CHAPTER X:
HER HELP, HIS WISH
Mary Morstan had told Sherlock that John once told her a cup of tea fixes everything. A cup of tea didn't fix all, but a part of it - a part of the emptiness and his sorrow and despair - disappeared for a moment. For the exactly fifty two minutes that they shared together, Sherlock felt that Miss Morstan had taken off his shoulders a heavy weight that was threatening to kill him at any moment. Her sincere and modest smile, her warm and reassuring words, the way Mary talked to him, the way she understood him and the way she seemed to open her heart to him helped Sherlock see a bit of light before the night fell again.
The waitress smiled at both of them as soon as she saw them taking what looked to be Mary's usual table, near the window. It was a very modest and cozy coffee shop. It was the kind of place a Holmes would never be seen, would never visit unless it was for the sake of a case, or for the sake of the country.
Sherlock didn't really want anything, but before he was able to say so, Mary asked for Earl Gray tea and chocolate biscuits. She told Sherlock those were John's favourite cookies.
The consulting detective devoured them all.
"He brought me here one afternoon after our shifts finished," said Mary, looking at the tall man in front of her. "It was my first shift, my first day at work after I got my license. My hands were shaking when I tried to inject a kid and the mother complained about me. I swallowed my tears until I left, until I was just there," the blond nurse pointed at the front street of the clinic. "I couldn't stop crying, and that's when John saw me and we came here."
Sherlock nodded and let her continue her story, even when he was able to deduce all the facts. Mary's words, the way she talked about John made Sherlock's heart ache inside his chest. The way she blinked, the way she seemed to catch her breath before talking, before mentioning John's name, the way she drank her tea and the way she looked at him told Sherlock everything he needed to know. Mary Morstan was nothing he had initially thought about her. That woman looked as common and as boring as he would probably have found her if the circumstances had been different. She was short, she had blond, natural, straight hair. Her eyes were big and green, her eyelashes were painted with dark mascara and she had pink and healthy cheeks. Sherlock looked at her hands, they seemed to be warm and soft, just like John's hands once were. He could also tell when someone was lying, when someone had hidden intentions, or when someone was not completely honest. But she was the exact opposite of what he'd imagined. Mary Morstan was honest and sincere, there was no hidden cruelty, no sinfulness. Mary Morstan was pure.
In other words, nurse Mary Morstan was the woman John should have been with. She was the woman John had deserved. Mary was the woman John would have loved to be with, to have children, a dog, a nice house and maybe a car. Sherlock still found it to be a cliché - the children, the house, the dog and the car - boring and pedestrian. But now, it was all he wanted to have. Sherlock wanted all of it, all of it, just as long as John was included. But destiny had other cards for them, and John, instead of having a nice and lovely woman next to him, a woman willing to give him as much love as he wanted, as many children as he wanted, as many caresses and soft kisses as he wanted, destiny gave John a man named Sherlock Holmes, willing to give him as much danger as he wanted, as many wounds as his body was able to endure, as much loneliness and as many fake kisses and fakes "I love you's" he wanted. Or as much and as many things as Sherlock wanted to give him.
"How do you live, Miss Morstan? How do you live without him?" Sherlock asked after a long silence fell between them. Their cups were empty, the sun had sunk and the streets lights were flickering on.
Mary looked down at his hands. Sherlock's fingers were entwined on the table, and he was wearing a ring, a gold, polished ring. It looked just like the one John wore. And she felt she was back again to that day, the day in which she cried because she felt her dreams being torn apart and thrown in the bin. But the roles had changed, she was now in John's position and she wasn't facing herself but a broken and hopeless Sherlock Holmes. They were two people who loved the same man, and even if you think Sherlock always had the advantage over her because John loved him and only him, you're wrong. No one had the advantage in this situation.
Mary told Sherlock the words he would never forget.
"It takes time. It takes time to get used to someone's empty chair, to his empty place on the bed, to the silence instead of his laughter and the softness of his voice. But you can't give up. You can't say you can't live without him, because you haven't even tried, Mr Holmes."
Tears fell down Mary's eyes.
"It's been more than a year and you say I haven't even tried? He is my husband, you are the one who can't talk about getting used to -."
Mary reached out for Sherlock's hand and caressed it. "You're right, it's been more than a year, but you have your whole life ahead of you. And John would have liked you to move on, carry on with your work, with your life, wouldn't he?" she asked with a reassuring smile.
Sherlock remembered John's last words in his letter.
"Continue working, the world needs your cleverness. London needs you."
And Mary continued, "I've lost my fiancé. I know what it's like to lost someone you love, I know what it is like when you can't do anything to bring someone back. And maybe you think it is different because he left me, he didn't die like John. But I loved him as much as you loved John, and it's hard. It takes time."
The blond woman ignored Sherlock's words. She ignored the tone of his voice and she ignored Sherlock continued using present tense when he referred to himself as John's husband.
She sat next to Sherlock and allowed him to cry - not only by her side, but in her arms.
It doesn't matter what he thinks about, Sherlock can't sleep. The bed feels so big, so cold, so empty. Next to him lays one of John's old jumpers and Sherlock is lying on his back. He looks at the ceiling and wonders how many nights John spent looking at the same point, night after night, when he was alive, when he used to sleep next to him.
Sherlock asks himself why he hated John, why his mind fooled him, why his magnificent but also hateful brain told him he had to hate John. Why he had to take pills to get any sleep, why he had to keep them hidden between the the feathers of his pillow, why he had to be the first to go to bed. Why he hated the sound the bed made when John joined him. That creaking sound he once loved - he loved it because it was the sound the bed made when they used to love each other, when they used to make love all the night. It was the sound the bed made every time he jumped on top of John, eager to taste his skin and his lips, eager to meet his body and his love.
