, but John considered it differently. Paying for them had been a very nice thing to do, regardless of the expense or how wealthy Mycroft was. John had no idea what the Holmes finances were, other than the fact that Sherlock could take or leave a five-figure check when it came to wages for case solving. There was obviously some sort of financial security. He thought about telling him 'thank you,' but then he remembered how the older Holmes had happily told Greg that Mrs. Hudson whacked them and he changed his mind.
Their arrangement wasn't exactly something he wanted announced. It was unorthodox. It was odd. It could so easily be seen as abuse or assault and if John was being honest with himself he didn't know why on earth he allowed it to go on. Was it worth being 'in' the little family? He supposed it was. It's not like she smacked them all that often. At the most it was every few months. Last year she'd only spanked them twice, most recently for those silly jungle vines.
They caught a cab home and trudged up the steps. Sherlock's normal ebullience that followed a successful case was nowhere to be found. John noticed how stiffly he armed out of his coat and hung it up. The seat belts had done their jobs, but the adrenaline and tension and excitement of the car chase was showing its effects. John's shoulder was tight and angry and Sherlock bent to touch his toes, trying to stretch his back.
"How's your nose?" John asked, noting the dried blood around the edges of his nostrils.
"Better, now. I feel as though I've been hit by a bus."
"Mmm." John went to the cabinet in the loo to retrieve pain meds. He popped two pills with some water from the sink and then brought two pills out to Sherlock. He'd put the kettle on, bless him. "Here." John said, holding out the white pills. "Best stop it before it gets worse."
Sherlock took them and knocked them back with a mug of cold water. He twisted his torso in an effort to loosen up his back.
"Regret it?" John asked.
"Hell no!" Sherlock bellowed. He straightened up and smiled. "This was a delightful day."
John smiled. He felt the same.
Both men showered. Fresh clothes and hot water did wonders to make them feel better. It was past dinnertime but they mutually decided a meal was in order. John called Angelo's and they soon had crusty garlic bread, creamy Caesar salad, and spinach ravioli tossed in olive oil and fresh basil and oregano. They didn't even speak as they ate, standing at the table. The food was decimated in ten minutes. Despite the fact that it was half nine, John wished Sherlock a good night and took himself to bed. There hadn't been a peep from Mrs. Hudson. Maybe Mycroft hadn't told her after all. The brothers enjoyed winding each other up and maybe Mycroft's jail cell visit was just him scoring another point in whatever one-upmanship game they had going. Satisfied with this, John passed out on his bed and didn't move for nearly eleven hours.
The next morning, John was sitting in his chair with part of the newspaper. The other parts were strewn across the floor, under the desk, on top of the bison head, and in the dark fireplace. It was like a giant hamster had roamed the sitting room, looking to line its nest with newsprint. Sherlock, adorned in his usual house clothes of pajama bottoms, Tshirt, and dressing gown, was flopped back on the sofa. A page of the Real Estate section was tented over his face. He'd flung the rest of the paper about in frustration when he saw that there were no good crimes available today. John had found most of the Culture and Lifestyle section stuffed under the seat of the green armchair and he settled in to read. He was fine with there being no cases today. He was still recovering from the case yesterday. A hot bath was in order at some point today.
"Boys!?" Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed up the stairwell and John's stomach flipped itself over. Sherlock sat up in a flash, swiping the paper off his face with one hand.
"D'you think she means to smack us?" He asked.
"Don’t know." John said grimly. "Does she even know what happened?"
There were fast footsteps on the stairs and Sherlock expected her to come tearing into the room swinging a cane around. She bustled in, wringing her hands in distress. "Oh!" She wailed upon seeing them both. "Mycroft phoned‒"
"‒I'll bet he did‒" Sherlock muttered.
"‒he said you two were in a car accident!" She came to John and patted his shoulders, squeezing them. She looked between him and Sherlock, half-expecting to see casts and bandages. She spied the scabbed gash above John's eyebrow and gasped. "Are you both alright?"
"We're a bit sore, Mrs. H." John said, relaxing. She was concerned about them. That was a good sign. "But nothing major."
"My nose bled." Sherlock said in a pitying voice.
"Oh my dear." She bustled over to him and hugged him. "Still though! No broken bones, no sprains?" She glanced up. "John, that cut looks nasty."
"It's not bad. Doesn't even hurt anymore. No, now we're just achy." John put the paper aside and stood. He caught Sherlock's gaze and they shared a mutual relieved sort of look. She was worried about them. She wasn't threatening corporal discipline. Phew. John grimaced as the ache spiked in his back and he hobbled towards the kitchen. Both their spirits lifted at the prospect of averted paid in the backside. "Tea, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh no thanks. I just wanted to check up on you both." She patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Do you need anything? Pain pills? I have my soothers…"
"No." John said with a smile. "We're plenty stocked up on everything."
