Epilogue:
Mrs. Hudson returns to 221a a few weeks later, accompanied by Mycroft.
John is happy to see her back, the flat was going to ruin without her. He helps her carry her bags in and directs Mycroft upstairs to Sherlock.
John takes Martha's bags to her flat and sets them down in the middle of the living room.
"It's good to have you back Mrs. Hudson," John says as he gives her a hug, "Sherlock's been in a mood."
Mrs. Hudson nods sympathetically, "The poor dear."
The trial that convicted Molly was a speedy one. Sherlock was brilliant in court and she was quickly found guilty and given a sentence in prison. John had not seen Sherlock so triumphant before.
But then, she escaped. It was Moriarty and everyone knew it. Both of them were somewhere, out in the world, and it drove Sherlock mad.
"Come on, let's see if you can cheer him up," John says.
Sherlock is plucking violently at his violin when Mycroft arrives upstairs. The two brothers do not say a word. There are no words that need to be said.
Mycroft takes a seat across from his brother. As soon as he is seated, Sherlock jumps up and sets his bow to his violin. He can no longer contain his fury in mere plucking. His face is taught, eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowed, lips and jaw set.
Never before in his life has he felt such rage.
The ferocity of the notes escalates, gaining more and more speed….
Until a small hand rests on his arm.
The music stops and Sherlock opens his eyes locking on Mrs. Hudson's.
And everything begins to crumble: his face, the tenseness of his arm, his jaw. The violin becomes slack in his fingers and his shoulders hunch.
Mycroft has sense to leave, after quickly leaving a sealed envelope in John's possession with Sherlock's name on it.
When his brother is gone, Sherlock finally speaks. "I…I'm so sorry, Martha," His words soft and his head bowed.
Mrs. Hudson cannot bear to see her tenant, the one she sees as an adopted son, so distraught when he is usually so confident. She takes the violin from his hands and lifts his chin. "Don't be, Sherlock." She says, her voice steady and kind. "You did all you could—"
"But I Should have seen the escape coming, Martha!" Sherlock turns his head violently away from her hand. "It was predictable!"
Mrs. Hudson pulls her hand away for a moment and then gather's his hands in hers. "Sherlock, dear, look at me."
After a moment, Sherlock obeys.
"You saved me. I'm alive because you stopped…The Napper from getting to me. You saved Evie. Hell, you even saved John!" She smiles slightly at him. "Don't beat yourself up over what you can't change, dear. It's not decent."
She gets a chuckle out of that one.
And surprisingly a hug.
After a few moments, Sherlock releases her and stands up straight. "Now, Mrs. Hudson. Seeing as you are tired from your trip and still have to unpack your belongings, I propose that John and I cook dinner for you tonight."
"You don't have to do that dear," she begins to protest.
"Please Mrs. Hudson," John interrupts, looking up from the envelope in his hand, "Let us do this for you." Although he finds the idea of Sherlock cooking a bit frightening, John wants to do something nice for her.
She tuts and blushes and thanks them.
Sherlock walks into the kitchen and John follows him.
"Mycroft left this for you," John says, handing over the envelope. Sherlock takes it from him, looking deep in thought.
John turns his attention to making tea.
"What is it?" he asks.
Sherlock's eyes take in every detail of the envelope; the texture, the quality, everything is taken and catalogued.
He slips it into his jacket pocket and slips said garment off of his shoulders and tosses it haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs of the dining room table. "It's not important at the moment. I'll open it later."
He rolls up his sleeves and begins walking towards the cabinets, that, oddly enough, were stuffed with food.
"What do you think Martha would like to eat, John?" Sherlock asks, continuing to stare into the cabinets, startling his flatmate for a moment.
John looks at the stock in the cupboard and then at Sherlock. The question is not, what would Martha like to eat, but rather, what could they make without destroying the kitchen.
"How about pasta?" John suggests upon seeing a box of it. That's easy to make, right?
