2:26 PM, December 27th, 2015

Martha Hudson opened the door to 221 Baker Street to find a stout little man with graying hair carrying a load of books on the doorstep.

"Hello," he mumbled gruffly, shifting his pile of books to extend a purse. "I was behind you in the supermarket when you dropped this and I poked around to find your address. Everything is still there. You can check." Mrs. Hudson let out a short gasp and took the offered item, beaming.

"Oh, thank you, dear!" she exclaimed, opening the door a bit wider. "Come in, come in, I'll just make you a nice cup of tea. I think there might be some scones, are you hungry?"

She kept up a steady flow of chatter as the little man followed her inside, shuffling over to the table with his heavy load of books.

"You didn't need to return it, really, but I am quite thankful, it has all my pills in it along with the little cash I make," she said as she moved around the counter. "I used to rent the other two flats, 221B and 221C, you're in 221A right here. You might remember, that detective? Sherlock Holmes? He and his friend, John, they took 221B, such wonderful boys they were." She wiped briefly at her eyes and waited for the kettle to boil. "And don't think for one second that that man was a fraud! Half the things he solved were cold cases that happened before he was born, and he helped me out of a spot of trouble over in the States. Wonderful, the two of them were." She began to pour the water into a set of cups, then reached for the sugar. "I can't bear to rent out their old flat even though it's cleaned out and everything, and 221C has all their old things in boxes. You know, that man was amazing, but such a pain sometimes. I'd always say to him when he asked for something "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock, dear-"

Having turned around to hand the man a cup of tea, she froze mid-sentence. Her lips trembled as her words trailed off, mouthing soundlessly, but then she let out a shriek and dropped the teacups with a resounding clatter before stumbling backwards.

Sherlock rose to his feet and took a half-step forwards, but she only backed away more.

"How- how dare you-"

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"-giving an old woman such a fright-"

"Mrs. Hudson-!"

"-disrespectful-"

"Mrs-"

"-get out of my house!"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

They both fell silent and stared at each other.

"Sh- Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson whispered faintly, eyes wide, white as a sheet. "Is it-? Are you really-?"

"I'm quite real, Mrs. Hudson, as I have assured John," he said quietly, setting a wig and mask down on the table and smoothing out his now too-short coat.

He had to lunge forward a split second later as she paled even further and collapsed in a faint. For a couple moments his mind was overrun with panic – what did people do when someone else passed out in shock? - but he forced himself to think calmly. Gently, with the care only found between family members, he laid her on the couch in the sitting room of 221A. Her breathing and pulse rate was steady; John would never forgive him – he would never forgive himself – if this caused her to have a heart attack or-

Sherlock ignored the fact that he was panicking as Mrs. Hudson began to stir.

"Mrs. Hudson, can you hear me?" he asked softly, and anyone who wasn't John Watson would have been surprised to hear the tenderness in his voice as he spoke to the older woman. "Mrs. Hudson?"

His head snapped to the side so quickly he fancied he could hear his neck crack and there was a stinging pain blossoming across the side of his face. An instant later he was yanked downwards into a hug, Mrs. Hudson's arms tightly around him as she laughed and cried at the same time.

"Sherlock- Sherlock- do you have any idea- oh, you clever, clever boy-! You would manage to- have you told John-?"

If it was any other person sobbing like this, arms around his neck so tightly he couldn't breathe and causing him to bend over in a position sure to wreak havoc on his body for a few days, Sherlock would have extricated himself with a few harsh words and handed the person over to John. He was better with the entire sentiment... thing.

But this was Mrs. Hudson. This was the woman who gave him a home after he had fled to the States, penniless, in order to escape his brother. This was the woman who he had rescued from the grip of a criminal she had been unfortunate enough to marry, the woman who had stayed with him during his lapses of boredom and fits of temper. The woman who treated him like her own son.

So he returned the hug and whispered quiet words of assurance, letting her cry until she had calmed herself down. He helped her clean the shattered cups off of the floor, accepted her offers of food and drink even though he really wasn't hungry at all. It was the least he could do.