"Good." She nodded and surveyed the newspaper mess with a small frown. "Good. I'll give you a couple days to recover before you get your spankings."
For two seconds, there was absolute silence before the general outcry.
"What?!" Sherlock blurted. "No‒why?!"
John talked at the same time. "Oy, what for?"
"Now dears." She said firmly, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm glad you're both unhurt but what you did was not okay."
"We caught Milo!" John said. Sherlock nodded fast.
"And that's commendable. However, you also destroyed a police car and from what I heard, John," she turned to him, "you were firing your gun into traffic!"
Damn Mycroft to hell.
"What‒not into traffic. Not, like, into it." John fumbled with the words, "Not, not bad like that!"
"What did Mycroft tell you?" Sherlock snipped, accusing. No doubt he'd lied to Mrs. Hudson in hopes she would give him and a John a harder smacking.
"I only shot once," John protested "‒at the fuel tank! I wasn't firing at random drivers!"
She pursed her lips, disapproving, and turned to Sherlock. "Mycroft told me you stole a police car, ruined it, drove very dangerously for a long time, and shot a gun! I have to say, I was shocked when I heard. Please tell me he was embellishing‒he sounded very pleased with himself."
John looked away. Mycroft wasn't embellishing in the slightest. None of it was a lie. Sherlock bit both his lips and couldn't meet her gaze.
"Oh boys." She shook her head. "This was very bad. You've both definitely earned it and I think you agree with me, yes?"
She was answered with two silent, sour faces.
"I'll come back up in a couple days." She assured them. "We can do it then."
"Why not now?" Sherlock asked.
She looked scandalized. "Because you two were just in an accident! You said yourselves that you're sore."
"We'll be sore after you smack us!" John pointed out. "What's a bit more ache?"
She was shaking her head before he finished speaking. "I'm not whacking you when you're recovering from a bloody car accident‒what do you take me for? Some brute? No. You will get better first. And anyway, I don't have time today. We'll do it Thursday."
Sherlock groaned and fell face-first into the pillows on the sofa, boneless and tragic. John suddenly felt ill and he put his hand on his stomach. It was Monday. They would have an entire forty-eight hours to stew.
"Oh really, you two!" She exclaimed. "It's not so bad."
"Says you." John mumbled.
"Well, I do sympathize." She laughed a little too merrily to be believed. "And look on the bright side‒you'll get a nice pudding out of it." Her mobile tittered in her pocket. She pulled it out and read the screen. She texted, her fingers moving faster than one would expect for a woman her age. She put the phone away. "Thursday." She said firmly. She swept out the door with a bright, "ta-ta!"
Sherlock lifted his face out of the pillow. John was standing with his hands on his hips, staring at the floor. Sherlock's phone on the table chimed ominously‒Mycroft's text alert‒and he growled and snatched it up.
What did dear Mrs. Hudson have to say?
The ostentatious smugness absolutely radiated out of the screen. Sherlock stabbed out a reply,
FUCK. OFF.
He flung it back on the table.
The following three days were terrible. John found himself forgetting about the impending punishment, only to remember that the whole thing was in fact not a nightmare and that they really were going to get spanked in a mere matter of hours. The looming punishment reared its head now and them, disrupting his workday and bittering everything he did.
Sherlock was feeling the press of the upcoming event as well. He barely spoke, save to snap out rude comments. He lost himself in experiments by day and violin playing by night, distracting himself and filling his brain with compositions and equations.
Thursday morning rolled around simultaneously faster than it ever had before while also somehow taking it's time sweet time to arrive. Sherlock blinked awake. His phone was bleeping with a text. He grumbled and snatched it up. It was Mrs. Hudson.
Dears, I hope you've not forgotten our appointment today. Come to my flat around 1100.
John was included and Sherlock snorted and let his arm fall to his side. Forgotten. Like he could have forgotten that his arse was going to be on fire today. Annoyingly, he felt fine. The lingering soreness from the car accident had disappeared and he was bloody ship shape. He couldn’t even play it up anymore. She knew it had been mild and that they were unhurt. He briefly wished he could have been more damaged by the car chase, just so he could avoid this rutting paddling. John would likely say that thought was a bit not good. He looked at the time: 0904. Two hours.
A shave and a set of clean clothes later he was pacing back and forth in the sitting room. John was at the desk in front of his laptop. A mug of tea was beside him. He'd made one for Sherlock as well, but it went untouched on the coffee table.
