A/N: This was actually the beginning of a reeeally long chapter about the memorial service. It was way to long, so I've put this as it's own chapter.

Sincere apologies for the angstness in this story...but things have to get worse before they get better :-D

Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.

It was raining. The sun had made a dismal attempt to rise that morning, but by 11am John noticed that the sky was darker than when he'd first risen from bed. He was sat on the edge of the wooden desk, staring at the window rather than out of it, watching the trails of water wash the glass pain. Mrs Hudson spoke, making him jump.

"Oh good, you are up."

John cringed at the woman's surprised tone, having found him out of bed before midday. But he was jobless, penniless and friendless. And besides, Diagnosis Murder wasn't on until 2:15pm.

He offered her a smile over his shoulder. She wore a charcoal grey woollen dress, with thick dark grey tights, and silver shoes with large bows on the end. Her face, though smiling warmly at him, was blotchy and swollen. John couldn't bear to look at it so continued to look out of the window.

Since his obsessive blitz of the flat, Mrs Hudson had felt rather surplus to requirement. This morning, she decided to plump up the cushions on the sofa.

"Can I get you a cup of tea? When are you getting dressed? The taxi's booked for 1." She made her way around the room, searching for something to fuss over. "Oh, before I forget, you have some post."

This surprised John and he turned to look at her. She handed him a blue envelope. He recognised the handwriting immediately and placed it down on the desk beside him.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Mrs Hudson prompted curiously.

"It's from Harry," John told the window.

"Oh...ok." She lingered by his shoulder for a moment. "Do you need anything ironing for later?"

"No."

"Ok, dear."

He heard her turn on her heels and patter out of the room and down the stairs. John felt a knot of guilt fill his stomach. The woman had been a god-send, a rock, and John knew he wouldn't have gotten through the past few weeks without her. Seeing her face, tear-stained and agitated, should have prompted him to comfort her in the way that she had comforted him. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Sighing in frustration, he grabbed at the envelope next to him, and tore it open. On the front of the card, above a pink vase of white lilies, bore the silver words 'Thinking of You'. John gave a scoff and opened the card.

Jay,

How lame is this card! It was the best they had at the Co-op.

Just wanted you to know I haven't forgotten about you. I hope the service goes ok.

Give me a call if you need to.

Love you.

H x

John took another glance at the front of the card, before shoving it back into its envelope. He supposed he really should get dressed. But getting dressed implied a preparation for leaving the house. If he wasn't dressed, he wouldn't be able to leave the house, surely? Feeble logic, he mused.

Feeling uncomfortable sat on the wooden desk, he eventually moved. To his own surprise, instead of heading up the stairs to his room, his legs carried him down the corridor and stopped outside a closed door. His hand rested on the door handle, and before he could stop himself, he turned it. John was now standing in the doorway to Sherlock Holmes' bedroom.

The room was sparse. Sherlock had liked his clutter accessible within the kitchen and living room. The floorboards creaked under John's feet as he moved into the room, taking in the stillness of the air, the echoes of a dead man.

Without a thought, John threw open the doors to the wooden wardrobe, and regard its contents for a long moment. Several suits and shirts hung from the rail like body bags. John knew she'd never admit it, but Mrs Hudson had seen to the neatness of the wardrobe, he was sure of it.

Cool fabric ran through his fingers as he pulled at one of the shirts. Then something on the wardrobe floor caught his eye; a woollen blue scarf. John bent to pick it up. He sniffed in automatically, before looking around him consciously.

John, you complete weirdo.

It smelt of coffee, and iodine, and something else that John couldn't quite put a finger on. Cigarettes? His lip pulled at a smile. Surely not!

Closing the wardrobe doors, John sat heavily down onto the bed, the scarf still held loosely in his hand. Tears prickled in his eyes, and he swallowed several times in an attempted to remove the lump in his throat.

No, you won't do this. Not today. Get a grip!

It was an hour later, when Mrs Hudson poked her head around the door, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"There you are! You're still not dressed. The taxi will be here in 20 minutes." She was fussing, but John let her. She was in her element. John dropped the scarf down on the bed as he was whisked away by his landlady, and ten minutes later he returned from his room looking respectable, if a little uncomfortable. He offered Mrs Hudson a weak smile. She burst into tears.

"Oh don't. Please don't. Look, let's just get through today, show our faces, then we can finish that bottle of Scotch, order some Chinese and watch Eastenders. Ok?"

This was John's attempted at comforting the sobbing woman, and it seemed to do the trick. She nodded her head as she searched in her small handbag for a tissue, while attempting to arrange her features in a brighter expression.

A car horn was heard and the pair froze. Mrs Hudson began to walk with purpose to the top of the stairs.

"Come along, John," she said in a voice which was much stronger than he was expecting. He paused, his limbs not willing to move. Suddenly he crossed the room, reaching out for something.

"For Heaven's sake, John. Put that thing down at once." Mrs Hudson's voice was sharp and clipped, and John felt himself recoil. He looked down at the object in his hand. His walking stick. His landlady marched towards him as he chewed on his lip in thought. "You don't need it. If only he could see you now, with that thing in your hand, he'd strike your kneecaps with it until you would need it after all!" She was right, of course. Her cheeks were flushed with exasperation. John lowered the stick down with a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he muttered quietly. Mrs Hudson's face softened and she took his arm. The pair headed down the stairs towards their waiting taxi.