I draw in a breath as he walks in the door.

He looks hurt.

John is not with him, and somehow I just know.

Something dreadful has happened.

Without a word, I reach to touch his arm. He flinches, then looks up, as if only just now registering my presence in the hallway.

"Mrs. Hudson…" he says, voice wavering.

"Oh, Sherlock," I say softly. "Come with me."

I take his hand and lead him into my flat. He doesn't say a word to argue, and I think that's what scares me the most.

I set him down on the love seat, and move to the kitchen. I set a kettle of water on the stove to boil for tea before walking back into the front room.

The poor boy hasn't moved a muscle.

I sit by him and take his hand into mine.

I am too afraid to ask the question.

He answers anyhow.

"John is dead," he says in a whisper, eyes vacant, staring ahead.

I draw in a quick breath. Pain flows through me, but I don't let it show. Sherlock is hurting more than I am. My own emotions can wait.

I nod, and slowly wrap my arm around his shoulder. A shuddering sob escapes his body. He quickly looks away, hiding his grief.

I place a gentle hand on his cheek, and turn his head so he is facing me once more.

"This isn't your fault, 'Lock," I say softly. I don't know the story yet, but I can say that with certainty.

He looks wretched. Tears brim in his eyes, and his face is scrunched up in pain. I move my thumb across his cheek, trying to smooth out the lines. He is bloody, and the beginnings of a bruise are forming around his left eye. It's obvious that he fought hard, trying to save his John. His eyes search my face, pleading.

The kettle whistles in the other room, and I lean up to press a kiss to his forehead.

"I'll be right back. You just hold still."

He gives the smallest of nods to show he has heard me, and I bustle off to prepare the tea. Without even thinking, I pour out three teacups before remembering that we would only be needing two. I curse softly, and set the third teacup aside.

I bring the other two cups back into the living room, where Sherlock has pulled his knees to his chest. I don't reprimand him for it, though his shoes are mucking up the fabric of the seat. I coax him into a more uncurled position, and offer him his cup, which he takes, hands shaking.

I sit beside him once more and take a long draught of my own drink. Our shoulders touch. We sit in silence for a few minutes before I finish my tea, and set the cup onto the table before us. He's only had about a quarter of his, but I take his cup from him as well.

"Sherlock," I murmur, standing. His eyes have glazed over once more. He is shaking. I pat his knee, and he shudders, coming to reality once more.

"John," he says softly. Brokenly.

"I know," I say, a pang shooting through my chest. I pull him to standing as well, and put my arms around him. It's mere seconds before I hear him sob once more. He curls around me, tall, lanky thing that he is, and I embrace him as best I can.

I shush him gently, and lay my head against his shoulder. My hands move across his back soothingly, but I quickly stop this motion when I realize that the back of his coat is wet, and sticky.

I glance back over at the love seat. Sure enough, the back of it is stained a dusky red.

"Sherlock," I say reprovingly. "You've bled all over the sofa," I tut.

He says nothing, continuing to sob.

I sigh, and as gently as I can, trying not to aggravate his wounds, pull off his coat and set it across the seat – it's stained anyway. His shirt is even worse for the wear, and without a second thought, I remove it as well.

My hand flies to my mouth when I see the state of his back.

His skin has been lacerated. It looks like the poor boy was whipped. His shoulders are oozing blood. He is still crying, looking at the floor, lost in his thoughts, but I can see that he is in physical pain as well. His muscles are tight, and he shivers slightly with each breath.

"Oh, 'Lock. Just look at you. We need to clean you up," I say softly, shaking my head.

I take his hands into mine, and lead him into the washroom. I turn on the tap in the bath, letting cool water flow into the tub. While I let it fill, I turn back to Sherlock. He is standing slumped by the sink, hiccoughing with tears.

I run my hand gently across his cheek, taking in the state of him.

"My boy," I croon softly, feeling tears sting my own eyes. I force them back down. "We'll have to do something about your clothes," I say, for the sake of saying something. "I'll wash them tonight, if you'd like."

He stares at the floor vacantly.

I sigh.

"I'm going to have to clean out these cuts, Sherlock," I say. "This will probably be easier if you take your trousers off."

He continues to look down.

"Can you hear me, love?"

Finally, a response at the word 'love.' He looks up at me, his steely eyes a dull red. He nods slowly. Tears still streaming, he leans over with a wince and removes his shoes. Then, in one fluid movement, he steps out of his trousers, leaving his pants on.

I wish he would argue with me. He is acquiescing far too easily to my requests, and it worries me greatly.

Still, it's probably for the better, I think to myself as I shepherd him into the bath. I sit him down slowly, mindful of his injuries. Once he is in the bath, I turn off the tap. I note that he is careful not to lean back against the porcelain edge of the tub.

I cup my hand, dip it into the bath, and pour the cool water over Sherlock's shoulders. He shivers, and hiccoughs again. The water swirls a murky red around him. I repeat the action four or five more times before taking a washrag from the counter. I wet it under the faucet, and as gently as I can, I begin to dab at the edges of his cuts.

Brave little Sherlock sits there, shoulders still shaking with the weight of his grief, barely flinching when I touch his demolished back.

I finish as quickly as I can, and coax him out of the tub. I take a different rag and dab some peroxide around the edges of his now-clean wounds, then rummage around through the drawer, looking for a bandage. I find it, and, with as much care as I can, I loop it around his torso, not loose enough to fall off, but not tight enough to constrict his breathing.

His eyes follow me now, watching as I move about the washroom. His pants are dripping from the bath, and I pull my pink dressing gown from the hook on the door, wrapping it around his shoulders. He seems to get the idea, and ties the gown around his waist before stepping delicately out of his pants.

I take him in. Tears still fall from his eyes unchecked – I don't think he could stop them if he tried – but he seems a bit more comfortable. Less bloodstained, at any rate. The pink gown hangs limply from his shoulders, incongruous to the wiry muscle of his body.

I put my arm around his back and lead him back through the living room and into my bedroom, setting him on the bed.

"I want you to get some rest, all right?" I say, trying not to let the worry seep into my voice. "We can sort things out in the morning."

He nods once before drawing in a shaky breath.

"You d-don't have to let me s-stay, Mrs. Hudson," he says quietly, carefully.

"Nonsense," I coo. "My boy needs taking care of." I sit by him on the bed. "You just lie down and rest."

Sherlock sniffs.

"It hurts," he says, and I know he isn't talking about his injuries.

"I know, 'Lock."

What did he ever do to deserve this?

I hum a note, and with a sigh, push him down gently into the bed. His hand curls around the quilt and he rolls onto his side, turning away from me. I place my hand on his head. My fingers wind through his hair, petting him gently.

I hope I've given him some solace. I hope, when his lovely older brother comes to visit in the morning, he'll be able to face him with dignity.

For now, all I can do is watch Sherlock, my beautiful Sherlock, Sherlock who is like a son to me, cry himself to sleep.