"Will you stop pacing?!" John snipped.
"What do you think she'll hit us with?" Sherlock answered, freezing in place.
"I don't know." He shrugged. "A hot poker? A bull whip? Does it matter? It'll bloody hurt regardless." John had a flash of inspiration. "Ten quid says it's a belt."
He glanced at Sherlock and the detective had his eyes narrowed in thought. "Hm…I think it will be her classic go-to: a wooden spoon."
John snickered and nodded, typing up the car chase in his blog. He was playing up the most exciting parts and staying far, far away from the comeuppance. "May the odds be ever in your favor."
"Hm?"
"Nevermind." He shook his head. He didn't feel like explaining The Hunger Games. He vaguely wondered how he and Sherlock would do if pitted against each other in a battle to the death. He stopped typing. The thought of having to kill his best friend was horrifying and he quickly pushed it out of his mind.
At 1045, Sherlock leaped out of his chair and stomped towards the steps. "I can't take it anymore! I'm going!" He thundered down the stairs.
John sighed, closed his computer, and stood up. Into battle. He lifted his chin and marched to his fate.
He found Sherlock standing moodily outside her door.
"Did you knock?"
"No." He muttered. It seemed he'd lost his nerve somewhere on the stairs.
John was very sick and tired of all this waiting. He rapped on the door twice.
"Come in, boys!" She called.
John strode into her flat, head held high. Yes it would be painful. Yes it would be embarrassing. But the upside of that? It would be over and they could all move on. Sherlock watched John stride into the flat and, bolstered by his courage, he followed.
"Sherlock," She said the moment he stepped inside. "Close and lock that door. I want absolutely no interruptions for this." Her voice was clipped and no-nonsense.
Sherlock obeyed.
"Right." She said. "Into the sitting room with both of you."
They trudged into the sitting room, each man glancing around, looking for the implement of the day. There was nothing obvious. Her coffee table was clear. The sofa had a couple lacey pillows in each corner and there was a mug on the side table. Her dark purple purse was on the floor beside the little table.
She swept in behind them and sat in the center of the sofa. She adjusted the flower-print dress over her thighs and reached down for her purse. The rounded wooden hairbrush she pulled out of it was a surprise. John grunted in displeasure, like he'd just got a whiff of a really bad smell. Sherlock yelped, "where did that come from?"
"The charity shop." She said. The brush was solid and thick, made of one piece of dark gold wood. It must have been designed with the world's worst tangled hair in mind‒or the world's naughtiest bottoms. She patted it against her palm and it made a soft clap-clap sound. It looked and sounded like it meant business.
"Wha‒why?" John asked in a strangled tone. He cleared his throat. "Why did you buy that?"
"Well," she said, "since this has become something of a regular occurrence, I decided a more permanent implement was in order. Sherlock burned all the spoons and even his own hair brush." She looked at him. "Really, dear, was that necessary?"
"Yes." He said.
"This way," she continued, "I have something on hand. And it only cost me forty p!"
Both men failed to be proud of her bargain hunting.
"Of course I'm not going to use it as a hairbrush‒Lord knows where's it's been. But as a spanker it'll do the job more than fine."
She regarded their wary, nervous expressions and sighed. "Boys, I'm not whacking you because you took the case‒it's your choices that concern me! By all means, chase the bad guys and make the world right, but for heaven's sake! Let the officers do the most dangerous parts! They're trained for these sorts of things. You're not. I don't want to end up visiting you in hospital‒or worse! The morgue!"
Both men looked down, scolded and shuffling their feet. Neither of them could think of a good counter-argument.
"Now," she said, "let's get this unpleasantness done with. John? Come here and take your clothes down. This is going to be bare." She shifted on the sofa and patted her thigh with the brush. John gulped and moved resolutely forward. He could do this. It was just a brush.
"Sherlock? Take your clothes down and face the wall." She gestured to the far wall beside a cross stitched picture of a seaside. Sherlock and John exchanged sick looks as they reached for their flies and buttons. Both shoved jeans and pants to their knees. Sherlock shuffled to the wall, feeling shamed and humiliated. His shirt was long enough to cover his back and front, so he was modest for now. For now. He stared at the ivory wallpaper and tried not feel too wretched.
He heard clothing rustling and knew John was getting into position. He glanced behind himself. John was over her lap, both palms on the floor. His legs were bent and he was shifting his feet, trying to find a comfortable position. She flipped his shirt out of the way and ran her hand briskly over both bum cheeks as if coming up with a plan. John winced and closed his eyes.
Sherlock turned back around. She hadn't really questioned them. She always started with a "why is this happening?" type of question. Why wasn't she now? What did it mean? Anything?
