"John Watson! Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!" The day England fell. Cowritten with Quadrophenia73.
Disclaimer: Not ours!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Martha Hudson always considered herself to be a lucky woman.
She had a mostly good, long life and now she was enjoying her retirement and being a landlady to her two favorite boys in the world, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Smiling contently, she made her way to their flat with a large bowl of stew for their dinner. Thanks to John, she knew the boys were working hard on a case and didn't have time to eat anything more than coffee and a few pastries, which wasn't good for either of them. So she took it upon herself to cook them a lovely stew from an old family recipe and carry it down to their flat.
When she reached the door, she could hear John and Sherlock arguing heatedly. Without hesitation she barged in and frowned at her boys. Papers were strewn all over the place and Sherlock and John were standing close and glaring daggers at each other.
"What's this all about?" she demanded with a frown.
"Nothing of importance," Sherlock growled, kicking at the papers scattered across the cluttered floor.
John scowled at his best friend before turning to Mrs. Hudson and forcing a smile. "He's just being Sherlock," he explained with a shake of his head.
She started to reply when something cut her off. Frowning, she set the dish down and sat in Sherlock's chair.
"Mrs. Hudson?" The shift in John's voice from anger to concern was quick and real. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock turned from where he was glaring silently out the window and watched. His angered stare started to falter.
She was quiet for a moment as John reached out and took her wrist. "I'm fine, dear. Just a little tired."
John didn't look convinced. "It's late. You need to rest."
"Of course." She smiled sweetly at John. "I'm sure you're right."
John took her arm and helped her to her feet. "There we are... I'll walk you back to your flat."
"Thank you, dear."
Sherlock moved away from the window and watched as John walked Mrs. Hudson out of their flat and down the stairs. He let out a heavy sigh, his rift with John forgotten.
John came back to the flat a short while later, looking perplexed and worried. He found Sherlock sitting in his favorite chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. "I'm worried about her," he said without preamble.
"What's wrong?"
"Not sure. She's just not acting like herself. We should check up on her in the morning."
Sherlock nodded and slid further down in the chair. "We should."
John took a moment to observe Sherlock sitting in the chair. It had been four years since his faked suicide, one year since his return, and eight months since his engagement to Mary Morstan was ended. He still had nightmares and sometimes he would come out of his bedroom and jump in surprise when he saw Sherlock tinkering with his experiments or staring out the window. They had fallen into a routine of sorts, not quite like their old one but not a bad one, either.
When he realized that John was staring at him, Sherlock stirred from his thoughts right as he was slipping into his mind palace. He glanced at John quizzically. "What is it?"
John's rigid shoulders relaxed slightly. "I suppose I'm still not used to it," he murmured.
"Used to-" Sherlock began. He interrupted himself mid sentence when he realized the meaning behind John's words. "Oh. That."
"Mm hmm." He motioned to the bowl Mrs. Hudson had left for them. "She made us stew because she was worried we weren't eating."
"You eat it. I need to go to my mind palace."
John sighed. "Please, Sherlock?"
Sherlock groaned. "My mind palace will crumble if I slow myself down," he muttered. Nonetheless, he joined John in the kitchen.
John quickly gathered two bowls, two spoons and a ladle. Then he dished out the stew until both bowls were full before he handed one to Sherlock and took the other into his hands. They sat down at the kitchen table and for the rest of the night, there was peace in the flat.
The next morning, John awoke early and quickly dressed, knowing Mrs. Hudson would already be up and puttering around her flat. He noticed Sherlock standing by a window, violin in hand, and he put his shoes on before leaving the flat.
He reached Mrs. Hudson's flat in moments and produced her spare key from his pocket. She had given one to John and one to Sherlock, just in case of emergencies. "Mrs. Hudson?" He rapped lightly on the door, and when he received no answer, he let himself into the flat.
The flat was eerily quiet as John stepped through the door. Feeling much like an intruder, he called out again. "Mrs. Hudson?"
Still no answer.
Something was very, very wrong.
He automatically began searching for disturbances or signs of a break-in. It was entirely likely she was simply in bed resting, but he still worried as he moved deeper into the flat.
Her bedroom door was open and he relaxed when he saw her lying in bed. Propriety left him as he called out to her. "Mrs. Hudson? How are you feeling?"
