John looked into Mrs. Hudson's doe-like face as she rested her chin on her elegant, wrinkled hand. In her other rather unsteady grip a tea cup, half filled with strong black tea cooled as she forgot to drink it, looking around the cluttered living room as if searching for a purpose, "I suppose...we should pack up some of these things," she spoke softly, focused now on the human skull on the fire place mantle.
"I don't think I could, Mrs. Hudson." John spoke frankly, as he had been lately. He couldn't remember a time he felt his throat so raw and his thoughts so alien to conversing or when tea had tasted so bitter.
"But surely," Mrs. Hudson studied John's face in the flickering fire light, noticing how furrowed his brow was, always lips pressed tightly together and jaw thick with concentration, "you wouldn't want his things around with a lady coming over?" She raised her voice slightly at the end, attempting to disguise her good advice.
"Mariel is a friend, and this is my home now. I wish it to remain as it is."
Mrs. Hudson sighed, deeply and loudly, and continued without adherence to John's uncomfortable shifting since this subject of talk.
"I just thought you two get along so well and, I haven't seen you out and about so much, with her being such a pretty, nice girl and all, I just thought it would be nice to set aside some of the more..." Mrs. Hudson stopped at the grief unwillingly etching itself deeper into John's lines. "I'm sorry, John, I know its so hard. But perhaps it would be easier to move on if his things weren't lying all about." She surveyed the room again, the violin and bow resting neatly on the desk between papers and scattered books filled with dust, the smiley face was still on the wall and the gun shot holes still gaping open. The floral wall paper had begun to peel from the corners, but even Mrs. Hudson didn't notice because of the intricate silver webs strung from the wall to the ceiling.
"Thank you, for the tea, Mrs. Hudson," John broke from his internal dilemma and met Mrs. Hudson's worried eyes, "and thank you for your company." Mrs. Hudson nodded and cleared the saucers and cups into the kitchen. When John comfortably heard her rustling in the kitchen he breathed a long, laborious breath, knotting his knuckles into his sore leg. Next to the overstuffed armchair rested his cane, the same one he put away in his closet when he met Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective.
"Do you need anything else tonight, love?" Mrs. Hudson paused in the doorway.
"No, thank you, I'll be alright tonight." John sat still in his chair, not being able to bear more eyes heavy with pity. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson"
"Good night, dear."
John waited until the house was silent. The fire crackled drowsily in the fireplace, happy for the moment with the bits of wood to chew on. John stiffly lifted himself out of the armchair and hobbled to the bookshelf. In a hollowed out novel (that John discovered Sherlock stashed his cigarettes long ago), John kept a small clear bottle of honey scented, amber tinted alcohol. He poured a fair amount into his tea cup and hid it back on the dusty shelf. He returned to the armchair, sipping the strong amnesia as the fire slowly snuffed itself out in ash.