Oh, thinks Mrs Hudson the moment she sees the man come to fix up the damage to her poor house. Oh, dear.
Because while Vera Hudson may come across as a bit of a dotty aunt with an over-fondness for "herbal soothers", twenty years of marriage to a convicted serial killer have left her with the unusual—but uncannily accurate—ability to recognise a murderer when he's just stepped through her door. Although really, his cover is atrocious; it's as if he's not even trying to charm her!
(Then again, they can't all be like her George, can they? And more's the pity. Perhaps if they were, Sherlock wouldn't resort to shooting her bloody walls all the time.)
But never let it be said that Mrs Hudson is not an excellent actress. She hovers over the man for a good hour, asking if there's anything she can do or if there's anything he needs, playing up the "slightly-eccentric-but-ultimately-very-sweet-elderly-woman" angle just enough to keep him from becoming suspicious.
And then Doctor Watson bursts in.
Oh, dear, thinks Mrs Hudson, in between asking after Sherlock and subtly watching the hired killer's reactions. Oh my.
Now, she's no Sherlock Holmes, but given the fact that the hired killer on the ladder hasn't so much as twitched in Doctor Watson's direction, Mrs Hudson feels fairly certain that the evidence is in favour of the assassin being for her. Which is... it's...
Well. It's a bit flattering, isn't it? Her being important enough to warrant a professional. No doubt something to do with Sherlock again, but still. How exciting! Mrs Turner will never believe it.
"Wonder where he's off to," she wonders aloud when Doctor Watson dashes away a few moments later. She gives a fondly exasperated sigh, then smiles up at the man on the ladder. "Why don't you come down and have a little rest? I'll make you a cuppa."
She waits to see the man's nod and his blatantly insincere smile, then sweeps into 221-A to do what she must.
It's much too easy to end a man's life, Mrs Hudson thinks, humming softly as sets about taking down the tea set Sherlock had given her for Christmas, still in its box. She takes out each of the sturdy green cups, glancing inside them until she finds the one she wants. She smiles at the white letters engraved in the ceramics, the ones that read: you have just been poisoned.
Oh, but they'd laughed themselves silly over it.
She shakes her head fondly at the memory, then opens a cabinet, reaching past the spices and the baking ingredients, all the way into the back of the space, where she keeps her last birthday gift from Sherlock. A tiny little thing, given to her when dear Doctor Watson had left them alone for a moment.
"Use it wisely," he'd murmured to her, closing her hand over etched glass. "Just a drop or two will do."
She opens it slowly, mindful not to let it spill, and pours four drops into the teacup. She hesitates, then adds another one.
Better safe than sorry, after all.
As if on cue, the kettle begins to whistle. Mrs Hudson closes up the vial, pours out the tea, and squares herself to go back out onto the battlefield.
"Sorry for the wait, dear!" she exclaims warmly, handing him down the cup with a fond smile. "Here's your tea. You just enjoy that, now..."