A terrific, burning pop! pierced the air. It was somehow more horrible than the awful sound of his own brush (now enjoying its next life as a pile of ashes) whacking skin. Another pop! and Sherlock shifted, winced, and hung his head. Nervous anticipation coated his stomach like a slick.
Behind him, John was trying very hard to be stoic. Mrs. Hudson had one hand firmly around his waist and she was smacking his cheeks with enthusiasm.
"Ow! Ow!" John twisted, slapping his hand down on the cushions to brace himself. The pain was sudden and shocking. There was no way he could have prepared for this. Despite the fact that he'd felt the brush before, there was something particularly hateful about this brush. He had a whimsical thought that the thing had been infused with a vengeance against naughty bottoms before she purchased it.
"Ow‒fuck! OW!" She smacked a spot she'd just hit and he lurched forward. He didn't fall to the floor but he did break her grip on his side.
"John." She said calmly.
"M'sorry." He shifted back. She gripped him again and the painful, burning smacks continued. Each searing spot of pain was agonizing. Every smack burned. The splatting sounds of wood meeting skin were horrible. John kicked out with both legs, bending his knees and bringing his feet up.
"John, move your legs." She said. Her voice was firm but not angry.
"Sorry." He dropped his feet to the floor with a thump. "M'sorry." It was embarrassing to be laying here, undignified with his bum up and his head down. Down here he could smell lemon cleaning polish, the faint musty scent of the carpet, and his own sweat. When he was standing up tall he was a competent doctor, a decorated veteran and confident person. When he had this particular view of the world he felt chastened, ashamed and undignified. More smacks popped across his skin.
"Ow! Buggering fucking bloody hell!" He jerked up again. His eyes filled with tears and he reached up to wipe his face. He couldn't control his tears. The pain was immense. Every inch of his backside was sore, stinging and burning.
Her hand squeezed his shoulder and rubbed gently and he realized he was out of breath, his sides heaving. "You're doing admirably." She soothed. "A few more and it'll be your turn in the corner."
John nodded. He wiped his face again and snuck a glance at Sherlock. He was watching them over his shoulder with an expression of wary horror on his face.
"Sherlock! Turn around!"
He did. It looked utterly awful. John was actually crying. He gulped. If John was crying, that meant he would probably disintegrate into sobs.
On the sofa, Mrs. Hudson squeezed his side, holding him a bit tighter. Over and over she whipped the flat-backed brush against his skin. John grit his teeth and hung his head. He would never do anything stupid or silly with Sherlock again. Never, ever. It wasn't worth this dread and pain and humiliation. He kicked out again, bending his knees once more and lashing his feet.
She stopped, finally. He went limp over her lap and panted at the floor. His arms hung uselessly past his ears. His bum was burned to a crisp and boiling hot.
Again her hand touched his shoulder and squeezed, soothing. He took a deep breath. Some tears dripped to the floor and he wiped his chin.
"Just you rest here a moment, John." She said. She patted his back, rubbing up and down. His shirt was sweaty and sticking to his skin but that didn’t seem to bother her. "Just take a few moments, here…get up when you're ready." It was kind of her to give him time, John reasoned. It was punishment and she wasn't expected to be nice. He was a bit mortified she felt the need to soothe him at all. He must have really made a embarrassing fuss, more so than usual, this time around. So much for stoicism.
He got his strength back and slumped to his knees. He wanted to curl up on the floor and lick his wounds in peace, but instead he gathered his shredded dignity and stood up. Sherlock was watching him again, scrutinizing his face. His eyes were red from the tears and he looked worn out. Mrs. Hudson was foisting tissues on him and Sherlock bit his lip and looked back at the wall. John had taken that so much better than he was going to.
"Sherlock." She called. "Your turn, love."
He turned away from the wall. John was bending to do up his trousers‒
"‒John, dear, leave them down."
He vaguely wondered why, but he obeyed and shuffled up to take his place by the wall.
Sherlock stared. Oh God, his bum was really red. It looked so very sore. His imminent turn over her lap made him freeze. She adjusted her skirt and smoothed it over her legs in preparation for victim number two. He gulped.
"Sherlock." She said in a firm tone. "Now." She slapped the brush against her thigh.
He stepped forward, paused, and stepped forward again. He froze. John glanced over his shoulder to watch.
"John, this doesn’t concern you!" She snapped. He faced the wall again as Sherlock hesitantly made his way over to her.
"Enough nonsense." She took his arm and pulled. "Now."
He fell into place with an "oof!"
