Jane's never liked the heat. Monty said she'd love Florida, but she doubted it very much; in the end they agreed on six months, just to try it out, as a compromise. Jane, as expected, didn't like it. It was muggy and sticky, even near Christmas, and even if her hip was better most days, everyone was too loud and too waxed and she kept accidentally being surprised by things like American tinned beans and sweet tea.
When Monty gets arrested five months in, Jane is simply furious, because she was already packing up their things to go home, but now there will have to be a trial and a great deal of nonsense about Monty's business activities and possibly hers as well (though it's unlikely; she's far more careful), and after everything, he has the gall to expect her to stay.
Well. Jane has never been that kind of woman.
She goes home to London the instant the police let her, and she doesn't come back until it looks like Monty might actually go free. The fact that she doesn't go alone is, she thinks, very possibly a sign of oncoming senility.
"Stop playing with the radio," she tells Sherlock, on the way to the courthouse, and when that doesn't work, she reaches and smacks his hand. She's never wanted children, and he doesn't do much to make her change her mind. He's unwashed in that way that all young men seem to be these days and none of his clothing, not even the new suit, fits him quite correctly (he told her he'd bought it himself; he seems really rather abnormally proud of the fact). She tries to remember why she'd agreed to let him come—but of course it's easy, isn't it? He's convincing, when he wants to be. It hadn't been so much his references to a handful of smallish but peculiar cases, all solved, or the way he had told her that he had been doing some reading in hopes of getting more work with the police, or even his insistence on paying for his own plane ticket, his own hotel room, tersely eager in that way Mrs. Hudson sees often in people convinced that they are assumed to be in the way. Mostly it had just been his intensity, the focus in his face as he loomed over her and Mrs. Turner's table in the cafe and said, I'm terribly sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing—
He's an interesting young man, for all his cultural education leaves something to be desired.
"This is awful," he tells her, and reaches out again for the radio, but she's watching.
She slaps his fingers away. "It isn't awful at all," she corrects. "It's normal radio music. When you drive you can put it on whatever awful orchestral screeching you'd like, but when I'm driving, I get to pick."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I'm driving," she says. "It's a rule."
"Stupid," he says. "I'm not on the rental. They wouldn't let me. That means this whole trip you'll get to pick."
"Yes," she says, with satisfaction. "I know."
He huffs and sinks down into his seat, crosses his arms over his chest. He hadn't understood why they needed the car in the first place, but he'd also never tried to get around Miami in July on public transit, so she had insisted. He doesn't have a license, a fact which he admitted to the rental company only under distress and with a mulish set to his jaw that makes Mrs. Hudson strongly suspect that that state of affairs will not last long after they return to London. She flips on her indicator and pulls into the left lane.
"What is this, anyway," he says. He still sounds put out.
"Elvis," she tells him. "'Hound Dog'."
"It's terrible," he says, and she says, "It's a classic."