Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize! That belongs to the writers and BBC. I just sometimes take the characters out and make them dance like puppets!
I was about to fall asleep when this little plot bunny smacked me in the face. This story is slightly sad, but not tissue-worthy. I like it despite the fact that I loathe sad stories, but I'm biased. I really do hope you enjoy it!
Reviews are always loved!
It's been nearly three weeks since… the fall, and Mrs. Hudson is starting to worry. John Watson was so adamant that Sherlock Holmes was alive, so sure of himself, for the first three days following the incident he did nothing but stare at the front door, as if expecting the consulting detective to burst into the flat at any moment. He never did.
Then John began the pacing. Back and forth throughout the night, muttering nonsense under his breath, the doctor began to wear a path into the carpet. Sometimes, when Mrs. Hudson would make an excuse to check on him, she would notice something odd about the way John moved. His limp was back.
When the pacing stopped Mrs. Hudson was relieved. She thought that perhaps John was coming to terms with Sherlock's passing. She had never been more wrong in her life. John Watson went back to what he dubbed, 'the scene', and took all sorts of measurements. Then he would pace the length of Baker Street, working out different calculations and finding the probability that Sherlock was out there somewhere. It was only after people started gossiping about the crazy man stalking around the neighborhood did Mrs. Hudson yank the normally sensible doctor inside and send him upstairs.
Then, nearly five days ago, everything went silent. Mrs. Hudson could no longer hear John Watson's pacing or muttering. She didn't even hear the sound of scribbling as the doctor worked out yet another probability chart on a sheet of paper. At first Mrs. Hudson decided that John must have accepted Sherlock's fate, and deserved to mourn in peace. Days went by, and when the flat was still silent, the older woman decided she had to at least check on the man, if not comfort him.
Patting her bad hip in encouragement, Mrs. Hudson slowly climbed the steps and let herself into the flat. The silence was deafening. The poor woman nearly fell over when she squinted into the darkness and noticed something was off about the place. It was spotless. There were no magazines or clothes strewn haphazardly around the living room as she had seen previously, and the table was bare of Sherlock's usual experiments. When had John cleaned? This didn't seem like the place she knew and loved. Cleanliness and 221B didn't mix, and the sight was unnerving.
Mrs. Hudson continued in the direction of John's room after taking a steadying breath. When she nudged the door open, however, she was surprised to see the room void of… everything. There were no medical texts stacked neatly next to a pile of badly folded shirts, and even the bedclothes were missing from the room. Figuring there was only one other place where John Watson could be, Mrs. Hudson turned and started in the direction of the other bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom. Nudging the door open in the same fashion as before, Mrs. Hudson tried to prepare herself for the worst.
There, in the middle of Sherlock Holmes' bed, lay one John Watson, curled in the fetal position. Sherlock's room was cluttered with everything that had been strewn throughout the rest of the flat, including the missing items from John's room. The man himself was clutching the consulting detective's pillow, and seemed to be wearing one of his purple shirts. Mrs. Hudson's hand flew to her heart, as if trying to prevent the onslaught of sorrow she felt. Forgetting the pain in her hip she rushed to the bed, nearly tripping on what appeared to be a human skull, and pulled John close to her.
The doctor allowed his landlady to rock him back and forth soothingly. For awhile no words were spoken, and John willed his mind to go blank. However his head was suddenly filled with images of his flatmate, working out a case, focused on an experiment, and more rare images, such as Sherlock yawning, eating, and even one of the consulting detective sleeping. His heart throbbed painfully, though the doctor knew that there was no medical reasoning behind the feeling.
His train of thought was suddenly broken by the sounds of what appeared to be sobbing. Looking up at Mrs. Hudson surreptitiously, John realized that it wasn't the older woman that was breaking down. He was. The tears poured freely from his eyes, and his body jerked with each involuntary gasp of breath he took. Mrs. Hudson's bony fingers would probably leave bruises, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered without Sherlock.
"H-he is-isn't coming b-b-back, is he?" John asked, clutching the pillow tighter.
Mrs. Hudson's silence confirmed his worst fears, and the sobbing increased if possible.
"I w-wish I'd n-never met him!" he screamed over his sobs. He wouldn't be feeling this pain if he'd just stayed away from the curly-haired sociopath he'd had the misfortune of running into.
Again, Mrs. Hudson said nothing, and just allowed the doctor to progress through the stages of grief at his own pace.
When the sobbing deceased and the only noise that could be heard was an occasional gasp, Mrs. Hudson loosened her grip. She began stroking the doctor's sandy hair lightly, and when the gasps turned to steady breathing she stood up to leave. As Mrs. Hudson made to close John said something that sent tears flooding the aging woman's eyes.
"I've always loved him, you know?"
"We both knew, my dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered before shutting the door with a soft click. "We both knew."