"There." She said, sliding her leg out a bit more to accommodate him. He was so gangly and long. She flipped his shirt up, exposing his cheeks. He winced and grabbed a pillow. Her warm hand rubbed up and down his bottom, assessing, before the hand held his waist. There was a terrible pause, and then‒
Oh God, it was like fire! He'd just registered how bad the first smack hurt when another matching spot landed on his other cheek. He jerked up and flung his hand back to cover himself.
"Oh no," she admonished. "It is much too early for that." She grabbed his wrist and pushed it up to his lower back before really settling in to spank him.
"Ow! Oh ow!" He squirmed, yipping with each whack. "Oh, ow‒oh fuck that brush!" He shouted. He heard John snicker in the corner. He couldn't believe a single piece of wood could hurt so much.
"Oh! Ah!" He twisted over her knee as his poor bum was assaulted over and over. His right hand was pinned to his back and he frantically wiped his face with his left. He was already bloody crying and they'd only just started. "Ow! Oh! Ow! Ow!" Each spank drove a yelp out of him.
John closed his eyes in sympathy. The brush's whacks and his friend's cries were an awful sound. His own arse was still burning like hell. He reached back and rested cool fingers on his right cheek. The skin was tender and hot. His hands were cool and clammy but it didn't feel good on the sore bits. It was all still too fresh. If a bum could go into shock, his definitely was.
The wood gnashed into Sherlock's skin, painting the paleness red. He scrabbled against the sofa, clutching the pillow so hard the stitches threatened to pop. It hurt badly and he gave in and let the tears fall. He'd be a snotty mess by the end of this and so be it. She smacked lower on his bum and he let out a particularly pathetic cry. John glanced over his shoulder at the sound. Mrs. Hudson had his wrist held fast to his back. His face was red and tear-streaked and she was patting his shoulder and murmuring at him. John turned back around.
"Hush, dear." He heard. "A few more. You've bloody earned this."
Sherlock wailed a little in response and wriggled his bound hand.
"If I let go of your hand, will you keep it to yourself?"
"Yes!"
"Good boy."
John listened to his continued struggles. He didn't have much choice. He supposed stealing the police car had been stupid. It would have made much more sense to allow the plainclothes officers to chase Milo. It had been lots of fun though, racing through traffic like that. It was always such fun when they were together and doing the silly thing, but the consequences were awful. Her methods were juvenile but simple and effective. He imagined the two of them together as boys, getting into trouble with the headmaster at school. The cane had been allowed when they were younger, and he knew they would have been in the head's office every week for some infraction or another. He had a weird pang of nostalgia, like they'd missed an opportunity by not having been friends as boys. It was silly though. It's not like the option had been there. They were mates now and that was good enough.
He touched his bottom again. The pain was lessening down from a blazing firestorm to a boiling simmer. He rested both hands on his cheeks and leaned his forehead against the wall. His cool hands heated up fast.
Sherlock's shouts of pain had devolved into muffled shrieks. John deduced he'd stuck his face in a pillow. He sympathized entirely.
Finally the terrible smacking sounds halted. She shushed him and patted his back, murmuring things John couldn't hear. He heard shifting and rustling and risked a glance back. They were both standing. Sherlock was wiping his sodden face and Mrs. Hudson was rubbing his shoulder, hushing him. She pulled him into a hug and he clung to her, sniffling. John looked away. He felt like he was intruding.
"There we are, dear." She said into Sherlock's lapel. "Another sore bum for you. I know it hurts. I know you wish I wasn't so harsh. You earned it though….hush now." She stepped back and he rubbed his eyes. "I'll get some tissues and water for you, okay?" She set the brush on the coffee table and strode into the kitchen, returning with two glasses of water.
"There we are. Drink up." She passed one carefully to Sherlock and brought the other to John. He took it eagerly. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until just now. He drank half of it before taking a breath.
"Sherlock, you stand here…" She guided him to the other wall and they both stood there, trousers at knees and backsides crimson. "I want you two to think about things for a bit." She said to their backs. "Think about why it was a bad idea to steal the police car and why it's a bad idea to fire a gun in traffic. When I come back, I want good answers." She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. They were good boys, they really were. She hated the spankings as much as they did but at this point she was certain they would miss them if she stopped. She was surprised they acquiesced each time‒especially John. He endured the punishments with a soldier's stoic manner. He accepted and rode it out, then hurried off to lick his wounds.
Sherlock was a bit more emotional about it all. He needed the hugs and pats afterward. He needed to know exactly when he was forgiven. He was the sort that would always be in need of a mother figure. These times they spent together, unpleasant as they were, brought them closer. And John, poor boy, he endured it alongside Sherlock because he didn't want to be excluded. Best friends through thin and thick.
