A/N: This fic is a sequel to my other fic, "The Experiment." Reading that first will make this one make more sense. Takes place after "The Hounds of Baskerville." SPOILERS for that ep. Fluffy and silly, hurt/comfort. Mild mention to ASiB too. Thanks to my lovely reader Iamthekoala for suggesting a sequel. :)

John raised a fist and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. Quiet footsteps sounded on the other side, then, "John—come in!" Mrs. Hudson was all smiles as she stepped aside and beckoned John forward.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock was at the morgue. John had a couple days off from the surgery. Things were finally quiet and John was relieved for the time off. Since Baskerville he hadn't been sleeping very well. Old nightmares of crouching in a sandy ditch with his platoon as enemy soldiers prowled the desert had been dredged up from the muddy bottom of his subconscious. Being locked in the lab, terrified in the dark and fearing a mutant monster dog that hadn't even existed had churned up that mud. John had the dark patches under his eyes to prove it.

He was using the time off of cases and doctoring to fall back on a not unpleasant pastime: watching crap telly with Mrs. Hudson.

"I baked some scones earlier—they've just come out of the oven!" She called, walking towards her kitchen. John appreciated the kindness, but sighed inwardly. He was going to have trouble getting up the stairs if she kept foisting baked goods on him. John walked into the kitchen and she put a cup of coffee with milk in his hand. "Go sit down, I'll bring the scones in."

John sat on her small sofa in front of the television, watching the opening credits of the game show. He sipped his perfectly made coffee (she really was an amazing landlord) and stifled a yawn. The flat was warm and cozy and smelled of sweet cooked sugar. John thought of the lack of sleep he'd been getting and how warm and soft her sofa was…

"Here we are!" She put a plate of raisin, orange and cranberry scones on the low table in front of him along with a stack of napkins. John took one and bit into it, closing his eyes in pleasure as the scone crumbled and melted in his mouth, the citrus zinging his tastebuds and the fat raisins bursting sweet on his tongue. "God you're an amazing baker."

"Oh-ho you." She gently hit his arm and blushed.

John yawned again, attempting to cover his mouth proprietarily with his mug. The audience laughed and cheered on the show.

"Feeling better?" She asked, noting his sleepiness. She reached over and rested a hand on his forehead in a concerned motherly gesture and John smirked.

"Yes, the cold is mostly gone."

"You look a bit peaky, dear, that's all." She pulled away, satisfied that his fever hadn't returned.

"I haven't been sleeping too well."

"Oh no, why not? Is it the pipes? These old buildings. I was talking to Mrs. Turner next door to see if there's anything to do about old, rusty loud hot water pipes, but short of replacing all of them, there's really nothing to be done. Do you know much it costs to replace old pipes? I nearly had a coronary—"

"—It's not the pipes." John cut in. He took another big bite of the scone.

"Don't tell me Sherlock's poisoned your tea again."

John was surprised at the amount of vehemence in her voice. He was a bit surprised she even remembered that Sherlock's stupid experiments had led him to vomit (ill lab mice, honestly). Normally she was very sympathetic towards the tall dark detective but lately he had noticed a difference in attitudes between them. Sherlock had been more respectful around her lately, even apologizing for tracking mud onto the stairs. John wondered what had happened to provoke that.

"No, no, not the tea." He answered, waving her off. A buzzer sounded faintly on the television, to a chorus of groans from the audience. She watched him intently, silently prompting him to continue.

"I've…been having some nightmares again." He admitted.

"Oh…" She scooted closer to him.

"It's nothing—it's nothing—"

Her arm was around him in a side-hug and John smiled softly at her sweetness.

"If there's anything I can do…"

"You're doing it." John murmured. The audience on the telly collectively "awww"ed for some reason and John rolled his eyes at the timing.

"Have they been troubling you for a long time?"

"Well, they haven't really bothered me in a while. I haven't woken up from them in ages."

"Did being sick make them worse?" She asked, concerned.