He knows he couldn't get to sleep without the pills, because the hatred he had felt for John was really the hatred he had felt for himself. Victor and the other lovers, all of them, his mean actions, the way he talked about John, saying he was dead, the way he looked down at John taking advantage of his own height, Sherlock looked at John like he was nothing, as if John was a homeless man Sherlock had let in just because he needed someone who could cook his food, wash his clothes and do the shopping and the cleaning. Many sins, many bad actions, many bad thoughts were heavy on Sherlock's chest, and as his mother once told him when he was a little boy, bad actions wouldn't let him sleep.
Every time he heard that sound, that creaking sound which he associated with John joining him in bed, Sherlock longed to be able to turn and hug him. Sherlock always wanted to hug John, feel the warmth of John's body, taste his lips again, feel those thin but sweet lips against his own and make John his again.
Now Sherlock looks at the empty space next to him, and he wishes he could go back in time and change everything. Sherlock wants to go back and delete, change, do something so he would have never stopped loving and caring for John. But he realises he never stopped doing so. Caring wasn't an advantage, it has never been one. So it doesn't matter how many times he thinks about it, Sherlock can't conceive of a specific moment when he thought so, when he thought caring and loving John Watson was a mistake, that it made him look small, stupid, pedestrian, boring. He knows now that the opposite is true. Caring and loving John Watson was actually the greatest thing he could have ever done; it wasn't a mistake, but the best and the only thing Sherlock did right in his life. It never made him look small, stupid, pedestrian or boring. It made Sherlock look big, brilliant, clever, it made Sherlock smile and laugh and be the person he had never allowed himself to be, not since he was a young man injecting himself whatever he could find in order to destroy himself.
Silent crying. Sherlock doesn't wipe his tears, he just lets them flow freely down his sharp and pale cheeks. He feels so cold, even when he has a heavy duvet over him. Sherlock realises he's alone. He realises that the silence, the emptiness John left, his empty chair, his empty side of the bed, even his empty favourite mug are hurting him and the pain in unbearable. Sherlock needs John, he needs him to be right next to him, he needs to feel his natural warmth next to him, he needs to wake up and touch John's side and feel it warm. Sherlock needs to hear the water running, he needs to see John walking out the bathroom with his hair damp. Sherlock needs to see John sitting on his usual chair, typing on his computer, sometimes reading, sometimes drinking tea. Sherlock misses John's angry shouting at some football match on telly. Sherlock needs to hear John's voice again, because he swears to the God he never believed in that if he doesn't do it soon, he will die trying.
John died trying, Sherlock knows John died trying to love him, trying to get into his heart and be the couple they once were. Sherlock knows John wanted to make him happy. Now he's dead. John surrendered to his pain and Sherlock realises that that was the worst way to die. The worst way to die for a soldier.
John was a soldier.
A soldier never surrenders, he fights and fights, he never gives up. And thinking John surrendered himself makes Sherlock's heart ache, twist in pain inside his chest. No matter how hard Sherlock tries, he would never be able to understand how much John suffered, how many tears John cried, how much John knew about the lovers, the pills. Sherlock thinks he will never understand, he will never feel – experience - the pain John went through when he realised he was about to die, that he was dying while unloved by the man he considered to be the love of his life.
The seconds, the minutes, the hours feel like an eternity. Sherlock's tears seem to be endless, it feels like his eyes have enough tears to last a lifetime.
Sherlock changes his own position and sits resting his back on the headboard. He spends endless minutes staring at John's side of the bed, which has remained untouched since he died. He still remembers that morning when he was woken up by the sound of John's alarm going off. It was taking John what felt like endless seconds to turn off that alarm clock. Sherlock remembers pressing his arm over John's shoulder to turn the clock off and then heading to the bathroom to have a shower first.
Popping into the shower and feeling the hot water running over his body, Sherlock could see and smell his own shampoo and soap, and he realised John had used them when he showered the previous night before going to bed. Sherlock remembers not giving a fuck about it and then going to the kitchen and feeling annoyed, irritated by John not having made the tea.
God, to think he felt irritated by that! Sherlock had been annoyed because John hadn't made his tea, something he took for granted, and now John's tea is one of the things he misses with all his heart.
And then the smell. That awful smell that he was – and still is - used to, that characteristic smell he could sometimes detect on Molly's lab coat or at a crime scene, that smell which belongs to corpses, to dead people.
Sherlock glanced at John's white coat, completely wrinkled and discarded, the bag of lollipops on the counter, John's bag on the sofa... and noticed the smell.
Somewhere inside his mind, a small and vague voice was telling him the obvious. Sherlock was a genius after all, he could have deduced it. He could have deduced what was going on. Sherlock could have known.
He walked to his room and stopped at the doorway. John was lying on his side and all Sherlock could see was John's back, his still back. The covers were at the feet of the bed, Sherlock had removed the covers and duvets himself when he woke up and left the room, so he could see John's full back. It only took him two seconds to see that John wasn't breathing, to see that John's ribcage wasn't either rising or going down. Sherlock walked until he was standing right next to John, and knelt until their faces were on the same level. He moved his head from one side to another while he examined John's pale face. John's hands were pale and cold, both glued together in a prayer position under his chin, his fingers almost under one of his cheeks. Sherlock reached out to touch those hands and then John's cheek and he felt them cold, very cold and still. That was the moment when he knew for certain that John wasn't breathing.
