A/N: Thanks to anyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed! So, I was wondering if any of you could help me out. I need someone to give me an idea of a menial job that Sherlock could do(part of the story coming up). It could be a barista, a clerk, anything like that. Thanks in advance(you can pm me or review)!

"Hmmm...decent layout. Mantle; good place for a skull. Practical chair, facing the window, but in the middle of the flat; perfect for violin playing. Good fridge; enough capacity for multiple experiments...Well, I believe I'll take it, Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaim, turning to see her smiling face.

"That's wonderful, Sherlock," she says, walking up to my side and patting me on the shoulder. "Come on, dear," she beckons(as I twitch at the nickname),"I've got some biscuits for you in the kitchen."

"Grand. Just grand, Mrs. Hudson," I compliment, and although it's a bit of a hyperbole, I do think the flat and the biscuits are both fairly decent; just maybe not grand.

We both saunter into the kitchen and she slides a plate of biscuits onto the dining table before she goes to turn on the kettle. I smile politely at her before I take one in my hand, popping it promptly into my dry mouth. Guess I haven't had many beverages today, but I'm not sure I've even had anything to drink at all.

Suddenly, I'm genuinely glad Mrs. Hudson is taking the time to make me tea.

"How've you been, Sherlock? You haven't called me in ages! You need to use your phone more," she babbles, glancing to the boiling kettle, then going to retrieve the container of sugar and loose tea from the pantry.

I wince slightly as I respond,"The flow of cases has been...sparse..." She exits the closet, jar of sugar and tea in hand as she glances curiously at me.

"How so, dear?" she asks, going back to watching and tending the boiling water. I huff, what I hope can pass as good naturedly, at the use of the nickname.

"Well...," I hesitate, wondering if I should speak truthfully or not. But I remember how Mrs. Hudson has always been there for me, and I decide she is worthy of knowing the whole, absolute truth. I sigh longly, continuing,"Lestrade isn't letting me in on cases, currently."

She frowns deeply as she turns back around to face me. Her mouth opens a bit, and her expression seems confused, but then her eyes widen the tiniest bit. Suddenly, I can see the full disapproval in the thin line of her lips, and deep down, the look doesn't make me feel good.

"Oh, Sherlock...," she drawls, and I know she knows. It feels bad to disappoint her; I feel bad to disappoint her.

She rushes to me, placing her frail hands on my shoulders as she looks sternly at me.

"Why'd you do it, Sherlock?" she questions, practically whimpers, and I don't have a logical answer for her. I didn't want to, and I still don't want to; I don't think I've ever wanted to.

"I...I...," I stutter, and it probably seems weird to her, maybe even troubling, that I'm acting so meek, stuttering so nervously. I take in a shaky breath, exhale, inhale again. In, out, in, out,"I don't know...," I finally grate out, and I thought the confession might make me feel better, but I just feel worse.

Mrs. Hudson looks sorrowfully down at me, and I know she's just trying to comfort me by wrapping me in a hug, but her arms aren't welcome right now. I try pushing her off, my arms feeling limp, more like noodles than appendages.

"Mrs. Hudson," I chide irritably, pushing with more force this time. She seems to take the hint as she backs off, giving me some space to rise from my chair.

My chair scratches, shrill and loud against the tiled floor. I stare down at her, her soft eyes looking at me with so much despair. The only thing I can hear is the constant sound of blowing steam, billowing and rising from the kettle's spout. It's making me uneasy.

"I'd like to see my new bedroom, now, if you don't mind," I murmur. She seems reluctant to say or do anything, but she nods eventually, ambling back to the kettle.

"Let me get you a cuppa, first, dear," she replies, and I find I'm feeling too...something to care about the term of endearment right now. I nod faintly, slowly falling back down onto my chair.

Almost immediately, I hear the loud, characteristic whistle of the kettle, and Mrs. Hudson hums as she opens the fridge to scour for milk. I merely remain seated as she pulls out the carton and sits it on the counter, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

"Ah, Sherlock...you need to take better care of yourself," she mutters sadly. "Have you at least been sleeping better?" she continues, spooning the loose tea into the pair of mugs.

"No...haven't been too tired," I respond, tapping my fingers impatiently against the table. I really just want to be alone, where it's safe, with myself, the only person I know, for sure, that I can trust. I wish Mrs. Hudson would move faster.

She tisks slightly as she pours some milk into the bottom of the mugs, then places it on the counter before reaching for the kettle. "You need to rest more, dear," she scolds gently, waving an accusing finger at me. She dumps two spoonfuls of sugar into each cup before stirring both of them thoroughly. "I wish someone could be here all the time to tell you that."

Mrs. Hudson strides over to where I'm sitting, placing one mug of tea gently beside my right hand. The steam wafts up from the cup, ghosting over my face as I smile at her. People have told me I have two kinds of smiles: ones that meet my eyes, and others that almost do. This is one of the real ones, where my eyes crinkle at the corners.

