"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."
London, 2015.
It had been a heart attack. After spending her youth working as a secretary for a drug cartel, and her retirement years as a landlady-"not a housekeeper, dear"-for a consulting detective, what got Mrs. Hudson in the end was a heart attack. Despite his shock and impending grief, John couldn't help but see the irony in the situation: an ordinary death for a person who, if he might be so bold, seemed addicted to a certain lifestyle.
It was Sherlock who found her, but not Sherlock who called him. John had been at home with Mary and the baby, enjoying a lazy Sunday morning, when Lestrade had phoned with the news. Apparently Sherlock had been out all night on a case, had come home, and found her. He had called Lestrade, who had called John. Even in the midst of horrible news, this fact didn't escape John's notice. First sign things were a bit not good.
Mary left the baby with Kate, and insisted on accompanying John to Baker Street. When they got there, John trudged up the stairs and opened the door, finding a familiar tall, pale man sitting in his chair, face blank of emotion, chin resting on fingertips pressed together like a temple. Sherlock appeared to be in deep, detached thought, almost as if it were any other day, and he was simply engaged in a case.
John crossed the room to his own chair, Mary following. "Sherlock-" he began.
"She was here, in this room," Sherlock interrupted, but he didn't meet John's eye. He was working through the event, John realized, seeing it as a puzzle to solve, which might mean he didn't even realize anyone else was in the room. John sat in his own chair, with Mary perching on the armrest, and leaned forward towards his friend.
"You found her here? This morning?"
"There was no tea or biscuits, meaning she didn't come here on an errand. Her dressing gown was untied, meaning she was in a hurry." Sherlock moved his hands away from his face, still staring past John, but now frowning slightly. "She knew what was happening. I think she came up for help."
John closed his eyes. Please, please don't go down this road, Sherlock, he prayed silently.
Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then finally spoke. "I was out, of course. She was looking for me, looking for help, and I was out." He turned to John, face void of any traceable emotion. "She died alone," he concluded matter-of-factly.
The statement chilled John's core, and he immediately shook his head. As a doctor and a solider, he had seen enough death, had seen enough of what happened to those left behind. He slipped into the role of Dr. Watson. "When you die, Sherlock," John began slowly, "your body does everything it can to comfort you. To take away pain and fear. It's a defense mechanism, so no matter the situation-"
"Shut. Up." Two words, punctuated softly but tersely. John almost didn't catch them. Sherlock placed his fingertips on his temples, his hands shaking slightly, and John sensed the tension increase in the room.
Mary stood for the kitchen, her voice cutting through the silence. "Why don't I put on some tea?"
Neither man responded, or watched her go. Something was building in the room, the air was getting thin. The cases they solved together always had underlying sadness. Loss: that was always at the core of it. Some of it tore at John's heart, the stuff with kids in particular, and he was grateful for Mary because he couldn't explain those moments to Sherlock. The guilt and sadness he could feel, even when he knew there was nothing he could have done. Nothing ever seemed to rattle Sherlock, and perhaps that was why, when he did get affected, it was volatile. John had seen Sherlock like this very few times before. While most people experienced strong emotions without detonating, Sherlock seemed to self-destruct the few times they hit.
He was staring at John now with a wild look in his eyes. Grief and guilt were being processed and transformed into anger, and John sat tense in his chair, waiting for the explosion.
"If I had been here, she might still be alive." The usual detached tone in Sherlock's voice had been replaced by quiet but barely restrained fury.
"You don't know that," John responded. But he knew that was the essence of the problem, not a platitude.
In a flash, Sherlock was up, over the chair, and at the desk. "Goddamn it!" he yelled as he shoved aside files, papers, glass bottles filled with unknown solutions, anything within reach and not nailed down. It all crashed to the ground, and John heard the echo of Mrs. Hudson's ghost cries about disturbing the neighbors. "She was looking for me! I could have saved her!"
John crossed the floor quickly, grabbing his best friend from behind and pinning his long arms down before he could do any more damage. Sherlock fought back, pulling against John's grasp, then trying to shake him off. Sherlock was taller, but John was trained. He held on tight, finally wrestling Sherlock to the ground by the couch.
"Stop it, Sherlock!" John ordered. "Just stop it! This isn't your fault: there was nothing you could have done!"
In his arms, John felt his friend start to relax, the tension slowly draining out. Both men were heaving with the effort of the fight, and John loosened his arms a bit, ready to let go. Then he felt it: the shoulders pinned against his chest starting to shake. Sherlock kept his face forward, away from John's gaze, but John heard the hitch in still-heavy breathing, the tremble in the words "she shouldn't have been alone."
"It's not your fault," John said again, gentler this time. "None of this. It's not your fault." Sherlock's head dropped forward, one soft sob escaping his lips before he gained control, letting out the rest of his grief in silence. Knowing the other man's carefully maintained dignity was exposed, John let go long enough for Sherlock to cover his face in his hands. Then John tentatively slid his arms back around his friend's heaving chest, gently holding him from behind. Sherlock didn't turn around, didn't return the embrace; but he also didn't fight it, didn't try to pull away as John would have expected.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mary set down two cups of tea on the coffee table, before silently stepping into the hall. The gesture reminded him of something Mrs. Hudson would do, which brought sudden tears to his own eyes. He swallowed fiercely, fighting it down. John had Mary for comfort, and could turn to her later, at their own flat. For now, he needed to be here for Sherlock, who for whatever reason allowed John and only John access to these rare, private moments.
"It's all right, mate," John murmured softly. "It's all right."
He still couldn't see Sherlock's face, but the thin frame in his arms continued to shake, and the air was still punctuated with jagged breaths. John held Sherlock tighter, and felt one hand reach down and grasp him by the wrist. He understood what it meant without any words being spoken.
Thank you.