Work Text:
To begin with, Mrs. Hudson was not at Baker Street.
Despite Sherlock’s assertion that her leaving would topple London and civilization as they knew it, she did occasionally leave the premises. (“I do have a life, dear,” she’d said gently when he voiced dismay at seeing her luggage. “Mind your experiments now, and don’t burn the place to the ground while I’m gone.”) John took this as proof that Sherlock was sometimes fallible and, when he felt the need, given to dramatic exaggeration; Sherlock insisted he was still right since Mrs. Hudson had not applied for a change of address and was, most importantly, going to come back. His theory had simply not been tested to destruction.
This time, Mrs. Hudson had gone with a gaggle of friends to support Mrs. Turner in a pie-making contest. (“It’s a different skill set,” she’d told John when he’d asked why she wasn’t entering herself. “There’s a reason you haven’t had my hot water crust pastry. Besides, this is Mrs. Turner’s thing—it wouldn’t do to be a dick.”) They had decided to make a weekend of it, hence Mrs. Hudson’s little wheeled suitcase, which was a sensible but distinctive hunter’s green.
This meant that when John and Sherlock stumbled back into baker street late Sunday night, there were no comforting signs of life coming from 221A. So they felt none of the usual compunction to be silent as they careened through the front door and to the stairs, laughing and kissing between the laughter.
“I almost feel sorry for the poor sods,” said John. “The looks on their faces when Hopkins showed up—to hear them go on, they thought they were reenacting The Thomas Crown Affair.”
“The what?” Sherlock asked, barely lifting his lips from John’s neck.
“Thomas Crown Affair. It’s a film. Not surprised you don’t know it--”
“Unimportant,” agreed Sherlock, who clearly thought that nudging his cold nose against John’s Adam’s apple was much more pressing business.
“It’s got one of the Bond actors in it. Y’know, Pierce Brosnan?”
“Mph.” That translated to Why would that matter?
“And there’s this rather fantastic sex scene on the stairs—”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm. Nicer stairs than these and less steep, if I remember right. But I can’t help noticing that these are stairs and Mrs. Hudson isn’t here for us to scandalize...”
“John, very little scandalizes Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock paused in the act of pulling John’s shirt front out of his trousers. “Are you suggesting that we have sex here?”
“Yes? I mean, you’re already trying to get me out of my clothes.”
“I was going to wait until at least the first floor landing, but if you insist.”
“I think I do and—”
And any visions John had of reenacting the only currently pertinent bit of The Thomas Crown Affair, now that the heist stuff was all done, were interrupted by a loud gurgle from Sherlock’s stomach. Then there was an answering gurgle from his own.
“Ah,” he said. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” said Sherlock.
Sadly, another side effect of Mrs. Hudson’s absence was the similar absence of a cold supper waiting for them upstairs, in spite of John’s vague hopes for the miraculous appearance of a pair of ham sandwiches.
“I thought we still had some of that curry,” he said as he searched for more mundane fare in the garden of earthly delights that was their fridge. Sherlock had gotten better at using airtight plastic containers, appropriately labeled, but it still didn’t do to look too closely at the contents. Or the labels.
“I ate it.” Sherlock was going through the cupboards. “Yesterday. Got hungry.”
John nodded. Sherlock ate so irregularly that he would never begrudge him the leftovers. Damned if he wasn’t hungry now, though.
“We could always order more?” suggested Sherlock hopefully.
“Sherlock.” Every now and then, John caught a glimpse of the London Sherlock lived in, where cabs came when you called and good takeaway was always available, and marveled that they lived in the same space. “At this time of night, we have a choice between awful burgers and that curry that ripped up your guts for 24 hours. Unless that Chinese place...?”
Sherlock shook his head. “They’re on their annual vacation, won’t be back until the first week of March.” He held up a tin. “I’ve found some beans.”
“And I’ve got half a sausage. We really need to do some shopping.” John cracked open the lid of the container and sniffed. “Yeah, that’s still all right. Do you remember how long we’ve had these eggs?”
“About a week. I’ve got a tin of mushrooms.” Sherlock turned it over. “It expires this month, but we both know that’s a more of a suggestion than an absolute deadline.”
“I’ll take that over this moldy bread.” John chucked the offending end of a loaf into the bin. “We’ve got the makings of breakfast then, just no toast.”
“Oats!” proclaimed Sherlock, holding up a packet that John hadn’t known they had. “We can have porridge.”
“Brilliant.” John made a face.
“Porridge is good for you, John. Fills you up. Besides,” Sherlock went on producing another jar from the cupboard, “we’ve got the honey to go with it. And just enough milk.”
“I can’t complain too much—at this point, I’ll eat a tea towel.” John extracted his finds from the fridge and gave Sherlock a pat on the bum on his way to the stove. “I’ll do the eggs, you do the porridge, and we can see about The Thomas Crown Affair once we’ve had breakfast, yeah?”