"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson? I'm back, are you here? Mrs Huuuuud-sooooon?" I called out as I walked through the door. When I heard no reply, I glanced swiftly around and headed upstairs. With every step I climbed as if it was a mountain, I heard more and more clearly the tears of a wounded heart that belonged to Mrs Hudson. I knew what today was, and I didn't want to avoid it. I just didn't want it to be here, already, so soon. I reached the door, grabbed the handle tight, attempting to keep my balance. I felt something slither down my cheek, like a snake, ready to bite at any time. Soon I would feel the pain from that bite, the venom injected into me, and I would sit in sorrow for the rest of the day and for the whole night, until I felt numb and senseless. Helpless and paralysed in the same position for hours, days, months, and years. I'd always be in that position, because he wasn't here to help. I'd stay there, longing for his return, watching the landlady loiter around me, wondering what to do. I'd reminisce with myself about the amazing memories I had with the unimaginable person I once had shared this very flat with. It would hit me, he wasn't coming back. His presence would never be known physically to anyone in the present and future within 221B Baker Street- although he wasn't tangible to me, I still felt an air of him clinging onto the curtains and his belongings in this flat. He was in my heart, forever.
I shook back to reality, eyes suddenly wide open and shaking away any tears I had let slip.
"Oh, John, John..." Mrs Hudson was next to me now. She had no makeup on, she knew that she would cry today. She hadn't done anything with her hair, like she normally did, there wasn't a purpose in it. Her voice kept breaking and the little bin next to the door was overflowing with tissues.
"Wh-where have you been, John?" She sniffled and wandered over to the window.
"Out, Mrs Hudson. I'm a grown boy now, you needn't worry about me!" I gave a little laugh, but soon allowed the solemn atmosphere to return.
I walked over to where the frail woman stood. I saw a few tributes to the late consulting detective laid on the pavement. Why hadn't I noticed them as I returned home?
"You know what today is, right, John?" Mrs Hudson whispered.
"Yes, of course I do." I replied quietly, rubbing her arm with my hand in comfort.
"Do you miss him?"
"Oh, every single day of my life. I loved him, I really loved him- and I never had the courage to tell him. Every time someone asked who I was, I wanted to grab his hand and tell him I wanted to be more than a colleague, more than an acquaintance, more than a friend- although he claimed to have none- and I always regretted it afterwards. I saw him die, Mrs Hudson, I can't get that image out of my head. I miss him terribly, I really rea-" I burst out crying and seeked the comfort of a chair to help me.
Mrs Hudson shuffled towards the other side of the room, as if to retrieve something but not building up enough energy to move faster. "L-look, John, it's his violin," she said, a smile growing on her face, memories recollecting in her mind. I could almost see them, touch them, witness them doubling up. She loved him, too. She loved him as a son, as a person, as a mad untidy man who kept body parts in the kitchen and shot the wall when he was bored. That made me smile a little, remembering that time.
"BORED!" he said. "BORED, BORED, BORED!"
That one Christmas he played the violin and deduced poor Molly Hooper until she was red from embarrassment of the revelation of her love discovered by the very man she adored. Molly was cut up too, after the event. She moved away, not sure where. Somewhere very far, I was told, where no one could get her. A secret hideaway.
I stood up and moved towards the window once again, looking out at the beauty of London. I noticed someone who looked familiar walk down the street, holding an umbrella and looking awfully posh. Dressed in a suit, Mycroft looked at all the tributes laid for his younger brother. Even Mycroft Holmes, member of the Diogenes Club and the man who could make any situation turn into a sophisticated debate that he would without a doubt win, looked on in shock. One year since he had gone. He looked solemn, and for a minute, closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if to honour his brother. A minute's silence for the man who meant so much to so few. Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs Hudson, me- we loved him. I suspect even Anderson felt remorse for his death. To him, the great man was a psychopath, but of course, his truly remarkable reply consisted of 'high functioning sociopath' and 'lowering the IQ of the whole street'. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. He was outstanding, indescribable, unpredictable- but most of all, beautiful.