She didn't respond.
Immediately he moved to the bed and stifled a soft gasp. Her face was peaceful and she looked for all the world like she was sleeping. But the paleness of her features told him otherwise. Still he reached out and lightly touched the side of her neck, searching for a pulse.
There wasn't one.
A miserable groan erupted from his throat as he backed away from the bed, uncertain of what to do next. There was nothing he could do to help her; she had been gone for hours.
Before he realized what he was doing, he was running out of the bedroom, calling Sherlock's name.
There was something in John's voice that immediately told Sherlock that something was wrong. He appeared at the top of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"Mrs. Hudson," he managed, his voice unsteady. "She's...she's gone."
Sherlock stopped halfway down the stairs. "No."
All John could do was stand there as Sherlock quickly descended the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. When he reached John, the older man shot an arm out to prevent him from entering Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Sherlock, don't."
"Why not?" Sherlock challenged, prying John's hand off of his arm.
"There's nothing you can do."
"I don't care." Sherlock pushed past him and entered Mrs. Hudson's flat. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom.
John followed after him, at a loss for what to say.
Sherlock moved from the doorway and stood at the bedside. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought that Mrs. Hudson was merely sleeping.
Straightening his shoulders, John went to Sherlock's side. "I walked her up last night," he said quietly, "and she went straight to bed. She must...must have suffered an aneurysm or heart failure..."
"She must have," Sherlock mumbled emptily, touching Mrs. Hudson's cold forehead for a brief moment.
After a moment, John closed his fingers gently around Sherlock's wrist and pulled his hand away. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Why are you apologizing?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Because I know how much she means to you."
"I don't do that, John... I don't attach myself to people like that," Sherlock insisted. His voice started to crack.
With a wordless shake of his head, John finally let go of Sherlock's wrist and placed his palm gently on the small of the younger man's back.
Sherlock shuddered and stood still for a moment before he returned and silently left. His footsteps echoed heavily through the building as he climbed up the stairs.
John wanted to follow him, but he had calls to place and arrangements to make. With another sad look at Mrs. Hudson, he pulled out his phone and left the bedroom.
Several hours later, John returned to their flat, feeling defeated and sad. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock stirred only slightly from where he laid on the couch. He glanced toward John and nodded slightly to acknowledge his presence.
"Everything's taken care of. Her funeral..." John choked on the word. "Her funeral will be Sunday."
"I'm not going," Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes and turning away.
John looked stunned. "What are you talking about, Sherlock? Of course you're going!"
"I said I'm not going. You can't possibly force me to go."
The older man was quiet for a long time. "You're right. I can't." He scrubbed his hand over his face and went to his bedroom. It was just after one but he didn't care. He crawled into his bed and buried his face in a pillow.
Sherlock turned onto his side on the couch, wrapping his arms tightly around the Union Jack pillow and shifting restlessly.
Some time later, just after John had dozed off, his bedroom door opened and bare feet padded across the floor. John stirred slightly when the bed dipped.
In an uncharacteristic act of longing for comfort, Sherlock slid into the bed beside John, heaving a shaky breath.
Not speaking a word, John rolled onto his back, tugging the blanket away from his body. Then he pulled Sherlock underneath the blanket and against his side before he draped the blanket over both of them.
"I'll go," Sherlock finally whispered.
"Thank you." John hesitated before placing his hand gently on Sherlock's chest, just over his heart.
Encouraged by the touch, Sherlock started to speak. "She was... she was a mother of sorts to me. Even years ago... she would be there when my own mother wouldn't," Sherlock mumbled. He wasn't sure why he was opening up but he couldn't seem to stop himself.
The older man turned onto his side and rested his head next to Sherlock's, silently listening. His fingers absently rubbed obscure patterns on Sherlock's chest.
"She left when she married," Sherlock continued. "She stayed away for years. She returned approximately two years before we moved into Baker Street."
"You loved her," John murmured, his hand pausing on Sherlock's chest.
"Yes. As you know, I ensured that her husband faced persecution."
"I remember."
Sherlock absently rested his head on John's chest. "I wanted to ensure her safety."
John's arms went around Sherlock's narrow shoulders. "Of course you did. You protected her."
