Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
A/N: hey, so I haven't updated in awhile, and I figured I'd post this little one shot. I will probably edit it and do it over at a later date, because I don't really love it right now, it's so little. Anyway, comments/reviews are welcome.
It was too soon. Too soon for black clothing, flowers, sad whispers. Too soon for another coffin.
He found her in a rocking chair, body thin, face pale. The telly was still on in front of her; the tea beside her gone cold.
His leg had been hurting that day, and the pain combined with the silence of his flat prompted restlessness in him. He was just about to go to the store, fetch some dinner. Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out, do you need...oh.
He phoned the police, and they took her away, and he was all alone again. All alone, because he had no land lady, and no consulting detective. It was just him and his flat and his friend's old skull, which provided him both comfort and a dull pain in his stomach. He was caught in his past, in memories and bittersweet nostalgia.
She had some far away niece she called every few weeks, and she was the first to arrive. So sorry for your loss, he had said, but she didn't know the woman well. Shame, she was a sweet old bird, she had replied, then discussed funeral arrangements and worldly possessions in muted, bored tones.
He sat on the stairs the next day, and watched the men from the truck, in and out, moving through her apartment and taking her things away. Her pretty tea pots, her books, that rocking chair. They were bored, uncaring, and the niece was only present for a few minutes. Most of it'll be sold off or donated, she'd told him on the steps. If you want anything, just grab it. He took nothing. They carted everything away, and by nightfall, her flat was cold and empty.
A black car came for him the next day, when he finally went to the store. He sat in silence with Anthea, who only spoke when apologizing for his loss. It was the second time she had to do so in three months, a fact which hurt him deeply. He had not seen her or her master since the previous death, but he knew they had seen him.
Mycroft saw him in his office, face barren of emotion. He offered tea and was declined, the refusing man looking detached from the rest of the world.
"I'm very sorry about Mrs. Hudson, John. I know you and Sherlock were very close to her."
There was a painful silence at the reminder of the past. Back when the flat had life, back when he wasn't alone.
"Mrs. Hudson left a large sum of money to Sherlock. Because of his passing, however, that money will go to you. I'll take care of it."
Mycroft had taken care of a lot, lately. John was taking time from work, but never got a bill for anything. The man was clearly grateful for all the doctor had done for his brother, and kept him safe, watching over as always.
"Thank you." It was the first thing he said to him since the funeral, where both were stoic, and the only words were a brief exchange of condolences.
"My pleasure." And it was his pleasure to help and protect John, but he found no joy in needing to.
Then came the funeral. It was small, and the funeral home was stuffy. A few family members, the couple from the flat next door and their land lady, friends from around town, Lestrade, Molly, and John. The three had not seen each other since the last funeral, and all looked older, more haggard. The detective inspector and the morgue attendant were both solemn around him, then left later together, faces close and concerned whispers floating around them.
The eulogy was delivered by an old friend, who droned on in a monotone voice, calling her special and wonderful but not conveying it. They kneeled in front of the coffin and said goodbye, or see you later, or thanks for everything. When his time for it came, he could think of nothing, and only thanked her and wished her the best.
John stayed until sunset, when the coffin was closed and the woman buried. The world seemed more silent than usual when he stood there, staring at the mound of earth that covered her. He thought of everything, he thought of nothing. He remembered meeting her, having tea with her, seeing Sherlock defend her. Finding her in her rocking chair. Calling the police, shock keeping him from panicking. And sometimes darkness would fill his mind.
It was nightfall when he crossed the cemetery and found his friend. I'm almost glad you're not here, he said to the tombstone. This would've destroyed you. I wonder if you would've admitted it.
The new land lady was old and fat, and didn't ask him about his day when they passed. Her grandchildren were noisy and her cooking was smelly. He was oddly thankful for this; chaos had been absent in the last three months.
His therapist was concerned. "John, I fear all of this is having a very negative effect on you."
"Negative? No." He felt slightly guilty for his sarcasm. "Two people are dead, nothing negative about that."
"I know you're upset. But these things happen. They'll pass. It'll get better."
And it did. He started working again, went out with friends once and awhile, brought flowers to both graves each week. But nothing was as good as it once was. Nothing fully healed.
John Watson was still sad, and empty, and lonely. Just less so. And he spent a very long time being a little less sad. A little less empty. The only one in his flat, noisy children he did not know running around below him. It reminded him of being shot, and how bitter reminders could be. And he spent a very long time feeling small, feeling like less than a man.