His long hands were on John's shoulders when Sherlock shook his lifeless body, knowing he was dead, but a tiny little seed of hope still remained inside him, inside Sherlock, waiting for John to wake up and prove that it was just his imagination. Sherlock wanted to believe that John was just deeply asleep, that he wasn't dead.
Sherlock screamed and begged for a miracle. The detective sighs at the memory of himself, on his knees next to John, begging him to come back, to stop playing this game, to stop teasing him.
"John, this is not funny! Wake up, please love, wake up!"
"I've learnt my lesson, please John, stop it, please love!"
Sherlock admitted some of his sins and asked John for forgiveness.
"I will stop seeing Victor, I promise! Please John, come back, please! I'm sorry, please, forgive me!"
His big hands were on John's shoulders and Sherlock shook John's lifeless body over and over, and John's motionless head hit against the pillow over and over but his blue eyes remained shut. The consulting detective didn't care about the smell and the coldness of John's lifeless, extremely pale body when he started crying and when he buried his own face against the dead man's chest. Sherlock had kissed John and mumbled things just to himself. John's pale lips tasted bitter. Sherlock wanted to feel that sweet taste again, he had been craving John's lips for so long that when he kissed John, it horrified Sherlock to find them bitter and cold.
Sherlock wipes his tears and realises it's already a new day. He moves the curtains and sees the sun is shining, he can even hear some birds singing. He finally decides he has to start a new day.
He makes the bed just as John used to do and then he has a quick shower. He keeps using the same brand of shampoo and soap John liked so much. He inhales the scent left on his body and closes his eyes and for a moment, and Sherlock imagines John has touched him. For a moment, he imagines he smells like John because they have hugged tightly, because John has let his own hands travel up and down his body. If only.
Sherlock doesn't need to think twice when it comes to clothes; black shirt, black trousers and a black jacket always do. But when he looks himself at the mirror, Sherlock sees the first white hairs on his head, just laying there in plain sight. Those white hairs are mixed between the black ones, and his curls look different. There are also new wrinkles on his porcelain face, around his eyes, on his forehead. He has bags under his eyes. Sherlock realises he's getting old. He realises time hasn't stopped for him, time continued flowing and eventually, time has also left traces on him.
"You have not changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock."
John's words in his last letter haunt him no end. Sherlock hasn't read it in the last few weeks, he has been keeping it away from his hands, but he remembers the words - those words coming from the deepest part of John's heart and soul are there, very close to him, surrounding him wherever he goes, reminding him he has destroyed a love, a heart, a person. That he has destroyed, killed John Watson.
Once the kettle boils, Sherlock is preparing John's favourite mug of tea when he hears someone opening the front door, the door which keeps him from the streets. Sherlock moves to his own door and hears the downstairs door being softly closed, keys being held in a pair of old and rheumatic hands, lady's hands. The woman is taking her own time to walk the seventeen steps to reach the door of 221 B and Sherlock takes his own time as well, to work out who this lady is and why she has the keys of the flat.
Mrs Hudson throws her arms around Sherlock soon as she sees him.
Sherlock closes his eyes and locks his long arms around her thin, fragile frame, inhaling inhales her scent, that mix of flowers and her own perfume. He can feel her doing the same, inhaling his scent and crying as soon as she rests her face against his chest. Several seconds, perhaps minutes, have passed when she breaks the hug and gives him a soft, warm kiss on his cheek.
"My boy, how I've missed you," says Mrs Hudson, while she looks at him, noticing his bloodshot eyes.
The detective lets her take a look at him as he does the same. Mrs Hudson has changed a lot, she's nothing like he used to remember her. That blond dyed hair is now all white, and those wrinkles she used to fight using creams and make up are now deep, almost cutting her skin. She's also very pale and that pink and healthy shade has disappeared from her small cheeks. She's shorter too, and her hands tremble a bit, although not enough to get over-worried.
Sherlock clears his throat. "I've missed you as well, Mrs Hudson,"
He didn't know it was true until he said it.
Mrs Hudson steps in and takes a look at the flat, and Sherlock inwardly thanks his brother for his persistence in sending maids to clean at least one or twice a week. Seeing Mrs Hudson can hardly walk by herself, Sherlock hurries and fetches a chair, moving it close to her, so she doesn't have to walk more than necessary.
"Look at you. You look just like I remember, Sherlock, dear," says the old lady as she takes a seat in front of him "but as you can see, time passes for some of us,"
Ten years ago, Mrs Hudson left London and moved to the countyside after she was told by a doctor that she wasn't able to walk stairs and cope with the pollution and the rainy weather of the city, that those things were bad for her hip and unless she wanted surgery and a prosthetic hip, she would have to move away somewhere healthier. It broke her heart to know she would have to move and leave Sherlock and John behind. Sherlock remembers that day when they saw her getting into one of her nieces' car and waving her hand to them, and the tears falling from her eyes, he can't remember much, but he is sure John cried as well. She was like a mother to them. The detective can't remember much about the rent and those things he considered to be boring and dull, but he suspects John kept sending her the money. They had visited her several times over the years but he can hardly remember the last time he did so, the last time they did so.
Sherlock closes his eyes when he realises he had also forgotten all about it and about the woman who he once helped to get rid of her abusive husband. Then she helped him giving him a nice place to live. Mrs Hudson was like his mother, like their mother. Sherlock remembers her always complaining about the things she did for them, when no one asked her to do so, and saying she was their landlady and not their housekeeper.
And he left her behind.
