"It's just awful." Mrs. Hudson dabbed the tears from her eyes with her handkerchief. She placed the remnants of the tea onto the tray, glanced mournfully once more at the horrific images on the telly, and swept into the kitchen.
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement. His stare was unfocused as he steepled his fingers under his chin.
Sherlock could observe a great many things about an individual's history. He could use said observations to deduce patterns and potential outcomes.
But it was days like today, when a handful of people could find it within themselves to unleash untold horrors on their fellow humans, that Sherlock found himself lost.
He never presumed to understand what it was inside a man that could drive him to violence, or just as easily compel him to compassion.
As if on cue, John rushed down the stairs from his room. "All right, mate. See you in a few." He hung up the call and skidded to stop as the scene on the telly caught his eye.
"The Stade de France," John mumbled and looked at Sherlock. "Greg's step-brother and nephews were there for the match... When..." The flatemates stared at the news report.
"Did they..."
"They're safe." John held up his mobile. "I'm just running down to the pub now to meet with Greg. He needs..." John turned to Sherlock and they shared a meaningful glance.
"Right. I'm off then." Shrugging into his coat, John paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"Perhaps, just for tonight, Lestrade could use two friends." Sherlock stood and awkwardly smoothed the front of his suit. With a silent nod, John handed him his coat. Together they headed out into the cold night to stand in solidarity with their friend.