Title: The Floor Below
Fandom: Sherlock
Challenge: Fast or Slow
Rating: PG
Length: 1239
Summary: Mrs Hudson overhears John and Sherlock from downstairs.
A/N: Humour.  Implied sexual scenes, but no actual sexual scenes.

“Faster, John, yes!”

Martha raised her eyes to the ceiling at the rhythmic thudding, checking that it was still intact.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh!”

After the steel reinforcing she’d had put into her ceilings—which had saved the floor above from collapsing under an actual grenade explosion—the place could certainly stand up to a bit of enthusiastic sex.

“Yes! No, that's not good enough, slow down... slow... get it in the right spot...”

Although it probably depended on how enthusiastic. The pace had slowed, but the thuds grew even heavier.  It was a lucky thing Rosie was in daycare today, really. Or perhaps that was the reason they’d finally decided to cut loose.

“Uh... uh....”

And the rhythmic grunting had been going on for five minutes now. Really, Martha had to admire the man’s stamina, even if it seemed likely his technique seemed some work, given the amount of direction Sherlock was having to give him. Probably just out of practice, she supposed.

“That’s it, John! Right there!  Right there!  Faster, John, faster!”

"Uh, uh, uh—"

Hastily, Martha jammed her headphones on and cranked Iron Maiden up to full. There were some things a landlady didn’t need to hear from her tenants

Ten minutes later, she was just putting the vacuum cleaner away when she heard a knock closely followed by John calling out, “Hullo, Mrs H?”

“Yes, dear?” called Martha, approaching the entryway warily—to find John looking sweaty and flushed but fortunately fully dressed.

“Anything you need at the shops?” he asked. “I’m just out to get more supplies, because I broke the… actually, you don’t want to know.”

“I’m sure I can guess,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “I am glad to hear the two of you are doing your best to be safe, though.”

“Safe?” asked John, baffled.

“What with you getting married and him taking all those drugs: you’ve got to get your blood tests and so on all sorted out before you do without. Pick me up some milk while you’re at the shops, will you? Sherlock’s been at mine again, I had two full litres yesterday. Heaven knows what he does with it!”

John flushed bright red, his eyes going distant for a moment as he apparently realised she’d been able to hear little encounter. Goodness, it was as though they thought she was deaf as a post.

“No, Mrs H,” he said, giving a nervous little laugh and running his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you think you heard just now, but Sherlock got a bit excited and started thumping the wall to make me go faster while I was…”

“Heavens!” She held up her hands to stop him. “I don’t want the details! At my age!”

Although if he did push to tell her anything juicy she was hardly going to complain. Next time Marie started getting uppity about her married ones, it would be nice to have something more than innuendo to drop into the conversation to make her shut up.

“I’m not gay!” John protested. “It was just an experiment!”

“Of course, dear,” she said, patting his hand. “Just a one off.”

So they were still in the closet then. What a shame. She had hoped that the whole shock to the system of the previous four years—and a baby to boot—would have put a stop to John’s ridiculous insistence on maintaining a facade of heterosexuality.

“Sherlock’s got a case on,” blustered John. “And my aim’s not bad, so he wanted me to—”

“And you do like to keep him happy, don’t you?” she soothed. “He’s such a demanding sort. Don’t you worry your head; at that volume, it was clear to us all exactly what he wanted from you.”

Poor Sherlock. It had been such a strain on him, putting up with John’s seemingly endless string of beards. When he’d shaved off the actual moustache for Sherlock on his return, Martha had been quite encouraged, in a metaphorical sense… but apparently it wasn’t to be.

Well, about all she could do was keep being as accepting as she could, and perhaps one day they would finally trust her with the truth that anyone with eyes could see.

Or more to the point now, that anyone with ears could hear.

“Still, John,” she pushed on. “I’m ever so glad that you’ve patched it all up, but now that the two of you are back together, I *would *prefer that you kept things to the upstairs bedroom, hmmm?”

It wasn’t so much for Martha’s sake, but Marie was only next door, and she could be such a busy-body. Not nearly as open-minded about her tenants as one might think.

“Mrs Hudson!” John’s mouth opened and closed for a moment like a fish, then his shoulders slumped at the idea of having to confine their activities so, and he nodded. “Fine,” he sighed. “We’ll try to keep it down. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, it’s no bother at all!” she hastened to reassure him. “I’m happy for you both, honestly, I am! Sherlock’s been so lonely without you, and I’ve always known you were perfect for each other.”

John opened his mouth, closed it, then gave her a tight smile, and headed out the door.

When he came back to deliver a new carton of milk some half an hour later, his jaw was set.

“Mrs H,” he said, standing stiff-backed in her doorway with a bag of shopping in each hand. “I wanted to explain what you heard earlier, and I’d really rather you didn’t interrupt me until I’m finished.”

“Of course,” said Martha. “You know I’ll always listen if you need me.”

“No, Mrs Hudson!” snapped John, making her gasp, and then he looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, before refocussing on her face and speaking very calmly. “Sherlock and I have never been a couple. We’ve got a—”

“John!” Sherlock burst through the upper door and clattered down the stairs in a whirlwind of excitement. “You’re back! Don’t bother with your coat, we’re going out.”

John shot Martha an agonised glance.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said kindly. “I’ve already worked out what you wanted to tell me, and I’m honoured to be in your confidence at last.”

“—a case,” John ploughed on through gritted teeth, “where people are being poisoned by someone who throws—”

“Of course, go, go!” she said, flapping her hands at him.

“No time for chit-chat!” agreed Sherlock, already in his coat and knotting his scarf around his neck. “We’ve got a lead on the dartboard murderer—if we’re going to catch him before you’re due to pick up Rosie, we’re going to have to hurry….”

John’s eyes snapped from Martha to Sherlock, his feet already moving, his hands uncurling to release the bags of shopping that he’d forgotten even before they hit the ground.

Martha sighed fondly as she watched John so caught up in Sherlock's gravity again. On the ground by her door, the milk carton he’d promised her had tipped over onto its side but mercifully stayed intact.

It really was nice to see them back together again, the way they should be. And maybe tonight, when they came back from the case all indecently excited and wrapped up in one another, she might just be able to give Rosie her dinner and bath while her fathers reacquainted themselves.

She wasn’t their nanny, but just this once.

In the doorway, over the top of John's head, Sherlock turned and winked at her.