I use the beat of the heart monitor to regulate my own breathing. For if I don't, I may forget to and end up lying in a bed next to her.
It's hard to believe that she's dying. I knew it was coming one day, but I never expected it to be so soon. The invincible Mrs. Hudson was losing the battle.
She came to me initially.
"John, you know that pain in my hip?" How could I forget? The first day we met, she compared it to my own leg. I nodded, without looking up from my laptop. Her hip pain was nothing new to me.
"John, that pain is everywhere now. It hurts so much that I can't tell if I'm in pain or just numb."
I closed the laptop.
I was the one who took her to the doctor. We both felt it best to not tell Sherlock - just let him figure it out on his own. She was silent the entire cab ride to St. Bart's. Something was certainly wrong, for this behavior was out of character. Mrs. Hudson loved her city. She enjoyed commenting on every detail she could spot as we zipped through downtown London. As we pulled up to the hospital she smiled at me, attempting more to comfort herself with the smile she knew I would return. I took her hand, gave it a kiss, and led her to the doors.
"Well, Mrs. Hudson, your CAT scans show multiple signs of infected lymph nodes." She looked confused. I put my face in my hands. "Lymphoma." I whispered to myself. The doctor heard me. As I looked up, I saw him nodding.
"How long have I got?" She was sitting up straight as a pin, ready to face the worst.
The doctor looked a bit taken aback. He was used to this question. What he was shocked to hear was the confidence in her voice. He quickly leafed through his papers until he found a small blank piece.
"Would you like me to read it first?" I asked her quietly. She closed her eyes and nodded, holding my hand.
I reached for the doctor's outstretched hand, slowly removing the Armageddon from his fingers.
Three months.
Mrs. Hudson opened her eyes. I held up three fingers. She curtly nodded to the doctor and left the room. I followed her, beginning to limp a bit.
Of course Sherlock had found out. The moment I stepped foot in the flat, I saw him seated on the couch, fingers to his lips as if he were praying. I shook my head, not daring to meet his eyes. He knew.
"Hand me the gun John."
Complying, I went to the desk and retrieved the gun from the top drawer. There was another one, a new one waiting for me. I stole a glance at Sherlock. He returned a smile.
Together, we each shot three bullets. One for each month she had left.
"John?" I hadn't realized I was falling asleep until I heard the faint sound of her voice.
"Yes, Mrs. H? What is it?"
"If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the answer?" Mrs. Hudson had changed in her weakened state. She was fragile and frail, not as much the go-getter she once was. I knew I could not deny the woman anything, not when she was on her death bed. I offered a smile as my answer.
"Remember the day you came to look at the flat? I told you Mrs. Turner had married ones next door. Do you and Sherlock really still need two bedrooms?"
I laughed. Sherlock looked at her, his head cocked to the side, a slight grin on his face. Then he looked at me. Our eyes met.
Our relationship had been put on hold for the past three months. This needed to be about her and not us. The look in his eyes told me that I was allowed to tell the truth.
"No Mrs. Hudson. I don't think we'll be needing the two bedrooms anymore.
As I fired my final bullet into the wall, I felt Sherlock run his fingers through my hair. I stared into his eyes. We said nothing. We both knew what was at stake. We both knew what we would be losing in three months. Finally, I found the words to say.
"That day, at the hospital, I didn't mean what I said. You're not a machine. If I had only known what was really going on I would have nev-"
"Oh John just shut up. I don't want or need an apology at the moment. It's entirely inappropriate wouldn't you think. I think I have the right to be calling you the machine. All worried about the past now are we? This is no longer about the past John, don't you see that? This is about her. And this is about the undeniable fact that she will be gone in three months time. Now for God sakes please just pull yourself toget-"
I kissed him. Just to shut him up. He collapsed to the couch after I let go. I seated myself next to him. He held my shoulders firmly, as if he was about to lecture me on the many types of tobacco ash yet again. Then, his face fell. And he fell apart. He sobbed into my shoulder, uttering identifiable phrases.