"No…" John hesitated, not really wanting to tell her about Baskerville and how they broke into that facility and how Sherlock had bloody humiliated him in the lab. "There was just…some things happened to Sherlock and I that made me think of things I'd forgotten." He said vaguely. "That's all."

"Were these things Sherlock's fault?" She asked, a knowing tone in her voice. How did she…?

"Ah, maybe."

Mrs. Hudson released him from her hug.

"What did he do, love?" There was that tone again, the one that had an edge of vehemence behind it. The one that John's mother had used when she was sussing out whether or not he'd been fighting with the other boys at school. John suddenly felt ten years old again and that he was being forced to tattle to the teacher.

John briefly outlined in as little detail as possible what had happened in the lab, foregoing the less than legal nature of the whole excursion.

"It wasn't all that bad really," John was saying at the end. "It was for the case, so it was necessary. And I wasn't in there for long…"

"Well, I think it was rotten of him. Scaring you like that! You're his flatmate and his friend."

John thought of what Sherlock had said in the graveyard. "I don't have friends. I only have one."

"It's alright." John said. "He regretted it and now it's over. The nightmares will go away." John faced the television again and Mrs. Hudson took the hint and stopped asking questions. Somehow though, John didn't think this conversation was over.

Sherlock strode up the pavement towards 221B a few days later in high spirits. Molly was going to be getting a new shipment of corpses in tomorrow. Excellent. He'd complimented her hair and told her that her nails looked pretty (it had been a ghastly shade of orange-pink, but he hadn't dared said what he really thought) and she had promised him first crack at the bodies. Possible experiments swirled in his head as he pushed into 221B to check on some supplies. He wanted to be prepared for tomorrow.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice called. Her flat door was open. That was unusual. Sherlock poked his head in her door and didn't see anything. "Mrs. Hudson?" He said, stepping into the sitting room, "are you alright?" If there were more American CIA agents holding her hostage, so help him…

"Fine, love, shut the door."

Sherlock pushed it closed with his foot and went into the kitchen where her voice was coming from, curious. She was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea quietly.

"Yes?" He asked.

She nodded to the chair across from her and Sherlock stiffened. Uh-oh. This whole thing had an air of entrapment about it and Sherlock had a sudden sensation of being called to the headmaster's office as a boy when he was at boarding school. His stomach fluttered with nostalgia-born nerves. He sat though and looked at her with suspicion.

"Any new cases?" She asked conversationally.

"Nothing interesting." He said.

"Where was it you and John went away to…west somewhere?"

"Dartmoor." Sherlock said slowly.

"Ah yes, you helped that poor young man whose father was killed."

"Henry Knight, yes." Sherlock was sitting ramrod straight.

"And how long did you lock John in that lab for?"

Sherlock relaxed slightly, then made a vow to kill John in his sleep for his loose tongue.

"It was part of an experim—"

"Sherlock." Her voice was like a sharp clap, silencing him. Sherlock felt his backside throb in a foreboding way and he sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson..."

"John is your friend, Sherlock. You know that he has PTSD, why would you do something like that to him?"

"I didn't think he'd be so acutely affected."

"Do you know he hasn't been sleeping?"

Sherlock had noticed John's tiredness as of late, obviously, but he hadn't made the connection between that and the lab. He did feel a little bit bad about it, but dammit, he needed to know if it was the sugar…

"Alright." He said, raising a hand to try and placate the storm he could feel brewing in her. "I'll apologize to him."

She slammed her teacup down and he jumped. "You haven't apologized yet!?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. "I…"

"Get up." She ordered.

A twirl of panic curled through Sherlock's chest. He had no desire whatsoever to get reacquainted with that spoon.

"Mrs. Hudson…"

Her glare brought him to his feet and she stood as well, walking over to a drawer near her sink.

"Take off your coat." She said casually. Sherlock watched, pained, as she opened the drawer and pulled out the fucking long-handled wooden spoon. She held it menacingly and made eye contact, holding it with his, giving Sherlock a moment to refuse. They both knew that if Sherlock genuinely had a problem with what was coming, then she wouldn't pursue it. She was his landlord after all, and her taking a spoon to a tenant's backside was not in the contract agreement.

