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The Disappearance Of Mrs. Hudson
John trudged up the stairs of 221b Baker Street. He stood in the gap at the door (it was slightly ajar) and looked in stealthily, then sighed inwardly to himself. Sherlock lay on the sofa, a dreamy look in his eyes, as still as a statue. That meant he was bored. That meant John was in for yet more suffering.
“Ah, John,” Sherlock acknowledged from the sofa. John took a deep breath before entering the room. A lecture was coming, he knew it. “How did you know? You saw my shadow? I smell of aniseed?” he asked tiredly, dropping into an armchair. Sherlock smiled. “No, nothing like that. The sun is too high and I strongly doubt you smell of aniseed. I would have kicked you out if you did. No, you occluded the breeze that was drifting in by standing at the door.” Sherlock looked triumphant, but John felt – as always – like punching him in the face. “Don’t worry,” Sherlock added, suppressing a smile, “a few hours at the gym – ”
“Me?! Go to the gym?! I’m not the one who sits around all day!” John interrupted, and with a dark look at the lazy detective, he stormed off to find Mrs. Hudson.
“Sherlock!” several moments later, John raced back into the lounge. As usual, Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle. “Sherlock!”
The detective raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock, it’s Mrs. Hudson – she’s missing! I’ve looked all over the flat for her, and she didn’t tell me she was going out! We have to find her! What if she’s in danger?”
When the detective simply opened up his laptop and didn’t reply, it was the last straw. “Fine!” John seethed, “I’ll find her myself! Who needs Sherlock, with his smug smile and massive intellect!” muttering to himself, he went out into the street again.
Three hours later, John returned, sweaty and exhausted. He’d searched all over London, and their landlady was nowhere to be found. Panting, he threw himself into a chair. “Didn’t find her?” Sherlock inquired casually, from his position curled up on the sofa. John didn’t grace the question with an answer. “Are you giving me the silent treatment?” his friend smiled knowingly. As he spoke, the door opened – and it was a good thing it did, too, for John was about to throw a book at Sherlock’s face. When John saw who was standing in the doorway, he gasped.
“Mrs. Hudson!” he cried, springing from the chair. She was dishevelled and out of breath. “Where did they take you? Was it Moriarty?”
“What are you talking about, dear?” she asked, surprised, “They took me to the local gym, like I asked – and as far as I know they aren’t called ‘Moriarty’ – but then again, I didn’t ask his name, you generally don’t ask your cab driver’s name.” John was speechless, and he could already hear Sherlock chuckling from the sofa. “But – ” he gasped, confused. Shrugging, Mrs. Hudson shuffled off.
“Well, well,” Sherlock laughed, “you never let me finish, John. As I was saying, don’t worry, a few hours at the gym and Mrs. Hudson will be home to fix you some lunch.”
John opened his mouth to speak, but promptly closed it again. Sherlock added observantly, “Perhaps you should join her next time, the way you were panting when you got back from your short search.” with that, he calmly returned to facing the wall. John picked up a book to throw it at Sherlock – something he’d been waiting to do for about ten minutes, when Mrs. Hudson’s voice resounded through the room, “Don’t do that, John! Save that for the gym, your lunch is getting cold.”