A Storm in a Teacup

John was a teapot. (Smallish, and a rather splendid sky blue.)

Sherlock had been a teapot (or possibly a coffeepot. It’s all fine). However, after an incident involving a Moriarty teapot, a collision with a kitchen floor and some painstaking (but non-hot-liquid-worthy) restoration work, he was embarking upon a second life as a vase.

Lestrade, conversely, had had a long career as a kettle.

Though at the moment he wasn’t sure if he was a kettle any more.





It was mid-morning and the three of them were standing on the kitchen counter in 221 Baker Street.

“I was perfectly all right last night,” Lestrade was explaining to John. “Then this morning Mrs Hudson flips the switch, and nothing happens. Not a clue what’s wrong. I think… Well, Mrs Hudson is probably going to retire me.”

“Surely she’ll get you repaired,” said John.

“I’m well out of guarantee,” said Lestrade. “Probably cheaper just to get a replacement.”  

John glanced at Sherlock. The ex-teapot was apparently not listening to them, watching Mrs Hudson and her neighbour Mrs Turner instead. But there was a faint quiver to his tulips. Sherlock and Lestrade did work very well together.

“All I can do now is wait,” said Lestrade gloomily.

He and John turned their attention to the two ladies chatting at the kitchen table.





Mrs Hudson had boiled up some water in a saucepan, and she and Mrs Turner were having tea.

For the tea itself, they were using Bill. He was the latest addition to Mrs Hudson’s extensive china collection and had only arrived the day before.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” declared Mrs Hudson, removing the tea cosy from the pot. “An Ormstein—from the Bohemian Kings range. Very expensive but worth it. Thought I’d never get the chance to own one.”

“It is lovely,” said Mrs Turner, studying the rather dramatic gold stripes. “Should we be using it though? What if it got damaged?”

“My pieces are here to be used, not just to be looked at,” said Mrs Hudson. “It was made to hold tea and that’s what it’ll do.” She got up. “Another cup? I can make a new pot.”

“Ooh yes, please,” said Mrs Turner. Mrs Hudson went to the cooker and lifted the lid of the pan. Satisfied that there was still enough water, she replaced the lid and switched on the ring.

“It’s such a shame about your kettle,” said Mrs Turner.

“I don’t know what’s going on there,” sighed Mrs Hudson. “Worked perfectly yesterday.”

“Are you getting a replacement?”

John gave Lestrade a sympathetic glance. The kettle was attempting to look stoic.

“Well, it is getting on a bit…” Mrs Hudson considered Lestrade thoughtfully. “But it’s such a good kettle. I’d be sad to lose it.”

“Would you like my daughter to have a go at mending it?” asked Mrs Turner. “She’s a whizz at this sort of thing. I’m sure she would if I asked her.”

“That’s very kind,” said Mrs Hudson. She shook her head. “Oh, but honestly, I couldn’t bother her.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Mrs Turner. “I’ll be the one bothering her. I’m her mother—I’m allowed to.”

Mrs Hudson looked thoughtful. “Well, perhaps you could just ask her to take a look…”

“Right,” smiled Mrs Turner. “I’ll have my cup of tea and then I’ll nip next door and phone her.”

“You’re welcome to use my landline if you want,” said Mrs Hudson, indicating the hallway.

“I would,” said Mrs Turner. “But there’s something I want to dig out at home.”





Mrs Hudson had just finished tidying up the tea things, placing Bill on the counter with Sherlock and John, when Mrs Turner came back carrying a cardboard box in her arms.

“Alice says she’d be delighted,” said Mrs Turner. “And I thought this might do for now.”

She put the box down on the kitchen table and lifted out an elegant stovetop kettle, along with its trivet.

“Oh, I haven’t used one of those in years—decades,” said Mrs Hudson with delight.

“Well, it’s not quite that old,” said Mrs Turner. “It’s had a few owners though. Think it came from America originally, but a friend passed it on to me.” She patted the handle. “To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I used it. You may as well have the benefit of it while yours is being fixed.”

Mrs Turner lifted Lestrade and his base off the counter and carefully packed him away into the box the other kettle had arrived in. Then Sherlock and John watched as she said goodbye to Mrs Hudson and took Lestrade away.

John gazed at Lestrade’s replacement, standing in the centre of the table. She was quite a beauty, it had to be said. And John wasn’t the only one captivated. Bill was openly staring, and an excited murmuring grew in the kitchen as all the teapots and teacups began to discuss the exotic new American kettle. Even Sherlock seemed to be experiencing curiosity.