Nevertheless, Mrs Hudson was not only the old woman who would sometimes clean, wash their clothes or cook for them, when he and John were still a happy couple. Mrs Hudson was the woman in whom they could trust, the only one who they would let into their life and the only one who they would go to when they needed advice.
Mrs Hudson was like their mother. Like the mother both John and he needed because theirs were dead.
Sherlock places two mugs and some cookies he found in the cupboards in front of Mrs Hudson and smiles weakly "Look closely, Mrs Hudson. I have white hair as well. And I see you stopped dying your hair."
"Doctor's orders. I don't like it but well, that's what happens when you are old, I suppose. But this place hasn't changed at all! Look at that awful smiley face on the wall!"
Sherlock smiles at the comment and remembers Mrs Hudson's yelling when she found out what he had done to her precious walls.
But Sherlock can't tell, he can't really know if Mrs Hudson knows. If she can possibly know that John's dead, if she knows the way John died or the conditions in which he died. He can't tell if John had still had any kind of contact with her, but Sherlock is sure he did. John wasn't the type of person who would forget her. John cared.
"Your niece doesn't know you're here. And judging by your right thumb I can see you haven't stopped buying those scratch cards, have you?" asks Sherlock, out of the blue and it takes a few seconds to Mrs Hudson to process his quick words.
She smiles back. "I told her I was going to the shop. It hardly takes me more than a few minutes, she must have realised by now that I didn't get the milk,"
"I apologise for the tea, Mrs Hudson. As you can see, my cooking skills haven't improved at all," says Sherlock, very politely, just as he always talked to her, but he's over-acting it.
Mrs Hudson drinks her tea and frowns. Sherlock is right, his tea is not the best and she smiles, remembering her favourite tenant's lack of cooking skills.
"I came prepared. Maybe you can help me by bringing up the shopping bag I left downstairs. I couldn't carry it, dear,"
Sherlock hurries downstairs and glances at the two bags left close to the stairs. One of them has a box of tea leaves and home made jam, with a quick look Sherlock can see those are from the country side, the jam was made by one of Mrs Hudson's nieces who seems to own a small business, selling it. But there's also a bag with a blue shoe box inside.
"One of my nieces makes this jam, I brought you some, I know you'll like it," says Mrs Hudson as she opens the jar and places it on the table.
The detective smiles. It's strawberry, John's favourite flavour. Sherlock isn't a person who would eat jam, John was the jam lover.
Mrs Hudson makes her own way into the kitchen and with slow movements, she prepares tea with the tea leaves she has brought. Sherlock occasionally helps her, reaching things, handling the kettle and the cups, but they remain silent during the whole process.
"Remember, dear, when I used to cook for you both? You two could be so lazy sometimes!"
Sherlock smiles "I know."
There's a moment of silence in which Sherlock realises that she does know. They are sitting in front of each other and Mrs Hudson hands him a piece of toast with jam and then she takes the blue shoe box and places it on her lap.
"Sherlock, I came here to give you these, I think they belong to you. They should belong to you," she says as she hands Sherlock the blue shoe box.
The detective places his mug on the table and takes the blue box in his hands. His deductive skills have already told him what the box contains. The box is full of letters, all of them written by John, addressed to Mrs Hudson.
"He wrote me all these letters over the years. I told him he could send me emails, my niece's daughters have a computer at home, but he told me he preferred to write. So every now and then he would write to me and tell me how things were, how you two were doing and about the children. I was so proud when I received a letter with this picture."
Mrs Hudson shows Sherlock a picture of John smiling, holding a diploma which has his name printed on it, a certificate proving John was a Pediatrician. Surrounding him are Molly, Mike Stamford, Sarah Sawyer and other people Sherlock can't recognize. They are all smiling, John is smiling, he looks so happy and proud. Sherlock can't even remember where he was or why he wasn't there, next to his husband on one of the best days of his life. Sherlock can't even think what excuse he gave John to avoid that day, if he even gave an excuse.
Sherlock doesn't know if he should tell Mrs Hudson why he wasn't there, why he wasn't next to John that day, smiling and telling him how proud he was, why he wasn't in that picture. Sherlock doesn't know if she knows, or if John told her something, if John told her he was away on a case instead of telling her he didn't care, or that maybe he was on the other side of the city looking for excitement in all the wrong places.
The detective doesn't want to lose Mrs Hudson's love. She's the only person he can consider as a mother. She's the only one who truly loved him when no one else did, when he was alone, getting out of rehab and when an old landlord kicked him out. Mrs Hudson was the only one who believed in his detective business, in his skills and in himself. She believed in him.
"There are lots of pictures, dear,"
Opening other envelopes, Sherlock finds three more pictures; one of them shows John sneaking into the picture, holding a cake which says 'Happy Birthday Sherlock' on the top. Sherlock can see by the handwriting on the cream, the layers and the chocolate that John made that cake. He looks at the date of the picture, which is printed on the back. It was taken almost two years ago, the sixth of January 2012, a few months before John's death.
Sherlock wasn't even in London that day. He never knew John had made him a cake, he always thought he'd forgotten about it in the later years of their marriage, when Sherlock stopped talking to him. But there he was, on the day of his birthday, holding a cake he had made for him, smiling happily. John was a good actor; he looked genuinely happy, even when he must have been utterly miserable. Even when Sherlock thinks John already knew he was living the last months of his life, he didn't stop believing.
On the next photograph John is hugging Hamish. The little boy looks ill, very ill, but he's smiling, his little head glued to John's, his little arms tightly pressed hugging his doctor, hugging John. Judging by the surroundings, they are at the clinic, and it looks like Hamish was still healthy at that time, or at least his cancer hadn't advanced yet. Sherlock looks at the back, and reads John's handwriting.
