Sherlock's features were set in a pensive stillness as he lay, hands clasped together, on the couch. John didn't have to be a genius to read Sherlock's train of thought on his face. He was thinking very hard about Irene Adler. God only knew what exactly about, probably her sudden reappearance in the world after she was supposed to have died. John was a little worried about Sherlock at the moment; the Woman was playing havoc with his restrained emotional side as it was, and Mycroft constantly breathing down his neck, like he was at the moment, never helped Sherlock's mood in the slightest.
By this time John had given up asking him if he was all right, after he received only a sharp "fine" every time, said quickly and automatically as if on autopilot. John doubted whether Sherlock had even listened to what he'd asked at all, and so he simply bent his head close to the computer as he jabbed the keys to write up his latest blog post.
Nibbling at the shortbread Mrs Hudson had brought up he wondered whether he'd offer any to Sherlock, but decided that his flatmate would only be annoyed with the disturbance in his thoughts. John had been reluctant to let Mrs Hudson out of his sight after the day's events, but she had insisted that they left her:
"Thank you very much for your concern John, but I really am fine. No, those men didn't hurt me, don't worry. No, I think you should be concerned about Sherlock; I'm worried that he'll get himself into a situation with them. They weren't very nice, were they? Really John, head upstairs and I'll pop in soon with some biscuits for you two."
She was much more than she let on, John realised. Well, having put up with Sherlock for so long, she must have the patience of a saint. He continued typing as Mrs Hudson came up and asked the still and silent Sherlock for the umpteenth time whether he was all right.
"Some tea would do wonders, Mrs Hudson," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of him, and Mrs Hudson pottered into 221B's kitchen to brew the kettle.
John glanced over his laptop, his eye catching on the sprawling detective draped over the couch and his landlady carefully arranging the china on the tray. His fingers hovered undecidedly over the keyboard for a while as he watched the two of them together. He looked over what he's written.
When I got back to Baker Street... Mrs H. She'd been attacked. I've never seen her like that and it struck me again just how close to home this all this. People know where we live. People know who our friends are. But, oh Mrs H, she's so brave. They'd done horrible things to her but she had what they were looking for. She'd not given it up. The things we do for Sherlock Holmes, eh?
Gazing at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson again, John tried a few more sentences: But Sherlock really cares for her, he was so worried – deleted. Mrs Hudson is much stronger than I thought, she can really take the brunt of a grown man's anger, and – deleted. I thought that Sherlock was being very autistic about it all at first, he seemed to not give a toss about Mrs H, but then when they left he – deleted. Sherlock actually has a heart apparently, when the men attacked Mrs Hudson, he – deleted. No, John glanced over the laptop to watch Mrs Hudson serving Sherlock tea.
John Watson was not a man of the most superior deduction skills, he was not one with the best eyes for observing minutiae on a person, or one who could make great logical leaps to follow a chain of events from its cause. But he was a man with a MD, a rudimentary but sufficient knowledge of psychology from university and a keen eye for noticing small changes in behaviour, health or state of mind. He was good with emotions and people's relations.
Over the past year he'd observed the landlady and tenant through a practised eye. John knew that Mrs Hudson was more than Sherlock's landlady. She was more than his housekeeper, despite her protests that she wasn't even that.
She was the mother he hadn't had for so long; he was the son she'd always wanted. He saw the things that went unsaid between them, an invisible tie that connected the two, the silent moments that spoke so much. Sherlock really cared for her, and she loved him like a son.
It was in Sherlock's small, secret smiles when Mrs Hudson would place a tray of his favourite biscuits in front of him.
It was in his eyes when he'd gaze after her as she tottered away from him, or how he'd watch her when she was preoccupied with housework, when he thought no one was looking at him.
When she touched Sherlock. Only Mrs Hudson could place her hand on his shoulder, brush his arm or draw him into a quick hug. Only with her, Sherlock wouldn't tense, flinch or shudder off her hand.
How Sherlock would kneel in front of her when she was hurt; ask with concerned eyes whether she was all right.
It was when she would gently scold him, sometimes tapping him good-naturedly with a newspaper or book. How he would sheepishly crack a small grin at her, slightly ashamed, slightly uncaring and slightly amused.
When he'd occasionally prepare tea for her – if he was very bored. Picking out the finest china for the job the cups, saucers and milk jug would be set up to perfection, and the tea brewed perfectly.
And John would love to listen to the violin piece that Sherlock would sometimes play, only ever late at night so that the music drifted down to Mrs Hudson as she dropped off to sleep. Sherlock had never said it, nor was it written anywhere, but John knew that the gorgeously calming and ethereal song was for her. It whispered through the wind to the flat below.
Mrs Hudson was the only one who could chide him for body parts in the fridge or indecently setting off guns. She was the only one he would ever make prolonged contact with; the only one who'd ever hugged him. She was the person he would worry for, stroke tenderly when vulnerable. She was the only one he would throw a CIA agent out of the window multiple times for. It chilled John; and it touched him.
She was the only one who could crack a small fault in the ice armour that Sherlock glazed over himself to hide from the world.
He tried to hide it, but a corner of the façade would sometimes weaken and crumble off slightly. His brother was the Ice Man, but Sherlock could give Mycroft a run for his money. He kept his emotions barred in his chest, batted down to be ignored. John could see it though. John could see right through him; Sherlock wasn't a sociopath or psychopath in any form. And all the proof he needed was watching Sherlock with his landlady; his second mother.
No, he decided that he wouldn't write to the Internet about his flatmate's close bond with Mrs Hudson. It was something that John couldn't capture in a blog post. Besides, it was private, and if Sherlock guarded his emotional side so closely John didn't think he'd be in his flatmate's good books if he revealed his shielded heart to the world.
John settled for the more impersonal, changing the focus back to Irene Adler: He won't talk about her, obviously. And my plans for New Years have had to be cancelled of course. So it's going to be a glass of scotch and a silent flatmate.
The last sentence was just being finished when Sherlock finally broke his thinking pose on the couch that he hadn't moved from for hours and picked up his violin. Drawing the bow across the strings, Auld Lang Syne began to sweep through the night that was now growing closer and closer to a new year, only a couple of hours away now. So John would keep Sherlock's secret close. The world wouldn't be told.
Happy New Year, John wished his readers before submitting the post, and leaning back to listen to Sherlock, waited out the last hour of December the 31st. All he'd need now is either that scotch, or possibly a steaming mug of hot chocolate, with fireworks sparkling through the sky.
A/N: Hi, thanks for reading! Any feedback is always appreciated :) Everything from John's blog is actually straight from John's blog, so credit for that part does not go to me