“Well, we better see what you can do,” said Mrs Hudson. She filled the kettle and carried it to the cooker, switching the ring on once again. Almost complete silence fell in the kitchen—the inhabitants listening to the changing sounds of the heating water as it approached the boil.

The American kettle began to sing.

“She’s an Adler,” said Sherlock, not looking away for a moment.

“She is the Adler,” said Bill. “Irene.”

Sherlock and John turned to him.  

“We have… some history,” said Bill. “We met in Wigan, used to be very close. But I always knew I was made for better things, not just hanging around with third-hand Adler kettles.”

John looked at the Bohemian King with some distaste but Sherlock considered Bill calmly. “You’re not embarrassed to see her though; you’re… anxious.”

“Yes,” said Bill. He hesitated. “You’re the Consulting Detective, aren’t you? Maybe you’ll be able to help me.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, happily. “She has some kind of hold over you.”

“Just so,” said the embarrassed teapot. “I didn’t realise until after we’d parted but she has an adhesive sticker of mine. It gives details of my company, and the range to which I belong.”

“And you need it back,” said John. “To prove your provenance?”

“Not exactly…” said Bill. He looked down. “I would prefer it to be destroyed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s water sloshed in excitement. “Oh, of course! Because he isn’t actually a Bohemian King.” The Consulting Detective grinned. “Or indeed an Ormstein.”

John gasped.

“I’m not a fake!” said Bill, his gaze snapping up. “In fact, I’m a very fine, high quality copy. It’s all quite above board. But…”

“You think Mrs Hudson wouldn’t keep you if she knew,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Bill.

John was indignant. “Mrs Hudson isn’t like that. Sherlock’s a second and I’ve suffered wear and tear. She’s only interested in the piece itself, not its label.”

“But you two are actually a Holmes and a Watson,” said Bill. “I can’t take the risk.”

“Surely though,” said John, “the label could refer to any teapot out of hundreds. How could Mrs Hudson know for certain it had been yours?”

Bill twisted away.

“My personal identification number has been written in.”

Sherlock smiled. “It is a rather intriguing problem. It might just pass the time.”

Bill turned back. “So you will investigate?”  

“Why not,” said Sherlock.

“How will you find it?” asked John thoughtfully. “It can’t be on her person. She’s a kettle—it would either have been burnt or mulched by now.”

“You know,” said Sherlock. “I think I’ll get her to show me.”





“But first,” said Sherlock, “some reconnaissance work.”

He and John were standing on the kitchen table watching the Adler. They weren’t the only ones paying attention—apparently every teapot and teacup in Mrs Hudson’s collection was sighing in her direction.

Sherlock indicated the American kettle, who was currently resting on her trivet. “She isn’t interested in how many admirers she’s got. Observe how she’s gazing yearningly at that teapot in the cabinet—the Norton teapot Mrs Hudson got at auction last month.”

John looked over. The Norton was a little like a Watson in appearance but, instead of being sky blue, was cream and decorated with strawberries. “Oh, yes. Godfrey. Only spoken to him briefly but seems like a nice chap.”

“If we give them a little push towards each other, I think it may advance our faux-Ormstein’s case,” mused Sherlock.

“I hope you mean a metaphorical push,” said John.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, John—I mean a metaphorical push.” He smiled. “Well, in their case, at least. Time to add a splash of colour, I think.”

He abruptly knocked against the jam jar that was standing between him and his colleague, and with a little shriek, she tumbled against John.

The jam went everywhere.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock, his tulips resettling.

“Sherlock,” said John calmly, “is there a reason why I’m covered in strawberry jam?”

“Of course there is,” said Sherlock. “It’s because Mrs Hudson will want to make tea shortly.”

At that moment Mrs Hudson did indeed come back into the kitchen, to make herself a mid-afternoon cup of tea and some sandwiches.

“Now, how did that happen?” she said, hurrying over and examining poor John. “I’ll have to give you a thorough wash. But in the meantime…”

She went over to the cabinet and took out the Norton.

“Association of ideas, you see,” said Sherlock. “Mrs Hudson sees you covered in strawberry jam. She can’t use you but your condition makes her think of the pattern of her new purchase. She uses him to make tea: he and the Adler kettle are introduced. It’s genius really.”

There was a pause.

Sherlock looked at John, puzzled. “You aren’t telling me I’m brilliant.”

“No,” agreed John.

Sherlock gave him another bemused glance and then turned to watch the Norton and the Adler. They were both patently delighted to have been united.





Mrs Hudson was cleaning the kitchen. John had been thoroughly washed and Sherlock had been relieved of his wilting flowers, and then the two of them had been put on the counter out of the way, so she could wipe down the table. When she’d finished there, she lifted the two of them over to the kettle on its trivet, so she could wipe down the part of the counter they’d been standing on.

