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John drags Sherlock out of bed as the air sirens wail out. “Shoes?” John yells at him. Sherlock shakes his head. “Goddamn it, put on your shoes,” John roars, and goes to fetch his gun from the drawer.
Sherlock and John thump down the stairs. Mrs Hudson stands at the bottom, clutching her shawl to her chest. Sherlock tugs Mrs Hudson along, John pushing ahead to lead their way through the panicked crowd as they approach the Baker Street Tube station.
“Come on, this way. Over here!” Everyone yells together; parents scream for children screaming right back. John reaches out behind him, and is reassured by the firm grip of Sherlock’s hand. They cling tight to each other (no one is watching them, they reassure themselves. Everyone is clinging to each other, it’s all right.) as they fight their way to an unoccupied section.
John asks, “You all right, Mrs H?” She nods, forcing herself to take deep breaths.
“A little worse for wear,” she says. “But I’ll be right as rain in the morning.” She smiles shakily. “At least they didn’t come earlier, when I was in the middle of my herbal soother. Now that would have been a right pain!” They all nod. Really, the Germans have no chance, not if this is Mrs Hudson’s reaction to the Blitz.