I don't thank her because she already knows I'm grateful. I don't even ask if I can leave for my new bedroom; she just nods slowly at me, taking her own mug as she walks into the living room, then ventures down the stairs. I hear the soft click of her apartment door as I rise from my chair, starting to my soon-to-be room.

I shut the door softly, not bothering to flip the light on as I gently place my tea on the nightstand and plop onto the neatly made bed. Too bad I'm so disorganized; the room won't look as nice once I settle in. I reach over and turn the bed lamp on, grasping the mug and brushing it against my lips. I take a gulp, ignoring the burning sensation in my mouth.

My eyes catch the writing on my wrist, and I look down at John's name. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson about John some other day, I suppose. I'm too ashamed right now, too exhausted, and I find that I just want to sip my tea and then go to sleep, for once.

Maybe depression makes you tired.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I call, knocking rythmically against her door. I hear the almost nonexistent tap of her feet, growing louder as she finally unlocks and opens the door.

"Yes, Sherlock," she says, gesturing for me to come in, I guess. I wave away her offer, still standing awkwardly under the doorway as she patiently waits for whatever I have to say.

Defeated, I push past her and plop onto her floral couch, messing with the teared cushion beside where I'm seated as she sits down in the chair across from me.

"What is it, dear?" she inquires, and my stomach is too tied in knots to care about being called dear right now.

"You...ha...," I start, too fast, tripping over my words. She looks at me, slightly worried, yet slightly amused, as I take a deep, comforting breath.

"Did you ever "go color", to use a colloquial term?"

She stares at me oddly for a moment before crossing her legs and saying, almost uncomfortably,"Well, no, Sherlock..."

"But-But weren't you married?" I chuckle vaguely, awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood, just a little.

She doesn't smile.

"Yes, well, I thought I could settle for him, but I suppose I couldn't, considering neither of us ever saw colors and now, well, you've killed him," she says, rather bluntly, smiling slightly despite the way she's averting her sad gaze. I'm not entirely sure how to comfort her.

I remain silent a moment, scouring her living room as I clear my throat to continue,"Were you still happy, I mean, before the whole...arguing thing...?" I wave my hand awkwardly, not used to more personal discussions such as this one. Mrs. Hudson's look turns wistful, a small, genuine smiling curling her lips.

"I suppose, a long time ago, we did care about each other. Maybe love is too strong a word. Why do you ask?"

I lean back against the sofa, trying to conform my buzzing thoughts, but it's proving to be more difficult to reign over my mind now than usual. I tap my forehead repeatedly, annoyed. Then, I answer truthfully:

"I have a soulmate."

It's a simple statement, really. It's like saying,"Tomatoes are red," or,"The grass is green." Bad examples, I think, my mind drifting to thoughts of what the two colors look like. Even so, the fact still remains that tomatoes are, indeed, red, and grass is, indeed, green.

Mrs. Hudson looks stunned for a minute before she's giggling and clapping her hands softly.

"Ohh, Sherlock; that's lovely! What's his name?!" she shouts, her smile so wide that I'm (only sort of) tempted to ask her if it hurts.

I ponder Mrs. Hudson's assumption that it would be a he, but only for a moment as I remember she's asked me a question. Without any hesitation, I blurt it out:

"John."

I haven't realized how good his name sounds out loud; how perfect. No matter if I were to say it or sigh it or shout it or sob it, it would still sound absolutely beautiful to my ears.

I grin.

"Oh, dear, this is wonderful...," Mrs. Hudson sniffles, drawing a handkerchief up to swat her face. "You haven't found him yet, have you?" She sounds hopeful, excited.

"Unfortunately, no," I mumble, my smile morphing into a thin frown.

I glance up to her face, and her smile is slowly falling away as she processes what I've said. Only a moment later, her whole face is frowning, and I'm frowning, and I really just want us to be smiling again.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

25 years of being alive, and I still haven't found John. The number of Johns I've met in my entire existence has been...38, I believe. Since being 14, I've met 24 of those 38.

"Yup," I confirm curtly, my lips emphasizing the 'p'. She shifts uncomfortably, and I feel uncomfortable too.

"I'm sure you'll find him," Mrs. Hudson whispers softly, head held limply in her hands as her gentle eyes stare into mine. I want to believe her, but I've been telling myself since I was a teenager,"It's alright, Sherlock; you'll find him," and it hasn't happened yet.

"Maybe," I drawl, and my legs have already carried me to the door and I'm saying a tight goodbye as I slam the door shut.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't follow me, and I don't turn back.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed, and yes, I know things seem kind of bleak right now, but the story will get happier. I promise. Anyway, if you could leave some feedback, I'd really appreciate it.