Sherlock gave John a significant look and took the opportunity to introduce himself to the Adler kettle. He used an assumed identity—it was highly probable of course that she’d heard of the Holmes (ex-)teapot, who was kitchenware’s only Consulting Detective.

“So you’re a vase,” said the Adler kettle.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock pleasantly.

“A Royal Worcester vase,” said the kettle.

“That’s right,” said Sherlock.

“I’ve never seen one with a spout before…” she said. “Bold choice.”

“Indeed it was. I can only applaud my manufacturers,” said Sherlock. “John, I think it might time for tea again. Just rattle your lid, would you?”

John clinked his lid slightly, and Mrs Hudson’s ears pricked up. She made straight for the American kettle.

“Mrs Hudson’s need to make tea when she sees or hears a teapot is wedged deep in her subconscious,” whispered Sherlock to John. “We’ve got her very well trained.”

Mrs Hudson thoughtfully weighed the kettle in her hand, judged there to be enough water inside, and put it on the hob.

“Now we wait,” said Sherlock.

After a few minutes, the Adler kettle came to the boil. Mrs Hudson took her off the heat, popped the teabags into John and filled him with boiling water.

She replaced the kettle on the trivet.

John was concentrating hard on brewing when Sherlock muttered: “Look there, at the stand.”

John stared. On one side of the trivet, a label was peeling away underneath.

He looked up again, and just for a moment he thought the kettle might have been watching him.





“So we know where it is,” said Sherlock to Bill. “The heat is causing it to become loose each time she rests upon the trivet. In the morning we will confront her with the tweezers who live in the far end drawer, and demand that they are allowed to recover the label.”

“This is wonderful news!” declared Bill. “Thank you so much. I knew that the great Consulting Detective wouldn’t let me down.”

There was a slight noise behind them, and Sherlock turned. A member of the kitchen was there, unrecognisable in the capacious, communal tea cosy.

“Good night, Mr Holmes,” said the swathed pot, and then it was lifted up and away by Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock stared at the empty space left behind.

“I wonder who that was,” he said.





“Drat,” said Sherlock, the following morning.

John looked out of the open door of their shared cupboard, 221B. “Oh, damn,” he agreed.

Mrs Turner had arrived early to drop off Lestrade and collect the Adler and the trivet. Lestrade was resting beaming on the table and the American kettle and her stand had already disappeared into Mrs Turner’s cardboard box.

“What do I owe your daughter?” said Mrs Hudson.

“Nothing at all,” said Mrs Turner. “I’ve said she can have the Adler kettle as a thank you. These stovetop kettles are very fashionable at the moment apparently.”

“Well, as a thank you from me, won’t you take her my Norton teapot as well?” said Mrs Hudson, going to fetch it. “They looked so sweet together yesterday. I wouldn’t want to split them up now.”

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have it,” said Mrs Turner.

She gently took the Norton from Mrs Hudson. “They do look as though they could have been made for each other, don’t they? Go together as a perfect set.”

She packed Godfrey in with Irene, and carried them carefully away together.

Mrs Hudson came over to 221B and lifted Sherlock and John down onto the counter.

Bill was already waiting there. “So that’s that,” he said despairingly.

“Well…” said Sherlock.

A small teacup abruptly rattled on her saucer. Two teapots and a vase turned to look at her.

She smiled at them sweetly.

“A message has been left with me for the Consulting Detective,” she announced proudly. “The Adler said that she’s only keeping the label to make sure that the ‘Ormstein’ will never take any action against her, and won’t interfere in her happiness with the Norton. She said…”

The teacup thought for a moment and then continued.

“‘When I realised I had given myself away, I disguised myself in a cosy and listened in to your conversation. I’m keeping the label simply to protect myself and Godfrey. Bill has wronged me but I will not interfere with his position in Mrs Hudson’s collection.

‘I had a second label under the trivet – one which confirmed me to be an Adler kettle and emphasised that I shouldn’t be rested on plastic surfaces. Bill is free to keep that one to remember me by, if he so desires’.”

The teacup swivelled and there was a label stuck to her back.

Everyone stared.

“Well, I don’t know where I’m going to put it,” said Bill. “Every time I heat up, it’ll slip off again.”

“I wonder,” said Sherlock quietly, “if I might keep it?”

“Certainly,” said Bill, bemused, “if you want to.” He sighed. “What a kettle. It’s a pity she was only an Adler.”

Sherlock gave him a fixed look. “She will always be the kettle to me.”

There was a silence.

From the table came a slight clearing of the spout.

“Bit hurt, actually,” said Lestrade.