Mrs Hudson had never sold 221C. Indeed, she had never really bothered to do it up. It had been left for so long that to get rid of the mould and the damp and the other unidentified growths would cost her time and money she didn't have, and anyway, it would be weird having someone else in the house. Her, Sherlock and John – it had always been a perfect threesome. Well, not so perfect. But, against all odds, it had worked.
She stepped into the living-room of the second-floor flat and looked around. Though the layout was much the same as the flats downstairs, it seemed empty, cold, lifeless. Should she sell it? She couldn't sell 221B. Not yet. So if she wanted the money she would need to rent out 221C.
She sniffed a little and wondered if there was anyone remotely liked Sherlock who might want a flat in London. It was hardly likely. She was lonely with nobody else in the house, but nobody could ever quite fill that gap. Not like Sherlock and John.
Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Her one true pairing. Was that what people called them? Yes. Her one true pairing.
She was so lost in her memories that she sat down without it even occurring to her that there were no seats in 221C. When at last she returned to herself she found that her legs had gone numb and that the floor was colder than she had thought.
She wouldn't sell 221C. She had enough money for now. She didn't need to sell 221B either. She would just... keep it as it was. A sort-of memorial. Her own gesture of... of thanks, and remembrance, and friendship. Had they been friends? She didn't really know. Sherlock and friends was a prickly and confusing topic. But he had liked her. She had liked him.
Mrs Hudson sighed, and wondered if she would ever move on. She couldn't keep the house like this forever. Housing shortages and all that. The government would be on her tail before she knew it. But right now, she just... couldn't.
Sometimes she thought of the other people Sherlock had been close to. Greg Lestrade – the Scotland Yard man. He was nice. He had got on with Sherlock, unusually for someone in the police force. Where was he now? She saw his name once in the newspapers – he had said something about trusting Sherlock entirely, even now. But of course. Scotland Yard had got a lot of stick for taking on Sherlock without investigating him first, and Lestrade, who had been the one hiring him most of the time, had got off very badly. She felt sorry for him.
That nice girl from the morgue – Molly. She had been round sometimes, and she had got on well with Mrs Hudson, being friendly and down-to-earth. She had liked Sherlock. Possibly more than she let on sometimes. And Sherlock had respected her. She knew that much. Poor girl, what would she say when she found out?
Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. They didn't really share a brotherly relationship, but deep down there was a love and respect that neither would admit to. Mycroft was, if anything, more aloof than Sherlock, less emotional, but surely if he found out that his brother had taken his own life –
Sherlock's parents. The dears. Quite unlike their offspring, very nice, very friendly. She had met them a couple of times; they had got on quite well. And now their son had... Good God, no wonder they hadn't come up for the funeral. They probably couldn't bear to...
And then... her and John. Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson. The Baker Street gang. Baker Street gang? Was that too cheesy?
The time of the Baker Street gang was over. It had always been inevitable, she supposed. But so soon?...
Sherlock was gone.
Sherlock Sherlock SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock.
Dear Sherlock...
A letter arrived for Sherlock a few days later. Mrs Hudson smiled sadly as it dropped onto the mat, picking it up and studying it – and then she realised that she recognised the handwriting.
It was John's.
A tear came to her eye all of a sudden as she realised what it must be. John still needed to speak to him, still wanted him to hear his words, and had sent him this, presumably an outpouring of those things he had never managed to say when his friend was alive. Did it comfort him? Perhaps. She turned the envelope over in her hands, and then went upstairs, going into 221B and placing it on the coffee-table as if Sherlock was going to come later and pick it up.
'Terribly sentimental, isn't he?' said a voice from behind her.
She turned, and was astonished to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, one hand in his trouser pocket. He walked in slowly, his eyes flashing around the room before coming to rest on Mrs Hudson.
'Poor John...'
Mrs Hudson had never heard anything quite so touching come from Mycroft before, and patted him on the shoulder (much to his discomfort, though he didn't say anything). 'Yes. The poor lamb... Everything that's happened... he shouldn't have to have been through this.'
Mycroft crossed the room and went to the desk. He didn't look as if he had just lost a brother, Mrs Hudson noticed, though to be honest the world could end and he would still wear that blank face with the unconscious smirk. As he began to rifle through the papers there Mrs Hudson said, 'What are you doing?'
'Looking for something... my brother left...' Mycroft drew out a couple of sheets of paper and inspected them. 'Ah. Yes.' Then he turned to the drawer and pulled it out, extracting a folder that Mrs Hudson was sure contained Sherlock's passport and other documents. 'Yes. Sorry to bother you. Goodbye.'
And with that he strode to the door and left. Mrs Hudson watched him in bewilderment. Mycroft Holmes was up to something... But it wasn't her business, and she wouldn't interfere. His face disturbed her a little – it was too blank, too unchanged – but she guessed that he must just be bottling up his grief. Sherlock had had a tendency to hide his emotions like that...
She sighed once again at the recollection of Sherlock's little habits, and smoothed down the pile of papers before leaving the room herself, with only a quick glance back to the letter on the coffee-table.