"Yesterday, when she was in our flat..." Sherlock closed his eyes but his mind's eye kept a vivid image of how weary Mrs. Hudson had appeared. "I should have stopped her from leaving."
"Sherlock, you can't do that to yourself," John chastised gently. He carefully squeezed Sherlock. "You'll drive yourself mad."
Sherlock let out a sad chuckle. "I've done that before."
John was quiet for a moment. "I won't let you," he finally declared quietly.
There was a long moment of silence on Sherlock's part. "Thank you," he murmured.
John's hand crept up and fingered a dark curl. "I'd like you to stay."
"I didn't want to leave, anyway," Sherlock mumbled in relief.
"Good." For the first time in four years, he finally felt peaceful and he immediately felt guilty for it. Mrs. Hudson was gone. They would have to attend her funeral in three days and say goodbye. His muscles tightened and trembled beneath his skin.
Sherlock nestled further into John's side. He felt John's body trembling against him but he said nothing as he draped an arm across the older man's abdomen.
John's fingers continued to weave through Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
His chest heaved as he sighed. "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I." Sherlock lifted his head from John's chest to look up at him.
A small smile touched John's lips and he gently placed his palm against Sherlock's cheek. He didn't know what to say or do, but this...this felt right.
"I'll miss her," Sherlock said softly. "I'll even miss the times when she threatened me for leaving experiments in the kitchen."
John chuckled. "I know. I'll miss her, too." When Sherlock returned his head to the older man's chest, he sighed in relief and resumed stroking the younger man's hair. "There's something we talked about I never told you before."
"What would that be?"
"When I moved in here, I liked Mrs. Hudson right off. Who wouldn't?" His free hand began rubbing Sherlock's arm slowly. "She and I started talking and one day out of the blue, she pulled me aside and told me how fragile you really were. Then she told me in graphic detail what she would do to me if I ever hurt you."
Sherlock smiled weakly. "That sounds like something she would say."
"Oh, yes. And I promised her that I would never, ever hurt you."
"I'm assuming she accepted that promise."
"Yes." John closed his eyes. "She just never expected it would be the other way around."
"I should have made a promise. I can't say I would have been able to keep it," Sherlock mused.
John fell silent but didn't relax his grip on sherlock.
Sherlock's own grasp tightened. "I would apologize, but that wouldn't help much, would it?"
"No, it wouldn't."
A sigh escaped past Sherlock's lips as he closed his eyes, adjusting the covers over them with one hand.
"I missed you." John's voice was strained when he finally broke the silence.
"I missed you, too." Sherlock's eyes remained closed but he was fully awake wheb he heard the barely-masked hurt in John's voice.
Anxiety and misery slowly melted from his body as he turned them over and curled himself around Sherlock. His hand came to rest lightly on the younger man's abdomen. It was a much more intimate position and John hoped it said everything he couldn't find the words to say.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked into John's darker ones. He could see betrayal that John tried to cover up. Betrayal that he had caused. He laid a hand over John's larger one resting on his abdomen.
His fingers tangled in Sherlock's and he closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of emotions he had spent months trying to hide.
"You can let it out, John," Sherlock urged softly.
"There's nothing to let out," John insisted gruffly.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Yes." He was more a man of action instead of words and now was no exception.
"Alright." Sherlock rested his hand on John's arm and closed his eyes.
John's hand stroked Sherlock's skin slowly before he hesitantly moved it under Sherlock's shirt. His fingertips touched warm skin and his eyelids flickered.
Sherlock's breath hitched when he felt John's hand against his skin. He nestled his head against the older man's shoulder.
He froze when a soft sound left Sherlock's lips. "Should I stop?" he whispered.
Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, you shouldn't."
His fingers resumed moving slowly, almost as though he was waiting for Sherlock to change his mind.
Sherlock's hand worked its way underneath John's jumper, a quiet and smooth gesture meant to reassure the other man.
Allowing his eyes to close, John moved his hand to Sherlock's bony hip and squeezed it lightly. "I'm glad you're here," he finally admitted, his voice soft.
"I'm glad I'm back," was the hushed and almost hesitant response.
"Very." The older man pulled him more snugly against his chest. "I don't know how to do this," he repeated, "but I want to try."