"This is my little one, Hamish."
Sherlock smiles, but when he looks at the next one, a few tears fall from his eyes.
It's a picture of himself, peacefully sleeping on the sofa. He is in his pajamas, with an orange blanket over him, the very same blanket John once took from the Yard. Sherlock can't recognise himself. His eyes are shut, he's definitely sleeping and his curls are off his face and he can deduce John had touched him, John had run a hand over them to brush his curls out of his eyes and take the photo. His long hands are glued together under one of his cheeks, under the one which is pressed against the sofa. His expression is the one of someone who is having a good time sleeping, of someone who has very sweet dreams. Sherlock sees he looks like an angel, like the good person he will never be.
Sherlock turns it and reads a very brief inscription, John's handwriting.
"Some things never change, Mrs Hudson! But at least he's sleeping. Sherlock sends his love."
There are more pictures, but Sherlock focuses on one of the last letters. He can feel Mrs Hudson's eyes on him, but he doesn't care. Sherlock reads a few paragraphs that have caught his eye, because they contain his name and some lies he can't even believe.
"Sherlock is doing well. He continues working for New Scotland Yard at insane hours, and sometimes he has to go away and help other police departments, which makes his eyes shine with excitement. You should see him, running from one place to another, playing the violin, and doing experiments. He's very happy. I'm not so happy for the state of our kitchen, but you don't need to worry, I do my best to keep the table, the floor and everything away from acid and his experiments.
The boys from Speedy's send their love. They say they miss you popping in for tea and biscuits. We sometimes go, when I can't really be bothered with doing breakfast and when Sherlock is really hungry.
About adopting Hamish, we have the papers, but it will take a very long time. Sherlock is very happy with the idea, so am I. I wish you could be here to meet Hamish. He's a very sweet boy, just like the child I always dreamed of. I need to convince Sherlock to help me with the room upstairs. We'll see.
I will visit you soon. I'm afraid Sherlock won't be able to come, he's terribly busy at the moment. We really hope you're fine and please, send our love to your nieces and grandchildren. Sherlock also says he misses your tea and your cakes!
Take care of yourself, Mrs Hudson,
Lots of Love,
John Watson XXX"
Sherlock sobs. Mrs Hudson gets up and sits next to him and lets him hug her and cry in her arms. Sherlock sobs like a small child and his ex landlady cries with him, but silently. The old lady rubs his back, reassuring him that everything is going to be OK. The only thing that breaks that silence between them is the noise from cars and people outside. Everything seems to continue working, the world seems to have never stopped for Sherlock. The world continues, people are born, people die. And he's still there, wishing and thinking and rethinking how he can possibly meet John again. How he can possibly change everything he did.
Mrs Hudson knows.
"He lied for me..." says Sherlock between sobs.
Mrs Hudson doesn't say anything about that.
"John continued visiting me. He always came early to have breakfast with me and my nieces. Then he would take a look at my medicines and he would tell me if what I was taking was good or not for me. John liked to walk around the place, he said he loved the country, and that maybe one day you would move there so you could keep the bees you like and then he would have time to rest. John talked a lot about you. He kept telling me about your cases, the details and sometimes he would bring me some papers with pictures of you. He was very proud of you, Sherlock. His eyes had that special gleam every time he mentioned your name," explains the old lady, with all her kind intention to make Sherlock feel safe, to make him feel relieved for a moment, to calm him down.
However, Sherlock continues crying silently, even though his sobs have stopped now. The detective has his head in Mrs Hudson's lap and the old lady is caressing his curls and wiping away his tears. Sherlock can feel the warmth of her hands, her soft voice trying to calm him down, trying to give him some hope.
"Was John proud of me?"
Mrs Hudson nods and smiles, genuinely, closing her eyes and remembering John "Yes, dear. He was very proud of you. He always has been. Don't ever think the opposite."
"Look at this, Mrs Hudson! He was on the front page of The Daily Telegraph and in some others abroad!"
John handed Mrs Hudson a copy of the newspaper and he read her some headlines and one article. The old lady listened to him carefully, paying attention to every detail, every comma and every full stop. John even read her the lines below the pictures.
"Sherlock managed to solve this case in a few hours. Every one is talking about it. I'm so proud of him," said John with a big smile.
Mrs Hudson nodded and smiled at him sincerely "You should be. Sherlock is very clever. And it's good he uses that brilliant mind to help people."
"Indeed."
"Did he tell you about Hamish?"
"You should have seen him when he talked about that little angel. John said he wanted to adopt him and start a family with you, but he always complained about the paperwork. He said you were happy. I told him to ask your brother for help, but he said you didn't want him to -."
Sherlock cries and Mrs Hudson tries to hush him, she tries to make him stop, but Sherlock stands up and walks a few steps away from his ex landlady until he's facing the window.
"It's OK Sherlock, calm down dear -."
"I killed him."
"What? What are you talking about, Sherlock?" asks Mrs Hudson, concerned and surprised.
Sherlock remains in his position facing the window, because he's too embarrassed to look at Mrs Hudson in the eye. "John lied. I was never too busy to visit you. I knew when John visited you, I was able to tell when he did so, but I never said anything, I never asked. Those cases John talked about, he wasn't there with me because I stopped talking to him. I ignored him, I hurt him in every possible way until he died."
Mrs Hudson, who has stopped crying a few minutes ago, starts again.
But Sherlock continues.
