Molly hadn't meant to come down Baker Street. She'd been meandering, despite the frigid temperature and slushy streets, too restless to return home after work but with no real plans. She doesn't even realize she's turned down the street until she spots Mrs. Hudson struggling with a new bag of salt on the steps of 221. And of course she's caught her eye and of course she can't just walk past or turn around as if she hasn't seen the older woman. It's bad enough that she has actively avoided this street and the flat and everyone associated with it since Sherlock's death. Snubbing his former landlady would be unacceptable.
Her avoidance is equal parts guilt and fear. Guilt about lying to people she cares about, and fear that she will let something slip. Her grief is real enough, she thinks. After all, she does grieve for Sherlock's lost life; she misses him keenly. She grieves over the circumstances that forced him into such a position, and for his friends. And there is always the chance that at any moment his heart may stop beating for real. That it already has and she just hasn't been told. But it is not the knife edged grief of actually losing someone forever.
She feels that she lost the right to comfort or to find comfort in the rest of Sherlock's loved ones the moment she asked him what he needed of her.
At this moment, however, Mrs. Hudson doesn't need anything like comfort. She simply needs someone to help her pour the bloody salt on the steps and the pavement.
"Oh, Molly, dear, thank you!" Mrs. Hudson says as Molly takes the bag from her and sets it on the bottom step. Molly scoops salt into the plastic cup already nestled inside and begins distributing it along the stoop.
"It's no problem; I was passing by and saw you struggling."
"Yes, dear. I've got no one to help this year, you know."
"No new tenants?" Molly asks, genuinely. She's not exactly in the loop despite Mycroft Holmes being fully aware of her role in his brother's escape.
"That brother of his is still paying the rent, didn't even move anything out other than some of the more expensive things, like the microscope and the violin. It's all dust covers and silence. I don't know if it's more like a museum or a shrine. I'd almost rather just rent it out. Not for the money but for the company. But then again people are either superstitious or morbid so there's just be a bunch of looky-loos and weirdos."
Molly smiles thinly and focuses on the pavement directly in front of the building. She has to fight down the desire to go upstairs and look. Those rooms contain some of the only tangible proof in the world that Sherlock Holmes ever existed. (She refuses to visit his grave.)
"Did someone shovel the walk for you or are you doing that yourself, too? With your hip?"
"One of the boys at Speedy's did it. They're so nice."
"Sounds like Mr. Chatterjee is still sweet on you, then?" Molly teases.
Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Oh heavens, no, he's moved on. How on earth did you know about that, anyhow?"
"Oh, Sherlock said something about it once or five times. He didn't approve."
"That he didn't. Now you're half frozen. Come inside and I'll fix you up with a cuppa and try not to bore you too much. Talk about something other than these silly men. And I'll have you scooted out the door before my program comes on."
Molly hesitates and Mrs. Hudson catches her eyes darting up to the second floor windows."
"It's not haunted, dear. I swore for a few nights, after Mycroft had finally gotten the police to clear out, I could hear someone up there pacing about like he used to and while I put it down to an overactive imagination I certainly wasn't going to check! It's been nothing but settling foundation and rattling pipes since, though."
"I could do with a biscuit I suppose," Molly says and follows the landlady inside. She sets the bag of salt inside the door and accompanies Mrs. Hudson into her cheery flat, only glancing briefly at the stairs leading up to B. Wonders if the flat still smells like him or if the air has gone stale with his six month absence.
She hasn't seen him in almost that long, since the night he apparated from the shadows next to the bins a block from her building, telling her to walk with him.
"What's going on?" she'd asked as he fell in step beside her, knit cap pulled down tightly over his ears.
"I have reason to believe someone is waiting for you in your flat. Mycroft's people are on their way to take care of it, but you'll want to stay away until they—take care of it. Clean it, sweep it for bugs and install surveillance and security."
"How long will that take?"
"Most of the night, but luckily I had the foresight to secure vaguely comfortable accommodations for the brief time I'm in town."
And that's how she'd spent a night sleeping fitfully in a cheap bedsit while Sherlock paced the narrow room, checking his phone at regular intervals. He'd been gone when she awoke, but had left instructions that she could return to her flat and that an operative would be on hand to go over her new security system.
He hadn't signed the note, just told her to burn it. She had destroyed it, though not in so dramatic a fashion. She shredded it in her office, only wincing slightly as the blades cut through their last physical tie.
As she drinks Mrs. Hudson's tea and eats her lovely homemade biscuits, the tiny kitchen's walls start to press in on her. She swears she can see them bowing in, the ceiling, too. She can hear Mrs. Hudson asking her if she's alright, telling her she's gone pale, asking her if she'd like to lie down. She shakes her head and says she has to go.
"Not if you're ill, dear."
"No, I'm fine," she says, standing up. "It's just—" She gestures vaguely above. Hopes desperately the kind old lady will think she's grieving for Sherlock. That it's just more pathetic unrequited love. When she smiles sadly and nods Molly knows she's clear. She can escape before the walls fold in on her.
She thanks Mrs. Hudson again as she rushes down the hall. Apologizes as she opens the door and breathes in a massive gulp of sharp cold air.
It's snowing again and she slips a bit on the stoop she just salted because of course she would. But she's outside and she can keep walking anywhere, every step taking her farther from 221b, every breath deeper and cleaner.