Mrs. Hudson's eyes were moist, little James Sherlock's arms tight around her neck. No crying, she told herself sternly – no sense in distressing the child needlessly, just as he was setting out for his new home. Sevenoaks was hardly John O'Groats; besides, the new Mrs. Watson had solemnly promised Mr. Holmes that her husband would remain a regular visitor to London, and Baker Street.
She kissed Jamie warmly on the cheek, and took him for a walk down the platform to see the engine.
Only once she and Mr. Holmes had waved the train out of sight and returned home did she allow herself the luxury of tears, carefully muffled by her apron. The rest of the day was spent in baking – although she did have rather a turn when she realised she'd unthinkingly begun to make the doctor's favourite ginger biscuits. She steeled herself to finish, setting aside the resulting army of gingerbread men for the Irregulars; the boys were almost as downhearted at the Watsons moving house as a certain mule-headed detective...
Some time after midnight, the restless footsteps on the floor above finally stumbled to a halt. She hastened upstairs to the sitting room and knelt beside the armchair, gathering its trembling occupant into her arms, stroking his hair as he wept.
"Oh, my boy... my dear boy..."