She reached into a cabinet and found one of her tart pans. She set it on the counter and tied her apron on. She was hosting her book club meeting tomorrow and wanted to make an extra special dessert for her guests. Oh everyone always chipped in, food-wise. Almost everyone brought a dessert of some kind, or crisps and dip, something savory, a bottle of wine. She decided she was going to make a Bakewell tart for her club. She had enough ingredients for two tarts and today she would practice. The boys would help her bake this one. She'd work out the foibles and bugs, note up the recipe, and the two miscreants could take it upstairs to munch on as they mulled over their poor backsides.
Speaking of which, they weren't done. She really had to hammer the message home. She went back into the sitting room and picked up the brush. "Come here, you two."
They simultaneously turned around. Their watery gazes zeroed in on the brush.
"Are we done?" Sherlock asked.
"Almost." She promised.
"Wha‒more smacks?!" John's voice was high with incredulity.
"Yes and you both deserve it!" She said firmly. "I didn't go as long over my knee because we had round two coming up."
"Oh God." John whispered, horrified.
"Now bend over this sofa." She pointed at the sofa. Both men exchanged a glance and wearily shuffled over, placing their empty drink glasses on the table. "Good boys." She said. "Now, we're going to have a little conversation and I want to make sure you're entirely focused on it." She stepped back and they each, very gingerly, lowered down over the back of the sofa. She flipped their shirt tails up, baring each very red bottom. "I'm going to ask you some questions and if I don't hear an answer I like, you're both getting a smack. Understand?"
Sherlock said, "yes." John nodded emphatically.
"Alright." She said. "Tell me why stealing police cars is a bad idea."
They both started talking at once, verbally tumbling over each other in an effort to not get a spank.
"Wait!" She called. They went silent. Goodness, they really were so obedient right now. How refreshing.
"John, why is it a bad idea to steal police cars?"
"Because they're police cars!" He blurted.
"Answer me without the cheek, young man." She commanded.
"I'm not being‒I mean, it's wrong to steal any car‒or anything! But a police car is really bad because it's a police car. I mean, what if the officer needed it?"
"Very good. What if the officer needed it, indeed? Was the police officer likely to need his police car, Sherlock?"
"Yes." He answered.
"Whose idea was it to steal the car?" She asked.
A pause.
"Mine." Sherlock said. She placed her hand on his back and landed a smart smack on his right cheek. "Ow!" He yelped. She rested fingers on John's back and gave him a matching smack. He flinched, but stayed quiet.
"What was wrong with that answer?" Sherlock asked.
"There was nothing wrong with it. I'm only spanking you for answers I don't like, dears. Not for answers that are wrong. I certainly don't like that you stole a vehicle. Did it occur to either of you to just let the officers handle it?"
Two answers of "no" floated up.
"Exactly." She said. She rested her hand on Sherlock's back and gave him a smart smack.
"Ow!" Sherlock squeaked. She moved to John's side, put her hand on his back, and swatted his across the center of his bum. He grunted in his throat and stomped a foot on the carpet.
"John, did you fire the gun?"
"Yes." He said. He braced himself. She raised her arm and landed another swat on each behind. She wasn't hitting them as hard as she had earlier. Their poor bums were so sore looking. The horror of enduring a second round with the brush was just a reinforcement.
John glanced at Sherlock and murmured, "are you okay?"
Sherlock's curly-haired head nodded.
"Why is it bad to fire a gun in traffic?" She asked.
John glanced back over his shoulder. "Because I could have hit something other than Milo's fuel tank."
"True," she said. "You could have hit a person or another car."
"Yes," John nodded. "It was stupid. It worked, but it was stupid."
They both braced themselves, clearly expecting another whack each. She let it slide. They were almost done.
"Why did you drive over the spike strip?" She asked, genuinely curious.
"I couldn't stop in time." Sherlock admitted.
"Why couldn't you stop in time?"
"Because we were going too fast." John said.
"Very good. You were speeding. You were speeding in the vehicle you stole. Boys, not only could you have hurt someone else, you could have hurt yourselves! My word, racing through traffic, firing guns?! What if you lost control of the vehicle? What if someone drove into you? I care about you both too much to even contemplate what could happen!"
They each tensed up and she shook her head, biting back a smile. They were really such good boys, despite the red-arsed evidence to the contrary. Time to wrap this up.
Each of the four cheeks in front of her got another firm swat. There, she decided. Enough. She came around to their front, examining the brush. It had turned out to be a nice little tool that packed a lot of sting. Definitely it was something she'd consider using again. They both looked up, eyes red and contrite.
"This might be a silly question," she said, slipping the brush back into her apron, "but are we ever going to do this again, boys?"
