I heard about John. I'm so sorry. Talk about it over dinner?
Sherlock gazes not at his phone but through it, like a microscope lens or the façade of a murderer. He deletes the message and considers deleting Irene Adler, but does not. He probably wouldn't be able to, anyway (attempted deletion of John Watson: unsuccessful; attempted deletion of Irene Adler: likely to have similar results, evidence would solidify assumptions but assumptions are not important enough to warrant experimentation). Instead he taps up a message and sends it elsewhere.
I need a case
-SH
There's a shift in activity somewhere downstairs (chair scraping backwards, door opening, first step creaking) as Mrs. Hudson exits her flat, and by the lilt of her steps Sherlock can tell she's carrying something heavy. He supposes that if John had been sitting in the chair opposite to him, the doctor would have gotten up to help their landlady. A hairsbreadth of a moment passes in which Sherlock considers going to aid Mrs. Hudson himself, but he discards the notion as dull and unbearably maudlin (Mrs. Hudson has made the ascent to 221B roughly 492 times, likelihood of injury or trouble unbelievably low even with her hip, assistance not required). Just because Sherlock has killed his best friend does not mean it is his responsibility to fill the empty shoes left behind, because after all it wasn't on purpose.
This conclusion, though entirely logical, is not satisfying. Nothing has seemed satisfying since John's departure.
His phone peeps. A thrill sparks up in his mildewing brain, and it's all he can do to open the new text before he dies of impatience. It's Lestrade.
are you clean?
Sherlock's face sets into a frown. The flat's door opens behind him and Mrs. Hudson bustles in carrying a tray of tea (she's made two cups out of habit, hasn't realized the mistake yet but will pretend the second one was for her then stay to drink it to sell the lie) but he makes no acknowledgement of her. He glances at the four nicotine patches nestled near the crook of his arm.
Does it make a difference?
-SH
"Hello there, Sherlock dear! I've just— oh my," Mrs. Hudson trails abruptly off, and though he's not watching, he knows she's realized her teacup error. The phone announces another message.
sure as hell it does! i know youre having a hard time but i cant let you have any access to crime scenes or case files unless you can promise me you're 100 percent clean
I'm clean enough.
-SH
He presses "send" with a vengeance at the same moment that Mrs. Hudson solves her dilemma. "I've just come to have some tea with you, dear!" she resumes several moments late. Another beep from the phone.
no cases. get some rest
"Sherlock?"
I've had rest. I need a case
-SH
"I'm sorry, dear, it's only that you've not left the flat in days and I'm a tad worried—"
no cases and thats final or therell be another 'drugs bust'
"—but I made your tea the way you like it, and—"
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock roars, and she jolts so badly that the teacup nearly hits the floor (would have been second broken object this week, who would have cleaned it? not your housekeeper). "Leave," he commands, but his landlady only stands petrified. "Leave!"
And the both of them are headed for the door, Mrs. Hudson to escape through it and Sherlock to slam it behind her. When it's shut, he turns with his back against it, suddenly heaving and breathless, and he doesn't know what's happening but his throat is tight and all he can hear is John's voice in the echo of the door's hinges saying, "Not good."
Sherlock's trembling. This is not the first time his body has betrayed him recently (certainly not) but this is different, because before he had wanted to do something about it and now he possesses nothing in the world but the crippling urge to cry. Never the sort of man to shed tears, he fights it, fights his constricting throat and his trembling lips and the eyes that are trying to screw shut, fights his own body and soul, fights the unbearable pain in his chest until he's turned inward on himself and it's just too hard to fight.
So, Sherlock Holmes sits alone on 221B's cold floor and weeps bitterly. It's an ugly kind of cry, tainted just enough by self-pity and anger that his nose runs and sobs break audibly from his shuddering lips until the back of his throat is raw. The relentless ache in his chest only grows, and he doesn't understand it, because he knows that he feels no physical pain but something is telling him that he hurts. His body begins to rock of its own accord, as if it knows it's just the vessel of transport and seeks only to comfort the brain. But it doesn't help, because the brain isn't hurting. The brain's switched off, now. It lies so dormant that it doesn't even notice Mrs. Hudson creep into the flat. But the body senses her, and it clings helplessly to her with hands so taunt they're white at the knuckles, and allows her arms to cradle its head, and dampens her dress with more tears than it's cried since it was only a small body with the mind of a boy who'd never seen a dead man in his life.
And he realizes that the real-but-not-quite-physical ache in his chest must be his proverbial heart, though until that moment he had still believed he did not have one.
The cry lasts a good long time, until Sherlock finally stands, quavering at the knees, and pulls Mrs. Hudson up with him. A sad smile takes hostage the corners of his lips, and though it's rather unclear to him why a grin should find itself on a tearstained face, it seems to be the right thing because Mrs. Hudson smiles back.
"You had better be off, now, Mrs. Hudson," he murmurs, voice cracked with emotion, an unusual guest who is beginning to feel unwelcome. Gently, he cleans a smudge of watery makeup from beneath her eye with his thumb. "Get some rest."
"No, dear, I've had quite enough—"
"Don't be silly, with the amount of makeup that just ran off your face? You're covering bags acquired by at least five semi-sleepless nights. Go on, Mrs. Hudson." She watches him for a long moment, and Sherlock becomes aware that in different circumstances he would walk away, or order her off again, or turn to John (irrational, John is dead, stop thinking like he isn't) and say, "Don't you think so, John?"
But instead he observes, and for the first time realizes that Mrs. Hudson has been in mourning, too (eyes chronically red, slightly underweight, hair unfixed, new frown line forming). It's the sort of thing he should have caught, but perhaps he has only not seen because he has not been looking.
Sherlock lifts her hand (brittle bones, chipped nails: compulsive cleaning to distract from grief), leaves a kiss on it, and resolves to look more closely in the future.