"All those letters saying I was fine, saying I was working away or that I was happy, we were happy - those were lies. I wasn't fine - we weren't fine. The pictures, Mrs Hudson, the pictures are fake! I wasn't here the day of my birthday, I was in an hotel room at Scotland with someone I can't even remember now! And John was here, he made me a cake and he waited for me! I stopped caring and loving John. I thought I hated him, and I told him, I told him I wished he was dead. And - and I was seeing another man and he knew! He always knew and he didn't say anything, I cheated on John, Mrs Hudson!"
"Dear -."
"I never wanted kids, John told you we couldn't have them, but the truth is I was able to. I could have given my sperm but I told John I wasn't going to do it - I was selfish! And I never wanted Hamish, I never knew about his existence and about John working with children until he died! And because of me, John died - I killed him!" Sherlock is shouting now, and before he collapses, Mrs Hudson hugs him tightly.
She cries as she hugs Sherlock and presses her head against his convulsing chest. She can feel how sad and lost the detective is. The ex landlady can sense the complete hopelessness of the man she used to take care as if he was her real son. Now she understands what John meant in the letter he left to her.
Some things are meant to happen, even if it means they have to break people's hearts.
"I almost hit him. I wanted to break every bone in his body, I wanted to leave bruises," says Sherlock between more sobs and he lets his landlady wipe his tears, but they continue flowing out of his eyes "I wanted to fucking mark his body and tell him he would always be mine. I can't remember our moments together. I can only remember that day and when I want to delete it - I can't!"
Mrs Hudson makes Sherlock sit again and takes both of his hands. John asked her to make him remember what he had forgotten. The old lady wonders how John knew everything, how he was able to predict this. John had explained to her that he wanted Sherlock to live and move on without him. John's words were painful, but he was right. Sherlock needed to remember their good moments, but he needed to forget him as well.
The old lady is determined to comply with John's wishes.
"Why don't you let me help you? I remember the day you told me you were together. Poor John, he wanted to be the one to tell me about it, but he kept mumbling and you just told me, and I'll quote you because I remember that day as if it was yesterday: 'Mrs Hudson, John and I are now as people like to say, an item. Our relationship has got intimate and if I were you, I'll knock the door before coming in'.", the old lady laughs and Sherlock manages to curl his lips. "Poor John, I don't even know why he was so nervous! He looked as if he was afraid of me."
Something inside Sherlock's mind start to work, and a few images come to his mind. He can see Mrs Hudson on the sofa and John and himself sitting on their respective chairs in front of her. Sherlock can scarcely remember John's words, but at least he can now map him, remember him blushing and mumbling.
"Tell me more, Mrs Hudson," he begs and the old lady smiles.
"I had to hit my roof with a broomstick a few times, you weren't exactly quiet if you follow me. And I walked in on you two once!"
Sherlock smiles and wipes his tears away. He can remember.
They were in the sitting room, and he had John pressed against his armchair. Sherlock was on top, both were naked and moaning each other's names when they became aware of their landlady's eyes, which were as wide as saucers, and her small hand covering her mouth.
The last thing they heard was her hurried steps on the stairs and John almost dropped him on the floor, trying to put on some clothes to run behind her, and apologise.
"Come back here, John. She's already seen a naked man before, she was married once. This is not -."
John pulled a shirt over his head and shook his head, angrily "But she has seen us naked and doing it, Sherlock! It's not the same! Get dressed and come with me, we have to apologise."
"What for? She should have knocked!"
"You left the door open!"
"Then you could have closed it."
"I had you all over me!" said John, half defeated.
"Oh, so I was the one keeping you as a hostage? If I'm not wrong, which never happens, you were the one with your hands glued to my -."
"Sherlock!"
"- arse," finished Sherlock with a smile and he kissed John passionately, successfully convincing him to stay and finish what they had started.
Mrs Hudson looks at Sherlock's eyes, and they have a gleam, a special gleam which suggests to her that she's accomplishing what John wanted, and Sherlock is remembering.
"When you two got married, I remember asking you to smile for the camera. You two looked so handsome in your suits, both looked so happy, so complete," says Mrs Hudson with a longing expression "And you had that... that face of yours! So serious. But I could tell you were very, very happy."
"Sherlock, smile for a moment, please."
The detective rolled his eyes at his landlady and faked a smile. John shook his head, playfully, but he smiled sincerely.
"Stop being so Sherlocky and smile, you git," murmured John.
"But I don't see why I should smile for photographs,"
John pouted. "Aren't you happy?"
"Of course I am. I can genuinely say I'm very happy and pleased to finally get married to you."
"Then, smile."
"I might need more persuasion than that to accomplish your orders, Captain Watson," said Sherlock, and smiled again for Mrs Hudson's camera.
John smiled. "Do I need to bribe my own husband with sex?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a very I'm-not-being-clear-enough way and John smirked.
"Then we'll have to ask Mrs Hudson to spend the night at Mrs Turner's."
Sherlock smiled widely for the camera.
"Mrs Hudson... who proposed to whom?" asks Sherlock, embarrassed with himself for having to ask that question.
But the truth is that he can't remember.
The old lady smiles, sadly "John. John was the one who proposed to you."
Mrs Hudson tells Sherlock several anecdotes. Most of them are happy and funny moments, like the time Sherlock wanted to cook in order to prove he was clever enough to do so by just deducing instead of reading and following a recipe, but he almost ended up burning down the kitchen. She also tells Sherlock about the time they decided to go on holiday to Spain, but she can't tell him more than the few things John told her. Sherlock tells her he can remember and she continues telling him the stories he once deleted.
"John and I... did we have arguments?"