There was silence for a moment and then a very honest "probably" escaped Sherlock's mouth. Mrs. Hudson burst out laughing. John smiled.
"Oh I think you're right about that. Alright, you two, up. Fix your clothes, wash your hands, and come into the kitchen."
She headed off and both men stood up, knees shaky.
"That was bloody awful." John muttered.
"Yes." Sherlock said. They pulled up their clothes carefully, wincing at the rub of fabric. They each hobbled into the loo, jostling at the sink to wash their hands. They splashed some water on their faces while they were in there, just to wash the tears away. They crept towards the kitchen, hovering in the doorway.
"Is that it?" John asked in a rough voice.
"Don't slink off just yet." She said. "I have work for you. That was a tough spanking and I want you both to help me with this."
"What?" Sherlock asked tentatively. He rubbed his bum.
"You two are going to help me bake a lovely tart which you are then going to take up upstairs to consume as your leisure."
"No more spanking?" John asked.
"No, dears, that's done. Come give us a hug and we'll get started."
They each crept into the room not unlike nervous little boys who, well, just had a solid spanking. She pulled John into a hug. "That was very brave." She said in his ear. "You took that smacking so very wonderfully and I'm proud of you."
He nodded stiffly. "Thank you. It was…difficult."
She'd noticed he had a harder time today than he'd had in the past. She wasn't sure why. She'd keep an eye on him as they baked.
"Good. Go in the fridge, dear, and get the raspberries, butter, and an egg."
"Okay." He said. He moved away from her and went to the fridge that had the warped, slightly melty door from the adventure with the acid. She opened her arms to hug Sherlock. He hugged her hard. She cooed and rubbed her hand up and down his back. She would give him as much affection and proximity as he needed. He pulled back after a moment, looking soft and subdued.
"Go on and get the flour and sugar out, would you, dear?" She kept her tone kind, lest he think she was still upset.
"Yes." He nodded and went to the cabinet. She added water to the kettle and turned it on before instructing John on how to mash the raspberries and add them and the sugar into a pot for the jam filling. He put the pot on the stove top and turned on the heat. "Keep stirring or it'll get burned," she instructed. "Turn the heat down after a few minutes and let it simmer."
They each made cups of tea and sipped as they worked. Mrs. Hudson made the dough and she showed them both how to roll it, going in different directions to make sure it was even all around. "This isn't as hard as I'd thought." John mentioned. "Dough always seems so fiddly but this isn't bad."
"No." she said. "It's not. Yeast intimidates people too but even that's not too difficult to work with. Roll it out to the correct thickness‒as thick as a pound coin about….Good." She watched John roll. "Here, Sherlock, you take a turn." They switched places. John put a hand on his bum. Still sore but it was fading. Now it was more of a warm glow, hot and simmering like the cooking jam.
"This man you were chasing, what did he do?" She asked. Sherlock launched into the case specifics, talking about Ashton and Blite's fingers and the addictive steroids. John filled in here and there as they finished the tart. Sherlock was getting bored with the baking and John was willing to pipe the filling inside the tart.
She put a tube of digestives out as the tart baked and they both pounced on it. The biscuits disappeared in minutes. John volunteered to wash up and she got to tidying up the flat in anticipation of her guests tomorrow. The tart finished baking and Sherlock took it out of the oven and set it aside to cool. After that, they each took a turn spooning the icing on top. John piped the pink lines across and she showed them how to feather it.
"There you are, boys." She said. They all stared at the white and pink disk baked in a gold brown crust. "A lovely tart for you both."
"Have some." John said. He cut a quarter of it out and slid it on a plate. She tasted it, chewing thoughtfully. "Oh but that's tasty. It'll be lovely for tomorrow."
The boys went back to B with the rest of the tart covered in plastic wrap. John set it on the kitchen table and Sherlock flopped on the sofa with a groan. "Oh my arse! John, it hurts! Make it stop!"
"Awful, wasn't it?" John said. It had been one of the more unpleasant spankings, that was for sure. That she had this damned brush at her disposal now was bad news indeed.
"I'll dig up the aloe." He promised. John went to his work bag up in his bedroom and retrieved the tube of cream. He kicked his trousers and pants off and slathered his aching backside. He sighed as the lingering high temperature of his skin dropped a few more degrees. It felt heavenly. He stood there for a few moments, savoring the feel of the cream working its magic.
Eventually he pulled sweatpants on‒something soft for his tender bum‒and changed out of his sweat-dampened shirt. He slipped an old and soft Tshirt on and went downstairs to offer the cooling cream to Sherlock. He grabbed it and dropped trou right in the sitting room, groaning as he rubbed it across his arse. John didn't care that he was half naked in the sitting room. He walked around in just a sheet at least twice a month and they'd seen each other's bums loads of times by now.
