25. From ThatSassyCaptain: [Free Space] Write the prompt of your dreams, the one you wished you'd gotten but haven't yet
The choices were overwhelming, but I finally chose...the women of John Watson's life.
"Oh, aren't you just darling," Charlotte Watson cooed. Her newest lad was swaddled warmly and asleep, freshly nursed. He was smaller than Hamish, but would knit for him, bake for him, fuss at him, love him more than life itself, and infuse him with a love for gentle women and Scotland before she left the earth.
It is a remarkable thing, love. And she was a remarkable woman. She played jokes on him. She read and edited his stories with gentle suggestions. She told stories marvelously herself. She had once found a little tiger cub and tried to rear it herself, much to her father's horror. She had a kind spirit coupled with a remarkable mettle. She was the best of wives.
Mrs. Hudson, the most patient soul in London, loved her tenants like her own children. And they loved her like their own mother. Sometimes, John would pass the evening in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, swapping stories of Scotland, from where they both hailed, and chuckling over Holmes' latest eccentricity.
Violet turned his head in 1901. She was a widow herself, comely and quiet. She devoured novels of all levels of prestige- foolish little novels sold on the street and periodicals and long classic novels. She was less of a homemaker, but John Watson was accustomed to unusual living conditions. She helped him find wild joy again, and that proved to be what he needed.