Mrs Hudson found Sherlock about an hour later. It was quiet in 221b, and when she came round with a bin bag to help clean up, she wasn't surprised to find it empty.
"Sherlock!" she called up the stairs to his room, before bustling away to evaluate the extent of the mess. Sherlock had taken residence in John's room after the accident, locking himself away and closing the door behind him.
He'd come home from the hospital, the night of the explosion (she hadn't known it then, though), and walked silently to his room where he gathered together his dressing gown, slippers and violin. She'd asked if he was okay and wondered what on earth was going on, but he'd ignored her and slipped silently up the stairs and into John's room. She hadn't questioned it, of course – this was Sherlock, after all. But when Sherlock hadn't emerged for dinner, or for breakfast the next morning, she'd started to worry. He'd looked ill, and extremely worried. And John hadn't come back either. After her daily soother and a nice cup of tea, she'd wandered upstairs to check on him.
"Yoo-hoo!" she'd called, knocking twice on the front door, which was left wide open. No one was about. Frowning, she'd walked around a bit more, tidying up a few stray mugs of tea and something that looked suspiciously like human teeth.
"Sherlock! Do you want a cup of tea? Does John want one too?" she'd called up the stairs, ignoring the horrid smell that was emanating from the fridge. She didn't think she'd venture there… But when Sherlock didn't reply, Mrs Hudson had thought it was about time she knocked some sense into him. Walking to the bottom of the stairs, she had manoeuvred herself over a pile of papers, and walked up.
"Sherlock, dear, it's nearly lunch time. I know you don't eat much, but John's probably hungry. Where is John anyway? He's usually up by now…then again, so are you," She'd paused outside the door, listening for a response. "I know you boys probably had a late one, but you looked a bit pale last night." Still no response.
"Sherlock, is everything alright?" another pause. Edging closer to the door, she'd heard a loud thump resonate from inside the room.
"I'm coming in, dear." Mrs Hudson had reached for the handle and twisted, finding it unlocked.
"Really Sherlock, it's nearly 1! I thought you'd better be getting-"she'd trailed off, staring at the floor next to John's bed. Sherlock had been curled up on the rug, rocking slightly, his chest heaving and dry, racking sobs dragging from his throat. The sheets on the bed were tangled and twisted, so he'd obviously slept here over night. Although, from the looks on Sherlock's face, it hadn't been a comfortable night's sleep.
"Sherlock, dear, what on earth's the matter?" She'd asked, crouching down beside him. He'd turned then, and raised himself into a sitting position. His hair had been matted with sweat, his skin pale and blotchy. His eyes were raw and red, and dark shadows hung under them. His clothes, the same from last night, were crumpled and clung to his body. Not sleeping then, Mrs Hudson decided.
"Where's John, dear? I thought you two were, you know-" she'd gestured awkwardly to the bed with her hands, and trailed off. It wasn't a big surprise to her, really. There were all sorts living around here…
"He's not here." Sherlock had replied, his voice hoarse and broken from crying. "He's gone, Mrs Hudson." Another sob had escaped from his mouth, and tears were flowing down his pale cheeks. At that moment, Mrs Hudson had not known what to do. Never before had she seen Sherlock in such a state, not making any sense, and crying for heaven's sake! She'd never seen Sherlock cry – it was a horrible sight. And as for John…well, she was sure they'd had another domestic. But she knew how to treat those, so she'd pulled Sherlock up, got him downstairs and given him a nice, hot cup of tea. He'd sat himself in John's chair. Another sign that something was universally wrong. She'd asked for an explanation, and it seemed Sherlock was willing talk. So he told her everything. And she'd realised this was not just another one of their domestics.
So when Mrs Hudson was confronted with a missing Sherlock, she didn't get involved. It was his business how he coped with John's…absence, and as much as Mrs Hudson wanted to help, there was only so much you could do when it came to Sherlock. He was lost without John, she decided, like a child. It worried her, of course, that Sherlock could so easily become unhinged when faced with a no-John scenario. But she left him too it, and focused on tidying up the mess that had materialised on the kitchen table. After a nice cup of tea, and a quick flick through the television, she decided to pop to the bathroom. Sherlock won't mind, she thought to herself, before setting down her cuppa and walking quietly down the hallway. What she found when she entered, though, truly frightened her. Sherlock was sat, his back against the shower, hands clamped over his ears. He was rocking slightly, and shaking his every so often, as if clearing his head of unwanted noise. She stood in the door way for a few seconds, mouth open slightly, before recovering from the shock and taking action. She approached carefully, acting as though Sherlock was a small child. He was, really. Nothing more than a damaged child trapped in an adult's body.
