It was Sunday and the sky had decided yet again to pour its heart onto the city of London. Sherlock was out either antagonizing Lestrade, or at the library.
Knowing him, probably both.
John and Mrs. Hudson sat in her small front room and watched the pounding rain stream down her bay window, countering the cold wet with steaming cups of raspberry mango tea.
When John had come through the door of 221B Baker Street about an hour earlier, nasty weather dripping from his jacket and pooling on the floor, lugging bags of groceries, Mrs. Hudson had fussed until he let her help carry the soaked plastic bags up the stairs and make him tea.
John had been expecting some awkward small talk about the weather and his living situation with Sherlock, but instead had been served some (surprisingly) delicious tea and they had listened to some old jazz records as Mrs. Hudson spoke wistfully of when she used to go to dances with her girlfriends before she married.
John had smiled and spoke of when he was still in school and had been forced to the dances, his sister laughing at him from the sidelines when he was forced to go on the floor with a real nasty girl who had done nothing but speak of how her father was a big time scientist and how she was all alone this weekend as her parents were out of town in Costa Rica to study some sort of plankton.
"Probably just to get away from her!" Mrs. Hudson had remarked, resulting in the two of them laughing.
Now, they sat in contented silence, the record had just finished its last track and was now just spinning. Empty tea cups sat on the little table between them, steam rising from the still warm teabags, when the front door slammed and they both heard Sherlock's angrily muttered curses as he stomped up the stairs to the flat he and John shared, slamming the door.
A muffled but still understandable yell, "JOHN."
Mrs. Hudson giggled when John rolled his eyes, "You best go deal with him dear."
She smiled, getting up and clearing the dishes away.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."
"Of course, John."
The doctor hurried up the stairs to his flat to deal with whatever problem Sherlock had managed to create and blame on someone else now, leaving Mrs. Hudson humming to herself over the kitchen sink.
Over the course of the next three months, this became a regular occurrence for the two of them, to sit and watch the storm, drinking tea, and reminiscing together of events that only one of them would know about. Eventually, John felt comfortable enough to talk to Mrs. Hudson about his days as an army doctor, and she in turn would take about her last husband.
These talks would last until the rain stopped or Sherlock realized John was gone.
And when John remembered that Sherlock was gone.