Sherlock struggled onto his elbows. His knees. He heard only shrill whine, like rabbit-ears antennae being adjusted. The building roared soundlessly as he lurched for the door. Mrs. Hudson!
She was huddled on the landing, handbag tangled around her ankles, green shopping bag drawn across her face.
"Mrs Hudson…" Sherlock pulled it away, seeking her injuries.
No blood. No bruising. She wasn't even crying, though in the shattered street outside, a woman had set up an eerie howl, competing with a dozen car alarms. Her withered hands shook in his.
"Sherlock… what happened? What…?"
He pulled her close. Exhaled.
A/N - I'm gravitating towards drabbles of 100 words, though not all of these will be. Some may seem a little left field, but I don't want to spoil it with A/Ns telling you where each of these would lie in canon.
Ever wondered what happened at 221B between Sherlock being thrown onto the floor by the explosion and John's arrival the next day? Mrs Hudson would have to have still been on the stairs when the bomb went off.
Thanks again and always for reading, following, faving and/or reviews :)