Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and am not making any profit by using the characters.
Author's note: This story can stand alone, though it'll make slightly more sense if you have read my story "Baker Street". I am no native English speaker, so I apologize for any mistakes.
Enjoy!
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Darkness, Receding
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Mrs Hudson needs her daily routines now more than ever. When she closes her eyes, she can see them before her, a complex web of every-day chores and habits, woven tightly around each day of the week. Steadying, calming. Comforting.
Doing the washing-up after eleven o'clock at night is not something she usually does, it's a break in the routine just as the unexpected visit from Mrs Turner was on the day before. The impact of her neighbour's spontaneity is like a stone thrown into water: causing ripples which eventually turn into waves. Rearranging the existing pattern, causing unanticipated ones. This here, standing at her sink in a sparely lit kitchen, is such a pattern. Mrs Hudson ponders this while she slides her pan into the water; she has once watched a documentary about chaos theory with John, and it was rather interesting what they said about butterflies and how they might cause a hurricane. A bit unlikely, maybe, but the general idea was certainly true: even the tiniest things can set other, bigger things in motion.
She sighs, feeling tired; in this case, the tiny thing was Mrs Turner's concern for her. Concern about her being too alone now that her tenants are gone, to be precise. The result was having to wash the dishes from an inpromptu and rather sumptuous dinner Mrs Hudson had invited Mrs Turner to, wanting to reassure her that she was all right and capable of looking after herself.
Her neighbour would never know that Mrs Hudson, after her visitor had left, had sagged and had had to sit down for a moment. The improbability of what happened, the reason why the upstairs flat's no longer inhabited by her two boys, was hitting her hard once more, so hard that it felt as though it's been yesterday that Sherlock committed suicide.
Mrs Hudson is no stranger to grief, since her life has not been an easy one, but she doesn't think she's ever been mourning this strongly and for so long, except for her own baby boy who'd be around Sherlock's age now. Would have been, had he lived.
She sat there, clutching a tea towel with both hands, and was barely able to breathe for a few minutes. She just didn't understand why he did it, and part of her grief stemmed from the conviction that he must have been very unhappy and feeling very lonely during his final moments. A sob escaped her, and she didn't quite manage to stifle the ones that followed.
It wasn't the first time she cried for Sherlock, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. She missed him dearly, and she sometimes wished she could turn back time. Not to the more recent past, but to the time before he moved into 221B, when she would find him in her kitchen or on her sofa once every few weeks, and they'd talk or not talk, depending on how he was doing, and when she had had the comfortable knowledge that he'd always return.
It took a rather long while for her to regain her composure.
And now she is scrubbing at her pan rather furiously, trying to distract herself from all these thoughts which are running in circles when she hears something, causing her to pause in her motion. Probably just some stray cats. Nevertheless, she listens intently. Was there a creak of the floorboards just now or is she beginning to imagine things?
She jumps when the door to her apartments is being opened audibly, giving a slight squeak. Heart hammering in her chest, Mrs Hudson's mind reels- where's the phone and what's that darn number she's supposed to dial in an emergency? Since the phone is somewhere out of reach anyway and she can now see the outline of the door being closed again, she does the only thing she can think of right now: she rips her rubber gloves off her hands, pulls the now clean pan out of the water and, gripping the handle as tightly as possible, lifts it up, slowly turning towards the door.
The silhouette of the burglar is becoming visible now, and Mrs Hudson, not wearing her glasses, squints to better see him. And gasps. Her grip on the pan slackens considerably, and for a moment, she feels woozy. It can't be, her mind is playing tricks on her because she has been thinking about him all day. But now the kitchen door is being opened, and when she sees the person behind it, it doesn't matter that she's not wearing her glasses, because she'd recognize this face anywhere. She's seen it often enough, in the past and, more recently, in her dreams.
She gives a faint little mewl and the pan slides out of her now senseless fingers as Sherlock Holmes enters her kitchen, accompanying his return to the living with quite a bit of noise as if to mark this special occasion, making it stand out as it should: erstwhile, he used to snuck in unheard.
Later, she can barely recall those first few seconds. Her knees were weak and the room was suddenly spinning slightly, but then there was a solid presence, two arms which kept her upright, the familiar feeling of slightly scratchy wool against her cheek, and the scent of someone she believed she'd lost.
