Holidaysat221b prompt of the day - 5/11/18: Sherlock sees a woman on the street. Instantly intrigued (you can choose as to why) he follows her. - mel-loves-all (from tumblr)

Because I am in an EXCESSIVELY angsty mood today, I came up with these two tear-jerkers for our favorite pair. Apologies in advance for the MCD in both versions. Story is rated T because of that.

Following Her Version 1

"Excuse me, Miss-?"

She turns to face him, her expression half-inquisitive, half-wary. "Sorry, do I know you?"

He shakes his head. "No, probably not." He gives her a wry smile. "Unless you happened to read the tabloids 25 years ago. Well before you were born, of course."

She lets out a soft "oh!" of recognition. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

He's taken aback, not having expected his jesting comment to bear fruit. "Well, yes, I am. And if I might ask…?"

"Hooper," she says quietly. "My name is Mary Hooper. I believe you knew my mother?"

He bows his head, the better to hide the flash of grief in his eyes. "Yes, I did," he replies. "She was one of the finest women - finest people - I ever had the privilege to know. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Not just mine," she murmurs, reading him just as well as her mother ever did. "But thank you, Mr. Holmes. It was very nice to meet you, even under the circumstances."

He accepts her hand, shakes it gravely, and nods his good-byes as she turns and enters the funeral home.

Following Her Version 2

"Excuse me, Miss-?"

She turns to face him, her expression morphing from surprise to sorrow as soon as she sees him. "Miss Hooper," she supplies, reaching out to take his hand. "Miss Mary Hooper."

He smiles at her. "I knew a Mary Watson and a Molly Hooper once." His smile fades as memory rises up to taunt him. "But they're both gone now."

She nods and lays a gentle hand on his arm. "I know. And I'm so sorry about that, Mr. Holmes. Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee, hmm?" She nods at the coffee shop in front of which they've stopped. "I hear this place has the most marvelous cake."

He agrees, not sure why he does - he tells himself it's for the cake, of course - and allows her to take his arm and escort him inside. The owner gives them a small wave, but he's not sure why the man's expression is full of pity. Does he think them an odd pair, the pretty young woman with the chocolate eyes and cinnamon curls, and the old duffer with his faded blue scarf and slightly raggedy coat? Hmpf, let him pity them, he thinks gruffly, wrapping the coat more tightly around himself and settling into a chair. He loves this coat and scarf; more importantly she loved them both, gifted him the scarf years ago, right before she..

He shuts the memory away, smiles at the young lady as she brings him a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon cake. That was always her favorite, and he accepts now in her memory.

The young lady murmurs something about going to the lady's; he nods abstractedly, caught up in the memories that won't stay locked away, curse them, and takes a bite of his cake.

As she walks away he dimly hears her voice saying, "Uncle John? I found him. He's here, at the cake place. Can you and Rosie come and get us in about ten minutes?"

He wonders distantly who she's talking about, but the memories of the past rise up and consume him, clouding the present as they always do these days, and he returns to his cake and coffee.

And in the lady's room, his daughter cries quietly into her hands.