Work Text:
Mrs Hudson measures out flour and cinnamon, then cuts in the butter to form the dough. She knows the recipe by heart, has made it the last seven years for him. Sherlock never says thank you, but his eyes light up when she brings them. They’re always gone by morning.
The dough chills in the fridge while she starts the fudge. Sugar, cream, golden syrup, stir over medium heat. A new recipe, of course, but one she thinks John will like, and she checks the measurements carefully, and doesn’t realize she’s memorizing as she goes.
The fudge starts its slow crawl to soft ball, and she rolls out the chilled dough, starts forming the tiny pies with small mounds of mince and marzipan. They bake while she adds the butter and vanilla to the fudge, and sets it aside to cool.
She puts her feet up, closes her eyes, and listens to the sounds coming from upstairs. The scrape of a chair against the floor, the footsteps creaking across the boards. The hint of low voices, laughter, a word spoken too sharply, the tone of a bow across taut strings. She thinks they try to keep themselves quiet; Mrs Hudson wishes they wouldn’t. She likes the reminder that she’s not alone.
The timer dings. Set the pies to cool, beat the fudge into submission. She adds the cherries and beats some more, pours it into the prepared pan. While the fudge cools, she packages the pies in a basket with a neat bow, and after a bit, adds the fudge, cooled and cut and wrapped in paper.
She knocks on their door, but they don’t answer. She pushes it open, cautiously, and listens.
It’s quiet, at first, and then she hears the telltale thump, the squeak of the bedsprings, the moans caught in the back of a throat, and Mrs Hudson blushes bright pink. She leaves the basket on the table by the window before leaving as quickly as she can.
It’s only at the bottom of the stairs that she bursts into giggles. She does the washing up, cheeks pink, thinking fondly of her boys.