"Sherlock," she said quietly, reaching out to carefully stroke his hair, "Come on, dear, let's get you up." He allowed her to haul him up, hands still clamped resolutely over his ears. She guided him slowly to the living room, before depositing him in John's armchair. He released his ears, and drew his knees up to his chest. Resting his chin on his knees, he sighed quietly.
"I've killed him, Mrs Hudson. I've killed John." Mrs Hudson frowned, the corners of her mouth twisting downwards.
"Of course you haven't, Sherlock. Why would you think such a thing?"
"I didn't think it. But now I do. I've killed him." She left him sat for a moment, before walking into the kitchen and returning with a packet of tissues and cup of warm tea.
"John's not dead, Sherlock. You know that. You told me that."
"I know, he's not dead. He's not the same, though. He doesn't know who we are." He took the cup and, to her relief, began sipping at it gently. There was more colour in his cheeks, and his eyes look brighter. The sobbing had subsided, as had the rocking, and Mrs Hudson was glad to see he was recovering.
"I don't know what's happening to me, Mrs Hudson. I feel broken." Sherlock looked at her then, really expecting an answer. She smiled.
"You miss him, Sherlock, that's all it is. I know you two were close. But he'll be fine, I'm sure. There's nothing to worry about. Now, I'm off to make a few cakes, and I need to grab you some more milk, is there anything else you want, dear?" Sherlock shook his head, and looked back out of the window. Mrs Hudson waited a moment, debating whether to stay or not. He certainly looked much better…but what if he had another turn for the worst? No, Sherlock was capable of surviving alone…he'd done so for years, long she'd met him. As she left the flat, and was walking down the stairs, she heard a knock at the main door. She walked over to it, and peered through the peek hole, before opening it up.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely. She hadn't seen this man before – a friend of John's, maybe?
"Yes, I'm here to see Mr Holmes." The man smiled back, and looked expectantly at Mrs Hudson, who stared back.
"Sherlock? You're one of his friends?"
"No, I'm afraid not. Although, I don't hate the man. I just need a quick word." She nodded, and stepped aside to allow him in.
"He's just upstairs. In the living room, I think. At least, that's where I left him. Can I make you some tea? I don't really think Sherlock's up to it, Mr - "
"Franklin. And no, no, I'm quite alright thank you. I can find my own way up." He smiled again, and nodded in thanks, before turning and hopping up the stairs 2 at a time. Mrs Hudson sighed and shook her head. Sherlock had brought havoc upon her life, from the first moment he walked in…murderers, policemen and homeless people entering the flat at all hours of the day.
"Another soother, I think…" she thought to herself, before returning to her flat, and locking the door tightly behind her.
Dr Franklin reached the door to 221b, but didn't bother to knock before entering.
"Mr Holmes." He called, announcing his presence, but didn't see the man anywhere here. He was about to call again, when Sherlock emerged from behind a rather large armchair.
"Dr Franklin." The reply was curt, his hands clasped in front of him, and there was a look of mild disgust on Sherlock's features. If Franklin hadn't have known better, he'd have thought Sherlock was okay. But the red, puffy eyes and shaking hands gave him away.
"Yes, hello. Sorry for the intrusion. I have some fairly good news." He was eager to break it to Sherlock. He felt sorry for the man, truly sorry, but Sherlock was stubborn, and brought most of his grief upon himself. Maybe this, though, would finally cheer him up.
"Good news? I highly doubt it, doctor. No good news comes from people like you." Sherlock turned away again, swallowing hard. He had to keep his emotions under control. It wouldn't be wise to open up to some like Dr Franklin. Mrs Hudson, yes – she was harmless.
"Well, I don't know, I think you might be surprised."
"Go on, then. I have an experiment to tend to, and if you don't have any spare fingers to give me, I'd very much like some peace and quiet."
Dr Franklin smiled, and chuckled slightly. Sherlock turned to him, his face mildly curious. Franklin sighed.
"Have a good day, Mr Holmes." Before he left, though, he stopped.
"Oh, I forgot to say. You may want to tidy up a little in here. It's just, I think you may be having guests." He pulled a small wad of paper from his coat pocket, and dropped it deliberately on the table next to him. He tipped his hat in farewell, and wandered back down the stairs. Sherlock stood up immediately, and walked slowly over to the table. He glanced down, the title emblazoned on the front in big, black letters.
They read: "Dr John H Watson – Medical Files and Homecare Guidelines"
Sherlock's face broke into a large grin, splitting his tired face in two. He held the papers up in front of him, inspecting them from all angles, before laughing out loud. John was coming home! He nearly did a little dance, but managed to compose himself. He kept the grin, though. It felt nice, a change from the usual frowns. Sherlock needed a reason to smile. He walked to the window, and watched the doctor hail a cab, and tossed the file into the air, catching it deftly. He was beginning to like Dr Franklin a little more.