Chapter 2: Mrs. Hudson

Martha Hudson never expected to find herself here. She'd been to plenty of funeral homes—at her age, they were just a part of life—but never once had she considered she'd be drawn to one because of Sherlock. Sherlock, who shot holes in her walls and left bloody specimens in her fridge. Sherlock, who would spring from borderline depression into mania when a case came up. Sherlock, whose occupation drew creepy strangers of all sorts to her front door. Sherlock, whose excitement was infectious, despite the fact that murder was almost always its catalyst. Sherlock, who would return with John from solving a dreadful murder to wolf down sustenance before crashing on the couch or in his bedroom. Sherlock, who always preferred her tea even when he was perfectly capable of making it himself.

Goodness, how she missed him already. The flat was unnervingly quiet without the sounds of his antics emanating from the floor above. She decided she'd much prefer Sherlock and all his quirks to the deafening silence that now permeated her home. Every day, she expected him to come barreling through the front door, shouting about some ridiculous detail the solution depended on. And every day, she was disappointed when the flat above remained stubbornly empty of rampant detectives.

John hadn't returned to Baker Street after he'd collected his things. He said he couldn't bear the emptiness, and Mrs. Hudson understood. She almost wanted to leave it all behind too, but it was the only home she'd known for a long time.

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall," she remembered Sherlock saying once. The memory of his voice brought fresh tears to her already swollen eyes, and she forcibly dabbed at them with a tissue. It did little to help, as new tears fell as soon as she wiped the old ones away.

Sherlock had always been like a son to her. From the moment he'd helped ensure Mr. Hudson's death, she'd known he was something special. Most landlords would have kicked him out ages ago, but not Mrs. Hudson. She saw through his mask of arrogance and indifference to the compassionate man beneath.

Since John had entered his life, that compassion had floated nearer and nearer to the surface. He still had his lapses in judgment, but nowadays they were more endearing than concerning. There was no doubt in her mind, John Watson was the best thing that could have possibly happened to Sherlock. The two had instantly clicked, banishing each other's demons and bringing out their best sides. If John wasn't so stubbornly insistent on being straight, they would make the perfect couple.

Would've made, she reminded herself.

That Sherlock had killed himself was difficult to imagine. He'd always been so confident and full of life. And with all his dealings with criminals, he couldn't have found a cleaner method than jumping off a building? Poor John had seen the whole thing. How could Sherlock do that to his best friend? John must've felt so helpless, seeing Sherlock leap from the top of a building and knowing there was nothing he could do. The whole thing was just so awful.

She used to make him tea every morning. He hadn't realized it was her, had claimed he thought it 'just sort of happened,' but she still took joy in the simple gesture. The day after it happened, she made tea like she did every morning, and dropped it on the table without even realizing that its recipient would never appear. When she returned an hour later to collect the dishes, finding the tea untouched made her relive the tragedy all over again. Never again would she see him sit in that chair, curled up as tight as his lanky frame would allow, pondering over some mystery.

To some degree, Mrs. Hudson was angry. She was angry with Sherlock for not coming to her, or going to John for help. He'd always been so stubbornly resistant to assistance of any kind from anyone, but she'd hoped he'd have more sense than that when his life was on the line. But she was more angry with herself. She saw Sherlock every day, and she hadn't noticed how bad things had gotten. She'd thought the press had just run rampant with some silly little fib, that his big brother in the government would sort it all out, but Sherlock had been in big trouble. A man she'd known for years had been suicidal, and she hadn't noticed a thing.

As guilty as she felt, John must be suffering a thousand times worse. She remembered that day vividly; they say that people's ability to memorize details is amplified when they receive devastating news. She'd been at home with the repairman, an ordinary day, when John came storming in breathlessly. He'd glanced at her once, panicked, then turned tail and ran back out the door. She would've stopped him if she knew he was running away to watch his best friend die right before his eyes.

She knew he'd already battled PTSD, and this event would only bring the worst of that back. She just hoped his psychosomatic limp didn't make a reappearance; the last thing John Watson needed was more hardship. He appeared to hit rock bottom. Now, as Mrs. Hudson sat in the front row of a funeral she shouldn't have to attend, John Watson openly wept a few seats down. She'd never seen a man so broken.

Detective Inspector Lestrade spoke about Sherlock's passion for his work, and everyone in the room was somewhat moved. But when he traded places with John, a tangible silence washed over the room. Everyone knew his relationship to Sherlock; everyone saw him cry continuously since he'd stepped foot in the room. Mrs. Hudson was overwhelmed with fresh tears as she listened to John elaborate his tale of the great detective. Under any other circumstances, his words would have been incomprehensible through his strangled sobs, but he seemed to convey his speech on an emotional level. It didn't matter that he couldn't get the words out, everyone understood his pain.

Mrs. Hudson was almost glad when it was over and John returned to his seat. She'd been slightly afraid he'd pass out from grief and hit his head. She saw Lestrade wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders, and John barely noticed through the cascade of tears. She was somewhat relieved when the ceremony began the transfer to the cemetery. The atmosphere of the funeral home was saturated with sorrow and anguish, and she needed to breathe some air that didn't smell of sadness.

Outside were serene, blue skies and a gentle breeze. It was a rare sunny day in London. Mrs. Hudson had never stopped to deeply consider the afterlife or spirits, but she couldn't help but wonder if this was Sherlock sending them a sign that he was alright. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it was still nice not to bury a casket in damp, muddy earth during a torrential rainstorm. She couldn't watch as the coffin was lowered into the earth, it was too painful. John's strangled shout of, "No, no. NO!" made her cringe. She glanced over at the doctor to find Lestrade forcibly restraining him from jumping into the grave after Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson didn't know what to think or do. She felt like the rug had been yanked from under her feet, leaving her stumbling for balance. She wasn't sure if she'd ever regain her footing.