She was trembling all over, it was a blessing that Sherlock guided her over to the kitchen table and sat her down on one of the chairs, then knelt before her, never letting go of her arms. There were tears in her eyes as she beheld him; a ghost, the loss which had been haunting her.
She met his eyes and saw that it was really him, that her mind wasn't playing cruel tricks on her.
"Sherlock," she eventually whispered, "what happened?"
"I will tell you everything, Mrs Hudson," he replied softly, and his voice sent shivers down her spine, making his presence even more real. "Do you have some milk?"
It is surreal, sitting at the kitchen table with Sherlock, sipping warm milk with honey. The comfort Mrs Hudson usually draws from it seems nonessential, considering the circumstances: while she still needs to comprehend that her boy is not dead, there's already a faint but unmistakable sensation of wild joy spreading through the back of her mind.
She regards Sherlock attentively now that she's got her bearings back: he's pale as always, thin, handsome. And yet he looks different; maybe he's a little harder-edged; there' definitely is a new pain in his eyes. His curls are not as glossy as she remembers them, his shoulders are a little bit hunched, his eyes red-rimmed, the skin underneath painted blue from fatigue. He is exhausted, obviously, and sad.
On an impulse, she reaches out and touches his hand with her fingers. He looks at them, slowly turning his hand until the palm is up, and his own fingers curl around Mrs Hudson's.
"I missed you, terribly," she says, and then there are tears in her eyes, which have been swimming ever since she sat down. In order to hide it, she gets up and turns towards the window, but it's no use.
She can't stop crying, just like before. At one point, Sherlock gets up and circles the table, putting his arms around her and allowing her to take her time to finish weeping. Patience has never been his strong suit, maybe she is wearing him down.
"I'm sorry," she sniffles once the tears subside, but she isn't ready to let go yet. And Sherlock seems to understand; he just holds her close until she's not trembling anymore. It occurs to her that he might be drawing comfort from this as well.
"The milk's getting cold," she manages to get out once she's got her voice sufficiently under control, eliciting something akin to a chuckle. It reverberates through his chest rather than producing an audible sound.
When they sit down again, Sherlock still doesn't speak. He has hardly said anything so far, which is rather odd; she hasn't witnessed him being this silent in a long time. Though, looking at him more closely, it's not so odd after all.
"Why don't you get some rest, dear" Mrs Hudson suggests. "I can see that you're absolutely knackered. We can talk in the morning."
By unspoken agreement, he sleeps on her sofa that night.
Mrs Hudson wakes up in the dark; it's shortly after three in the morning, and for a moment, she is confused. It doesn't take long for things to come back to her, however, and her heart flutters with nervous excitement: what if she has just dreamt it? What if Sherlock hasn't come back at all?
Very quietly, she gets up and puts on her dressing gown, then pads over into the living room. She doesn't need to turn on any lights, as she is familiar enough with the layout of her flat.
Sherlock is there and seems to be fast asleep. Relieved, Mrs Hudson cautiously sits down on her coffee table, something she'd never do in broad daylight, and listens to the quiet breathing she can hear now. Once her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she can make out her boy's features, slack and peaceful. He is lying on his side, which seems to be his favourite sleeping position, and the darkness takes away the lines on his face, making him look younger than he is.
On the following morning, Mrs Hudson tiptoes to her kitchen and prepares breakfast as quietly as she can; Sherlock is still asleep, and she doesn't wish to disturb him. So she just sits down with her tea and some toast and reads the papers, feeling a kind of calm settling around her which she hasn't experienced in a long time.
When she hears the distinct rustling of sheets and a yawn a while later, she pours a cup for Sherlock and takes it in to him. He has sat up, still entangled in the blanket, and is rubbing his eyes, hair dishevelled, shirt rumpled.
"Good morning," Mrs Hudson can't hide her delight. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," his voice is still rough from sleep; he looks just as pale and thin as always, but now that he's rested, he can hide his pain and sadness much better.
He doesn't want to eat anything, but he is grateful for the tea.
"Tell me," the words are out before Mrs Hudson can stop herself. "Tell me what happened." She knows she should at least give him time to properly wake up, but now that they've made it through the night, she can't wait any longer.
Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. He sits up straight, his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together, and and talks about a man called Moriarty and how he had played with people. How Sherlock had had no other choice than to fake his death, and why. He only briefly outlines the time which followed, but Mrs Hudson, who is listening with bated breath, can see how it contributed to the pain he is now hiding. He keeps his voice flat, but that doesn't conceal the ordeal behind them, the deprivations, the loneliness. It seems that it has been as hard for him as it has been for those he left behind.
They are silent for a while after he finishes, allowing his words to sink in.
"So... you did it for us?" Mrs Hudson finally asks, voice unsteady.
"I had to. You'd have been killed otherwise."
Wordlessly, Mrs Hudson gets up from the chair she's been sitting on and sinks down on the sofa next to Sherlock, pressing a kiss on his cheek: "Thank you," she whispers. "Though I suppose that is not nearly enough."
"It is," he replies, and for the first time this morning, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, if ever so fleeting.
"Were you scared?" Mrs Hudson asks, still in a very low voice, and Sherlock can hear that now the pain is hers too.
"Yes." No point in denying it, not in front of her anyway.
"I'm so sorry, my darling," she sounds choked, and Sherlock can't find it in him to scoff at the term she just used; if anything, it is comforting, telling him he's made the right choice in coming here.
As if she had read his mind, Mrs Hudson asks the next question: "Does John know?"
"Not yet." This is what has been grinding on his conscience ever since he set foot on English soil again. John. He will be angry, maybe will refuse to listen. Sherlock can't worry about that now, however: "He's not out of danger yet. There's one man who's still out there. I need to catch him first."
"That means you're still in danger as well." Mrs Hudson's voice is stronger now, appalled.
"Not as long as I'm one step ahead of him."
"Promise me you'll be careful." Her eyes are large as she looks at him now. "I've only just gotten you back."
"I promise."
There are things they leave unsaid:
I'm sorry I put you through all that grief. - I know.
There wouldn't have been any other way to make it less shocking. - I know. Never mind that.
I missed you, too. - I'm just glad you're back. It was too silent without you.
The old lady's hand is shaking as she puts it on his arm now: "Are you all right?" she asks, very softly.
His voice is equally low when he answers: "I will be. Eventually." After everything's been sorted out.
He leaves at dusk, slipping out of the back door of her kitchen as quietly as he has come.
"Mycroft's people are having an eye on you," he says before he leaves. "Be careful, though."
"I am old enough to look after myself, young man," Mrs Hudson huffs with more bravado than she actually feels, but the last thing she wants is to add to the boy's worries.
It earns her another one of those brief, fleeting smiles of his, and then he's gone.
Mrs Hudson closes the door behind him and locks it, then turns towards her sink; a good deal of washing up has accumulated there again. It doesn't matter; yesterday or on any of the previous days it would have mattered a lot, would have bothered her to no end, but not anymore. She needed those strict routines to take her through the days because she had lost her footing after Sherlock's death. Now that he is back, she feels stronger than ever, ready to dance.
As long as he was there, she didn't want to waste any time away from him, a mutual feeling: Sherlock didn't once go upstairs, and whenever Mrs Hudson went into the kitchen to make more tea or to prepare something to eat, he followed her, as if his loneliness was going to close in on him as soon as he was left on his own.
She can still only imagine what he's gone through recently. The thought that he's not out of danger yet is sending shivers down her spine, but there's nothing she can do about it. At least she has gotten him to eat and to rest some more; he fell asleep during her favourite afternoon talkshow, probably due to a full stomach and the very welcome peace and quiet of 221A.
Sighing, Mrs Hudson puts on her rubber gloves: it will be all right, she tells herself.
He will be all right. Eventually.
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The End
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Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.
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Additional author's note: As GoSherlocked said two days ago: the muse is a fickle thing. Too true! My muse had gone awol, and then I tried to write something based off the new trailer for "Little Favour" (if anyone can make anything out of those first three seconds- please, go ahead), which didn't work at all. Instead, this happened. Such is life, right?
Apart from that: I think the door we see in the teaser is not the door to the kitchen but the one which leads into 221A, so I took some liberties here.