A/N: Trigger warning: I apologize for the light sexism and ableism. I completely don't share Sherlock's views on mental illness and women (especially as both). It is necessary for the plot, and it wouldn't go unchecked. No spoilers, but I'm planning on revising some of Sherlock's unhealthy opinions on other people. His sexism and ableism will definitely be a part of that.

"Absolutely not."

"Mycroft, I need to talk to her. She's the missing link."

"You're not going back to 221B."

"I would've had to eventually. Lestrade wants me interview everybody. Including Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft runs his hands over his head. His hair sticks up. Resist fixing it. He looks tired. That woman is here. I think John called her Anthea. She isn't texting for once.

"Maybe this is the break we need, Mr. Holmes."

Anthea just advised Mycroft. An unwise move. She's his inferior, in more ways than one.

"You think so?"

"I do. It'll be dangerous, but we can keep eyes on him. We need this information. And he's right, he'll probably have to talk to Mrs. Hudson eventually."

Mycroft looks tense. Worried. He's thinking. He's going to... relent. Wow.

"Alright. Go. But I am not responsible for the consequences."

A women just stood up to Mycroft. And won! Maybe I'm not going crazy, maybe the world is going crazy.

221 Baker St. It's been too long since I've been here last. No, maybe too short. Why do I feel a reluctance to go in? Why do I feel such nostalgia? It is simply a location. I do not have any ridiculous sentiment about this place. None whatsoever.

The sound of the knocker is familiar. Everything is. Including the sound the door makes.

"Yes?"

Mrs. Hudson looks exactly the same. Yet I think she's changed. Maybe I'm projecting. Not that I've changed, of course, but my appearance has. No, she's changed. She seems more sad. Tired. Worn down. What happened? She must've lost a family member. Or friend.

"I'm Detective Inspector Hamish Cheveux. Please call me Hamish. I need to see Sherlock Holmes's flat. If it's alright with you."

Why did I add that afterthought? I still need to see it whether or not it's okay with her.

"Of course it's okay, Hamish! Come in, come in. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John's housekeeper. At least I used to be."

This entry room looks the same. Everything looks the same. Of course. Why would it change?

"Housekeeper?"

"Well, technically their landlady. But honestly? I was their housekeeper."

Laughter bubbles to the surface. Quiet, warm laughter. I haven't laughed like that in a long time.

"Right. Well, is their flat this way?"

Of course I know where my own flat is. It's also the only option. But it would be out of character not to ask. I think I'm beginning to understand Hamish Cheveux pretty well. I am an expert on human nature, after all.

"Yes, yes. Please, go on up. Look at whatever you like. Do you need me up there, or would you rather be alone?"

"I'd actually like to be alone. But I do have to ask you some questions. If you don't mind"

Hamish sure is polite. It's almost revolting. It's not as hard to fake as I thought it would be though.

"Alright, just knock on my door whenever you're done. I hope you find what you need"

The door swings shut, but the it doesn't catch. Seventeen steps. The twelfth still groans. The door hasn't been tampered with. How did Irene get in? The flat looks empty. Completely empty. Not just devoid of life, but devoid of all remnants of life. Just furniture, wallpaper, fireplace. The only personal effect left is my skull, still in the same place. At least Mycroft's people left it. I'll have to carry it. It isn't as heavy as I thought it would be. There's a ring where the skull blocked the dust. Desolate.

John's chair. It's fraying on the bottom edge. The cushion is bursting through the seems. The sun has faded the black cushion. John's dark outline is barely visible. I see why he used to sit here. It's very comfortable. And warm. The sun through the dirty windows makes a hazy watercolor pattern on my legs. There isn't a lot of dust in the room yet. It hasn't been unoccupied for that long.

I don't really want to get up, but I should check the kitchen. It's dirty. There's an old ring from a mug. The bathroom is also empty. The tear in the shower curtain from where John slipped and fell is still there. I'll just peek into our bedrooms. Nope, no one. They look too empty. Much too empty. Where is Irene? I really do think I'm losing my mind. I need to get out of here.

Walk down the steps one at a time. Mrs. Hudson may not make the connection, but I don't want her thinking that there are any similarities between Hamish and Sherlock. Knock on the door. She answers. I can't believe I've never been in Mrs. Hudson's flat. She's on the phone. She holds up one finger to me. I don't understand why people do that. They don't really mean they'll be done in exactly one minute. Humans are strangely very imprecise. What is she doing with her hands? She's pointing at a chair. Maybe she wants me to sit there. She's talking to her brother. He's wanting a place to stay. She'd better not offer 221B. Good, she didn't. She's hanging up and sitting across from me. That pale blue is a good color on her.

"I'm so sorry about that, Mr...Hamish. I was talking to my brother. That good for nothing, lazy... Sorry. I know that's not what we're here to talk about."

"No, not exactly. I need to know when was the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes."

"It was...when they arrested him. He wasn't guilty, Hamish! He really wasn't. I know he was set up. I don't have any evidence, but I just know he's innocent!"

She's getting emotional. What do I do? She seems afraid. Frantic. I guess I should tell her we're trying to prove my innocence. Maybe that'll make her feel better.

"Mrs. Hudson, you should probably know that I am currently working to prove Mr. Holmes's innocence."

"Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that means to me. I don't like people thinking about him so negatively. He wouldn't like me saying this, but he was a good man. A very good man."

Why would she think I wouldn't like that? Maybe I shouldn't. Should I? I don't understand. She's staring at me. I should say something.

"Right, well, yes. Um. So, please go more into detail about the last time you saw him."

"Of course, Hamish. Well, I went up to their flat–"

"Sorry to interrupt, but to clarify, are you referring to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes. So, I went up to their flat and gave them a parcel marked "Perishables". It was delivered by a German person. Then...the police came and uh, took them away. I.."

Tears are welling up in eyes. Her voice sounds like she's choking. What do I do? I don't know how to make her stop. I don't like seeing her so upset. It makes me feel...almost upset myself. Should I pat her hand? I'll try that.

"Thank you, Hamish. I'm sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but I just can't help it."

Now she's really crying. Why am I wrapping my arms around her? She's leaning into me, relaxing. I guess what I'm doing is good. She's still crying though. What else do I do? I guess I'll pat her arm. I don't know what else to do. She's relaxed at least. Comfort. She's mumbling into my cardigan.

"Thank you, Hamish."

She's crying for me, I guess. I'm glad I can help her a little. I've made her so sad. I wish I didn't have to. I really just want to tell her everything right now. But I can't. That would spoil everything. Her sweater is so soft. Ding.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Go ahead and answer your phone. I'll just go freshen up a bit."

She's leaving. I wish she was still my landlady. Because...she makes great tea of course. I need to check my phone. Left pocket.

Quite a show of emotion for a sociopath, Hamish.