Chapter Five: Mrs. Hudson
She was the one who put things away.
She didn't blame John for staying away, but it did leave rather a lot of work for her. The science equipment, the macabre knick-knacks and the neatly folded clothes, the… well, the rather gruesome contents of the fridge—it all had to go. Slowly, methodically, she put it all away into boxes, stopping occasionally for a fortifying cup of tea. The gunshot holes in the wall wouldn't come out, of course, but she emptied the flat of everything else.
She broke a glass microscope slide one morning. Looking at the pieces glinting on the floor, she sat down at the table and cried.
When she came across the laptop, she didn't open it, but placed it gingerly in a box full of blankets and taped the box shut. The flat was full of crates now, and by all rights the memories should have packed up and gone—but they were stubborn.
Her boys. They were always getting into trouble, weren't they? Trouble they made for themselves, but trouble all the same, always causing her distress, leaving body parts in the fridge and shouting at all hours. She loved them like grandchildren, even Sherlock, who wasn't always easy to love. But he was a good man, somewhere deep in his funny old head—the sort of man who threw men out of windows or put them in jail if they crossed the line.
It was enough to break your heart.
She didn't believe a word of it, the rubbish the papers threw about. The trashy magazines were all good fun, but no sensible person believed a word of it. And if she ever got her hands on this Kitty Riley character—well. That young tart might learn a thing or two.
It was sad, though, really it was. She had gotten accustomed to the shouting and the running up and down the stairs—the building was too quiet without it.
The violin was the one thing she couldn't bring herself to touch. It seemed so fragile, sitting precariously on the windowsill, the wood glowing softly in the light. It would be almost sacrilegious for her to pick it up—she didn't know the first thing about violins, and it would be a shame for her to handle the same instrument Sherlock had always held so precisely.
She hadn't let the flat out again, though John had been gone for months now. It wasn't just the boxes that cluttered the floor or the violin on the windowsill or the bullet holes in the wall. A part of her thought that perhaps, if she was patient, one of her boys would come back.
A check had arrived every month since Sherlock's death, paying the rent and a bit extra. It wasn't John, and she couldn't trace it—but Sherlock had made a few allies, here and there. Maybe one of them wanted to pay their respects. She didn't want to bother the police about it when someone was being so kind and clearly wanted to remain anonymous.
Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night and could swear she heard a violin, the sound muffled through the floor. But when she opened the flat, it was empty as usual, and the violin was sitting on the windowsill where it had always been.
When she slipped and hurt her hip coming into the flat one morning, her first thought was to call out for Sherlock or John. Their names were already on her lips when she remembered, closing her eyes for a moment before fishing her phone out of her pocket instead. The hospital was lonely, although Molly—that sweet, tactless girl who had always been a bit too keen on Sherlock—visited once. She could've called John, she supposed, but it seemed like too much bother to put him through when he was already so busy.
Checking out, she found that someone had paid her hospital bill. The staff said whoever it was had paid through the mail, without a return address.
Christmas came around, as it always did. Surrounded by greenery, lights, snow, and general festivity, the building seemed even emptier than usual. Kettle boiling, Mrs. Hudson was about to put her feet up when there was a ring at the door. Molly and John were waiting outside, ruddy from the cold and bearing packages.
In silent agreement, they kept their impromptu party in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Sherlock's absence hung heavy on the room, but it was merry despite that. Molly nearly let slip that Mrs. Hudson had been in the hospital, luckily stopping mid-sentence at Mrs. Hudson's pointed glare. John was working full-time now, at a hospital across the city, but he said he and Molly met for lunch sometimes. Mrs. Hudson watched them and wondered if anything would come of it—she couldn't quite decide what she felt about the matter. Of course it would be lovely for John to be a bit less alone, and Molly was a sweet girl… but a part of her was still waiting for Sherlock to come back, and it seemed as if a part of John was too.
Molly left first, saying something about a brother to call. Mrs. Hudson excused herself to use the facilities, and when she came back her flat was empty. She made her slow way up the stairs, ignoring her hip's complaints, and found him in 221B.
It seemed suddenly, devastatingly lonely as she looked over all the boxes, furniture pushed up against the bare walls, violin sitting forlorn on the windowsill. John stood in the middle of it, looking around without touching anything.
"You haven't let it out again?" he asked, and she jumped a bit.
"No," she said carefully. "I haven't had the chance."
"I can't come back," he said, still looking away. "Not yet. I'm sorry."
"You take your time. I know you're very busy."
"I always thought he was coming back," John said, moving towards the window and looking out on the frozen street below.
"He always did such mad things."
John reached out towards the violin. An inch away, he suddenly hesitated, then let his arm drop by his side.
"Mycroft told me once that Sherlock had the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, but he chose to be a detective. He asked me what that said about his heart." John shook his head. "I still don't know."
"He liked being a mystery as much as he liked being infuriating," Mrs. Hudson replied after a moment.
"The world's only consulting detective."
John's words were spoken almost sardonically, but as they faded they seemed like a sort of homage.
Mrs. Hudson left him to his thoughts and put the kettle on, waiting for the steps to make their way down the stairs after her. She and John shared a quiet cup of tea before he left. Tomorrow she would clear out the flat properly, she decided, get rid of all the boxes and open it for tenants again.
Even as she told herself that, she knew that she wouldn't. She could put things away, but she couldn't keep herself from hoping.
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