She had been renting out the apartment for years, and she could honestly say she'd seen it all. Honeymooners, couples in sin, siblings, friends, enemies - you name it, she'd rented to them. She could honestly say, though, that Sherlock and John were her favorites. Oh, they had their quirks. John shouted often at Sherlock and occasionally slammed the doors. Sherlock shot holes in the walls with a pisol, played his violin at the strangest hours, and shouted back at John. They came and went at the most peculiar times and had odd visitors on a daily basis, but they paid the rent, and they didn't mind her fussing over them.
Which was fantastic, since she couldn't abide not having people to fuss over.
Even though John had vanished and Sherlock had been gone these past two years, she still remembered so much about them. For the longest time, she'd left the apartment exactly as they'd left it, but times were hard and money was tight. She'd finally cleaned it (with many breaks for a cuppa, a few tears, and a little herbal soothers for her hip) and rented it to the strangest man. He was quiet and small, always hidden under a large-brimmed hat and a heavy wool coat, even on the hottest of days. Oh, and so quiet too. He never made a peep. Some days, she wondered if he was nothing but a figment of her imagination, but whenever she ventured upstairs to check, the door was bolted and a small "do not disturb" sign was hanging from the knob, so he had to be real.
He didn't stay long - three, just on the verge of four months. He left as quickly and quietly as he came. She couldn't say she was sorry to see him go (not that she was pleased; she simply couldn't summon any emotions on the matter), but he left her a cheque for another six months' rent, so she wasn't going to complain. The only thing left to do was to make that trip back up the stairs and into the apartment to clean up and make it ready for another tenant.
Mrs. Hudson was surprised; everything was exactly the same as it had been when John and Sherlock left. Even the bullet holes that she could have sworn she'd had covered were back in the wall, practically smoking. The surfaces were so clean and free of dust. Oh what a gentleman, he'd even cleaned up after himself. Still, she had to be sure - and she couldn't deny that the temptation to venture back into Sherlock's room and explore again was more tempting than the idea of a little - erm, nevermind.
She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open a little hesitantly, half expecting that familiar shout of "Mrs. Hudson!" to ring in the empty flat. She chose to take a moment to stand in the doorway and simply breathe, the smell of Sherlock's musk and the scent of many old books still permeating the wallpaper. The smooth floor seemed to do wonders for her bad hip, making each step almost as painless as it had been thirty years ago. It creaked comfortingly underfoot, and she closed her eyes with a faint smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, memories of waking up to those creaks and groans and the subtle strains of Partita No. 2 in D minor.
Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Mrs. Hudson ran a finger along the smooth, solid wood of the dresser, glancing at the spines of the books scattered around the room. Sherlock always kept his personal space so neat, so tidy - if only he'd kept the rest of the apartment the same way. The bed was still rumpled, as if he had only just fallen out. The nightstand light was off, the bulb still burnt out; she'd meant to change that but had completely forgotten until now.
The nightstand, though - that looked different. The top drawer was slightly open, which was unusual. Sherlock never left drawers open. Mrs. Hudson approached it with the full intention of closing it, but even her brief glance halted her. Something was...wrong. She'd had a rummage through his drawers when she was cleaning for the new tenant, but this drawer had contained only a pad and pen, perhaps in case he had inspiration during the night. Now it contained two small dolls and an envelope. She took the envelope first, as it caught her eye, and examined it carefully. No name, no address - nothing. But it was heavier than a letter ought to be. She turned open the flap and pulled out an old iron skeleton key. It had clearly been used a lot in its prime, but it wasn't rusty or greasy. It simply...was. She tucked it in her pocket, making a mental note to put it in her box of treasures, then turned her attention to the small dolls.
She almost screamed.
Each doll was perhaps 25 centimeters in length; the bodies felt like rag dolls with little wooden skeletons inside. The heads were made of porcelain, and the hair felt like...well, human hair. Every painstaking detail was painted so carefully on the little faces that it was almost like looking at a photograph. The eyes were the only odd thing out - they were glossy black buttons, positioned so precisely that she couldn't help but feel they were staring directly at her as if in scorn or disdain. Still, even the strange little button eyes weren't what chilled her to her core.
The dolls looked like Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Mrs. Hudson lifted the Sherlock doll and turned it over and over carefully in her trembling hands. It looked so...so lifelike. The hands that were almost too large for that slender body, the mess of curls that she'd begged him to cut, the trench coat with the missing third button...everything. Even the little dimple on that bright smiling face. But those eyes - those small button eyes perched above those perfectly sculpted cheekbones - were so cold, deliberate, evil. It was like seeing a small Sherlock laughing at her misery, thoroughly enjoying her heartbreak.
The John doll was no better. The sweater was slightly too big, just like he always wore. His expression was slightly confused, as it always was around Sherlock. His hair was neatly trimmed, his tiny fingernails immaculate. It was eerie. He wasn't smiling, but the buttons gleamed as though he was chuckling inside at a joke at her expense that only he could hear.
Mrs. Hudson carefully set the dolls back into the drawer, slid it shut, and locked it firmly with the key she'd found on the sole of one of Sherlock's slippers. She tucked the key into her pocket and forced herself to walk slowly to the door. She was afraid to run; even though she knew the dolls were perfectly harmless, she still had a horrible feeling that they were just waiting for the chance to leap from their cage and chase her to her doom. She carefully shut the door, locked it, and ran back to her flat as quickly as her bad hip would allow. The door was locked and bolted behind her, and the kettle was whistling merrily (although in her current state of terror it sounded more like a scream of murder). She poured the water into the cup with hands that were shaking so badly, she spilled most of it.
Of all the ways to remember Sherlock Holmes, this was by far the most terrifying.