Hello, dearies! This story is very short, and hopefully in-character. It's pretty self-explanatory, and dialogue is not my strong suit, so any criticisms are welcome :)

I'd like to thank Pekenota14 for giving me this idea!

Set Post-Reichenbach Falls.

[Insert Disclaimer] Have fun reading!

Mrs. Hudson was a woman who had seen much in her lifetime and known many people. Some of the people whom she knew had absolutely no bearing upon her, while others influenced her immensely and their company was simply wonderful. Sherlock Holmes was one of these people; he had helped her once, a very long time ago.

She knew that his tongue was as sharp as his wit, and that he could be as blunt as a butter knife in his honesty. She also knew that he could be one of the most exquisitely kind people she had ever met.

Mrs. Hudson sat by a window in her small kitchen; it was cold. It was December, so this was nothing out of the ordinary, the snowflakes falling against the thick glass- some stuck on, while others slipped down, leaving a watery trail in their wake. She was sipping quietly her hot tea, thinking about a multitude of things- currently, she was remembering. Memories are very convenient things, they are; they can put a smile on your face or tears in your eyes or even all at once, an implosion of feeling (…of sentiment, she thought, smirking to herself). Some instances become imprinted in your mind and you never forget them, but never remember them either until a certain moment comes and they go creeping into your consciousness and you realise that this is something you should have never forgotten, and then you realise you never have.

And so the old woman was sitting and drinking her tea when she remembered an analogous day some years ago, exactly how many her mind had failed to remind her.

It was probably colder that day, but it was snowing as well, and it was one of those days when Sherlock would come down and sit with her. She'd make him a nice Earl Grey, taking peppermint herself, and put on the table some type of biscuits or jammy dodgers to munch on. They sat and most likely talked about nothings, small things past, present, and possibly future. He smiled and genuinely laughed sometimes, but mostly kept to smiling. Sherlock looked happy while looking at the snow outside of the thick window glass, she thought, and he looked younger too. It's the same look he got while playing his violin, wistful and pensive and otherworldly.

"Sherlock, how long have you been playing violin?" Mrs. Hudson's questions were always welcome, but she never knew much about his past, and since he was never too apt to talk about it, she never pried. Except now.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, when I was very young my mother, who was very fond of classical music, would play cassettes with Albinoni and Strauss while doing something, and would sing along to opera arias, and I grew up when she still had this habit. I had always imagined a singularly short and rather rotund man with a Poirot-style moustache, magnified by fifteen times, playing a violin when I would hear it. Eventually, I tried recreating the melodies I would hear on a small toy piano that was good for nothing else than torturing one's enemies, and succeeded. I was five or six."

At this point, he silenced. Mrs. Hudson had never heard Sherlock speak fondly of anyone or anything except work and puzzles ("I cannot live without brainwork; what else is there to live for?" he'd say while frantically putting together a Rubik's Cube and being extremely frustrated for lack of cases). And then she saw how he looked when he spoke of his mother; a child. He looked sad. Sherlock was looking down at his tea with something along the lines of a smile, but the only thing his mouth currently had in common with a smile was the upturned corners- no mirth. He looked up at Mrs. Hudson and continued.
"She was so happy when she saw that I could do this, and I was happy playing. As it turns out, my grandfather had a violin of his own which he had not played in thirty odd years- it was now mine. After that, I just learned. And now I play," he said, smiling at Mrs. Hudson, who smiled back.

Seeing the vulnerable side of a seemingly impenetrable fortress of a person can be strangely satisfying, but also leave a bitter aftertaste. She loved this young man as the son she never had, and she knew deep down that he regarded her as a mother or something similar. She'd settle for aunt, but mother seemed more appropriate, to be honest.

She looked down at the table in search of more jammy dodgers and saw his hands gripping the theoretically hot cup and looked up to see his face; Sherlock was still looking out of the window.

"You loved her very much, didn't you, dearie?" she asked, not expecting much of an answer, but knowing what it was going to be.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, just as much as I love my instrument," Sherlock answered, standing up and placing his cup in the sink.

"Here are the jammy dodgers you were looking for," he said, handing Mrs. Hudson a package that appeared out of maybe a cabinet, maybe the table itself.

"Though silence may be an invaluable trait in a companion, talking is sometimes necessary, and so is having the type of companion whose presence facilitates that. Thank you." Smiling, this time sincerely, Sherlock quit the small kitchen grabbing an apple on his way.

Mrs. Hudson was left alone in the kitchen, sipping her hot tea now in silence. Soon, she heard the most elegantly beautiful sounds ring out from somewhere above. It was glorious.

She sat looking at the snowflakes gently hitting the window. She missed the music and the smell of Earl Grey. Most of all, Mrs. Hudson missed her violinist.

I hope you had fun reading! Hope it wasn't too out of character :)

Sorry for the angst, not sorry enough to stop. Remember that reviews make me happy; any thoughts, criticisms, and ideas are highly appreciated!

Until next time.