The doorbell rang. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance.
"Expecting anyone?" Sherlock asked. He pulled his clothes back on and shuffled to the window. "Lestrade." He said, peering out.
"I'll see what he wants." John said. He hobbled down the steps and forced himself to straighten up as he approached the door. He didn't want to make what had happened obvious. Greg was already seriously suspecting they got smacked, why encourage him to believe it? He opened the door.
"Greg!" He said brightly. "Don't tell me there's another case already?" John stepped aside and Lestrade walked into the foyer, laughing at John's suggestion.
"No, no. I just came to drop this off." He reached into his coat and passed over John's gun.
"Oh!" He said, surprised. He took it and turned it over in his hands. "I thought this was gone forever."
"Nah." Greg said. "It's handy having you two armed. I feel better about all the dangerous things you both do, knowing at least one of you knows how to defend yourselves."
"Cheers." John said.
"And you weren't wrong about the list of people who'd like to see the end of Sherlock. His brother talked to me and it didn't take much to convince me to give it back."
"Thanks, Greg. I appreciate it. Hey, what happened with Milo?"
"He killed Blite and Ashton. Chopped the fingers off as a token. Real nutter, that guy."
John nodded, somber.
Mrs. Hudson popped her head out A's door, curious to see who had arrived.
"Officer Lestrade!" She said, welcoming and warm. "So lovely to see you again‒what brings you here?"
"Oh, just doing some case work." Greg said, smiling and giving her a little wave. "How are you?"
"I'm just fine, just fine dear. Do you want some tea? Something to eat?"
"No, no thanks." He shook his head. "I'd best be off."
"Well then, don't be a stranger! Ta-ta!" She fluttered a tea towel at him and disappeared back in her flat.
Greg was quiet for a moment. "Did she…" He shuffled his feet, awkward, and hesitantly made eye contact. "Did she, you know. Hit you both?"
"She wasn't pleased by what happened." John said in a clipped tone. He left it at that and though Greg was curious, he didn't press. He bid farewell to John and turned to leave the flat. At the door, he glanced back and noticed John making his way up the steps with a stiff gait. The gun was shoved into a pocket. When he rounded the corner on the landing, he reached back and clearly rubbed his bum. Greg's brows went up and let himself out. She'd whacked them both! He couldn't believe it. Little Mrs. Hudson had, what, had she actually taken them over her knee and spanked them?! He got in his car, trying to imagine not only her giving them what for, but both men allowing it. Why on earth…? He wondered suddenly if it was a sex thing. Did they…together? He shook his head. Nope, not going there. Definitely not going to let that thought complete itself. He pulled out into traffic, shaking his head. It was none of his business and he was content to remain morbidly curious for now.
In the kitchen, John, oblivious to Greg's musing, cut a piece of the tart. He wasn't about to tell Greg anything. He liked Greg's company and considered the man a friend, but there were some things that just didn't need to be known. Greg didn't need to know that Mrs. Hudson ran 221 with a strict hand. If he knew she'd smacked them, he'd probably get the wrong idea anyway. This wasn't an easy arrangement to explain. He took a bite of the tart. It was delightful and creamy. The almonds gave it a nice crunch and the jam was sweet and gooey.
Sherlock appeared, his clothes back in place.
"What did he want?" He asked, eying the tart.
"Brought this back." John held up the gun and set it on the table.
"Oh excellent." Sherlock said, delighted. He cut himself a slice of tart and they both stood in silence, chewing. It was delicious.
"That brush is bloody awful." Sherlock muttered.
"Yes. We should drop it in the acid."
They both laughed nervously. The little vat of super acid was still under the sink in cabinet. She had spanked them for ruining the floor and her fridge. As far as she was aware, the acid was gone and disposed of. Neither of them wanted to contemplate what would happen if she found out they still had it.
"Oh bloody hell," John said with a laugh.
"What?"
"The bet. The ten quid? We both lost. I don't either of us could have anticipated the 'hairbrush from hell.'"
Sherlock laughed. "We'll put it towards dinner."
"Sounds good." John yawned and put his dish in the sink. "I'm exhausted. If I'm not back down in two hours, can you come up and wake me?"
"Sure." Sherlock said. He watched John disappear up the steps. A nap sounded like an excellent idea. He abandoned the dish and went into his bedroom, dropping face first onto the blankets. He rested his hand on his bum and decided before he fell asleep that he would think twice before stealing a police car next time.
Maybe.
The End