It takes five cups of flowery-cupped tea (the way Sherlock remembers she likes it) to bring Mrs Hudson to a state where she can speak, and one more to convince her that her former tenant isn't a ghost. Her hands and smile are wobbly, now. "I never did believe in haunting and the like," she says, setting the finished drink down on its chipped, rose-patterned saucer and giving a small hiccup. There are still a few tears on her face, her face with the lines that Sherlock doesn't remember - new since the Fall. She dabs her face with a napkin. "Why would you do that to us, Sherlock?"

Expecting the more clever "how did you do this to us, Sherlock" and getting something overly emotional instead, Sherlock feels an unexpected pang of guilt.

Why did she have to ask that? It's a long and dull story, and all Sherlock really wants to know is how John is.

"It's complicated," he says, and she puts her hands in her lap like she's a child settling down for story time.

He sighs. "I'll put the kettle on," he says.

"Heavens. I've had enough," she says.

"It's for me," he says shortly. Moving the water onto the stovetop again, he looks up at the roof, where his one-time flat is. "So, tell me - how has everyone been?"

He doesn't want to care, but he's still disappointed when she starts talking about herself, and not - well, not any of the others.

"It's been quiet," she says. "I don't see them, much - your friends. How do I know these police officers and them? But Molly, Molly Hooper, she's been lovely. She comes over every now and again for lunch and a chat. Of course, we've been missing John terribly."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at his reflection in the stove clock. "Did he move out of London?"

Mrs Hudson is oddly quiet. When Sherlock turns, he sees her hands over her mouth, new tears starting in her eyes.

"What is it?" He says. "What's … what's wrong?"

"Do you not know, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, Sherlock." She stands up and comes towards him, hugs him tight.

"Sit down," she says, guiding him to a place at the coffee table again, sitting beside him, taking his hands. He isn't sure what to make of it all.

"Sherlock … John was killed not a year ago in a traffic accident." Her voice grates to a halting whisper somewhere in the middle.

"No, he wasn't," Sherlock says, standing up and reaching for his coat, knocking over Mrs Hudson's empty tea cup. "I'd know."

And he walks out, tying his scarf, not waiting to hear anything else.

.,.,.,.,

But he wouldn't know, because he's been staying away from every social networking site he runs into (better not to remember what you're missing).

He may have checked John's blog. But the stupid man doesn't update that anymore.

.,.,.,.,

The internet's wrong, too, wrong about a man called John who had a wife named Mary and a life, a whole life, without a best friend knowing. Sherlock shuts off his phone and pulls his scarf up, eyes watering (from the cold in the park, obviously). It's wrong because people aren't supposed to leave each other like that, and because what kind of person doesn't stop at a red light, and because he always meant to come back. He was always going to show up at 221B and go right back to paying his half of the rent. He was the one who was going to spring the surprise.

.,.,.,.,

And everyone who's seeing a dark haired, long-coated someone cry on a park bench is wrong, because that's ridiculous.