"I do not want to care. Caring is not an advantage. This is pure proof. But I do care John, and that is a defect I have tried to push away, one that I have labeled as unimportant and unnecessary." He shuddered, shaking his head. He looked down at his hands. He was fiddling with the gun that I had placed on the table. He always fiddles with things.
"John." It was barely audible. "John, I think I've forgotten what it means to love."
He closed his eyes a few minutes later. He had simply decided to lay down, head in my lap, and fall asleep. He usually regarded sleep with the same attitude he regarded food with: unnecessary. It was at that moment that I noticed her standing in the doorway. She wore a slight grin as if to say, "I told you so." And then Mrs. Hudson winked and walked back down the stairs.
Midnight. We had been here all day now, the three of us. I was doing my best not to nod off. I was not entirely succeeding.
"John," Mrs. Hudson managed to murmur. "Fetch me my bag would you?" I dared to roll my eyes as I walked across the room to pick up her purse. As I walked back towards her bed, I opened it. No need for her to exert any extra energy. She fished around in her bag for a few moments before she pulled out a package of cigarettes. She dismissed the disapproving look on my face with a giggle and a shake of her head.
"Not for me you bloody idiot. For him." She motioned towards the door. I understood entirely.
Sherlock was waiting outside the room, hands in his pockets, staring out the window into the rainy London night. I already had a cigarette in my own mouth. I lit one for him and placed it between his lips. He took a long drag, his eyes almost rolling back in his head with relief.
"What is there left to do John? This is hateful." The disgust rose from him like steam from a boiling kettle. I did not know what to tell him. I had never seen him like this.
"Sherlock I wish ther-"
The doctors ran into the room.
He was the last thing she saw. He sprinted in after the doctors. I tried to hold him back, but he was strong and I was not willing to forcefully restrain him. I sank to the floor outside the doorway. I heard the heart monitor slowing. I peeked around the frame just in time to see him chin one of the more irritable doctors, one by the name of Dr. Anderson, no relation to our good friend down at the Yard.
"Sherlock, my dear." She managed. "Remember, I'm not your housekeeper." He laughed. Not heartily like the day at Buckingham Palace or the day when we chased the cab through the streets of London. This was a childish laugh, like if a mother made a silly face at her child. Her eyes closed and the monitor went silent.
He was shaking. He dropped her hand and stood up, a wild look in his eye. He took the heart monitor and threw it across the room at the doctors. He screamed obscenities at them. I rushed into the room and held his arms behind his back. Sherlock fell to the ground. I released his arms and offered a look of pleading sympathy to the doctors. They left the room.
"John. I don't want to be a machine anymore."
I awoke a few hours later with Sherlock's head on my shoulder, sound asleep. Mrs. Hudson's body had been removed from the room and taken to the morgue. I silently got up and made my way to the hall. There was someone I wanted to see.
Molly was bustling around the morgue as usual, checking up on bodies, going through her various lists.
"John, I didn't think I would see you in here today." She put down her clipboard and went to the sink to rinse off her hands. "I have something for you actually." She went over to one of the storage lockers.
"Molly, I don't want to see her if that's what you're getting at." She laughed and shook her head. I breathed a sigh of relief.
There was a bag in the locker, clear and plastic, with a single piece of paper in it.
"I figured I should give it to you or Sherlock. But I have the feeling he might need a bit of a break from here, if you know what I mean. Oh, God that was insensitive! I'm sorry John. I'll just be, um, going to fetch some dinner. I'll bring you up a cuppa." I nodded my thanks.
The chemistry lab just seemed like the right place to be. I sat myself on Sherlock's usual stool and took a look at the note.
It was the piece of paper from the doctor. Two simple words adulterated the wrinkly but otherwise white piece of paper.
THREE MONTHS.
I tossed it aside and put my head in my hands. The paper landed on the microscope. The light from the bottom made the paper almost transparent. I noticed that there was something written on the backside.
John, make sure he knows: England won't fall.
- Mrs. H