Author's notes: Major character death and not a very happy story really...
Comments welcome!
Disclaimer: The usual I own nothing yada yada don't sue me.
He stared at the date printed on the right hand corner, two days until the third year of Sherlock's death. John closed the newspaper and folded it over the arm of the black chair. The soft leather stroked the back of his head as his eyes slowly panned, watching the room relive the ghosts of a better time; the soft concertos that would fill the living room with static beauty, the time Sherlock taught John to waltz to impress a patient from the clinic, the Christmas party when Sherlock had had a few drinks and began to loosen up and even gave Molly a cheeky wink. John had moved on, but he could never have moved out. Even when Mary had proposed. He could never leave this part of himself behind, it was too important and she couldn't understand that. Thankfully good old Mrs. Hudson had lowered the rent so he could afford to live alone, just until he got back on his feet and could find another tenant for the room upstairs. Almost three years later he was still here and she hadn't pressured him one bit.
He heaved himself up with his stick and winced as pain fired up his left leg. The affliction had started up again a month after the funeral with no signs of improvement. He sighed and walked to the kitchen, he placed his cup in the sink, his hands had regained their tremble as he rinsed out the pale brown liquid vanishing down the depths of the sink. His palms rested against the side of the basin, his shoulders were taught and shuddered with the grip but his neck could barely sustain his head and it fell downward. He rubbed some warmth in to it, calloused skin against delicate, when a thought dawned. A holiday, a get away for a few days would be perfect, get away from the city, his job, the anniversary, everything.
'Hell,' he thought, 'I'll bring Mrs. Hudson, lord knows she deserves a break.' The past couple of years flashed past in a blur of colourful knitted cardigans, tea and biscuits. She took care of John as her own son. She comforted him with no judgment and shared his grief. She did his shopping when he couldn't leave the house, she did his washing when he couldn't leave his bed and she consoled him when nobody else could. The woman was a wonder and it was about time he thanked her for that.
He bounced downstairs as best he could, sporting a goofy smile eager for her reaction. He reached the door, knocked, but came in anyway.
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"Mrs. Hudson why is it so dark in here?"
He walked over to the street window and threw the curtains open letting the feeble winter light cast a cold luminescence to the table, where a half eaten apple was browning and some questionably smelling tea sat half drank. Sitting in front of the set was a slumped woman, her head resting against the table.
"Mrs. …"
John took a step forward, stronger this time:
"Mrs. Hudson?"
But typically rebellious she remained motionless. He touched her shoulder and through her God awful hand-knitted shawl he felt the familiar stiffness and immediate coldness that favours the deceased.
John didn't recoil but instead released her shoulder slowly, picked up the tea set and washed it before brewing a fresh batch. He set her full cup down and sat down next to her. Sipping his in silence. He placed his hand over her curled fingers, squeezing the frozen ligaments. Hoping for the slightest flicker, but the doctor in him knew was hopeless. He gripped he like a lifeline, and then simply, he left. He closed the door softly as not to wake her and trod back upstairs to sit quietly before eventually phoning Lestrade.