"Mrs. Hudson"

John went downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson. She was baking, her movements slower than usual. She'd lost something of her spirit after Sherlock's suicide.

"Here," he said, holding out the envelope. "This is for you." He gave her the barest explanation of the circumstances, and she nodded, tears forming in her eyes, as she opened the envelope.

"It was when we met in Florida," she said, and she pulled out the piece of paper. She covered her mouth as she gasped. "Oh my."

"What is it?" John asked, and he stepped behind her to read the short poem.

After rehab, Sherlock was rewarded with travelling the world for a time, while Mycroft tried to remedy matters in London. New Scotland Yard would, naturally, be reluctant to engage the services of a former junkie. And so Sherlock decided to embrace the opportunity to experience other cultures, learn anything relevant (and discard anything irrelevant) for possible future cases. Poisons used in different countries; plants, creatures, cults; all of the important information was stored on his mental hard drive.

It was in America that Sherlock came across some of the more interesting cases he had ever had the pleasure to solve. One such case was of a man by the name of Hudson, on trial for murder in Florida. After performing some of his usual mundane deductions when he peeked at the crime scene, Sherlock was granted an audience with the suspect. Two minutes with the man, and another minute looking over the evidence taken from the crime scene, had Sherlock convinced of his guilt.

He had heard of the man's wife, of course. He was forbidden from seeing her at first, which was tiresome. However, the case was far from dull, and so he waited it out, seeing her – for the first time – in court.

She was fairly attractive for a woman her age, and gave no sign of being overly emotional as she watched the prosecution tear her husband's weak alibi to shreds. In fact, judging from the way she massaged her upper arm and smiled, Sherlock suspected that she would be relieved to see the back of her husband.

"You are very brave," he murmured to himself as she faced the press with a small smile and a few quiet words. Sherlock was skulking behind a convenient pillar. His heart stopped momentarily when she sought him out nonetheless, and tilted her head. The attorney with her noticed Sherlock as well, and must have told Mrs. Hudson who he was, because she smiled, and mouthed 'thank you'.

Sherlock swallowed, and drew back into the shadows, a blush already dying his cheeks a dusky pink. It was happening again.

Mr. Hudson was executed by lethal injection. Sherlock sat a few chairs behind Mrs. Hudson, but he could see in the reflection of the glass that she looked calm, almost serene. Mycroft had chuckled for about two seconds when Sherlock began to wax poetic over the phone, and wished him luck. For Mycroft, that was close to hysterical laughter.

"You are Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock shook her hand. His own was clammy, and his throat felt thick.

"I am," he said. "Do you miss him?"

Mrs. Hudson looked back at the glass window thoughtfully. Not many women could look at the corpse of their late husband and not shed a tear.

"No," she said. "He was a murderer, and his victim was innocent. Didn't deserve what happened… well." She shrugged, smiling again. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock," he said quickly. He stood, remembering his manners, and escorted her from the room. He convinced her to join him for tea at a nearby café, and found himself more infatuated as they talked about England, Florida, and their travels.

"You're a good boy," she said as he summoned the cheque. She patted his hand. "You'll make a lovely husband for some lucky girl. Or boy."

She squeezed his fingers, and it felt like she was squeezing his heart to bursting point. Or breaking point.

"Not necessarily," he said, eyeing her as he counted out money. "I could be interested in a woman, not a girl. I am in my late twenties, you know."

"And I'm much older than you, dear," she said. She gave him a knowing look, and he very nearly melted from embarrassment. It had been so long since he fell for another human being that his mask must have slipped. "Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. It happens to all of us. Why, my husband was more than ten years older than me. There's nothing wrong with an age difference."

"I shouldn't feel like this," he said softly. "You've only just been widowed this afternoon."

"I was a widow the minute he ended another's life," Mrs. Hudson said. "I do owe you, Sherlock. If ever you need a favour, don't hesitate to call on me. But I'm heading back to London next week, and you have a long life ahead of you. Don't mistake me." She winked. "I'm flattered by the interest."

"You shouldn't be," he hurried to say. "You are truly—"

She held up one hand, and his words petered out. "Sherlock, if we had enough time, it would be lovely to get to know you better. But the great romance of my life is over, and you've not found one yet, have you?" Hesitantly, Sherlock shook his head. "I know these things, dear. Now, you go on and keep travelling, and let's hope we see each other again someday. Is that all right?"

He could only nod. He did bend over to kiss her hand, and left behind more than enough money to cover their afternoon tea. Mentally berating himself, he returned to his hotel room, stole some of the stationery, and wrote 'Mrs. Hudson' on the front of the envelope. Once he found the right poem, he would seal it inside.

In the meantime, he would delete the memory of these feelings from his mind. After all, if ever he did meet Mrs. Hudson again, he would hate for things to be awkward between them. Perhaps, by then, he would have found the great romance of his life?

(Unlikely, he knew, but he could always dream. And did.)

His Mother's Wedding Ring

George Crabbe

The ring so worn, as you behold,

So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:

The passion such it was to prove:

Worn with life's cares, love yet was love.

Another crack pairing, I suppose. I just liked the thought of using this poem, and Mrs. Hudson is enough of a firecracker to have attracted Sherlock's attention in some capacity.

In the courtroom, I was trying to imply that Mr. Hudson had hurt her at some point, which was why she was glad to be rid of him. Or maybe it was the memory of a threat, or connected to how he had carried out the murder? It can mean whatever you want it to mean. It's treated so lightly in that first episode, and she's so sanguine about it, that it's hard to know.

Obviously, John doesn't care about privacy anymore.