When Henry heard the news that Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd resolved his issues from childhood, who'd made him face his fear after his partner had shot it, was dead, he was stunned.
The next thing he did was hop a train into London to inquire at 221B, partially to see if it was true, and partially to express his condolences to John Watson if it was.
The little old lady recognized him when he came to the door. Even remembered his name and invited him in. When he asked after the army doctor, she shook her head. "He's not been back to the flat since…" she trails off, giving a kind of motion to indicate that she meant since Mr. Holmes' death. Henry gave a nod, and asked where he might find retired soldier. When the woman shook her head, his eyes went wide.
"Dr. Watson, too?" he asked.
It was the landlady's turn to have her eyes grow wide.
"Oh no! No, Dr. Watson's just moved to another flat. Couldn't bear to stay here after everything. Can't say I blame him. After he had to watch…It was a dreadful business," she rambled. "He's asked me not to give his new address out. Reporters and all that." She pulls a face and Henry nods.
"Would you mind telling him I stopped by? And that I'm sorry for his loss. And that I know Mr. Holmes wasn't a fraud. He resolved in a few days what years of therapy couldn't. Tell him I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
Mrs. Hudson gives him a nod, though she doesn't know when John would ever come by so she could give him said message.
Henry nods back, and walks away. As he rounds the corner, something catches his eye, bright yellow graffiti on the building. Just three words.
Believe in Sherlock.