The Death of Mrs Hudson
Sherlock stood in a room of so called 'friends' and acquaintances associated with his late landlady, Mrs Hudson. The gentle chatter echoed around the privately booked room in the country-style pub. The concept of 'wakes' always perplexed Sherlock, the idea of a group of unhappy people being forced to eat inadequate buffet food, make pointless small talk, pretending to be celebrating the life of a loved one who no longer existed, when they just wanted to sob alone, seemed like a very odd tradition. Although most traditions were incomprehensible to Sherlock. He sipped a single malt whiskey and stood next to John so he could let him make all the small talk with guests, taking some of the social stress away from the sociopath. Most of him wanted to leave, but to go where? Back to the flat where he witnessed the most heart-wrenching moment of his life? How could he ever step foot in that flat again?
A week previously, at exactly 6:36am on a Wednesday morning, he witnessed Mrs Hudson's life leave her body in front of his eyes. She had been in and out of hospital for a few months, she had fallen very ill with kidney failure. With Sherlock's medical knowledge, he knew that kidney failure was probably one of the most uneventful and peaceful ways to die (in comparison to the deaths he had witnessed throughout his career) as it just involves the shutdown of the bodies organs after the build-up of toxins in the blood. All very ordinary and scientific.
John and Sherlock had received the news that there was nothing more the doctors could do. Mrs Hudson, mostly delirious from the poisons in her system, was going to die. In order to make her more comfortable, the 2 agreed she should be returned to Baker Street in order for the end of her life to be in a comfortable environment. Although upset obviously, Sherlock still kept his logical, distant attitude towards the situation, there was nothing he could do, therefore she returned to Baker Street where John, Sherlock and occasional nurses tended to her. That was the first time his shield of emotion cracked. At the hospital, she rarely spoke and didn't know what was going on, therefore a peaceful ignorance that she did not understand anything kept everyone at arm's length. However when she was returned to Baker Street, she visibly relaxed and glimmers of her old self began to resurface. The kind, loving lady was still in there. As you would expect, John did most of the comforting things for her, such as sitting by her bedside, feeding her etc. But he had a young child and wife to care for, therefore sometimes Sherlock was left to care for her deteriorating life. He would keep his hard exterior, not letting the awful sights of a dying body get to him, as of course he had seen much worse. Although every now and then, his armour would dent. He would find himself welling up whilst sitting in the bath, or making a cup of tea. The dread would drown him and he would find himself leaking a couple of tears for the mother figure he adored.
Then, late on a Tuesday night, Sherlock knew this would be Mrs Hudson's last night on Earth. His medical mind told him this as her breathing changed it became hard work, in an irregular rhythm, with an audible moan at each exhale. She had hours left. Then Sherlock felt weakness. He could not deal with it. He was home alone with her and experienced an all-consuming panic attack. He sat on the edge of his black leather arm chair, elbows on his knees, wearing the silk dressing gown Mrs Hudson had washed only weeks before. He put his hands behind his head, gripping onto his sweaty black curls and visited Redbeard in his mind palace in an attempt to maintain some sort of control. He could not go into that room. That room which he had slept in so many times, now filled with a shrill beeping hospital bed and the struggling breaths of the kindest lady he had ever met. He wanted to go in there and comfort her but he couldn't, he found his ultimate weakness. He laid on the sofa and slept for a couple of hours. At 6:30am, he woke up, calm but remorseful. It was time. He walked like a robot into the bedroom, heavy, barefoot, and dazed. He sat beside Mrs Hudson and held her hand. This did not wake her. Nothing would. There were long gaps between her breaths now. A couple of times Sherlock thought she had gone, but then she'd take in another gasp of air, fighting for her life in her sleep. Feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world, having told John a few years ago that crying by the dying's bedside would be a pointless exercise, he silently wept and took in the image of Mrs Hudson's sleeping breathing body. "I love you" he choked out in a whisper. He did not know if she could hear him, he knew at this stage her body would be flooded with a hallucinogenic drug released by the brain at the time of death, he understood all of the science of the dying body, but this would not help this time. Her body exhaled the rest of the air in her lungs in a dull cough, and she was gone.
Sherlock absolutely fell apart. Loudly crying like a child, still gripping onto her hand. His ocean coloured eyes raining into his lap. His always racing mind for once went silent as he took in the moment. There was no case to be solved, nothing to think about. Doors locking in his mind palace. So many emotions flooding his head. Guilt for being too afraid to spend time with her in her last hours, sadness for losing such a beautiful human, dread of how he would live without her.
He obviously calmed his exterior before John or the funeral directors arrived. He wore his usual suit and hard expression. The general biological things that Sherlock expected to happen to a corpse such as the changing colour of the skin and bleeding of the nose began to happen, but he did not stay to witness this. He led others to believe he did not care, but really, he could not bring himself to witness any more heartache.
Seemingly unchanged to the outside world, his mind palace had gained an indoor pool of mourning. Sherlock became human.