Mrs Hudson's nods "You once fought because you conducted an experiment on one of John's favourite's jumpers. I could hear you both from downstairs and then John came and asked me if he could stay with me for a few days."
The detective looks at her and remembers.
"I'm done, Sherlock. If you needed wool for an experiment, you could have gone to the shop round the corner and bought some, or asked Mrs Hudson -."
Sherlock shrugged. "Does she have wool?"
"She goes to a knitting club on Friday nights!"
John took a bag with him and started filling it with some clothes he found.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving. I won't come back unless you apologise," replied John, not looking at Sherlock at all.
"You're going to ask Mrs Hudson to stay with her aren't you?"
John sighed "Yes. So you know where you can find me if you feel like apologising."
It took Sherlock only a few minutes to go down, apologise and ask John to go back home because he was hungry and he was craving for John's special rice. John kissed him and laughed, saying he couldn't believe how stupid their arguments were. Sherlock agreed.
"You never fought over serious things. It was always domestic," confesses Mrs Hudson as she sips her tea.
Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. He can remember a lot of more things now. He can picture John's smile, he can even hear John's laughter. Sherlock can remember his voice.
A part of Sherlock is relieved, and inside him he feels the hope he has missed, lost somewhere.
"Mrs Hudson, please tell me what John told you when - when he wanted to have children. When he was looking for surrogate mothers and cleaning the room upstairs," begs Sherlock and Mrs Hudson nods, taking a deep breath before talking.
It hurts her to remember John's tears and sadness when he started storing back all those boxes with old things after he had cleaned his old room upstairs to turn it into a nursery, a room for a baby, for a child to grow up. She doesn't know if she has to tell this to Sherlock, she doesn't know if it will destroy him or not, but he's almost begging, and she can't say no. She was never able to say no to him.
"You were out, working on a case when I came here and saw him storing all those boxes back inside his old room. I asked him what happened and he told me you two were infertile. He was so broken, so sad. He already told me about his problem before, and it surprised and shocked me to no end when he told me you couldn't have babies as well." Mrs Hudson fights her tears back and takes Sherlock's hand again. "I told him you could adopt, I told him to ask your brother for help, but he said that maybe it just wasn't your destiny to become parents."
The tears Sherlock fought before, are now falling again down his cheeks. He realises now how mean and how selfish he was, destroying John's dreams, one of his most wanted dreams. Sherlock remembers John's eyes full of hope and desire to become a parent, how he talked about the room upstairs, about the cradle he wanted, the possible names, about preparing bottles, changing nappies, and how lovely it could be having a baby together.
"I don't know why I let him dream, why I let him continue with the plans, why I didn't tell him until so late that I didn't want children and that I wasn't going to give my sperm. I don't know why he didn't leave me. He should have left me and found someone who could give him children," admits Sherlock.
"He would have never left you, dear. John loved you. Maybe life didn't give him the child he wanted, but let's try to imagine he has it now. Wherever John is now, he's with that little boy he loved so much. I'm sure they are together and they are a family,"
Sherlock nods. "You have been there, at John's grave."
"Yes, deary. I went there before coming here."
After a few minutes of silence, Mrs Hudson stands up and announces she has to leave. She says her nieces must be worried and she has to take some medicine. Sherlock insists on taking her to the train station and she accepts. Before Mrs Hudson leaves Baker Street, she walks around Sherlock's flat, around her own and old rooms, and she stares at every empty space and lets a hand run over the walls, inwardly saying good bye to that place which had been her house, the place where she suffered an abusive husband, but also the place where she lived the happiest moments of her life with those two, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes who were like sons to her. Like the sons she never had.
"Some papers will arrive soon. I want you to own this place."
"Mrs Hudson -."
"I won't accept a no, Sherlock. My nieces are married to wealthy men, they won't need this place and I'm sure it will be in good hands," explains Mrs Hudson as Sherlock closes the door of 221 Baker Street and hails a cab.
The old lady takes a last look at the building and gets into the cab.
The car ride isn't long, but they remain silent. She can see Sherlock feels some relief, and that makes her happy.
At the train station, the train is already waiting for the passengers to get in. Sherlock walks next to Mrs Hudson until they are standing close to the train, and the detective realises he has to say good bye.
"I don't want to forget this. Your brother gave it to me. John left it in his office, and it was addressed to me. He explained in his letter that I could give you this only under certain circumstances. And I'm sure I'm doing it right, just as John would have wanted me too. Open it when you're at home," says Mrs Hudson as she takes a little parcel out of her violet handbag.
Sherlock's eyes are wide, he can't even believe it until he reads John's handwriting.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Your brother came one day. I was doing the gardening when I saw a black car parked outside. It took me a long time to realise who he was," says Mrs Hudson as she smiles weakly. "He told me John had passed away. I couldn't really believe it, even though I knew your brother would never say such a lie."
Sherlock frowns. "What did Mycroft tell you?"
"He told me John had a heart attack. He also handed me a letter and this parcel for you."
"I don't understand..." says Sherlock as he examines the parcel.
"I got my own letter. And John left me this parcel for you. He wrote to me, asking me to give you this when I felt it was the right moment."
Sherlock seem to understand, but he doesn't want to when he sees Mrs Hudson weep a few little tears.
"What do you mean, Mrs Hudson?"
"We know when we're going to die, dear. John knew it. I know it now," replies the old lady, tiredly.
"Mrs Hudson..."
"I'm dying, Sherlock. It could happen tonight, tomorrow, next week. But I know it will happen soon. And I know you want to die. You want to see John again, don't you?"