Sherlock agrees and John instructs him to put a pot of water on to boil while getting started on the sauce.
They work quickly and without too much trouble. Sherlock is surprisingly adept at cooking, or at least he follows John's instructions well, and John only has to snap at him once.
The meal is ready and John clears Sherlock's experiments to one side of the table. Then, the three of them sit down to eat.
As a surprise for her return home, Sherlock pulls out a bottle of Martha's favorite wine, and after a glass and a half each, the three of them are laughing and sharing stories.
A couple of hours later, Martha goes back to her room to go to bed after much persuasion on both John and Sherlock's part that they would take care of the dishes.
Sherlock sets to work washing the plates while John dries them and puts them away. They work in silence.
"She was right, you know." Sherlock says out of the blue, his eyes focused on the dish he was scrubbing with perhaps a bit too much effort.
The statement surprises John. He looks up from the dish he is drying. Sherlock is all too absorbed in the dish he is washing and won't meet his gaze. Something was bothering him.
John tries to think of what Sherlock could be referring to, but is at a loss.
"Who was right about what?" he asks.
"Molly," Sherlock states simply. "About for being a Sociopath, high functioning as I am, I do care a lot more than a normal sociopath would about you and Martha."
Sherlock tilts his head away from John. He doesn't know what to expect from his flatmate and that sends his stomach churning.
This is new and different and uncomfortable for Sherlock. Feelings that is. Just even trying to explain it to John makes him want to run to his room and not come out until he can sort all this out.
Delete all the emotions.
Or drown them in whatever substance he found would work the best.
John would hate that though! His inner demon whispers.
And he doesn't want John to hate him.
John suddenly understands Sherlock's discomfort. He stares at his friend, thinking of a reply. He silently curses Molly, thinking of some choice words he wouldn't normally use.
"I have never, for one moment, thought you were a sociopath," John replies seriously.
It's a slight exaggeration, but for the most part is true. Ever since Sherlock had introduced him to Sebastian as his friend, John has doubted his claim of being a sociopath, high functioning or otherwise.
Sure, Sherlock has antisocial tendencies and is manipulative and struggles to understand emotions. But Sherlock isn't emotionless. John has seen how passionate Sherlock can be.
"Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with caring about people," John says gently.
Sherlock almost scoffs at the statement, desperately wanting to just brush off this entire conversation and move on, to the next case, to just life as it was.
But he can't.
"…but caring get's people hurt…" He hears himself say in a small voice.
Will caring about them save them?
No.
Then I shall continue to not make that mistake.
The plate he is cleaning furiously is straining under the pressure.
Ah, so that's what this is all about, John realizes.
"You mean caring about me gets me hurt," John says. Sherlock cleans with even more vigor. "You can't stop feeling to protect me. I don't want that and it wouldn't work."
John's hand reaches out and stops Sherlock's washing.
"You're going to break the plate," he says as he takes it from him. John rinses the dish and turns back to Sherlock.
The way he stands, he looks lost. John puts the dish down and pulls the consulting detective into a hug.
Sherlock stiffens as John's arms encircle him. It's a cautious hug…but the fact that John is hugging him to begin with…
The Consulting Detective, the man with all the answers, is for once, at a loss as to how to respond.
And arm rises from his side and awkwardly pats John on the back, his ears getting warm, embarrassed from his lack of knowledge on exactly how to hug someone.
Fortunately, John gets the picture and pulls away a moment later.
John stands there awkwardly a moment before clearing his throat and turning back to the dishes. Sherlock joins him and they slip back into the routine. John casually inquires after Sherlock's latest experiment and he replies with a long explanation.
Neither speak about the conversation or the case. John has more to say on the subject, but doesn't. There is a sort of understanding between them.
They finish the dishes and Sherlock flops onto the couch, hands together, thinking. John watches him a moment, smiling, before bidding his friend goodnight.
Because that's what Sherlock is, his best friend. And John is glad he has him.
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