Sherlock didn't go to his room. In fact he hardly moved from the spot where John told him the news. After almost ten minutes he set the bottle and cleaning cloth on the counter and went to his usual chair in the living area.

John could see the shock written all over his face. He hadn't processed the information or he was woefully choosing to deny what he had just been told. Sherlock pulled his knees close to his chest and grabbed his phone from the table beside him. Silently he clicked away without once looking up.

"Do you want to talk?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him.

He prayed for Mycroft to come around, or at the very least Mrs. Hudson. Anyone else may be able to penetrate his mind and get him to speak.

"Would you like some tellie? Or I can make tea."

Again he was ignored.

It felt selfish but he was angry that Sherlock had blown him off so quickly. It was John's job to know how to react to the after-effects of death and, if his friend would let him in, he could help. But instead he sat and watched as Sherlock dove deeper inside of himself.

"Do you want Mycroft to come around? I can have him stop by later if you'd like."

Sherlock's expression didn't change an iota as John earnestly spoke. He couldn't take it anymore. John got up from his own chair and tossed his book on the table. With his hands on his hips he stood in front of Sherlock.

"Will you answer me?"

Sherlock scrolled down on his phone. "What about?"

"I've been speaking to you."

"About?"

He sighed. "Do you need anything?"

As John towered over his friend he instantly felt ridiculous. He was bullying Sherlock into helping him. This was the man who would single-handedly apprehend serial murders in his free time. He did not need the help of a lowly surgeon to do anything, much less feel better.

"I do not," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "I should go. I think you need some time to yourself."

The silence had returned.

John grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. He waited to hear for his friend to call him back but he knew that hoping for that hand reaching out would be fruitless. He left the flat without saying goodbye.

As he walked outside, John saw a taxi that carried Mrs. Hudson. He debated racing around her and avoiding the whole discussion. It wasn't his news to tell but Sherlock had known Mrs. Hudson for a number of years. Perhaps she'd be a comfort.

She headed for the front door but he cut her off before she got that far.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted.

Confused, she looked all around until she spied her tenant. "John! What are you doing home?"

Faced with having to give the bad news yet again, he regretted choosing to tell her. He couldn't help but choke back tears as he spoke. "It's Sherlock."

Her face fell and her hand jumped to her lips. "What happened? Is he alright?"

He nodded. "It's his mother."

"Oh goodness. John…"

"There was a train crash and, well, she didn't survive," he choked out.

Her eyes immediately filled with tears. "Oh my god. John. That poor woman."

"Had you met her?"

She nodded. "A few years back. She came to London to visit her sister and made a visit. Sherlock had been out for hours that night so we shared a wonderful pot of tea and talked. She's a truly wonderful woman. Patient as a saint. Oh, John, I can't believe it."

"Me neither."

Mrs. Hudson gazed up at the second floor. Her eyes drooped as the wave of realization crossed her mind. "Sherlock. Does he know?"

"I told him."

She gestured at his jacket and the general trajectory of where he was walking.

"I can't be there. He doesn't want anyone there," John said.

Mrs. Hudson wiped away a tear. "I think he might, John. Maybe not right away but he will need you."

"He won't. I don't think so." John had seen hundreds of people in the throes of grief and none of them were like Sherlock. They had a core of emotion to their soul and it made them feel, no matter how much they had been through before the trauma. Sherlock was different. It was like the part of him that cared, really cared, was missing. Losing his mother was no different than misplacing a pair of socks.

"He will. Let me go talk to him. I'll ring you if there's anything to do, okay?"

He needed to get out of there. Hearing all the platitudes would just remind him of being back in the fields. There were so many times, after an attack, where a soldier would come barreling into the makeshift infirmary and demand to see his friend who had recently succumbed to his injuries. John would need to physically drag the men off, kicking and screaming, and desperately calm until they could be moved outside. It hurt too much to think about going through that again.