"You deserve it." She said quietly. Sherlock made a face and took his coat moodily off, draping is over the chair he'd just vacated. "And I'd get that look off my face if I were you." She said in a stronger voice. "Unless you want extra." She strode forward, reaching up to grasp his ear in her fingers before dragging him towards the sofa.

"Ow, ow…" he followed, not really having a choice. She sat down on the edge of the firm cushion, bringing him down with her, and neatly deposited him over her lap, one arm curled around his hips, holding him surprisingly firmly in place. Sherlock wondered briefly how she was able to so expertly position him before he remembered that she'd raised four sons. Damn. No doubt they'd all experienced this exact some feeling at some point. He was at the mercy of an expert.

The rounded head of the spoon started popping across his cheeks at a rapid-fire pace. Sherlock growled in his throat, squirming and curling his hands into fists.

"No wriggling." She smacked the spoon into his thigh and he yelped. She continued the assault on his (thankfully clothed) arse.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He growled. The stinging was building quickly into an intense burn all over his arse and a sweat was starting to break on his neck. She paused and Sherlock let out a breath, hoping she was finished. She adjusted her hand on his waist and to his dismay, the long thin wooden handle of the spoon started getting repeatedly whipped up against his upper thighs and bottom half of his arse.

"Ow!" He squeaked, indignant and surprised. "Mrs. Hudson!" He growled again. He gripped the sofa with one hand and was horrified to feel tears at the back of his eyes. She was not going to make him cry, dammit, she was his landlady!

"You deserve every single one of these spanks, Sherlock." She said, not sounding even remotely apologetic. She'd found a rhythm, and his sensitive arse was soon peppered with the long burning lines of the handle. "John is terrified and traumatized and he's trying to act like everything's fine because he's your friend." She landed three particularly hard thwacks on his thighs and he yelped.

"I'm sorry!"

"I don't need to hear your apology!" She scolded. "I can't believe you didn't apologize to him yet!"

With these words, she stopped the spanking and Sherlock hung over her knees, breathing hard and feeling extremely chastened.

"You say you're sorry to John." She tapped his lower back as she spoke and Sherlock nodded frantically.

"Yes, of course. An apology. I owe him that."

"Yes you do." She said gently. "Come on…" She helped him up and he stood, wiping the wetness out his eyes and rubbing his behind.

"Oh…" she reached up to sympathetically cradle his teary face and then handed him a tissue. "Hurts?" She asked in a soft voice.

"Yes." He rubbed his eyes.

"Good." She said, patting his arm. "If you do something like that ever again to John, expect to be back here—without the luxury of your trousers and pants!"

His eyes widened and he froze, mid-rub, and made a mental note, plastering it in big letters to the wall of his palace: do not fuck with Mrs. Hudson.

She went into the kitchen and he followed meekly, one hand surreptitiously still rubbing his arse. That had stung like hell! He grabbed his coat and pulled it back on, then turned for the door—

"Oh come here." She said. "No need to slink out."

Sherlock turned and a large chocolate raisin biscuit was put in his hand. He liked these. She knew he did. To his surprise, she pulled him into a hug.

"I care about you Sherlock, you and John both. Be good to each other, alright?"

He nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'll apologize to him."

"Good boy." She gave his backside a light pat and he raised a brow at her. She laughed. He smirked and then went upstairs.

"John." Sherlock said, bursting though the door. John looked up from his laptop, where he was editing the blog entry for Baskerville. Sherlock hung up his coat on the door. "I…" He swallowed and tried again. "I…am s-sorry about Baskerville. I should not have locked you in that lab and I…have felt—seen, the error of my ways." He looked at John, nodded once, and continued to the kitchen. John blinked after him, then turned back to his blog. He wasn't sure what had prompted that, but it was welcome. John smiled, knowing now that he'd sleep a bit easier tonight.

End.

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