"Then try," Sherlock whispered lowly, his hand still resting on John's chest.
He draped an arm lazily over Sherlock and slid his fingers under the younger man's shirt, once more stroking his skin. Then he tangled their legs together and sighed, feeling more relaxed and at home than he had in years.
Sherlock moved even closer to him, lightly running his hand up and down John's bicep.
Reopening his eyes, John looked down at Sherlock and buried his face in the younger man's hair. Then he gently tipped Sherlock's head back and slowly brought their lips together.
Sherlock wasn't sure if the kiss should have surprised him or not. But there wasn't a moment of hesitation as he relaxed into the kiss, his lips softening for a few seconds before he deepened it.
They broke apart a few moments later and immediately John missed the sensation of Sherlock's lips on his own. It was...strange, and exciting, and God, he wanted more.
Their faces lingered so close that their foreheads almost touched. Sherlock's light eyes and John's darker ones met. Sherlock was a stranger to sentiment and intimacy but he didn't regret a moment that had just passed.
The older man sighed and ran his thumb along Sherlock's prominent cheek. "You..." He sighed and closed his eyes briefly before reopening them. He was not exactly a stranger to sex with men; it came with the territory of being in the Army as well as being young and wild. But he had never been in a relationship with a man. He had never really considered it, either.
Until Sherlock.
"I what?" Sherlock mumbled. Before John, Sherlock considered relationships of any type to be nothing but a hindering waste of time. He decided from a very early age that he would delete the concept from his mind to make room for more important things. He never felt the need or desire to attach himself to someone. Somehow John had worked his way around that and changed his mind completely.
Rolling onto his back, John pulled Sherlock along with him so the younger man rested sprawled over his chest. Then his arms went protectively around Sherlock, gripping him tightly. "You are never allowed to leave me again. Do you understand?" His voice was hard but there was an underlying tremor only Sherlock could detect.
"I understand," Sherlock said firmly.
"Good." He lifted his head just enough to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's forehead. Then he dropped his head against the pillows again. His arms remained locked around Sherlock.
Sherlock let out a sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. He tucked his head under John's chin.
A smile tugged at John's mouth as Sherlock nestled into him. He closed his eyes and saw Mrs. Hudson smiling in approval. Of course she would approve. He was only sorry he couldn't run downstairs and tell Mrs. Hudson that she was right and she'd been right all along.
Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a lazy yawn. He felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
John's hand began rubbing small circles over Sherlock's shoulder. "I miss her already."
"I do, too," the younger man said quietly.
"Oh, I know you do." John held him tighter and sighed.
For the rest of the day, they didn't move or take any calls. They simply stayed exactly where they were and tried to make sense of what was happening and what would happen in three day's time.
Mrs. Hudson's funeral was small and quiet, and after the ceremony John and Sherlock went back to Baker Street. They had decided to take care of her flat themselves after learning she had left the entire building and all of her things to her boys. John was deeply touched and Sherlock didn't know what to say, so for once he didn't say anything.
When they entered Mrs. Hudson's flat, John reached over and gently took Sherlock's hand. The gesture was intimate and new but it felt right.
Sherlock looked over at him with a small smile, giving John's hand a light squeeze.
"She was a great lady," John murmured fondly as he spotted a picture of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson hanging from the wall.
"She was," Sherlock echoed, following John's gaze to see the picture.
Letting go of Sherlock's hand, John crossed the floor and retrieved the picture. He carried it back to Sherlock and handed it to him. "You should have this."
Sherlock took it from him and held it tightly, brushing one hand over the smooth glass of the frame.
John rested his head against Sherlock's arm and smiled at the picture. "You look happy."
"You're right. I do," Sherlock agreed.
"She wouldn't want us being too sad over her. That's how she was."
"She would forbid us to go to crime scenes if she saw us moping around."
"She absolutely would." He slid his arm around Sherlock's waist.
Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's shoulders, still gazing absently at the photograph.
Eventually they moved and began sorting through Mrs. Hudson's things. John left every decision to Sherlock and Sherlock silently appreciated it.
Later that night, when they arrived back in their own flat, John took the picture and set it reverently on the mantle above the fireplace.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. For everything."
The End.