Sherlock starts crying, even when he doesn't want to. "With all my heart,"
"You have to understand that you can't choose this. It will inevitably happen when it has to, and I'm sure it won't happen any time soon. Some things happen only to makes us stronger -."
However, Sherlock cuts her off "How can John's death make me stronger? Why did God do this to me? I can't live without him, Mrs Hudson," admits Sherlock.
Mrs Hudson's takes his cold hands and caress them "I remember being beaten by my own husband. I loved him so much I forgave him every time he broke any of my bones. I forgave him for years because I loved him. Every time I asked myself why he kept doing it, why he kept hitting me and why he kept saying he loved me, I also asked myself why God was doing this to me. When he got sentenced in Florida, I could have saved him, but I knew he would hit me again and I would die as soon as he got out of jail. But you came along, and you helped me. You helped me to accept my destiny and you ensured his death, which at the same time saved me. His absence hurt me for years and it still does, but it made me stronger because I got to live and see my family grow, my nieces have their own families. I got to live with you and John, who were like sons to me. You were the sons I always wanted and I laugh every time I remember how much I spoiled you."
Sherlock only nods and smiles weakly at her. People around them look at the crying man and the old lady, but they don't care.
"Sherlock, you're like a son to me. And I know I can't make this pain go away, I wish I could, I wish I could do something but I can't. Promise me you'll have a long life. Promise me you'll live, you'll keep on working and give yourself another chance. I need you to promise me that, I need to die knowing I did what John asked me to. I need to die knowing no son of mine is unhappy. I need to leave this world knowing you, Sherlock, my dear, are in peace,"
"I promise. I promise Mrs Hudson, I will have a long life. If that's what John asked you, I will do it."
The train is going to leave soon.
"This is probably the last time we're seeing each other, Sherlock. So please, take care of yourself."
"Mrs Hudson -."
"I love you so much, Sherlock my dear. You can't imagine how grateful I am to life, to God, for meeting you, for being whatever you think I am to you."
"You were like a mother to me, to us. I'm sorry I forgot you, Mrs Hudson. I will never forgive myself for it. I'm sorry for my rudeness and for all the troubles I caused you and I promise I will live a long life and I promise I will take care of Baker Street. Please, forgive me."
"You don't have anything to apologise for, my dear. You never caused me any trouble, just the opposite, you were like a big child that I was glad to raise and spoil a bit. I wish I had taught you how to cook properly, but I'm sure you'll manage," says Mrs Hudson and she laughs a little. "Remember to eat at least four times per day, and sleep, dear. Don't forget the gas bill either, and visit a doctor every time you feel bad. Can you promise me that, Sherlock?"
"I promise, Mrs Hudson."
"And make peace with your brother. You can't imagine how much that man loves you, dear. Don't fight with him, I know you don't like people telling you what to do, or saying what's the best for you, but he really does it for your own good. You're everything he has, and you're family. You know my words -."
"Family is all we have at the end," says the detective, completing his ex landlady's words.
"I know you love him too. Don't let it happen again."
"I won't. Mrs Hudson... Can I ask you something?" asks Sherlock, a bit insecure.
"Sure deary. Anything you want,"
Sherlock seems to hesitate for a moment, but he finally asks. "I want to ask you a favour. Please, tell John I love him. Tell him I will keep my promise and that I will wait for him to come for me."
"I will," promises Mrs Hudson.
"And please, look after me, tell me you will."
The old lady pats his shoulder. "You won't need me. I'm sure John is already doing it."
"You think John is looking after me, you think he protects me?"
She nods. "Of course he is. Don't ever think otherwise."
As soon as it is announced that the train will leave shortly, Mrs Hudson hugs Sherlock and he does the same. She rests her head on the tall man's chest and closes her eyes, letting her tears fall.
"Good bye, my dear Sherlock Holmes. It was an absolutely pleasure to know you. And I wish you the best, I'm sure you'll have a very happy and wonderful life ahead. I love you with all my heart, don't ever forget that."
Sherlock kisses her cheek. "Good bye, Martha Hudson. The pleasure was all mine. I'll fight every day to have a long and happy life. I love you as well, thank you."
The train leaves, and Sherlock knows he will never forget the ex landlady waving her hand, and crying. He knows he will never forget this day, the tears in his eyes, Mrs Hudson's words and all the things he managed to remember with her help. Thanks to her, Sherlock can now remember those happy moments he had with John, now he has some pictures, some of his letters. Now Sherlock knows more about the real John, about his John, the same one he had deleted.
The detective hurries to get into a cab, heading back to Baker Street. Sherlock can't wait to get into his flat and open the parcel, he can't wait to open it and see what John had left for him, if he wrote something for him.
It feels like forever until he arrives at Baker Street. Sherlock removes his long coat and his scarf and sits in his usual armchair, moving the blue shoe box Mrs Hudson had left and places it on John's armchair. Sherlock's hands shake while he opens the parcel. He carefully ripes the brown paper, slowly and carefully so he doesn't tear the paper with his name written on it, the name his John wrote.
Inside, he finds pictures, lots of old pictures of them, together, happily smiling. The one at the top has them together, with their faces glued together, they are cheek to cheek. Sherlock can see they are both holding the camera and both are smiling, very happily. They look happy and complete, just like they should have always been. Behind it says "Our first picture together" written with John's neat handwriting.
And Sherlock doesn't know what to do when he finds an envelope addressed to him. He carefully opens it and inhales the scent. He can feel John next to him. God, Sherlock wishes John could be next to him right now.
"My Dearest Sherlock Holmes..."
Sherlock can't believe what John's written to him.