John stopped by Mrs. Hudson's after work, sitting in her kitchen and let her fuss, pushing tea and sweets at him until he couldn't eat another bite.
"Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint," he said around a mouthful of chocolate-chip-something.
"Oh, posh," she protested, flapping her hand at him with a bit of a blush.
"No, really." He thought of holes in walls, unearthly noises late at night, messes of all sorts… "I mean it."
She sat down across from him and tilted her head, birdlike. "How are you doing then, luv?"
He swallowed, and looked down at the plate.
"Better than might be expected," he admitted. "I, ah…It hasn't seemed to hit me yet."
She nodded, as if she agreed completely. "I was that way after my husband died," she said, patting his hand. "It'll pass."
"I'm not sure I want it to," John said. He didn't mention his suspicions about Sherlock's death being a fraud. Somehow, in the warm glow of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, that seemed like the daydream of a child. But even if it wasn't, even if he was only fooling himself—was hopeless grief any better?
She gave him a sad little smile, patted his hand one more time, and stood, busying herself at the sink.
"Don't fret, luv," she said, clinking the dishes. "It gets better."